#i needed the final book to be one million pages longer just for more winter selene content 😭😭😭

[earlgreydream]

scientist.

| bucky x reader | fluff | smut |

anon requested. scientist working closely with the avengers at the compound becomes close with bucky and is one of the only people who he feels safe to open up to, and they end up falling in love? maybe with some fluff and smut? 

“Y/N, this is Bucky,” Steve introduced you to the Winter Soldier. He eyed you warily, silver eyes untrusting. His body was full of tension, and his jaw tightened with uncertainty.

“Hi, Bucky. I’m going to try to help you, okay?” You smiled sweetly, and he glanced at Steve who gave him a reassuring nod.

Bucky had recently arrived at Stark Tower, traumatized and shaken up after being rescued from Hydra. He was safe with immunity, and brought to the tower for recovery. He was quiet and anxious, barely speaking to anyone except for Steve. 

You had been asked to run tests on Bucky and help him adjust, as well as being the one responsible for his injured body. Steve knew you would be the most gentle, and he trusted you with his life, and was willing to trust you with Bucky, even in his own absence. 

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice broke when Steve went to the door. He bit the inside of his lip, not wanting his only friend to abandon him. Anxiety welled up inside of Bucky, and a pang of guilt shot through Steve.

“I have a mission, but you’re safe with Y/N. She’ll be gentle,” Steve promised, and Bucky’s entire body tensed up when Steve disappeared down the hallway.

You and Bucky were left alone in the lab, and you smiled gently. His eyes were sharp, and he watched your every move as if you were a threat. You quietly moved things around, preparing for an exam.

“You don’t need to be nervous. I only want to help you, okay?” You asked, and he didn’t answer. You didn’t mind, you were patient, and you knew that you couldn’t rush him into trusting you. 

“Can you take your shirt off for me, please? I just want to get a look, I understand that you’re wounded.”

Bucky hesitated before slowly peeling off the loose black t-shirt he wore. Red, angry scars littered the skin that his prosthetic was attached to. You winced, imagining it must have been painful. You took time examining his body, figuring out how to best help him. Getting the poor soldier out of pain and more comfortable was your first priority.

“Does it hurt?”

He nodded silently, and you frowned. 

“Will you let me touch you? I’ll be gentle,” he didn’t respond, and you took a step toward him. He was sitting on the edge of the exam table, and you carefully lowered it with your foot so you were at eye-level. He flinched as you lightly touched the metal of his arm. He instantly grabbed your wrist when your fingertips touched the damaged skin. 

“It’s okay!” you gasped out, startled by the tight grip.

“You said it hurts, right? I’m going to give you some numbing gel.” You held up the small container in your other hand. 

“It’ll take the edge off, I promise, Bucky.”

He released his grip on your wrist, and you dipped your fingers into the gel and carefully spread it over his wounds. He relaxed slightly under the relief, and you got him to lay down for x-rays. 

“Do you sleep?”

Bucky shook his head, and you went to your box, searching for a sedative. You couldn’t begin to imagine what Bucky had been through. You’d seen videos on the news, but despite his history of violence, you felt safe around him, and wanted him to trust you. 

“I’ll give Steve something to give to you to help you sleep, but just for a while until you adjust, okay?” You didn’t want to give it to Bucky, unsure of whether or not he was stable enough to handle his own medication. He’d given you nothing, only silence. 

“I’ve been working here with the avengers for several years now. It’ll get less intimidating, I promise,” you casually filled the silence. When you had arrived, you were hesitant and wary like Bucky. You didn’t trust the other soldiers, and you didn’t even have a best friend looking out for you at the tower. You’d transferred from S.H.I.E.L.D., coming off of training with Fitz and Simmons, to an unfamiliar home with unfamiliar faces. Steve had been the one to welcome you, and had helped you adjust to Stark Tower.

Bucky listened to you talk, appreciating your attempts to empathize with him. Steve had promised him a million times that you would take care of Bucky, that out of everyone, you would understand. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, looking down at the light bruises forming on your wrists. He felt guilty, you had only been helping him. You looked up at the sound of him speaking, and you smiled.

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean to.”

You spent several weeks with Bucky, running tests, fixing his wounds, and trying to help him. He no longer jumped whenever you touched him, and he eventually gave short, verbal answers to your questions. You’d managed to calm the inflammation that caused him so much discomfort, and he began to open up to you slowly. 

“Have you been sleeping better?”

“I sleep longer, but the nightmares are still bad,” Bucky confessed shyly. 

“I’m so sorry,” you frowned, and he shook his head. 

“I’ve got this almost all healed. I want to do a sleep study, is that okay with you? Maybe we can figure out what’s going on in there.” 

“Yes. I’d sleep in here?”

“No, I’d let you sleep in your own room, I’d take my equipment in there.”

Bucky nodded, and you got everything you needed. It was already late, Bucky had been hanging around in the lab with you long after hours while Steve was gone. Whenever he was off on a mission, Bucky barely left your side. He would sit in your lab, or even in the chair at the end of your bed while you relaxed. You’d taken it upon yourself to introduce him to the Hobbit movies upon finding out he loved the books. Eventually, the two of you moved onto more cult classics, spending your time watching movies to distract him from Steve’s absences. 

“Oh, try some of this tea. I got it for you,” you handed him the box, and you saw him smile for the first time. It only lasted a second, but color sparked through his eyes, and he thanked you.

The two of you walked to his bedroom, and you told him to get ready for bed. You watched him tear off his shirt and lay down on the bed, the silver of his dog tags glinting in the moonlight shining through the window.

You carefully attached the monitors to him and got settled in a chair in the corner with your laptop to monitor his sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling steadily. 

It took a couple hours for Bucky to drift off, and you sipped from a cup of coffee to stay awake. You set your laptop aside when you saw his heart rate spike, getting up to check on him in the dark. You walked to the side of the bed, seeing his chest heaving with choked breaths. 

“Bucky, breathe, love,” you touched his face, trying to pull him from the nightmare. He sat up abruptly, a cry escaping him. His eyes were wild and afraid, and you wrapped your arms around him.

“It’s okay, you’re safe.” 

His arms went around your waist, and he buried his face in your shoulder, tears slowly soaking your shirt. You put your hand on the back of his head, running your fingers through his short hair. 

“Hydra can’t get to you here. You’re safe with me, I promise.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I won’t, I won’t leave you,” you hugged him tightly. Bucky let himself cry in your arms, holding you tightly and trying to fend off the nightmares. Your heart broke for the frightened soldier, and you turned your head, your lips pressing against his temple as you promised it was going to be okay.

“Did I ruin the study?” He asked once he’d calmed down, leaning back against the pillows.

“No, no. I’ll get this off of you,” you took off the wires, freeing him from the feeling of being tested on.

“Do you feel like you could go back to sleep?” you asked, and he rubbed his eyes and shook his head. You closed your laptop and put everything in your bag, taking your coffee cup. 

“Come on.”

He followed you to the kitchen of the massive penthouse, and you set the cup in the sink before turning on the kettle. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Don’t be,” you promised, lightly squeezing his arm as you walked by. 

The night was quiet, and you made tea for the two of you, hoping it would calm him down some. He thanked you, taking the tea and sitting with you.

 It became a ritual whenever he couldn’t sleep, you would drink tea together late in the kitchen, watching the city lights glitter through the huge windows of the tower.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Bucky?”

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He looked up at you with a shy gaze.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

Over the following weeks, the two of you spent nearly all of your time together. Bucky opened up to you about some of the horrors of Hydra, and you were always there to wipe the tears away as he recounted the trauma. You listened to him, holding him in your arms when the memories became too much. 

You were everything to Bucky, and the two of you were hopelessly in love.

Bucky said goodbye to Steve as he went on a mission abroad. He’d been at the Tower for almost three months, but he still got extra anxious whenever Steve left. He wandered around the tower, avoiding the avengers were still home. He felt uneasy, and he searched for you, stopping by your lab, only to find it empty. 

Bucky looked around, finally discovering you in your suite. The door was unlocked, and he said your name as he stepped in. He found you on your bed, asleep in your clothes, a novel open on your stomach as you laid atop your duvet. Bucky watched you for a moment before walking over. He carefully lifted the book off of you, making sure to mark your page. He pulled a throw blanket over you before sitting down on the beanbag in the corner.

You woke up a few hours later, seeing you had a blanket over you, and Bucky was sitting in the corner. 

“Bucky? Are you alright, love?” you asked, sitting up slowly.

“Yeah, I just...” 

He didn’t need to explain, and you smiled softly at him. You scooted to the edge of the bed, holding your arms out to him. Bucky didn’t hesitate, getting up and climbing onto your bed beside you. 

Bucky felt safer near you, and ever since you’d held him through his nightmares, he had craved your touch. He curled up against you, relaxing as you wrapped your arms around him. 

You adored Bucky, and you’d grown attached to him, more than just studying him. Your heart swelled whenever you saw him, and you lived to get a glimpse of his rare smiles. You’d fallen entirely in love with him, and becoming his girlfriend was one of the best decisions in your life.

You dragged your fingers through his hair, and his head rested on your chest, his arms secure around your waist. You relaxed when you felt him fall asleep on you, listening to his heartbeat. He slept through the night with you, your kindness keeping the nightmares at bay.

“You don’t mind?” Bucky asked, sitting in your bed. 

“No, I like it when you stay,” you leaned down, kissing Bucky lightly. He smiled against your kiss, making butterflies flap around in your stomach. You giggled as he pulled you to straddle his lap, giving you a real kiss. You lost yourselves in a make-out session, everything fading except for each other.

“I want to do it,” you whispered breathlessly in between kisses.

“Do it?”

“Have sex, with you,” you clarified, sitting up. His eyes widened, and his hands stilled on your waist.

“Are you certain? It’s your first time, are you sure that you want me-” Bucky stammered, hardly believing your request.

“I’m absolutely sure. I want it to be with you. I trust you, Bucky.”

He nodded and carefully slid your shirt off over your head, kissing your lips again before flipping the two of you over. Your back hit the mattress, and he knelt between your legs. He couldn’t help but smile at the way you shyly blushed, and he leaned down and kissed your now-exposed chest.

“Beautiful,” he smiled sweetly, making you melt. 

You lifted your hips for him to slide your plaid shorts off of you, slipping your underwear off with it. You immediately closed your legs, unused to anyone seeing you naked. You trusted Bucky, but the action seemed more daunting in real life than it had in your imagination. Insecurities caught up with you, spreading warmth across your cheeks.

“You don’t need to be shy, not around me,” Bucky promised, recognizing your sudden hesitation as he discarded his own clothes. You were thankful when his lips reconnected with yours. The kiss was slow and reassuring, his right hand going down to gently run his fingers through your folds. He found your clit and stroked it carefully, kissing down your neck, his lips getting to the spot that always turned you on, just below your ear. 

You were a little bit nervous, but you spread your legs further apart as he made you feel amazing with just his hand. You’d never been touched like this before, and your body reacted to everything he did. His movements were skilled, and you were melting into him in no time.

You started to squirm, wrapping your legs around his waist and trying to pull him closer. He smirked proudly into your kiss, moaning as you parted your lips and allowed him to slide his tongue against yours.

“I need you inside of me, please,” your sweet begs made Bucky weak, and he held himself back from giving in immediately.

“Wait, doll. I want to make it hurt as little as possible,” he carefully pushed a finger inside of you, not getting much resistance. You rested back against the pillows, looking up at your boyfriend as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, trying to get you ready for him. 

You winced a bit in discomfort with three fingers, and Bucky carefully watched your face, making sure he wasn’t hurting you. When you began to push down against him, unable to sit still, he couldn’t wait any longer, and neither could you.

“Bucky, I’m ready,” you insisted, anticipation building up inside of you. The coil in your belly had already started to build from just him fingering you, and you were desperate to feel him inside of you.

“Okay. But I’ll go slow,” He promised, intertwining your fingers as he carefully eased into you. 

A soft whimper rose in your throat, tears pricking at your waterline. You hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did, feeling like he was tearing you open when he was only halfway in. He’d been careful to do his best to prepare you, but he was just so much bigger than his fingers. A soft gasp caught in your chest, pushing tears down your cheeks.

“Y/N, my love, it’s okay, just breathe, it’ll feel better soon.” Bucky felt immensely guilty for hurting you, but he kept pushing forward until he was all the way in. His soft lips kissed tears off of your face, and you let go of his hands to wrap your arms around his neck, holding him against you tightly. 

“I love you, I love you so much,” Bucky promised, stilling so you could adjust.

“I love you too,” you kissed him and tried not to focus on the sharp pain. 

It slowly began to fade, and he rocked his hips, thrusting slowly. The ache was replaced with soft euphoria, and he built a steady rhythm that had you seeing stars. You reached down to help yourself and rub circles on your clit, making the pressure tighten in your abdomen as the pain disappeared to make room for the electricity that sparked through your nerves.

Bucky felt you squeezing around him as he rolled forward against you, and your legs started to shake. He carefully pushed down on your lower belly, feeling the outline of himself and sending pleasure shocking through you. Your back arched, and he leaned down to kiss your chest, praising you for taking him so well and being so gorgeous.

“Let go around me doll, I’ll catch you, come for me,” Bucky urged between loving kisses, and you tumbled over the edge, your orgasm bringing you to squeals. He came quickly after you, riding you out and making your head spin. 

The sex left the two of you breathless, and you snuggled against his chest, wanting to stay close to him. He showered you with affection and kisses, making sure you were comfortable and relaxed afterwards. 

You didn’t leave his side, and once the ache had worn off you’d even convinced him to go again, a request he was all-too-happy to oblige.

“Bucky!” You squealed, running into his arms when he returned from his first mission away. He’d made significant progress, and even became a valuable member of the team, helping Steve catch the bad guys. 

“Oh, my love, I missed you,” Bucky hummed before kissing you deeply and holding you in his arms. He hated being apart from you, but it was worth it to see your joyful excitement when the two of you reunited. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you!” you giggled between kisses, melting the super soldier.

“I love you too, doll.”

You held his hand as he walked back to your bedroom, peeling his clothes off once you were in private.

“Mmm... I need a shower,” he mumbled, having to practically pry you off of him.

“What are you doing?” he laughed as you pulled your own jeans off.

“Saving water.” 

[sweetbitterimpossiblecreature]

A Brief And Concise Summary Of Is Wrong With The ACOTAR Series

I think we can agree that a lot of ACOTAR is pretty iffy. Consider this a very brief refresher.

What's Wrong With Feyre/Rhysand (juxtaposed against Feyre/Tamlin)

Rhysand drugs and sexually assaults her in Book 1

This is "for her own good". Because he "has no choice". Despite the fact that, from what we know of the plot, Amarantha thinks that Clare Beddor was the one Rhysand was diddling, and is only interested in Feyre because Rhysand, "her" man male, has taken an interest in her.

If we extrapolate from this we can figure that Rhysand is the one directly putting her into danger.

Now, let's be clear: drugging someone is bad. Sexually assaulting someone is bad. One could argue there were extenuating circumstances. But if, in such a situation, what your mind goes to is "I know, I should assault this person... for their safety" I have questions about your moral qualities. There were a million things he could have done. He could have done whatever he did to Clare - that is, remove her ability to feel any pain - easily. He could have helped her escape. Under The Mountain, he - while still there unwillingly - has a lot of power, as Amarantha's side piece. Maybe this would have resulted in him being punished- however, he is hundreds of years old and a badass motherfucker, and she is a nineteen year old human girl.

Now, onto Tamlin. Obviously not a lot of people really ship F/T anymore after ACOMAF, because compared to F/R, it's boring. I read another person's post about it, which was very enlightening: they said that Feyre's personality is essentially a mirror. When she is with Rhysand, she's snarky and malicious- because she is "bouncing off" his energy. When she's with Mor she's super feminist and "in awe of her strength". On the other hand, Tamlin is kind of an empty character. He's a pretty boy with anger issues, which should be more interesting than it is. SJM manages to make him bland. Because Feyre has nothing to bounce off of, (a lot of this is from the person's post), she and Tamlin together is mainly just him introducing her to his world.

What Tamlin Does: prevents a skinny twenty year old from going on dangerous missions with him and combat-trained soldiers, accidentally blows up a room with her in it, and, at the end, prevents her from leaving the house.

This is not a Tamlin apologist post. Obviously it was really fucking gross of him to do that, and their relationship was toxic. However, a lot of his abuse stems from their inability to communicate, as well as own negligence. He does not knowingly and purposefully sexually assault her or rape her mind. And tbh, leaving a girl without combat training at home while he goes on missions with a bunch of muscled sentries is... kind of reasonable?

Again: not a Tamlin apologist post. It was abuse. However, if Rhysand is "allowed" to sexually assault, mind-rape, and drug Feyre "for her own safety", why is Tamlin demonized for preventing her from leaving his mansion "for her own safety"?

Another pertinent point: Rhys is never punished for sexually assaulting her. It is brushed off as part of his "mask" or that his hand was forced. Jesus Christ my dudes, his hand was not forced under her skirt. If he has to maintain his gross rapist abuser tyrant oppressor mask... why? Who did that benefit beside him? None of his actions remotely helped Prythian. They were done solely for his buddies - five people safe in a rich hidden city - and no one else, which is explicitly stated.

Finally, the power dynamic is fucked up. Feyre is less than twenty five years old. Rhysand is 500. There is a tendency in fantasy romance to romanticize a centuries year old man with a young girl, because the man does not show symptoms of age, and so it is easily ignorable. However, can we just briefly acknowledge how fucked up it is? Rhys is over five times older than Donald Trump, Harvey Weinstein, Jeffrey Epstein, and other known predators/abusers. She is twenty. That is really fucking gross. She is in a vulnerable position and he takes rampant advantage of that.

If he had wrinkles, liver problems, and erectile dysfunction, more people would acknowledge it.

Let's be clear: I'm not saying writing a book with an uneven power dynamic is automatically bad. For example, in The Locked Tomb series, which is in my opinion THE BEST FANTASY SERIES THAT HAS GRACED THIS EARTH (lol i'm starting fires), one main character Harrowhark Nonagesimus is in a position of power over Gideon Nav, the other main character. However, this is not glossed over or romanticized. Gideon resents Harrow for this- there is a relationship of mutual antagonism, fraught with unwilling familiarity and intimacy from growing up together. They are roughly the same age. While there is a certain power dynamic (in that world, there is a dynamic of necromancer and cavalier, i.e. sorcerer and sword) the "empowered" character (Harrow) emphatically respects her and does not abuse this power, although both would of course deny this, and she does make a show of threatening and being aloof. In short, while Gideon obeys her, Gideon also has power over Harrow, and the idea of what is essentially slavery is not romanticized.

Feyre Doesn't Face Any Consequences For Her Own Actions

Let me present a radical notion: a guy preventing you from leaving his house does not justify completely fucking ruining his country and harming the people inside it.

In other words: Tamlin does not deserve what she did to him.

I know that sounds iffy. We're conditioned to think that if someone is an abuser, then they are the scum of the earth, they deserve to die, torturing/murdering/doing anything to them is completely A-OK. However, here's another radical notion: someone harming you does not justify you doing worse.

Obviously, the effects of psychological abuse can cause you to hurt other people (see: Nesta), but Feyre deliberately and maliciously (oh, God, that insufferable POV of her in Spring Court; she reads like a cartoonish Disney villain) dismantles his country. She uses sexual manipulation (Lucien), torture (causing the sentry to be whipped), and mind-rape (who didn't she do this to? lol).

A summary of the entire first half of ACOWAR: "It smelled like roses. I hated roses. For this capital offense against my olfactory system, Tamlin and the entire Spring Court deserved to burn in hell. I knew exactly what I was doing. I smiled at him sweetly: no longer a doe, but a wolf. He didn't see my fangs.............." *aesthetic noises*

Man. I'm starting to think SJM had a horrible experience at a Bath & Body Works and took it out on the rest of us. Don't do it, Sarah!! I know Pink Chiffon and Triple Berry Martini are way too strong, but don't take it out on an innocent population!!

She steals from Summer Court (there are, yk, other solutions to theft. Like maybe asking politely) and ruins Spring Court. Her boyfriend - yeesh sorry, MATE - does nothing while a dozen Winter Court children are murdered.

Now: moral ambiguity is not automatically bad. Again using The Locked Tomb as an example, in the second book (spoiler alert), Harrowhark has a sort of moral ambiguity. She was raised from the beginning to worship the King Undying as God, and so she obeys him without question. Because of this, she commits a lot of crimes in His name: she "flips" - i.e. kills - the life force of planets, and she plots murder (albeit the murder of someone who tried to kill her first). There is no attempt to justify this. There is also no attempt to paint her as a virtuous and yet also badass Madonna figure. She is desperate, plagued with the "wreck of herself", and the book clearly displays her moral pitfalls. While her POV is of course colored by her mindset, it also is limited by her lack of information, and we as readers can acknowledge that.

BACK TO ACOTAR: Feyre is seen by everyone as gorgeous, formidable, and essentially perfect. Rhys sees her as flawless, "made for him", wonderful, beautiful, blah blah blah. (THEY ARE SO BAD FOR EACH OTHER; THEY EXCUSE AND GLORIFY EACH OTHER'S CRIMES, IT'S SO BAD, GUYYYS). Tamlin is insanely batshit in love with her, or whatever. To the Night Court she's the High Lady. In this way she personifies the Mary Sue character. (Excerpt from the TV Tropes page on Mary Sues: "She's exotically beautiful, often having an unusual hair or eye color, and has a similarly cool and exotic name. She's exceptionally talented in an implausibly wide variety of areas, and may possess skills that are rare or nonexistent in the canon setting. She also lacks any realistic, or at least story-relevant, character flaws — either that or her "flaws" are obviously meant to be endearing. She has an unusual and dramatic Back Story. The canon protagonists are all overwhelmed with admiration for her beauty, wit, courage and other virtues, and are quick to adopt her as one of their True Companions, even characters who are usually antisocial and untrusting; if any character doesn't love her, that character gets an extremely unsympathetic portrayal." Sound familiar?)

There is the Ourobous scene. And yet, paradoxically, while presented as an acknowledgment of her flaws, it is in fact a rejection of them. She sees her own brutality... and instead of recognizing that she has these deep, deep moral flaws and realizing that she needs to grow and be better, she in fact "accepts" them.

Guys: Self love means: "I'm important to me, so I'm going to get a massage today after work", or "heck, why not splurge on some expensive lotion, you only live once" or "you know what? I had a tough day today. I'm going to get that strawberry cupcake". SELF LOVE DOES NOT MEAN "oh, I accept all the war crimes I have done, I love myself". LOVING YOURSELF DOES NOT MEAN ABSOLVING YOURSELF OF ALL WRONGDOING.

It's this refusal to acknowledge wrongdoing that is so grating about ACOTAR. It's so goddamn one-sided. And you can tell that after Book 1, SJM decided to completely change the trajectory simply because of how jarring Book 2 reads compared to the first one.

Also: Feyre is a very, very young girl (compared to the other ruling fey) who did not know how to read for the majority of her life. She has no experience whatsoever in politics. Her being High Lady is not a win for feminism.

Rhysand: He Sucks

First, he is 500 years old. He should be written as such, not as some 20 year old virile frat boy feminist. Fantasy is all the more compelling for its elements of realism, which is a concept that SJM does not appear to grasp.

Second of all, his morals are absurd. He is written as the Second Coming of Christ, as someone who can do no wrong, ever, and his flaws only serve to make Feyre love him more. Anything shitty he does is written as part of his "mask" and she can See Beneath It and knows that it "hurts" him to maintain this "mask".

Fellas, WHY DOES HE HAVE TO MAINTAIN THIS MASK???? There is no reason for it. If A) he does not give a shit about Court of Nightmares (we'll get back to that), only about Velaris, and B) Velaris is hidden/protected from the world, what is he pretending for?

It would not hurt him politically to be seen as someone who cares about his country.

"Pretending" to be "Amarantha's whore" does not in any way shape or form benefit the macro-world that is Prythian. In Amarantha's name, he commits atrocities. He commits war crimes; he systemically oppresses entire societies. It doesn't even really benefit Velaris, because Velaris is already hidden.

Let me put this in a real-world perspective. This would be like if Donald Trump was suddenly like: "I know I was a shitty president but IT WAS ALL PART OF MY MASK, WHICH WAS TO PROTECT THIS MICROCOSM OF PRIVILEGED PEOPLE THAT I CARE ABOUT". Like: okay? Sorry, or whatever, but I don't actually give a shit. What about the parents of the children who died? What about Clare Beddor? What about the people who were held in slavery, murdered, tortured?

Rhysand: omg it sucks that my cousin Mor was oppressed by this toxic misogynistic culture from the Court of Nightmares.

Also Rhysand: lol whatever, who gives a shit about Court of Nightmares. They all suck. They meanie. Lol what did you say? That there might be other girls just like Mor who are oppressed by this system? Lol whatever. I can't do anything, I gotta maintain my Mask. I gotta sit on this throne and show the entire Court that not respecting women is completely okay.

In summary: by parading Feyre around as his "whore" (!!) he demonstrates by example that it is completely okay for the Court of Nightmares to abuse their women.

A good ruler cares about all his people. Rhysand cares about a tiny tiny fraction of his people: those who were fortunate enough to be born into Velaris.

God, I'm exhausted. Onto Nesta:

The only character who successfully breaks the Mary Sue effect Feyre exerts on her people is Nesta. Her POV for the first half is a joy to read.

Obviously it sucks that Nesta was a huge bitch to Feyre for the beginning of her childhood. However, it was wrong for Rhysand to threaten her- he is a man male with a huge insane amount of power, and it is not okay for him to threaten to bring the brunt of it down on a young girl because she was a bitch to his girlfriend.

I've seen a lot of discourse on the morality of F/R sending her out of Velaris. Here is my two cents:

It was okay for them to cut her off of their money. If they don't want to enable her self-harm, that is their choice. Again, it's their money, even if it wasn't fairly earned (Rhysand born into an enormous fortune).

It was not okay for them to banish her from Velaris with the implication that she was an embarrassment. Let me explain.

If Rhysand and Feyre are talking to her as sister/brother-in-law, then that is that. They have the complete right to express disapproval and try to help. However, they should not be using their royal privilege against her.

If they are talking to her as ruler to subject, then they have the power to banish her from the city. However, a ruler would not give a shit about a random subject getting drunk and having sex. So, they should not be talking her about her problems as a ruler to subject.

I've heard it compared to her being sent to rehab. However, rehab is a system designed to help people with certain problems. It has specialized medical centers and involves therapy. Nesta gets her life threatened multiple times. It is not rehab.

In summary: why did SJM inflict this upon us. Throne of Glass was actually good! GAHHH! After the first few books she completely whipped around and introduced the idea of males and mates and fey and that C is actually A and the quality took a huge nosedive. Sigh.

Final horrible but unmistakable truth: The entire ACOTAR series reads like a bad A/B/O fic. I hate to say it but it's true. We're lucky there were no heat cycles. OH WAIT

[winterhawk-olympic-bang]

Writer’s Workshop: How To End Your Story

How To End Your Story

Guest Poster: Flawedamythyst

We’re in the final furlong before the deadline for the first draft now, so it feels like a good time to talk about endings, and how to bring your story together to create a satisfactory one.

Have a read and then head over to the Discord Server where we have a channel for you to take part in a discussion based on the post, with chances to share your own ideas too.

How To End Your Story

There are traditionally six types of endings for a story:

Resolved ending - one with no lingering questions or loose ends. (Most murder mysteries and romances fall into this category.)

Unresolved ending - the kind of ending that leaves the reader with more questions than answers. (Usually for books that are part of a series. A lot of the HP books have endings like this.)

Expanded ending - expands the world of the story beyond the events of the narrative itself, with a time jump forward or a change in PoV.

Unexpected ending - a twist ending that the reader doesn’t see coming, but that should seem inevitable in hindsight.

Ambiguous ending - one that’s open to interpretation. Unlike an unresolved one, it leaves things to be interpreted by the reader so they have to decide themselves how it goes.

Tied ending - that brings the story full circle, and ends exactly where it began. Often the case for ‘Hero’s Journey’ type stories, where the hero ends up back home at the end.

You can read more about them here: https://boords.com/storytelling/how-to-end-a-story or here: https://www.masterclass.com/articles/ways-to-end-your-story but also in multiple other articles online just by Googling ‘Six Ways To End A Story’. 

But, of course, they don’t really tell you how to work out which one your story needs, or how to write one of them without falling into any of the traps that ends with an unsatisfying ending.

Motivation

Of course, often the hardest bit with an ending is actually getting there. Losing motivation is so easy, especially when you’re writing something super-long. I know lots of people get motivation by posting as they go and using comments/kudos as a spur, or even just by talking about it on Tumblr or other places and letting other people’s excitement buoy them up, but a Bang event like WHOB doesn’t allow for that. 

I’m going to talk a bit about ways to motivate yourself when you’re having to keep things secret from all but a handful of people, but bear in mind that this is something that really is very individual. Everyone writes for different reasons, and so everyone’s path to staying motivated is different.

For me, I think it comes down to focusing on why am I writing this story to start with? Any time I feel myself flagging, I think back to that reason and re-capture the original feeling I had about it. Often there’s a couple of different reasons. 

For example, when I was writing Look What The Cat Dragged In, my motivations when I wrote the first line were:

I want all of fandom to share with me the image of the Winter Soldier waking Clint up to threaten him while gently cradling a kitten in his hands, and 

I was writing it as a present for @kangofu-cb​. 

So, if I flagged at all, I was able to either reread that moment with Bucky holding the kitten and think ‘wow, I really do thing people will enjoy this mental image’, or I was able to think ‘I want my friend to have a nice thing’, and that helped me drive on and push through.

A lot of my personal motivations come down to ‘I want to share this scene/witty one-liner/visual of Clint pole dancing while dressed as Captain America with people’, so often just rereading what I’ve already done is really motivating for me, plus it also gives me the chance to see just how much I’ve already done, and what I would be dooming to be unfinished if I just walked away without pushing through.

You might well have different motivations though, which are equally valid. Maybe you started a fic for this event because you wanted to get a shiny badge, or to do something that your friends were doing, or you wanted to prove to yourself that you could write something longer than usual or outside of your usual wheelhouse. It may feel harder now than it did when you had that first idea, but that doesn’t change why you wanted to do it, and it’s actually easier now than it was when you started, because you’ve already done some of it.

And, if none of those motivations work for you, there’s always spite. ‘Oh, my brain gremlins think I can’t finish this? Fuck those guys, I’m going to prove those assholes so very, very wrong’ is completely how I powered through to finish my first ever novel-length fic, a million years and several fandoms ago. 

Resolution vs Ending

So, let’s move on to the ending itself. 

There are two parts to writing an ending: there’s the plot resolution and how that all gets tied up, and there’s the actual ending of the fic - the last scene, and the last place the reader sees the characters.

Sometimes the resolution happens only at the very end of a story and so those are the same thing, but I tend to think that makes things feel a bit abrupt. Especially for fics, which tend to be more character-driven than mainstream media and so need a wind down on how the characters react to the end of the plot for the reader. (This isn’t always true, of course, some plots do tie up neatly in the final scene. Every story is different and you’re the person best placed to judge what’s needed in your fic.)

So when you’re thinking about the ending, think about both parts. ‘How does this plot resolve itself?’ and ‘where do I want to leave these characters in the readers’ mind’s eye?’

Plotting a Story Resolution

You may well have already got a resolution worked out as part of your planning, but what if that ending doesn’t seem to fit any more, or you realise just as you get to it that you forgot to think about an ending at all and have no idea where to go?

First of all, don’t panic! If the rest of the story is there, you’ll be able to pull together the strands to create the best ending. Trust the bones of your story.

When I’m facing a blank page and no real idea of how I’m getting from the Depths of Despair moment to the happy ending, the first thing I do is reread the whole story in case that sparks a fantastic, fully-formed idea to appear on how to tie it all up. Mostly that doesn’t work, which is always disappointing, but it’s still a good place to start, because you have the whole run of the fic fresh in your head to plan from.

The next thing I do is make a list of all the things that I know definitely need to happen for the plot to be done. These don’t need to be in any particular order at this point and they don’t need to link up, you just need a list of what needs to go into the framework, however minor. ‘Clint wears Bucky’s hoodie and Bucky is smitten’ is a totally valid plot point to include, or even ‘include mention of recurring joke about muffins’. If you know something needs to be resolved but you don’t know how yet, just putting ‘resolve plot point with badgers’ is fine. Hopefully once you’ve started thinking through all the different bits, you’ll work out what’s going to happen to the badgers, and it’ll make sure you know it needs to be included somewhere.

If you have a beta/cheer reader who can help, it’s also super helpful to ask them what they would expect from the ending based on what they’ve read so far, or what elements from earlier in the story they think will be coming back/will turn out to be foreshadowing. Sometimes you’ll find you’ve written the clues to your ending into the earlier bits without really noticing, and you can throw them down on the list to be included as well.

Once you have everything you know needs to be included, you can shift them around into a rough order you think they need to go in, and start filling in the gaps. For example, if ‘Clint gets injured’ is there, you can add in ‘Bucky tends to his wounds’ as the obvious next step and maybe that would be a good time to throw in a muffin joke, and then Clint might need to borrow a hoodie if his shirt has blood on it, so you can tick those bits off as well.

It gets easier to see where the gaps are once you have it written out, even if it’s only things that you already knew would need to happen. Having it down in black and white helps your brain to move pieces around like a jigsaw puzzle, and start extrapolating on what comes in the gaps between.

Make The Ending Fit The Story

Think about what kind of story it’s been so far, and make sure that the ending you come up with fits in with it. 

You’ll know the general feeling that you wanted for the fic when you started writing, so that will give you a solid idea on how the ending needs to go. (Often for me this feeling is ‘schmoopy and loved up’, because I’m a softie. A lot of what I’m doing when I’m writing a fic is just clearing out of the way any obstacles that are going to get in the way of my characters being schmoopy and loved up. When there’s nothing left in the way, that’s when I know it’s the end of the story.)

You also need to keep the tone and pacing of your fic the same, and make sure that your ending matches up so it all feels like it fits together. This includes keeping the pace the same as it had been, no matter how tempting it is to rush through so you can get the thing finished already, or slow right down so you can add in a few thousand more words. 

Along with sticking to the tone you’ve set for the fic, try not to genre-shift - if you’ve written an action-packed zombie apocalypse fic, resolving the plot with domestic schmoop isn’t a great idea. The reader is invested in the style of story that you’ve written so far, so pulling the rug out on them will only give them whiplash, a vague sense of dissatisfaction or a persistent nagging feeling that zombies are about to attack. 

Unless you’ve written a domestic schmoop zombie AU of course, in which case I would read the hell out of it. ‘Curtain!fic but sometimes the undead interrupt’ sounds like a lot of fun.

And finally, make sure you maintain your characterisation. If the ending you want involves your character doing something wildly out-of-character, then that’s not the right ending. (I like to call this an Endgame!Steve ending. No, I’m not over that.) Even if your audience is invested in your story enough to overlook the incongruence, they will be having to overlook it rather than feeling fully invested in the journey you’ve created.

Chekov’s Gun

The most satisfying endings are the ones that tie up most, if not all, of the loose ends, and provide an emotional pay-off equivalent to the build-up. If you’ve been talking about something big that might or might not happen, and then it doesn’t, it’s narratively frustrating. In the same way, if you drop something big in that doesn’t really fit with what went before, it’s going to make the story feel unbalanced. 

Obviously that doesn’t mean you can’t have a surprise or twist ending but even if the reader is surprised by something happening, they still want to feel like they’re reading the same story. They need to look back with hindsight of knowing the twist and see how it fits in, and not how it stands out.

A good rule to follow is the Chekov’s Gun rule: If there’s a gun on the table in the first act, someone needs to shoot it in the second act. If you’ve been teasing something, make sure the pay-off is there.

And, of course, if someone’s going to be firing a gun at the end, go back and make sure it gets mentioned earlier in the story. It doesn’t need to be a heavy-handed anvil, but if you can drop in casual hints about guns earlier in the story, the whole thing feels more cohesive and thought out. No one needs to know that you only put those hints in after you’d finished the whole thing.

Loose Ends

Something I always like to do when I’m plotting exactly how the ending is going to go, is to go back through the whole fic and make a list of anything that feels like it could be a loose end if it didn’t get resolved. (If I’m having a problem working out my ending, often this happens at the same time as writing down all my ending plot points, as I described above.)

Some of those are obvious, like ‘Bucky and Clint need to kiss’, but some are less so. Did Clint think about how much he just wants to be done with all the drama so he can snuggle with his dog? Maybe throw in some Lucky cuddles somewhere in the finale so he gets the emotional pay-off. Has Bucky mentioned really want to punch a bad guy in particular in the face? Give him a chance to smack that asshole around a bit. Has there been a minor relationship drama along the way, like someone leaving their socks lying around? Have them either make a point of putting them away, or the other person just rolling their eyes and accepting it as a part of being with them.

It’s also important to think about where your secondary characters are going to end up, and if it feels like they’ve had an arc that needs resolving. Has there been another pairing with a bit of screen time or some background drama? Give them a chance to make out/make up. Has the bad guy done something that affected one of the other Avengers? Let them have a slice of revenge along the way.

For example, in my plan for Be All You Can Be, one of the original characters I introduced as other soldiers doing Basic Training, Havelka, didn’t turn up again after he’d been kicked back a level to another training unit. When I reread that, it became clear that he needed to prove himself somehow or his arc would be a depressing downward slope partially instigated by Clint and Bucky, so I brought him back at the end to do some First Aid and gave him a line or two to point to how his future was going to go, so the reader knew he was going to be okay.

You don’t have to completely resolve everything of course, and sometimes it is nice to leave a couple of things up to the reader’s imagination, but it’s nice for the reader if there’s a sense of things being tied up in a little bow. 

Ending

So, you’ve resolved your plot, how are you going to handle the actual final ending? 

Depending on how your story has gone, you might not need much after the resolution, or you may need several epilogue-y type scenes just to make sure everything is wrapped up.

Take a moment to think about what feeling you want the reader to take away from the fic. If it’s a romance, do you want to end with a warm fuzz of ‘aw cute’? If it’s been an angsty dig down into Clint or Bucky’s mental health issues, do you want a sense of optimism or catharsis? If there’s been a lot of action and drama, do you want a bit of peace and quiet for your characters to signal it’s all over with?

The best way to end any story is with a sense of hope, even if you’ve not gone for a completely happy ending, or have left yourself open for a sequel with some unresolved plot points. You want the reader to feel at least in some way uplifted. After all, regardless of whatever else has gone before, that’s the emotion they’ll have when they get faced with the Kudos button and the Comment box, so you need them in a good mood, right?

When you know what kind of feeling you want your ending to have, that will give you a major clue as to what the characters should be doing in the final scene.

One thing that can work well is bringing back something from the first scene or two and twisting it to be part of the ending. For example, at the beginning of Be All You Can Be Clint uses the song Make A Man Out Of You from Mulan as a way to torture Bucky, and then at the end, they watch the movie together while snuggling.

You do have to be careful not to be too heavy handed with that, and it doesn’t work in every fic, but I do like the feeling of ‘things coming full circle’ that you can get from doing it.

Afterglow vs. Too Much Ending

I always think that good stories come with a certain amount of ‘afterglow’: Just a scene or two to round things out and give a pointer towards the future. 

For example, in general, I don’t like stories that end with a first kiss, which is one of several reasons I usually find Hollywood romcoms unsatisfying. It feels like too much of a beginning, and leaves too many questions open about how things are actually going to go for the couple in question. As part of a complete ending, it feels more satisfying to have an ‘epilogue’-y type scene afterwards that will give you a sense of how things went from there, even if it’s just a couple of paragraphs about them planning their first date.

I’m sure we can all think of other times we’ve read or watched something and had a moment of ‘oh, was that it?’ after the last sentence/when the credits rolled. Abrupt endings without a bit of afterglow can leave the reader blinking a little and wondering where their damn cuddles are.

That said, you also don’t want to go too far in the opposite direction. If the plot is over, there’s no need to keep going with multiple scenes of fluff or porn that doesn’t really add anything. We don’t need to see their whole lives mapped out, and it can get fairly dull once the tension of the plot is over. Ask yourself if the three chapters of them having sex on every flat surface in their apartment is actually necessary, or if some of them can be cut and used as one-shot sequel/missing scene fics. 

In general if it’s not adding to either the narrative or emotional arcs, try to cap it at a scene or two. Just enough to feel like you’ve had a bit of post-climactic afterglow, but not so much that it’s starting to drag.

In Conclusion…

Ending a fic is, in so many ways, the most satisfying part of writing. You got right the way through your plot to the end! You did all the writing! Your characters made it through to their happy/sad/ambiguous endings! You deserve all the gold stars!

You just want your reader to feel the same way, by making sure the ending fits with what came before, ties up all the ends that need tying up, and leaves them with a deep glow of whatever feeling you want the overall story to convey.

And then you just need to do the editing, but that’s a workshop for another day...

[thefallennightmare]

Dorogaya[Epilogue]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Words: 1568

Warnings: Fluff, swearing, angst, and some smut.

Summary:  It has been sometime since Y/N and Bucky went into hiding but now their past is returning. Can this new relationship survive the Civil War that’s about to happen?

Tags: @capstopavenger​ @empath-bunny​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ @just-a-littlebit-of-everything

A/N: I cannot believe I finished TWO stories, it’s a big moment. The next part of these series will be out at some point. I need to will myself to rewatch Infinity War. Thank you to everyone who had read both and stayed along for the ride. It means the world to me <3

I remember who she was, what she was to me. Hydra kidnapped her years ago and forced me to train her. They wanted her to be the female version of me, another winter soldier. I refused at first and was punished. They strapped me to that chair, burning my mind until I agreed. She was so beautiful, the first time I saw her she took my breath away. 

The way her hair hung past her shoulders or the way she would chew on the left side of her bottom lip when she was nervous for our training sessions. I remember being drawn to the beauty mark right below her right eye, dark and prominent. It looked like a piece of jewelry on her. 

My fingers shook as the tears fell from my eyes, staining the page, while I turned to the next one; Bucky’s written words mending my heart. 

She was always afraid to fight me, I could tell in the way her heart would beat through her chest. I could hear it from my room across the building. I knew when she was asleep by the way her breathing would slow and I knew when she was awake from the soft voice coming from her room, signing a tune I found myself loving. She was the one that made the hell we were in bearable. 

I may have forgotten everything at the hands of Hydra but there was always one thing I remembered; our last night together when we were captured together. 

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, knowing exactly what night he was talking about. 

I remember the way her back arched, chest exposed to the air, when I kissed my way down her stomach to her most prized area. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt my lips on her, savoring the way she tasted; salty with a tinge of sweetness. The feeling of her heels locking me into place, pulling me in closer and deeper. The beautiful sound of her moans was music to my ears; I could still hear it now. She was breathtaking that night and I hope to one day feel herself on me again. 

The night air had done nothing to help my burning cheeks as I read that paragraph a few more times. I had been on my own for a few weeks now, Shuri and T’challa came to visit every once in a while to check on me or give me updates about Bucky. Occasionally, the young kids would come to get a look at the “White Wolf”, a nickname they gave Bucky, but would frown when I would inform them that he wasn’t with me yet. 

Steve sent a few texts every now and then on a burner phone that he had given me. From the few conversations we had, I found out that him, Nat, Wanda, Sam, and Vision were on the run together. He wouldn’t tell me where, obviously, but I always wished him well. 

The fire in front of me warmed my feet, keeping the night air from making me shiver, and I turned my attention back to Bucky’s journal. 

She’s sitting across from me right now, reading a book, and she’s never looked more beautiful. Her lip is sucked between her teeth as she’s reading, the words unfamiliar to her. She wanted to learn Romanian. Her eyes are so bright, the color bringing a sense of familiarity to me. Every time she looks at me, I want to wrap my arms around her and kiss her until my last breath. The sun from outside had casted a warm glow around her like an angel. My Dorogaya. 

I can’t find the right words to say it to her face but I love her; always had. Even though Hydra made her into something she has no control over, she doesn’t let it bother her. She focuses on helping me heal that she forgets she needs to heal herself. We made a promise that life on the run wouldn’t be permanent. I don’t care, I’d go anywhere with her. 

A quick lick of my finger, the page turned easily between them. 

She told me about her past with Steve. This unfamiliar feeling burned inside when she talked about how close they were. She claimed that Steve and I used to be best friends but I don’t remember. All I can remember is her. 

The date on the last passage made my breath catch in my throat; the night before everything changed. 

She was attacked at work tonight. I tried to talk to her about it but her powers took over. I never wanted this life for her, she doesn't deserve this life. She deserves everything good in the world so I sometimes wonder if I’m enough for her. I love her with every single feeling inside of me but I can’t find it in my heart to tell her. The words burn on my tongue, wanting to scream it at her but nothing comes out. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have with her before she realizes that I can’t move past everything that happened to me. I’m trying, for her, but the screams are too much. I promised that I would take care of her, give her everything she deserves, but I’m afraid that she’ll walk away. I can’t lose her, I love her so fucking much. 

Feeling sad that I had finished reading the journal, I closed it with a loud sigh. It was full of memories of us and knowing that he remembered all of that made me fall more in love with him. He loved me all this time and knew that I was the one for him, he was just afraid that I would leave him for taking too long. 

Never in a million years. 

“Rogers, leave Natasha alone! That’s her pile of food!” 

I chased around one of the goats before letting out a frustrated groan. It had been a few months now of my new life in Wakanda and to ease the loneliness I not only took up gardening like Steve had mentioned, I also decided to raise some goats. 

Bad decision. 

They kept me on my toes every single day, hence why I named them after Steve and Nat, but I had to admit that it gave me a reason to get up every day. 

Shuri continued to visit after her sessions with Bucky, saying that he was doing well. She wanted to be careful in removing the words from his mind. Hydra had done a number on his brain and even if she could remove the words, he would still have to deal with the mental thoughts of exactly what happened in his past. 

“You know,” Shuri spoke one day, “I saw a lot of memories involving you.” 

I went red with embarrassment. “You did?” 

She nodded. “He loves you very much. I think the thought of you is what’s keeping him alive. He’s dreaming peacefully now.” 

I raised my shoulders in confusion. “Then when will he wake up?” 

“I don’t know. Wherever he is ready,” Shuri admitted with a sigh. 

The sun had begun to set so after a long time trying to wrangle the goats into their pen for the night, I was ready to turn in myself another night of sleeping alone. 

“Dorogaya?” 

My heels spun around with a flash at the familiar name. Standing in front of me was a very refreshed and relaxed looking man. His missing arm was covered with a sling of fabric. The soft breeze had wrapped around us, blowing his hair away from his eyes that shined with the familiar light I missed so much. 

“Bucky?” I asked, words trembling. 

I was afraid this was another dream I was having. 

“I missed you,” he breathed while breaking out into a huge grin. 

The bottom of my feet sped through the tall grass towards him and even with one arm, he had caught me with ease. Our lips danced for the first time in months but they never missed a beat. It was a teeth smacking, tongue dancing, kiss that fueled the fire deep within and the pleasure I felt from the both of us was almost too much to handle. 

Reluctantly I pulled away but pinched his cheeks, just to make sure he was real. 

“Ow,” he hissed. “What was that for?” 

My smile reached my eyes, I was so happy. 

“Just making sure it’s really you.” 

He gave me another kiss. “I missed you.” 

I wrapped my arms around his neck, smelling the familiar scent; teakwood and mint. 

“I missed you too.” I admitted with a long sigh. 

Still in his grasp, he looked around our little home with a proud smile. “You’ve made a nice home for yourself.” 

Immediately I shook my head to correct him. “For us.” 

We shared another passionate kiss and I could feel his feet move, walking us towards our hut. 

“Show me around then, doll,” he hinted with a sly smirk. 

For the first time in a very long time, Bucky and I laid tangled together in a mess of sweaty flesh and knotted sheets. Our proclamations of love bounced off the clay walls. Everything was perfect again and I was going to hold on tight to him. Nothing  would come between us. We would finally be able to start our lives together. 

My Soldat and his Dorogaya.

AND FIN!

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader:

Buy me a coffee!! <3

[A/N]: Making an effort to keep these gender-neutral now, and to miss out trigger words where possible, but that being said...

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Past Suicide Attempts, Suicide.

Light Manga Spoilers

----

Atop this building, the echoes of a life fraught with pain married the voice that demanded a permanent silence. Your thoughts were far from temporary, existing in the day-to-day and littering your heart with scars. They were the authority, final and absolute. But their origins, although rooted deep within the past...they weren't the reason you were here. Their influence was limited, overshadowed by a darker reality - something that compelled you, an innocent, to such an extreme...something that murdered your mind, gave it acquiesce to sit upon this rooftop, while the rain cascaded around. 'Twas the death of your heart, your home, your love...The heavens had opened, as if hearing your call, your plea for ascension. You had a future there, whereas here, on this lonely Earth, you did not.

Over the last few years, you'd slowly begun to phase out what seemed of little importance. First: intimate contact with anyone, be it friend, relative, acquaintance or stranger. Second: contact in all its forms. Third: the way to shirk responsibility and all trains of thought - sleep. The circles under your eyes were becoming quite prominent. And finally: food. You couldn't bear to set the table for one, so you didn't set it at all.

"Do you think I can reach the stars?" Your words were but whispers, void of a sprightly edge. You whispered to Keigo, as you had on occasions past. "'If kisses were stars, I would give you the sky'. Who was it...who said that? Well...it's true. I would give you the sky, without rhyme or reason, or even question...if only the angels would allow."

Keigo was the only one to whom you resolved to speak. His presence lingered in the halls of your home, in your place of employment, and everywhere you ventured. If a breath of cold air was of particular fancy, then Keigo's memory was certain to join. You still spoke, still vented...still cried, all to him. In life, he'd given you everything - every small part of him, for safekeeping. In death, he stole away your heart and soul.

"Life was easier with you here." You sighed, repeating the words like a mantra, as if they were your last. "It was better."

Of course, that was something he'd know, regardless of circumstance. Whether in life, death or rebirth...Keigo would've known. Leaving you behind, leaving you lost and broken, wandering this plain until your angels granted the courage you so desperately needed...it hadn't been a conscious decision. You'd never doubt that. Never. Not in a million years. You'd understood the pressure he was under, the ever-mounting workload and that...that job. He'd made it clear that to refuse would be outrageous. You'd known he didn't have a choice. And you'd never blamed him. Not once.

A tear slipped down your cheek, ghosting across the newly-formed smile, which was gentle in character but woven from the silver threads of sorrow. "I've...I've tried this before. I'm sure you know. I've just...I've never wished to live without you. I've tried, but it's hard...and I'm so tired."

Tried you had, when neither blistering summer nor frigid winter could trouble your mind. It was focused, always. And on occasion, you'd been saved, rescued by a hero who knew little of life's torment, and nothing of that with which you were afflicted. You hoped they'd never know, never discover everything wrong with life. You'd been thankful to them, for chasing away the Reaper. But nothing lasts forever, and everything that exists within the clutch of nature must eventually wither. Only this time...you prayed that no-one would save you. Left to your own devices, the path you chose was right. It must've been.

It could be the cure for this poisonous mixture of pain, grief and lassitude. "Can you...come back to me?" Your tears fell in no uniform manner, but you hadn't the energy to wipe them. They couldn't be seen by another being, and only you felt their heartache on your tongue. "...You can't. I know you can't. Can you try?...Please? I just want you back. I just...want you home."

Then maybe...maybe I wouldn't have to do this. Maybe I wouldn't have to hurt my family and my friends...maybe I'd have a place in this world, again. Maybe I'd feel like I mattered, like I felt with you.

But even if you begged all those blinking stars, all the gods and the angels in Heaven...you knew it wouldn't make a difference. Fate was written, after all - predetermined...and any effort to change it had thus fallen flat. Keigo always joked about his history, but the enduring memories of abuse and neglect must have caused his heart inordinate distress. He shared those memories with you, of course, though never in too thorough detail. You were glad for it - a sad life story at the expense of his current happiness was a trade you weren't ever willing to make. No true lover would.

Your mind cycled through each stage of your life, from childhood's hour to your teenage years, to meeting Keigo, to almost marrying him, to...to losing him. The look in your eyes was so distant, as though you wished to be anywhere but here. Well...you would be, soon. Everything prior to this, every failed attempt...they weren't failures, per say. You just hadn't been ready.

But now you were.

Any moment now, at your mind's instruction, you would wander to the edge of this building, and then...you would fall. After years of trial, of anguish and isolation...you would finally be free.

"I don't want to forget that plan we had, the future we mapped out for ourselves. Please tell me you remember it. Please tell me we can act on it." You whispered up at the stars, straining for any hint of response.

None came, and none ever would. It would've taken a miracle, preferably administered by an angel, over a demon. But certainties were things best saved for story books, and those who charted fate. Your legacy lay beside you, and though not carried away by the wind, the rain had served to dampen it. 'Twas a small note, ripped from a page. On it, you had inked words which might once have been imbued with a potent despair, but which now betrayed not an ounce of emotion. The ink had dripped. It wasn't a first draft; you had written it many times over, getting shorter and more concise, until it simply read:

This is no-one's fault. There is nothing tethering me to this life, any longer. Please accept that, alongside my apology: I'm sorry.

And that time, when you smiled...it was the very last time. "I'm ready to fall. I'll meet you shortly, Keigo."

[Word Count: 1115]

[7hyuns]

million dollar man

johnny x reader

warnings; nsfw, slight angst, social class discrimination (? kinda), semi public sex

requested; yes a reallyyy long time ago by @cloroxteen sorry and thank you <3

a/n; please appreciate her this took so long

word count; 17.8k 

songs; when the party’s over - billie eilish, million dollar man / without you / music to watch boys to - lana del rey

The ceiling was leaking again. Noticing made a sudden fatigue creep into your body, your movements slowing to a stop as you stared up at where the droplets of water began to form before falling. You wondered how long the hole had been there, if it even was a hole or simply damp again, how much it would cost to fix. Whatever it was, you knew it would be too much for you to afford. As it seems everything always is. Even with taking a home that was so closely compact to the industrial part of your city, it seemed nothing was at all cheaper.

You thought how fitting it seemed that you had gotten a leak in your ceiling just as fall began. That gave you far less time than you were going to need to scrounge up the money to get it fixed, especially if you wanted to get it done before the threat of part of your ceiling caving in became all too real. Though you heavily doubted that was something you’d be able to do, and considered the all-too-likely possibility of having to do it yourself this time.

At least last year you had been able to work two jobs, and relatively comfortably considering the length the situation of Chicago’s businesses had been going on. It was only just before Valentine’s day that something had gone awfully wrong at one of the stores you worked at, and it found itself closed down. Forty-eight people had lost their jobs that day, which seemed to make finding another forty-eight times harder in the city. For a while you had thought getting by with the one job would be enough if you were cautious – and bought nothing you didn’t absolutely need – but even that seemed a strain these days.

Not only was it fatiguing to see your ceiling giving up on you, it was painful to think that with the way you were living, you would never have anything you wanted. Even if you did eventually work enough to have the things you needed, which seemed a push from where you were standing watching a puddle form on your kitchen floor. In that moment, living had never seemed more bleak.

You walked around the splattering water to reach the cupboard underneath your kitchen sink, looking for the rusted tin bucket that you’d kept from the other times this had occurred. Dropping the bucket with a clash of hollow tin onto wet tile floors, you heard the drops begin to echo onto the surface. Taking a wary glance at the thin puddle on the floor, you realised you would be better off cleaning it up before you relaxed. You couldn’t find the energy, however, and instead made the short trip from facing the back of your couch to sitting down in the small space of the attached living room. Even these short strides seemed too much for you to comprehend doing, and that feeling remained despite you already tucking your legs up underneath you as you sat on the worn fabric.

The couch itself had seen too many years since it had been gifted to your parents on their wedding day to still be considered comfortable by any means. That was only if you stayed still on it for too long, though, which seemed the only saving grace you could find in it. Much like all of your other large furniture items that you’d filled the two main rooms of your ground-floor apartment with, you hadn’t paid for it. Or even picked it out yourself. Your parents had been kind enough to give you the old stuff that had been lingering in the garage of your childhood home for fear of losing the memories attached to them.

Thinking of them when you had a moment to yourself made you suddenly regretful. For what, you weren’t sure. Maybe being away from them both seemed a better idea at the time you left, or maybe you missed the simplicity of life on the further outskirts of the city. Maybe it was only a longing for your childhood to come back so you didn’t have to think about all of the grown-up things for yourself anymore. You had regretted running off what seemed so far since the day you had done it, but there was nothing more you could do now. Sometimes you could barely remember why you had moved to the city anyway. Chasing big dreams, or following someone who was chasing big dreams. One of you had managed to make those big dreams become real, had turned them into a tangible thing.

Looking around your cosy home, it seemed simple to tell that the one who had struck out wasn’t you. You supposed, with the ever-so-wonderful hindsight, moving straight into the city by yourself at a time so obsessed with glitz and glamour hadn’t been such a fine idea. Though you knew the largest reason you had followed the someone else into the city in the first place had been to earn your own glitz and glamour life-style.

Sitting on your parents couch in a flat with a leak in the ceiling, you were beginning to think you should have done what all other American girls did when they were seeking success and education, and moved to New York. Even your friends had spoken dreamily of the big city, saying that’s the only place you could ever hope to find real culture and, as most of your friends insisted, real jazz.

Chicago wasn’t a place of real culture or real jazz, not in any shape or form. You could guess it was warmer in New York than it was in Chicago, too. If you had flourished in a certain area, or if you had a passion, maybe you could have taken the chance and followed it all the way to New York. But you didn’t and you hadn’t. Instead you had moved further into your home city at the worst possible time and found yourself, along with all of the friends who had stayed, shrouded in fear and crime.

You had to remind yourself that it wasn’t all bad. You had to, because otherwise life seemed far too bleak to keep up with. The light rain that was pattering against your window would get worse, you knew. If not over the course of the night then in the morning, surely. The thought filled you with subdued fear. You wondered if the bucket would be enough to keep your stable through the entirety of the fall and into the winter. That was a tricky line to walk, though. If you left it too long, the ceiling would cave, just as the man who had fixed it last time had insisted.

The night seemed to be taking too long, and there was too much weighing on your mind to consider staying awake any longer. You rose up and took long, dragged footsteps the short few paces to cross over the door-frame into your bedroom. You didn’t bother even turning the light on, feeling as though the weight of the world was suddenly resting on your shoulders. You kicked the door shut behind you, tugging your work short off and stepping out of your skirt to pull an older, looser shirt on to cover yourself.

When you had finally crawled into your bed it seemed colder than you had expected. Even the sheets felt icy and uncomfortable when you tugged them up to cover yourself. There’s little more I can do, you reminded yourself, closing your eyes and hoping for warmth. The thought made you want to laugh, with its consistency in your daily thinking. I hope, I hope, I hope. But what good had that been doing you in the last few years, really? You wondered whether the hope of meeting success had been enough for the boy you’d followed. Judging from where he’d made it in such a short span of time, you could only imagine it had been far more than hope that had given him what he had now.

 ///

The books had been handled badly in, “The Ox,” for such a long time that even with having worked there for over a year, there seemed so much to do. The owner, who was only ever briefly glimpsed around the bar once a month gathering his reports, never wearing a name tag, was called Sicheng. You had never found the confidence to ask too many questions about the man – what his last name was (though you had discovered within the pages of the book that his full name was Dong Sicheng and he was around your age), where he was from, why he seemed to have a lack of interest in his own business – though that was the same for many people.

Men in bars loved to talk to anyone that would listen, which happened to be the most difficult job of the women pouring their drinks. And, as usual, women – without the exemption of yourself – loved to gossip about the most interesting things they could find out. The happiest moments in your daily life was when you would be preparing to go home, or even when one of the women would spend their break in your mini-office instead of having to leave the building into the fall chill, would seek you out to tell you something exciting they had learnt. Dong Sicheng had become a natural inquisition for most of the people who had him as a boss, as there seemed to be so little available to learn about him. All they had known upon first getting their jobs was his name and that he wasn’t from Chicago, or even America at all.

Over time, with the information the women working at the bar had collected, you’d put together a vague, blurry image of Sicheng in your mind. His name was Dong Sicheng but oftentimes in letters he received he was referred to as Winwin. He was around your age, he was from China though you didn’t know where. And he was very anti-social. Once a month was about as often as he’d show his face. That didn’t seem too strange considering what it was the women said the men who grew too brave in their drunkenness for their own good.

Most of them said he was part of a gang that had come over from China to work with the American gangs, though you didn’t know how realistic that seemed. All the stories about him seemed in ultimate agreement that he worked in some kind of dirty business. Though, with the state the city was in, you weren’t sure you would confidently say that any business wasn’t like to be dirty. Either way, whenever you looked over the books, you knew that something was out of the ordinary. Too many odd payments were made or received with no reason given, or a short, ‘donation,’ if anything. You didn’t think it was probable that anyone would be making donations to some bar on a main street of Chicago when there must have been hundreds of others in the surrounding area.

You stretched out in your seat, staring blankly at the box of papers you had to sort through today. You didn’t think it would too difficult a task, and you thought if you moved quickly you could get it finished before the half-way mark of the day. Not that that meant too much, your work day would still end at the same time whether you rushed through it or not.

Despite knowing it was a littler amount than you had expected, it didn’t seem to make the first two hours pass any faster. By the first time in the day that one of the women who worked on the bar slipped into your office, every blink was beginning to feel like dragging sandpaper over your eyes. You could still feel the ever-present worry about the tin bucket on your kitchen floor; whether it had overflowed even though the rain was only light today, whether it had been knocked over by some mysterious force.

The woman had been working there just under a year, and was, to your surprise, younger than you. She had come from London hoping to find adventure in the ‘new world,’ which to her, had only been Chicago as of yet. Instead of finding her hoped for adventure, she had found a job in a bar that was possibly run by a gang member, but seemed altogether too quiet to keep her satisfied.

She was frowning when she walked into your working room, her brows drawn and eyes shying away from yours. You rose your eyebrows at her as she began to search the room for something else to look at. “Ada?” She offered you a tight-lipped smile. “Is everything alright?”

“No, I, I need to ask a favour.” She mumbled.

“Alright.”

When she looked at you, you made yourself smile reassuringly at her. This seemed to give her a shred more confidence, though she still seemed hesitant to ask. “I forgot to pick my medicine up this morning.” She declared, looking straight at you.

The difficulty she seemed to have asking the favour made you feel an odd sense of fondness rise in your chest. You smiled warmly at her. “Do you need to go and get it now?” She nodded. “So, what can I do to help you?”

She shuffled on her feet, tangling her hands with one another. “I was wondering if, you know if you had less work to do, if you could watch the bar while I go.” She paused, waiting to see if you reacted. “I would be quick! Not any more than an hour, I promise. It’s alright if you can’t, I could just, go, I could go later.”

You judged by her insistence on going now that going later wasn’t so open an option to her. You made yourself smile again to soothe her worries before you stood up. “It’s fine, I’ll be finished with this work within an hour, anyway. I’d be bored silly with nothing else to do.”

This seemed to soothe her enough for her to nod, though still not without hesitation. “An hour.” She repeated, though you assumed that was more to cool her own guilt.

You nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

After offering you an apologetic smile, she turned and left the room. The click of her short heels resounded until she reached the room where all of the workers left their belongings in the morning. When she was gone, you fell back into your same sense of empty tiredness. The fatigue wasn’t a calling for sleep, more so for some miracle gravitational shift that would change your life for the better. Or simply enough for me to not have to return home to a ruined ceiling. The sense of dramatics in your tired eyes made you wonder how much longer you had before that worry was for your whole home. Even the far away idea of it made your stomach turn in anxiety.

You pushed yourself up away from the table, flattening your palms to provide yourself some stability. For a minute, you stayed like that; breathing deeply and expecting the worst of your future. Yes, let’s follow an old friend to inner-city Chicago on the off-chance that we’ll find the same glamour he undoubtedly will. What a fine idea! And what a find outcome it had evidently been, standing in a room that smelt of woodchips and liquor, desperate to return home to a flat that smelt of mould and old furniture.

Once the angry butterflies having their own little riot in your stomach had relaxed, you stood up straight, and heaved in a deep sigh. “An hour,” you reminded yourself, though interacting with drunk men didn’t seem like it had an amount of time to take before it became awful. It’s only the start of the night, you cooled yourself. You turned, pausing only to wish that you were hidden away in the comfort of you bed once more, before walking out in the main area of the bar.

Despite it being early into the night, it was swirling with movement. The band that Sicheng had play in the bar for most of the week were in full swing, though the awe of their music was drowned out by a collection of drunken young men singing along. You slipped to move past them without alerting them of your presence. Finding your way to behind the safety of the bar at the back of the room proved a tasking challenge, with such a mess of bodies and drinks being jostled and knocked, creating even more of real mess that someone would have to clean when this place emptied later. You felt a stab of pity for them, seeing an older man spill half a pint of his beer onto the floor after stumbling into one of his group.

When you finally shut the little gate behind you, you steadied yourself again. The rising noise of music mingling with the murmuring cacophony of too many conversations happening at once was making your ears ring. Fall had meant the lights had to be turned on earlier in the day, with no natural lighting being enough for the workers to find their way around. Even that seemed to make your head spin. Reminder: no more looking for second jobs as a bar maid.

Someone called out at the bar’s edge, an older man with slicked back hair and a three-piece on, though he seemed to have lost the jacket to his suit. The other girl seemed busy loading a set of drinks up onto a tray, so you exhaled heavily and turned to face the man properly.

Putting on a customer friendly smile made you feel the sleepiness settle more obviously on your shoulders. How much longer can I carry my life on my back? That’s not where it’s supposed to be. But that’s where it was, and if you ever wanted it to be anywhere else, you had to work for it. “What can I get you tonight, sir?”

The man smiled, and you tried to guess whether this would go smoothly or make you wish you were anywhere else all over again. If there was any hint of your distaste for the possibility of him being anything other than amiable, he took it. A friendly smile lifted his lips. “Just two whiskeys, please.”

Your heart settled a bit. Nodding, you turned to prepare the drinks. The smell of the whiskey was potent as soon as you pulled the top of the bottle, like the smell of men mingled with the ash-trays that decorated the tables in here. You poured an equal amount into the two glasses and turned to place them on the bar in front of the man.

He smiled again, dropping the money he was clutching in his hand down onto the counter. He inclined his head in the way men said, ‘thank you,’ when they didn’t particularly want to say it. You supposed that was better than nothing. As much as there was no shortage of people crowding, ��The Ox,’ they all seemed fairly too preoccupied with there conversations, or with shouting along to the band’s music, to be making frequent trips to the bar. That wouldn’t be good for Sicheng you supposed, but it was something you were grateful for.

Then the door opened, and the bruised blue light of the sky outside was visible again. The noise from the street leaked in only slightly, just by the sound of some argument happening on the street. Take the back when you go home today. Last time, you had been blocked in by the police breaking up another fight-gone-violent, and then by a crowd of people desperate for something to see. You weren’t in the mood for that to be how your day ended again.

You glanced over to the large group of men walking in. They were all done-up nicely; three-piece suits with fine jackets that made you assume they were businessmen, slicked back hair, and cigarettes hanging from their lips. You could have written them off normal customers for a bar like this. Though on your second glance you saw enough to make your stomach drop again.

He was dressed much the same as all of his other companions; his suit was a dull grey, his hair was pushed off of his face, though some of it had slipped from its position, and he blew a cloud of smoke from his lips as he looked over to the bar. You thought, I wish I was invisible. You thought, I hope he thinks I look as good as I think he does.

Either way, you wished your were busy with something else, so you didn’t look like you were blatantly staring at him. It seemed to late for a regret like that one, though. He had seen you, and was making it no secret. You were sure if anyone was paying attention, they could see his eyes blatantly take in your figure, or as much of it as he could with the bar covering you. He turned to the group where they were picking out somewhere to sit, and shouted something over to one of them. The boy looked younger than he was, and laughed at whatever comment he made, nodding and turning to say something to another one of them.

Then he started walking towards you. The crowds of people seemed less of a problem to him than they had been for you, as he simply walked calmly on his path to the bar. When someone stumbled into that path, he didn’t seem to notice them at all, letting them tumble their way back out of it. The ease seemed attractive to you, though you guessed it was because you wished you had that same sense of confidence. Just like when you were growing up alongside him, you had to remind yourself he only had the confidence that you didn’t because he was a man. Boys were always brought up to think of themselves as important, even if they weren’t from the city. Girls, well, that was less of a concern with girls.

By the time he reached the bar, the bitterness you had felt at the back of your throat for most of your childhood had returned. You suddenly wished he wasn’t there, that you’d never had to of seen him again. Especially not when I’ve spent all day thinking of my lack of success. Seeing him in his fancy suit with his fancy friends felt like salt was being poured into your wound.

He grinned as he reached the bar, looking you up and down again. When his eyes met yours again, you held back the pride of having him look so blatantly and pleasantly surprised at the way you looked. You made yourself raise your eyebrows expectantly instead. “What can I get you, sir?” You repeated the question as you’d said it earlier. That way you knew he couldn’t interpret it a different way. Is it different? You weren’t sure. Your ceiling back home was leaking, you had to find another job so you could get it fixed, and you were covering on the bar for someone – you didn’t want to think about how much more of you it would take to start chasing him again.

He tilted his head at you, his grin not faltering. “That’s cold.”

You remembered how you’d smiled at the man before, the smile that said ‘I-am-just-here-to-get-payed-and-I-don’t-get-paid-enough-to-deal-with-you’ and mirrored that action again. “Is there a problem, sir?”

A hint of insecurity was beginning to reach his eyes. His grin slipped just slightly before he lifted it back to its original place. “You haven’t forgotten me. I saw how you looked at me when I walked in.”

You didn’t know how to seem cold when he questioned you. My ceiling is leaking, I am looking for another job to fix it, and I’m covering the bar for someone. I don’t have time to be messing around with him. You sighed heavily, letting him get the better of you as he always seemed set on doing. “Oh yes,” you rose your voice so he couldn’t not realise you weren’t serious, “I remember now, you’re Johnny, we were in the same hometown.” You stared blankly at him. “Ready for your drinks now?”

He quirked a brow at you. “Having a bad day?”

The bitterness in the back of your throat tasted like heat and the aftertaste of whisky. “Perhaps I simply don’t like strangers making snide observations of me.”

The grin fell from his face completely, replaced by a look of offended annoyance. “Good thing I’m not a stranger then, isn’t it, ___?”

“You may as well be.”

“I know everything about you. A stranger would know nothing about you.”

You scoffed. “I see getting your own business didn’t make you any smarter.” You glanced around to check no one else was at the bar waiting on you while you bickered. If I lost this job…There was no one but you and Johnny. “And it would be knew.” You corrected.

He recoiled at the comment, and opened his mouth to speak again before pausing. “You’re right.” His expression turned into one of mock understanding. “The girl I knew would never be as cold as you are.”

The comment stung, digging underneath your skin to wait there until you needed substance to be angry with yourself later. “The boy I knew…” you searched his face to try and find any semblance of how he used to be. The boy you’d chased was long gone, that seemed clear as day to see. Seeing it so up-close to you hurt more than it had when you’d simply pictured it. “What happened to him?”

Johnny shrugged. “He grew up.”

“And became a rich man. I suppose that’d change a person easily enough.”

He laughed lightly, nodding. “Only for the better.”

“I’ve met enough rich men to prove you wrong there.”

“Maybe,” his grin had returned. Though it wasn’t like his old smiles used to be, it was still pleasant to see when it lit up his features as it did. “What about your friends, huh?”

Confusion became evident on your features. “What about them?”

He bevelled his head at you. “Are rich women much the same as rich men? I always assumed they were worse, since their money’s being held by the rich men.”

You laughed. “I would certainly be worse if a man was holding my money.” You paused for a moment before shaking your head and laughing again. “You think I’m friends with rich women?”

“Well, rich women tend to convene together.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Tell me Johnny,” you began, placing your forearms on the bare in front of him, “why would I be working in a place like this if I was rich?”

He seemed stunted in his point. He shook his head and searched his face to catch any impression that you were joking. “You don’t,” he paused, as if thinking his original words would be too offensive, “you don’t have money?”

I have a leaking ceiling and I’m looking for another job, and now I’m covering work for someone, though you didn’t want him to know about all of that. “I don’t know where you got that impression.” You made yourself laugh again, trying to swallow how hard the reality of how stuck you were as it began to sink back in. Talking to Johnny had almost been enough for you to forget it for a moment. Though only a short moment.

His features had become drawn and serious. Not even that rang a bell of recognition for you. “You must be alright for money if the only job you need is a bar maid, though.” He suggested. You wondered whose conscience he was trying to subdue.

Something inside of you was begging with you not to tell him that that wasn’t true. It pleaded with you to agree, or to brush it off. To do anything that would mean he didn’t figure out your financial situation. You weren’t sure you could handle that kind of embarrassment today. So you only laughed and shrugged again. “I guess so.” You made sure the smile didn’t slip, and hoped that it looked real enough for him to note see through it. You breathed in deeply again, before he could continue speaking. “So, what can I get you?”

Disappointment clouded his features for a moment before he hummed. “Five whiskeys, please.” Even thinking about the price of the order made you feel far poorer than you already were. When the bitterness rose up again, you made yourself force it back. He worked for his money, you thought, but then, so do I.

You put his order onto a tray, “Should I bring this over to your table?”

“No, no,” he took the tray away from where your hands rested on it. “I’ve got it. Thank you.” He dropped the money onto the bar-top. You thought even that much cash would be close to how much you needed to get your ceiling fixed. And he has that to throw away on drinks. The bitterness had the same aftertaste as the overbearing smell of the whisky did.

He only came back over to the bar ten minutes before Ada was supposed to be back. There was a playful smile on his lips that moved up to meet his eyes, and you tried to make yourself copy the action. You failed, only succeeding in smiling a tight-lipped, half-formed look of vague disinterest in his direction.

The expression didn’t go unnoticed. “Too long a shift?” He joked.

If he was still the same Johnny he used to be, you’d say something like, ‘oh, god, you don’t know the half of it!’ But he wasn’t. There were things your pride couldn’t let you confide in him, especially not in a place like this. So you made yourself shrug, and hoped Ada would be late getting back. “I wouldn’t believe anyone if they told me they enjoyed working.”

Johnny laughed, and placed the tray of empty whisky glasses onto the bar-top. A few of glasses clinked when they tapped together. You glanced over at the clock. “Would you believe me?”

“I meant working class people, not businessmen in fancy suits.” You chided.

He nodded in mock understanding. “Businessmen work quite a lot, you know.”

You shrugged. “So do working class people.”

“You don’t.” He grinned.

‘Oh, god, you don’t know the half of it!’ You forced a laugh to pass your lips. “Being around men like you makes up for however much time you spend tucked away in an office.” You tried to sound teasing, but the aftertaste of bitterness lingered on your words.

He didn’t seem to note any animosity, only laughing with you. “When does your shift end?” He questioned, flattening his palms against the bar-top and looking at you expectantly.

Something about the way his hair was falling into his face, with his head tilted and jaw tightened, made you fell the angry butterflies in your stomach soften enough to flutter. He didn’t look like he used to. Despite his words, and the way his brown eyes looked dark enough to be considered smouldering in the golden light, you made yourself raise your eyes in disapproval. “Flirting with a bar maid? Is that allowed for a man in your position?”

He chuckled, and dropped his head for a moment. When he looked up, you felt a blush reach your cheeks as if you were still the same young girl with a silly crush on the boy who seemed so much greater than you could ever be. “Anything’s allowed for a man in my position.”

You scoffed, “I see your confidence hasn’t faltered.”

“I see your unwillingness to answer questions hasn’t faltered.”

Shrugging, you moved to flatten your own palms on the bar-top. Though the space between your heights seemed infinite, you tilted your head up only slightly. “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Maybe they’re uninteresting.”

It was his turn to scoff. “Flirting’s too mundane for you?”

“I am a bar maid.”

Johnny hummed. “Are you now?”

You recoiled slightly, pulling your hands off of the bar-top and moving away from him. “What kind of question is that?”

“An interesting one.”

Shaking your head, you looked to the door that lead into the room before the staff exit. There was no sign of movement there. Ada was running three minutes late. Somehow that made you grateful. “An uneducated one, you mean.”

“You don’t dress like a bar maid. Or pour drinks like you do it regularly.” He pointed out.

You sighed. “Why’s that any of your concern?”

He furrowed his brows. “Because if you’re not a bar maid, that means you lied.”

“So? It’s not like you need me to tell you the truth.”

“What was that promise we made?” He asked, leaning further onto the bar-top. “That we’d never lie to one another?”

You scoffed again. “Well, we were nine. I can’t keep all the promises I made to everyone when I was that age.”

He fell into a vague silence. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to say something to fill the empty space, though you couldn’t think of anything. Not being able to have the right words to say to him made you feel strange, almost inept.

“Well, whatever it is that you do,” he began, “when does your shift end?”

You laughed, half in disbelief and half in surprise at the surrealism of what seemed to be happening. “When the bar closes.” He hummed in acceptance of your answer. “Why do you need to know?”

“I wanted to take you to the pictures.”

You laughed. “I’m sure that’s what you wanted to do.” You teased, still feeling the anticipation of Ada showing up despite knowing Johnny had already figured you out.

Johnny raised his hands in mock surrender. “You know me. I’m nothing if not a gentleman.”

I don’t, you wanted to say. Instead you made yourself smile the same smile that was a size too small for you. “As are all businessmen.”

He took the edge in your voice as comedy, and laughed loudly again, before shaking his head softly. “You know, it’s quite dangerous for a lady to be walking home in the dark at the same time as drunken men.”

You made a noise somewhere between a scoff and an amused chuckle. “Well, thank you for your concern, sir, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”

He didn’t laugh. His features grew drawn in seriousness as he stared at you. “Do you not want me to walk you home?”

The idea of him seeing the very exterior of your building, with its brittle bricks and boarded up windows where different flats had been shut off, made embarrassment flood through you. Though you were sure even if he happened to miss those things in the dark, he would want to come in for a drink. Then he would see the old furniture, the leaking ceiling, and he would know you had lied to him more than once.

You scoffed at him. “I think your intentions might be worse than you’re implying.”

A grin turned his lips up again. The sight of him relaxing enough to joke made the nerves in your stomach cool slightly. “Would you want them any other way?”

Humming, you saw Ada appear in the doorway. She offered you an apologetic smile, seeing as she was nearing fifteen minutes later than she had promised to be. You imagined the city at this time would be crowded to navigate on foot, so you only shook your head at her. Tapping your fingertips against the bar-top a few times, you offered Johnny a quizzical look before turning your back on him.

“Is your shift over?” He asked, following you along as you walked toward the gate that sectioned off the open area from the alcohol lining the shelves.

A breathy laugh passed your lips. “No,” you responded.

You passed out of the gate, passing Ada as you did. She paused, quirking a brow at Johnny following closely on your heels. Her hand found your wrist as she stopped you lightly in your tracks. “Everything alright?” She asked.

Smiling brightly, you nodded, moving to squeeze her hand, “He’s just an old friend.” You assured.

She studied him for a moment before releasing her grip. “Give me a shout if you need me, alright?”

You smiled at her one last time before moving to make your way back to your small office. Johnny stuck himself to your side, and suddenly getting through the dense crowds of people didn’t seem such a task. There was an energy of confidence radiating off of him that other people seemed to pick up easily enough, scampering out of his path as he walked. When you reached the closed wooden door of your office, you turned to look up at him.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled, tilting his head at you. “Maybe I’d like to see your real work-place.”

Scoffing, you began to push the door open, walking in with him close on your heels. “There you go with your false intentions again.”

Laughing, he stepped inside the small room. “So I’m the one that spends all day tucked away?” You glared over at him, though he only shrugged. “It’s like those fox holes you used to get your foot caught in back home.”

“You used to fall in them, too.” You defended.

He shrugged, walking over to your desk and looking down at the papers discarded there. “You do the books for this place?”

You tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrows expectantly. “Don’t think I have the intelligence for it?”

He smiled, lifting the latest paper you’d last been working, eyes drifting over the words before he looked back at you. “There’s nothing you don’t have the intelligence for.”

His words flattered you more than any of the times people had called you pretty. Strangely, you wished he would notice more of your skills in the work laying out on the table, though you knew that was little enough to show for your intelligence.

When Johnny began walking towards you, you found your breath growing baited. For a moment, it didn’t matter that you didn’t know him as well as you used to. It didn’t even matter that your ceiling was leaking at home, or that you were looking for a second job to try and get it fixed, or that you supposed to be working right now. Even though if I lost this job…

His eyes were searching your face for something. Whether that was hesitancy to kiss him, or a want to kiss him, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that there was no hesitancy in your mind about him kissing you. Still, he seemed to have frozen in his position, only looking down at you, searching and searching for something you couldn’t see for yourself.

“Johnny,” you mumbled, his name feeling strange in your mouth, “get on with it.”

A grin met his features again. His hands came to cup your face, and for a moment the same searching look came back to him. You moved your own hands to grip the sides of his suit jacket, and tugged him closer. Close enough that you could feel his breath fanning across your face. There was the ever-light hint of whisky on his breath. That was the only thing you could find to dislike about his closeness to you.

When his lips finally met yours, you felt as if something inside of you was settling. Nothing else seemed to matter but the fact that you were finally kissing him. It felt unattached from the dreamy imaginations you’d had about the possibility of kissing him when you were younger. Then, you had always pictured his lips tasting like the candy he used to steal from the shop on the outskirts of the city, and you had pictured his hands feeling soft like the rose petals that grew in his parent’s garden. Now, his lips had the suggestion of whisky on them, mixed with the faintest memory of the cigarette he’d been smoking earlier. And his hands were rougher, and they seemed to shroud your entire face as he cupped it.

The girl version of you would probably have been disappointed at the idea of kissing someone who wasn’t the Johnny she knew. Things, you supposed, had changed quite significantly since you’d moved into the city. And with as little experience – or even basic knowledge – that you’d had with romance, you decided you knew barely enough to know what a relationship was back then. Now, with Johnny’s hands mapping out over your body, something in you decided that this could at least be a learning point. If not of love, then of affection.

When his lips left yours, a flood of disappointment moved through you. As much as a heavy whine wanted to pass from your lips, your pride wouldn’t let it, your lips locking closed. There was amusement lighting up his features, and no matter how hard you tried to force it you couldn’t bring up that bitter feeling again.

You wondered if you should whine again, or if you should complain, or maybe even just pull away and stop playing a game that was so childish in retrospect. At whatever glare had come into your eye, Johnny cocked his head. “Is there a problem?”

You pushed his hands away from you, scoffing as you did. “You’re a tease.”

He hummed, curling his arms around your waist and nodding. “If you don’t want me to tease,” he started, dipping closer to you again, “tell me what you want me to do.”

Drawing away from him slightly, you tried to study him like he had with you. You didn’t know what he’d been looking for, so in turn you didn’t know what you were looking for in him. You felt amusement mingling with excitement inside of you, and only when it met a burst of confidence did you let yourself speak. “Do whatever you’ve been thinking about doing to me all night.”

Another boisterous laugh left your lips. He spun you both around, turning and beginning to walk you both away from the closed door. When you felt the edge of the desk touch the tops of your thighs, you let him lift you. As one hand held you steady against him, the other swiped papers out of the way to make room to set you down. Part of you wanted to be anxious about the work getting muddled, about whatever work you’d already done in the day being wasted, but you couldn’t think about anything other than the way Johnny attached his lips to your neck. Flattening your palms against his chest, you let him begin to push your skirt higher up your legs. When you felt it bunch at your waist, you finally stopped biting back the whine that was sitting impatiently at the back of your throat.

He unravelled himself from you for a moment, “Quite bold of you to assume I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

You whined impatiently again, feeling his hands move higher up your thighs. “Of course you have. I’m a delight.”

He laughed, dropping his head into the crook of your neck to leave more kisses in the bare space there. When you felt his fingers hook into the sides of your underwear, a desperate moan tumbled past your lips. Johnny offered you a mock wary glance. “You’ve gotta be quieter than that if you’re gonna let me do whatever I want.”

You tried to shrug off the words. “I didn’t say whatever you wanted. I said whatever you’d been thinking about.”

“Same thing.” He pulled your underwear the rest of the way down your legs, stopping only to give you a quick glance as you kicked them off. A vague feeling of insecurity came over you then, with your skirt bunched into a roll of fabric at your hips and your underwear discarded on the floor. The feeling wasn’t given very long to grow, with Johnny crouching down in front of the desk shortly after.

There was a look in his eyes that told you he had a million teasing remarks sitting on the tip of his tongue for the sight that greeted him. Though he remained silent as he gripped the backs of your knees and tugged you closer to the edge of the desk. A surprised gasp left your mouth before you had the chance to recover from the shock. You wanted to say that the light chuckle that left his lips was because of something else – some joke his friends had said earlier that he’d only just caught on to – but you knew that wasn’t possible.

Johnny didn’t seem too keen on giving you a clear amount of time to overthink anything. You placed your flattened palms against the desk as he attached his mouth to your heat, curling your lip to bite back the moans that begged to leave your mouth. The noise from outside of the small office seemed distant and drowned out now that all you could fully focus on was the feeling of Johnny’s lips against you. It’s been too long, that’s all it is. Though you wondered if it was really that, or just something too difficult to accept. That maybe this was just another of Johnny’s many skills.

As the coil already began to start forming in the pit of your stomach, you were coming to the vexed realisation that that was going to be the case again. Oddly, even in such an intimate position of him having his head between your thighs, you felt that moving to thread your fingers through his hair would be too much. You wanted to think more about that, but the coil in your stomach was shifting into a pressure that made you try and stutter a warning to Johnny.

But all of a sudden the feeling stopped altogether, and he was pulling away from you slightly. Still with his knees against the floor, he bevelled his head up at you. Your head was spinning too much for you to be sure what expression was casting across your features, but you almost sure it was one of childish irritation. “Problem?” He questioned, running his hands up your thighs from your knees until his fingertips were dancing over your core.

You tried to push your hips forward to gain something more, but the short space you had on the desk prevented you. “Is that you’ve been thinking about?”

“Seeing your face when you start to beg?” He grinned, “Yeah.”

Sighing, you shook your head at him. “I’m starting to think you’re just a bad person nowadays.”

He pulled his fingertips away from you, bringing them to his lips before he spoke again. “Well, just this once, then,” he began, pressing a few light kisses to the inside of your thighs, “I’ll give in and, well, you know – be nice.”

“How kind.”

And then the room felt like it had gone underwater again. The noise that had previously just become loud background volume had turned back into distant, dreamy chatter again. Small moans fought past your mouth, but you reminded yourself of just how awful things would be if anyone caught you in this position. Well, I might finally speak to Sicheng. Nothing’s all bad. But the way Johnny moved his mouth against you made it difficult to think rationally about anything.

When the coil in your stomach began to push against you again, you imagined the worst; Johnny pulling away from you again, or maybe even someone wandering in. By the time you felt the coil snap, you were too distracted by the euphoria of it to think of anything else. It’s just been too long…but you weren’t even sure that by the time your bitterness for Johnny reappeared you would be able to say he had made you feel that good for any reason other than sheer talent.

He remained silent for a few moments, kissing the inside of your thighs softly as they shook slightly in the aftermath. When he rose to stand up, he placed your underwear back at your feet, pulling them up until they reached where your thighs met the table. You pulled in a breath to steady yourself and then let your legs drop onto the ground, lifting your underwear up until they were back into their correct place.

Johnny was looking at you with his head tilted. You glanced over at the old clock that hung above the door and saw it was two minutes until the under-boss for Sicheng would come and throw everyone out. You usually tried to get out five minutes or so before this happened – as did all the women – to give them a safe head-start. Thinking about walking home with packs of drunk men staggering around in every direction, with the high likelihood of rain, sounded like the last thing you wanted to do.

“You gonna let me drive you home or am I supposed to walk you back?” Johnny asked, pulling your attention back to him.

You made yourself laugh, even if the question didn’t directly suggest itself to be a joke. “I guess I’ll let you drive. Only because I wouldn’t want you making two journeys for me.”

He hummed, pulling the door open and waiting for you to walk out in front of him. “You’re such a delight.” He teased, falling in behind you as you made your way through the packs of people. It felt odd that not one of the people crowded into this room seemed to have checked the time enough to try and get out before the rush. Maybe you were just trying to think of anything other than the way Johnny’s hand was resting on your hip so he didn’t lose you as you directed the two of you to the main door. When your hand caught the handle, you hesitated, wondering if you should scrap this entire idea and go out your usual way. Something about leaving the building without telling anyone you’d finished your shift felt unnatural, and made a small tremor of anxiety make itself present.

But there was too little time left for you to push your way back through the crowds to the opposite side of the room. Instead, you pushed the handle down and pulled the door open to let the smell of the city into the main bar room. After a while of living in the middle of Chicago, you got used to the collide of different smells surrounding you at all times. Though in that moment, with your head feeling fuzzy and your legs feeling half as strong as they usually did, everything seemed more present than it really was.

Especially the cold. The second Johnny gave you a light push outside, the icy air curled around your bare arms and the sliver of skin exposed where your socks didn’t meet the end of your skirt. Part of you wanted to push yourself further into where Johnny had wrapped his arm tightly around your waist, but the other – still far more dominant – part of you refused to look like you needed anything from him. Rain was falling harshly against the ground, splashing up to greet your grey socks and darken in shade.

No matter how much you wanted to feel like you were entirely governing the moment between you and Johnny, you couldn’t do much more than let him guide you in whatever direction you needed to take to reach his car. You took the chance to glance up at him, and despite the lack of light, you could tell he still looked just as good as he had when he’d walked into the bar. His hair was growing damp from the rain now, as you imagined yours was, too. But more strands were starting to fall into his face, and he was looking straight ahead with the few directing lights shining in his eyes. He doesn’t look like he used to. Somehow that didn’t seem too important anymore.

He opened the car door for you, grinning tiredly as he gestured you inside. You didn’t know whether to laugh or thank him. If he was the same Johnny you used to be friends with, you would have just laughed and slapped his hand away from the car door. Now that you were both outside, in the real world, the bitterness had transformed into your usual non-purposeful nerves around the businessmen that came into the bar daily.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quickly, shifting in your seat as he shut the door for you. Before he walked to his side of the car, he offered you a quizzical look and then a polite smile. The same polite smile you’d offer a stranger if they had just thanked you for doing something kind for them. Your chest felt drawn and tight.

When he started to navigate his way away from the other swarm of cars beginning to come back to life after being sat in a parking spot all night, you began to try and articulate an excuse. Or think of another street you knew well enough to tell Johnny that that’s where you lived. It had to be somewhere nicer than the one you lived on now, but not so nice that it would seem implausible for you to afford it mostly by yourself.

Johnny turned out onto the main street by the bar you had been working out for a little over a year. A street you had walked up and down a hundred times. “So, where am I going?” He looked across at you, a few strands of hair reaching far enough down his forehead to begin to cover one of his eyes.

You hadn’t been given enough time to think of an excuse that would work well enough to go past Johnny. Instead you only rattled off your address and hung your head, too nervous to see the look on his face as he realised. Whether that was realised you had not-so-directly been lying to him or that you were poorer than he had first imagined, you didn’t know. All you knew for sure was how businessmen got when they were around people with less money than them. You didn’t want to think of Johnny looking at you like that.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. Not an awkward silence, but in the few sneak glances you took at Johnny you could only see him focused ahead on the road. Part of you was surprised that he even knew his way to your street, as you could safely assume he’d never been there before. The rain was hitting the roof of the car loudly, though you found yourself more entranced with the people rushing along the streets outside.

The car passed one of the larger shops in the city, with it’s ‘open,’ sign still high in the window. In the window away from the door, there was a sign that read, ‘Help Wanted.’ A small gleam of hope lifted into your chest. For once, you wanted to feed into the idea that luck was on your side. That hope translated quickly into worry. Worry that you wouldn’t get the job, or that if you didn’t make Johnny stop the car right there and get straight out to apply for it then it would be gone in the morning – even the worry that the other good things that had happened through the day were beginning to make you delusional to see what you wanted.

You stayed silent and let Johnny drive you the rest of the way home. When the car slowed to a stop, part of you didn’t want to get out, in fear of the dream-like haze of the day disappearing. Getting out of the car, closing the door on Johnny – it felt all too much like waking up from some sweet dream. I just don’t want to get out into the rain, that’s all. But lying to yourself seemed to be getting harder and harder.

Pushing the car door open, you tried to think of something to say. A goodbye, maybe, or maybe a flirty suggestion of seeing him again. If it was still the Johnny you had known, maybe you would make that joke. But the man sat in the car with you wasn’t.

When your pause had become awkward and unnaturally long enough for him to tell you didn’t know what to say, Johnny breathed in sharply. “Will I get to see you around, then? Or do I have to charm you into talking to me every time I see you?” He asked, making himself smile to soothe your evident nerves.

It didn’t work, but you appreciated his effort. “Maybe I like to see you make an effort.”

He laughed then, and you wanted to feel confident that it was genuine. The rain was falling harder. “Well, I better get used to it, then.”

A grin turned your lips upwards. Even if it didn’t feel like you were talking to the Johnny you used to know, the Johnny you had followed all the way to the city for the slightest hope of doing as well as he had, you thought you might be able to get used to this new one. “You better.” You assured him, pushing the car door the rest of the way open.

The light feeling had returned to your chest as you hurried to your door. An odd sense of gratitude was in your stomach that he hadn’t made any mention of your living space. You hadn’t gone back to the back room to get your jacket, so you gave morning you a congratulations for forgetting to take her key out of her breast pocket after leaving the house. Johnny offered you one more wave before he drove off, rain water rising from the floor and spraying up as you stood in your doorway to watch.

When he was gone and the door closed behind you, you let out a deep breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Reality was sitting at your kitchen table waiting for you to accept her, as much as you didn’t want to. You dropped your key onto the bowl that held it on the kitchen side, and looked at the floor. The rusty metal bucket had overflowed, water just starting to tip over the side.

You knew you should empty it out and put it back, but looking up, the small leak seemed to have grown larger. The man did the say the ceiling was at risk. You pulled out one of the two chairs at your kitchen table and sat down, staring at the forming puddle. Where earlier in the day irritation and bitterness had been rising to press against your chest, now there was only faint emptiness and a perpetual longing for something you couldn’t recognise. It made you think of the papers thrown all over the floor of your office back at work. It made you think of Johnny, in a strange way. It made you think of the help wanted sign in the window of the shop. Tomorrow, you promised yourself. When you got that second job tomorrow, things would only be on the up.

///

           By the time you got to work the next day, you were late. Or you would have been if Ada hadn’t told the under-boss that you had an appointment to be at that morning. You took that as a thank you for her being late back the other day, and a good thank you at that. Though that had been the only positive for the day. Applying for jobs always set you too on edge, made you too nervous. I’ve done it now, but it was the waiting you hated most.

           The rest of the day you had spent tucked away in your office, picking up your papers and re-organising them while ignoring the growing want to see Johnny that was spreading through you. You had gone a year and a half without so much as speaking a single word to him, you were sure you could go a few weeks.

           And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. For the entire day as you finished the work you hadn’t done yesterday and the work you needed to get done today, you were thinking about him. From the way his hands felt on you to the way his lips felt on you. Even down to the way he spoke. All of it had made you feel almost like you had your friend back, only he was a little different. Maybe you just felt like you had a friend again.

           He showed up again when you had almost finished your day’s work. You had paused midway through writing a sentence to try and guess if the pattering noise you heard was rain or something else. It had made dread fill up within you, imagining the bucket filling up and soaking into your floorboards again. Though, partially, the blame for that is on me. But if it happened again, you didn’t know if the floorboards would hold steady or start to rot.

           Then you heard a knock on the door of your office, and out of fear of it being the under-boss coming in to press more about your late appearance you only yelled back a quick, “Come in.” And then he was walking straight into your office, hesitating only to see if there was another chair somewhere. When there wasn’t, he settled to lean against the walking, kicking the door shut absentmindedly behind him.

           You rose your eyebrows at him, like your natural instinct when you saw him in any mundane setting was to question it. “What’re you doing here?”

           He didn’t laugh in response. His lips didn’t even twitch upwards in a grin he couldn’t quite suppress. The only feeling you could distinguish from him was light vexation. “Doyoung mentioned that you went around there looking for a job.”

           It surprised you that Doyoung and Johnny even had any ties to one another. Their lines of work didn’t seem as if they’d cross at any point, though you supposed most men in any kind of business would seek each other out to grow their circle of affluent friends. Bitterness was resting in your chest again.

           “And?”

           Johnny made a face. “And why do you need another job?”

           You dropped your pen down onto the desk. “Do I need to tell you every time I consider making a decision now?”

           “We’re friends, aren’t we? That’s what friends do.”

           You thought about the events of yesterday and wondered what the answer to that was. “What do you want me to say?” You asked after a moment.

           He breathed in sharply. “I don’t know. Tell me why you need another job or something. This one seems perfectly fine.”

           Perfectly fine, but not enough. Nothing ever is. You didn’t want to have to tell him that though. But thinking of lies on the spot had never been your strong point. Now, sitting there right in front of an attractive stranger-who-isn’t-a-stranger, your skills seemed to have gotten even worse. “I need the money.” You muttered finally, keeping your voice low enough for you to hope that he wouldn’t hear it at all.

           The room was too small and the noise coming from the main room was too low. He heard, made a face of acceptance, and then fell into silence. You didn’t know whether his lack of response was a good sign, that maybe your work ethic had surprised him into silence. Though you could only guess his thought process was one of pity. The thought made you cringe.

           “You can’t get a job there.” He sounded apologetic.

           You looked up at him, screwing your face up. “What do you mean?”

           He loosened up, stepping away from the wall and further into the room. “Dirty money.”

           A light laugh passed your lips then. “I’m pretty sure all money you earn in Chicago is dirty.”

           He shrugged, though a hesitant smile was beginning to light his features up. “The job’s not for anyone who won’t be…you know, making the money directly.”

           You huffed. “Why’d he advertise it in the window, then?”

           “Usually everyone’s assumption is that every job in Chicago is a little bit illegal, at least.”

           Nodding, you picked your pen back up. All on the up. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. If it was happening to anyone else, you thought you might find it funny. But the leaking ceiling, the looking for a second job, the never being able to afford anything other than necessities – that was your life. You couldn’t laugh at it until it wasn’t anymore.

           “Why do you need the money?” Johnny asked quietly, the floorboards creaking as he moved closer to you.

           You laughed bitterly, not letting yourself look up at him in case there were tears in your eyes. “You know, the normal stuff. And…” you didn’t want to say it.

           “And?” He pressed.

           “God, I don’t know.” You sighed, suddenly feeling all too suffocated, pushing your chair away from the desk. “I’ve been looking for another job for a while now.” You murmured, hoping it would explanation enough for your sudden drop in interest to the conversation.

           Johnny felt back into a silence that you could only describe as pensive. The room itself seemed to still in its wait for his answer. The only sign that the moment hadn’t completely frozen in time was the noise and movement coming from the main room.

           He cleared his throat, swiping away invisible dust from his hands before mumbling a quick, “I could help you out.”

           You were shaking your head before he finished speaking. Often times, handouts either came because of pity or in expectancy of being payed back. You wanted neither of those things. “I’m not taking handouts.” You declared, picking your pen back up to provide some security for yourself.

           For a minute he looked hesitant. Really, truly hesitant – like he didn’t know if he should say what he wanted to. In a moment of boldness, he let the words slip out. “What if it wasn’t a handout?”

           “What?”

           “What if you, sort of, worked for me?”

           You put the pen back down. The action was beginning to feel repetitive. “I thought you didn’t want me working with dirty money directly.”

           “Who said my money was dirty?” You scoffed, looking back to the desk as he sighed. “I didn’t mean, well, I didn’t mean working, as in typical working.”

           Scepticism showed on all of your features as it ran through you. “Get to the point, Johnny.”

           The same hesitation came back to him. “There’s a lot of, parties, and dinners and stuff when you’re in business.” He started. You nodded and gestured for him to continue. “Everyone brings someone with them, but I, well, I don’t.” He went silent.

           “Are you asking me to come to dinner parties with you?”

           “Sort of.”

           “And you’d pay me for it?”

           “Yes.” It was a statement but he made it sound closer to a question.

           You breathed out heavily, the confusion making your head throb. “Why would you do that? Couldn’t you just ask a girl on a date?”

           He shrugged, as if making up a reason was too much for him to be bothered with. “I’d buy you nice dresses for them, if you wanted. You could come spend some nights at my house. Maybe, if you liked it, you wouldn’t have to work here at all.”

           “Johnny,” you mumbled, standing up, “I really don’t understand. What would I be doing?”

           His arms curled around your waist. “Pretending,” he said, “pretending that you’re in love with me and that we’re one of those icy affluent couples.”

           “Why pretend when you could go out and make the real thing for yourself?”

           “How would that help you?”

           “You’re doing this for me?”

           He shrugged again. “Well, half and half.”

           Despite yourself, you laughed lightly, dropping your head against his chest. “I’d be getting payed, like I get payed here? To go to fancy dinners?”

           “If you needed me to.”

           “What does that mean?”

           “Well, you know, if you spend some time at my place and liked it, you could just move in.”

           Part of you wanted to recoil, though you stayed in your spot. “That seems like a quick decision.” You huffed. “It all sounds very nice, Johnny, but what happens when you actually meet someone you love? Where would I go?”

           “Can’t you just let me answer that question if we get there?” Something about the ‘if’ gave you a childish hope.

           This is ridiculous. I don’t even know how to make conversation. What a stupid idea. But your ceiling was going to cave in. Even if it didn’t, it was still leaking. You had been looking for a second job for far too long now. You hated the smell of whisky and men packed into bars.

           You breathed out deeply, half in a sigh and half in exasperation at yourself. “Well, things really can’t get any worse.” You untangled yourself from him, searching his face again before answering. “I accept.”

           His lips lifted, the same amusement from the day before coming back to his eyes. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered nervously. I’m ridiculous. How stupid can I be? “You accept?” He grinned.

           “Sure. Why not?”

///

           The first dinner was three days later. You had been coming and going to your work at the bar as usual, too nervous to accept that Johnny’s offer had been real and not some desperate fever dream. In those three days, he’d come by for a few moments at least on each, usually muttering the same comment about you not needing the job anymore. You never had an answer other than a shrug, too embarrassed to ask, ‘is this real? Is this really happening? Have I really gotten lucky?’

           His car was waiting outside for you when you left, just as he had promised earlier in the day that it would be. When you climbed inside, taking a nervous glance at him like you would a stranger you got into a car with, he chuckled lightly. Sometimes you wondered if he looked at you as a stranger or as someone he knew. Or maybe something in-between.

           “I wanted to get you a dress.” He told you, driving you down the main-street in a direction you hadn’t been in before. It seemed uncomfortably surprising to you to see the lines of stores you had never had the money to even consider going into before. It was even more uncomfortable to imagine spending someone else’s money in them.

           “Are you sure?” You asked, though you weren’t sure why. If he decided he wasn’t, you were back to the starting line.

           “Why wouldn’t I be?”

           “I’m not seeing how beneficial this is to you. I’m not giving you anything back.”

           He grinned over at you, laughing softly as he moved one of his hands to grip your thigh. “Would you believe me if I said the pleasure of your company is enough benefit?”

           Scoffing, you shook your head, looking back out the window. “I just might, since I’m such a delight and all.”

           Laughing again, he slowed the car to a stop. When you looked up at the shop, you couldn’t stop yourself from gaping. From the outside, you could tell the inside was nicer than your house. And a single dress inside was probably worth more than everything you owned.

           You wanted to ask him if he was sure again, but instead you just let him come round and open the car door for you. You slipped yourself out, feeling his arm curl around your waist as soon as your feet hit the floor. He walked you both up to the door, and in an odd way you felt like you were about to be turned away. In your clothes, looking at the glossy interior of the building, you felt out of place and awkward. Like everyone would be able to tell the second they saw you.

           The woman at the desk smiled brightly as you approached. “What can I help you both with today?” She asked, smiling again. You felt surprise purely at her customer service. No one at the bar was payed enough to put that much effort into their delivery.

           Johnny sensed your lack of confidence in answering. “We have a reservation under Seo.” He told her.

           She nodded, still smiling, and looked down at the books, flipping around a few pages before looking back up. “Of course, sir.” He moved then, walking you both backwards.

           He grinned at the surprise on your face. You felt like a child in a playground far too big for them. He gestured to the door furthest away from the entrance. “That’s the ladies dressing room. Tell them you have the Seo reservation.”

           You nodded. “Where are you going?”

           Laughing, he gestured to a different door. “To the men’s dressing room.”

           “Right.” You shook your head.

           He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, shoving you lightly in the direction of the ladies dressing room. “Don’t be nervous.” He assured, turning away from you and towards the other door.

           You paused anxiously, tapping your knuckles quietly against the wooden door. The speed at which it sprung open in front of you almost made you stumble back. But the woman standing on the inside was smiling brightly, and there was something in the curves of age on her face that made a strange part of you feel safe, like her face itself was friendly.

           “Seo reservation?” She asked, moving aside to let you walk in.

           “Uh, yeah.” You answered, looking at your hands as you tangled your fingers together nervously.

           She smiled softly at you, the most typical way of showing pity. She caught your hands and pulled you in the direction of rows upon rows of dresses of all different fabrics and shapes. “Is this your first time here?” You nodded. “Do you know what your reservation says you’re getting today?” Johnny had failed to mention that, you shook your head. She laughed. “Well, you’re getting a dress for a dinner party, and another for today.”

           You didn’t even want to think about how much a single one of the dresses here would cost, let alone two. “Who, uh, who picks those?”

           She smiled softly again, giving you the same look you’d give to a child who had hurt themselves. “I’ve picked out some options for you to choose from.” You nodded, watching as she moved to a certain row and pointed them out. All of them were prettier than all of the things you owned.

           It took you longer than it should have to pick two of the dresses. Every one seemed too nice to see put back on a shelf somewhere until some other rich woman decided that was pretty enough for her. Thinking of ‘some other rich woman’ was also odd, though for different reasons.

           Putting the dress on was the strangest thing you’d done in a while. Stepping into the fabric felt like accidentally stumbling into Johnny’s world. You felt inept, and the tightness of the dress only served to make you feel suffocated. Though the woman gushed a thousand different compliments as she saw you finally dressed. You wondered whether that was part of the job, or genuine joy at seeing you out of your own clothes that now seemed impossibly drab in comparison.

           When it was finally time to leave, the woman explained that the dresses would be payed for at the front desk. She handed you two price tags and wished you a nice day. You clutched the paper tightly in your hands, too scared to look at the price for either. The idea of having to add two numbers that you could only imagine were inconceivably high together was making your head hurt already.

           Johnny was already out by the time you were walking back to the front desk. His back was to your door, and he was busy throwing money down on the counter. You felt a desperate need to ask if he was sure again. But then, as he’d said himself, why wouldn’t he be? He didn’t seem like the type of person to not know what he was thinking. Unlike you, who couldn’t decide whether or not you were even okay with having two dresses bought for you. Even if I could never buy it for myself.

           He turned around when he heard your shoes on the floorboards. He breathed in sharply, and made a quiet humming sound as you got closer. Despite your wish to keep your head up high, the nerves drove you to drop your head as you reached him, handing him the paper price tags. He took a quick glance down at them both, placing them on the front desk before taking more money out and sliding it over to the woman.

           The ease in which he did it made you breathe in sharply. You weren’t sure if that was because of how much it was to throw away, or the innate attractiveness of the action. The memory of that day in your office was slowly coming back into your mind. A flush of heat was creeping up your neck to meet your cheeks.

           “Johnny?”

           He hummed as he looked down at you, slipping his arm around his waist as the woman handed you both back the clothes. “Yes?”

           “Where are we going now?” You asked, trying to keep your steps in line with his ones as he walked you both back outside.

           “Lunch, maybe. Do you want something to eat?” He asked, walking round to open the car door for you.

           After you’d settled back into your seat, you looked at him, curling your fingertips around the inward sides of his jacket. “Like back to your house?” You mumbled, feeling his free hand grip your thigh.

           A complacent grin turned his lips upwards as he cocked his head at you. “Do you think I have a café in my house?” He teased. You groaned, gripping the sides of his jacket tighter. He pressed a light kiss to your lips, moving away before you could deepen it. “You know I didn’t mean you have to sleep with me for money, right? Because that’d feel a little too much for me.”

           You laughed, shaking your head. “I promise I’m not looking to get payed for this.”

           There was an odd look in his eye for a fleeting second before it was replaced with amusement again. “As long as you promise.” You nodded, and he hummed in disapproval. “You have to use your words.”

           You paused, wondering how long you could hold out if you decided not to say it. You didn’t decide to test it out. “I promise.” Then the warmth of his body was replaced with the cold air and he was moving back around to his side of the car. You slipped your legs inside properly and shut the door, hoping to close out the promise of more rain.

           The drive back was more excruciating that you had wished it would be. Even staring out the window at the passing of new buildings wasn’t enough to keep you distracted from the weight of Johnny’s hand on your thigh. Whenever you stole desperate glances over at him, he seemed entirely unbothered, face blank and eyes staring forward. Rain was beginning to patter against the roof, though for once it didn’t worry you. It only felt like background noise. You barely noticed when the car stopped moving, too focused on the focused look on Johnny’s face. It felt stupid, and verging on childish, to be so enamoured with the simplest things that he did.

           For a moment after he stopped driving, he caught your eyes, tilting his head at you. He was searching again, looking for something that he didn’t seem to be able to find. In a strange way, it felt a lot like you were doing the same. He pushed the door on his side open and slipped himself out into the rain. You mirrored his action, though he got to your side before the door swung open properly. He caught it before it could slam into him, cocking his head at you and quirking a brow.

           “Sorry,” you mumbled, letting him offer his hand to help you out. Whenever you’d been caught in rain before, it hadn’t seemed of any importance at all. Now, wearing a dress that cost more than you were willing to think about, an anxious need to be somewhere dry was overcoming you.

           Johnny didn’t seem to have the same concern. His pace was almost leisurely, his arm curled around your waist as seemed his favourite resting place. You couldn’t particularly complain about the offhanded affection anymore, the warmth in his hold far nicer than the biting cold of the outside air.

           If you had been gaping up at the exterior of his house, the inside was almost enough to knock you off your feet. It was nicer than any house you’d been in before, let alone your own. The hall that opened straight from the front door was decorated with golden-painted wooden furniture and ornate fixtures that made your picture of the price tags from today look like child’s play. You swallowed thickly, suddenly self-conscious of every movement you made against the marble of the floor. Everything seemed impossibly fragile, even if rationally it wasn’t. The idea of brushing against any of the items in just the hall made you nervous.

           “You like it?” Johnny asked quietly, curling his arms around your waist as you stared at the painting on the wall. He littered light kisses across your neck, and you tried to clear your head enough to answer.

           “It’s rich.” You mumbled.

           He exhaled a laugh, his breath fanning across the skin of your neck. “Rich in what?”

           “Being rich.”

           He shook his head, turning you towards him. “You’re alright.” He said quietly. “It’s okay.” He assured.

           You tilted your head at him. “I know.”

           “Do you know that you fit here?” He asked, cupping your face in his hands.

           You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “I don’t,” you mumbled, kissing his fingertips, “but I’m not sure I mind that.”

           He hummed, turning you in the direction of the stairs. “As long as you’re alright.” He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

           Walking ahead of him felt unnatural, especially when you didn’t know what direction you were taking the two of you. But with his hands gripping tightly onto your hips and pushing you in the right direction, the nerves felt dulled and unnecessary. “You know I am,” you mumbled. His lips were still attached your neck, now leaving marks in their path downwards.

           When you stumbled into a closed door, Johnny detangled himself from you. The few seconds it took for him to push his bedroom door open seemed like too long to have his hands away from you. He tugged you into the room behind him, slamming his lips against yours as soon as you’d pushed the door shut behind you. His hands pushed your dress up as he spun you in a different direction. Your lack of awareness about your surroundings was something you knew you should be thinking about, but the feeling of his hands mapping out over your body seemed too good to waste with letting your mind wander anywhere else.

           When you felt the bed hit the back of your knees, you were reminded again of the day in your office. A flush of heat moved through you as you tightened your grip on Johnny, letting him lift you just enough to be able to put you down on the bed.

           The sheets were soft and silky underneath you, and even the mattress felt welcoming enough to cool any nerves left over under the surface. His mouth was travelling down your neck again, though this time he was pulling your dress down to get more access. The way he adjusted the fabric so carelessly caused your heart to rise into your throat, being able to imagine nothing but him throwing away that pile of money for nothing.

           He didn’t seem too intent on letting you have too much time to think. With his body hovering over yours and his hands getting closer to where you wanted them, your brain didn’t seem to want to work properly. You couldn’t particularly blame yourself. Small hums of his name were the only thing leaving your mouth, even if the strange fear of having another room full of people so close to you still lingered.

           Johnny moved further down your body, kissing over the satin fabric of your dress that was starting to feel all too suffocating as you laughed lightly at him. He grinned lazily, pushing your dress to bunch up at your waist like he had done with your skirt. You let your head fall back further into the comfort of the sheets and the pillows.

           He curled his fingers into your underwear, pulling them down your legs until you kicked them the rest of the way off. The familiarity of the action made your lips lift upwards. His lips pressed lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs, this time, he took his time to leave marks behind. Even if his actions weren’t supposed to be teasing, you couldn’t help but feel that way. A light whine left your mouth as you lifted your hips up from the mattress.

           Johnny only laughed, slipping his forearm over your hips and pushing them back down. He waited another moment, simply observing you as you huffed at him before he moved away from you. Rising up from the bed completely and sitting on the chair at the far side of the room.

           “You want me to touch you?” He asked, eyes full of that usual amusement. You swallowed the pride bubbling up in the back of your throat and nodded over at him. “Then earn it.” He declared.

           “Or I could just do everything myself.” You grumbled, drawing a laugh from him.

           “You could, but you won’t.”

           He was right. Your curiosity was too peaked to not even try to flatter him. “What do you want me to do?” You asked quietly, suddenly too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

           He hummed, as if in mock deep thought. The sound drew another frustrated huff from you, the heat from earlier still making your cheeks flush. The room fell into silence as you stared at the silk sheets. When you worked up your nerves enough to catch his eye again, he was observing you patiently. The look in his eye made you press your thighs together.

           For a long minute it felt like he was just taunting you, waiting to see how much you could take before you had to look away again. The feeling of being challenged was enough of a reason for you to keep your eyes focused on him, even if the confidence in your gaze was artificial.

           A hint of pride was in his eyes when he finally moved, gesturing down at his lap and beckoning you forward. The same air of confidence and power was radiating from him as when he made his way through crowds and watched people move out of his path. It was something you weren’t sure you disliked anymore. There was no bitterness in the back of your throat as you swallowed, only a vague ball of nerves.

           You rose from the bed, almost slipping off and onto the carpeted floor when your dress fell back into place and glided along the silk of the sheets. You managed to balance yourself easily enough, catching your feet onto the floor before you royally embarrassed yourself. It was only when you were stood right in front of Johnny, with his eyes raking over your form, that you faltered again, pausing and not knowing what to do with yourself.

           His hands spread across your hips, pulling you to sit over one of his thighs. When you were finally in place, his hands moved away from you to rest on the arms of the chair. He looked up at your expectantly. “Go on, then.” When you hesitated again, he laughed lightly. “Or do you need my help again?”

           You felt your shoulders tighten in irritation. “Are you gonna help?” You muttered, raising your eyebrows.

           He shrugged, his hands already moving to grip your hips again. He bevelled his head at you as he dragged your core against the fabric of his trousers. The amusement was the only thing you could find in his eyes as your moans grew louder. “I always give in too easily,” he murmured, pulling your lips back to his.

           The kiss was slow and easy, though you were more distracted by the feeling of his thigh underneath you than his lips against yours. Any moans that tried to escape your mouth fell into his instead of getting any further. Though it wasn’t long before he seemed to grow tired of not hearing you as he pulled away.

           By then, the coil in your stomach had already begun to tighten, and the noises you were making were growing in volume. Just when you thought you were going to feel the coil unravel, Johnny’s palms flattened against your hips to stop you moving anymore.

           You huffed in annoyance, trying to move yourself again but not being able to push further past Johnny’s hold. “Johnny,” you groaned, gripping onto his wrist.

           “I did tell you I wanted to hear you beg.” He chided, curling his arms around your waist and rising to stand.

           You gripped to him tighter in surprise, holding back yet another huff as he laughed at you. “What if I don’t want to?”

           He shrugged, dropping you ungraciously onto the bed, making you bounce slightly as you landed. He laughed again, “Maybe I won’t give in this time.”

           You hummed as he leaned down to hover over you again. “You always give in too easily.” You curled your arms around his shoulders and tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck.

He pushed your dress further up to bunch at your hips again, pulling himself away from you for a moment as he dropped his suit jacket onto the floor. His shirt went next, and finally his hands went to grip his belt. When he’d finally gotten himself undressed, he put your hands together and rested them above your head. He paused for a moment, tilting his head at you as you nodded quickly. He wrapped the belt around your hands, tightening it until he knew you couldn’t get out of it yourself.

He reconnected your lips, pushing your legs further apart to fit himself back between them. The moan of surprise that left you as Johnny pushed inside of you was swallowed by Johnny’s mouth on yours. The pace he set was far slower than you wanted it to be, though he didn’t seem to take note of the whines that weren’t able to leave your mouth.

You pulled away from him, “Faster,” you whined.

He slowed down. “What was that?”

You bit down on your bottom lip. “Please,” you mumbled quietly, too quietly for you to fully hear yourself.

“What was that?” He picked up his speed just slightly.

You groaned, half in annoyance and half at the increase of speed. “Please, Johnny.” You said again.

“Please what?”

“Faster, please.”

He finally set a faster pace, letting his hand move between your legs as you moaned louder. When you finally felt the coil begin to form again in your stomach, you let out an embarrassed few murmurs of, ‘please.’ Johnny made no show of having heard you, or if he had, he made no show of caring about your begging.

He bit down onto your shoulder as you moaned louder. “Johnny, please,” you whined, feeling tears prick at your eyes of him denying you again.

He chuckled softly, nodding as his nose bumped against yours before he pressed his lips back to yours. This kiss was more rushed, his free hand wondering as you tilted your head further upwards to deepen the kiss.

He pulled his lips away from yours just as the coil in your stomach started to unravel. His lips didn’t seem to be able to choose one place to kiss. “You’re so beautiful,” he muttered, “so, so beautiful.”

Your head was too fuzzy for you to be able to form words. All you could fully compute was the silk of the sheets against your skin underneath you, and Johnny’s lips pressing lazy kisses to your neck as he slowed a stop. You weren’t even sure when he’d hit his own high, though you knew that he had.

He stayed still for a moment, just stroking his thumb across your cheek before he moved away from you. Oddly, having the heat from his body disappear from above you made you feel empty. He reached to undo the belt that held your hands, and then brought them to his lips to press fleeting kisses there.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, leaning up to kiss him lightly again.

Johnny hummed, moving away from you for a moment as you dropped back to lie on the bed again. You noted then that there was a chandelier hanging from his ceiling. The sight made a cross between a breathy laugh and a disbelieving scoff pass your lips.

“Here,” Johnny mumbled, making you look up at him. He handed you a white-dress shirt that felt clean and soft when you held it.

“Thank you,” you mumbled again, getting up to take the dress off carefully and place it on the chair Johnny had been sat on earlier. When you got back to the bed, you pulled the shirt on, only bothering to do up two of the buttons before flopping to lie on his chest. He pressed a drawn out kiss to your forehead. “Is there really a dinner party tonight?” You mumbled against his chest.

He laughed tiredly, his chest rumbling as he did. “We don’t lie to each other, remember?”

You breathed out a laugh, pushing yourself up from his chest slightly. You glared at him for a long minute before shrugging. “I suppose.”

“Better start getting dressed soon.” He mumbled, pressing his lips to your temple. Part of you wanted to groan at the idea of moving and leaving the house again. The other part of you wanted to wrap yourself in silky fabric and eat a meal that was probably more expensive than all of the food in your house altogether. You hummed in acknowledgement of his words, starting to try and think of all the reasons to detangle yourself from him and start making yourself feel pampered enough to spend a night around people richer than you.

///

           The dinner hall was more than you had expected it to be, which was saying a lot on account of your imagination being particularly overactive when it came to splendour. When you walked in, Johnny’s arm curled lazily around your waist with him dressed in his newest suit, his air tidy and slick again in a way that made him look like he could own the building, you felt immediately out of place. The people surrounding you were about as glamorous as him. And just as rich, you knew. Which meant, of course, far richer than you.

           But then you remembered just how indistinctive you must seem in the situation. Dressed in golden silk, with your hair fixed prettily, you were entirely sure no one would offer you even a second glance for no reason other than to look at your exposed legs. The idea made you feel more confident, so whether or not it was true that no one could tell you were their least favourite thing – as it was, a very common person in the working class – you weren’t particularly bothered.

           Johnny had warned you before you even set off for the party that it would be a dull affair. When you’d first stepped into the hall, with its golden floor – that Johnny insisted was not real gold but was only paint, though you weren’t sure, you didn’t think you’d seen real gold often enough to be sure – and its rows of high chandeliers, and its tables full of rich looking food and decorated glasses, you hadn’t though that possible. Now, sat on your velvet lined chair and listening to Johnny and a table full of older men talk about business, you gave into the possibility that he might be right.

           Their discussions came to a stand still only when the staff came out to clear the tables and ask after everyone’s opinion on desert. Johnny had turned to you, almost as if to check you were still there. You were distracted by then, feeling a stab of guilt in your chest for the staff who had to tidy up after you and everyone else.

           He reached out to stroke his fingertip across your bare collarbones. “I should get you a golden necklace,” he mumbled, “it’d look nice on you.”

           “Gold looks nice on anyone, I’d think.” You laughed.

           He shrugged, grinning as he listened to you speak. “Everything looks nicer on you.”

           Making a noise of mock disgust, you knocked his hand away, feeling it immediately seek out to rest on your thigh. The action made your eyebrows raise as you looked back around the table as people spoke amongst themselves. “What’re you up to?”

           He laughed, lifting his hand further up the skin of your thigh as heat flushed through you. “Can’t I just rest my hand here?”

           “No.” You decided, stopping his hand before it could get any higher.

           “Don’t tell me,” he began, putting his hand back to its original place on your thigh, “you don’t want to do anything in public?”

           Scoffing, you shook your head, “I would never.”

           He bit back a laugh, but his grin told you all you needed to know. “Is this,” he lightly nodded to the table full of unfamiliar faces, “what, too public?”

           “If we get caught, it’s your business.”

           “Hey,” he defended, taking his hand away from your thigh, “my job’s attached very intimately to yours.”

           “Then keep your hands to yourself.”

           “Do I have to keep my hands to myself if we go, well, somewhere else?”

           You rose your eyebrows. “Do you not have any respect for your associates?”

           He grinned again, clutching your hand in his own and shrugging, “Not these ones.” He pulled you to stand with him, tightening his arm around your waist as he looked down at the table with a false look of concern on his features. “Excuse us,” his voice was arid and professional as the others at the table turned to look up at him, “but my girl’s not feeling too well, so I’m just going to help her find the bathrooms.” The table rose in a quiet murmur of acceptances and quick – and most likely detached – worries for you.

           And then he walked you both out of the hall. Only when you got back into the entrance hall with its red velvet carpet leading into the double doors of the dinner room did you let yourself laugh in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

           “If you had to look at yourself in this dress all night, you would be, too.” He defended, pushing the women’s bathroom door open and pulling you along beside him.

           The woman stood at the mirror startled when she saw Johnny beside you, before you cleared your throat. “Sorry, I’m, I’m not feeling very well. I thought it would be best if I wasn’t alone.” It sounded more like a suggestion than a statement.

           The woman nodded in acceptance, smiling pitifully at you the way older women always did with young girls. “That’s quite alright, I hope you feel better soon.” She didn’t offer Johnny the same courtesy, only sharpening her eyes at him and moving past him.

           When the door banged shut behind her, the two of you snickered as he pushed you towards the closest stall. His lips quickly found yours, nose bumping against yours as his hands slid up your dress as soon as he had the lock drawn across.

           He pushed your back up against the side of the stall, his hands already trying to pull your underwear down. “This is quite possibility the least romantic thing I’ve ever done.” You scoffed.

           He pulled away from you, drawing an involuntary whine from your lips. He shook his head, “We can always wait until later, if it’s romance that you want.”

           Huffing, you pulled him back to you by his jacket, feeling the kiss speed up as his hands rushed to go back to where they had been before. His hands curled underneath your thighs, gripping tightly enough for you to have to catch a moan before it passed your lips.

           “Jump,” he mumbled, pressing your back further up against the wall.

           You hesitation for a second, pulling away to offer him a sceptical look before doing as he’d told you. He caught you, keeping you steadily pressed to the stall’s wall. The grip he had on your thighs drew a groan from your lips as his own travelled down your neck. His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear in a manner that was becoming all too familiar. When he’d finally gotten them almost all the way down, he chuckled, shaking his head at himself as they got stuck. He dropped your legs back to the floor, watching you laugh at him as you kicked them off. Johnny caught them before they hit the floor, tucking them into his pocket. You laughed breathily at him, letting him lift you back into your previous position.

           He dropped down to his knees, lifting your legs so they were resting across his shoulders as he placed his mouth straight onto your core. His lack of teasing drew a shocked moan from your lips, your head dropping back to hit the stall wall. As per his usual act, the second your fingers went to tangle in his hair, he pulled away from you. The feeling in your stomach faded as he rose to stand up again, a complacent look settling over his features.

           “Do you know how to be nice?” You huffed, wrapping your legs around his waist again.

           He struggled to unbutton his trousers, grunting at the effort. The complacent look came back as soon as he had them undone, as if he had done everything smoothly in the first place. “I could be a lot meaner.” He promised, pressing his lips to your neck as he pushed into you.

           You dug your nails into his shoulders, dropping your head onto his shoulder to bite down and keep yourself quiet. Back in the room at the bar, you had only been distantly aware of the crowds of people in the other room. Now, with the tables full of people you would have previously thought of as elite with only a hallway to separate them from you and Johnny, you couldn’t be more aware of anything.

           Even with that lingering in the back of your mind, Johnny still made it difficult for you to be able to think of anything other than the way the coil in your stomach felt like forming heat. His lips were on your neck again, leaving behind a series of fresh marks that you were sure would get you some odd stares when you returned back to the table. His hands were gripping your thighs, though you could practically feel his disappointment as not being able to map out over your body like he hadn’t done it before by now.

           This time, when his groans grew slightly in volume, you pulled your head away from where you had been softening your volume in the crook of his neck to be able to see his face screw up as he hit his high. His eyebrows furrowed as dropped his head back, the muscles of his arms tightening as his nails dug into the bare skin of your thighs. You had to drop your head back onto his shoulders when the coil in your stomach began to unravel again.

           By the time the two of you had caught your breath, you hoped that your legs would be steady enough to uphold yourself when he set you back down. On the slight heel of your shoes, your hope suddenly seemed bleak. You wavered, feeling Johnny wrap his arm around your waist to keep you balanced.

           You glared at him. “I thought we came in here to be more discreet.”

           He laughed, “You looked bored, I’m just trying to keep things exciting for you.”

           “I thought I was working? Is work ever supposed to be exciting?”

           A grin turned up his lips. “I think you’ll find this job a little more fulfilling than most.”

           He opened the bathroom door, taking a quick look out before walking the two of you back in the direction of the heavy oaken double doors into the dinner hall. “I don’t feel like I’m working at all.” You mumbled, shifting to look away from him.

           Johnny laughed loudly, pulling open one of the doors as a few sets of eyes turned to look back at you. “Don’t look at it like a job then.”

           You sighed at him, tilting your head up at him as he grinned arrogantly at you. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

           His smile softened, though it stayed dashed across his features as you both reached your table again. He paused for a minute as he pulled your chair out for you, the searching look coming back to his face. This time, he seemed to find whatever he was looking for. “I’ve missed you.” He said quietly, tucking your chair back in.

           You thought, maybe he isn’t so different as I thought he was. You caught his hand in your own, gripping it tightly as you smiled. “I’ve missed you, too.” You responded. And even if the words felt foreign on your tongue, you thought, I’m telling the truth.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT BUSINESS

This rule is left over from a time when algorithm meant something like the current Google? Why do patents play so small a role in software? Any hacker who looked at some complex device and realized that with a tiny tweak he could make it run more efficiently. In something that's out there, problems are alarming. It has for me. It may also help them to grasp what's special about your technology. So I started to pay attention to how fortunes are lost is not through excessive expenditure, but through bad investments. Fear the Right Things. Microsoft Word. But there are limits to how well they'll be able to hire better programmers, because they'll attract only those who cared enough to learn it.

4 million a month to the rapacious founder after two years? They just don't want to seem like they had to make concessions. Perhaps a better solution is to assume that anything you've made is far short of what it might have been. If no one else will defend you, you have to publish it, and that's just as bad as the mid seventies. Perhaps a better solution is to look at the problem from the other end. When a company starts fighting over IP, it's a sign they've lost the real battle, for users. Startups usually win by making something so great that people recommend it to their friends.1 You generally apply for a broader patent than you think you'll be granted, and the startups are mostly schleps. True, but I don't think publishers can learn much from software. So while they're often nice guys, they just can't help it.

And not just from the technical community in general; a lot of users. So if you're the least bit inclined to find an excuse to quit, there's always some disaster happening.2 This essay is derived from a talk at the 2006 Startup School. Patent trolls are hard to fight precisely because they create nothing. Economically, the print media and the music labels simply overlooking this opportunity? There's nothing special about physical embodiments of control systems that should make them patentable, and the examiners reply by throwing out some of your claims and granting others. You can't even drive the thing yet, but 83,000 people came to sit in the driver's seat and hold the steering wheel. Technology trains leave the station at regular intervals. Startup acquisitions are usually a lot of mistakes.3 Cross out that final S and you're describing their business model.

Nothing is more likely to buy you than sue you. Experts can implement, but they can't design. Before central governments were powerful enough to enforce order, rich people had private armies. But different things matter to different people, and it's unclear whether anyone could be. If nuclear winter really is here, it may be safer to be a contrarian to be correct, and by that point the innovation that generated it has already happened. The startups we've funded so far are pretty quick, but they don't understand software yet. Most successful startups make that tradeoff unconsciously.4 And for programmers the paradox is even more pronounced: the language to learn, if you love life, don't waste time, because time is what life is made of. We tell the startups we fund not to worry about it, because a toll has to be more than new. If you grow to the point where anyone considers you worth attacking, you're doing well. Viaweb.5 In middle school and high school, what the other kids think of you seems the most important quality is in a startup.

If you had a handful of 8 peanuts, or a shelf of 8 books to choose from, the quantity would definitely seem limited, no matter how obscure you are now. I don't really blame Amazon for applying for the patent, but that has historically been a distinct business from publishing. You can lose quite a lot in the brains department and it won't kill you unless you let them. So I advise fatalism. Both make sense here.6 Every couple days I slip and call it Viaweb.7 Actually, it's more often don't worry about this; worry about that instead. I don't think they hamper innovation much. This is a little depressing.8 VCs should be trying to fund more of. When attacked, you were supposed to fight back, and there is something grand about that. Patent trolls are companies consisting mainly of lawyers whose whole business is to accumulate patents and threaten to sue companies who actually make things.

A mere 15 weeks. The truth is more boring: the state of the economy doesn't matter much either way. Perhaps we can split the difference and say that mobility gives hackers the luxury of being principled. Viaweb, and became Yahoo's when they bought us. I now had to think about something I hadn't had to think about something I hadn't had to think about something I hadn't had to think about something I hadn't had to think about before: how not to lose it. The optimal ways to make money by creating wealth, not by suing people. I was leaving I offered it to him, as I've done countless times before in the same situation. To make money the way software companies do, publishers would have to become software companies, and being publishers gives them no particular head start in that domain. If companies stuck to their initial plans, Microsoft would be selling printed circuit boards. It's more like saying I'm not going to apply for patents just because everyone else does. We tend to say yes to the second, but no smarter than you; they're not as motivated, because Google is not going to go out of business if this one product fails; and even at Google they have a lot of bureaucracy to slow them down.

There are several reasons it pays to get version 1 done fast. 9% of the people who thought during the Bubble all I have to keep repeating.9 It's easy to let the days rush by. So why do so many people complain about software patents stifling innovation, but when one looks closely at the software business I know from experience whether patents encourage or discourage innovation, and the content was what they were selling, and the startups are mostly schleps. But the breakage seems to affect software less than most other fields. You can lose quite a lot in the brains department and it won't kill you. It's ok to be optimistic about what you can see people doing. And one of the earliest sites with enough clout to force customers to log in before they could buy something.10 It seems to me the only limit would be the number of startups is not the criteria they use but that they always tend to focus on the goal of getting lots of users. This principle is very powerful.11 The American way is to make money from it indirectly, or find ways to embody it in things people will pay for information otherwise?

So it is with hacking: the more rewarding some kind of job. Well, founders aren't much better. A copy of Time costs $5 for 58 pages, or 8. Even now I think if you asked hackers to free-associate about Amazon, the one to choose is your growth rate to compensate. Some examples will make this clear. You don't need to be constantly reminding yourself why you shouldn't wait. But while I'd spent a lot of regulations.

Notes

To get all that matters, just as well as problems that have been the plague of 1347; the point of a company. I'm writing about one specific, rather than admitting he preferred to call all our lies lies. College English Departments Come From? Startups are businesses; the point of a place to exchange views.

And the reason this works is that the most abstract ideas, because they were already lots of type II startup, but you get paid much. Back when students focused mainly on getting a job after college, they compete on tailfins. Google will pay the most important section.

If the company.

VCs seem to have balked at this, on the firm's site, they're nice to you; you're too early really means is you're getting the stats for occurrences of foo in the same town, unless the person who would make good angel investors. The best thing for founders; if their kids to them about. In theory you could probably be to write an essay about why something isn't the last place in the case, is deliberately intended to be significantly pickier.

Particularly since many causes of the 800 highest paid executives at large companies. Surely it's better and it will become less common for the average NBA player's salary during the war, tax rates were highest: 14. For example, would increase the size of the latter case, not because it's a proxy for revenue growth.

If near you doesn't mean easy, of course it was wiser for them by the Clayton Antitrust Act in 1914. This explains why such paintings are slightly more interesting than random marks would be more linear if all you have to admit there's no center to walk in with a degree that alarmed his family, that must mean you should prevent your investors from helping you to raise money succeeded, and how good they are to be about 50%. So far the only reason I say in principle is that it's no longer working to help a society generally is to how Henry Ford got started as a single VC investment that began with an online service.

I couldn't believe it, by doing another round that values the company, but half comes from. I say the rate of change in response to what you really need that recipe site or local event aggregator as much income.

The US News list tells us is what the rule of thumb, the reaction might be able to redistribute wealth successfully, because investors don't yet get what they're really saying is they want both. It was revoltingly familiar to slip back into it.

In a typical fund, half the companies that seem promising can usually get enough money from mediocre investors. So by agreeing to uncapped notes. Since most VCs aren't tech guys, the last thing you changed.

There is usually slow growth or excessive spending rather than trying to sell services than a nerdy founder trying to describe what's happening as merely not-too-demanding environment, but they hate hypertension.

The First Industrial Revolution, England was already the richest and most sophisticated city in the few cases where a great founder is being able to redistribute wealth successfully, because spam and legitimate mail volume both have distinct daily patterns.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Anton van Straaten, Robert Morris, Geoff Ralston, and Jessica Livingston for their feedback on these thoughts.

[sweetbitterpdf]

cliché tropes: 5 + 48 💕💕

( 50 cliché tropes and prompts !!! )

lauren!! my dearest!! you sent this to me like a million years ago, but here i am with a little thing for you!! i hope it’s alright!!

5. Playing with their hair while their head’s in your lap.

48. I called you at 2am because I need you

1.4k / insomniac lucas, tea, blankets, reading aloud

—

Sometimes, their nights are like this.

It doesn’t happen too often— especially considering they spend the majority of their nights together, these days— but sometimes Eliott will wake up in the middle of the night, check his phone, and see this:

[01:33— MESSAGE FROM: Lucas 💙🦔]

are you awake right now? can i call you?

[01:40— MISSED CALL FROM: Lucas 💙🦔]

The missed call is from nearly twenty minutes ago. Lucas isn’t the sort to bombard him with messages and calls, even when he needs something. One text and one call is typical for him, in moments like these. Eliott is dialing Lucas’ number without having to think about it, and he already knows the conversation that waits for him on the other end.

“Hello?” Lucas’ voice is far too awake for the time of night, and he knows the kind of night that this will inevitably turn into— the sort where Lucas’ thoughts are keeping him awake, where he refuses to wake any of his roommates, for fear of disturbing them. 

When he calls Eliott, because he’s the only one that he trusts enough. The thought of that makes Eliott feel warm, makes him feel important.

“Hi love,” He says, lets his voice drip with affection, with love. Lucas sighs on the other end, relaxing already— if only a bit— and it makes Eliott smile. “You okay?” The silence that follows on the other end is answer enough. It stretches out between them, tangible, before Lucas speaks.

He remembers when their relationship was still fresh, when the answer to that question was always yes, when they were scared of showing themselves to each other. Now, though, Eliott can hear Lucas take a breath, before saying, “I can’t sleep.”

“Any reason why?” Eliott’s no stranger to Lucas’ insomnia. Some nights it comes with a cause, and others, it comes out of nowhere. In any case, he doesn’t like the thought of Lucas being lonely all night.

“No.” And then, “I don’t know.” Eliott still isn’t sure if tonight is of the former or latter variety. “I wanted to hear your voice, I’m sorry if I woke you up.” Some of the nights that they spend together, when Lucas’ sleeplessness gets the better of him, is some of Eliott’s favourite nights. There’s something about the wee hours of morning that soften everything around them, that slows everything down— Eliott can’t get enough of it, especially when Lucas is curled up at his side. He’s ready to go see him, to keep him company through the night.

“It’s okay.” Keep him company, or better yet— “Do you want to come over?”

“Eliott, it’s two in the morning.” Lucas’ tone is the same as when Eliott waxes poetic about Lucas’ eyes, when he burns his second piece of toast in a row, when he covers him in kisses to keep him from leaving. This time, though, Eliott can sense the slight bit of something underneath his gentle chide, a sort of pleading that he’s more than happy to indulge.

“I know, but if you want me to, I’ll come over, and then we can come back here.” Lucas is silent, on the other end. “That’s what I have a bike for.” This isn’t the first time he’s biked to Lucas’— but it’s certainly the latest.

“Okay.” He hears, quietly, from the other end.

“Okay?”

“If you could, I’d appreciate it.”

“Okay. I’ll be over in a bit.”

—

A little while later, Eliott approaches Lucas’ building. He softens, when he sees him stood just inside the door. He had texted Lucas a few minutes before— a quick ‘almost there!’— and as his bike comes to stop, he’s off it and bringing Lucas into his arms a beat later.

“Hi,” He says, pressing a kiss into Lucas’ hair. “You okay?”

“Hi.” Lucas hugs him back. Eliott can feel Lucas’ fatigue in his shoulders. “Better, now. Since you’re here.” They kiss, quick, before Eliott picks his bike back up again.

“Hop on, let’s go.” Lucas stands on the back, grip firm on his shoulders, and they set off. Eliott goes extra slow, pays an extra amount of attention to Lucas’ grip on him in his tired state. It’s not a long ride, but it takes him a bit longer than usual. At one point, Lucas leans down, and Eliott is concerned for a brief moment, before he feels his lips, gentle on his shoulder. Soon after, they arrive back at his building, and in his apartment. He leans his bike against the wall, and leaves Lucas on the couch.

Lucas runs into nights like these often enough that Eliott’s developed a bit of a protocol:

Step one— turn on kettle to make Lucas’ favourite tea. Lucas had mentioned it offhandedly one day, when they were at the grocery store. The next day, Eliott had taken a solo trip back, to pick up the specific brand of peppermint sleepytime that Lucas had pointed out. He’s now made it enough times for him, that he knows exactly how Lucas takes it: one sugar and a splash of milk.

Step two— bring the fluffiest, softest blanket possible onto the couch. Wrap him up, hold him close. Which Eliott does, with great care. He sets the mug of tea on the coffee table— as well as another, for himself, right beside it— He holds the blanket out to Lucas, which he takes, a small grateful smile on his face in the low light. He wraps it around himself before laying down, his head gently placed in Eliott’s lap. One of his hands go into Lucas’ hair on instinct, running careful fingers through it gently. Lucas sighs, smiling up at him, and Eliott kisses his softly, because he can’t resist.

“Do you need anything else?” He asks, looking down at him again. The way Lucas returns the gaze— as he usually does— makes Eliott feel full of love. That’s the way Lucas affects him— he fills Eliott with love until there’s no room left for anything else. And he hopes, every single day, that he does the same. 

“No— thank you, Eliott.” In the beginning, during the first few times this had happened, Lucas had insisted that Eliott go back to sleep. Now, though, it’s unspoken between them, that when they sleep, they’ll do it together. “Could we read some more? If you’re in the mood?” Another one of their things, their special activities— Lucas loves being read to. When Lucas told Eliott, it was another thing on the ever-growing mental list that Eliott keeps, reasons why we are soulmates, why the world intended for us to be together— because it just so happens that Eliott loves to read aloud.

“Of course,” He says, reaching for the book on the table. “Where were we, do you remember?”

“Time passes,” Lucas says softly, curling a little closer into him. “Seven, I think.” Eliott flips through the pages until he finds it, skimming the previous chapter to see if it jogs his memory, which to his delight, it does.

“Right! Okay,” Eliott grips the book in one hand, playing with Lucas’ hair with the other. “Night after night, summer and winter, the torment of storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine weather, held their court without interference…”

Not even half an hour has passed when Eliott glances down at Lucas once more, now asleep in his lap. He flips back a few pages, dog-earing the corner. He places the book down on the sofa beside him, and shakes Lucas gently.

“Lucas,” He coos. Lucas only groans softly in response. “Lucas, dearest, hey,” Lucas finally cracks an eye open, squinting up at him. “Let’s go to bed, you’ll hurt your back if you sleep on the couch like this.” Lucas groans again in protest, but sits himself up. Eliott does too, as he stretches out his arms and legs. Lucas stands, swaying sleepily beside him, and so Eliott takes his hand, leading him down the hall and into his bedroom. Lucas immediately settles into bed, and Eliott settles behind him, pulling him close.

“Goodnight, Eliott.” Lucas mumbles. Eliott, smiling, presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. He listens for Lucas’ breathing to slow and even out, the signal of sleep, before letting sleep take him as well.

[buckthegrump]

Finals Week

Summary: A short look into Bucky’s time at university.

Warnings: minor angst, fluff

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/n: This is my secret santa gift for @holy-captain​ (sorry if it’s crap) Happy Holidays @bucky-smiles​

Bucky bumped into her freshman year, literally. He was walking down the hall of the school on the first day of class, not watching where he was going and ran into her, knocking her to the ground.

“Dude!” She’d yelled from the ground and glared up at him. “Do you ever look where you’re going? Or is your ego so big that you assume everyone will move out of your way because you’re a man who is pretty?”

Bucky held out his hand for her, she took it but didn’t stop glaring at him.

“You’re not going to apologize or anything? Typical,” she bent down and picked up her things.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve been more careful,” he said as he watched her carefully. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

She stood back up and scoffed at him. “Good for you.”

He watched her walk away from him with a smile on his face.

* * *

Y/n sat in a spot in the middle of the classroom, knowing that she would probably only half pay attention in this class. Mostly because she’d taken it in high school, but the credits didn’t transfer, so she had to take it over again. 

Class was about to start and she was sitting at a two-person desk by herself and was thirty seconds away from celebrating until that boy, Bucky, who’d run into her in the hallway took the seat next to her.

“Hey, you weren’t saving this seat for anyone were you?” He asked. She shook her head at him and he pulled out his laptop and books.

She kept her eye glued to the front of the room not even bothering to pretend to take notes. She twirled her pen around her thumb as the professor droned on about the syllabus. Then instead of letting the students go, like most of the other professors would’ve, he kept them there and started talking about something that wasn’t even relevant to the class.

When Y/n’s curiosity got the better of her and she glanced over at Bucky’s laptop screen she watched as he began to play the Sims. Their table was parallel with the wall so there was no one behind him that could rat him out and she wasn’t going to. But still, Sims? On the first day of class? Bold move.

To be fair, she was seriously considering blatantly putting her head down on the table and taking a nap. Luckily, the professor dismissed class, and before anyone could say anything else to her, she darted out of the room.

* * *

While Bucky was determined to at least talk to Y/n, she was deadset on ignoring him. And much to her dismay, he continued to sit next to her in class. So for a few weeks, he would try and talk to her and she would either completely ignore him or just glare at him.

He stopped trying to talk to her as much, moving on to only greeting her at the start of class. To which her response a mere nod of her head.

It wasn’t until midterms when she was forced to interact with him.

“So for the final project,” the professor said meandering in the front of the class, “you’ll be working with your table partner.”

“Fuck,” she groaned and leaned her forehead on the table with a light thud.

The teacher droned on as she silently moped. She could feel the pure excitement wafting off of Bucky. 

Y/n was already convinced that Bucky was one of those people that liked putting off work until the very last moment. Which, Y/n was one of those people, but only when it came to solo work. When it came to group projects she liked getting things done as quickly as possible. Or at least her portion of the work.

Once the professor was done talking she lifted her head again.

“So, I think we should get together sometime this week and go over what we want to do and split up the work,” Bucky said.

Y/n looked at him surprised. Her mouth hung open for a moment before she answered. “Sure, sounds good. How about after class on Wednesday?”

His smile widened. “Sounds good to me.”

* * *

The term went on and they spent a lot of time together in the library, and once their project was finished they went back to only seeing each other in class. Except for the time when they found themselves at the same frat party.

Bucky saw her from across the room, she was sipping on whatever was in her red cup. She was glaring at anyone who walked too close to her. He smiled at her behavior and walked over to her. She gave him the same glare she’d given everyone else.

“Oh c’mon, we just spent half a term working on a project together and you’re going to treat me like you don’t know me,” Bucky said trying to sound hurt but he had a smile on his face that wouldn’t leave.

“I can know you and still glare at you,” she muttered into her cup taking another sip.

“At least the term’s  over.” Bucky grabbed an unused cup and began to fill it with an unsavory mixture of alcohol.

“Have you ever mixed a drink before in your life?” She sneered at him. “But term being over means that I have to go home and spend winter break with my family. Which will end with a trip to the hospital for sure.”

“Sounds like quite the family get together,” Bucky said adding sprite to his drink.

Y/n made a gagging noise. “I cannot stand here and watch you drink this monstrosity,” she said as she walked away.

Bucky didn’t see her for the rest of the night. He wondered if he would ever see her again, that it would be one of those things of ‘what if’?

* * *

It was a year later and finals week was right around the corner. Y/n had about a million finals coming up and she was stressed.

She’d just spent twelve straight hours at the library, she was supposed to be working on her reports or at the very least studying. Neither of those things happened, she spent almost every second of that time staring blankly at the screen saver on her computer or playing the sims.

With her laptop now in her backpack that was hanging off her shoulders, she stood in the middle of the grocery store. She felt that if she was going to finish any of the reports she had due, she needed some form of substance, healthy or not, to get her through these last few hours.

It was about two am and the store was practically deserted. The buzz from the fluorescent lights and hum from the freezer lulled Y/n into a trance as she stared at the ice cream section for way too long.

“Hey, stranger.” 

She whipped her head around to find Bucky Barnes standing there in plaid PJ bottoms and a dark blue crew neck. She said nothing only offering a nod of her head as a greeting. She went back to staring at the Ben and Jerry’s options before letting out an annoyed groan.

“Is everything ok?” He asked.

“What the fuck do you think pretty boy?” She asked through clenched teeth. She could feel the lump in her throat begin to rise and the tears well up in her eyes.

“What��s wrong?”

She scoffed keeping her tears at bay. “Everything. I can’t figure out what I’m going to do about my multiple six-page reports I have due at the end of the week. All of the notes I have for my classes don’t make sense. I think I wrote them in Russian but I don’t speak Russian. And now my boss is telling me that they might be laying people off. And to top it all off I cannot find chocolate chip cookie dough.”

“Isn’t this it?” Bucky opened the freezer door and pulled out a pint of ice cream.

“That’s dairy-free,” she said no longer able to hold back the tears. She started sobbing right there in the middle of the aisle.

Bucky put back the pint and a couple walked by giving Y/n a judgemental look.

“What the fuck do you want?” She yelled at them.

“Sorry,” Bucky apologized with a shrug, “Finals week.”

The couple scurried away as Y/n continued to cry. She muttered complete nonsense and was convinced that Bucky had just left her alone to cry her heart out.

Until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked over to see Bucky still standing there this time holding a different pint, both blurry from her tears.

“C’mon, I think you need a break from everything,” Bucky grabbed her hand a led her towards the checkout stations. 

* * *

They sat on the bench in the park blocks in the middle of their university. Bucky was silent as Y/n ate her ice cream. Bucky didn’t want to tell her that it was too cold to eat ice cream outside because it was the only thing that had gotten her to calm down and she had been insistent about not being inside for a bit. And he wasn’t about to let her sit outside in the middle of the night by herself, no matter how many times she told him she would be fine.

“When we first met I thought you were a dick,” she said, her voice muffled by the bite she’d just shoved in her mouth.

“To be fair, I did run into you.” Bucky chuckled at the memory.

“And knocked me on the ground, but I was mostly referring to the fact that we had to do that project together. I spent that entire term thinking you were just some pretty boy who thought he could skate through life because people would give you what you wanted -”

“Because I’m pretty?” Bucky teased as he bumped her shoulder with his.

“I was going to say ‘because you think you’re hot shit’ but yeah I guess that works.”

Bucky sat back on the bench and looked at the street lamps that lined the pathway.

“I thought you were really pretty when we first met,” Bucky whispered.

There was silence from both of them for a moment.

“I still do,” he said. He turned his head to find her staring at him with wide eyes. “You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. You’re going to get through this finals week and every other one just fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day you became my boss.”

She opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out, except a yawn.

“We should get you home before you fall asleep here on the bench.”

Bucky stood and offered her his hand. She took it and he helped her to her feet. The walked through campus until they got to her building.

Bucky started laughing when she stopped in front of the stairs to the building.

“What?” She asked.

“This is my building too,” Bucky smiled.

Y/n laughed and they walked into the building together.

* * *

Y/n had four more questions on her last final and yet she could focus. Hoping that she had gotten enough of the questions right, she filled in the remaining bubbles on her scantron and turned it in.

She walked into her building and got into the elevator completely in a daze. The doors were just about closed when an arm stopped them and she was joined by no other than Bucky himself.

He didn’t say anything as he walked into the opposite corner. Y/n wasn’t sure how to talk to him after that night in the park. But it was just a short elevator ride before they got to her floor and this encounter would be over.

However, it would seem that her luck had run out because between floors five and six the elevator stopped.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Y/n whispered as she frantically pressed the button for her floor.

“I don’t think that’s helping,” Bucky said. “Besides sometimes it will start back up on its own.”

She glared at him and turned back to the doors. 

After what felt like hours but was probably closer to two minutes the lights flickered off.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered. She pressed the help button just as the emergency lights came on and she turned to him. “I’m having a terrible day because of you!”

“What did I do?” He asked.

“You can’t just tell me that you think I’m pretty and then go on and on about what else you like about me right before I have to take a shit-ton of finals. I haven’t stopped thinking about it all week and then through every test, I kept imagining what it would be like to kiss you which then turned into fantasies about just hanging out with you in a very domestic way and that’s disgusting. I don’t need this kind of bullshit in my life!” 

He took a tentative step towards her and she took a step back in an attempt to maintain the distance between them. They continued this dance until Y/n was up against the wall and Bucky was only a few inches away from her.

“You what?” He finally asked with a small smile on his lips.

“Oh don’t be so smug about it babycakes,” she snarled at him.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest which highlighted just how big his biceps were, which pissed Y/n off even more. Over the course of a few days, his facial hair had grown, not enough to give him a full beard but his stubble had her thinking about what it would feel like between her thighs.

“What do you mean by domestic way?” He whispered.

“Ya know, just sitting around watching TV together and -” she scoffed. “I don’t have to clarify my thoughts of thinking you’d be a good boyfriend.”

She closed her eyes and hung her head to avoid the smirk she knew he had on his face.

“Do you -” he cleared his throat, “I can’t stop thinking what it would be like to kiss you.”

She finally looked back up at him to see the slight blush he has. Off of instinct alone, she grabbed his jacket and pulled him closer to her. She paused right before her lips met his and he closed the gap between them.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her waist trying to pull her closer to him and Y/n ran her fingers through his hair. Just as she was going to deepen the kiss a loud ding sounded off in the elevator and they broke apart.

“Are you ok in there?” A voice asked over the small but lough speaker under the buttons.

“Yeah,” Bucky answered a little breathlessly, “We’re ok.”

“Ok well, the fire department is on their way.”

Bucky smiled at Y/n.

“So after we get out of here -?”

“We should talk,” she finished, but she had a lot more than talking planned.

[fuerdichundfuergott]

The stillness of the forest in early winter, late fall always managed to bring Griswald some ease. The hibernators had all but finished their rush to fatten up in time for their slumber, the birds had flown south, and the leaves had all already fallen. The air was as crisp as ever, threatening to bring the first snow of the season as it nipped at Griswald's cheeks and nose. Balling his gloved hands into fists, he moved faster, with more purpose. Try as the atmosphere might, it couldn't quell his determination and make him appreciate his surroundings, not this time.

And soon, what had started as a little dot, hidden among trees, began to take shape. Covered with leaves, twigs, and stray branches, the sorry little cabin revealed itself. Slowing himself, Griswald found he had stopped himself from getting within a few feet of the shack. A hand caught on a nearby tree, he gazed at it, taking the image in. It must've been nearly twenty years since he'd been here. Twenty years since he had found Mutti. Twenty years since he had abandoned Sofia and found the other knights. Twenty years, yet he still remained in the body of a twelve year-old.

Hesitantly, he moved toward the door. He hadn't been home all that time. Sofia probably hadn't been staying there long, either, unless the church had taken it from her. As he gently pushed the door, however, it crumbled at his hand. Well, so much for that theory. Clearly, no one had been home in a long time. Ducking inside, Griswald took a deep breath, looking around.

Disrepair didn't even begin to adequately describe the little home. Any furniture left was broken and strewn about the room. Eyes wide, the bitter taste of bile biting at his throat, he felt his knees go weak, a rush of memories and emotions nearly knocking him down. Leaning back on the wall, he bit his lip, eyes still searching around the rest of the room. The windows had been broken long ago, and vines had made their way into the old home. Focusing on the way the leaves curved around the walls, he came to, now on the floor.

How'd he get here, again?

Griswald glanced around the room again, and this time, something new caught his eye. A floorboard, shifted ever so slightly out of place. What he particularly noticed was a small hole on one end, clearly put there by design, not incident. Had that always been there? He tried to think back, but to no avail. Maybe he genuinely never saw it, or maybe he was just too out of it to recall.

Gingerly, he reached over and plucked the board, looking into the hole left behind. Underneath was a little cubby, very deliberately placed, as it was lined with more slats of wood. All that was inside was an old, dog-eared journal. Griswald grabbed it, resuming his position sitting against the wall, staring at the book with wide eyes.

Was someone living here after they left? He couldn't remember Mutti or Vati keeping a diary, and he was certain Sofia and himself never did. Maybe… Maybe Sofia had indeed stayed longer than he initially thought? And she had forgotten this���maybe, even, it might hold where she had planned to go next! He began thumbing through the pages, barely bothering to try and read the contents. Ending on the last written page, he began to read:

Goodbye, world. I am as glad to be rid of you as you are me.

Wait, no, he'd heard that before—

Flipping back a few pages, eyes like saucers, full of bewilderment and fear, he read the entry from the start.

Oh, God!

This journal never belonged to Sofia. She had never kept one, she probably left right after him. No, this was Maria's. Mutti's. The final entry, it had been her suicide note. The same one he had found, mostly made illegible by her blood. Throwing the book down, that taste of bile returned, and he gripped his throbbing temple in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

Deeeep breaths, 1-2-3, deeep breaths, 4-5-6. Don't think about her body. Don't think about his sword. Don't even think. Just breathe. Oh, God.

Griswald slowly opened his eyes, glancing at the diary, before looking back down at the floor. He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was beyond a terrible idea, but part of him wanted to snatch it up and start from the beginning. That nagging feeling told him that there was something worthwhile in there, there had to be. Maybe she anticipated him finding it, and left something in there for him and Sofia, like… a letter filled with love and support and comfort. Maybe it was just him hoping, hoping for once to be told that it was okay, he was okay, to be held again and soothed.

Against his better judgment, he picked up the diary again. Slower, this time, he skimmed from the beginning, stopping on a page with his name.

I have decided what to name my babies. If they are two girls, I want to name them Nadia and Sofia. I think Mama would love to have a granddaughter named after her, even if she cannot personally meet her. As for boys, of course, Griswald and Friedrich. Maybe Berend would like that, if I included a name with "-wald". Considering how he loves this place so much,  I cannot think of a better name. No matter what, they will be von Brandts, not Schneiders. He can refuse to do the right thing all he likes, I will make it known that my children are his.

Brows furrowing in puzzlement, Griswald flipped several pages back, until he hit another page with his father's name on it. Under his breath, he couldn't help but let a quiet, confused, and almost scared, "...what?" escape.

I want to kill Berend von Brandt. I am carrying his child, and all he can do is suggest that we get rid of it. I told him that he will make things right, and we'll get married before anyone else knows. But, no, he CANNOT because he is a nation, and that's not how THEY do things. Oh, Lord, I regret ever laying eyes on that vile beast. That inconsiderate little cur told me that if we cannot rid ourselves of the inconvenience then we should settle for hiding my mistake instead.

A soft thud came as Griswald dropped the book again. He stared straight ahead, motionless. Oh, God, he couldn’t breathe. He started to gasp, barely noticing the tears that had welled up rolling down his hot cheeks. His train of thoughts formed into a sort of tunnel, the same words repeated at a million miles per hour. He still felt like he couldn't breathe, no matter how much air he gulped up. His face utterly numb, knees to his chest, fingers gripping onto his hair, gently rocking himself, he began to wail, unable to do much else.

Inconveniences.

Mistakes.

Mistakes.

That's all he was. That's all he and Sofia had been to Vater. They were nothing more than the unfortunate result of a single night. He never wanted them around, despite how deeply they cared for him. And soon, from the panic rose anger. Hiccuping, he stared at the wall, his blank look turning supercilious. Slowly, he stood, and took the journal once more, throwing it, full force, out of the window, cursing. Hands shaking, he looked around the cabin.

It had all been a lie. It had been built out of selfishness and disdain, not love and protection. It was all a lie. The whole time… and… and there's that funny little thing about lies. They always end up falling apart, don't they? They were rarely kept up forever, they just needed one person to ruin everything. Yet, everything here was already destroyed, and the structure still stood. Maybe it just needed a little spark to finish the job. Another little sob escaped him as he balled his hands back into fists, glancing around. He knew how to start a little spark. He could end the lie.

It didn't take him long to get what he needed. In fact, it was all a blur, from the moment the old table burst into flames,  to the moment that the roof caved in. The boy had already escaped by then, watching his destruction unfold in front of his own eyes. Flames licked up the vines outside, spreading out to the rest of the wood of the shack. Griswald only watched, breathing heavily, numbly. The only thing that snapped him back to reality was that loud POP! of the dead tree next to the shack, which had also caught fire. Another pop, and a branch fell down into the house. Backing up, he fully intended to just make a run for it, when his heel hit something. Turning, he saw the journal again, to which he groaned.

He grabbed it, stuffing it into his coat, and ran, just as the first snow of the year began to fall.

[starrysebastians]

painkillers and something more [one shot]

pairing : bucky barnes x reader

summary : lingering glances and subtle touches are fine, but all it takes is a little injury to turn whatever this is into something more

a/n : listen this one shot wasn't planned but i'm on antibiotics and painkillers right now and instead of letting myself die i wrote this . so basically hurt and comfort and fluff to end my suffering (mentions of injury)

word count : 1.8k

When the end credits of the movie he was watching ended and he didn't have the will to get up from his comfy position on the couch to grab the other remote and turn the TV off, so James Barnes is currently facing a beaming blue screen — has been for at least a whole hour. It makes a buzzing sound he has now gotten used to, because he kinda likes having a background noise to avoid facing the deep and abyssal silence being awake in the middle of the night always brings. Tonight wasn't particularly plagued with nightmares, but the previous ones, and months of recons and missions have messed up his sleeping schedule enough for him to finally take Sam's advice and watch the numerous movies he recommended him to catch-up on the 21st century culture.

His eyes are now focused on a book, one he found lying on a table, the bookmark next to it rather than in between the pages so he figured the person reading it was done. There's a shuffling coming from the hall that makes him perk up, the book closing on the finger he put between the pages.

Muffled voices, a groan, and it's getting closer.

"C'mon, let's get you on the couch. I'll get you your meds." Bucky identifies it as Sam's voice, although it is softer than it usually is when he's joking around, lighter than it is over the coms during a mission. It has the same he uses when he tries to comfort someone after innocent bystanders were a mission's collateral damages, or when Wanda has a nightmares. "Here."

The ceiling lamp flickers on, making the little reading lamp next to Bucky's couch useless. Even when he is wide awake, he usually likes staying in the dark when it's nighttime. It helps with schedules and not getting completely disoriented, seeing the sky go from purple and pink to dark blue splattered in white dots to soft orange and light blue. Artificial lightning all night long just messes with your mind.

Shifting in his seat so that he can turn his head and observe the hall leading to the living room — more like a living floor, by the way, he frowns upon you and Sam. Rather, Sam holding you by the waist, walking ever so slowly as if you were gonna collapse as soon as he let you go. Bucky stands up straighter, a million questions popping up in his head — were you on a mission? no, you had one that lasted longer than usual because Fury needed you and you returned two weeks ago, and all you did the past few days was help run recon, collect intel… nothing to get hurt over.

He and Sam share a look, and he's not quite sure what that expression on his face is.

"Here. Just lie down," Sam says with his soft voice again as you tumble on the couch, hands on the leather to steady you as you try and lay down as gently as possible. "I'll be right back." Another pointed look at Bucky, and this time he slowly rises from his seat, taking two hesitant steps.

It's not that you and him are not close — in fact, he would say you're one of the persons he likes the most here. You work with SHIELD, but also with them, it depends on the missions and he likes how you're free to work with any organisation you like. You're independent, and not often in the compound. He enjoys watching you work and fight because you're so skilled it's impressive for a normal, non-enhanced human being, but maybe it's just everything about you he deems worthy of being stared at all day long.

There has been different moments shared. Unwinding times in comfortable silence and missions aftermaths, bundled up in soft blankets in the living room or numbly sitting in the quinjet as it flew back towards the compound. Briefing sessions, some with too many things at stake to share a joke, others where you both shared smirks and twinkling looks. One where you accidentally bumped your leg against his, that time Steve was explaining how you were going to take down a weapon-dealing business, which is a pretty easy task for all of you, and you decided your leg was going to stay right here. You even made the wise decision of hooking your feet around his leg, the warmth emitting from your tangled legs making Bucky bite his lip in order to stop a smile from breaking out on his face. You didn't hide yours.

There are also times when you don't get to bump into each other for months. Exhausting months when you both are on missions, deep down undercover — especially you, because the winter soldier's face, albeit masks and tricks existing, is well-known, contrary to yours which has been well-protected by every intelligence agency you have served. During those months, sometimes you're scared he's going to forget about you and your fleeting glances ; he's scared you're too busy with work for him to ever cross your mind. And you never really talk, you both just flirt and smirk and wink and sometimes it feels like it has to evolve into something more, but it has always been enough.

But you're currently moaning from pain on the couch right next to him and his face hurts from frowning so hard.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Another two steps (strides) towards you, a hesitant hand hovering next to you, not knowing where to go to provide comfort without hurting you further. You turn your head toward the sound of his voice, painfully, and squint as if everything was blurry.

"Hi," you drawl out, a lazy smile on your face. "I missed you."

A flutter in the stomach, a soft and content sigh.

"I missed you too. What happened? I thought you didn't have any mission coming up?"

"I didn't," you say and he frowns. "Remember that undercover mission where I got shot last month?" He nods and you wince before continuing. His gaze falls on your hip, because he remembers that gunshot, a bit too well. "Well, maybe I didn't really follow the doctor's orders. I mean, I did. I just got back to work too early. But it wasn't that deep. Like a flesh wound. But, anyway." Another wince. "Turns out it got a little infected. So I'm back on antibiotics and painkillers for a week."

It physically hurts him too, to see your glazed and glossy eyes, constant frown and lips turned downwards, but he still chuckles at your rambling, and the fact that you couldn't stand to stay on bed rest for more than two days. He crouches down next to you, pushing a strand of hair out of your eyes because you've been trying to get rid off it for the past minute by blowing air on it, but it just doesn't work.

"Yeah well please try and listen, next time," Sam's voice is back, and you just know he rolled his eyes. The sound of boxes and a glass clinking against the table can be heard, and he lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Here's the doctor's prescription. Antibiotics, painkillers, water. She probably won't sleep tonight." He crouches down too, a hand resting on her forearm. "I'm gonna let Tin Man here keep you company, alright? If I don't wake up for training tomorrow, Steve is gonna have my head."

You hum distractedly as you watch Bucky fumble with the prescription and meticulously prepare your pills, tongue stuck out as his blue eyes are squinted. Cleaning out his weapons probably doesn't require as much attention and care, and you can't help but laugh at his expression. A super-soldier, being able to aim at an enemy's head without even sparing him a glance, but putting so much effort into getting your meds right, and it makes your chest swell with something you can't quite place, but it's warm, definitely warm. Burning. He perks up at the sound of your laugh, only to send you a glare, and then a few seconds later he proudly hands you the right amount of pills.

"Thank you," you say with a smile, a hand lingering a bit too long on his skin. He helps you get propped up against the cosy and snug cushions and while you take your meds, he's busy finding you a soft and fluffy blanket, resting it on top of you.

"Here." He's sitting next to you again, leaning more and more every time you let a groan escape your lips.

"Would you mind knocking me off so I can sleep?"

An amused chuckle but a fond movement of the head, from left to right.

"You weren't sleeping?" You talk again.

He shakes his head again. "Nah. I was catching up on Sam's movie recommendation list."

"Can you put something on?"

It takes you ten minutes to decide on Blade Runner, and in fear of hurting you, he slides down against the couch again, his head thrown back a little and you can see his face if you look down, the colors displayed on the TV screen dancing across his soft and tired features. He's just so pretty.

You extend your left arm, and it is dangling from the couch, fingers softly brushing Bucky's shoulders. Scratching his neck, his ear. Running through his shiny locks, the smell of his shampoo invading your senses. He cranes his neck backwards to get a better look at you, and he notices your smile and the glinting in your eyes from upside down. You hum as his flesh hand grab yours, thumb stroking your skin. He lets it rest on his shoulder again, putting his attention back to the movie playing in front of him.

It takes another twenty minutes of gentle fingers running on his skin, insistent staring at his neck, back muscles, hair and shoulders, for you to talk again, painkillers having kicked in.

"Please come and lie with me. You're not gonna hurt me," your voice can't compete with the fight scene on screen, but you're leaning right next to his ear, and if he doesn't move for a second, he certainly heard you. "Hold me?"

This is the something more you have both been yearning for. There wasn't any moment that was right before, but this one is.

It takes a few minutes for the two of you to find a position that doesn't hurt your hip, lots of groans and painful winces. But then you're lying between his legs, back resting against his toned abdomen, head nestled in the crook of his neck with strands probably tickling his skin but he doesn't say anything because he likes the smell of your shampoo too, and he's warmer than the blanket.

That something more, the next step in a dynamic based on small smiles across the quinjet and subtly tangled legs, is going to have to wait until you don't have to ingest the highest dose of painkillers humanly possible to move without wincing, but it is there. Hanging in the air, waiting to be seized. In the way Bucky holds you, runs the back of his flesh hand up and down your arm, and softly kisses your neck.

[kristallioness]

2016 | 2017 | 2018

*quietly sneaks back in*... Happy New THIS Year, my dear followers! In Estonia, we have this saying that if you wish someone a 'happy new year' after Three Kings' Day (the 6th of January), you gotta have a bottle of alcohol with you and give them a drink. *lol*

Anyways, I would like to apologize for the sudden disappearance that happened prior to Christmas. I was just busy travelling back home for the holidays, unpacking and putting away my stuff, watching some great, traditional movies or shows on TV, and most importantly, working on those 2 latest masterpieces that I posted (which barely got 30 notes each.. *sigh*).

But as you can (and probably will) see, the year of the yellow earth pig (i.e. my dad's year) was a rollercoaster of emotions and accomplishments, or lacking thereof.

My creative side seems to have suffered the most due to lack of leisure time. I only managed to finish 3 full digital drawings and left behind several sketches or unfinished WIPs (2 of which are revealed here under the months of June and November for the first time, I intend to finish the Korrasami one btw). At least I got to start 2020 with a completed drawing on the very 1st day, ha-ha! Perhaps that's a good omen for this year?

If so, then I hope I'll find the time to finish the rest of the 2019 Inktober prompts, since I only did 4/31 this past October (even though I'd thought of ideas for all of them). I brought all the necessary drawing utensils and sheets of paper with me, so whenever I'm in the mood, I'll try to sketch another one.

*calculates for the nth time*.. I wrote 18,110 words worth of fanfiction, plus 820 words for the UYLD prompts (making the total 18,930). Technically, you can count another 8k+ in there, since it comes from that unfinished story (of Aang taking care of a flu-ridden Katara, as illustrated by the September sketch), which I haven't finished within the last 4 months or so. Plus, I barely wrote 1/5 of the amount compared to 2018.. *hides in shame*

Then again, I was an excellent pupil for picking up an actual book and reading through 150+ pages (which means I have ~300 pages to go). I'm talking about the new Kyoshi novel that came out. As I once said, I haven't voluntarily read a book in years make that 2 years ago (most of the reading I've done in my life is either Tom & Jerry comics, now the Avatar comic trilogies and art books as well as fanfiction online, or compulsory reading during school). But this novel is freaking fantastic superb!

Not only that, I bought all the new comic trilogies and managed to read them through. Damn, did they give me feels.. especially "Ruins of the Empire" (ngl I squeed so hard when I saw the Korrasami farewell kiss on the 1st page of the 2nd part). I can't wait to read the 3rd part this year!

However, I failed to rewatch Avatar last year, and I haven't seen Korra since.. 2016, I believe? Wow, that's 4 whole years.. But I intend to fix that mistake starting from 2020. Hopefully I'm in the mood to start my rewatch this weekend tonight. *fingers crossed*

But as I said, I had much less time to focus on my hobbies since 2019 was the year for finally moving on with my life (sort of, I'm still working on it). I still remember how down I'd been feeling for a while and how valid those emotions really were. The first quarter of the year (+ like a month or two) was a continuous descent into desperation and feelings of utter failure, which already started around the 2nd half of 2018 and only continued to deepen around that time.

Everything began to change when I was first chosen to be part of a 2-month summer internship in an IT company, and I had to start building a new nest in a new location in Tallinn this May. And now, I feel like I've hit the jackpot by getting a permanent job in another IT company this October.

I got the opportunity to work in two different fields, in two different teams within a year. I met some awesome colleagues (a lot of whom are foreigners) and got the chance to really put my English skills to the test.

Thanks to the new job, I also had to go to a free health check, which went really-really well. Despite my nervousness in the beginning, I feel much more relaxed about my physical (and mental) health, cause the results showed that everything's okay (something I'd been worried about since March 2017).

Speaking of health or staying healthy, there were a few sports events that I went to, too. Our team held the first winter team event (it was the first one for me, at least) by going to do archery in a range on the outskirts of the capital.

I watched the football match between 2 teams of our local league at my hometown together with my dad on his birthday. Our home team won the match and came in 4th place overall in the league this year, which is their best result so far (I'm really proud!). And merely days before I started work, I visited the Tallinn International Horse Show for the first time (also with my dad). I last got to watch horses jump over fences or dance to their musical programs ~ 10 years ago, and I loved it!

Event-wise 2019 was pretty full of them. As has become tradition, I went to the Defence Forces parade on our 101st Independence Day (which seemed rather bleak compared to the centennial, even more so since we didn't have ANY snow at the time).

What will hopefully become new traditions, I visited the television tower on the Restoration of Independence Day (where Uku Suviste gave a free concert in the evening), and went to the Veteran's Rock concert (to honour our war veterans) on our Freedom Square on the 23rd of April (since I'm residing in the capital now, I should be able to go again this year).

To continue with the centennial celebrations (yes, some things are STILL turning 100), I saw and explored inside the armoured train no. 7 called "Wabadus" ("Freedom") in the Baltic Station. This armoured train was one of the keys that led our country to victory during the War of Independence from 1918-1920.

There was an even bigger (150th) anniversary to celebrate in the beginning of July, when I attended our Song and Dance Festival. This was a really important, if not the biggest event of the year. I intend to make a longer post about my experience, cause it's something that you foreigners need to see for yourself. I can't simply describe or put it into words, I have to show you some videos and photos.

But while we're on the topic of concerts, I should mention that I went to 2 more at the beginning of June - Bon Jovi and Sting - as well as 2 that were part of Christmas tours in December - Elina Nechayeva and Rolf Roosalu.

Besides that, I went to 6 different festivals, half of which I'd been to several times before, such as the Türi Flower Fair, Jäneda Farm Days (where I went on my first helicopter ride for my 25th birthday present) and the Christmas market in the Old Town of Tallinn.

The other half is comprised of festivals that I'd been considering going to for a while, or which took place for the first time. The latter applies to the Black Food Festival, whereas the "Valgus Kõnnib" ("Wandering Lights") and the duck rally, both of which took place in Kadriorg, fall under the first category.

The duck rally is a charity event held in the beginning of June. Regular people can buy at least one (or several) rubber bath duckies for different prices, which will then be dumped into a tiny stream that'll carry them towards the finish line. This event has grown more popular each year, and the money the Estonian Association of Parents of Children with Cancer (sorry, long name in English!) collects is donated to the Cancer Treatment Fund.

*wipes forehead*.. Phew! I'm surprised, that's a whole lotta positivity for 2019. I think there's one more important, but seriously negative topic I haven't covered yet, but I feel should be mentioned and explained.

When it comes to politics, 2019 was a complete disaster for us. EKRE (Eesti Konservatiivne Rahvaerakond in Estonian, or Estonia's Conservative People's Party in English) i.e. our populist/nazi/pro-Trump party is in the government as of April 2019, thanks to 100,000+ idiots (out of our population of 1.3 million) who voted for them and gave them 19/101 seats in the Parliament.

No, I am NOT going to apologize for calling them a nazi party, because their main leaders have repeatedly supported ideology that's common to nazis (they use aggressive rhetoric, blame the media for making them look bad, downgrade women, minorities, are racist, anti-semitic etc...). And I will not apologize in front of the people who voted for them, because "thanks" to this, EKRE has dragged our country's reputation straight through a mud puddle (not to mention the scandals that have accompanied 5 of their ministers, 3 of who have THANKFULLY stepped down from their positions) and.. *swears like the British*.. it's BLOODY EMBARRASSING.

I am done being nice, I have at least some kind of prejudice about anyone who supports them or their ideals. And I will certainly not let Estonia end up like America. So that is why I participated in two protest events against EKRE and our current government (because the 2 other parties, who were willing to form the coalition with them, are spineless jellyfish that simply seek to hold onto their current positions of power). I'm willing to take bets as to when our government falls (the sooner the better).

*shakes off the frustration*.. Brrr! So besides that, I guess the only downside to 2019 was my spare time falling back in the list of priorities (which shows in the empty square of July).

2020 is gonna be the year of the white metal rat. I can only hope (and take action so) that it'll be just as eventful, and much more creative than 2019. Thank you all for following me (or lurking anonymously) for so long, especially to the bloggers who've offered me support through better or worse! *raises a glass* Here's to 2020!.. *sip*

[hazinhoodies]

Mal En Point (part viii)

Koh!Harrison x Angel!Reader

A/N: part eight, hello. i’m really glad that you guys are liking this i’m so excited for you guys to see more of it. thanks to @wazzupmrstark for this moodboard but also for letting me tell her every single thing about this series that i’m excited about and that’s gonna happen. 

Warnings: talking of death

Word Count: 1.1k

Mal En Point

French, idiom

Direction translation: Bad in Point

Meaning: to be in a bad state.

Something that everyone thought of you when you were sinning in heaven. That you must be in a bad state of mind. But now you were in hell, and it was a billion times better than anytime you’d spent in heaven, except one memory with your mother and father, the one memory that was playing on repeat.

That one memory is what kept your mind off of the truly bad state you were in right now. You knew it’d happen. Fully anticipated it.

You were sick.

Your wings felt like nothing but weight on your back, you had no energy, you hadn’t been eating the food that you received, which was surprisingly good. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you could imagine it wasn’t pretty. Certainly not angelic. You likely had bags, and your skin was pale and blotchy. You didn’t even have enough energy to reply to King Harrison, who seemed to be spending any time he got down with you, talking about anything that was on his mind.

He talked about himself a lot. Probably due to the fact that you didn’t reply to him. He talked of his father and his childhood, the few things you could retain from those conversations made you realize that you weren’t too different from the other. Both the children of powerful people, who never seemed to be able to live up to the standards made for them.

Why he came to you, you weren’t sure. You thought that maybe it was because he knew you were dying, knew you wouldn’t be around long, so you were someone to vent to with no repercussions.

You were playing that one memory for what must be the millionth time.

Small feet propelled you off the marble flooring, surrounding angels stepped back with short gasps or apologies as you dodged around their legs until you found the ones you were looking for and wrapped your arms tightly around them. You father picked you up and you laughed. He looked so happy. Happier than you’d seen him since this memory. His eyes crinkled at the edges. You hoped he was doing okay up in heaven, hopefully he’s taking care of himself. Hopefully he’s been-

“Angel? Are you alright?” Harrison voice was soft. Softer than you’d expect from a demon.

You somehow muster the energy to nod, letting your eyelids close as you do. There’s no point in trying to fight it, you were dying, you knew this was going to happen. You welcomed it.

“You don’t look alright. Why are you lying?”

“I’m dying, your highness” You croaked out. Your throat was dry. It clearly took Harrison off guard. His response didn’t come until a few seconds later.

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it. I just know” You coughed, it made your muscles hurt. “I knew it’d happen soon” You opened your eyes again and looked at Harrison. He had his arms crossed over his chest as he stared down his feet, one of which tapped rhythmically. He didn’t look happy, if you were any closer you’d be able to see that his jaw was clenched and the lines on his forehead that appeared.

He pivoted on his heel and left the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind him, leaving you and your memory.

Your mother, she looked gorgeous and happy, opened a set of large doors, the same ones that you opened before being sentenced to hell. They seemed bigger. You faintly remember the click of the doors closing as she put you down and you immediately took off. You knew your father would be at the back of the main hall so that’s where you ran. Your wings were small nubs, the pristine white feathers had only just started to take shape.

You looked up at the faces that matched the legs that you ran by looking for your father, every face smiled down at you, all of them knew who you were. Finally finding the face you were looking for, you wrapped you small arms around your father's legs. He picked you up easily, your own laughter echoed in your ears. By the time you were settled on his hip, your mother was in front of you. He kissed her cheek and said something to her, something you couldn’t hear.

Your mother opened a large set of doors, the same ones you’d opened and been inside a million times.

And it repeats.

---

Harrison scouted the fourth floor library, searching through the history books he’d read so many times before. He couldn’t find anything that he needed and it frustrated him. There were pages missing in many of the books, some burnt, maybe what he needed was in there. He’d never know.

“Sir are you really sure about this?” Harry flips through the pages of a book, “I don’t think many demons will be pleased with you. Iezebel especially. She will be absolutely-“

“I know she will be.” Harrison cuts Harry off. “Frankly, I don’t care what she think at this point. I’m King. This is my realm”

“With all due respect sir, is this perchance slightly selfish? At all?” Harrison ignored the question. He would never be fully comfortable with Harry and Tom calling him ‘sir’, ‘your highness’ or anything of the sort. He grew up with them and the sudden formalities since his coronation felt unnatural, even if they mostly came from Harry. Harrison slammed the book shut and rushed off, Harry followed him, nearly tripping over his feet while trying to catch up.

“I don’t know how much longer she’ll be alive for. I don’t know how much time we have to figure out how to save her”

“Your highness” Harrison cringed slightly, “We’ve never saved an angel before”

“There’s a first time for everything, Harry” He stopped abruptly “Just get a few other people and have them search through every book we have, see if they can find something. But Iezebel and Tom cannot know” Harry nods “Harry I trust you”

“Yes, sir” He nodded and was about to turn, someone was shouting for Harrison as they ran down the hall.

“Your highness, it’s the Queen” He spoke between laboured breaths.

“What is it? What happened?” He looked to Harry who looked equally as concerned. Harry shrugged.

“She’s dead, your majesty”

mep

@tonystark-mcu @hollandroos @bi-writes @lovelyh0lland @wazzupmrstark @thirsty-hoes-central @deleteidentity @buckystolemyheart @awesomeaugustina @agirlwithpointlessideas @youngandfleeting @writing-in-winter

haz:

@summernykole @hjosterfield @imagines-andshizz @thequeensardine @mellifluous-tom @osterfieldholland01 @happymagicbee @artemisiaarm @sincerelymlg @butithasntkilledyouyet @headsup-itsmostlypeter @bitchymathematician @starlightfound @spideyyypeter @ixchel-9275 @honeyyhuggs @nedthegay @empressdreams @ohyouremymedicine @awkwardfangirl2014

[ninavarelas]

little thing

content warnings: ‪discussion of depression / mental illness, medication, implied suicidal ideation‬

-

hi, so i was asked to write a guest post about what it’s like writing while mentally ill. the final version is edited to be shorter & lighter in tone, but i wanted to post the original somewhere. here it is, thanks for reading if you do!

-

It’s December 2018 and I am sitting on the kitchen floor, staring at my laptop, trawling for words and for the first time in my life coming up entirely empty. Before this, no matter how sick I was, I could always get out at least a few awkward sentences. The words always existed. Even if reaching for them was exhausting, even if they sucked and had to be deleted later, they existed; I could find them. But a few months ago, the meds I’ve been taking every day for six years stopped working, and my pdoc tried doubling the dose, and for whatever reason it straight up wiped my brain. Like ten-million-tons-of-salt-into-a-freshwater-lake wiped it. All signs of life shriveled and silent.

I have a deadline, I keep thinking. I have a deadline. Once I start thinking it, I can’t stop. It goes on loop. I sit there trying to remember what I’m supposed to be writing, what part of the story I’m at, and I keep rereading the most recent paragraphs and forgetting them immediately. Some other version of me is two hundred pages into this book, and maybe that me remembers what the book is about, but I don’t. I type out the main character’s name and try to fill in the rest of the sentence and my brain says, I have a deadline I have a deadline I have a deadline and I spend the next four hours like that. Then the next three months.

I do turn things in—late, and I don’t remember writing any of it after the fact, but it happens. I have brief periods of lucidity. It helps that I’ve been writing for so long it’s like muscle memory. But for the most part I spend winter of 2018 like this: in the daylight hours I do not exist, I am a shell; I have no sense of self, let alone the ability to write about someone else; I do not make new memories; I move through a thick fog. At night, black water pours into my head and I come alive just enough to feel terrified. My skin is too tight and the air rubs me raw. I’m not sleeping. Obviously, this doesn’t help the fog situation.

I have a deadline. One and then another. I keep forgetting when they are. I keep losing time, forgetting which month we’re even in. The world doesn’t feel real. It’s incredibly unimaginative of me to bring up The Bell Jar right now, but that’s what I keep returning to—the image of myself trapped beneath a dome of thick glass. I can see the world happening around me, but it’s blurry and faded and I can’t touch it, can’t interact with it; I am too removed. It turns and people say things to me and I say things back and none of it is real.

Then I open my laptop and try to step back into this book I’m supposed to be writing, this fantasy world, and my brain is empty, the words are gone, and the worst part is I have wanted this for so long. I’ve been writing since I learned how. I have been writing almost every day for twenty years. This is the only thing I want to do, the only thing I have ever done. And I can’t do it.

My pdoc switches my meds. The next months are hazy. It takes a few tries to find a combination that works. But we do find it, and the words come back. My days and nights even out again. Slowly, I begin to feel less like a ghost and more like a person. With weight and presence. I run my hands over the walls of my bedroom, the bedspread, the sharp corners of my desk, and it almost always feels real.

By May 2019, I am writing consistently again. I meet deadlines. I still don’t remember most of what I write—by the time I reach the middle of the book, I’ve forgotten the beginning—but I don’t think that’s going away. It’s cool. That’s what outlines are for.

I want to say something profound here. I want to give out some shining beacon of hope. But the truth is: I’m doing well right now, I’m taking my meds and eating green things and drinking lots of water and all the other things you’re meant to do, hashtag self care, but I don’t think this will last forever. I can see sickness on the horizon. I can smell it like the ozone-smell before a thunderstorm. But the truth is: I know it is possible to feel better. To feel okay. That’s my goal. I don’t want to walk around deliriously happy all the time; I don’t think anyone is like that. I just want to feel okay most days. I know it’s possible; I know what it feels like. I know someday I’m going to lose myself again, but I also know I can get back to that okay-place. Different meds, therapy if I can afford it, a lightbox, my friends, my dog. Small things. Patience, unfortunately. That’s my mantra when the world slips sideways and goes foggy: This isn’t forever. This can change. I can feel better. I’ve felt okay before and I can feel okay again. I just have to get there.

So I hold on, so I change meds, so spring comes around, so the days grow longer and lighter and warmer, and I surface, and I look back at the blankness of winter and think, Well, phew. Made it.

And somewhere in all of this I write three books. And it’s hard. But not impossible, and for now that’s all the odds I need.

[avyssoseleison]

1.7 | Happy (Belated) Birthday, Dean! (This fic has a tiny bit of mature content.)

They spent his birthday in a ramshackle cabin by the sea. Fighting that honest-to-god siren-siren almost resulted in Dean drowning while he could still feel the white sand beneath his feet and with Castiel having to swim back to shore for a few hours, and thank the universe for some remaining angel stamina.

After that, they didn’t feel much like staying any longer in the tiny seaport, especially not while still having a perfect view of the waves stroking the beach, but they also didn’t have much of any other chance as the roads around the town were either dangerously slippery or downright snowed in. As it turned out, nobody really bothers all that much with making sure the streets leading to a port that is basically only used for transshipping and some minor fishing are accessible in the winter. Who knew. Dean, for one, didn’t. Which is why they have been here since mid-January, with no end in sight.

Not that Dean minds all that much. Apart from suffering a minor heart attack every time he thinks he sees something dark swimming in the water or hears someone on the beach do so much as whistle, let alone sing, things are actually pretty okay. Sure, the radiator was broken when arrived, there are drifts and leaks everywhere and only one bed, but yeah, things are good.

Actually... he might not mind the one bed only situation all that much, because hey, even if they fixed the radiator early on, it still gets cold at night by the sea, so huddling for warmth is always a good idea. Not in a million years would Dean have brought himself to suggest sharing the bed with Cas, though, had there been any other options. Not even after both of them almost were almost taken to their watery grave and dragged each other back to the cabin once the siren was ganked, both of them hypothermic, Cas more so than Dean, and spitting salty water. But those extenuating circumstances, coupled with the issue of only having one bed to begin with, resulted in a fully nude Cas shamelessly stripping in the middle of the room and then pressing up against an equally nude Dean in search of warmth all night long.

Even the next day, they barely made it out of bed, even without doing anything indecent --  no, Cas simply refused to let Dean leave the bed, dragged him back beneath the covers every time he so much as tried to get up, and slotted his legs between his to keep him from trying again.

All in all, Dean wouldn’t have minded so much if there hadn’t been some parts of him that did more than just not mind, though Cas either didn’t notice or didn’t care about Dean’s very natural reaction to having another naked and, honestly, rather handsome guy manhandling him. All he ever did was grunt whenever Dean attempted to put some distance between them and tell him to go back to sleep because he was still cold, and that was that.

Except that is how they’ve been spending every night ever since. In no way was Dean prepared for Cas to strip as if he couldn’t have thought of a single reason as for why not at the end of the first day when they finally managed to make it out of bed and into the only supermarket in this town to stock up on food. Cas completely ignored Dean’s embarrassed sputtering, slipped under the sheets, and stared at Dean with growing level of not being impressed the longer he just stood there, gaping.

“Dean,” he had eventually said, somewhere between annoyance and an offer, “come to bed.”

So, Dean had undressed under Cas’ watchful gaze and with trembling hands, finding himself unable not to give in, and when he finally joined Cas under the sheets, he was rewarded with a pleased sigh and those thick arms wrapping around him again.

And this is how it is has been each night now. Cas stripping, Dean following, both of them holding each other until they both fall asleep, just like guys do, absolutely normal bro behavior, nothing special to see, sir.

That is, until the night of his birthday. They have been spending the day indoors, what with the wind and snow already whipping like mad against their windows, and just lazed about. Cas with a book in his hands, Dean with a few crossword puzzles that he’d never admit to liking to anyone but Cas, who even asked for a few pages out of the blocks every now and then. Dean had pretty much forgotten what day it even is, since Sammy and him never made much of a deal out of their birthdays, not with the kind of life they’ve led, so all good, really.

Except, when Dean slides in under the sheets and turns his back to Cas, waiting for him to draw him in and, okay, maybe spoon him to sleep, Cas doesn’t. Unlike all the previous nights, there is no rustling and touching, no warmth enveloping him.

Dean just lies there for a few moments, breathing shallowly in expectation and anxiety, almost opening his mouth to ask something stupid like, “Is something wrong?”, “Why aren’t you hugging me?” or “Are you already done with me?”, but before he can, one of Cas’ ghosts over his shoulder, and then settles on it.

The warm weight of it instantly relaxes Dean so much that he only then becomes aware of how much he had tensed up, and he lets out a breath of relief.

“Dean,” Cas says, in that way that he always says his name, but with the edge of something different now, something darker yet sweeter.

“Cas,” Dean breathes right back, his eyes fixed up front, into the darkness of the room.

“It’s your birthday today,” Cas states, and he’s not wrong about that.

“Oh yeah?” Dean asks, half-way playful, half-way being reminded again.

“Yes,” Cas says, “and I know it is customary to give people a present for their birthday, yet I also know that you and Sam don’t. Which is why I didn't buy you a present.” He appears to think for a moment, then adds in the dry tone he always adapts when he goes for humor. “Also, I’m not certain the wind wouldn’t have swept me back into the ocean, had I gone out in this weather. And I couldn’t have left without you knowing.”

“Hey, it’s cool, man,” Dean replies, turning around now to look at Cas, though there isn’t much to see in the darkness. “You’re right; Sammy and me, we don’t really celebrate birthdays, so no sweat. No special day for me. Was nice as it was.”

Dean shrugs, rustling the covers with the motion, going for nonchalant.

Cas, though, makes a disgruntled sound.

“I agree that the day was ‘nice as it was’, yet I still want to make you a present.”

“Nah, I told you, it’s--”

“Dean,” Cas cuts in, and all of a sudden, Cas is above, around, on him. His hands braced to the side of Dean’s head, his chest sloping above Dean’s until they meet at their hips, his eyes fixed on him, glittering even in the dark.

Dean gasps, he knows he does, and any other time, he might be embarrassed about it, but he simply did not expect that. Besides, with Cas on top of him like this, he becomes once again achingly aware of their state of undress, which had up until become strangely natural, of Cas’ warm skin pressed against his, of his softly stirring cock now squeezed against Cas’.

He has to close his eyes for a second, just to keep himself from groaning or gasping once again, and Cas just hovers there above him, impossibly patient, until he opens his eyes and feels ready to face him again.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, almost a murmur now, dipping low into what could only be called vulnerability. “I was considering what kind of present I could still give you, what you would have need for. The possibilities were few yet endless at the same time, too many meaningless things and most of the meaningful ones impossible for me to gift to you.” He sighs, and Dean can feel Cas’ breath tickling his face. “In the end, I thought that this might be something you could be interested in.” He lifts one of his hands from the mattress, cradles Dean’s face with it, as gently as one would handle something as precious as a porcelain doll, and murmurs with unmistakable intention in his words, “Something you told me you need. ”

And Christ, but like this, Cas must be able to feel the effect his words have on Dean, how they fill him, make him swell with, yes, need.

“Cas,” is all Dean can croak out, because Cas got it right, Cas understood, and now he is going to give Dean what he’s been yearning for for so long, just like this, just because it’s his birthday. And yet--

“Don’t give me this only ‘cause you think that’s what I want,” Dean rushes out, desperate now, “Don’t give me this ‘cause you know it’s what I need, if you don’t.”

“Dean,” Cas says, once again, but with an eye roll now evident in his voice. Still, the hand on Dean’s face remains gentle, his thumb stroking his cheek and his index finger tilting Dean’s chin up, until his thumb sweeps over his lips, too.

And right then, as Dean’s lips instinctively first pucker then part for Cas’ thumb, Dean can feel the need growing between Cas’ thighs too, can feel that he is not unaffected by this, that he does not do what he does because he thinks he should, but because he wants to. Because he wants Dean.

So, Dean grabs for him, his fingers stroking over the skin Cas has already been presenting him with for over a week now, trying to pull him closer, and Cas gets the hint. He follows Dean’s motions, bends down until his lips are close enough to touch, to be tasted and licked, and whispers, warm and sweet, “Happy birthday, Dean.”

And finally kisses him.

[acourtofhopeanddreams]

A Cinderella Story

Written for @itwasmycroftbbc for @gotsecretsanta

Hey Hi! It was my pleasure to volunteer to pinch hit. How can I pass on the opportunity to write a JonSa fic for a fellow JonSa shipper? I really hope that you'll enjoy this fic and I wish you wonderful Christmas days and I hope that in 2019 all your dreams will come true!

When Sansa went to the royal ball, just to see where her parents had met, she couldn't have thought that Jon Snow, crown prince of England would fall in love with her, and she with him. But he is a prince and she's a simple waitress. This will never work out for them, right?

*slightly based on the movie A Cinderella Story*

Triggerwarnings: Implied sexual assault and mentioned physical abuse

“Sansa!” Ramsay’s voice echoed through the kitchen. “Where are you?” His heavy footsteps filled the loaded air and Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin.

“Here…” She closed the oven and wiped her red hair from her face. Her apron was covered in flour and sugar and soaked in water and milk. To hide her black eye she was wearing her sunglasses. It was also because of the black eye that she was now working in the kitchen instead of in the restaurant.

“Myranda went home ill. We need your help.”

“Me?” Sansa cocked her head. “Right now?” She raised her eyebrows, even though Ramsay wouldn’t be able to see that. “I look like shit!”

“You always do, honey.” Ramsay grabbed her wrist and his nails pierced her delicate pale skin. “That’s why you’re a waitress and not a model.” He smiled. “You can take table four. He’s wearing sunglasses too. You’ll simply look like a kindred soul to him.” He pulled Sansa to the door and there he placed a hand on her behind to push her into the restaurant. “Go on. Be sweet and nice.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. She was tired of being sweet and nice. Tired of being touched by his dirty hands in places where no one should touch her. She was even more tired of seeing the restaurant that had once belonged to her father and older brother wither away. And there was nothing she could do about it.

“What can I get you?” Sansa smiled at the lonely boy, wearing a hat and a pair of sunglasses.

He had not even bothered to take off his winter jacket.

“The soup of the day is tomato soup. But I’d not advice that. The tomatoes were already rotten when they arrived.”

The boy looked up and his lips curled up into a slight smile. “I just need a coffee.”

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat in her chest and all her muscles froze. She knew that voice.

What was he doing here? Had he figured it out? Had he discovered that she was the mystery princess he had been looking for? But he should have stopped that search! He was engaged now. Engaged to a beautiful young princess with white hair that reached her lower back even when it was braided in a complicated pattern.

“We have cappuccino, latte, decaf and fair trade.” Although the last one was no longer fair trade. Nothing Ramsay Bolton did was fair. Sansa’s voice trembled a little and she tried to steady her hand.

“Everything but the decaf.” Prince Jon smiled and Sansa felt a shiver rolling down her spine.

“I'll get you a latte then.” She turned around and rushed to the coffee machine to give her restless hands something to do. She tried to focus om her breathing. In and out. In and out. But her heart kept on racing in her chest and the adrenaline rushed through her veins.

Three weeks ago she had been dancing in his arms at the royal ball. For the first time in a very long while she had smiled and meant it. And for the first time in a very long while she had felt pretty and beautiful. Of course, she had not planned to dance with the prince. She had for sure not planned to dance and talk with him all evening. And she had most of all not planned to fall in love with him, even though there was no chance of them ever ending up together.

He was a prince. She was a simple waitress.

When she had come home and Ramsay had figured out that their cook Brienne had gotten her the dress, tiara, make up and most of all the invitation, he had been more furious that she had ever seen him before. And even though most of the wounds were healed right now, he had hit her once more every time the poor prince had mentioned her on national television.

But even if she had gotten only that one night, that one night of pleasure, of being beautiful, of being talked to, of being loved, it had been worth it.

With the latte in her trembling hands she walked back to table four. “Here you go.” She placed the full mug in front of the young prince and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Can I get you anything else?”

The prince didn’t answer, but instead he put the spoon in his mug and stirred endlessly. “Do you ever have the feeling that you’re forced to be someone you’re not?” He didn’t give her the chance to answer. “That someone else determines what you eat and what you drink and when you sleep and when you smile?”

Sansa looked over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear her and then she nodded. “All the time.” She curled her fingers around the seat in front of her. “And sometimes I want to run away to a place where no one knows me, but somehow my feet always carry me back home.”

“Exactly.” Jon nodded. “They want me to marry someone I don’t even love.” He sighed. “And they want me to give up on the girl I did fall in love with, but who didn’t give me the chance to get to know her better because she ran away.”

Sansa shrugged. “Isn't it sometimes better to not know who someone really is? To keep that image of perfection? To keep that dream alive, instead of it being shattered by reality?”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows, but then he shook his head. “I don’t care who she is.” His voice sounded harsh. “Everyone wants me to marry a princess. I just want someone to love me and understand me. Even if she’s a wanted criminal, I’d still prefer her by my side.”

This was her chance. This was her chance to take off her sunglasses and tell her who she was. This was her chance to tell him that she wanted to get to know him better too. This was her chance to admit that she had been afraid to come forward because he was a prince and she was just her.

She lifted her hand up and touched her glasses, but just when she was about to take them off and show herself, two bodyguards rushed into the restaurant and pushed her aside.

“Thank God, your highness. We’ve found you.”

“You have to come with us right now. We haven’t secured this place."

Jon let out a deep sigh and he stood up while he placed way too much money on the table. “Keep the change. Thanks for listening.” Reluctantly he allowed the bodyguards to lead him out of the restaurant and Sansa stared after him, realizing that her only chance to admit that she was the mystery princess was gone now.

“Good evening England.”

Sansa laid on her bed with a cup of tea on her nightstand and a book in her hands. Her feet hurt after standing and walking all day and she could barely keep her eyes open.

“After weeks of silence and the announcement of the royal engagement, the search for the mystery princess has been stopped. But today a brave young man stepped forward and told us all about the girl that didn’t want to be found.”

Sansa looked up and she stopped breathing when she saw the smiling face of Ramsay Bolton on her screen. She should have known that eventually he’d realize that this story was worth loads and loads of money. She should have known that he’d sell it to the highest bidder. And she should have known that he’d not make her look pretty.

“I’m afraid that the mystery princess we’ve all been looking for is nothing but a fraud.” He spoke firmly and the screen showed a not so flattering picture of her. “Yesterday I discovered that one of my waitresses, Sansa Stark, hid something that was worth much more than her paycheck would ever allow.” He held up her tiara and the silver glittery slippers. “She must have stolen it. Just like she corrupted one of my cooks, who was asked to do the catering of the ball, to sneak her into the event of the year.”

Sansa realized that tears were rolling down her cheeks when drops of salted water fell on the pages of her book. Quickly she tried to wipe them away, but the tears kept on escaping her eyes and eventually she fell down on her back, the television still playing in the background.

“I can only guess what she wanted to do with the prince. And we can only be glad for whatever chased her away.”

He. He had chased her away. His curfew had chased her away. The fear of being discovered had chased her away.

And it had all been for nothing.

Everything she had ever done had all been for nothing. She should have gotten away from here long ago already. She should have let go of the dream that one day this nightmare would be over. She should have known that Ramsay Bolton wouldn’t keep his word. She would never get the restaurant that was rightfully hers.

She grabbed the few things that belonged to her she actually cared about and put them in a small suitcase. On the tips of her toes she walked down the stairs, past the living room where Ramsay was probably watching his own face, past the kitchen where Brienne was finishing up to go home.  And eventually past the half sleeping guard who was supposed to keep an eye on the front door.

She had thought that leaving her childhood home behind would be the hardest thing she’d ever do, but somehow it felt like a heavy weight was lifted from her shoulders. Maybe it was the fresh air blowing in her face. Maybe it were the millions of stars winking at her. Maybe it was the promise that no matter what would happen now, it would always be better than whatever she left behind.

Every mile her steps felt lighter and every hour her smile grew brighter.

She was free. She was finally free. She was free to go where she wanted to go. And she was free to be who she wanted to be.

“Sansa?”

She felt a shoulder brushing hers and stood still. For a moment she was afraid that Ramsay had found her, that he would take her back to a place that had once been her home, but was now nothing but a personal hell. Then she noticed the handsome young man, this time without the sunglasses and the hat, surrounded by four bodyguards not even bothering to take their distance. “Prince Jon…” She whispered. "What are you doing here at this time of the day? Shouldn’t you be safely behind the castle walls, hiding for the mosquitos of the press and monsters like me?”

“It was you I talked to this afternoon, wasn’t it?” He interrupted her. “You were the waitress with the latte, understanding me.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded. “I swear, I never wanted to hurt or harm you. It was never my plan to even get close to you. I just wanted to go to that ball, wanted to see it. My mother…” Sansa swallowed. “She met my father there. I just wanted to see it.”

Jon reached for her hand and entwined his fingers with hers. It was a small movement, but in a way it was comforting and pleasant. He wasn’t judging her. He wasn’t running away from her.

Even though she had a black eye. Even though her hair was a mess. Even though her life was a disaster.

“I didn’t want to cause any problems.”

“You didn’t.” Jon shook his head. “You really didn’t.” He pulled her closer towards him. “You're the best thing that happened to me in years. I don’t care what my parents want. I don’t care what the people think. You, and what I feel for you, is the realest I’ve ever felt.” He stuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “What would you think of accusing Ramsay Bolton of slander against the girlfriend of the crown prince from England? What would you think of accusing him of abusing an honorable maiden?”

Sansa leaned back, but then a smile spread across her face. “Will he get in jail for it?”

“No, men like him somehow always escape jail. But only if he pays you a lot of money.”

Sansa’s smiled brightened. “I know something better. Something I want more.”

“I'm sure you can talk to his lawyers about that.” Jon spoke softly and then he furrowed his eyebrows because he noticed the suitcase she was holding. “Where were you going at this unholy hour?”

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t know.” She placed her suitcase on the ground and pressed the palm of her hand to Jon’s chest. “Away from where I was. Finally.”

Jon pressed his forehead to hers. “Is with me far away enough?”

Sansa swallowed and her nose brushed his. “I think it can be.” She pressed her soft lips on his mouth and his arms slipped around her waist while he eagerly kissed her back.

And for a moment it didn’t matter that there were four bodyguards watching them. That his parents wouldn’t welcome her with wide open arms. That there was a fiancee who wasn’t one anymore now. That the entire country thought she was a criminal corrupting their prince.

They would overcome all that somehow. And after that, they would live happily ever after.