#including a big glass of lukewarm water every morning. “I have been doing that for more than a decade

[samingtonwilson]

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget. 

Oftentimes, he��ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.” 

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint. 

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory. 

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed. 

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things. 

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)? 

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment. 

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam. 

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?” 

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.” 

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter. 

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head. 

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now. 

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.” 

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.” 

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles. 

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.” 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?” 

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.” 

“So that’s a no?” 

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.” 

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.” 

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing. 

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing? 

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.” 

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.” 

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

“Chopard heiress.” 

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?” 

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.” 

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris. 

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity. 

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous. 

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her. 

Perfect. 

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.” 

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.” 

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.” 

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands. 

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows. 

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown. 

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?” 

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.” 

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.” 

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.” 

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.” 

“I know.” 

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.” 

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.” 

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.” 

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.” 

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code. 

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.” 

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?” 

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.” 

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?” 

“Your heiress.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?” 

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for. 

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you. 

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.” 

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.” 

“I won’t need to.” 

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?” 

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?” 

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.” 

“I know that.” 

“You gonna bid on him?” 

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.” 

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl. 

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.” 

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.” 

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?” 

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.” 

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins. 

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—” 

“Thirty-one hundred!” 

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can— 

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!” 

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge. 

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.” 

“Six thousand!” 

“Sixty-five hundred!” 

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!” 

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.” 

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.” 

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile. 

— 

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race. 

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room. 

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you. 

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity. 

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too. 

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?” 

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.” 

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—” 

“Married?” you repeat to yourself. 

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.” 

“Bucky, you don’t understand—” 

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!” 

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.” 

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing. 

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.” 

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?” 

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.” 

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.” 

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.” 

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?” 

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first. 

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?” 

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment. 

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.” 

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.” 

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.” 

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”

[sadaboutniall]

hi! this is my very first crack at niall x reader. i hope it’s okay! thank you so much for reading and for giving me a chance, and an extra thank you to @gotloveforyou and @wowweeharrystyles for being my first readers and for being endlessly supportive, especially when i felt like writing this was both a lost cause and the wrong move. i don’t deserve that kind of support; thank you. 

what you need to know: this is an au in which your boyfriend niall makes it big in his twenties. 1D never happened. harry is mentioned; he and niall are not former bandmates, just friends. this fic includes angst, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, and food. there is no smut. additionally, it’s open to sequels, depending—you’ll see.

that’s that! thank you so much again if you do read! please feel free to let me know what you think if you have thoughts! i’m not sure where else to post niall x reader fics, becasue ao3 doesn’t feel like the right place? so for now this will live here. thank you thank you!

-- 

rather be cold in your bed than warmed by someone else;

Coming home drunk and alone never gets easier. 

It’s this sinking feeling, after a night out with your friends, tears of laughter pooling in the corner of your eyes, cheeks sore from smiling, stomach pleasantly heavy with liquor and snacks and love, that you’re going home alone. Again. 

Going home with someone else only makes it momentarily better—pretty thighs straddling you in the backseat of the cab, a stranger’s hand on your throat, their tongue in your mouth, their body in your bed—because they leave before the sun comes up, every time, and then it’s dark and you’re alone. 

And it’s all over again. 

But the worst. The worst is that going home alone makes you think. No matter how piss drunk you get, no matter how much your head hammers the next morning, no matter how hard you beg whatever merciless God exists above, it’s impossible, when you’re tucked into the backseat of a dark cab, cold and alone and keeping an anxious eye on your route, not to think of him. 

Not to think of the way he’d tell the driver where you take you both, confident that you were coming home with him. 

Not to think of the way he’d hold your hand in his lap some nights, guiding your fingers up, up, to ghost over the seam in his jeans. 

Not the way he’d do the same to you, one hand between your legs, the other holding his phone as he watched Instagram stories from the night out, feigning disinterest just to drive you mad.

Not the way he’d thank the driver and help you out of the cab, let his hand slide down to rest on your ass as he shut the door behind you.

Not the way he’d crowd up against you as you unlocked the door to his apartment, the front of his body pressed into the back of yours, his hands sliding around your waist to toy with the button on your jeans while you tried, as hard as you could, to focus on getting the key in the fucking lock. 

Not the way he’d fuck you in the front hall, your legs around his waist, one of his arms bracing against the wall, his lips at your neck, his pants only pushed down to mid-thighs. 

Not the way he’d carry you to bed after that, clean you up and get you a glass of water and a couple of cookies to share, kiss your temple, tell you he loved you, and fall asleep clinging to your body. 

Not waking up the next morning, the way he’d—

“Excuse me? Is this you?” The driver’s voice shocks you out of your head and you feel unsteady, your stomach sloshing with memories and alcohol and arousal and shame, as you lift a shaky hand to open the car door. 

“This is me, yeah,” you manage. Your voice feels thick, like slogging through a muddy field in heavy wellies after the rain. You and Niall did that once, when you went to visit Bobby for the holidays. You’d arrived back at the house covered in mud and soaking wet and even more in love than you’d been when you left. “Thank you so much.” 

You hear the driver bid you goodnight as you gently close the car door behind you. On your own. You can do this on your own. 

Your apartment is empty and dark but, mercifully, warm. You toe your shoes off inside the front hall, hang your coat on its hook, and it doesn’t fall off, the way it used to when Niall’s bulky coats took up too much space. It’s a blessing, you tell yourself as you wander into the kitchen, not to have to pick your coats up off the floor anymore. 

The cabinets are sinfully bare—you still shop like a college student with four roommates to mooch snacks off of, even though you’re not—but you find half a bag of cheetos, a little stale but better than nothing, and set about making yourself a cup of tea. On your own. You can do this on your own. 

Unsteady on your feet, still drunk, you wait for the kettle to boil and you don’t think about it. You don’t think about the way he would slide his arms around your waist while the kettle boiled and slow dance with you in the kitchen, gently humming a tune in your ear. You don’t think about how his voice used to be for you and you alone, how his singing was something soft between the two of you. You don’t think about your hands, clasped together on his chest, your foreheads pressed together as you danced, his accent, thick with alcohol and bliss and love when he’d tell you how much he loved you. 

The kettle screams. You make one cup of tea and you don’t think about it. 

Settled comfortably on the couch, you shoot of the requisite “home safe! Love you all! Thanks for such a good night! xx” text to your group chat, and then you lock your phone, put it face down, and don’t look at his Instagram. 

It’s been seven months. Last you checked, four weeks ago, he had over eight million followers. 

You don’t look at his Instagram anymore. 

Instead, you flip on the TV, find an episode of The Great British Bake Off you haven’t watched too recently, and cradle your steaming cup of tea. On your own. 

— 

You wake up on your own. 

It’s still dark outside, Bake Off is still on, and when you bring the mug to your lips, you realize that your tea is still lukewarm—you haven’t been asleep long at all. But rather than curl up on the couch and let yourself slip back into sleep, you haul yourself up—your body will thank you for not sleeping out here, and your skin will thank you for at least making an attempt at washing your face. 

The last thing you remember, after putting your mug in the dishwasher, cleaning the cheeto dust off your fingers, and washing your face, is that your phone is still face-down on the coffee table. 

Sixteen notifications. Six of them are perfectly explicable: your four best friends texting to say they’d arrived home safe as well, a couple of “heart” reactions on your message. Ten of them are a fucking fever dream. 

Niall Horan

1:37 AM: Hi 

1:37 AM: Are u awake ?? 

1:38 AM: Txt me back , I’m nearby 1:38 AM: I’m in London for a few days . On tour break . Can i See you? 

1:39 AM: Will u call me ?

1:40 AM: Was with the boys but 

1:42 AM: Bein drunk in lONdon makes me think of you . 

1:42 AM: remember that time I fucked you on th e kitchen table and we were so drunk we didn’t even realise you left the kettle on ? Lmost burned the whole fucking place down just to have you

1:43 AM: I’d do it again

1:45 AM: Call Me

If this were a movie you’d probably drop your phone on the floor in shock. And then you’d let Niall inside, drenched from the rain, and he’d put his hand on your jaw and he’d kiss you. He’d confess his undying, unrelenting, passionate love for you and take you on the kitchen floor and never, ever leave you again. If this were a movie, this would be when everything goes back to normal.

But this isn’t a movie—it’s not even raining tonight and you can’t afford to replace your phone if you drop it right now. And Niall left. Seven months ago. 

And you know he’s not coming back. 

So, instead, you stare at your phone like an idiot. Like a person who can’t read. Like someone who doesn’t want to let the one that got away barge back into their life. 

And you are a lot of things. You know that. But you’re not any of the above. 

A quick glance up at the top of your phone tells you it’s 1:57. Twelve minutes since Niall’s final text—twelve minutes, a million alternate universes, and countless things that could have happened between then and now. Niall could’ve fallen asleep. He could’ve sobered up.  He could’ve found someone else to take home. He could’ve realized what an idiot he was being and blocked your number. He could’ve already forgotten. 

Or he could be waiting. 

You could be keeping him waiting. 

You’d like to think, looking back on it, that something akin to blind bravery overtook you in that moment; that a warrior inside you, one who knew you’d be okay regardless of the night’s outcome, rose up inside you and texted Niall back. In reality, though, it’s closer to desperation—it’s the realization that you’re about to let Niall slip through your fingers again, the knowledge that you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you let that happen. This might kill you—it really, truly might—but you’ll die knowing you had him one last time, at the very least. 

So you do it. Blind with something—alcohol, bravery, desperation—you text him back. 

1:58 AM: Hi. I’m at home. And, me too. 

It takes him twenty nine seconds to text you back. 

1:59 AM: Be there in ten 

—

Panic sets into your stomach like a sinking stone, mixing with the alcohol to freeze you in your tracks. Ten minutes is not enough time to prepare for seeing the man you loved—the man you love—for the first time in seven months. Not like this. 

Your eyes sweep your small London apartment—the floors that you haven’t gotten around to taking a Swiffer to in a few weeks, the empty wine bottles on your bar cart, your slippers stashed under the coffee table, the bag of Cheetos still sitting on the couch—all marks of someone single. Of someone getting through all of this on their own. 

Seven minutes—you don’t have time. Should you shave, too, just in case? Should you do something with your hair? You’re still in your outfit from earlier, still dressed for a night out, but your face is clean and your apartment is the opposite and you can’t move from this spot, in the middle of your kitchen, and it doesn’t matter but then again it does, because, yes, Niall has seen you in every state, at your best and at your worst, dressed and undressed, apartment clean and apartment dirty, but he’s also spent the last year touring the world, seeing places the two of you had only dreamt of, getting drunk with supermodels and producers and billionaires, becoming a millionaire himself, performing an album full of songs about you for screaming fans in foreign languages. Niall’s seen you in every state, known you in every way, and you could once say the same for yourself about him—but not anymore. This is someone else. The man coming to your door is someone else. 

You can’t let your guard down. 

—

He makes it in eight minutes. 

You’ve seen enough paparazzi shots of Niall stumbling out of the backseat of big, black, expensive cars that you expect to find the same image outside your door: the man who used to go down on you in the backseat of his blue 2003 Vauxhall Corsa sliding, drunk and glowing and beautiful, out of the backseat of an £80,000 Cadillac Escalade—but there’s no car in sight when you open your door. 

Instead, you find Niall—your Niall—standing at the bottom of the steps. He’s got a paddy cap pulled down low over his forehead, one hand holding a brown paper bag, the other shoved deep into the pocket of his coat—the coat you bought him, last year, for his 24th birthday. 

It’s an image you’ve seen so many times, you almost think it’s a hallucination. 

But he’s climbing the four steps from the sidewalk to your front door and he’s real: when he stands in front of you and holds up the bag and says “brought McDonald’s” he’s real, when you silently nod and let him into the building he’s real, when he follows you up the three flights of stairs—not complaining about the climb the way he used to, because he has a trainer now—he’s real, and when you shut the door to your apartment behind you he’s real. 

Standing in the hallway of your apartment, lights still out, taking off his coat, he’s real. 

Putting the bag down next to his hat on the front table, he’s real. 

When he steps forward, grabs your wrists, and pushes you back into the wall, he’s real. 

And when his lips hit yours, he’s real. 

He kisses the same. Seven months, countless trips around the world, experiences you can’t even imagine, millions of pounds—and he kisses exactly the same. His lips are cold from the night and chapped from the wind and there’s alcohol in his mouth and it’s exactly the same as it’s always been, the way he has one hand on your jaw and one on your wrist, pinning you to the wall, the way his leg slides between your thighs, the way he tilts his head ever so slightly to gain control. The way he pulls back, looks you in the eye, and dives right back in again. 

It’s exactly the same. 

Still kissing you, he releases your wrist, his hand sliding across the wall until it bumps into your hips and finds purchase there. He makes quick, easy work of getting his hand up underneath your top, running it across your stomach and up, up—

“Fucking missed you,” he says into your neck, “fuck, you’re—”

“Niall,” you hear yourself say it like you’re a mile away. “Niall, Niall, stop, stop, fuck, stop,” your hands scrabble at his shoulders as he sucks into your neck, hips pressed into yours, hands everywhere. You push him back, half an inch, and try not to cry when you look at him. 

He’s so fucking beautiful. 

“What?” He pulls back, eyes blue, cheeks red. Your heart is in your throat. 

“What are you—why are you—what’s going on?” 

“Missed you,” he says again, like it’s obvious. “I’m home for a few weeks, decided to go out with the boys tonight. I didn’t put two and two together—the pub Willie chose is the one up the road. Didn’t realize ‘til I was four drinks in. And then I just,” he leans in for another kiss, “I had to see you.” 

You can’t think. He kisses at your neck while you try, fail, to unscramble your brain, to make sense of the way he said he had to see you like he wasn’t the one who ended things. Like he wasn’t the one who disappeared. Like he didn’t sit you down on a rainy Sunday night seven months ago and tell you this was no life for you. Like he didn’t tell you that he was leaving on tour—a world fucking tour—and didn’t want to put you through this. Like he hadn’t said, “I don’t want you to sit here and wait for me to come back. I want you to live.” 

Like you hadn’t sat here and waited for him to come back, anyway. 

“Niall,” you gasp, tangling a hand in the back of his hair. It’s so dark—almost all the blonde is faded. All those nights you’d bleached his roots for him in his tiny bathroom, no ventilation, peroxide fumes making you both hysterical, faded too. He’s someone else now. He’s not yours anymore. “Niall. The McDonald’s is going to get cold.” 

He pulls back so fast it knocks the wind out of you. And then he laughs. And you think you’re going to be sick. 

“You serious?” He gasps out between laughs. “You’re thinking about the McDonald’s right now?”

“Yeah,” you can’t help the smile stretching across your face. “What’d you bring?” 

With a sigh, Niall disentangles himself from you and clicks on the light. He does it so casually, like he never forgot where the switch was. Like he still spends half his time here. Like you could come home from work, the way you used to, and find him in his sweatpants, eating snacks in your bed. “Nuggets for you, burger for meself,” he grabs the bag off the front table, the smell wafting through the hall. “Big fries to share. That… is that still what you like?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Haven’t had McDonald’s in a while but… yeah.” 

You haven’t had McDonald’s in seven months. It doesn’t matter. 

—

The thing about Niall is that it’s impossible for you to feel uncomfortable around him. 

It’s always been this way—from the first time you met him, when he performed at the open mic night at your local pub. It was the place you and your friends met every Friday evening for drinks, where you all usually dreaded the one-Friday-a-month open mic night, and the way it meant you’d have to shout over struggling musicians in order to speak to each other. 

But then one night there was Niall, with his ruddy cheeks and his charming accent and his cover of Dancing in the Dark that you didn’t actually want to shout over. And there was the way your best friend laughed at you when he finished, the way she said she’d never, in the fifteen years you’d been friends, seen you so blatantly eye-fuck someone in public. And then he stood alone by the bar after his performance, and your friends teased and shoved and plied you with promises of brunch tomorrow morning until you worked up enough courage to talk to him, to congratulate him on a great performance, to buy him a drink. 

He took you home that night, and you didn’t make it to brunch the next morning.

And from that first drink, things had flowed easily between the two of you. It’s not that there were never any conversational lulls, or misunderstandings, or rows, but that you never, ever felt awkward, or uncomfortable, or out of your element when you were with Niall. Even if you were fighting, you were comfortable—you knew you could shout, and he’d forgive you. It was how you knew—you used to say—that he was The One. 

But it’s been seven months since you spoke to him last. He’s a different person now. And yet—it’s like nothing has changed. 

He eats his french fries three at a time—it’s one of his routines, his repetitive patterns, an easy, doable ritual that leaves his skin crawling if he abandons it—and it makes your stomach do something weird when you watch him, sitting across from you on the couch, shove three into his mouth. He’s like a ghost except he’s real—the spitting image of the man you used to love, who left, who you’ve mourned and buried and tucked away, refusing to disappear. 

“Still warm,” he passes the container to you, fries sticking out of his mouth like a walrus. 

You take a handful and pass it back. “Thank goodness.” 

“Mm,” he hums, making for his burger. “You want a bite? They were out of secret sauce but I got mayo.” 

“No, I—” you shake your head. The fries feel rubbery and stiff as you swallow them down. “I don’t want a bite.” 

He shrugs, says “suit yourself,” and then shoves his face into the burger, the way he always used to, to make you laugh. 

And you burst into tears.

Hands flying up to cover your eyes, you try to choke back your outburst but you have no control—you’re drunk and you’re tired and you’re confused and Niall is here and the whole place smells like McDonald’s and it’s like the wound in your heart has been violently ripped back open, like someone shoved a pick-axe into it and twisted it around until you had no choice but to scream in pain. Your tears fall fast and hot and you’re blubbering, like a fucking idiot, in front of the man you love.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Niall drops the burger immediately, boxing it up and shoving the bag out of his way. He scoots across the couch so his knees touch yours, both of you sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce facing each other, and brings his hand up to tug at your wrist. Gently, he pulls your hands away from your eyes, and says, “s’wrong?” 

Looking at him feels like when you’re driving on a dark road at night and a car in the opposite lane comes around a bend with their high-beams on. You flinch, your eyes snapping shut, and try to shake the scene of the accident out of your head. 

Seven months ago. Right here. He sat you down just like this—facing each other on your couch, a place where he’d held you until you fell asleep, fucked you until you could hardly breathe, kissed you until nothing hurt anymore, tickled your sides until you cried and fell off the cushions and took you down with him, poured your heart out to him while he did the same to you—and broke your heart harder and with more care than you ever imagined possible.

He was making it. After all the open mic nights at the pub, all the tiny shows booked in basement venues in dark corners of London, the gigs opening for the city’s bigger names, your boyfriend was making it. Invited to tour with Sam Smith, to open for their entire tour, across the UK and then Europe and through to the Americas, with the possibility of an extension through Asia, Oceania—Niall was finally going to play his music around the world. 

Just not with you. 

He’d told you he didn’t want to put you through this—that he’d seen and heard what touring does to relationships, that you deserve a life, that you shouldn’t have to sit here and wait for him to come back, for your life to resume. It was about you, he’d said, holding your hand as numbness settled around you and an alien feeling creeped in—he was doing this because he loved you. And he wanted you to have a better life than the one he could give. 

You hadn’t wanted a better life. You’d wanted him. 

After he smushed your heart into the floor he fucked you goodbye, his face tucked into your neck, his hands all over your body, so he wouldn’t forget how you felt. He kept his cock inside you for as long as he could after you both finished—until he was gone, and you were cold, and alone, and tired, and numb. 

And all on your own.

“Sorry, sorry,” is what you manage eventually, opening your eyes to look at the Niall in front of you. The now Niall. Sitting in the scene of the wreck, unscathed. “I’m drunk.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Niall’s hands, holding yours, land in your lap. He’s gentle as he runs a thumb across the inside of your palm. “Is everything okay? Did something happen tonight?”

He asks it like he doesn’t know. Like he doesn’t understand that this is because of him. That he broke you, that he left you to pick yourself up, that he showed up again just after you’d started managing it. 

It hits you all at once that he’s being a fucking asshole about this, actually. You’d had a perfectly nice night out with your friends—had even managed to run into one of Niall’s million cousins and have a pleasant conversation without bursting into tears. You’d only thought about him once or twice, if you don’t count the car ride home, and that was something of a new record for you. You were moving on, finally, getting your shit together, getting back on your own two feet, putting yourself back together again. 

And then he had to show up. And barge back in like he still owns this place. 

It’s rude. You realize it suddenly, like a car coming to a quick stop to avoid slamming into someone else’s bumper. It’s entitled. He has no right to you anymore. 

“I had a great night tonight,” you tug your hands back from him, steel yourself, and carry on. On your own. “Really fun, actually.” 

“That’s good,” he smiles, soft, a dimple digging into his cheek. “I’m happy to—”

“I barely thought about you at all.” 

“I… okay?”

“Why did you come here?” 

He reels, for a second, but recovers well—he’s always been good at that, but you can see the media training, just for a second, click in his head. “I told you,” his eyes soften, confused. “I miss you.” 

“That’s not a good enough reason.” 

“What?” 

“That’s not fucking good enough, Niall. It’s not good enough that you miss me and just—I’ve spent seven months missing you, asshole, and I learned to fucking deal with it. You don’t just get to do this.” 

“I—” Niall shakes his head. “I didn’t realize—” 

“You didn’t realize? You didn’t—Niall, what did you think?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!

“The right thing?!” You’re watching yourself from across the room, an out of body experience as you raise your voice and Niall does the same to match, yelling at each other the way you’ve dreamt, so many times, of doing. Ripping his heart and his guts out the way he did yours—but not casual, not thoughtful, not measured, like him. You go for the trachea, because he deserves it, because you might never get the chance again. 

“You broke up with me,” you tell him, pushing yourself up on your palms, like a pre-game hype-up, “you sat me down and you broke up with me because you didn’t want to have to deal with a relationship while you were touring. You wanted to be able to drop all your responsibilities—including me—and fuck off on tour without having to report back to anyone. And you got what you wanted, didn’t you? Broke my heart and disappeared so you could fuck Victoria’s Secret Angels on a private jet and do lines of coke off their abs and leave me here, in the apartment where I fell in love with you, alone, to wait for you to come home—”

“I told you not to wait for me to come home. That was the whole point, fuck. The whole point was so that you could live a full life, too, without waiting for me. It’s not my fault if you chose not to—” 

“What the fuck did you think I was going to do? Three fucking years, Niall. You really thought that after three fucking years I would just move on, live a fulll life? While you were out there—”

“Why does it matter what I was doing? Why does it matter who I was fucking? Like you didn’t fuck anyone? Like you’re some kind of a saint? You didn’t hide what was going on between you and Harry, it’s not fair to say—” 

“Don’t,” you hear yourself say it before you can think it through, before you can fully comprehend what a bad idea it is. “Don’t bring Harry into this.” 

And the thing is: you’ve seen Niall look angry before. You’ve seen him get mad—at homphobic preachers in the street, at guys hitting on you in the bar, at Trump on TV—but you’ve never seen him look like this. This combination of anger and hurt and disbelief, of fury and sorrow, settling into his features right now. Those familiar features, and such an unfamiliar expression. “You’re the one,” he says, voice low, scarier, somehow, than shouting, “who brought Harry into this. Not me.” 

“What, so you can sleep with other people, but I can’t? What kind of double standard—” 

“I didn’t sleep with your best friend.” 

“You haven’t spoken to Harry in six months, Niall. He’s not your best friend anymore. And that’s your fault, not mine, and definitely not his.” 

You watch Niall’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and carries on, “whatever happened between Harry and me, that doesn’t make you sleeping with him any less—” 

“How do you even know I slept with him? I never—did he tell you?” 

“No,” Niall softens, for just a second, can see the worry flash behind your eyes. “No, he—he’s not like that. I just. You made it pretty obvious on Instagram that something was going on. I figured… and then I asked Mully.” 

“You asked your fucking cousin to report back to you on who I was sleeping with? Do you hear what that sounds like?” 

“I,” he shakes his head. He’s not angry anymore, and it’s making it hard for you to be, too. It’s still second nature, matching his emotions. Melding into him. Your minds working on the same wavelength. “I was jealous.” 

“You’re the one who broke up with me.” It’s weak. You say it anyway. “You’re not allowed to be jealous when you broke up with me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Niall says. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have.” 

He can’t. It’s not fair. You’ve been dying to hear him say it. 

“But you did,” you managed to say it with more conviction than you feel. You’re shaking when you stand up, your heart slamming against your sternum with rage, with a warning: there’s no going back now, you’re sealing the deal, you’re taking what you’ve dreamt of for seven months, looking it in the eye, and spitting in its face. If you do this, you’re done. Everything’s done. 

“I—” 

“You need to go, Niall,” you say. You’re standing over him now, where he’s sitting on the couch, fries still in his lap. “You need to leave.”

Niall has never been pushy. He doesn’t start now. Instead, he swallows thick enough for you to hear it, nods, and stands up. “Okay,” he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I understand.” 

And that’s it. He collects his things, throws away the McDonald’s, and you watch it happen—watch as the love of your life walks out on you, again. Except this time, because you told him to. Because you can do this on your own—you don’t want to, but you can. 

You have to. 

At the door, Niall pulls his hat down over his eyebrows, takes a deep breath, and looks at you. You flashback—all the times he’s had you here, all the times he’s kissed you here, all the times he’s made you laugh here, helped you zip your coat up here, told you you looked beautiful here—how he looked, seven months ago, standing here, and leaving for the last time. That night, you didn’t even have the energy to beg him not to. 

Tonight, you wouldn’t even know how. 

“It was good to see you,” is what he says, hands in his jacket pocket, eyes steady on yours. “I’m in London for a few more weeks. Through Christmas. If you want… you have my number. If you—if—I’d love to see you again. Sober. Even if it’s just as friends.”

You can’t find your voice. All the right words are there, somewhere, in the air between you. You just nod. 

“I’ll, uh,” he’s stalling. You feel tired, and a little dizzy. The french fries are starting to give you a cramp. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” you’ll throw up if he doesn’t leave soon. “Maybe.”

“Cool.” 

“Get home safe,” you bite back the question of whether or not he’s going to walk. It’s late, and dark, and cold, and you’d rather he didn’t—but it doesn’t matter anymore. “Or, to wherever you’re staying.” He sold the apartment ages ago—you’d seen it listed in the window of a realtor’s office, months ago. You’d cried for six hours after you found out—drank yourself to sleep, for all the memories scrubbed away, tucked into a place that neither of you could reach anymore. The next morning, you threw it all up—the wine, the memories, the lining of your stomach and your soul.

“At Mully’s,” he rushes to answer, “if you need to find me. I’m staying at Mully’s.”

“Right, okay. Well. Goodnight?”

“Right,” he nods, “goodnight. Sleep well.” 

“Thank you, Niall.” 

“Of course,” he steps forward, gentle, and wraps his arms around you. You let him. It’s easy enough—melting into his hold, fitting your body to his, sliding your arms around his waist. He’s not as skinny as he used to be, muscle lining his back, his arms bulked out, his body firmer than you remember but somehow just as soft—the slight, gentle curve of his stomach against your own, his fingers tender on your back. He tilts his head down to press his nose into the top of your hair and squeezes you, ever so slightly, as he does, and he still smells the same: cold air, a tiny bit of McDonald’s clinging to him, but the same cologne, the same smell of his skin, the warmth and musk and kindness of him. It hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed. 

Ever so gently, Niall presses his lips to the top of your head. 

And then he pulls back. 

You’d be stupid to let him go. 

He leans forward, pushes a strand of hair out of your eye and toward your ear. “I’ll see you later,” his voice falls to that whisper. The one that’s just for you. 

And you let him go. 

He lets himself out, closing the door quietly. The front hall still smells like him as you lock the door behind him, and, like a child after their parent leaves them at preschool, make your way to the window to watch him go. You catch him just as he’s stepping outside, shoulders pulled up to his ears, head angled down, braced against the wind and the night and prying eyes. He walks, and he’s the same—the same confident walk that used to send your heart soaring when you’d see him walking toward you, on the street after work, in the pub on a Friday, in the morning bringing you breakfast in bed. You think of all the times he walked toward you, and you watch him walk away. 

And then you let the drapes fall, take a deep breath, and head to bed. 

On your own.

####

[jedifighterpilot2727]

Hi I just finished The Lexington Chronicles (amazing by the way) I’m not sure if you’re taking prompts but I was wondering if you could write something where Lexi has a chance to individually bond with everyone on the family (Cat Grant) included?

I’ve thought about the rest of the fam, but I’ve never played around with Cat Grant, so here you go!

Texas Hold ‘Em

The doorman still recognizes her.

Of course, who would forget her? She used to own the damn place.

Hell, she used to own half the damn city; used to have them all reading her magazines and watching her morning shows.

Things are a little different now, she supposes; although her name still graces the front of the building.

CatCo has added a tech magazine to it’s repertoire, captivating an entirely new audience that Cat was never able to capture when she was in charge. Kara ‘I-can’t-spell-basic-words-but-I’m-definitely-not-an-alien’ Luthor-Danvers is editor-in-chief of CatCo’s news magazine. And probably the most unwelcome change is the sight of high-waisted jeans staring her in the face from the fashion magazine cover displayed in the lobby; and she makes a mental note to ask Lena what the hell she was thinking when she approved that spread.

Her private elevator is apparently no longer private, and interns and reporters whizzing around her as she steps inside. The smell of twenty different cologne palettes makes her nauseous, and she cringes at the thought of how many germs are coating everything.

No one spares her a second glance as she steps off the elevator, and it throws her off a little - she was half expecting Kara to be waiting on her with a  lukewarm latte and a ‘Sorry Ms. Grant’.

But Kara is nowhere to be found, and she weaves her way through the people, none of them casting her a second glance.

She finally comes to a stop in front of the assistant’s desk outside Lena’s office. It isn’t Eve, and Cat wonders briefly if Lena fired her in the interim since Cat had left for Washington.

“May I help you?” The new girl asks, bright smile on her face.

“I’m here to see Lena.” Cat says without preamble, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

What else would she be doing here?

“What was your name?”

Cat grinds her teeth.

“Cat Grant? My name is on the building?”

“Ah, I see.” The assistant gives Cat a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Do I have an appointment? No, I don’t have an appointment.”

The nameless assistant holds up a single finger and reaches for the phone on her desk.

“One second.”

Cat stomps her foot, Jimmy Choos tapping out a frenzied beat on the floor.

“Ms. Teschmacher?” The assistant speaks into the phone. “I have a woman here claiming to be a ‘Cat Grant’? Insists she doesn’t need an appointment to speak with Mrs. Luthor-Danvers.”

She pauses, obviously listening to her instructions.

“Yes, but Mrs. Luthor-Danvers is down in photography… Mhmm … Yes… Yes, I understand.”

The assistant hangs up the phone, giving Cat a once over.

“Mrs. Luthor-Danvers is in photography, I can take you down -“

“Does it look like I walked all the way up here only to have a second-rate assistant like yourself tell me I need go back downstairs again?” Cat lets every drop of venom that she has seep into her voice, but the assistant doesn’t even flinch.

“Ms. Teschmacher was afraid you might insist on staying, very well,” She steps around the desk and opens the door to Lena’s office, gesturing Cat inside. “You can wait here, although I’m not sure when Mrs. Luthor-Danvers will be back.”

Cat doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead making her way into the office and discarding her purse in the chair beside the door.

Once the door closes behind her, she takes in the sight of the office she once knew so well. She hasn’t been back since she sold the company over five years ago, and from the looks of things, the status quo is drastically different.

The basic shape is the same, but the resemblance ends there. Once glass walls have been covered in some sort of high security tint, closing off the office from the rest of the bullpen. The television screens on the wall behind the desk are gone, replaced with a giant smart screen, no doubt useful, but entirely less dramatic than Cat would have preferred.

The desk is different too, some sort of synthetic polymer that’s probably resistant to Kryptonian strength.

Cat shudders; she doesn’t want to think about the implications of that particular fact, so instead she turns to the vase of flowers.

They’re white, and beautiful, and no doubt expensive, and Cat can’t resist picking up the card still nestled among the blossoms.

 I know you said that I don’t have to buy you flowers for no reason, but what if the reason is that I want to? It’s not my fault that you’re beautiful, and a beautiful woman deserves beautiful flowers. (For the record, I would buy you flowers even if you weren’t beautiful, but as it stands, you’re the most lovely creature on twelve planets.) All my love, K.L-D.

Cat gags before carefully placing the card back and turning to the rest of the room.

The couches have been arranged in a corner of the room so that it almost looks like a living room, with children’s toys scattered on the rug and soft blankets draped over everything. A chess set graces the end table between the couches, and she’s pretty sure she spots a game of monopoly tucked on one of the bookshelves. There’s a giant dog bed in the other corner, and Cat shudders to think of the dog hair and pet dander lingering in the air.

There’s water on the bar, and no M&Ms, so Cat shifts her attention to the mini refrigerator. There are juice boxes, kombucha, and a stack of takeout boxes, but nothing worthy of her interest. The cabinet reveals nothing better - gummy bears, protein bars and cheesy bunnies; and this is certainly not the office Cat Grant left.

The half hidden closet is even more eye-roll inducing, stocked with a few power suits and a spare Supergirl suit.

Really, she expects such indiscretions from Kara, but she thought Lena was better than that - leaving The Suit out where anyone could see it.

Sighing with the weight of responsible adulthood, she takes in the decorations. There are pictures everywhere, Kara’s art hanging on the walls and some shaky photographs of scenery that look like they were taken by a five year-old. There are pictures of the family, too - Lena with Kara, Lena with Lexi, Lexi with Kara, all three of them together, Lexi and Agent Scully.

She feels odd, almost as if she’s back in a house that she used to live in and the current owners aren’t home.

Luckily, she’s saved from the feeling by the familiar sound of boots on the balcony. She isn’t shocked to find Supergirl coming through the door, but she is shocked at what Supergirl is carrying.

Or rather, who.

Lexi is talking animatedly when she and her mother enter, but she immediately shuts up when she spots Cat.

“Ms. Grant!” Supergirl flusters, and Cat can’t help but smile because somethings never change.

“I didn’t expect you to be here!” Kara sets Lexi on her own two feet and reaches for the little girl’s hand instead. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Are you not happy to see me?”

“What? No, no, I just - I heard a fire while I was walking Lexi home from school and I was just going to drop her off with Lena.”

“Hmm, I believe her assistant said something about her being down in photography?” Cat supplies.

Kara’s smacks her palm to her forehead.

“Oh! Right! The spring photo edits! Shoot! I forgot!” Kara glances frantically around the office, and Cat easily picks up her thought process.

“I can watch the child while you go play hero, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Are you sure?”

“She’s just a child, I did raise on of my own, if you remember.”

“Thank you!” Kara kneels down, face to face with Lexi. “Are you okay to stay here with Ms. Grant for a few minutes while I go take care of something?”

Lexi’s eyes turn her direction, and Cat feels herself being scrutinized.

Eventually she nods and Kara breathes a sigh of relief before turning Lexi towards Cat.

"Thank you! I’ll be back as soon as I can!” The last of the sentence is yelled backwards through the balcony door as Kara takes off in flight.

Once Supergirl is out of sight, she turns her attention to the little girl in front of her.

She’s met Lexi before, once or twice, but this is their first time being alone together.

Frankly, Lexi looks just as un-excited about it as she is.

She gives the girl a once over, taking in the dark braids and the smudged glasses. She’s dressed like a mini version of Kara, with her button down shirt and black pants, although the quality of the material looks a thousand times better than what Kara used to wear, and Cat supposes she has Lena to thank for that - at least someone in the Danvers family has taste now.

Turning without a word, she moves to the refrigerator, taking out a juice box for Lexi and a bottle of water for herself. By the time she turns back around, Lexi is settled on one of the couches, socked feet barely reaching the edge of the cushion.

The girl watches carefully as Cat moves to sit beside her, taking the offered juice box without a hint of a smile.

Something else she’s learned from Lena, no doubt.

“So, Lexington, that’s a big name for such a little girl.”

Lexi only continues to stare at her.

“So, how does it feel being Supergirl’s daughter?” she tries again, unable to avoid her reporter tendencies.

Lexi’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t worry, I know the big secret - I knew before most people, and I’m not going to start spilling the beans now.”

Lexi’s only response is to slurp her juice box, although her glare softens considerably.

“This would go a lot easier if you would talk to me.”

“Mama says I don’t have to talk to people if I don’t want to.” Lexis’ voice is strong and clear and it sets Cat back.

“Your mother said that?”

Lexi nods.

“Well, your mother is a very smart woman.”

“Yep, YeYu says that all the time.”

“YeYu? Is that what you call …” Cat’s voice trails off as she gestures towards the balcony door where Supergirl had disappeared.

Lexi nods again.

“Interesting… Kryptonian?”

Another nod.

“Hmm, I bet she loves that. After all she’s lost.”

Lexi is silent, and Cat casts around for some form of distraction, eyes landing on the chess table.

“Do you play?” She asks, gesturing to the white and black pieces.

Lexi nods, and Cat is struck with an idea.

“What about poker?”

* - - - - - - -

Of all the things Lena expected to find on her arrival back at her office; Cat Grant teaching her daughter to play Texas Hold ‘Em was not one of them.

“So remember, this card is called ‘The River’, and it’s your last chance to make a good hand.” Cat explains, and Lexi nods studiously.

“You have to make a bet before the card is revealed though, so you have to do a quick determination of the odds, like in-“

“Catherine Grant.” Lena drawls. “Are you teaching my baby girl how to play poker?” The door snaps shut behind her, and Cat glances up at the noise, wide smile breaking across her face.

“Well, I taught you, didn’t I?”

“Hmm, that you did, and that lesson hasn’t failed me yet.” Lena admits, watching Cat rise for the couch and accepting the hug the older woman offers.

“How’s Lexi?”

“Better than you at that age! If we were playing for real money, she’d probably have me cleaned out by now!”

“That’s my girl!” Lena praises, earning a grin from Lexi. “So what is it that brought you all the way out to CatCo?”

“Oh!”Cat waves her hand, turning back to the game. “Nothing that won’t wait until we run out of gummy bear poker chips!”

[artificialqueens]

Dirty Bianca (Biadore) - Red2

A/N - Red here! This one-shot is inspired by the song ‘Dirty Diana’ by Michael Jackson! Thats all, enjoy! (I saw Bianca Del Rio live on Sunday it was fucking great,)

You never make me stay So take your weight off of me

Adore was backstage, preparing for her performance at BOTS. Even though Season 7 had just finished, Adore still felt fresh into the spotlight. She could not deny that she loved her fans and whoever came to see her perform. She adjusted her mesh dress hanging beautifully down her shoulders and breathed out. She couldn’t get that bitch out her mind though, that was fucking with her. Bianca was that bitch, surprise there.

She had remembered how Bianca felt on her last night, leaning on her and begging her to go home with the big brown eyes. Adore couldn’t. Adore had to go home to Phi Phi, her partner. She remembers how light and delicate Bianca is, pushing on her. Adore knew Bianca’s tricks to make her stay. She couldn’t.

I know your every move

So won’t you just let me be

Adore had finished her performance of 'I Adore You’ and 'Foreign Lover’. She was sweating and panting, grabbing a bottle of water sitting on a wooden tray, taking big gulps.

Adore shifting her eyes to see a shadow come out the distance. Bianca.

“Hello Adore, how was your show?” Bianca asked, putting her weight down on the little backstage sofa. Adore smiled and sat beside her. “I’m fucked, B."

Bianca chuckled deeply. "Well your ass should be used to it now bitch,” Bianca touched her knee. “We’re lucky fuckers to meet and be the people we are now."

Adore bit her lip and sat back. "Yeah, we are."

Bianca chuckled. "All except Phi Phi, that girl is a cunt!"

"She is not!” Adore shoved Bianca slightly, Bianca pushing back harshly afterwards.

Bianca wouldn’t leave her alone. She didn’t want to. Adore wanted to change her cheating ways, she loved Phi Phi and Bianca was a player.

I’ve been here times before But I was too blind to see

Adore was de-dragging, looking into the mirror. 4 more days and you can see Phi Phi again. She was supposed to be here but some altercations happened, Adore still doesn’t know why even after 12 days into the tour.

“What you thinking about Adore?” Bianca was in the mirror, standing behind her.

“Hm,” Adore smiled, looking at B in the mirror. “Nothing really, B.” Bianca nodded and tossed Adores hair to one side.

“Wanna go drinking? We deserve it.” Bianca waved a $50 bill in front of Adore, smirking. Adore laughed, and rolled her eyes. Adore needed a drink, yes, she didn’t need to go home with Bianca.

This happened way too often, Bianca convincing Adore to drink. Sure they both loved a drink but didn’t want to admit they done it just to have a start of the night.

That you seduce every man This time you won’t seduce me

Adore was at the bar, ordering another drink to get even more shit-faced. She sighed but when she looked over to her left, Bianca was looking up into another guys eyes, smiling. That fucking smile she does when she wants something. The only smile she does with Adore.

Adore slammed her fist on the bar, feeling anger bubble in her tummy. She shouldn’t feel like this! Bianca isn’t hers. Adore swung the glass full of liquor into her mouth. Fuck it Adore, get even more drunk.

Adore hadn’t experienced this. This was new. Maybe Bianca had decided to lay off now. Now Adore had Phi Phi. Adore didn’t want Bianca to lay off. Adore drunk but truthful ass finally admitted it. Fuck.

She’s saying that’s okay Hey baby do what you please

“Lets go B, we need to go. Y-yenno back to the hotel.” Adore slurred her words, looking cross-eyed at Bianca who was still talking to the guy. Bianca smiled at the guy.

“Adore its only 11.14pm, its okay. I’ll be over at the sofa in 2 minutes okay? I’m just talking to Jack here.” Bianca smiled over at the mysterious man.

Adore huffed and growled. “Have fun with Jack, bitch.” Adore stumbled to a chair and sighed. Bianca looked over at Adore as she slumped into a chair, mumbling nonsense into herself.

“Fuck-fu- do what you want.” Adore bubbled, throwing her head back.

Bianca would let Adore what she wanted, what she pleased. But Adore feeled possessive. That wasn’t okay. Adore was guilty.

I have the stuff that you want I am the thing that you need

Bianca looked over her shoulder from time to time to see Adore chat to a couple of strangers. Bianca wasn’t too worried, she knew Adore would be okay.

Bianca didn’t want to admit it, but Adore would come back to her. She was drawn to the other as Bianca was drawn to Adore. They were both different, and needed each other. Both wanted each other.

It didn’t matter what context they needed each other, they had it in them. Phi Phi was just in the way. Which pissed Bianca right off.

She looked me deep in the eyes She’s touchin’ me so to start

Adore looked up when she felt a pair of lukewarm hands touch hers. Adore knew it was Bianca before she even looked up.

When Adore did, she was blown away. Bianca’s eyes were shining in the strobing lights. Bianca was smiling in her eyes, looking deeply into Adores. Her eyes were understanding and soft. Bianca  moved her hands to Adores freckled shoulders.

“C'mon Adore, let’s go back to my hotel room.” Bianca helped Adore up, holding her waist.

“B-B, I can’t, I want you, but I can’t” Adore shook her head, looking at Bianca.

They kissed. The first time for 1 day. A record for them both. They stepped outside, the cold air hitting everything except their lips, as they were attached once again outside.

She says there’s no turnin’ back She trapped me in her heart

They were both in a cab, looking at each other whilst stealing kisses.

“Do you want this Adore?” Bianca asked sweetly, making sure everything was alright. Adore smiled, her eyes nearly crying at how loving and caring B was. Bianca was definitely climbing into Adores heart.

“Theres no turning back Adore, I hope you’re okay with that.” Bianca smiled as Adore mumbled a yes, looking out the window, seeing bright lights pass by.

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca

Adore is guilty

Let me be

For not leaving Bianca alone.

She likes the boys in the band

She knows when they come to town

Sunday morning, 12.34am. Adore was applying eyeliner in the dressing room with the other queens, Raja, Manila, Sharon and Jinkx. And Bianca.

Adore was fucked, still hungover, Adore took some painkillers and prayed to feel better.

“Guys, did you know Alaska, Willam and Courtney are making an appearance tonight?” Bianca spoke, whilst blending her eyeshadow.

Adore looked over to everyone chatting, smiling at the fact the AAA girls are coming. Sure Adore loved them all but when Courtney gets too close with Bianca, she didn’t like it.

Adore shook the thought away and continued doing her makeup. Adore knew Bianca adored the AAA girls, they were hilarious as a triple kind-of gig. And Bianca knows whenever they come to town.

Every musician’s fan after the curtain comes down She waits at backstage doors For those who have prestige

Adore looked over at the backstage crowd when she was trotting up, just 20 minutes after finishing Snatch Game live. The AAA girls were scheduled to make a surprise to the fans in California. Bianca was talking to Courtney, laughing and swinging lightly as Courtney shoved her playfully.

Adore wanted to growl like a bear, wanted to go red in the face. She didn’t know she was that possessive but fuck man, she knew what Courtney was like.

Bianca likes to wait, and say hello to other drag queens. She liked to catch up and was the main attraction. Making everyone laugh and fall in love.

Fall in fucking love.

Who promise fortune and fame A life that’s so carefree

Other drag queens would tell Bianca she should start a tour herself instead of coming to BOTS. It would make her more money, they said. It would be easier, they said.

It would tear Bianca and Adore apart, Adore said.

She sighed as Bianca done a little comedy on stage. She heard distinct laughter, so Adore stood up and looked over the curtains, watching Bianca pace on the stage, talking away.

Bianca seemed so calm and collected. No wonder people suggested more or even better stuff for Bianca to conquer. They promise her every time, it’ll be better. Bianca would refuse. Adore wondered why. She felt like she’d never know.

She’s says that’s okay Hey baby do what you want I’ll be your night lovin’ thing I’ll be the freak you can taunt

It was 8.40pm. Everyone involved in the BOTS tour, including the AAA girls were sitting at a large table in a fancy restaurant Adore couldn’t pronounce. Everyone was chatting about upcoming events. Adore was too fixated on Bianca who was sitting to her left. She didn’t realise Bianca was staring back.

“So Adore, how is Phi Phi?” Alaska asked, taking a sip of wine. Bianca coughed slightly as Adore relaxed.

“Phi Phi is fine, she’s not up to much either. Hopefully I can see her soon, she’s still in the state but, yenno we have stuff to do.” Adore smiled lightly, talking a swig of her beer bottle. Bianca nodded, smiling lightly.

Willam started chuckling to herself, and everyone stared at her.

“Bitch I would’ve thought you would be with Bianca, dirty whore."

Adore laughed along. "NEVER bitch, Bianca is too nasty.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. Adore was taunting her. Another thing that riled Bianca up, making her want Adore more.

Adore looked to her side, seeing Bianca smirking. Adore wanted to love Bianca. She did. She really fucking did.

But it was only at night.

And I don’t care what you say I want to go too far

A while later when they were on dessert, Bianca put her hand on Adores leg. Adore continued to eat her Apple Pie, ignoring Bianca. She knew Bianca would stop.

Adore knew wrong.

Bianca started to trail her hand up and down, rubbing soft circles. Adore sighed lightly as the girls continued to chatter. She looked around and then leaned into Bianca.

“Stop please.” Adore whispered, smiling softly as she got back into her sitting posture and ate her delicious dessert. Bianca continued. Fucking bitch, Adore thought to herself. Bianca didn’t care how risky it was, Bianca would put Adore on the spot to avoid any questioning. She wants to go to far.

I’ll be your everything If you make me a star

“Do you think we’d be more famous if we were together, publicly?” Bianca asked, following Adore back to her hotel room.

Adore laughed and shook her head. “Don’t know, a bunch of fangirls and boy would be happy though. No one knows about me and Phi Phi thank God"

"Not Sharon or Alaska though, they must think they WERE the best Ru-girl couple. Nah bitch,” Bianca laughed. “I’d give you everything and love you. We’d be the best couple.”

Adore knew that, she knew Bianca would be her everything. She’d treat her better than Phi Phi would. Its sad that that was the reality. Adore didn’t accept reality of it all, why would she now?

Dirty Diana, nah

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, nah

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, nah

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca,

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca

Adore is guilty

Bianca!

Adore is guilty

Bianca!

Adore is guilty

Dirty Bianca!

Adore is guilty

It’s Bia-aa-anca!

Adore is still not leaving Bianca alone.

She said I have to go home 'Cause I’m real tired you see

Bianca is absolutely tired. She can’t keep her head up. It was the last night of tour. She had finished her little comedy performance and now Adore was performing a song. 'I Can’t Love You’. That was Bianca’s favourite song. Ever.

Bianca heard her gorgeous voice and it made her more calmer as she relaxed on a chair. Bianca eventually fell dozed off.

“Bitch wake your ass up! Lets get de-drag and get pissed frunk!” Adore grabbed Bianca from the shoulders lightly but sure as fuck shouted in her face.

Bianca stirred slightly as she lifted her head. Adore’s eyes seemed worried until Bianca spoke up.

“I’m really tired Adore, I’m just gonna go home, get some sleep.” Bianca rubbed her eyes, getting makeup all over her hand, then proceeded to stand up and head to the empty dressing rooms, whilst Adore followed like a lost puppy.

“Are you sure B? Are you okay?” Adore asked, grabbing a wipe to wipe 'Adore’ off as Biancaa yanked her wig off, packing stuff away.

“Yeah Adore I’m just exhausted and in need of a good sleep.” Bianca smiled tiredly.

Adore nodded as they both de-dragged in silence but with background music breaking the ice.

But I hate sleepin’ alone Why don’t you come with me

Bianca and Adore were waiting outside, moving beside each other. They were both relieved BOTS was over, even though they LOVED their fans, it is good to have a little rest, go home and be yourself.

“Are you going back home? To see Phi Phi?” Bianca asked with tired eyes, looking down. She seemed upset. Adore didn’t want that.

Adore nodded, giving a little side smile. Adore felt even more guilty. Bianca didn’t like being alone.

“Come home with me. Please,” Bianca pleaded. Her eyes were practically begging Adore in the cold,blue night. “I don’t like sleeping alone. I want to be with you Adore.” Bianca’s tears got the best of her. Adore knows B never cries.

I said my baby’s at home She’s probably worried tonight I didn’t call on the phone to Say that I’m alright

“B, I haven’t talked to Phi Phi for 4 days, she might think I’m dead. She’d be worried if I didn’t come back on the first free night.” Adore looked down, biting her lip as Bianca sighed, her breath showing in the bitter wind.

Adore felt horrible, she wanted Bianca, she loved her to bits. Adore knew Bianca was always lonely and was willing to wait a thousand years for Adore. Adore was guilty.

Bianca walked up to me, She said I’m all yours tonight

Bianca grabbed Adore’s shirt collars and pulled her into a hard and beautiful kiss. Adore was speechless as she kissed back, holding Bianca’s small body close to hers, clinging on for dear life. It felt magical and beautiful. Adore couldn’t deny her anymore.

Bianca looked into Adores eyes as she whispered in her ear. “I’m all yours tonight.” She was dead serious and passionate. She was another type of beautiful. Another type of stunning. Adore needed to love Bianca right, love her perfectly, like she should.

At that I ran to the phone Sayin’ baby I’m alright

Adore held the phone up to her ear, as Adore and Bianca stood outside of the hotel. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four- “H-Hello?” Phi Phi answered, sounding out of breath and flustered. Adore sighed. “Hey Phi, It’s me Adore, I’m okay but they asked for us to stay one more nigth to go over some stuff, I’ll be home tomorrow morning baby. Are you okay?” Adore asked, watching Bianca grow angrier by the minute.

Adore couldn’t exactly blame Bianca, it must be hard loving someone thats taken. Hell, it was hard to see Bianca flirt with someone nevermind be in a relationship.

“Uh- Yes of course I’m okay! And thats fine, don’t worry. I’ll be out tomorrow morning though honey.” Phi Phi breathed out, Adore feeling a little confused.

I said but unlock the door. Because I forgot the key.

“Okay then hon, then unlock the door in the morning, because I forgot the key. I’ll be home soon love. I miss you.” Adore said with a slight smile.

Adore jumped when Bianca snatched the phone from her hands, angrily and fast, Adores eyes wide open, waiting for Bianca’s actions.

She said she’s not coming back Because she’s sleeping with me

“She’s not coming back, because she’s sleeping with me.” Bianca ended the call quickly and grabbed Adores face, kissing her hard and looking into her eyes.

“I love you, please be with me” Bianca begged.

“I’ve always been with you, since day one. I love you more.” Adore silenced them both with a kiss.

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca, no

Adore is not guilty anymore

Dirty Bianca

Adore will never leave Bianca alone, again.

[thinkaboutnetwork-blog]

63-Year-Old Mom With Her 41, 40 And 36-Year-Old Daughters Don’t Even Look Half Their Age

63-Year-Old Mom With Her 41, 40 And 36-Year-Old Daughters Don’t Even Look Half Their Age

At first, interior designer and fashion blogger Lure Hsu (41) stunned millions of people because of her youthful looks but it wasn’t long until people realized she’s not the only one in the family looking half her age. Lure’s two sisters,

Sharon (36) and Fayfay (40), both also look like they’re students. Not to mention their mother… Their mother, who is a retired dancer, could easily be mistaken…

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Matthew Golombisky

Matthew Golombisky grew up in North Carolina, where he picked up the bass to play metal with his buddies and jazz in a couple high school bands. After college he moved around the US, playing upright and electric in countless bands and spending time in the Bay area, upstate New York, and New Orleans. In the Crescent City he bonded with his most enduring musical partner, drummer Quin Kirchner, with whom he has toured extensively as a duo and as the rhythm section for other bands. When Hurricane Katrina laid waste to the town they both eventually moved to Chicago.Both of them played with trombonists Jeff Albert and Jeb Bishop in the Lucky 7s, and Golombisky made strong connections with the city’s jazz scene. In 2007 cofounded Ears And Eyes Records, which has issued albums by notable current and former Chicagoans such as Bill MacKay, George Freeman, Caroline Davis, Chad Taylor, Charles Rumback and Matt Piet. He has toured the US with Zing! And NOMO and stage-managed at Pitchfork, but after traveling around South America he landed in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 2013. There he plays and teaches music and is raising a family, but he sustains ongoing connections with his mates in North America. Golombisky has recently released two cassettes, Cuentos 1 & 2 and Cuentos 3,named after the Spanish word for short stories. Each volume is devoted to a group of musicians connected with one of Golombisky’s old homes, and the music that he composes for them combines the emotional expressiveness of mid-20thcentury modern jazz with the close engagement of chamber music.

Milli Vanilli, Girl You Know It’s True

Though as a kid, I grew up listening, per my parents, to a lot of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Queen, The Who, CCR, Steppenwolf, Jethro Tull, Simon and Garfunkel, and David Bowie, the first cassette I ever bought with my own money was in the late 80s and it was Milli Vanilli’s. I was 9 or 10. How I came across their music I don’t remember, but probably from MTV. I remember on late night drives back home with my father from his auto body shop in his red 1986 V8 5-speed Z28 Camaro (with louvers on the back glass), which I bought from him as my car in 1998, we’d blast that cassette (as well as Herb Alpert and Fine Young Cannibals cassettes, what a mix, no?)! I have no idea how long this lasts, but it couldn’t have been long because when I learned Milli Vanilli was a total front and a lie, I went out into the boonies(woods), where we lived, in the middle of small-town North Carolina, and had a cassette-tape-burning session. I gathered some gasoline and matches and melted that tape to a little pile of plastic. It felt good and well-deserved. When my dad found out, he got incredibly upset (or so I’ve told the story as I remember… maybe one day I’ll confirm with him if it’s true if he’d even admit to being angry about my destroying myMilli Vanilli tape, I’m not sure). I guess the only reason I’d include this in Dusted’s “Listed” feature is that it was a profound experience of “create your own damn music!!”

Miles Davis, Volume 1

Me getting into jazz: All I knew of jazz for a few years was my playing bass in the high school big band, so mostly reading what Sammy Nestico had written out for me. My first jazz record, Miles Davis’ Volume 1, was a birthday present from a girlfriend, but I didn’t immediately become a jazz enthusiast. I didn’t run out and buy more jazz records (I was still buying Mr. Bungle, Infectious Grooves, Primus, Nirvana, Megadeth, and Faith No More cassettes and CDs). But I did play this Miles CD over and over again! I had played cornet for years prior to this and it simply blew my mind what Miles was accomplishing here; his tone, his lyricism, and also his patience. I did, however, fall in love with what I thought the idea of jazz was; at least one of them: improvisation. In high school, I founded the school jazz combo and this is where I discovered more improvisation; I was always super elated that we could play the same song over and over, and I could manipulate the vibe and mood of the tune in the moment. Improvising! Creating something new(ish) all the time, each time. This idea is what attracted me so much to playing jazz and that idea of creating something from little (or nothing) is how I think I came to be a composer, among other creative outlets I find myself in. With music (which spoke and called to me) and being able to always explore and find new ideas via ‘jazz’ the most viable avenue to do this? Yes!, then let’s study jazz!!!

Opeth, My Arms, Your Hearse

I feel in love with Opeth on their first release, Orchid (1995). Not only was the music incredibly original and fresh for me, but I was also a fan of the fact that it was metal music, which I had already been listening to and playing, that I could distinguish and hear the bass guitar clearly from Johan De Farfalla. And then Opeth’s Morningrise (1996) was released; even better! And then My Arms, Your Hearse came out, even better! My Arms, Your Hearse is probably my favorite “death metal” album of all time. Lead singer, main guitarist and composer, Mikael’s death and clean vocals are thick, heavy, soaring, beautiful and powerful. I’m a person that doesn’t often hear or pay much attention to lyrics. I can sing along with the melodies always, the notes, but I almost never know the lyrics to most songs I love even. I’m definitely not one to write lyrics either (I wrote a children's musical a few years ago and had to “contract” out for lyrics). Sometimes, I take a closer listen to lyrics when conscious about my lack of musical character and most of the time, it just makes me dislike the song (admit it, a lot of lyrics are crap. Not all, but a lot). But I know the lyrics to My Arms, Your Hearse, start to finish. It’s such a cool mysterious story about a ghost checking in on his friends, family and environment, chock full of lush imagery… in my humble opinion. (As writing this paragraph and re-listening to this record, I had an almost second-by-second opinion of each phrase, harmony, and melody and the wow-ness I thought about including but decided against writing a short novel.)

This Is Spinal Tap (a favorite scene)

In my second year of college my band at the time, Daylight Dies, rented a house together. We had also been friends for about 6 years by then. I don’t know if it was weekly that we watched Spinal Tap, but it was a lot. Since that time in my life, Spinal Tap has continued to be my all-time favorite movie. I watch it at least a few times a year still and can start the movie dialogue from the start and recite a good 90% of it in its entirety. Then when the DVD came out around 2004, I was blessed with another 45 minutes of unseen footage! I think that one of the best aspects of the movie is that with all this material filmed and executed amazingly, there were only 11 pages of a predetermined script when they started filming. Again, improvisation, I love it! “Lukewarm water”… I might add that Daylight Dies continued on to great success, even touring with some of the bands that were our favorites when we were in high school. I got to revisit the band in a way and recorded a contrabass “choir” on one of their releases and arranged strings/woodwinds, using my Tomorrow Music Orchestra on another release of theirs. It was fun to have my death metal “upbringing” returning to my professional musician/composer life.

Steve Reich, Variations for Winds, Strings, and Keyboards

I was really lucky to have attended an undergraduate program, majoring and studying jazz, that also required me to take three years of classical music history and theory. Even luckier, the professor who designed the program, Dr. Joye Dorr, was a big fan of 20th Century Classical music and thought it important to expose undergraduates to its wealth, even for the jazz folks. In those years, I was transformed into a musician much different and more of whom I am now. But just before we started in on that 20th Century material, my alarm clock woke me one morning and on the radio was a recording of Steve Reich’s Variations for Winds, Strings, and Keyboardsand I missed my first class, transfixed in bed with this repetitive “trance” music I had never experienced before. I became a devote fan of minimalism (for a while) from there. Honorable mentions in this category would have to be Gavin Bryars’ “Jesus’ Blood Never Failed Me Yet” and “Sinking of the Titanic”.

Charlie Haden, The Montreal Tapes with Don Cherry and Ed Blackwell

Charlie Haden is my musical hero. I’m not sure I could choose just one recording because I find beauty in everything he’s done. But for the sake of the Listed-vibe, let’s say the first album I experienced, The Montreal Tapes with Don Cherry and Ed Blackwell. I was mesmerized and captivated by his sound, his singing-like soloing/lyricism, his patience, his support in the trio, his tone. The open feel of this record makes for an incredibly clear statement, musically. By the time they recorded this live at the Montreal Jazz festival in 1989, these guys had been exploring jazz (and quite a bit of free jazz) together for some 20 years; and it comes through on this record. And yes from here, I went out and bought every Charlie Haden-related record I could. And when I finally met him for the first time in Montreal in 2002 after a concert, I couldn’t help the flow of tears. I heart Charlie Haden profoundly.

Arvo Pärt, Fratres

What an incredible composer to get to know if you’re looking to enhance aural beautification to your life. Part’s music is so powerful for me and not because many consider him (including himself) a “religious minimalist composer”; that I could care less about. The motion of the lines and dramatic candor are completely intriguing and alluring to me. This record especially. I love that it’s also a piece that can be played with varying instrumentation and carry a different timbre but still be as powerful. The voices between the instruments, where they are placed in the sonic spectrum, the repetitive melodies, and especially the drone! This music not only takes me to a tranquil place but also invigorates me to be better and try to heal the world the best I can. Part is an inspiration for creating more beauty in the world. One of his most popular pieces is called “Spiegel im Spiegel” and the first thought I had upon listening years back was: kindness. Yeah man, more of this, please.

Henryk Gorecki, Symphony No. 3

I have a hard time falling asleep; it started when I was about six or seven. Thoughts of the day, as well as newer and older ones, arose continuously (and still do). This piece has psychosomatically calmedso many of those, what would have been, sleepless nights. It has a depth to it where my mind can get out of whatever million thoughts are being processed and then relax me in order to calm the mental activity. The low strings repeating the same melody in a brooding canon, wow, with a mix of minor 9ths, major 7ths, perfect 5ths, major/minor 6ths; a mix of doublings I find chilling in the first couple minutes that set the tone for the rest of the piece.

James Blake, The Colour in Everything

Bon Iver, 22, A Million

Honorable mentions on current production ideas and such that I study: all of Bjork, Radiohead, and artists that are involved with visual art in some form. But these two mentioned records are fascinating production (and music) - wise. Woah.

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63-Year-Old Mom With Her 41, 40 And 36-Year-Old Daughters Stun The World With Their Youthful Looks

Meet the Taiwanese family that may be the youngest looking family ever.

Show Full Text

At first, interior designer and fashion blogger Lure Hsu (41) stunned millions of people because of her youthful looks but it wasn’t long until people realized she’s not the only one in the family looking half her age. Lure’s two sisters, Sharon (36) and Fayfay (40), both also look like they’re students. Not to mention their mother… Their mother, who is a retired dancer, could easily be mistaken as their sister, but turns out she’s 63. All these four women look so young, they’re being called ‘the family of frozen ages’ by Taiwanese media.

Their secret? In an interview with Taiwan’s Friday magazine, Lure revealed that the key to youthful looks is to drink water and eat vegetables. She also pointed out the importance of moisturizing your skin, as “once your skin has enough water, you don’t even need to worry about aging and wrinkles.” Similarly to Lure, sister Fayfay also recommended drinking lots of water, including a big glass of lukewarm water every morning. “I have been doing that for more than a decade,” Fayfay said. “I drink 350ml to 500ml.” So there you have it! According to these Taiwanese women, the secret to youthful looks is simpler than you could ever imagine – water!

More info: Instagram (h/t)

These Taiwanese women look so young, you’d never believe their real ages

Meet the 63-year-old mom (middle) and her daughters Lure Hsu, 41 (right) and Sharon, 36 (left)

Here they are also with their 40-year-old sister Fayfay

41-year-old Lure revealed that the key to youthful looks is to drink water and eat vegetables

Similarly to Lure, sister Fayfay also recommended drinking lots of water, including a big glass of lukewarm water every morning

Lure Hsu, 41

Fayfay Hsu, 40

Sharon Hsu, 36

And there you have it! According to these women, the secret to youthful looks is simpler than you could ever imagine – water!

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2s2oICP via Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

63-Year-Old Mom With Her 41, 40 And 36-Year-Old Daughters Stun The World With Their Youthful Looks

Meet the Taiwanese family that may be the youngest looking family ever.

Show Full Text

At first, interior designer and fashion blogger Lure Hsu (41) stunned millions of people because of her youthful looks but it wasn’t long until people realized she’s not the only one in the family looking half her age. Lure’s two sisters, Sharon (36) and Fayfay (40), both also look like they’re students. Not to mention their mother… Their mother, who is a retired dancer, could easily be mistaken as their sister, but turns out she’s 63. All these four women look so young, they’re being called ‘the family of frozen ages’ by Taiwanese media.

Their secret? In an interview with Taiwan’s Friday magazine, Lure revealed that the key to youthful looks is to drink water and eat vegetables. She also pointed out the importance of moisturizing your skin, as “once your skin has enough water, you don’t even need to worry about aging and wrinkles.” Similarly to Lure, sister Fayfay also recommended drinking lots of water, including a big glass of lukewarm water every morning. “I have been doing that for more than a decade,” Fayfay said. “I drink 350ml to 500ml.” So there you have it! According to these Taiwanese women, the secret to youthful looks is simpler than you could ever imagine – water!

More info: Instagram (h/t)

These Taiwanese women look so young, you’d never believe their real ages

Meet the 63-year-old mom (middle) and her daughters Lure Hsu, 41 (right) and Sharon, 36 (left)

Here they are also with their 40-year-old sister Fayfay

41-year-old Lure revealed that the key to youthful looks is to drink water and eat vegetables

Similarly to Lure, sister Fayfay also recommended drinking lots of water, including a big glass of lukewarm water every morning

Lure Hsu, 41

Fayfay Hsu, 40

Sharon Hsu, 36

And there you have it! According to these women, the secret to youthful looks is simpler than you could ever imagine – water!

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2s2oICP via Viral News HQ