#or better yet there is a liquor store literally a three minute walk from the fucking house

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Had a sneaking suspicion that my roommate was eating my food because stuff was like... disappearing but just walked in on him in the kitchen cooking my bacon and drinking my wine. I am about to go ballistic.

[spasmsofthought]

flashes. (dick grayson x reader)

I’m not really well-versed in DC, at all, but I wanted to give this a shot. let me know what you think! It’s a bit of a mess, so please take this with a grain of salt and some grace. sorry if he feels ooc; I tried my best but I am by no means an expert or even an amateur. please be kind. idk if i’ll write anymore for him, but i wanted to try. it might be trash but it’s out there now xo

-- 

It’s not like Gotham is known for being a walk in the park. The city is all alleys in the middle of the night, dark vapors rising from sewers, and secrets in the shadows. At least, in your experience. 

There were no gated communities or fences to keep the darkness out in the apartment complex you lived in with your family. Only survival and common sense keeps you returning to your bed and food on the table.

So, when your younger (genius) brother is offered a scholarship to Gotham Academy on what feels like a whim, the world shifts. 

When your mother still works, though, it means you are the de-facto adult during the day. Your job keeps your busy in the mornings, hers during the afternoon and night. You’re just getting into learning what it’s like to handle a job and bills of your own, even though you’re still living with your family (part of it is to save money, part of it is because you just don’t want to leave). Your family is the only real home you have ever known. Why leave to only find inadequate housing where you have to worry about your safety and theirs separately?

So, like every month, you swap out of your work clothes, put on your newest (at least 2 years old) pair of jeans on, the only blouse you own that hasn’t faded or stretched or shrunk from countless wash cycles, and grab the bag you’ve stored in its own special place in the cabinet by your family’s loud, old, run-down fridge. 

You chance a ride on the bus, hopeful for no public catastrophes today. You listen to your small, but loved, playlist through the one earbud that works during the ride and you almost want to leap with joy when you step back down on concrete like this is what it is like everyday.

The architecture is a thing to behold. There is no wonder why this is acclaimed as the most prestigious private school in Gotham. Light is everywhere, and it’s like the outside world doesn’t exist. Every month you step on this campus it’s like you’ve never seen it before.

The grounds are meticulously groomed, everything in lines and straight edges. Concrete and nineteenth century buildings both cast heavy, sharp shadows in the late afternoon sun. There are some students lingering about, all grouped up and chattering in their similar uniforms. Compared to public art, haphazard graffiti, and buildings of all shapes and sizes, this place feels foreign. Different. It makes you feel strange and unwelcome; like entering a different world altogether. 

When you enter the pristine, elegant office, the entrance door propped open, there’s two figures you immediately spot: the secretary and the man standing in front of her. Your brother is yet to be found. He’s running late again. 

“Hi, hun, take a seat,” Grace’s sweet voice soothes from her position behind the desk. “He should be here any minute.” The man standing in front and a little to the right of her glances behind for second, casually swiping a look at you, before he turns forward again. 

“Thanks, Grace,” You exhale as you sit down. 

The chairs are nice, soft fabric and cushioned, but small. You so desire to bring up a leg to draw close to you, but it’s impossible without making yourself a human pretzel. And you don’t want to dirty it with your less than perfect shoes so, instead, you chose to bring the bag onto your lap and you pick at your cuticles, resisting to bring your nail to your mouth and chew on it anxiously. 

There’s never been anyone else in here when you’ve come before. Grace can make polite chatter, but then she leaves you in relative silence. It makes you feel anonymous. The man uttering sweet words to the secretary and then glancing at you again before sitting down next to you does not. You stop fidgeting with your hands and intertwine them together instead. 

A flash of the ceiling’s fluorescent lighting on glass against your eyes is what you first get a taste of, then all polish and silver, or something like it, cradling a wrist. The watch looks heavy, expensive. It looks like it could buy your family a newer, safer, apartment in a suburbia far away from here. 

“Hey,” Smooth as honey it drips out, and you are drawn to blue eyes and ebony hair. There’s a softness to his face and his eyes are warm. It would only take an hour, you think before you stop the thought from going any further. An hour to do what? You’re not sure, but the list expands the longer you take him in.

The first thing you ever learned on the streets when you walked by yourself to work was how to be aware, vigilant; on guard. Men were unpredictable creatures who were driven by greed or lust or power, and any of the good ones were swooped up and carried away to better things or dead before any second glances could take place. Or carrying on just fine behind their high fences and impenetrable walls. Just because this one introduces himself first does not mean he has proven otherwise. 

“Hi,” is all you can offer, a quirk of lips to his gesture of kindness.

You glance towards to door before your eyes make their way back to him. The gesture doesn’t offend him. There’s a familiarity to his face, but you decide to not spend time right now trying to figure it out. It already only tells you one thing: this guy is way out of your league. 

Grace gets up from her seat, rounds her desk, and makes her way out of the office, leaving you two alone. You watch her the entire time. 

“You waiting for someone?” 

“Yeah,” You nod even as the word comes out, “My brother.” 

He leans back like he’s got all the time in the world, and there’s a perusal that makes you taste butterflies and gulp down caution at the same time. You wonder if he saw the scuff marks and stains on your worn-out sneakers, or if he notices that you still haven’t had the chance to wash your three-day old hair and that’s why it’s up and back, and that your blouse is definitely from the clearance rack at Goodwill.

“Your favorite one?” 

Out of self-preservation, you try to hide the reaction to the humor you feel, “My only one.”

“I think that’s the same thing.” You almost want to roll your eyes. But there’s a genuineness in his conversation, like he means the words he’s saying to you. Like this isn’t a game. 

“Sure,” You shrug, “You’re allowed to be wrong.” 

“My name’s Richard.” It’s old-fashioned. It’s something you don’t really hear rolled off of tongues in your neck of the woods, that’s for sure. A hand comes out and rests halfway between you and him, and it’s one of the most graceful things you’ve ever witnessed in your entire life. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” You smile. Your hands stay clasped in your lap. 

“You gotta earn a handshake from my sister,” A voice pops up from the open door way. You swing your head around and watch for a moment as your brother makes his way towards you.

“Hi, J,” Your stand, open your arms wide, bag moved from your lap into one of your hands. His solid presence allows a brief hug before he steps back again. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude--” 

The man sitting next to you has chosen to rise as well and you’re closer than you thought you would be when you turn back to him. You notice now that your height means your eyes literally meet his lips straight on. There’s a curve of a smirk there for a flash of a second before it straightens back out into the smile you saw at first. The rest of your sentence is forgotten. He takes one, two, three steps back.

“You got them all?” The question saves you. Your brother pulls you back to him as you hand him the brown plastic bag. In it? His favorite snacks from the liquor store on the corner (the nearly sold-out, hard-to-come-by ones). 

“Every last one,” Your hands come to his cheeks, turning his face to each side.

You have to reach up now and it strikes you just how much he’s grown even in the past month. You both spend much of your time on the phone with one another. These monthly meetings set-up frequently enough for deliveries and some quick face-to-face time and seldom enough to avoid embarrassment (that’s what he says anyway). 

He brings the chip bag out and holds it up, “You even got these.” 

“Geraldo got them special order just for you.” 

“Tell the old man I said thanks,” He smiles like he’s seven again, spoiled and self-indulgent. “Richard” is still standing behind you and to the side, silent. You can feel his eyes flipping back and forth between the two of you. 

“Of course,” Your hands smooth over his shoulders and brush away imaginary dust. “Mom sends her love and says she’ll try and call you on her lunch in a few hours.” 

“Yeah, I know. I’ll make sure I answer.” 

“Thank you.” You exhale an affectionate sigh. 

Avoidant loner that your brother can be, there’s a reason you both want him here. He’ll be able to do the things you only dreamed of when you were his age. And one day, hopefully, you’ll all be out of this hellhole, onto better things. 

“I gotta go, but thanks for these. Even though you should be saving every penny,” He chides, holding up a finger like his words are somehow a threat. 

“Okay,” You chortle like you wouldn’t give everything up for your brother in a heartbeat. There’s another quick hug before he’s looking back at the man behind you, who is still standing there like some sort of stealth ninja. 

“Like I said man,” He nods and there’s something in his face that changes as he looks at “Richard”, “You gotta earn it.” 

It’s with those parting words that he begins to walk out. You stay stock still for a second before you leap after him, “I wanna hear all about what happened last week with Cara tomorrow on the phone!” 

Your brother, a mile away already on longs legs, shouts something indistinguishable back at you from down the hallway, his figure turning a corner.  

“Who’s Cara?” The voice brings your back to reality. 

You sweep your palms against your jeans and turn back to face the man with a three-piece suit and a watch that probably costs more than 20 years of your salary. Oh God. 

“This girl my brother asked out the other week. I bribed him with some of his favorites so he would tell me what went down.” You shrug your shoulders, not worried about spilling the tea about your brother’s romantic life. 

“Does he know that?” His arms seem to relax a little more and you think you could stare at him all day. 

“Eh,” You say, creeping back towards the open door. Your small crossbody bag is already on you and there’s no reason to sit back down. Richard follows you as you, apparently, both start to make your exit from the office. Nothing about it feels unnatural. “Sometimes you got to persuade instead of demand.” 

“Ha,” There seems to be something you are missing based on the way his mouth curves and his eyes spark, “That’s the truest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” 

“You’re welcome. That’s the only one that comes for free!” Your arms swing back and forth. “Anything else is gonna cost you.” 

The hallways usually feel like a labyrinth here, but you don’t feel lost this time. 

“What forms of payment do you accept?” You pretend to be thinking, but really you’re just glancing between the different features of his face. You’re not sure you’ve ever met someone like him. You’re not sure you ever will again.  

“The bank’s closed right now, actually,” The wariness is back. This guy walks like he’s used to treading on perfectly paved gold streets in his shoes. All you’ve ever known is cracked cement and rusted pipes that burst underground. “But I think it’ll be back up and running soon.” 

He doesn’t falter and there’s no anger or hurt in his expression at the metaphorical rejection. Instead, it looks something like silent patience. Maybe even acceptance. This guy could totally not be interested and you could just be being (too) ambitious. The door to the open courtyard, and your way home, is already before you both. 

“It was nice meeting you Richard,” You say as you begin to take steps forward. Your hands nervously hold the strap across your torso. You take a few more steps before his words turn your head back to him. 

“You can call me Dick,” He says with ease. The tone makes you feel like he’s speaking a language you don’t really understand. His blue eyes seem like they’re on fire; a contradiction, you know. There’s something about him that almost makes you catch your breath. You’ve never been been winded by just looking before. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” You offer, hands squeezing your bag strap. 

“I look forward to earning that handshake next time!” He calls out when you’re several feet away. 

I think you’ll earn a lot more than that, you almost say, but refrain. 

Instead, you wave back to him once before making your way out of the courtyard, caught between staring at your shoes and looking ahead to make sure you’re going to right way. You smile and daydream the entire bus ride home. Blue becomes your favorite color. 

[captainsimagines]

To Topple A Giant || Chapter Eight

Summary: You had made it your mission to destroy even the smallest evils. When the opportunity arises to finally take down your own family after years of gaining their trust, you reach for it. And so does Steve, the man who represents a symbol of everything you hate.

Pairing(s): Steve Rogers x Reader || Avengers x Reader

Part 8 of 10 ~ Mini-Series

Warnings: This story contains mature themes and discussions such as extreme canon violence, strong language, emotional angst, mentions of Endgame deaths and recoveries, sexual situations, and emotional/physical abuse. This is purely fanfiction.

Warnings in this Chapter: abusive parental relationship; extreme canon violence (gun violence, hand-to-hand, baton use, knives); strong language; mentions of drug smuggling, drugs, and human smuggling; mentions of blood and blood loss; major/minor character death (not the mains, don’t worry!); angst; gunshot wounds; heavy alcohol consumption

Word Count: 14,600+

A/N: Listen... you know damn well I had to put some American Pie lyrics in this. The reader’s and Jackeline’s relationship is not modeled after Nat and Yelena lol it was literally the biggest coincidence. 

~

MedBay - The New Compound, 2024, 1:52 pm     

     “He did what?”     

Bruce smiles sheepishly as he lugs Steve’s practically lifeless body onto one of those beige medical beds. Dr. Cho is pacing calmly around the room, getting her instruments cleaned and ready. She tries to ignore the way you’re crowding her, inspecting everything she touches and in turn is going to end up touching Steve.      

“He took a bullet for someone.”     

“And where is that someone?” you bite. You immediately want to apologize to Bruce for your tone but you’re distracted by the tiny groans of pain coming from the pale super soldier beside you. You have to look away to avoid whimpering yourself, but you can’t exactly make yourself deaf. “Don’t tell me he took a bullet for you.”     

Bruce rolls his eyes and steps to the side as Dr. Cho begins cutting away Steve’s pants. “Everyone else is on vacation. He has no one here to take a bullet for besides. It was a shitty liquor store robbery and Steve was, of course, being a hero.”      

“Where’s he hit?” you ask, heading over to grab a pair of gloves yourself. No one questions it.      

“Femoral artery. Seems like he was plugging his own wound until he could get help.”     

Dr. Cho is right. There’s a massive gash in his thigh that’s leaking excessively and the skin surrounding the wound is raised like Steve’s own fingers had plunged so deeply it left an imprint. Not only that, but his hand is covered in his blood. So is Bruce’s, you realize, because he had tried to plug the artery as well.      

“How is he not dead yet?” Dr. Cho more mutters to herself than to you guys. Steve’s head is lolling to the side and his lips are an awful shade of white. His eyes are fluttering open and closed… open… closed… and he’s still mumbling random phrases. There’s a rough tug at the bottom of your stomach that pulls and pulls and there’s a weird urge to crawl onto the table to keep Steve warm.      

“He needs blood,” you say, even though all parties in the room know that as fact.     

Bruce, however, winces. “Sam’s not even in the state right now and I don’t think we have enough time to fly him-”    

“Is he Sam’s blood type? What’s his blood type? Why can’t Bucky do it? Bucky’s in Brooklyn, he can be here in five minutes if he runs.”    

Bruce starts rummaging through the upper level shelves and freezer cabinets. “Can’t mix the serums. We’ve tried.” He finally finds the blood bags, pulling them all out and spreading them across the clean tables. “It’s - shit - do we not have?”     

Dr. Cho is now covered in blood, working as fast as she can to close the wound. “What’s his blood type?”    

Bruce repeats it out loud and watches as Dr. Cho’s face falls. “I ran out yesterday. The blood drive isn’t until this weekend. I had a patient come in yesterday, I - I ran out yesterday.”     

They seem to be having their own conversation with their eyes and are too focused on each other to see you already stripping your long-sleeve shirt and wrapping that horrible blue rubber band around your upper arm. “Me. Take mine.”    

Bruce immediately shakes his head, stuttering as he tries to remove the rubber band. “Nu-uh, I don’t know if you know this but you’re human. I need two bags, three tops. I can’t just take it all from you right now!”    

“Then get me some cookies and a juice box. I don’t care how much you have to take to make him speak a coherent sentence. Do me.”    

Bruce hesitates but he rushes to the cabinets for the needles, vials, tubes, whatever - “No, do it direct.”     

Your words startle the two doctors but they don’t question it. They hook you up and poke the needle in the first vein they find, attaching the tube instead of a single vial and direct it to Steve.      

“You sure your blood matches?”     

You give Bruce a pointed look as if that isn’t something written on your dog tags or on your weekly personal reports.      

In the end, you’re told that you gave him the equivalent of two pints of blood. Not that you were awake for the second anyway but you vaguely remember Steve’s voice ringing in your ears. You’re not awake as he regains consciousness or to witness his very confused glare at seeing you in the bed next to him.     

He swears he heard small mumblings… ‘If you die because of some highway robbery, Rogers --- I’m never gonna fucking stop bullying your grave --- haunt it’.... ‘Stay --- with me, please’.... ‘---supposed to apologize first’....   

He tests the waters, mumbling a name he only says with annoyance nowadays. But now, it’s gently said. Soft, a whisper that sounds like a fractured hymn. 

Present Day, 2025, 12:05 pm

     There isn’t a set emotion in the world that seems appropriate. What are people supposed to feel when they’re singled out and chosen to suffer a life of pain? Self-hate? Pity for themselves? Anger? Sadness? Remorse? Nothing?

You really don’t know what you’re feeling. In the middle of rubbing vaseline on your newly acquired cuts and scrapes and bandaging yourself up, biting on a belt as Bucky set your shoulder back in place, and lying with Steve discussing everything and nothing all night after your promise - well, what the hell are you supposed to feel? As inevitable as it was considering he had ordered you shot before, the one feeling you know you feel is betrayed. Because even though Ernesto has proven himself evil time and time again, to his own flesh and blood, there was still a small part in your heart that didn’t think any parent truly wanted to inflict pain on their children. And your heart keeps proving itself wrong again and again.

“You just... jumped out of the car?”

Ramirez’s voice snaps you from your inner thoughts. He was let out of custody this morning. He’s currently filling in anyone who asks about the shipment, about Ernesto’s future plans, about the role he thought he had.

“Against my better judgment, but yeah.”

He chuckles and grins like he’s a kid hearing the best story ever told. “That’s what superheroes do. At least, what I’ve seen in the movies. John Wick, Bond, esos tipos.”

“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, Omar,” there’s a teasing tone, “but I’m a fucking Avenger.”

That makes him laugh louder and in turn pulls one from you. “Ya se, ya se. I’ve known you since you were born. It’s weird hearing stories about you saving the world and jumping from bombed cars.”

“Mm, wait until you hear about that time I went into space and landed on another planet. Or time traveled. Take your pick.”

He’s stunned into silence and after a few more praises, he lets you return to typing out your report. There are plenty of other agents around for him to busy himself with. The base is tiny and not at all what you expected, but it’s secure enough to fit Torres, Sam, Bucky, and about fifteen other agents as they prepare for tonight. The plan you and Steve outlined was simple: attend the wedding, butter everyone up, send Steve away to help Ernesto retrieve and move the shipment, Scott and Sam will infiltrate, Bucky would be on standby to help you fight, and the rest of the team at base will begin arrests and sweeps. If everything goes according to plan, at least.

It’s easy to speak negatively about these things - there really were only two ways this could go.

You finish your report and go to stand, only realizing a minute later walking through the base that Ramirez is following you. You send him a funny look over your shoulder and he returns with a small smile of his own.

“Tengo preguntas!”

You stop and let him catch up. “Hmm?”

“Okay,” he starts, motioning his hands wordlessly until he could form them. “Are you and the Captain actually... juntos? Or just Avenger partners?”

“That’s personal, Omar,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “But I guess? That’s weird discussing with you.”

He nods in agreement. “It’s okay, I was just curious. So, him being mad was just an act? He doesn’t really hurt and threaten you, no?” He’s treading lightly, but you can already see the cartel mind turning. He would order Steve’s execution if he had to, even if he believed it to be morally wrong in some situations.

“Never. It was just an act for Ernesto.”

“Ah, Dios. Thank goodness.”

“Yeah, keep your men in line. It’s fine.”

He chuckles at that. “And the other Avengers?”

“They’re my family, Omar,” you grin wide, waking slower for the old man to keep up. “They would never hurt me.”

“That’s good, but not what I was asking.”

“Oh?”

“What are they like?”

Handing your report to one of the agents at a handful of monitors, you laugh loudly. “Do you want to meet them officially?”

“Aye, I know my daughters would like that...”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But I would like to meet them, too.”

“That’s what I thought. C’mon.”

The rest of the team are all relaxing and discussing the past days events in the lounge area, which is really just a glorified break room. Bucky’s still in his morning sweats same as Scott, Torres is already suited up, and both Sam and Steve are wearing their Avenger gear (minus Sam’s wings and Steve’s battered shield). Steve is the first one to notice you enter and he instantly gets up from his chair to greet you with a kiss on the cheek.

“Gross,” Bucky mumbles.

“You’ve been trying to get me a girl for over ninety years, Buck. And now that I’ve finally got someone who likes me back, you bully me for it?”

“Who’s bullin’? I said the same thing when Agent Carter smooched you in the weapon’s room and you thought you were alone.”

You pat Steve’s shoulder. “Think about it, Rogers. When Bucky settles down with someone, you have free reign.”

Steve pulls a thin smile and glances back at Bucky. “I’ll make them hate you.”

“Love and hate are the same thing, pal. It worked out for you two.”

“Okay, we’re done. Everyone, Omar wanted to formally introduce himself.”

Ramirez gives a shy wave. Torres returns it. It’s kind of hilarious to witness. Here you all are, Avengers and some standing over six feet with one of the most wanted drug lords in the world, and the all mighty drug lord is shy. 

“I’m so sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” You notice how when Ramirez speaks to strangers or those he deems good people on his side, his accent is a little thicker. It’s like he wants to speak only in Spanish other than the Spanglish you were all accustomed to. “But it really is an honor to meet you all.”

Scott is the first to stand and shake his hand. “Sorry I pointed my gun at you, man. Habit.”

Ramirez chuckles, “Sorry I broke into your room.”

Steve interjects, “Thank you, though. For telling us what more we’re fighting for.”

Ramirez nods, a solemn look spreading over his face. “The minute I found out, I didn’t know who to tell. I’m lucky you were never truly on his side.”

“And what will you do after all this is over?” Bucky stands. “How do we know we can truly trust you?”

Ramirez sneaks a glance at you and you raise your hands. “Hey, I’ve got the same questions as him.”

Ramirez must know he isn’t getting out of this one because he answers quickly. “Drugs have a market where people choose. I just meet supply and demand protocols. I don’t do the unnecessary violence or blackmail. There is no need to. People will always want drugs.”

There’s a round of agreement throughout the small room. Ramirez continues, “But smuggling humans? There is no choice, nothing moral about it, it’s evil.”

“But people get addicted to drugs. They die from them everyday,” Sam argues.

“I produce and deal what you American’s call weed. Ernesto does the big stuff, as does White. I’m,” he laughs a little. “I’m their weed guy.”

“That is true,” you confirm. You’ve moved and packaged Ramirez’s product before. “Literally just weed.”

Everyone seems deep in thought, like their processing Ramirez’s words and the weight behind them. Ramirez ran with the big boys and was the biggest distributor of marijuana in Mexico and America alike, but he never messed with any other product. Besides producing, selling, and smuggling illegal weed, his only other crimes included conspiring with Ernesto on how to get the product over state lines.

“Okay,” Steve starts. “So how is tonight gonna work? We have to discuss that.”

Ramirez bows his head. “You’ve allowed me safety, you’ve listened to me speak, and you’re saving both my life and my daughter’s. If you must arrest me, then you arrest me.”

“The minute you’re transferred to a prison with less security, Ernesto’s men will get you,” you reason, already shaking your head no.

Ramirez gives a nonchalant shrug, “But you’ll get him and White. That’s all that matters.”

You look over to Steve for some other ideas, but like you he doesn’t have any. No one seems to have any.

Torres matches his shrug and his voice is small as he speaks, almost like his next idea is insane. “We can always put him in the Raft.”

Everyone’s eyes go wide.

“That’s where all the enhanced humans go, no?” Ramirez is stunned. “Do I count?”

“We’ve got no idea,” Steve rubs at his chin, looking at you for confirmation he knows you don’t have. “But it’s an idea.”

     The plan is no longer singular. Fury had sent his best field agents for the job, the ones with the best aim, the ones with great strategic planning. Although you and Steve were still in charge, it was no longer just your mission. Your mission was to arrest the big three, big four when including Seda. That was it.

The plan goes like this: half the team will be focused on the venue itself, hidden in the shadows and monitoring the big three as well as your mics, and will aid you in the physical fight and arrests. Some are on the ground while others in the sky. Afterwards, they’ll sweep the estate and collect stolen property or priceless artworks. The other half is split into two, where one of those halves will be spread out for miles to capture anyone that might slip through, like guests who were on the most wanted list or guests that have helped Ernesto in the past. The other part of that half will intercept the shipment (once Steve radios in the location), save the hostages, and shut down the routes. 

They instruct Ramirez to call Ernesto and to ask him if there’s a vegetarian menu offered. Ernesto responds with only a muttered groan and in a wild turn of events, asks if Ramirez can call you to make sure you arrive earlier than expected to make sure Jackeline walks down that aisle. He’s completely serious. Not only does Ramirez play along, but Ernesto doesn’t give any indication that he knows about the car bomb. So the team makes a judgement call: this was only Seda’s doing.

Ramirez is then told that the Raft is not an option; both the US and Mexican government want him and the only reason he hasn’t been arrested is because he still has many cards to play. The more he helps, the less time he’ll get. 

One thing is known: this is the biggest mission anybody has been on in over two years. 

      Bucky remembers things in bits and pieces. Sometimes he’ll be minding his own business, enjoying this new world and the countless amenities it offers, and remember exactly where he was on the hottest day of the year in 1936. He remembers the blistering heat, boiling his once pale skin and giving him that beautiful olive he was now known for. He remembers the way his tongue dried almost instantly the moment he stepped outside and how he asked his next door neighbor, Ms. Kranshall, for a cup of water before work. He remembers her massive square glasses and how they nudged the tip of her nose as she nodded sweetly at him. He remembers her high but smoky voice and the way she patted his shoulder as he drank the cup down. 

The first time he remembered Natalia was around the same time he remembered Steve. He sees a flash of ember in strands, speed almost matching his, and he sees those panicked green eyes he was once all too familiar with. 

She was twelve when he first met her, forced to throw her around like a ragdoll until her ribs were bruised and her spirit broken. He went again and again, and when he wasn’t forced he would teach her how to fight properly and how to shield her most vulnerable areas. Scared as she was, she never showed it in those private moments, and decided to follow his lead in most things. And she learned to be fierce, no matter how hard he hit, and he still remembers the look in her eyes and the pull of her young face as they yanked him away for cryo before he could congratulate her on winning her first fight. 

The first time he remembered you was when you leapt onto T’Challa’s back as the chase neared, tackling the young prince become king, and watched with sad eyes as both him and Steve climbed onto the jet for Siberia. He remembers your clumsy punches when you fought him with half his brain and how he kicked you so hard you flew. He also remembers how when you took that kick for Steve, the sound of his wail almost deafened the soldier. 

Everytime he remembers something, a memory, no matter how strangled it may arise, the twinge in his chest is good. He’s remembering. He’s James Buchanan Barnes.

He feels that same twinge when a face full of freckles greets him at the entrance, documents raised above her head in a show of selfish glee, and a pep in her step that tells him she remembers him too. 

“Sergeant Barnes!” Maribel gives a toothy grin. “Never thought I’d see you again!”

Bucky tilts his chin up and rests the tip of tongue between his incisors. “What? Hydra wasn’t enough for you, you gotta infiltrate the Mexican cartel, too?”

She scoffs playfully, “Other way ‘round.”

He snatches the documents from her hand and leads her inside. “I hope you got something here. Steve put a lotta faith in you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Y/N does. That’s enough for me.”

Rolling her eyes, she snatches the documents back to turn the pages herself. “Follow me. We need to chat in private.”

“Shouldn’t we get-”

“I’d rather you know, and you tell them later. No audience.”

This causes Bucky to tense. He follows her in further and closes the door behind them both. 

The left side of her face had less freckles back in 2012, he remembers, and now she’s covered in them.     

Bucky remembers things slowly, but he remembers them. 

      It’s cold outside, air bruising your skin, and there are hundreds of goosebumps now erupting. You joke with yourself that in the end, you’ll most likely have to ask Steve for his jacket and ruin your overall look but hey, you’ll be warm. The wedding doesn’t start until five in the evening and it’s one’oclock right now, and there are white clouds in the sky instead of gray and the songs of some desperate birds searching for their lunch near your ears. It at least drowns out the constant noise of the agents hammering away at each other and preparing for tonight.   

It makes your stomach roll: these agents are putting their lives at risk because of you. 

     You stepped through the discarded papers and tried not to leave your footprint anywhere important. His office was empty, left in a state of purgatory, and his lamp was still on. It’s like he stepped out for a minute.

You picked everything up: pens, computers, books, chairs. Under everything, there was dust. 

He really did die.

As much as you wanted to step on his remains and spit on him, you couldn’t. The gash in your heart was still open and bleeding for everyone else and there was no room left for anger. You were indifferent, for lack of a better word. Frustrated?

A paper crumbles outside his office. No one had followed you in - a week after the snap and every single person on earth was still searching for loved ones or running from something - so no, no one else was supposed to be here. Mexico had been hit hard, it’s government shattered, and every cartel was picking up pieces or tearing the world further apart. There was no line anymore. 

You twisted around and aimed your gun at the door, immediately lowering it when you saw Natasha raise her hands. She had this embarrassed smile on her face like she knew she had been caught.

“I meant to say hi over your mic. But you turned it off.”

You sighed deeply and dramatically shrugged your shoulders. “Well, I’m here. Guess who’s not.”

Natasha only nods and steps further into the room. She looks over the same things you did. “He’s gone? Good, good riddance.”

“But his death means nothing if trillions of others died also. It’s so fucking typical of him. If he’s going down, he takes everyone else with him.”

“He didn’t take them, Y/N.”

“I want to be happy,” you spit out through clenched teeth. “I want to feel relief. The fucking bastard is finally gone and I can’t even enjoy it properly.”

Natasha takes one more look at the hallway before letting her guard down almost completely. She envelopes you in a hug, squeezing tighter each time your breath hitches. “Hey, listen to me.”

“He’s gone.”

“I know,” Natasha’s voice is low and reminds you of the gentle hum of record static. “He’s gone and he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“But everyone-”

“No,” she pulls away and places both her palms over your neck. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

It takes a while before you’re nodding along, repeating her words gently.

“You’re more than the pain he inflicted. You’re more than his name or crimes. You’re worth more than his impact ten times over. He can’t hurt you anymore. I know everyone’s gone, and we’re going to fight like hell to bring them back, but in this little moment, this little thread you can pull - pull it all out - he can’t hurt you anymore.”

She’s all muscle and bone and blood and real. What would you do without Natasha?

     The grass beneath your bare feet calms you down. It’s tendrils are a little ticklish and there are droplets of silver morning water fog melting as they touch your skin. Focusing on the feeling isn’t enough to get you out of your own head and for a wild second, you think the God of Thunder is going to come up behind you and hold your hand. It’s peaceful out here, but what you wouldn’t give to see him again. 

The day before Steve and Carol returned the stones, he had been here. He did as he promised: the second the flood of happiness extinguished like a Christmas candle, he found you settled in the mass of pillows with only instrumental music playing. He left for two cups of tea, sat in silence with you as you both drank, and whispered a strangled ‘I’m sorry’ as if you weren’t meant to hear it. Apologizing for someone who did come back, and you for someone who didn’t. 

‘You know I don’t regret what we did. We brought everyone back.’ 

‘Don’t try and justify your sadness. Not at all, not with me.’ His voice was stern and his eyes serious.

‘I’m sorry he didn’t come back.’

His eyes had closed, as if he was expecting that apology, and he looked out the window where the sun was just barely rising, shining on him and him alone. ‘I’m sorry, too.’

There are footsteps, though. Heavy ones, footsteps that announce his upcoming presence on purpose so as to not startle anymore. Bucky was too generous for his own good. 

“Had a visitor.”

You remain silent as Bucky sits next to you, looking up from his spot and expecting you to sit as well. “There’s water on the grass.”

“There’s water in the air in this godforsaken state, now sit down.” A push of laughter escapes your lungs but you follow his instructions anyway. 

You sit in silence for a few minutes, admiring the way the pine trees bend slightly with the gusts of wind and how the birds have changed their pitch. You expect Bucky to speak first so you occupy that time by playing with the strands of wet grass. 

“In 1997, I was taken out of cryo for a mission.”

You wince on accident. This wasn’t how you expected the conversation to start. 

Bucky continues, “There was this man south of the border.” He points south to prove his point. “Hydra wanted to take him out because he was interfering with the drug routes they were monitoring.”

“Hydra controlled drug routes?”

“Hydra had their heads in plenty of places. They didn’t control them, but they did monitor them.”

You shake your head in understanding. “And this man?”

Bucky sighs heavily. His eyes are focused on the gentle yellows behind the trees instead of you. “He was told to take out another man traveling through and out one of these drug routes. He made a different call.”

“Who was your visitor?”

“Maribel.”

“Wha-?” You go to stand but Bucky gently pushes your left shoulder back down. “Why are you telling me this and not her?”

“She wanted me to tell you. And I guess, in turn, you tell Steve and the rest of the team.”

“Bucky,” your voice trembles on accident. “Tell me.”

“The man I was ordered to take out was Maribel’s brother.” He chuckles at your frantic shuffling and pushes you down again. He continues, “Hey, it’s okay. She never knew him and she doesn’t hate me for what I was.”

You don’t really believe him. But his face isn’t telling you otherwise. You're stuck between wanting to dig for more information and giving him a giant bear hug. “Did you… succeed?”

“The soldier ever rarely lost.”

Your face contorts. “Bucky…”

“He disobeyed orders, Hydra didn’t like that since it disrupted the drug routes, and so I was sent to help. Hydra didn’t seem to care about the man he let go, though.” Bucky shrugs and starts playing with the grass behind your hand. “The thing was, Maribel’s brother had been doing this a long time. Ernesto was on Hydra’s radar but in a good way. Maribel’s brother was also given very specific orders from one other person - their mother.”

The story pieces are all discarded haphazardly, pieces that are from different boxes and don’t seem to entangle properly. 

“She told him to let the man go. Because this man was an American, and killing an American on Mexican soil was something that was impossible to hide from the claws of the law. So, this American made it back on US soil safely and was never heard from again. Until 1998, when he tried to re-enter Mexico under a false name but with one purpose. To see his newborn baby girl.”

The yellow behind the pine trees fades into orange. 

“Are you saying-?”

“Maribel’s mother kept everything your mother left her when she tried to cross the border herself. Your real birth certificate, her real birth certificate, you.”

Bucky looks over finally, sad smile and all. “Maribel thinks, and now I think, that Ernesto isn’t your real father.”

There are so many questions formulating at the base of your skull that you don’t really take the time to absorb the news. “What did she bring you? What was in those papers?”

Bucky seems startled that your reaction wasn’t one of shock. “Like I said, Maribel’s mother kept a lotta things.” He pauses momentarily before speaking again. “Blood results was one of them. Still trying to authenticate them.  The American was a doctor, after all.”

“A doctor,” you whisper. 

“A doctor. He changed his name but he’s alive. Maribel’s checked.”

“Why would she tell me this now? Why now just hours before the wedding? Isn’t that why you guys didn’t tell me about what was really in the shipment?”

Bucky winces and his expression tells you he’s sorry. 

You continue, “Why now? Why does it even matter anymore?”

He inspects you quickly, scanning your features for any signs of discomfort. “You’re okay? I thought this would surprise you more.”

The chuckle you release is dry, kind of harsh. “It actually answers a fuckload of questions. Like, number one, why he fucking hates me.”

His eyebrows scrunch together. “You think he knows?”

“If he doesn’t, then he’s a super fucking asshole instead of just a fucking asshole.”

Bucky pauses again and smiles up at the sky. The clouds are white and extra large today, and he suddenly remembers the taste of that mini popcorn he had bought and shared with his little sister Becca… Becks… while watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarves at the theater. The salt and butter had stuck to Becca’s fingers and she had wiped them on Bucky’s sweater. He remembers scolding her for that but giving her a napkin in between his giggle fit. He feels the same swell in the meat of his heart listening to you. “We don’t deserve you. You’re like the moon. Always there, shaping yourself into what that person needs, crater after crater beat into you and yet, you move the tides.”

The little snort that leaves your nose hurts a little. “That’s pretty damn poetic for this moment of ‘you’re not the father!’”

Bucky bites his lip and smiles toward the yellow and orange hues. “Like the moon.”

      The hotel had replaced the door, no questions asked. The reason Sam decided to bust open the door instead of using the very functional key you had given Torres? No one knows. But the poor receptionist was told that you couldn’t possibly change rooms because this was top secret business and you absolutely wanted to slap Scott upside the head for worrying her. So they fixed the bolts and gave you all new keys. 

Didn’t matter much anyway since you weren’t sleeping here tonight. You had already packed and made the beds. 

You lay your dress and Steve’s dress attire on the respective beds. The dress sent over was a backless red silk, spaghetti strapped and slit on the left side - you’ve wanted to wear it since it arrived when Scott did. 

Steve knocked before entering the room. You almost laughed at the gentlemanly aspect of it. “Thought for sure they’d have kept you for another hour at least.”

“I gotta change sometime. That your dress?” Steve shrugs off his uniform and climbs on top of his freshly made bed.  

“That’s my dress. Sort of skimpy for a wedding, no?” You hold it up to show him the front and back.

“Does ‘skimpy’ mean bad?”

“Means slutty.”

He gives you this disappointed look, like he’s judging your vocabulary. “I wouldn’t use that word. So no.”

You silently apologize and move the dress over to the end of your bed. Everyone else was also getting ready for tonight. Agents were posing as local police, many infiltrated the wait staff, suits were being double-checked for any malfunctions. There was so much going on, but all was relaxed in your room. Steve smiles at you from his bed, head resting in his palm as he leans up to stare at you. It’s impossible not to blush under his stare, so you move to climb into his bed. You lay down with your feet to his head, the sides of your hips pressing together; just two upside down puzzle pieces. He chuckles and goes to lay on his back, right arm coming up to lay rested on top of your right thigh. 

“All this week I thought I wasn’t ready.” You’ve had no more nightmares. “But I am. I’m ready to end this.”

He runs his fingers delicately along your thigh. “I’m ready to help.” He sighs deeply and cranes his neck to try and meet your gaze. “We’ll make sure they get maximum time.”

“You know that’s not our call.”

“Still.”

You rest for another few minutes, gentle touches calming you. His body is so warm, emitting sweet thoughts like the beginning of spring heat, and it’s impossible not to curl up into it. Steve breaks the comfortable silence, “What are you thinking about?”

You suck in a breath and tell him the truth. “That in the matter of like… five days, you and I are basically lovers now.”

“Lovers?”

“Lovers.”    

He laughs out loud and goes to sit up.  “I intend on taking you out when we get back home.”

Lifting your head, you rest on your elbows and grin at him. “Oh? And where are you planning on taking me?”

He thinks for a second before pressing his lips together and giving up. “I have to ask Peter or Wanda. I have no idea where you go during the day to eat.”

You laugh, “Seriously? I could’ve sworn you tagged along once or twice.”

“Nope. I always refused.”

You frown slightly, “Riiight.” Not wanting to rehash the reasons why, you try to soften any wrong feelings about what that implies. “I’m sure you’ve been, though. I take Bucky places, too. Ask him.”

“Mmm, I have my pride. Can’t have Bucky thinkin’ he knows more about my girl than I do.”

You smile largely now and hope no lipstick rubbed off on your teeth. “Your girl?”

Steve averts his eyes like he’s just now asking for your name and if you’d like to go dancing. There’s a beautiful scarlet glow painting his pale cheeks. “Like I said, I’m taking you out and asking properly.”

“We’ve already surpassed third base. I remember it vividly.”

His smile falls comically and he turns to grab a throw pillow to smack you with it a couple times. “Crude! Crude as always. Goddamn.”

“I’m sorry! Hey, I’m sorry!” 

He stops his attack and pulls you into his chest. He warms your back instantly. “So, you’ll let me take you out?”

“I really, really like french fries,” you hum lightly and tilt your head back to lean into his shoulder. 

“That narrows it down, thanks.”

You chuckle due to his sarcastic tone. He rubs his hands up and down your arms. An idea formulates while in the warmth of his body. “You know what I really want to do after we finish with this?”

“What’s that?”

You tell him honestly. “Rent a cabin. Spend a Christmas there, maybe. Catch some fuckin’ fish. Experience the snow properly.”

His eyebrows furrow like he’s dissecting such a claim. “I… wasn’t expecting that.”

You shrug, “Sounds cool though, right?”

“Got room for one more?” He looks down to meet your gaze and there’s a glint of hope shimmering in the blue of his eyes.

       “Nat… Natasha.”

Natasha took in a sharp exhale as she lifted her head from the desk, left cheek numb and pink. Steve shot her a funny grin and continued shaking her shoulder until she fully opened her eyes. She slaps his hand away with a huff of laughter. 

“Come here to do your laundry? You know, there’s only so many times I can help prevent shrinking shirts.”

Steve scoffs, “I used to do laundry by hand. I can figure out a few buttons.”

“You would think.”

Steve rolls his eyes and bumps her shoulder with the palm of hand before speed-walking into the kitchen. “It’s one of those days.” He opens the high cabinets and pulls a few vodka bottles. 

Natasha pushes down whatever was starting to eat at her. She calms her deep breaths and rises from her chair. No words needed to be exchanged. She makes her way over to pull two glasses from the same high cabinets. 

Steve watches her a little hesitantly, but she has that lopsided smile that pinches through only one cheek and her eyes are the slightest bit swollen from her power nap, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief. She tilts her head to the other side of the kitchen, that lopsided grin gracing her bare feet. Steve fumbles through a few cleaning supplies and some plastic bags before he finds the bottle. 

“I hid it after… after Thor had that meltdown a year ago.”

Now, he was second guessing. It was a small bottle, only half left, but half a bottle of Asgardian liquor was enough to knock the God on his knees. For Steve, a few sips would do the same. But he needed it, he needed it, god help him. It’s been four years, he needs it. “Be my designated driver?”

“How about you spend the night? Y/N wanted to start a new show anyway.”

“I’ll be passed the fuck out during the opening credits.”

“But you’ll be here.”

Steve sighs and pops open the bottle. Natasha puts her hand up to stop him from pouring, “Check under that sink again.”

His eyebrows pinch together but he does as instructed. More cleaning products… more cleaning products. He tilts his head to look at the corners and there it was: a small, pink paper airplane taped mid-flight. Steve hunched his shoulders to grab it and crawled out carefully. “You know, you’re not supposed to tell me where you hide them.”

“Well, I felt bad! I’ve found like fifteen of your blue ones and how many do you have of mine?”

“That’s besides the point-”

“Say it. You’ve found six.”

His cheeks turn hot. “I’m not here all the time.”

“Excuses.”

“I leave mine in good spots. You probably got better eyes or something.”

Natasha laughs, loud and from her chest. “Sure. But hey - I’ll promise you somethin’.”

Steve pours the Asgardian liquor into his glass and straight vodka into Natasha’s. “What do you have in mind?”

“You find more than me by the end of this year, and I’ll take that vacation.”

Steve takes his first sip and tries not to pull a hard face. “You’re on. But what if you win?”

Natasha raises her glass and clinks it with his. He wants to apologize for forgetting to toast but her eyes are playful and forgiving. “You come with me. I’m not the only one who needs it.”

“So, I win regardless?”

She takes a sip and pulls a funny face. “Easiest battle, don’t ya think?”

They’re off their right minds twenty minutes into drinking and the common area is chaos. Pillows are thrown, the TV somehow ends up with dozens of fingerprints, and they’ve broken a couple flower pots. The cushions of the couch know Natasha’s bare feet and Steve’s boots; the walls fail to constrict their loud singing; Rhodey has already snuck past them to get himself a snack undetected. 

‘And so I cry sometimes when I’m lyin’ in bed, just to get it all out what’s in my head!’

‘Hit the high note, Rogers!’

‘When you do, I will!... I scream from the top of my lungs-’

‘What’s goin’ on? And I say, ‘hey!’ ‘hey!’ I say ‘hey!’ What’s goin’ on?’

Steve’s still clear-headed enough to twirl Natasha around. She’s flexible enough to climb onto his shoulders.

‘I pray every single day - for a revolution!’

She’s starting to slur her words and Steve wonders if that blond streak in her hair was there last week. 

‘The story of my life! I take her home, 

I drive all night to keep her warm and time, 

Is frozen!

The story of my life, I give her hope, 

I spend her love until she’s broke inside!

The story of my life.’

She can longer feel her toes but seeing Steve let go makes her so incredibly happy and breaks her heart. I needed this too, she thinks.

‘So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry

And them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye

Singin', "This'll be the day that I die

This'll be the day that I die!”’

She’s all muscle and bone and blood and real. What would Steve do without Natasha?

     “You wanna come?”

“Sure. I’ll cut down the trees for wood. Have a real fireplace.” He’s serious, you realize. Like, really truly serious. 

Your heart swells with excitement and some other feeling you can’t quite place. But it’s good, like really good. The sigh you release is full of sweet wonder. “A real Christmas tree.”

Steve tightens his grip around your arms. “December’s right around the corner. Trees should be ready and standing tall.”

It’s almost too much to imagine. You have the sudden urge to talk specifics, to plan out this vacation. A beautiful, rustic cabin with only a coffee maker brought from the outside century, knitted quilts, real snow, Steve’s body heat, Christmas lights… inviting Sam, Scott, Wanda, Peter, and Bucky down for Christmas dinner and presents. A whole sleepover filled with ghost stories, candle burning, board games, Christmas movies. You’re up and tucking your knees under yourself to look down at Steve in an instant. “You’d throw on that checkered shirt, grow out your beard even more, and chop down a few trees for me? With me?”

“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be,” Steve says, eyes crinkling. For a second, he’s worried you’ll realize that he’s quoted your letter. But that same moment, you’re giggling with excitement over your future plans.

“Well, we lasted a week here without killing each other. The holidays always hold a few surprises.”

Steve picks up another pillow.

       Business is not conducted during the church service. It feels normal, with half the guests attending the service and watching the happy couple exchange vows, while the other half only arrives for the party. 

Jackeline’s dress is modern with a mix of vintage - simple, with long sleeves of lace and fabric that isn’t entirely white but with hints of beige; the dress dips lower in the back than it does in the front, and it’s tight near the waist but loose as it drapes down her long legs. Her hair is left loose and her make-up is heavy, and she illuminates under the sun rays that burst through stained cathedral glass. You don’t even pay mind to Ernesto and Seda seated in the aisle in front of you - not when Jackeline looks the way she does. 

As the service ends, Steve tells you to wait until most of the guests exit. The priest eyes him warily, inspecting his young face and build and obvious persona. He says nothing, but he places a gentle hand over the cross on his chest as he follows the guests out. Steve stands, and out of respect dips his fingers into the holy water provided near the heavy wooden doors. He signs the father, the son, and the holy ghost and dips his fingers in again to sign the same on you. With a silent thank you and tender wipe to your forehead, you don’t question it. He’s not Catholic, or at least you don’t think, but you know he does it for what’s to come. No matter your beliefs, he just wants something, someone, to protect you. You turn back to the cathedral and grip the door as you bend down to one knee and tip your head. 

       Everything is grander, that’s for sure. The decorations are tripled; the violet lights are reflecting like diamonds off every marble and glass surface; the chandelier’s are no longer gold sculptures but diamond; the clay flowers hanging from the ceiling yesterday are now a part of the centerpieces, squeezed in with the largest bouquet of roses and violets; the live bands (because of course there are two) are each still setting up as everyone is getting seated; and there are about fifty round tables circling the large dance floor. There’s still a nice view of the lake and the pine trees ahead, and the tarp was abandoned as there was no rain in the forecast. All in all, and there were a thousand other things you could focus on but didn’t have the energy to, everything was beautifully put together.

Jackeline wasn’t lying when she said half of Mexico was attending. Besides family, there were celebrities in attendance, famous musicians who were simply guests and not performing, family of some of the other biggest drug lords from both countries (minus Europe), and a couple politicians who dipped before the new couple even walked through the doors after seeing Steve. But Steve worked his magic like he had yesterday and had everyone eating out of the palm of hand in pure amazement. He even had a famous actress hanging off his shoulder in under three minutes. Walking away to go congratulate Jackeline, Steve doesn’t miss the quick, sarcastic flick of your middle finger aimed in his direction.  

“You’d tell me if you needed my help, right?” Jackeline asks after a while, bottom lip dripping champagne. She wipes it gingerly, careful not to smudge her pink lipstick. 

“I would if there was anything wrong,” you respond truthfully. She pauses to swallow her sip and squints. She follows your gaze to Steve, whose right arm is being tugged by a girl who looks about twelve with five multi-colored bows trailing down her french braid, and who is also trying hard not to blush at the very attractive actress he can’t seem to get rid of. 

“You’re going to stop him, aren’t you?”

You glance to your left, but it isn’t really a question. Jackeline knows. “Yeah.”

She nods and tilts her chin up, eyes still on Steve. “Make him watch as you burn it down.”  You know she’s referring to Ernesto. She continues, “Every last bit of it.”

Smiling down at your feet, you raise your glass at nothing in particular. Just to salute the night air and whoever is watching. A few seconds pass as you both watch the guests enjoy the music and appetizers. Jackeline shuffles in her heels but she doesn’t seem to want to leave your side just yet. “You run, you understand?”

She’s only momentarily startled by your words. “Okay.”

“I never meant to leave you here, Jackie. I just had to find a way out first.”

“You found a loophole,” she chuckles, but the next moment she’s serious. “There is no way out.”

“Might not be,” you admit, downing your glass in one shot. “But I know this. He can’t hurt you anymore.”     

      You don’t exchange more than a few words with Steve before he’s called by Ernesto’s men and motioned toward those massive dry lava rock doors; doors that don’t muffle sound but are strong enough to withstand a bullet wound. You watch him leave with them, and he shoots you a smile over his shoulder to simply look at you. Your eyes swell only slightly, burning the corners and blurring everything. He’s bright and brilliant, walking head first into Hell and shining like the bolts of Zeus.

Steve has faced giants before, from all backgrounds and all worlds. He has blocked their punches, taken near mortal injuries; stared them in the face with every ounce of anger and determination his cells could produce. There was always this whispered voice in his head that warned him of the last day he would pick up that shield. In 1945, the voice was loud and raging as he drove that nosediving plane into the Arctic. Over the last few years, however, the voice had quieted and let Steve ponder his fate himself. Steve swears the voice, or rather his own conscience, is getting tired. 

He listens intently, responding only when spoken to, and prays his mic is picking up every bit of this conversation. Ernesto commanded the room as he screamed orders in both English and Spanish. His men fell in line; some as determined as the old man, some quiet, some bothered. Didn’t matter what the orders were. Steve noticed the few who would glance at one another and speak their distaste with their wandering eyes. And when Ernesto would speak directly to Steve, the same men would pinch their lips into a thin line and glare. 

The shipment had arrived mid-conversation and as men were sent out to do their jobs, Ernesto kept Steve behind. I need you to stay with me until the shipment is secure and can be moved - you’re my bodyguard, Ernesto had told him, confident and only slightly bending his back in discomfort from the weight of the day. Steve agrees, and hears Bucky mention how they have eyes on the shipment from the sky. 

Steve stays by Ernesto’s side even when Ramirez is called in. He’s prepared for a bloodbath, for two big men to cement their graves in this tiny office, but it doesn’t happen. Or at least, it doesn’t happen yet. Ernesto regards Ramirez as an old friend and finally trusts him enough to tell him what the shipment contained. Steve isn’t surprised, however, when Ernesto takes nasty satisfaction at Ramirez’s horrified expression. Because even though Ramirez had already known, the confirmation adds a multitude of terror. Steve can feel his palms sweating. 

As expected, Ernesto tells Ramirez that he plans to use his lands for his gain. The safe thing to do would have been to agree, to nod along, and to live in the knowledge that the shipment most likely wouldn’t head out. But Ramirez, for some reason Steve can’t fathom, stands up and says no. 

Steve understands now; the odd shaking of your shoulders even when your face was completely blank and emotions calm. He watches the beads of sweat drip from Ernesto’s forehead onto the tip of his nose; he watches the way his chest heaves as his voice becomes louder; he watches until he can’t take anymore and he enlarges the shield with Scott’s tech and tells Ernesto to move away from the other man. Steve understands now - the man really is scary, even if he wants to admit it or not.

      “You really are a phenomenal actor.”

Swaying slowly, you try not to step on Seda’s feet as he guides you across the dance floor. The music is calmer than it was five minutes ago, the guests are enjoying dinner and conversing, and Steve had told you fifteen minutes ago that he would be right back. Ernesto had sent you a malicious wink, but you knew better. Steve’s name was written in blue and Ernesto’s real target had to be you. 

“Acting with what? Acting that I enjoy this dance? Acting like I respect you?” Your upper lip twitches into a teasing smile. “Or acting like I don’t know it was you who planted that bomb?”

He matches your smile, looking down at you with a glint in his eyes. His grip around your waist tightens. “Acting like you’re really on our side.”

Lowering your voice just a fraction, you lean in, top of your head level with his chin. “I’m on Ernesto’s side. You almost had me and my Captain blown up.”

His left hand is settled on your shoulder and he uses the opportunity to dig his nails in. All around him, his men are watching. “How did you get away?”

You give a dry laugh. “You think that was my first bomb? It was childsplay.”

Seda scoffs, “You speak of this Avenger business like I don’t know who you are. You’re still that scared little girl who hid in her room when alien’s fell from the sky.”

“I may be. But there’s a difference between you and I. I actually stared them in this face and won.”

“The second time, maybe”

Sticks and stones, but goddamn did those words always hurt. Blame goes a long way but you and your team are used to keeping it close to home. “Why do you want me dead?”

His scowl deepens and the wrinkles by his eyes crinkle over each other as he squints down at you. “The Avengers are not secretly on our side. Tony Stark never was but Ernesto loves to tell people otherwise. Same about your Captain. You’ve been playing us for years.”

“What evidence do you even have? For years, we’ve done nothing but clear the roads for you,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief. 

He unwraps his arm from around your waist and sets both hands around your upper arms. He’s pressing down as hard as he can but still loose enough not to draw unwanted attention. He breathes a sharp exhale, and the puff of air hits your cheeks. “I don’t know what happened to my men after you got what you deserved. They were good men and just like that, erased.” He smirks. “I know you had something to do with it.”

A guest with bright red hair laughs loudly to your side as she is twirled around by her partner. It’s not as vibrant as you’re used to, but you still imagine that lopsided smile you hadn’t seen in forever. “Does it matter? You know what they did, so why is my hypothetical revenge chastised?”

“Tell me right now that none of your Avenger friends did your dirty work. Tell me your Captain’s hands are clean.”

“I promise you, my Captain is clean.” Seda doesn’t show any signs of believing you. Still, your mouth twitches into a mocking smirk. “But our once mutual friends Tony and Natalia tell another story.”

“Am I supposed to believe that two people who are dead are responsible for this? Ironic,” he grits his teeth.

You repeat, clear and true. “My Captain is clean.”

He fakes a tiny gag but you know he means his disgust. “You turned over so quickly for him. For the heroes who destroyed the world. Pathetic.”

“You really need to stop underestimating me,” you practically order, voice full of warning and annoyance. 

Seda continues, “Following orders from a fascist. Following orders from a country that only does harm.”

He turns you around as the dance instructs, a half-hearted waltz that didn’t have a beginning, middle, or end. You take that second to scan your surroundings and weigh your options. “I agree about the country part. But I don’t follow orders from the country, I follow them from my Captain.”

You’re facing him again and in those hellish eyes you see truth. “No, he’s a symbol of everything we hate. Of everything we need to destroy.”

“Touch Steve and I’ll blind you.”

His feet stop mid-step, as do yours. His eyes widen only a little, but it’s all the ammunition he needs. “I knew it.”

It’s barely a whisper, a tickle from a single strand of hair, but you catch it. No longer keeping it a secret, or rather a secret you didn’t care that you let slip, Seda now knows it was all a lie. All this time you had never referred to Steve as anything other than your Captain.

You feel the blunt head of a .22 press against your abdomen as Seda laughs, “You never could get a mission right.”

Twisting his arm and knocking the gun from his loose grip with your wrist was easy. So was catching the gun mid-air and elbowing him in the ribs. Seda falls to the floor in a state of shock, instinctively gripping his chest. You aim the gun at him and like you’ve seen in the movies, place the tip of your heel just below where his belly button would be. He releases a sharp breath and his eyes are challenging, practically begging you to dig deeper and get on with it. 

You can hear the screaming and frantic murmuring from the guests surrounding you and the leveling of guns from Seda’s men. But you’re focused on the man trying so hard not to quiver beneath you, his nasty grin spreading wider. 

“You’re alone,” he bites. “Your Steve is helping Ernesto right now, no? You’re alone.”

Your grin forms slowly, and you’re counting down the seconds you have until his men start firing, but you lean your upper body down slightly to make sure he hears you. “That’s never been a problem before. Don’t you remember?” You click back the safety as discreetly as possible. “I was trained by the Black Widow herself.”

You quickly raise the gun to shoot the closest of Seda’s men in between his collarbones, effectively starting the bloodshed. You jump out the way in a flash, rolling across the floor and behind a table. Tipping the table over is easy and it seems like a smart idea at first, until you realize the tables are all glass. The tablecloth had covered that detail, which sucks like hell, because now the bullets are shattering through and you’re forced to kick yourself away and run behind the pillars instead. The heels are kicked off at the same time you’re fishing underneath your dress. 

A stray bullet hits the pillar’s side making you squeal. It makes you work faster, though. 

Once you find the secure nano-tech ‘button’ (as Scott liked to call it), you strip as quickly as you can and slap the button on your bare shoulder. The nano-tech spirals and threads into itself as intricately as frost spreads on a window, shielding you in both metal and kevlar. 

When a storm of bullets hits the pillar and cracks the marble, you’re forced to crouch and hope Seda’s .22 and the myriad of weapons you’re now equipped with are enough. Before your thoughts can creep into a ‘last man standing’ mode, a roar of wind sweeps across the estate and between the cracked pillars, causing your loose hair to slap your face and blind you for only a second. Quickly putting your hair up and pulling the metal batons from the back of your suit, you’re met with the best sight - one that was a little late, in your opinion. 

“Kind of you to show up!” 

Sam ignores your quip as he flies into three men at once, feet first with his wings extended with the might of a guardian angel. He immediately shields runaway guests who were caught in the middle. He takes the ones on his left, you take the ones on his right. 

You let them swing first. They’re fast and pulling their punches and are clearly aiming for the end result of sticking you to the ground. But you’re quicker and deflect the punches. You manage to deliver a solid punch upward to crack the nose of one. As he reaches up as instinct, his ribs are open season. 

He falls out cold easily after your batons do their damage and the next man isn’t nearly as fast as the first. He doesn’t move enough to his right to avoid the harsh kick to his sternum. Each ambitious kick to the chest seems to demolish the man’s protective wall he’s trying desperately to keep intact, but once you give your legs a break and switch back to the batons, he doesn’t stand a chance. There are bullets raining across the venue, but Sam is shielding you and deflecting them elsewhere. It allows you the freedom to rip into whoever you think deserves it. 

You’ve got two men on your tail and after knocking their weapons from their hands, it seems like a fairer fight. The first doesn’t step back far enough to avoid your roundhouse kick and he falls hard on his ass, gasping for a lick of air. The second is closer, however, and manages to wrap you in a chokehold. Releasing yourself to fall deadweight for only a second, gravity tricks him and you use the momentum to kick up and fly over his shoulders. It’s hard to do without a wall to propel yourself off of. But your abs and thighs are clenched and you don’t quite think you’ll actually end up on this guy’s shoulders but you do. You don’t dwell on that moment of personal pride, though. Tightening your thighs, you use your upper body weight to lean downward and wring his neck. Once he’s down, you sweep your leg around across the floor to trip the other man who was just barely standing back up. With the .22, you fire point blank. 

Detaching yourself from the gore has never been much of a challenge. Eyes rolling back and clouding, limbs dangling limp after having just been full of life, bodies thumping against the floor after eating your bullets - you don’t so much as grit your teeth anymore. 

Sam is dealing with his own mess closer to where that poor cake is now destroyed, vanilla filling exposed and now two stories instead of four. The other cakes are no better. Sam pulls the trigger once more at someone charging at him and he averts his eyes. Sam, however, clenches his jaw. 

“Where’s Seda?” you shout, firing at men who are jumping out from behind tables but giving away their location before they even surprise you. 

“Lost him. I think he’s heading over to Steve!”

You look over the room and pray everyone got out safely. There are no civilians lying in their own puddle of blood, no guests begging for help, but you can never know for sure. “We need more hands. Where the hell are Scott and Bucky?”

A storm of bullets starts crashing into the tables and pillars beside you. Trying to duck doesn’t work and you’re grazed in the left arm. Sam tackles you behind the stage, wings extending further and out bending around you. 

“I’ve been shot!”

Sam can’t help the laugh that erupts from his throat because of your dramatic tone. “You’ve been grazed. The nano-tech has already rebuilt itself.”

“I don’t care, I hate being shot. It’s not nice. I’ve been hit.”

“Dramatic.”

“Y/N?” a harsh whisper sounds from under the stage tables. Watching your eyes bulge paints a mournful expression on Jackeline’s face. Julian is right beside her, pistol out but not shooting. You wonder if he knows you’re the invader.

“What in the hell are you still doing in here? I told you to run!”

“I’m sorry,” Jackeline squeals as bullets continue firing. “Everyone crowded. I was scared so I just got down.”

“Sam.”

Sam nods, already reading your mind. You had to find Steve; you couldn’t stay here. But there’s bullets still blazing in your direction and you find yourself hopping on your ass slightly each time a bullet connects to the ground beside you. The nano-tech does great in deflecting the lead but it really isn’t an invitation to get shot more times. The graze on your arm is already starting to burn. 

“Sam is going to guide you both out of here, alright? Julian, cover her. Sam will cover you.”

There’s a war going on behind Julian’s eyes. His face does a thousand things at once as he hears your orders and the scream of guns combined, but he nods. He grips Jackeline’s waist and pulls her in close, but before they can begin crawling Jackeline turns back to you. 

“Mátalo. Okay? Para nosotras dos.” She’s got this fierce determination in her eyes and her accent is as thick as can be. 

“Okay.”

Sam relays his location over his mic and who he has behind his wings, but before he can safely guide the married couple down the stage, a new wave of men enter and open fire. Sam’s wings can only take so much, and even though they’re vibranium, his suit is not. Ducking behind the table and reloading your gun, you then lift your head over to view the scene. It’s a mess and you could surely take them down hand-to-hand if you were close enough, but you’re stranded with your batons and seven bullets and a world of automatic machinery pointed at you. 

The storm of bullets pauses and every single person looks up to the sky. You thank the Gods for no rain today because the absence of a tarp allows for the quinjet to settle over the chaos and create a much needed distraction. Sam takes his leave, wings still wrapped around your sister, and you do the same. Running from behind the stage with batons lit up and tazed, you knock out the closest men. They fall in a strangle of electricity, vibrating and convulsing as each shock travels through their veins, ultimately paralyzing them for however long it turns out to be. This gains the attention of almost everyone else but before they can train their weapons back toward you, the back of the quinjet opens. There were a few tables still standing and it seemed the super soldier liked them better than the flat floor. 

The glass shatters from the impact of Bucky’s weight, glasses of champagne and plates with unfinished meals folding onto the shards. He’s dressed in his tactical gear and a dark navy blue jacket without a trusty sleeve. Even if the arm was covered and his hair was long rather than the short length it was now, the men would certainly know who just fell from the sky. Almost immediately, the men scatter. Bucky takes them down one by one, shot after shot, and decides to use his knives for the ones who don’t run. It’s tricky, but he manages to lodge his knives in the base of the spines of those who later changed their minds. 

He catches your eye after you manage to snap the neck of one of the runners. He tilts his head toward the left and watches you run to give Steve the backup he needs. 

     The mansion seems longer, wider, just generally bigger as you rush through the rooms and halls to get to Steve. The stuffed exotic animals follow your gaze and you can’t ignore them for long. There are men following you and men leaving Ernesto. You duck behind the standing polar bear and wait until the footsteps sound farther. Checking the amount of bullets in your gun, just in case, you finally flick the safety off and run.

There’s really only one thing of importance floating around the padded confines of your skull - get Steve out. Another thing you two had in common: both sacrificial idiots. But there wasn’t any way that you would give up the chance to save his life, as he would yours. Didn’t matter if the man you were protecting him from was your father or not. It hadn’t really settled, hadn’t truly digested, and you didn’t think it ever would. Because for years, this man was your father. He was the only man with that title. He wasn’t fatherly, far from it, but he had the label and that’s what you were going to focus on. It made no difference. 

You push the office door open and start stuttering over your words. You want to ask what happened, why there’s so much blood, whose blood it is, but all that comes is a fractured series of what the hell’s? The last syllables push through with necessary force, hardly intelligible, but exhaled at last. 

Ernesto is kneeling with his head hanging low and his hands behind his back, defeated. But it isn’t Steve who’s holding a gun to the back of his head - it’s Seda. 

No, Steve is in the corner clutching at his right hip and gritting his teeth, a wild look on his face that tells you he too was blindsided. He’s hurt. He’s gasping and wincing at the slightest of movements and it ignites the flame you’ll use to burn this world to the ground. It’s splitting your fucking ribs apart. 

“Don’t move!” Seda yells, gun still locked on Ernesto’s head but eyes on you. “Put the gun down.”

“Seda-”

“Put the fucking gun down!” 

Biting your tongue, you flip the gun in your hand so it’s facing downward and move to gently place it on the table. Flicking your eyes to where Steve is, you get your answer as to why he’s been so easily shot. His massive body and shield are draped over Ramirez, who is also disarmed and pissed. 

The self-righteous idiot, you think, he’s always gotta save the little guy.

“We’re gonna talk about this like the gods we are, yeah?”

Your face pulls awkwardly, “Seda, what is happening?”

“Don’t act like you’ve been on this asshole’s side the entire time now,” Seda bites, shoving the head of the gun harshly into the base of Ernesto’s neck. “Go on, tell him.”

“The shipment was intercepted,” you tell him. But you’re not just telling Seda, no, it’s the first Steve is hearing the good news and it allows him to feel a bit of relief. “You’ve both lost.”

“What have you done?” Ernesto screams, cheeks vibrating and face red with anger. He pays no mind to the gun and dares to glare at you. “Tell me!”

The top of your lip greets a run of tears and snot and it isn’t until then that you realize your hands are shaking mid-air and your throat is closing. “My mission.”

Blood or not, this man had the power to tie your thoughts into knots. He only had this power at precious moments and sadly, this was turning out to be one of them.

Seda bites out a laugh - it’s wet and bloody and scares you half to Hell. “I’m not the only one here who wants to kill you. But I’m going to beat her to it. She brought you back, I can’t have that.”

“No!” You curse inwardly at your involuntary hiccup. “We’re not here to kill you!”

“Oh?” Seda raises the gun at you. “What’s the endgame? Que mas necesitas?”

“I don’t need anything. The shipment is intercepted. The estate is on lockdown. Your routes are down. You’re cornered. It’s over.” You let your shoulders drag just a little. “For both of you.”

Surprisingly, Seda doesn’t pull the trigger when Ernesto charges toward you. He doesn’t pull it when Ernesto wraps his hands around your throat, either. 

It’s instinct for you to hold out your hand to stop Steve from doing what he does best. He’s already halfway up and wincing with each push to help you, to rip Ernesto from your capable body, but Seda clicks the gun in his direction. Steve watches the way your arm extends, all five fingers spread in a hopeless plea of ‘don’t you sacrifice yourself for me, don’t you dare’. 

“I have done nothing but help you! I put food on the table and clothes on your worthless back! You spent my money!” Ernesto’s eyes are practically bulging and his thumbs are almost crushing your windpipe, but his placement is off. You can still breathe air, no matter how bruising his grip may be. “This is how you treat me? I should have killed you all those years ago. I should have ripped you limb by limb until your cries bled!”

“Please,” you whimper out, hand still extended toward Steve and the other attempting to push Ernesto by the chest. 

“Please? Please? Te voy a matar aquí, ahora, porque siempre te lo mereciste!”

You let out a strangled scream and are about to fight back. To save yourself and to end Steve’s suffering of watching you suffer, of watching his newfound hope dwindle right before him, when a gunshot erupts. Everyone screams, ears ringing, and there’s blood splattered all over your cheeks and neck, spots and leaks that trail down into the collar of your bodysuit. A heavy weight lands on you and knocks you back into the shelves. You hold Ernesto’s now limp body as best you can, knees locking painfully. There’s a massive hole where the top of his head should be and for the first time in years, you have to look away to keep from throwing up. 

“Dejalo.”

You open and close your mouth but regret it when the taste of copper lands on your tongue. You follow Seda’s order and drop Ernesto to your feet, the thud sending a shiver up every single one of your vertebrae. 

“Por qué hiciste eso?” you ask him, voice small. You choke on another hiccup. 

“Don’t lie to me and say you weren’t going to do it yourself.”

You look over at Steve. His eyes are just as wide as yours and the same red specks, now turning brown, are tainting the flush pink skin of his beautiful neck. 

“No,” you whisper. Steve hears your lost accent returning and it clutches at his heart. 

“It was for the best.” Seda marches over to grab Ramirez by the tie, ripping him up from the ground and pointing the gun to his head. Steve lunges forward and Seda fires another bullet into the same hip. 

“No!” Your throat is raw, scratched, and Steve hits the floor in another heap of muffled groans. Seda returns the aim on Ramirez. 

“Imagine my surprise when I saw this one confronting Ernesto with your Captain. Imagine my fucking surprise when I tried to find all our passports, all our files, and nothing was here! Imagine my surprise when I saw that fucking idiot White being taken away by one of your agents!”

“Seda, please.” You were never much of a negotiator. It was always go in and let the others do the talking. Steve was the talker, he was the negotiator, but he was out of his element. He was always the enemy to Seda. He could never convince him otherwise. 

“You’ve given me new purpose,” Seda grins and Ramirez is rather calm in his arms, like he accepts this. “Look at the crime scene. I’m using the gun Ramirez got from your team. My men are still loyal.”

He pauses and smiles with all teeth, blood in between most of them. “You shot Ernesto. You shot your Captain. You shot Omar.”

The frightened look on your face seems to fuel him even more. He continues, “We’ll never stop hunting you.”

“Try it,” Steve manages, standing up again and vaguely registering the flash of light to his right. His shield is no longer there. “You’ll have to kill me to win. You’ll have to kill all of us to win. Me, Y/N, Omar, Sam.” He breathes in deep but smiles. “The Winter Soldier.”

You swear Seda’s face pales but his grip around Ramirez’s waist only tightens. “Easy.”

“It won’t be,” you finally say, voice no longer wavering. There’s no plausible way Seda could win. But one thing is fact: whether they’re Seda’s or Ernesto’s men, they’ll never stop hunting you now. “You lost, Seda.”

All stills but there are shouts and the ring of gunshots still echoing near the lake. 

“No,” Seda looks to you and to Ernesto’s body. “I didn’t.”

He aims the gun at you and fires. 

Steve’s wail is grease to the fire in your soul and you accept whatever pain might hit. There’s space and then there isn’t. There’s emptiness and then there’s a space being filled by that horrid but lifesaving shield. There’s no one and then there’s Scott, blown up to his regular size with shield in hand and in front of you. The bullet bounces off the shield easily and hits the wall. You’re pushed into motion and in about two seconds, you’ve grabbed your gun again and do not hesitate to fire. The bullet hits Seda in his exposed chest and Ramirez fumbles to get the gun from him. Seda hits the floor and no one else follows. 

The shot hits its target perfectly. Seda doesn’t so much as stutter. 

“God,” Scott grumbles, eyes trying to focus on anything other than the pools of blood. “Was I late?”

You don’t pay any mind to Scott and rush over to Steve, where he’s barely holding himself up with his hip tilted on the edge of the desk.  “Steve? Steve. Did he hit anything important?”

“Besides the fuckin’ meat of my stomach?”

There isn’t a way to see beneath the kevlar, but your fingers have a mind of their own as they try to dig in. “You know what I mean.”

Steve huffs a laugh and gently slaps your fingers away. “No, but motherfuck me Christ, I get shot way too much and it hurts no less.”

“Was the shield not enough? You had to sacrifice your one-hundred year old hips? Are you hit anywhere else?”

“I was caught off guard. What about you? I heard over the mics that you were shot and-”

“Are you two done?” Scott interrupts, clearing his throat awkwardly but half a mind still paying attention to his own mic. 

It’s like you’re snapped back to reality. There’s not only Steve but others, alive and dead, and the smell of copper is all too familiar.  “Sorry, I’m still in shock. I don’t really know how to proceed from here.”

“Y/N-” Scott tries, but you resume.

“We were supposed to arrest them. Just arrest them.”

“Okay, I think we should get you outta here,” Steve acts like he’s the one guiding you, but his weight is falling. You faintly register a phone ringing in the room but Steve, ever so persistent, is still acting like he is holding you up. He lunges forward with a sharp wince, and your hand immediately goes to his hip. 

“Captain.”

Ramirez lowers his phone, call ended, and he wears an expression Steve recognizes immediately. It’s an expression that looks all too similar to Dugan’s when he relayed the news of enemy forces breaching their base. “...How many?”

“They’ve already sent the news to their men in Mexico.”

“Have they shut down the border?”

“It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“They don’t know two of their men are dead, so we can-“

Scott shakes his head, shield still in hand with specks of blood drying on the blue stripe. “They know White was arrested. That’s all they need. They’ll assume the rest, the worst.”

You sigh, “Seda was right.”

Scott literally pouts and he looks like he wants to wrap you in his arms. “No, don’t send yourself there.”

Steve, however, agrees with you. “If they know about White, then they know about Omar. Seda had time to tell his men.”

“Then we make sure he’s arrested and taken to a secure facility. We can keep an eye-” Scott starts, but you shut him down quickly.

“He’s wanted by the US government, not the Avengers. We can only transport him. We can’t guarantee his safety.”

Ramirez gives a small smile. “Mija, voy estar bien. No te preocupes.”

“I don’t know.”

Scott looks between the three of you. He places the shield against the wall near the door. He raises his eyebrows at Steve and looks to his wounds, but Steve waves him off. Reluctantly, Scott nods. “I’m gonna go check on Sam.”

There’s a pool of blood near your boots. You don’t want to know if it’s from the dead or from Steve.  

“Doll, what are you thinking?”

He can’t hurt you anymore. “That I need you to go, too.”

Steve forgets about the pain in his hip and focuses solely on you. “What?”

“Go. If there’s one more thing you can do for me and my reckless family, go check on Sam.”

“You know I can’t leave you here alone with him.”

Your voice is steady and calm and it’s scaring Steve. It’s scaring him. “I promised myself that you wouldn’t be hurt by this mission. I stand by it.”

“I promise, Captain, I have no resentment. Whatever she does, I will follow,” Ramirez speaks, and Steve doesn’t even pay him a glance. 

“I can’t just go.”

“Steve,” you interlock your fingers behind his neck. “Please. Listen to me.” He looks so confused, a million questions flying through his mind and almost escaping those sweet pink lips. Fierce, you whisper for only him. “He can’t hurt me anymore. He can’t hurt me anymore.”

He relishes the feeling of your soft hands behind his neck. They’re bloody, but yours. His neck is bloody, but you don’t seem to care. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes,” you confirm.

He pulls from your hold and turns to leave. He picks up the shield. Before he leaves, he grips the doorway and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows pinched and jaw tense. “Two minutes, I swear to Almighty Christ, Y/N. I’m coming back for you.”

You smirk, the dim light from the office lamps creating nothing short of a sparkle in your eyes. “I don’t expect anything less, Rogers.”

Steve hesitates for a moment and then he walks away. Once his footsteps are no longer heard, you turn back to Ramirez. There’s a voice in your head telling you this was a bad idea and that you were an idiot to have your back turned on him for so long, but Ramirez is simply leaning on one of the chairs and grimacing at the bloody scene before him. 

“Remember when Ernesto bought you that car when you were thirteen? And then another when your brother crashed it?”

Your nose pinches, “I don’t feel like reminiscing when he’s lying right there.”

“Do you remember what you told me when he bought you that second car? The sports one?”

You sigh. Ramirez was clearly going to continue speaking. “‘No lo quiero. Soy una niña. Get rid of it.’”

“And I did.”

“You did.”

He smiles, and for the first time you notice all the gray hair dusting his head, the most by his temples. There's a limp in his step too but you can’t remember if he had before or after the wedding. “I’ll get rid of this.”

“What?” you blink, unsure if you heard him right.

“I’m already a traitor. If I spin this, you can continue the mission. You can arrest even more of his men. They’ll come after me instead of you.”

It’s what he’s been trained to do. It’s what he’s done since he transported his first shipment. It’s what he’s done time and time again for Ernesto, for Seda, for some of his own careless men. He’s numb to it, just as you were a few days ago, but now you can’t stop thinking about the aftermath. Where would he put their bodies? Would they be buried here or back in Mexico? Would people really care if Ernesto was dead? They didn’t seem to care when he was snapped out of existence. But Ramirez has this sag in his shoulders that tells you he’s already calculating the best way to wrap the bodies and how deep he plans on sending them… or burning them. Burning them was always easier. 

“They’ll come after your family. Your daughters.”

He shakes his head, “I’ve ensured their safety. They’re safe.”

Against your better judgement, you tap your mic discreetly and turn it off. “I can’t let you take one for the team.”

He chuckles, “I’m a part of your team? I’m an Avenger?”

You can’t help but laugh with him. It’s not a light moment, but it’s a moment nonetheless. “Sure, Omar. But we don’t trade lives.”

“I had this coming.”

“No, you didn’t. You don’t.” Straining your ears and shutting your eyes, you mumble a quick prayer in hope that this plan of yours worked. You pass Ramirez your own gun and speak low. “Go.”

He’s shocked and he stutters. “Que haces? Que esta pasando?”

“There’s no one on the east side right now. All the guests were moved to the front. It’s clear. But not for long.” Pushing him to the door, you make sure he’s not leaving any bloody footprints behind. He’s clear. “Go.”

“This will kill us both.”

“But it will give us a head start.”

“No puedo hacer eso! No quiero hacer eso.”

“Omar, they’re not going to protect you once you’re charged. I can’t protect you then. So I need you to go.” You reach into your suit and pluck that random Roman coin you had stolen just a few days earlier. It was a token of good luck but you didn’t need it anymore. You avoid looking at the carving for fear that the likeness to Steve will make you change your mind. You place it in Ramirez’s hand and clench his fist shut.  “If there’s one thing you can do for my stupid, anti-hero mentality, go.”

“Que hago con esto?”

“No me llamas. But let me find this.”

He looks at you with pity. It’s so much pity and understanding for your situation that you have to look away. “I owe you my life.��

Eyesight now on the wall over his shoulder, you offer him a thin smile. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

He stumbles at first, unsure if this is really happening, and finally passes by. “Y/N.” 

You figure it’d be pretty rude not to answer. You turn slowly. He continues, face somber and head shaking with so much pity. “The amount of Hell that’s coming...”

It’s funny, really. You shoot him that famous smile you were known for. It tricks him like it’s supposed to. “I’m already going to Hell for the lives I’ve taken and the crimes I’ve committed. But the journey to my fate has been worth it.”

     The estate is being swept as quickly as possible. There are agents dressing wounds, reading rights, snapping photos, on the phone, etc. It’s organized chaos and there’s so much happening but it’s never impossible to catch Steve’s side profile in a crowd. His nose is pinched up and he’s dealing with his wounds himself. No one is even looking at him. 

Speed walking to him, you hook your arm in his and turn him around. He’s too tall, and your toes strain as you rise on them, but you wrap your arms around his neck anyway. He returns the gesture and squeezes you as hard as you’re squeezing him. After a few seconds, he whispers quietly.

“Where’d Ramirez go?”

If he saw your eyes, he would know you were lying. You keep your arms in place. “He got away.”

He tries to push you away but fails. “Y/N.”

“He got away,” you repeat. Slowly, regretfully, you pull back.  “We should go.”

There’s a horrible crease in between his eyebrows and he knows he’s caught you in a lie, but he also knows that if there was one thing he knew most about you, it was that you were just as stubborn as he was. Quick with wit, always asking to be punched, and stubborn to the point it made strangers worry. So he doesn’t question it, and turns with you in the direction of the jet.  “Maribel has the safehouse set up. Montana.”

“You sure you can make it to the jet? Should I get Bucky to come with us?”

The quinjet is empty except for a few supplies, a medical bag, and Friday. There are only two seats and by the way Steve’s bending over to show his true pain, you’d be flying it. Once you land, you can fish out those bullets.

“No one else.” Steve bites. He can’t risk anyone else - hell, he doesn’t even want to risk you. “I’ll protect you.”

You board the jet and watch as the trees sway in rhythm to the movements of everyone doing their job. It’s dark, and you push the fact that you’re so horribly night blind to the back of your skull, and it’s starting to eat away at you that the mission didn’t really go as planned. No one seems to notice yet that you never brought them the two main players they were hoping for. It only makes you close the quinjet faster. You sit Steve down in one of the seats and kneel before him. “And I you.”

If anyone asked, Steve would lie and say he was tearing up because of the bullets piercing his skin in half.  To protect and be protected. 

“Let’s go.”

~

TAGLIST: @dumb-ass-writer @justab-eautifulmess @supraveng @mycosmicparadise @missnighttigress​

[connordavidscamera]

Living, Learning, and Filming Ch. 4 | Connor Brashier

A/n: This chapter probably has the most changes because I hated it the first time around, so yeah.

Summary: No one thought a night out would end up like this.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, there’s a creepy guy who just doesn’t want to leave the reader alone (so keep that in mind), also mentions of being roofied (very minimal, but it is there) kinda angsty

Word count: 2.2k

***

Week 4

I didn’t want to come out tonight, let me just be clear. I wanted to stay in and work on the project because Connor and I filmed a lot these past few days. But my friend, Jamie, from down the hall wasn’t having it, which is why she forced me out of the dorm and to this “Halloween” party that I never would have gone to otherwise. I don’t like parties very much. I especially don’t like frat parties, which is where I’m at now. It’s crowded and nearly three-fourths of the people here are drunk off their asses. The rest aren’t quite there yet, but I give them about thirty minutes before they’re just as drunk as everyone else. 

The second we walk in, drinks are thrust into our hands; Jamie drinks hers without a second thought, I set mine down when no one’s looking. “I’m gonna see if I can find Rachel! I’ll be back!” Jamie says over the music and I nod, even though I know no one here and staying by myself in a place I'm not familiar with is not a good idea.

“Okay,” I say, but she’s already on her way to the back of the house. There’s so much going on around me and I hate it. It’s overwhelming actually, and there’s not a single place here that I can be alone - even the corners of the rooms are occupied. Mostly by couples unapologetically swallowing each other’s faces. 

“You look lost,” a guy says, suddenly appearing at my side.

“Oh, um. No, I’m fine.”

“You here alone?”

“Actually, my friend just went out back. She’ll be back in a minute.”

“Well how about I keep you company until then?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” I put my hand up subtly to keep distance between us.

“You gotta loosen up, babe. Come on, let’s get you a drink,” his arm snakes around my waist and my skin crawls.

“Thank you,” I say, squirming away from his heated, overbearing touch, “But I’m good. I don’t think I’m staying long.”

“Why not? We could hang out,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders now and I hate it even more. He’s so close and he reeks of alcohol - in fact, he smells like he tipped over a liquor store. “I haven’t seen you at one of these before. I’m a bad host, not knowing everyone that comes.”

“I don’t really come to these things.”

“Why not? Don’t like parties?”

“You could say that,” I mumble, once again trying to create distance between us.

“Well, you’ve never been to one of mine. There’s nothing like them.”

“I’m sure.” I nod and glance around the room, trying to find literally anyone that I could possibly know that might be my excuse to leave this awkward and uncomfortable conversation.

The guy -  I still haven’t caught his name, but at this point, I don’t think he’s going to give it to me - places a cup in my hands. 

“What is it?”

“Rum and coke. Try it. You’ll like it.”

Something tells me that I shouldn’t drink it. And I know I should listen to that feeling, but I don’t because he’s staring at me and I can’t afford to be rude right now. So I take a sip. And one sip turns into another and another until I’ve finished the cup and he’s pouring me another one. 

---

There was something in it. I know there was, because I may not drink a lot, but I do know that I shouldn’t be this tipsy after only a drink and a half, even if he put two shots in each one. I know my limits, and what I drank wasn’t it. Luckily though, he didn’t put enough of whatever he put in my drink to do much - I’m just really, very dizzy.

I’m locked in one of the bathrooms in this suddenly giant house despite the abundance of people here. I can still feel his hands on me and I’m disgusted. Blinking slowly, I press the call button on the only number I can think of right now.

“Hello?” 

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. The fluorescent lights are doing me no favors.

“Y/n? Is everything okay?”

I take in a shuddery breath and grasp the sink to keep me steady. “Connor.”

“I’m here, honey. What’s wrong?” His voice is soft, but there’s something else behind it that I can’t quite place.

“Can you come get me? Something,” I stop for a second to try and gather my thoughts and he says my name, it’s soft, a plea. “Something happened, and I - I need you.” I say, my voice cracking.

“Send me your location. I’m on my way. Do you need me to stay on the phone with you?” I hear shuffling on his side of the line as I shakily type the address out for him. 

“Y/n, baby, talk to me. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you? No, never mind. I’m staying.” I hear a door slamming shut and the engine turning over. “Okay, I got your location. I’ll be there in five minutes, okay? Can you hold on for me.”

“Yeah,” I croak, trying so hard to focus just on his voice and nothing else. Not the loud music that’s making its way through the entire place, not my still crawling skin, or the growing bruises on my hips from where he held me so tight when I tried to back away from him for the umpteenth time. 

Connor curses on his side, “Fuck. I’m going to catch every red light, aren’t I? Y/n/n, you okay?”

“Mmm… very dizzy,” I whisper. 

“Focus on me, honey. Listen to my voice. You’re okay. I’m on my way. Okay? I’m two minutes away. I’ll run the next couple lights if I have to get to you faster. I’ve got you. Where are you right now?”

I hold the side of my head and lean against the door, “Um, one of the… upstairs bathrooms.”

“Okay, can you make your way outside? Or do you need me to come inside to get you? I’m a minute away.”

I nod even though he can’t see me. “I can go,” I unlock the door and the music is much louder, and I wish I just told him to come in and get me because the thrumming bass does nothing for my already compromised equilibrium. I stumble a little down the stairs, running into a few people as I pass. 

I’m just making it out the door when he catches me. “There you are. Where are you going?”

I flinch. “Just gotta get home,” I manage to say without my voice wavering too much.

He’s still holding my wrist, paying no attention to the definitely evident pain and fear in my eyes. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

God, is that the only fucking question he knows?

“Hey, hands off!” a voice says from behind me and I think if he wasn’t so close, I would have collapsed. 

“Who are you?” the guy asks, letting go of my wrist.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Seeing as it’s my party, yeah, it kind of is.”

Connor hums, softly taking me by the hips. “Come on, love. Let’s get you home.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders loosely and I almost break at the contact. “Jesus,” he says, steadying me by both my waist and one arm going to my buckling knees. 

I’m barely able to pull myself back up, even with much help from Connor, but we make it back to his car with little trouble. Mostly because he’s doing most of the work, carrying at least three-fourths of my weight. He doesn’t ask if I want to go back to my dorm, which I’m grateful for because I definitely don’t want to be alone right now. He simply brings me back to his apartment and ushers me gingerly inside, keeping a safe distance, but not letting go of my shaking hand. We don’t talk; I’m not ready to. He doesn’t pry. 

After giving me what seems like gallons and gallons of water to drink - I might definitely be exaggerating. I’m pretty sure it was just a glass, but it felt like a lot. It took me like ten minutes to drink - he leads me back to his room.

“You can sleep in here. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says after handing me some of his clothes to sleep in - his white shirt that says “sugar” all the way down the front. I’ve seen him wear it a few times and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fallen in love with it the first time I saw him in it. But looking back on it now, in a slightly less sober view, it might have been the boy inside it. But that’s a bridge we’ll cross at another time. 

“Con?”

“Hmm?” he’s looking at me like I could break at any second, and to be fair, he’s probably not wrong. 

“Stay in here.”

“You sure?” he asks tentatively.

I nod and push at my bottom lip with my tongue. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay,” he says simply. “Is it - is it okay for me to hug you?” he asks tentatively. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“No, it’s okay. You can hug me,” I agree.

So he does.

I take in his scent - I’ve only known this boy for four weeks, but I already know his scent better than I know my own; he smells like home. He’s my security; that’s why I can’t stop myself from embracing the hug, holding onto his torso so tight he probably can’t breathe, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t pull away. “I’m here, y/n. I’m right here. You’re safe. Nothing can happen to you now. I won’t let it. I promise.”

I nod, “Thank you.”

“Shh… don’t thank me.” his lips press into my hairline and he sighs. “I’m gonna go make you some tea. Change, get comfortable, pick whichever side of the bed you want. I’ll be back in a minute.”

---

Picking a side wasn’t really all that necessary when the minute he came to lay in bed with me I curled into his side and he gladly let me stay there while he rubbed my back in soothing circles. 

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?” I answer, focusing my attention on his steady heartbeat.

“Can we talk about what happened?”

I clear my throat and run my fingers over the silver palm tree that adorns his neck. “He put something in my drink… and he was just really handsy, especially when I tried pulling away…” I feel Connor stiffen beneath me. “He uh tried to-”

“Stop,” he pulls me closer and sighs audibly. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” I mumble into his shirt.

He finds my hand and plays with my fingers before lacing our hands and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “I’m still sorry.”

We’re quiet for a while, so long in fact, that I think he’s fallen asleep. “Connor?”

“Hmm?” he hums in response.

“Last week, you said you wanted to kiss me but that the timing wasn’t right.”

I feel his chest rise and fall as he takes in a breath, “I remember.”

I sit up just a little, enough to see his face, but I quickly avert my gaze back to the necklace that I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without. “When would be the right time?”

He shifts and we’re both on our sides, staring closely at one another. “I don’t know.”

“Could now be?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know. I mean, with what just happened and… you’re not completely sober. I don’t want you to regret -”

“I want you to kiss me,” I interrupt him.

“Y/n,” he shakes his head. 

“Please. I know you don’t owe me anything else tonight or for the rest of your life, I just… I need to know what you taste like.” Well that’s embarrassing. “I mean, I don’t mean it like that. I - fuck. What I mean to say is-”

I don’t have time to retract what I’ve said because his fingers are on my jaw and he’s hovering over me, lips only centimeters from mine. “I know what you mean. You sure you want me to?”

“Yes,” I whimper, my hand reaching for the tufts of hair on the back of his neck. “Please.”

It doesn’t take much after that. His lips press mine once, softly, quickly - so quickly, I almost think I’ve imagined it. But then he does it again, longer this time. I can finally get my body to catch up with my brain and I pull him in, on top of me, and crash our lips together. He hums and kisses me a little harder, his tongue rubbing against my bottom lip. I gladly let him roam. It’s euphoric and I never want to stop kissing him. I want to stay here, beneath him, kissing him for as long as he’ll have me. Because this is enough, being connected like this, intimately, but not to the point of no return. Or at least that’s what my brain thinks. My hands, however, have a mind of their own as they go to rid him of his soft t-shirt.

***

I hope you enjoyed! Please like, reblog, and leave feedback!!

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[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Empires on the Horizon IV

Jason is a CEO: Part IV

Here’s my masterlist for the next part and my other stuff 

new beginnings

look fragile

like glass

but when grabbed

sparkle

like diamonds

-badpoetry

“Good morning Mr Grace,” Grover Underwood smiled from his usual spot behind the coffee machine.

“Morning, how are you?”

“Much happier for seeing you less like someone kicked your puppy,” He gave Jason a knowing look.

“How?”

“There are some things the brain cannot hide, matters of the heart are often one of them.”

He didn’t really have any reply to that, so he gave the man an awkward smile and shrugged.

“Your usual then?”

“Yes please, and an iced coffee for Hazel.”

“Ah where is the darling this morning?”

“She’s coming into the office later, something about needing to go home first? She must have stayed at a friend’s place.”

Grover raised a dark brow, “Mhmm and where is your driver this morning? I noticed you drove yourself in today.”

“Uh I think Frank took the day off,” He frowned trying to piece the conversation he’d had with his friend in his sleep-deprived brain.

“Oh interesting,” Grover’s chocolate brown eyes twinkled in amusement, but before Jason could question him a warm cup was being shoved into his hand and he was being ushered away to wait for the iced coffee.

Collapsing into a chair, he pushed his glasses up his nose and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. Winter was beautiful but gods it was cold. He glanced around the café taking in the familiar forest green walls and dark wood floors. There was no sun streaming through the windows today so the gold accents on the tables were dulled and dark, like hidden bronze. He traced his fingers around the edge of his cup, losing himself in the motion, in the feeling of heat on his cold fingers, in the small gusts of wind against his cheeks as the door opened and closed, in the noise of a bustling store, in the–

“Hello Jason,”

“Luke,” He took a deep breath, “Fuck off.”

“Aw don’t be like that,” He sniggered.

“Please Luke, I don’t have the energy for this right now,” Exhaustion was a thousand-ton weight on his bones.

“That’s your problem Jason you never wanted to take things head on. It was always let’s wait for this, let’s get their opinion first, let’s just give it a couple weeks. You could have had the world begging at your fingertips if you just went for what you wanted.”

“Are you done?”

Luke’s responding laugh was malicious, “You are so-“

“Leave.” His voice was stone.

His ex-boyfriend scoffed, “Pathetic.”

Jason watched as the face he had been so in love with sneered at him, the scar running down a pale cheek twisting into malice. His soul ached for what could have been, it burned for what now was. It always surprised him how drained he felt after every interaction with Luke- like crashing down from a potent high. Being with Luke was a high, was euphoria and hope and sin. What the fuck went wrong? 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Talk to me,”

“Why do you insist on answering the phone like you’re some sort of mafia boss?” His sister grumbled.

“Hello to you too Thalia,”

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve set you up on a date tonight. Six-thirty at Sun and Songs.”

He groaned, “No. I am not in the mood.”

“Jason Grace,” She started; he could feel a rant coming on, “You cannot stop living your life because you have a wanker of an ex-boyfriend. You have been in a slump since Luke and it is affecting you in ways you’re too scared to admit.”

“It is not affecting me,” He was tired of having this fight, “I literally dated Piper for like three months.”

“Mhm and were you happy? Did you put all you could into the relationship?” She didn’t wait for his response, “No, you may have been a little happier, but you weren’t you. So you will go on this date tonight and in five years when we’re planning your wedding you better be thanking me in your speech.”

“Gods Thals,” He snorted, “We haven’t even gone on the date yet and you’re already planning a wedding?”

“Wait does that mean you agree to it?” She squealed through the phone.

“Yes loser,” He held in a laugh, “I’ll go on the date. But if it doesn’t work out you drop all of this. No more setting me up, no more interfering.”

“Yes sir. Now, how work’s going?”

“Besides the fact that Project Hestia is on hold because of this stupid contract everything is good.”

“Isn’t your fancy lawyer lady sorting it out?” She muttered.

“Reyna is a great lawyer and you know it.”

“Yea but she’s also my ex-girlfriend so I get to be a little resentful.”

He snorted at that, “Of course, and how are you?”

“I’m good. The Conservatory is still standing so I can’t be doing too many things wrong.”

“Didn’t you guys get cheetah cubs this weekend?”

“Oh Jase!” His sister cried, “They are just the absolute cutest things. Did you know cheetahs are so shy that some conservationists and wild-life biologists recommend giving them emotional support puppies?”

“So what you guys got puppies and cubs?”

“We haven’t got the puppies yet; they’re only arriving this week.”

“Well send me pictures when they’re together, maybe I’ll have them framed and hung around the office as a morale booster.”

She laughed, the sound crackly through the speaker, “Will do little bro. Listen I have to go but call me tomorrow to tell me about the date.”

“Wait!” He yelled, ignoring the weird looks from the café patrons as he walked out, “What’s her name?”

“Zoe.”

***

Jason was nervous. That was the only explanation for his shaky hands and the zoo of creatures in his stomach. He had gotten to Suns and Songs fifteen minutes early with a lavender and daisy bouquet in hand. The restaurant his sister had reserved was nothing short of incredible. Dark maroon draped over each table, and opulent candelabras sat in the center, lit only if the table was occupied. Glass and crystal chandeliers swung slowly from the high wooden beams, catching on the light and making a kaleidoscope of the room. Even the way the air smelt was decadent here. Like wood smoke and perfume, some hint of chocolate, maybe. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he wanted to bottle the scent and bathe himself in it. Trying not to be suspicious he took another deep breath in; it calmed his nerves if nothing else.

“Mr Grace?” someone put a soft hand on his shoulder, “Your guest,”

He thanked the waitress, getting up to greet his date and pull out her chair. He tried to muffle his gasp when he finally turned to her. She was stunning. Midnight skin contrasting elegantly with the pastel yellow dress she wore. Braids intertwined with glittering strands; it cast a pale silver halo around her head. Small hoop earrings glinted as she moved, and the bracelets at her wrist clinked gently when they shook hands.

“Hi, Jason Grace,” He smiled.

“Zoe Nightshade.” She flashed beautiful white teeth.

He handed her the flowers, “You look unbelievable.” He truly was in awe of her.

“Thank you,” Her smile was soft, but her voice was crisp and direct, “And these are gorgeous.”

“Would you like to order drinks?”

They scanned the menu quickly; Zoe ordered a cocktail he hadn’t heard of and he ordered the first thing he saw that didn’t have tequila in it.

“So,” He asked, and then cringed at himself internally. Starting any conversation with so was bound to make it awkward.

He cleared his throat, “How do you know Thalia?”

“We work together at the Conservatory. I moved here a couple months ago because I got transferred from the wildlife center in Germany.”

Jason didn’t know what but something about her voice made his insides melt. She said everything so undiplomatically– like if it wasn’t a fact it wasn’t worth uttering.

“Oh that’s cool. What do you do?”

“I’m a veterinarian. You?”

“Well I was a structural engineer but somehow over the years I got roped into being a town and regional planner.”

She frowned, tilting her head assessingly, “You did not finish your engineering degree?”

“Oh no I finished and got my masters in structural but then I started my company and I realised I needed other qualifications to run it the way I wanted to so I had to go back and get a degree in urban and regional planning. By the end I felt like I had been studying since the dawn of time.”

She laughed at that, and a look of surprise crossed her face, as if it was as unexpected to her as it was to him. “I know how you feel. I love animals and I’m passionate about my work but when I was done studying, I vowed never to go back. Studying for seven years after school and then trying to do it all over again feels like a one-way ticket to the end of the road.”

He mirrored her smile, “How did you get into veterinary sciences anyway?”

“My father was always busy, and my sisters were… interested in anything that could make them more beautiful, or richer. So I was pretty alone for most of my childhood. At some stage I convinced my father to get me a dog, Ladon. We were inseparable. But he got hurt when this man,“ She said it with such disgust he almost flinched. “This man hurt him. Kicked Little Ladon out the way when he was just trying to say hello. We had to take him to the vet, and I remember them being so sweet and kind to my dog and I knew I wanted to be exactly like that when I grew up.”

“Any chance you know where this man is so we can kick his ass?”

She laughed, raspy and bursting, “Don’t worry little eleven-year-old me kicked Mr Alcides as hard as I could in the shins.”

“Good,” he nodded with conviction, “He deserved more but you found your passion so there is some balance.”

She hid her grin behind a sip from her drink.

“Sir, ma’am,” Their waitress stepped to their table, “Would you like to order?”

Hours later, cheeks flushed from the liquor, laughing over Thalia’s antics and their shared need for structure, they finally decided to call the dinner to an end.

“The focaccia was to die for,” Zoe groaned, patting her stomach.

“Honestly, I may have to marry the pasta.” He sighed contentedly.

She giggled, and he knew it was a rare thing for her because her face caught that surprised look again.

“Want to grab dessert?”

“Oh gods no,” She shook her head in alarm, and then frowned as the realisation of what that meant washed through her.

“I had a really great time tonight,” He started softly.

“Do you want to walk to the park? We can stop and have gelato?” Her dark eyes were full of nervous hope.

He blinked at her, a little shocked she wanted to continue the date, “I thought you didn’t want dessert?” He teased.

“Maybe the walk will burn off some of these calories and i’ll have space for a little ice-cream.” She scunched her nose.

He knew the gelato was just an excuse, so with a grin that lit up his whole face he grabbed her hand and nodded, “Let’s do it Miss Nightshade.”

Her face glowed with relief and enthusiasm as they tucked their chairs in and exited the restaurant.

“Tell me about your family. How come you weren’t interested in the rich side of life like your sisters?”

“I guess being the youngest kind of made it all seem pointless. I had seen what happened when their vanity became malicious and I didn’t ever want to turn into something I couldn’t recognise. I went to stay with my Aunt Diana through high school. She owned a bird sanctuary. That’s where I interned in my college years.”

“Wow,” He looked down to her, awe evident in his face, “And it didn’t bother you to be so far away from your father and sisters?”

“Honestly, I’m not even sure they noticed when I left.” She shrugged, “It was a long time ago. I really only see them for family functions now.”

“And your aunt?”

“She still has the bird sanctuary, but she mostly works in the background now. My cousins, Bianca and Phoebe, run it full time.”

“Do you miss it? Were you guys close?”

“Much closer than my sisters and I. I do miss them, but I definitely can’t say I miss the sanctuary. Some of those birds were evil.”

Just then a loud squawk came from above them. She scowled at the sky, “I’m talking about you Auretta.”

He tried to hold in a laugh but Zoe stuck out her tongue childishly and they both bent over in laughter.

“Maybe we shouldn’t hurl insults while we’re out in the open.” He managed to gasp.

“Good thing the gelato shop is right there.” She grinned, grabbing his hand and sprinting towards the small, illuminated store at the end of the cobbled street. Her dress shimmered, moved like rays of light. She looked like a star.

“Come on,” She yelled, tugging at his hand harder.

‘Alright, alright,” He snapped out of his admiration and let her lead him into the shop.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

“Want to share?”

“Sure, you choose,” He waved a hand towards the abundance of flavours behind the glass.

“Please can we have one scoop of chocolate, one scoop of vanilla and,” Her brow furrowed as she scanned the tags, “And one scoop of cookie crumble.”

“Why did I think you were a sorbet girl?”

“Sorbet in the summer, anything else for the rest of the year.” She said matter of factly.

He nodded solemnly, “Yes makes sense.”

She swatted his arm, grabbing the cone from the lady with a thank you, “Gods I feel like a teenager again,”

“I know what you mean,” Her excitement was infectious.

“I have to ask,” She swallowed a chunk of cookie crumble, “What on earth were you thinking when you decided to eat a stapler?”

Jason groaned, “Why did Thalia tell you that? She swore she wouldn’t tell anyone and if asked I would say I fell off my bike or something.”

Zoe giggled, “Come on, spill.”

“Okay, first of all I was two,” He sighed, embarrassment heating his cheeks, “And it was shiny, and it made a cool clicking noise, and I wanted to know what it tasted like.”

“I can just picture a little Jason crawling onto the kitchen counter and trying to bite down on a stapler.” She teased.

“Yes well now I have this scar,” He pointed to his upper lip, rolling his eyes.

“Battle scars. Very worthy.”

He shoved at her shoulder lightly and they dissolved into laughter once more.

It was almost midnight by the time he had dropped her off at home and stepped into his apartment. He looked at his phone to see a couple work messages, and something from Hazel– things he could reply to in the morning he decided, tugging off his tie and discarding his clothes as he walked to his room. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, his phone still glaringly bright and open on the chat with his sister.

You were right. We’re going on a second date.

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

Grover is like some other worldy deity that spews life lessons every time they meet and i am so here for it! Anyway what y’all saying??? How are we feeling?

Tags (if you want to be added to/ taken off the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

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@leydiangelo

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@lucyisblue​

[dyker-farmer]

Ok this was supposed to be a quick draw and a description to go with, that blew into a full chapter and now it's also on Ao3 SO happy reading ig idk

I never see Shane works that don't go all in for romance nor explore the more realistic ugly parts of recovery, and I kind of crave That TM. So let me have at it too with the self-insert whump mumbo jumbo; no romo version.

Set post-8 hearts event, Farmer Uidelsib is two years or so in, full house built and married to Emily. They/them pronouns, same as me.

Diverges from then on, Shane-centric from an outside POV for the most part.

[[MORE]]

Take that can away if you can.

Gulp it down. Chapter 1/2/3/4

There's a few to-know to survive life in society, in the valley; there's no good way to comment on the age nor weight of both resident housewives, you can't say no to Evelyn's homemade cookies- and why would you, you fool-, you do not fight at the Saloon or you'll get no cheese anymore on your pizza and only sparkling water for drinks, and-

And you don't mess with Shane's alcohol related ritual.

Except I did, that night, because you do that, when your two-years long friendship with the guy taught you better than letting his impulses overcome yours, when your buddy is trying to recover from teenage long-lasting into early adulthood, trauma-enhanced heavy addiction, and you know, you know tomorrow he'll feel like absolute shit and question his right to therapy the moment he'll stop his pounding skull from splitting. Wonders what a three-dosage paracetamol can do. 

At least he doesn't drink it out anymore.

So yeah, when you're in my shoes, you get that Joja store-bought crap out of Shane's hand, and you brace yourself for the incoming lash out.

The first fractions of seconds are always those to look closely into most. It's only a glimpse, but before the scowl slips on like a well-worn boxing glove ready to strike, there is always this open page I learned I needed to decipher as quick as I could.

Tonight, it's heartbreaking. When I peck his forehead- doting big sibling habits die hard, even when you're actually the youngest of the pair- the eyes I catch looking at me are so confused and bare of any emotion, except for the sorrow that goes beer-soaked tears, it pangs. I get used to the breakdowns, working in the fields I do when I'm off the farm's, but it's not the same when it's a friend.

When I straighten back, offensive beverage in hand, it's already gone in a flinch, away from the empty space behind the chair and onto the table, as he snarls.

"Wha- giv'me back- 's mine!" I don't know how much he drunk before he met up with me, but from the slurring, it's a Lot. A season and a half into sobriety. That's harsh.

I ignore him and walk behind him, pondering where to put the beer for now.

"Y-you can't just do that! It's my booze I got with m'money, not some- who d'you think you are?-" He sputters indignantly, angry tears fewer than the sad ones but still there. He tries to turn around and grab behind his back, but the wild movement is way off and only gets the chair to nearly topples down. I rush in time to stabilize it, and profit off the moment to set a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I can just do that, 'cus it's my house I got with my money, and I think I'm your pal who knows when you've had enough. Dude, I trust you to be an adult, but minutes before, you were already so torched I had to keep your neck upright so you didn't faceplant into the table, and you nearly just kissed my floor good evening. Not to mention you clung to my arms the whole way from the little entry stairs to the kitchen because, quoting, 'If I don't I'll fall in the hole and won't get up'."

I turn to the fridge again, going to open it, before I think better of it. Likely enough, we'll both forget it was there in the first place, it'll stink up my fridge- it's Joja's- and it'll be money out of Shane's pocket for nothing. I set it on the counter, with the rest of the pack. He'll put it to cool down when he's back to Marnie's. Or he won't, probably. 

That's not a worry for now.

When I caught up with him, it was a few feet below my doorstep; he'd probably slipped up trying to climb the three steps up to it, and settled for it. He was nursing that same can, muttering to himself, head down, curled up on himself. Except for that leg sticked out, he probably hurt it when he fell, I'll have to look at that and work on it if it's too swollen. Hopefully that'll spare us from a visit to Harvey's.

Bad memories. Not mine, and it's warm and not raining outside, but. Déjà-vu.

Anyways, he looked the picture of "help I've fallen and I can't get up- and even if I can I won't because Fuck You", and it's been a hassle to have him cooperate. But when I asked if he wanted to leave, he shook his head with a fervor no somnolent drunk should have. That resulted in a lovely streak of vomit down the wall right next to the door. That's also for later. If Eryza doesn't lap it up. Ew. This cat's never predictable.

Now, he's staring at his hands, sitting at my table, contemplating something too far down for me to see- or maybe just zoning out with a sleeping brain. Then he mumbles. "Sorry."

I get back to the table and sit at arm's length across of him. "Nah, 's okay. I don't mind being a helping hand or touchy-feely, must be the frog-eater in me. Not for the helping part." I'd chuckle but my quip falls on deaf ears.

I go to put my hand over his. When he doesn't blink at it, I try and shake a reply out of him, gently. He startles and hawkeyes our joined fingers. When he's finally looking at me, I raise a single eyebrow. He doesn't say anything, but when he pulls back his arm, I let him. We both straighten up, and it's hard to keep up the eye contact.

"So…" There's a heavy air on us. Suddenly, like the last year didn't happen, we're sitting a stride away of each other, and yet it feels like he's all the way back to the forest, looking down at waves.

"Do you want me to do something?" I bend myself a little closer to him, not moving otherwise.

He puts his head in his hands, shivering. Can't tell if it's the AC or his system kicking the alcohol out, or itself, in stress. I think I hear something, but it might as just be his shuddering breath.

"Shane" I insist, voice level, not pressing. "I need words. I want to help, I truly don't mind, but I need words to know what to do." He's never shown signs of going nonverbal before. If he does, I'll improvise. Until then… I need words.

Time ticks slowly as we wait. Then, with great effort and deep fatigue, he drags his palms up from under his nose to his temple, spreading some snot and wet tears across his face from his scrunched shut eyes. Lips trembling but finally showing, that attempt to let out a sound that's not too garbled. He coughs, sniffles a bit, breathe in again, sounding like a sick dog, and blows through gritted teeth before his jaws go slack. Eyes still closed, he whispers, and I have to lower myself some more toward his crouched form to catch it.

"Can I get something to drink…?" His voice is hoarse.

The demand could be comical, if we were into sour humor. And we usually are. But right now, we're not finding the joke in the lines. I stand silently, and as I walk to the fridge again, I let my hand brush his shoulder- same spot as before.

I take a minute to choose, look into the pantry. When I'm back at the table with my items of choice, he's still sitting there, his cheek is cushioned on his arms, face hidden from view. His shoulder, except for the occasional tremor, rise and fall in rythm with his snores. Breaks my heart to interrupt that, but not really. Hangovers are mean bitches with the sharpest nail art on the blackest of boards.

"Psst, dude. C'mon." I rustle his hair backward. He hates when I do that, says it tickles, and it makes him sneeze. So I obligatory do it once a day if I can. Let's say today's my late quota for the last four days I haven't seen him.

He gruffly tells me to kindly refrain from such pleasantries, and raise bleary eyes back up at the table. I can also guess he tried to bat a hand at me, but his coordination is off and he slaps himself lightly on the ear. Then he glares bewildered at his hand for a few seconds, obviously insulted. I profit of this moment to grab a small basin from under the sink, on second thought.

When he brings his attention back to me, I'm sitting again. Between us, a jug of fresh milk from this morning, a small sack of peppers, and a juice carafe sit aside a green glass bottle. There's also some bread, mostly for me to munch on. Because, hmmm dough. He squints at it all, especially at the bottle. Probably trying to read the label.

"Yeah no, didn't get you one of my best wine, not sorry."

"Hot pepper… juice?" He looks at the actual peppers next to it. "With actual peppers?" And then I get the squint too.

"Hmph, I know you like your elongated hell tomatoes, man, what can i say."

At that, a feeble snort.

I decide that it is the highlight victory of my soirée.

"Welp, have at it." I gesture to the half-liter liquor glass right by his left.

He fumbles with the drinks and some splashes around, but I lay back on my chair, arms crossed, letting him do his thing. While I don't hold back from growing downright doting on him when I got to- or even when I don't- I don't see how more devotion right now would be not smothering. He can break my fancy glass cups if he wants and spill my milk, so long he doesn't cut himself or cry over it.

Now, you could be thinking that plain water would have done the trick just fine, if not better, in rehydrating him. Here's the thing, though; going from booze to tasteless liquid, for Shane, that's a sure way to puking his heart out. And I'd rather not have us deal with an acid bile throat burn on top of near alcohol poisoning. Sorry to not spare you the squeamish details, but his oesophagus is pretty sensitive ever since that stomach pumping back at the clinic. Hot fiery hell fruits he can do just fine, with relative moderation and hydratation- hence the milk and juice- but liquor bursting its way back from his guts? Nuh uh. 

It had taken lots of coaxing, but he'd explained the plain tastes, or lackthereof, were very hard for him to deal with, especially when contrasting with strong ones like beers and whiskeys. I'd shackle it to gustative hypostimulation, but I don't know enough about him that way to say. He'd said sparkling water was a good compromise.

But I don't have sparkling water, because I do not like suffering.

I might buy a pack for when he visits though.

And I do know a handful about him already. Shackle that to perceptiveness and a stubborn streak on top of a year and so long camaraderie.

And having a certain uncontrollable fear of failing to act quick the next time coped with by accumulating information and patterns compulsively.

I shake my head to focus on the present again. He's switched from juices to soaking bread in milk to eat it small portion after small portion. He pauses in mid-bite when he catches me staring. He's still hunched on himself and red-faced and a tad bloated. His cheeks are drying and he's blown his nose. I smile calmly. Worst of the storm passed, unless I screw up and blow it.

"Ywou wan' chom'?" He offers a dripping piece of bread. In moments like this, when he's sobering but not quite, the resemblance with Jas are unmistakable. The glint in his reddened eyes that open wide, and his blank-but-not-quite wondering expression, it's all here to paint a scrutinizing but vulnerable picture of tired but bright minds.

"Nah thanks. You done with that milk?"

"...Sure." He eyes it, wary. He knows where this is going, and he doesn't like it. I take the drink off the table, and his gaze follows my movement until I bring it to my lips.

He frowns. A silent warning. 

And as I lock onto him with a dead stare, not blinking a millisecond, I down the rest of the 2 liters jug in three, five gulps. I even take the time to lick my new mustache away, and close my mouth with a click of my tongue.

His expression is the macabre marriage of beffudled horror and pure affliction, disgust if you will. The face of someone who doesn't hate milk, but has grown out of it enough to not be able to live off the stuff like the brave souls I'm apart of. And probably with reason, as I actually can't, like most 20+ years old, digest the liquid in large amount. But I smile like a smug cat, perfectly content.

Cats really can't digest milk once adults, it's all social mythos.

We silently judge and fuck with each other like that for a while more, as more time passes, until the room's elephant gets it all humid with its prancing around. Enough that tears and nervous sweats start again, for no apparent reasons but the residual anxiety from the whole chain of events that led to this.

"I think we should talk about this."

--- to be continued.

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

The guy goes for more cranberry juice and Koushirou notices, "No spirits?"

He laughs. "Not today." He rubs at his rich brown hair. "Took the short straw today and got saddled as the D.D."

"Pardon?"

"Designated driver," he laughs. The guy’s eyes lock onto Koushirou's neck and he looks down, too, only just remembering the gaudy lanyard. His cheeks feel even hotter, especially as the guy reaches forward and plucks the fluffy pink strap up into the air. He rubs it for a second and quirks an eyebrow.

Koushirou just wants to spend as much time with his best friend, Mimi, as he can this summer even if it means spending half of it carting her around to party after party. Falling for the hot guy who seems to keep cropping up at all said parties? Not in the plans. (But also not not in the plans).

“Miyako invited a lot of people,” Mimi informs him part way into the ride. The flat of one of her heels clicks on the carpeted floor, and Koushirou doesn’t know if she’s excited or intimidated. “It might end up being like a mini high school reunion,” she continues. 

Koushirou meets her eyes briefly before returning back to the road. There’s nothing this far out except trees and fences. He wonders the logistics of deciding to move so far away from the city that not even street lamps will accompany them home.

Mimi touches his arm gently, and he can see in his peripherals that she’s still watching him. “You remember Jyou, right?” Her tone sounds higher now, and Koushirou decides that she must be, on some level, excited. 

“Of course,” he says. A sign says they’re passing a golf course, but Koushirou doesn’t know what the speed limit out here is and, well, one of those is more important. “I haven’t seen him since graduation.”

“Me neither!” Mimi squeals. “I didn't even know he was back in Japan! But Miyako said he RSVP’d.” She puts a hand over her heart as if she’s making a pledge and Koushirou can only quirk a half smile before looking fully at the road. “Which you know means he’ll be there. Jyou never says he’s coming and doesn’t come, right? Right!” 

“Indubitably,” Koushirou adds in, unnecessarily. He checks the GPS on his phone, mounted on the drink tray and resting back against the car’s stereo system. He’s surprised the satellites are still connecting out here, but they’ve hit under the mile mark left on their journey so Koushirou reminds Mimi to keep her eyes out for the balloon assortment Miyako assured them in her invitation would be present to greet them. Instead, Mimi shakes his arm again. 

“Oh my God, wait! What was the thing he liked again? Star Treks? Or the Star Wars?” Koushirou looks at her just as they come up on a stop sign to see her wrinkle up her nose. “It had the green person who talked all funny. What was it again? Yodels?”

Koushirou titters. He’s lucky enough there’s not a line up behind them by the time he pulls his foot off the break and continues straight on. 

“God, after this week I need a shot,” Mimi moans, “once we’re inside.”

“First order of business?”

Mimi laughs. “Indubitably.” A moment later she smacks at his arm, the same bubble of energy that had tempered returning to the surface as she points to a grouping of balloons not too far from them. “Right there, Koushirou!” 

He takes the turn as easy as he can. Miyako’s driveway is, thankfully, long and accommodating for the build up of cars having already arrived before them. Some have taken to parking up fully on the lawn, but Koushirou settles for just pulling up a little off the gravel road. Mimi’s already popping open the passenger door and shucking off her heels for the inevitable walk across the grass and dirt, and he can already hear her complaining about how unfortunate it was to get a pedicure before all this. Koushirou kills the engine and waits for a moment. 

When she looks back at him, Koushirou thinks to say, “Don’t talk about the  Star Treks , Mimi.” He has to train his face to stay straight when she pulls an exaggerated pout at him and continues with, “But if it does come up, just remember to make this noise.” 

Koushirou throws back his head and lets out a gargled yowl in mimic of Chewbacca. It’s a poor imitation, he knows, but he’s honestly impressed with himself that he doesn’t double over in laughter during his show. Mimi’s lips are puckered to one side, her face very clearly showing  she isn’t as impressed. 

“Trust me,” he pushes on, keeping his lips tightly together to keep from laughing between words, “people will find it endearing.” 

“I’m already endearing,” Mimi sniffs. 

And well, “Of course you are,” Koushriou agrees. 

“Let’s go get me that shot.” Mimi smiles at him now and pulls herself out of the car, letting the passenger door slam shut. Koushirou follows suit, making sure to lock up the pink Maserati. Out of habit, he hands Mimi  back the lanyard of keys. 

Miyako is a receptive hostess from the moment she opens the door, ushering them up the main stairs after accepting their gift of the wine they’d picked up on the way over. Koushirou wonders if Jyou’s already here, and if he’s already given Miyako the lecture on buying one story homes.

“It's better for your knees!” Jyou would always tout when the subject came up. And sometimes when it didn’t. It is odd now, to feel nostalgic for it, when mostly they’d been wasting lunch hours together in the library. Koushirou wonders if Jyou will sit with him for the party, or if the years had ebbed away at his social anxieties.

Mimi, no doubt, will be the life of the party, easily inserting herself in and out of groups as she pleases. 

“Drinks are on the balcony,” he hears Miyako relay. Mimi bounces exuberantly behind her and Koushirou follows on their rear. 

Some of his shared co-workers with Miyako are already huddled together on the couch, fitting more than the recommended amount of occupants, Koushirou assumes. It makes him think of pack animals, a vain attempt to survive in an uncertain world. Koushirou just worries, because there doesn’t look to be much more furniture to sit on. He makes sure to give them a nod of acknowledgment whenever he meets one of their eyes on his way past. 

Miyako points out important information on their way, such as the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen. On the back deck Mimi rushes straight to the folding table transformed into a bar and quickly fills a shot worth of liquor into a cup, handing it off to Miyako before making another one for herself. Koushirou hurriedly fills one of the solo cups for himself with the only mixer available— the cranberry juice he'd specifically chosen at the market on more than a hunch that it’d be the only alternative to water and booze all night. It tastes tart all the way down, but Koushirou continues sipping on it anyway. 

“Congratulations,” he tells Miyako who beams back at him. Mimi whoops and the three of them share in a toast.

“It’s very lovely,” Mimi tacks on, wincing after tipping her whole shot back. “I can’t believe this back yard.”

Koushirou snorts. It is very much like Mimi, who’s backyard could fit a helicopter pad or two between the olympic sized pool with room to spare, to sound absolutely sincere.

But it is actually lovely, Koushirou has to admit. He leans against the banister and Mimi slides up to occupy the space beside him, warm and electric as her presence always is. Koushirou takes in a breath of fresh air and for a moment he can understand why Miyako would choose such an out of the way place. The yard itself is expansive, running right into a forest. A few party-goers have already made their way down to the yard, dotting the lawn with their beers in hand. A small fire is lit in one those pits Koushriou’s seen at the local hardware store, kitchen chairs set up dangerously close to the edge of it for people to sit on. 

“I might put in a pool one day,” Miyako tells them. She points at an open patch of grass and Koushirou can imagine it. "I can have a big family here," she sighs, dreamily. "One day."

“Sounds perfect,” Mimi breathes out. 

"Oh!" Miyako exclaims a minute later, hand grabbing for Mimi’s from the railing, "let me show you the closet! It's walk-in!" 

Mimi, who has  several , bounces behind her enthusiastically. She twirls on her heels at the door and comes bounding back towards Koushirou. "Before I forget," is all the warning he gets before she showers him in metal and pink— her gaudy key lanyard now sitting on his neck. Mimi winks at him. "Always looks so good on you!" 

Kouhsirou rolls his eyes. "Just go," he groans. Mimi giggles and does exactly that. 

He takes in a shaky breath the second the sliding door closes behind her heels. Barbeque wafts up from below, and Koushirou wonders if they'll be having hot dogs or skewers for dinner and he'll be able to stomach either option. 

He settles up against the banister to watch the yard below, the lanyard jingling whenever he moves. He doesn't mind the weight of it, the responsibility tethered quite literally to his neck. Koushirou just wishes Mimi's taste was less gaudy. He makes sure to grab the cranberry juice to sit with him on the ledge for now.  Just in case.

Koushirou spends a good portion of the early evening just watching the sky, already drenched in a relaxing rose-lavender shade, ignoring the people only stopping by for their drinks or dropping off another bottle of  something . Koushirou keeps his ears peeled only for Jyou, or perhaps a co-worker who might pull him into their comfortable cocoon. 

It's still bright enough out, yet the flood lights pop on just below the deck. Some of the drunk people below cheer. Koushirou lets out a soft chuckle. It's enough of a distraction that he's caught quite off guard when the sliding door clicks open with a loud, "Don't get too drunk, Hikari!"

"I'll be fine," a feminine voice monotones back. 

"Okay," the male says in a way that suggests he doesn't believe it actually will be.

Koushirou keeps his eyes trained on the fire pit below, watches through several silhouettes as it pops and fizzles. He wonders if he should find a spot at the fire and pretend to be drunkenly fascinated with it so people won't assume he's completely weird. Koushirou's body temperature had always run on the colder side, anyhow, and he thinks the light jacket he'd brought along might not be enough after all.

"But if you puke on mom's shoes again, I am not covering for you." 

Or maybe Koushirou could run back home and grab the laptop he promised Mimi he wouldn't bring, then find a comfortable corner to work in.

Koushirou hears the pop of a cap as one of them pours something to drink. The girl makes a scoffing sound in her throat. There's a pause before Koushirou hears the hissing of more liquid dropping into a cup. "I'll be fine, Taichi." 

"Sure," he says, sounding still very  unsure . "Just know I can't explain to mom why the cat's vomit smells like liquor again."

Koushirou breathes in, a vain attempt to keep from snorting out a laugh. If anything slips through, he thinks the girl's giggle is loud enough to cover it. 

"I'm going to give Takeru his drink now," she says and the door slides back closed. 

Koushiro lets out a sigh. 

"I see you’re hogging the good stuff," the same male voice says much too close and Koushirou jumps. The guy taps the jug of cranberry juice next to Koushirou. "Can I steal some from you?" 

Koushirou stares.

The guy smiles at him and lifts up his empty glass. Koushirou fills it, returning a less easy smile back. 

And that should be it, the end of their story, but the guy takes a long sip, smacks his tongue loudly and asks, "So how do you know Miyako?" After another sip he adds, "Aside from the fact that Miyako knows everyone." 

Koushirou takes a precautionary look behind him, just in case there's someone else there that this man could possibly be conversing with. The only thing behind him is an unoccupied hummingbird feeder. 

"We work together," Koushirou answers finally. "But we were also friends in high school." Sheepishly he adds, "We were in computer club together." 

He takes his own sip of juice, tipping it back. He has to refill his glass. The guy, kindly, holds Koushirou's cup when he needs two hands to hold up the carton. 

"Miyako's more of my little sister's best friend," his companion supplies when Koushirou doesn't ask. His cheeks heat up. Decorum was never his strong suit. "But you know her. She's very…" 

"Affable," Koushirou says with a nod. The guy grins back and it is a lovely smile. Koushirou looks down in the red well of liquid in his cup. 

"Right. So I guess she kind of just made herself one of my friends, too." 

The guy goes for more cranberry juice and Koushirou notices, "No spirits?" 

He laughs. "Not today." He rubs at his rich brown hair. "Took the short straw today and got saddled as the D.D."

"Pardon?"

"Designated driver," he laughs. The guy's eyes lock onto Koushirou's neck and he looks down, too, only just remembering the gaudy lanyard. His cheeks feel even hotter, especially as the guy reaches forward and plucks the fluffy pink strap up into the air. He rubs it for a second and quirks an eyebrow. 

Koushirou grabs at the part just below his fingers and jingles the keys again. This earns him a grin. "I am also the D.D. tonight."

"Right on," the guy says and clicks his cup into Koushirou's. He has enough sense to take a sip, watching the stranger before him just over the rim of his solo cup. "I was honestly getting kind of worried that it was a feather boa and I missed the dress code." 

Koushirou snorts. "I supposed I wouldn't put it past Miyako."

"Right?" 

It is far past dusk before Koushirou realizes any time has passed between their ensuing small talk. Over his companion’s shoulder the sun has disappeared, leaving a trace of green and navy blue, surrendering a clear sky to the glow of stars that twinkle kindly in the eyes of the brunet before him. 

The guy places his cup on the railing and smiles at Koushirou. “I’ve got to hit the restroom, I’ll be back.”

He leaves Koushirou with a salute and slips back inside through the sliding door. Koushirou watches him tap someone’s shoulder, and after a few gestures the guy waves in gratitude and vanishes easily into the crowd. 

Koushirou breathes out. He knows more than anyone when people excuse themselves from conversations with him they don’t usually come back, so he deposits the cranberry juice onto the bar and follows the same path back inside. His group of coworkers have still grouped themselves together on the couch. The kitchen chairs are absent . Outside, Koushirou remembers. 

He plops himself down on the carpet, out of the way of the people mingling about in the open living room. He stretches out his legs and clicks the tops of his shoes together.  No place like home. 

Aside from one group, Koushirou doesn’t really know anyone else as far as he can see. He hopes Mimi comes by and finds him soon— that maybe they can leave— or Jyou will stumble upon him. Hopefully not literally. He takes out his phone to dwindle down the time until then, but it’s no use. Not even the data will load properly out here. 

Before he can pick himself up to ask Miyako for her wifi password a now familiar voice says, “There you are, buddy!” 

Koushirou blinks up at his companion from the deck, standing now in front of him with as gracious of a smile as he had the first time they spoke. He squats down beside Koushirou and plops the half empty jug of cranberry juice between them. He beams. “I think we deserve this.”

“Indubitably,” Koushirou says. 

“That’s a good word,” the guys laughs. He pours himself another drink and falls slowly onto his rump. He sheds his windbreaker and lets it sit between him and the wall, the jacket an almost offensive lime green color against the polished cream paint. 

Koushirou blinks again, not quite sure if he’s hallucinating the other's presence or not, but where their shoulders touch is warm and weighty and when the guy leans further into his space his hair tickles along Koushirou’s cheeks in a not so unpleasant way. “So which ones are yours?”

“Pardon?”

"Which kids are you babysitting?"

Koushirou scans every head littered about until he finally notices Mimi's bubble gum hair in a corner. "Over there," he gestures and notices, too, that Jyou has made it, the two of them immersed in their conversation by the far door frame. He thinks about waving for their attention, but decides better on it. 

 "Oh," his companion says. He points somewhere further off to the side and mentions, "Those two are some of mine." 

Across the room Koushirou spots an attractive couple quite distracted with one another, and winces. "It's like watching the mating patterns of cannibals."

Unexpectedly, his companion laughs. It's swallowed by the start of music, something heavy and loud that pulses in Kouhsirou's veins, dizzies up his anxiety further.

"High school sweethearts," the guy informs him, leaning in a little closer, speaking a little louder. "This only happens when they're drunk, I promise." He reaches for the cranberry juice and swishes around the last of its contents. "Bet I could drench them in this before they notice anything." 

Koushirou grins. "Better not. The males of that species are said to be particularly violent when provoked."

And the guy laughs. It is belly deep, and uproarious, and Koushirou cannot stop himself from joining in. 

When they settle down he thinks to ask, "So what does one do at a soiree when sober?" 

The guy moves his mouth about, looking pensive. "Collect blackmail?" 

"Too white collar." 

"We could dance? Start a trend and become heroes of the party?" 

Koushirou frowns. He purveys the living room. There's not enough open space to even entertain the idea. The last time Koushirou had danced in public was back in elementary school, when he had been cast as one of the background dancers for the school play. Rehearsals had gone well enough, but then opening night came and he swung his partner right into a fake tree and took down half the stage, screaming kids and decorations. 

As if sensing his hesitation his companion suggests, "Or we can people watch." 

"Sounds enthralling," Koushirou comments. 

"Oh it is," the guy grins. When he leans again Koushirou catches the faint scent of his cologne—something musky and earthy— just over the stench of alcohol and new carpets. He welcomes it. His companion points across the room, to a woman with a sheared bob. Koushirou thinks they're called a-lines, distinctly remembers Mimi crying about having to get one when they were twelve after the school bully spit gum in her hair. "Russian spy." 

Koushirou squints. The girl sways on her heels, nearing five inches in additional height if he's guessing correctly, missing the beat of the rhythm completely. The look in her eyes suggests she's a little bit too gone. 

"She's Japanese," Koushirou surmises and his companion titters. 

"No, no that's what she  wants you to think. She was brought up by international spies to infiltrate this country."

Koushirou stares. 

"You're supposed to make stuff up, you know?" His companion sniffs. "Like mini stories." 

"Oh." Koushirou breathes in. Imagination, is also, not one of his strong suits. "So she's not from Japan. Fictionally, speaking."

"Exactly." The guy grins. 

Koushirou's eyes fall back on the inexorable height of her heels and decides, "She stores all her gadgets in those shoes. Drives, fishing wire, cameras..."

"Holy shit, dude, your brilliant!" His companion beams at him. "Miyako knows everyone in the surrounding zipcodes, so the spy was hoping she'd be able to meet a prime minister or something here. Get access to his phone or laptop or something. But now she's too drunk on straight vodka and believes her own cover story." 

Koushirou hits head on the wall when he laughs. "You are aware she's only drunk on straight vodka because we stole the only mixer."  

The guy's face lights up, mouth gaping open like he's realized something important. "You know this means we single-handedly saved Japan with friggin' cranberry juice?" He holds up his fist towards Koushirou and it takes him much longer than he'd like to admit that he's looking for Koushirou to return it. Their fists meet in a short bump and the guy finishes it off with a soft explosion noise. 

Koushirou grins and shakes his head, turning his focus back on the main floor. Another girl catches his eyes with a similarly styled bob and so be points her out. "Think she's working with the spy?" 

The brunette laughs. "Definitely not. That's one of my kids. My little sister, actually." 

"I see." Koushirou feels his cheeks heat up. "The one who puts waste in people's shoes."

His companion laughs harder at that, his own head scraping back against the wall. "You heard that?" He finally manages to ask, wiping at his eyes. 

Koushirou doesn't know if he actually cried or not, but there's a smidgen of pride beaming in his chest for making this man laugh so deeply. He can't contain his own smile. "It was hard to not eavesdrop a little. I apologize." 

"Nah, buddy, it's fine. You'll be my witness if she tries to wheedle her way out." 

The brunet points out a group of people on the far end of the living room. "How about them?" 

Koushirou recognizes the gaggle of his co-workers, having now drunkenly abandoned their homebase to awkwardly dance in a corner out of the way. One of them, Zoe, has got her signature Staying Alive move going on. 

"Aliens," Koushirou decides. 

His companion guffaws halfway through a sip of his drink. Luckily none of the liquid drips past his chin. "Aliens?" 

"Absolutely," Koushirou asserts. "They've been studying mankind for decades now, but all of their research is outdated. See her?" He points out Zoe. "Learned that from American 70's dance programs." That part didn't really need imagination. She had told him that specifically once, at the annual christmas party. The first, and the last one, Koushirou had gone to. 

The brunet smiles tightly, in a way that reads like he's holding back something mirthful so Koushirou continues, "They see dancing as a human mating ritual, just waiting to capture the perfect specimen to entrap and take back to their planet tonight." He makes sure to catch the guy's eye before adding, in as serious of a tone he can muster, "Be careful on your way tonight." 

Koushirou takes a sip of his forgotten drink, mostly a ruse to hide the redness no doubtedly evident on his cheeks. He knows this is it, the line of  too weird , and he crossed it all too bravely. 

But the man doesn’t leave, and instead asks, “Where have you been all my drunkless nights?” 

Koushirou swallows and almost coughs on the tartness washing down his throat suddenly. “I’m sorry?” 

“Everything you say is like gold, man. I can’t compete with that.” 

“I just read a lot of science fiction… and some dissertations here and there,” Koushirou tells him discreetly. 

“Yeah?” The guy rolls his shoulders around, careful not to jostle Koushirou’s own too much. He looks settled in when he turns his full attention towards Koushirou. “Do you watch anything?” 

Koushirou doesn’t know how long they sit there, trading favorite movies and books, coming up with fake scenarios for their fellow party-goers whenever something springs to mind. He just feels that it’s far too early when the girl his companion had pointed out before comes to collect him, leaning down just enough infront of them and tucking her auburn hair behind a single ear. 

“Yamato’s not feeling well,” she says, contritely. She smiles apologetically at Koushirou and then turns back to her friend. “Do you think you could take him home now?” 

“Geez,” the guy says, huffing exasperatedly. He bounces easily to his feet and the woman follows him up, looking grateful. The brunet makes a round motion in the air with one of his fingers and tells her, “Let’s round up the troops.”

She thanks him quickly, gives Koushirou a little wave, and hurries back, presumably, to her boyfriend. 

The guy runs his hand through his hair for a moment and lets out a small hum. When he turns back on Koushirou, his face is  beaming. “Sorry, buddy, that’s my cue I guess. I’ll see you around?” 

Koushirou shoots him a smile. “I’m glad we got acquainted,” he says, and  means it, waving his companion off. He gives Koushirou a wave back, flashing a dimple-filled smile and disappearing into the crowd once more that night. 

Koushirou settles back up against the wall and breathes in. His stomach aches from far too much laughter, and quite possibly an excessive amount of cranberry juice. It feels like someone had been pinning up his lips for most of the party that his cheeks, too, ache now that his smile has subsided. 

Mimi finds him soon enough thereafter, a little wobbly on her feet, asking to go home and sleep. 

“You seemed to be getting along well with Jyou,” Koushirou mentions, remembering how they’d been huddled near each other for the majority of the party whenever he’d chance a look. Mimi laughs, but it’s a small little breath. Koushirou almost misses it over the ringing in his ears, the beat of the music still throbbing in his brain even now that they're in the comfort of Mimi's car.

Mimi leans over the divider, resting her head on his shoulder and Koushirou almost reminds her how dangerous it is to be touching the driver, but he lets the argument die on his tongue and keeps to watching the road much closer. 

“Jyou was talking about his time in America,” she tells him. Her breath this close smells sharply of liqueur and peppermint. “He’s going back, you know? To finish his studies to become a doctor. It’s a-maz-ing.” Her voice sounds sleepy, small, and Koushirou wonders if she’ll fall asleep like this, attached to his shoulder. 

“Yeah?”

“We were—” She yawns, and that, too, reeks of alcohol. It is still chilly out at night, but Koushirou cracks open the window just a tad. “We were talking about meeting up, when he moves back there.” 

Koushirou grips the steering wheel, keeps his eyes set ahead. 

“Who was,” Mimi starts. For a moment he thinks she really has fallen asleep, her sentence only half formed, before she finishes, “The guy.The one you were talking to all night?”

Koushirou checks his rearview mirror. Mimi’s eyes are closed in the reflection, but there’s a coy smile teasing on her lips. A few cars pass by them on the other side, headlights bright in Koushirou’s eyes. He has to watch the white lines to make sure he doesn’t veer off the path, mildly wracking his brain for a name. 

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. 

Mimi’s arms wrap around his forearms, hugging him tightly. She yawns again. The first sign of  real civilization crops up— the traffic light just before they cross into the thick of the city. Koushirou’s ready to sleep as well. 

“You were talking to him all night,” Mimi pushes. Out of habit Koushirou checks the clock. His stomach growls, having had nothing to eat. 

“I didn’t ask his name,” he cements. 

“Oh,” Mimi says, but it sounds like only the rush of wind. “That sucks.”

Koushirou swallows. “I suppose.”

"Maybe Miyako will know," she suggests.

Mimi’s already asleep when Koushirou pulls up to his own house. It takes some cajoling and tugging before she stands up on her own, legs wobbling like a baby deer up the stairs and finding his couch. Mimi doesn’t bother to change her clothes. Koushirou drapes the throw blanket over her. 

“Good night, Mimi,” Koushirou whispers and turns out the light. 

[sporadic-writer]

Mrs. All American pt. 3

Harrison x Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol and partying, but that’s about it

Also this may be considered long.. Idk I just wanted to write and kept going.

Summary: the three of you prep for the party.

Yeah that’s a boring summary but it’s all I got ok?

Part 1 here! Part 2 here!

°••°••°••°••°••°••°

It was around 11:45 in the morning. Tom and Harrison were hanging out in Tom's kitchen while he made some lunch. Both men had been up for a couple of hours. You however, had yet to emerge from your room.

"Should we wake her up? It's almost 12." Harrison looked to the direction of your room then back to Tom who simply shook his head no.

"Nah she usually wakes up between 10 and 1. Broad range but it's how she is. I will guess though that she will be up soon." He wiped his hands off of crumbs and looked at his sandwich. "Man I could be a chef. This looks amazing."

"Mate, last time you made soup you burnt the fucking pot so badly you had to throw it out."

Rolling his eyes he replied. "Yeah but no heat involved this time so all is good." He turned to clean up and get a drink and failed to see you come up to the island.

You smirked and made a shush motion to Harrison. Quietly, you grabbed the plate and moved to sit next to Harrison. Then you grabbed half of the sandwich and took a bite. It was around then that Tom turned around and noticed you.

"Hey sleeping beauty made it up before 12. Proud of you!" He seemed to take no notice of the theft that took place. Grabbing his cup he took a sip and turned back around. You suppressed a laugh along with Harrison. Then he turned back around and went to grab where his plate was. He stopped as you were on your second bite. Confused, he looked around and then his eyes met yours. While chewing you maintained eye contact. "You bitch! Give that back!" He leaned over and snatched the plate. At this point everyone was laughing.

"Dude that didn't even click right away for you. I got 2 bites deep. Tasty by the way."

"I made that myself. You don't deserve it!" You noticed the purpose and guard he had while eating. You simply laughed more. While sitting you felt Harrison's hand on your back and heard him speak up.

"Let him have it love. It apparently is a major accomplishment in his life that he performed a basic life skill." Tom flipped his friend off and you slipped off the chair. Moving around the island you brushed your hand on Harrison's arm, mentally noting how strong he felt. You were a sucker for nice arms and good abs and Harrison was the jackpot for both in your eyes. The abs were yet to be seen, but you knew. Call it female intuition.

"Tom, not being able to cook just confirms the privileged actor stereotype. Don't let the haters be right. Now where do you keep your pans. I'm makin’ eggs." He told you were they were and you began preparing your breakfast.

With your back turned you didn't see a set of blue eyes look at you fondly. However, your ears heard him speak to you. "You know how to cook?" He saw you nod yes. "Lovely! Now teach Tom here. You really are just light years ahead of him."

"Oh I am. Speaking of being better than you! When do you want to do that rematch boy?" You looked at him, away from your pan of scrambling eggs. Although, Harrison was in the dark.

Tom scoffed. "We can do it whenever you want. You won on because of lag and I still call bullshit."

"Anyone want to fill me in?" Harrison felt the slightest ping of jealousy that you and Tom had inside jokes and stories. He knew that you knew him longer and all that. But he pushed it down. After all, you weren't kissing Tom on the couch last night.

Your voice brought him back to reality. "He and I played a series of Call of Duty: World War 2 games and I won overall and he got pissy. He also claims I only won because of lag on his end. I say he's a sore loser." As you finished your sentence you plated your eggs and stuck your tongue out. Then you sat back down next to Harrison.

"When you're done I'm kicking your ass." In a condescending manner, you nodded your head to play along. You sat and ate your eggs while he finished his sandwich.

Eventually both of you finished your food and Tom dragged you to the couch and turned on the TV.

"Can we use the Xbox? I'm trash on Playstation."

He groaned. "Fine. Either way I'll win. But we play a few public rounds to warm up and then I pick the first style of game we play."

"Whatever. Neither of us has played in a hot minute so let's see how this goes." You cracked your knuckles and the 3rd person in the room simply watched in amusement. Plus, he thought it was kind of attractive you knew how to play video games. You were cool as hell, played video games, and could cook. He found the most well rounded girl in the world. He watched both of you play some team deathmatch and he had to admit, you weren't horrible. You knew what you were doing and held your own.

Tom left the lobby and you looked at him. "Ok I've gone positive the whole time. So I am either set or it's all downhill from here. How about instead of 1v1 we just see who does better each round of a public game? 1v1 is boring."

"Fine but I'm picking the first game." His voice got sly and he smirked. You watched in fear as he selected your worst game mode. "Get fucked Y/N."

"Noo can't we just play regular team deathmatch or like kill confirmed? People kick my ass in any hardcore mode."

The non-player spoke up to settle everything. "Just play free for all and whoever is higher is better. Duh."

You and Tom looked at each other and agreed. Then you made your classes and played for a while. Harrison tried to make a joke about you only using SMGs and like 1 assault rifle. All you did was respond with a “careful Harrison” in a warning tone and he backed down while laughing. In the end, Tom came out better than you by 2 games. Once Tom got his moment of being a sore winner out of his system you asked the boys how the party was going to happen. Harrison spoke first.

“I say we go to the liquor store first. I want to see the guys face of us buying so much shit before 2 pm.” He came up behind you on the couch. You leaned your head back and smiled up at the blue eyes above you. He winked at you in a flirty manner.

Picking your head back up you looked to Tom. “Now Tom, not to be a smart ass,” he scoffed, “shut it. But will people say something about you running into a liquor store then buying a ton?” You looked at him and he went into thought.

“I guess it wouldn’t look great for someone through Disney to clean them out. But take my card when you go. I will get food and some stuff. That way it looks fine. Plus, we can still get trashed.” Everyone agreed with that plan. “Ok so Haz you and Y/N go get the booze, enough to make all our livers cry, and I will get other stuff. Meet back here.”

So you and Harrison went off to the store after you changed into some shorts. Luckily, booze was a generally understood and universal concept. Everything was sorted out as usual, but this time there was a few different European selections, and an American section.

“So what do you want? Tom made the mistake of leaving us his card, so we can get top shelf stuff.” Harrison looked to you with mischief in his eyes. You liked it, but the good friend in you told him no need to go crazy.

Walking towards the vodka, grabbing some schnapps, you turned to scold him. “I am not taking advantage of my rich friend. I will get some stuff on my own. But I don’t see the harm in the bulk coming from him. Nothing crazy though, we get a lot and get make sure we get drunker than a French skunk. Put down the Everclear! I did that my freshman year and don’t remember a thing past the second shot.”

“That’s impressive! But fine at least grab the Ciroc and that kind of nice stuff. If we are going all out for this then we are doing it right. No protests! You only party in London once love.” He grabbed some various vodka bottles and you got a couple other varieties of rum, whisky, and some silver tequila. Between you both you looked like you could restock the busiest pub in town.

As you were walking out of the store you asked him, “Hey wait. Who all is coming to this tonight anyway? I only know you, Tom, and his family.”

“Uh I think the twins, some of his Marvel friends, and some of our friends along with co-stars.” He spoke as if it was a normal thing to casual get trashed with celebrities. However, you stopped right at the car.

“I’m sorry did you say Marvel people and co-stars?! Like it’s nothing? I can’t meet famous people! And I for sure can’t get trashed in front of them.” You looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

The bafflement on his face was clear. “Why not? You know Tom. They are normal people. It’ll be fine. We don’t hate your presence, neither will they. And they don’t care if you get drunk. I have seen plenty of Tom’s Marvel co-stars get very drunk. The co-stars are around our age it’s fine.” His words made you feel a little better, but the nerves were there regardless. Both of you drove back and carried everything into Tom’s apartment. He turned to you both as you came in.

“Awesome you’re back. The food, pizza mainly, is ordered and will be here on time. People will start showing up around 7 I think.” You nodded. That gave you plenty of time to get ready. Since celebs were going to be there, you wanted to look your best. Tom spoke again and snapped you out of your planning. “I say we be ready by 6 or half past and pregame just us."

"Works for me. I am going to make a drink myself to sip on while I get ready."

"Y/N you literally have like 3 hours." The boys looked at you like you were crazy.

"True. But I like getting ready early so it can settle and I am not rushed. I like to take my time. Don't worry I'll be ready before 6." You made a vodka cranberry and walked off to start your process. Admitting it to no one, you were excited to get ready. This kind of stuff was fun, you got in the zone and did your thing. Eventually, you found yourself in a towel trying to work the shower. Every time you use a new shower, it’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. You sighed and gave up hope.

From the main room the boys heard you yell that you can’t work the shower. Both looked at each other after. Tom smirked and looked back to his phone. “You go. I know you want to.” When Harrison didn’t move he spoke again. “What are you waiting for?! A hot girl is waiting in a towel. Have you ever seen American Pie?”

“Shut it mate. You’re an idiot.” He got up and started walking towards where you called from.

From the couch the actor mumbled, “At least I didn’t freeze when a girl called needing help with the shower.”

You heard the knock at the door and said come in. Expecting Tom, you smiled when Harrison walked in instead. “Sorry.. I just don’t know how to get the water started.”

“It’s fine love.” You thought it was cute how he was trying, trying, to look anywhere but you. What a gentleman you thought. The smile on your face and the blush on his was adorable.

“Harrison, you’re allowed to look at me. It’s a towel, not the direct blaze of the sun.” His blue eyes met your e/c ones and he smiled faintly at you.

Turning the water on then scratching the back on his neck he smiled again and said, “Sorry, I just didn’t want to be rude.”

He started walking out and you said it’s totally fine and that you didn’t mind. As he shut the door you thanked him and slipped in. Music playing and you singing along put you in a good mood. Taking your time, you enjoyed the hot water with your nice travel products. Plus,Tom had a nice shower.

Soon your shower was done and you slipped out to your room. Keeping the towel on you put on some lotion, brushed your hair, put in some product, and sat down to begin your makeup. This didn’t take long, it was just that you took your time to get it right. You kept YouTube music and videos playing. Hair drying, drink being drank, and makeup looking on point made you feel damn good. It’s like Iiza Shlesinger said, ‘You know when you look hot.’ Your clothes weren’t even on and you felt great. The nerves of famous people being around lessened. You were relaxed. Next thing you did was drop the towel and put your outfit on. Luckily, you asked Tom what kind of a party this was going to be. He told you to dress like you were going to a casual club with your friends; so a simple but sexy outfit. No need to dress for a popular club in LA or New York, but not jeans or basic stuff. This was more than your college parties so you put your simple black dress. It was the kind that could be worn at a party, a cocktail dinner, or even a funeral (not to be morbid, but to note that it is still formal and not too slutty) it just mattered how you worked it. Zipping it up, you grabbed your black platforms and stood up. Unlike most girls, you liked wearing heels. Yes, they hurt by the end of the night but it was fine. Not to mention, at school you didn’t wear them out too much since you would walk back around outside more. That and you were typically lit when you did. Friends leaning on each other were no held if they were just as gone. But not tonight! For the finishing touches you swapped out a couple rings, put on your leather and Alex and Ani bracelets, and your earrings and necklace. Doing one final look over in the mirror, you were satisfied. The time read 5:38. Perfect. Spraying some perfume on, you went to see what the boys were doing.

Walking out you heard the microwave go off and smelled popcorn. You noticed Tom was in a nicer shirt and shoes. Harrison changed as well into some more appropriate clothes. His jeans were darker and his red shirt looked good in contrast to his light hair, which was brushed and styled a little. As Tom turned with the popcorn, he heard the clack of your heels as you approached and leaned on the island. He whistled lightly, you blushed and smiled, and Harrison looked up and his jaw dropped. Never before had you made a man’s jaw drop and it simply added to your confidence. 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I am ready to party.” Your eyes lingered on Harrison and the corner of your lips turned up. You finished your drink and took a grab at the popcorn. Tom made you a new one while Harrison kept his eyes on you. He took in how you looked more dressed up compared to your cute and casual looks from before. In his mind, you looked sexy. No doubt about it.

Despite his mind being rattled, “Y/N you look great,” is all he managed to get out.

Tom nodded and set out three shot glasses. “I gotta agree. On vacation you never dressed like this.”

“Well that was me in high school. An awkward dork who didn’t do this stuff that often. Let alone know how to do it well. But I have a few years of college under my belt. You haven’t seen me in action Tom.” The shot glasses were filled with Ciroc. You all cheered and downed the shots. When you didn’t wince, both became impressed. Even they coughed or cringed a bit. You grabbed another. You could hold you liquor quite well and knew a couple shots to start would be fine until later tonight. After downing the second easily you walked over to Harrison and put your hand on his shoulder. His arm went to your waist.

From the other side of the island Tom just looked at your shot glass, back to you, smiled and said, “Shit. This is gonna be a great night.”

°••°••°••°••°••°••°

Next chapter will be the party. Sorry if this wasn’t enough Harrison and stuff, you don’t like the swearing, or the booze was something you didn’t like.. Also, this may be boring to you. Idk I like the “domestic” and simple writing sometimes. Nice filler and fun is always good.

As always, I hope those who read liked it. Feel free to comment, like, and reblog!

[emoboijk]

PJM | A Letter

Saying goodbye is the hardest part. —angst, tw: major character death

1,904 words

p.cred

The ink in your pen is running out, so you gather all your strength and shake it really hard, scribbling a circle roughly into the corner of the page until there are many black lines overlapping one another. You sigh and bring your hand back to turn it into a flower.

Jimin—

You look at the word and feel bad that his name looks so ugly in your handwriting. Your new meds have made you shaky and very weak. You want to write his name in big flowing letters like how girls write in movies.

But you know better than to try again.

Your first question is probably: “When could she possibly have written this?” So I’ll answer that first. Hoseok’s car broke down—remember? You looked really conflicted, but I made you leave. I’m glad. I’ve been thinking of writing something for you for a while now, ever since Dr. Moon told me the prognosis.

Anyway.

These days I’ve been thinking a lot about blood lately. Probably because I spend so much time with it in my mouth. And lungs.

With perfect timing, you cough slightly and you can feel a dribble of blood escaping the corner of your lips. You curse softly and reach for a tissue on the table, wiping your lips and keeping it over your mouth as you cough harshly again.

“Now what do you think you’re doing?” a voice echoes from the hallway.

You glance up and see Dr. Kim—a young intern in the cancer ward—standing with her arms crossed in the doorway. She looks tired today and you wonder if the residents have been giving her a hard time.

You smile sadly at her and open your mouth to say something but then cough instead. Dr. Kim sighs and walks toward you, patting your back as she reaches for the oxygen mask you’ve discarded. She places it over your mouth and nose and watches as you take a couple of breaths, your muscles relaxing from the sudden influx of air.

You reach up and gently move it to the side to say, “I wanted to feel normal for a bit.”

“I know,” she says, “but you have to keep the oxygen mask on, okay?”

You move it back over your face and nod reluctantly. You have to at least stay alive to finish this letter. Your eyes scan what you’ve already written, notice a drop of blood in the margins, and Dr. Kim leaves. She casts a long glance at you as she does, one that you don’t notice, but her eyes are filled with affection and sadness. Even young as she is, she knows you don’t have very long yet.

You trace the blood stain with your thumb. Blood. You close your eyes for a moment, memories coming at you so fast that you fill dizzy. You want to commit them all to paper but you know it’s impossible.

Do you remember that day? You were on the floor in front of me on the couch—we were watching reruns of Naruto, I think. I stayed home from work that day, and you had, too. “For solidarity,” you said, “And for snacks.” I’d been coughing all day, my chest felt tight, my stomach upset. Then I coughed, looked up, and your hair was dotted with dark red droplets of blood.

That was the first time I remember tasting it.

We always joke now that I’m more vampire than human. I think we just like the idea of immortality…

I was really impressed by you.

“You’re always impressed by me.” That’s what I think you’d say if this letter wasn’t goodbye. But anyway, you’d be right. I am quite literally always impressed by you. But this time I’m talking about the fact that you stayed.

I gave you so many outs. That first time at the hospital, and all the times after that. Every time I looked at you and your eyes looked worried or hurt or scared, I’d say, “You can go.” And you finally did snap at me about it, of course.

I’m still at a loss sometimes because I don’t think it ever occurred to you to leave. I said that to Jeongguk one time and he looked at me so seriously, “Why would he leave? He loves you.” Like it was a fact. I guess I still don’t fully understand that either.

A tear hits the paper because your heart is swelling and it hurts to love so much and be dying at the same time.

You’ll tell all of them I love them, right? And when you all feel a little better in a couple of weeks, or six months, or a year, you can tell them that I loved you best. Which will be obvious, because I gave you all of myself, but then you can joke about it and laugh and remember that you weren’t always this sad.

I feel sort of selfish; I want you to be sad for a little while. I want to know you will be so that I’ll know I was an important, significant part of your life….It’s been so long, but I’m still insecure like this.

You laugh at yourself and move the oxygen mask away to cough again.

So maybe three months? Maybe a bit longer? Grieve for me, is all I’m saying. If there are wounds, feel them at first, then let them heal.

I guess I should tell you to find someone else. But I’m still alive and the thought of you with someone else makes me cringe.

I do want you to be happy though. After the sadness and the grief: happiness. Okay? Even if that does mean finding some other girl, or moving far away, or changing everything about yourself…just make happiness your one goal.

You pause to breathe because even with the oxygen mask you feel a bit winded. You reread what you’ve written and wince at those last couple paragraphs. They feel weepy and cliché and heavier than you wanted.

You close your eyes and picture his face, more tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

You know why I couldn’t say any of this aloud, right? Why I waited to tell you all this in a letter?

I wouldn’t have been able to get through it, of course. But also I think you wouldn’t have let me. And besides, I like the words on paper—the way they look, the knowledge that you can return to this, to me, whenever you like.

I’m not sure where to end this. I could talk about you forever.

Dr. Moon comes in with Dr. Kim and some others behind him. You look up at them and smile, “I’m almost done.” He nods, his lips turned down in a sad frown. He picks the chart from off the end of your bed, flipping through it though he knows nothing has changed, it’s still just bad news.

Thank you for loving me.

I love you so much. I always will.

I’m sorry I’m gone, but I’ll always be with you.

You sign your name, trying for big, pretty letters and failing. You sighed, glanced over the words and added:

P.S. All that was so corny, but I meant it. I love you. 

Jimin doesn’t find the letter until after the funeral. It was a simple service—white lilies and a dark coffin, lots of friends and families in dark clothing, lots of tears. Jimin’s eyes were red and puffy from trying not to cry. He’d hugged your parents so tightly he could’ve bruised their ribs. Jeongguk had driven him home after, but all seven of them ended up in your—his, he corrects himself, apartment.

Seokjin enters behind the others and wanders into the kitchen with the groceries he’d picked up on the way. Jimin’s not an avid cook at the best of times; Seokjin needs to stock the fridge. He starts a large batch of kimchi fried rice, continually pausing to breathe deeply to keep from bursting at the seams.

Yoongi arrived with Seokjin and Namjoon but immediately turned the corner and walked to the liquor store. Ten minutes later he waltzes through the front door with two large bottles of single malt whiskey. He moves confidently through the apartment, stopping in the living room to place them both on the coffee table in front of Jimin.

“We need a drink.”

The others—Hoseok, Jeongguk, Taehyung, and Namjoon—pile onto the couch and the floor. Tae hugs a pillow and leans into Jeongguk, tears in his eyes. Namjoon sinks into the couch like he’s hoping to disappear, trying to feel without collapsing. Hobi watches his friends, feeling lost. Where do they go from here?

They feel numb. Like you might walk through the door with a couple of pizzas, proud to have tricked them all. Oh, calm down, it’s just a joke! I can’t believe I got you! And then they could finally breathe, in complete disbelief that any joke could be so cruel. 

Jimin’s resolve disappeared and he started crying again. But he doesn’t notice. The first day out he’d realized it was too exhausting to keep track of all the tears. Besides, at this point, he’s angry more than anything. His fists are clenched at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms until they bleed. Anger surges through him like a blaze. He’s too afraid to feel anything else.

“Where are the glasses?” Yoongi says, but not to anyone in particular. And no one answers. But Taehyung unwraps himself from around the pillow—which somehow smells like your perfume and Jimin’s cologne in a way that is both comforting and painful—and sidesteps Jimin, cross-legged on the floor. He walks with Yoongi to the kitchen.

When they come back, Jeongguk has passed out. His eyes are puffy from crying, and he’s leaning heavily against Hoseok’s shoulder with his mouth parted. Instead of trying to squeeze back in, both Taehyung and Yoongi join Jimin on the floor.

“What’s all this stuff?” Yoongi says, pushing things to the side gently to make room as he sets down the cups.

Jimin shrugs and looks nowhere, “It’s all hers.”

That makes everyone pause, a deep sigh passing Taehyung’s lips as he gently puts the glasses down and started organizing the books and papers into piles. The sight of the unfinished novels makes his heart so heavy he thinks it might fall to the floor. And there are little notes in both your and Jimin’s handwriting—grocery lists, reminders, things to do—those, too, do nothing but add weight.

Then a lavender envelope. In one corner: To PARK JIMIN and in the other: From ME In your uneven, scratchy handwriting.

“What’s this?” Taehyung says, holding the envelope up with a curious glance, “Birthday card?”

Jimin furrows his brow. “I’ve never seen that before.”

“Where was it?” Hoseok says. “On the table,” Taehyung shrugs and hands it to Jimin.

His hands shake as he takes it, his fingers sliding gently across the dark ink. A tear hits the front of the envelope and Jimin bites his lip because every moment since you’ve died is a fresh pain.

His fingers slip beneath the fold and open it, sliding out a folded paper covered in your familiar scrawl. “Oh my god,” he whispers, his voice like a last breath.

author’s note—i feel like i have a talent for writing depressing stuff :) 

for more of my works check out my m.list

[becausewecareatlanta]

Exposing the low end Corporate America plan for minority communities!


The traditional business model says the three keys to business are location, location, location but that does not seem to apply when that location is majority minority in metro Atlanta, in terms of mid to upscale development. Many minority communities across metro Atlanta struggle to attract jobs, economic development, and quality of life amenities even in higher income areas like south Cobb County (Austell/Mableton), northern Henry County (Stockbridge), Lake Spivey, Stone Mountain(Smoke Rise), Stonecrest, College Park, South Dekalb and others. These predominately African-American areas have medium to high income demographics but find themselves only attracting the same pattern of tire shops, pawn shops, payday loan stores, hair salons, barber shops, nail salons, liquor stores, and used car lots. They also feature a collection of discount stores like Dollar Tree, Family Dollar, Dollar General, and Big lots stores just like low income areas. 
I could literally pick any majority African-American community in metro Atlanta and guarantee you 95% of these stores would be duplicated. In the past many corporate dollar stores would claim they serve a population that needed their services in low income communities; but the communities I listed have median to high income areas yet these discount stores persist. Mableton for example has an ideal location 10-15 minutes from downtown Atlanta with many high end communities along the Chattahoochee River area known as Riverline. However the stretch of Veterans Memorial Hwy and Mableton Pkwy leading to historic Mableton is plagued by vacant retail and commercial spaces along with second and third generation buildings. This is opposed to the Riverline area of affluent homes. Although high income the Riverline area has 4 dollar stores; recently adding a corporate Dollar Tree to an existing Family Dollar store, local dollar store, and a new Dollar General at Queen Mill Rd and Mableton Pkwy. Riverline even has Legacy Walk a Class A mixed use development with retail on the bottom floors and townhomes on the upper floors. The premium John Wieland Legacy community has seen better days with premium restaurant space sitting ideal for over a decade and a struggle to attract an anchor tenant creating financial hardships for the property owners in terms of upkeep. Legacy Walk is now just a hodgepodge of nails salons, beauty salons, UPS Store, Insurance agency and boutiques that struggle to stay open just 5 minutes from I-285. If income within a 3 mile radius is the magic formula; Mableton has a household income of nearly $100,000 per year yet no major development with the Battery Atlanta/Cumberland just 10 minutes away achieving 90% occupancy within a matter of 3 years. 
These communities deserve better and must demand more from corporations like Dollar General and Dollar Tree while rejecting a saturation of low end businesses in minority communities . Why because this sinister business plan discourages quality economic development by causing large chain grocery stores, the anchor to quality development, to leave the community because high profit margin item sales on merchandise like cups, plates, personal hygiene, and snacks are swallowed up by the dollar stores driving quality grocers out of the community. Fact is grocery stores actually make very little profit off of food due to spoilage. When the grocery stores leave profits skyrocket for the corporate dollar stores, mission accomplished. First communities should increase zoning standards to limit these types of business from proliferating their communities. One way to do this is in a comprehensive plan that creates better land uses and standards aided by limits on distances between unwanted businesses or a protective overlay district. Finally the public and even the American business community must be better and do better collectively calling out the Fortune 500 corporations of America so they understand we will not tolerate communities being modeled in a discriminatory fashion placing a cookie cutter low end retail component in every minority community in America.

[geminimoonbeamx]

Naive: Part 6

A/N: In which Y/N helps Pepper loosen up and Bucky is ever the good guy.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: More cursing in this chapter because I have the mouth of a sailor. You’ll also probably gag at end, just sayin’

Summary: As the goddaughter of Tony Stark you were no stranger to the Avengers, but when you meet the newest member- you’re a little more then intrigued. Unfortunately for him, Bucky Barnes has caught your eye.

💘💘💘💘💘

You love Pepper.

You really do.

And you have repeated that notion to yourself, over and fucking over again as of late.

How many times had she gotten you out of trouble? Covered for you? Been there for you. The count was numberless. You literally couldn’t remember a time when she’d bailed on you or let you down.

Who were you to tell her to lower it down a notch with the wedding planning?

So, you had allowed her to drag you all over the city, from Queens to Brooklyn and thought the entirety of Manhattan. Running errands, non stop. Your brain was a little fried from the sensatory overload, from all of the white and lace. From the glaring lights of the many stores you frequent with her.

‘SOS, we’re at another bridal shop(gun emoji) (upside down face emoji)’

You send the text to Bucky. You’d definitely encouraged the senior citizen to start using his phone more, and the pages of text threads you had under his name on your phone made you smile. You were almost always talking to him, it was actually pretty lame the way you were constantly waiting for his next message. You couldn’t help it. He was really a funny fucker, when you got past that initial “I was tortured for decades, of course I have resting bitch face” surface.

'I’m sure you’ll survive, doll. If you need rescuing though, just holler. I’ll be there’ as usual you smile like a total loser at his message,

You follow a huffing Pepper out of the store. And into another.

You handle the near constant babble about table settings, what kind of china should she choose? Or maybe crystal? What about seating? Who should sit next to who? “We cant sit the Chinese ambassador next to Fury. They always go on about that damn gambling bet” And “The team shouldn’t be anywhere near Ross”

“Why are we inviting him again?” You’re in the fourth flower shop that you’d been to that day. On the hunt for the perfect shade of Larkspurs. Honestly, the hanging violet flowers all look the same to you but according to Pepper they’re “Too violet! I need lavender, you know like that powdery muted color”.

So with a pop of your lips, you keep your mouth closed. Wisely.

“Appearances. We’ve got to keep our rep nice and squeaky clean. Our public image has been under a lot of…stress. So the more keep it looking like everything is friendly between us and the government, the better” Pepper informs you, distracted, not looking up from the array of blossoms that lie between you.

“But things are better I thought” You implore, as a particularly fragrant array of peonies catch your eye. Their gorgeous, delicate and beautiful. You run your fingers along the lines of the petals, tracing them without touching.

“They are, for the most part”

That makes your eyebrow crook a little. What exactly did that mean? The team was back together, following rules(for all intents and purposes)… if Pepper didn’t look so distraught over the fact that you couldn’t find these fucking flowers, you probably would have pressed on about it. But you decide not to stress her out anymore, even from your place across the shop you could tell that she was wound tight.

You grab a couple of pictures of the peonies, posting them to your snapchat and other social media accounts quickly before making your way over to Pepper.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Like she was a bomb that might go off at anytime.

“Put the Irises down slowly and no one gets hurt” You instruct her with your arms held out in front of you melodramatically.

You really cant help being a smart ass. It was probably something you should work on.

She doesn’t even laugh, she just sets the bouquet down and sighs “We’re never going to find them, not in this city”

“Okay” You soothe, a little weirded out at the fact that the roles have dramatically changed and in this moment you are the parent “We’ll call the planner back and tell her that she was wrong. We’ll do some looking of our own and find where they do carry them, and we’ll have them shipped out”

Growing up is weird. Seeing your “elders” frazzled is weirder.

She takes a deep breath through her nose “I already looked, most places don’t ship because of how delicate they are”

“Fuck it, then we’ll go get them ourselves. We’ll take one of the quinjets” You’re completely serious. Even if you have to fly all the way to France, that’s what you’d be willing to do.

Pepper looks down at you, like everyone does because you’re a fucking mouse and everyone seems to dwarf you, and simpers at the promise in your voice. She could see that you were really making an effort, taking your “Maid of honor” duties extremely seriously. She knew she hadn’t been going easy on you, and yet you stayed resilient. Good natured. Keeping a cap on the complaints.

“Okay?” You conclude, giving her a look. Searching her face for acceptance.

“Okay” Pepper agrees. Thank fucking baby Jesus.

“Alright, can we do the rest of our planning at that bar across the street. I’m parched” Your feet hurt from the heeled booties you’d stupidly decided to wear and you knew the both of you could use a drank.

Well, Pepper could use more then one.

And that’s how you killed your soon to be officialized god mother from alcohol poisoning.

Again, you we’re being a dramatic asshole, but she was for all pretty much dead to the world as the two of you sat in the back of the sleek Lexus, en route of the tower. Her head was resting on your shoulder, her body slumped, her breathing coming out in soft wheezes. She smelled like a distillery, and you cant help but grin because somehow you’d managed to walk out of that bar, tipsy as hell, but still standing and Pepper was the one who was passed out drunk.

It had started innocently enough.

You two sitting at one of the booths, the tablet and Peppers wedding binder laid out in front of you as you went over the many checklists. You’d even ordered a platter of some kind of weird truffle nachos(that had actually ended up being super bomb) with your Mojito and Peppers Bloody Mary. But somehow one drink had turned to two, and two to three. After your third, you’d been smart enough to cut yourself off, knowing your tolerance level wasn’t very high. That, plus the daunting prospect of having to go and work at the Museum with a hangover the next morning had you pushing away a forth drink.

Even though Pepper kept insisting that you had another, that it would make her feel less bad if you drank as much as she did.

“I’m a horrible person” She had hiccupped, her face flushed pink from the warmth of the bar and the liquor “I shouldn’t be feeding you alcohol, I used take you shopping for school clothes. -another hiccup- Do you remember that dress you wore for your fifth grade school pictures. The one with the little monkey on it?”

“It was a koala” You defend yourself, trying not to be embarrassed at the memory of that hot mess of an outfit “And oh please, Virginia Potts, you’re the one that got me drunk for the first time”

“One. I gave you one Pina Colada at that party” She slurs before sipping the last of her Bloody Mary loudly, the ice clinging against the cup.

The party she was referring to was a fundraising Gala Stark Industries had thrown, raising money for some weird male pattern baldness charity. You had been twelve, and you had thrown up during Tony’s speech.

Not either of your’s greatest moment.

You just watched as she gets drunker and drunker, watch her inhibitions lift and the laughs that leave her. She looks more carefree then you’d seen her in…a long while. So even if you we’re technically getting her shitfaced in order to make sure she didn’t stroke out from the plethora of wedding planning stress, you felt you were doing a good thing here.

That you were gaining some major karmic points.

Although you weren’t nearly as inebriated as your copartner, you were tipsy. That kind of tipsy where you feel hot and brave and playful. Emboldend and stupid.

Really, there should be some kind of phone app that doesn’t allow you to send messages when your past a certain blood alcohol level.

'I should invent that’ you thought to yourself 'I’d be way richer then fucking Tony. Saving lives, left and right’

Unfortunately, there was no such thing.

And your texts to Bucky, well they just kept getting riskier and riskier. Your stomach clamping in anticipation every time you hit the send button.

-You having fun doll?

he’d asked when you’d told him you’d dragged Pepper to a bar in an attempt to sedate her with liquor.

-Not as much fun as Pepper is…I’d be having a lot more fun if you were here’

-That so? What would we be doing that would be so fun, mam?

-Mmhmm. And we could be doing whatever you wanted, sir.

He takes two minutes, literally to reply. More then the thirty seconds he usually does and you swear your teeth clench. You of course, send another message.

-I always have fun when your around(winky face emoji)

Why are you like this? You berate your self.

-I have always have a fun time with you too. You’re good company.

You roll your eyes. Was he not catching the fucking hint? Ugh, stupid super soldiers and their technologically handicapped brains. Ugh, them with their 40’s hardwired bullshit. Good company? What was that even supposed to mean? Who even talked like that anymore?

Screw it, you decide. If he wasn’t getting the hint, you’d have to be more straight forward.

-It’s only because you’re so cute.

You gnaw your lip as you send it. What more did you need to say to him. When would he get it?

-You just using me for my looks?

You bite a giggle at his reply. What an idiot.

-Maybe. Why, aren’t you using me for mine?

-Maybe

You swore, you could’ve scream at how this conversation was playing out. Why wouldn’t he just cave already?

-You know I think your gorgeous. Obviously.

See? Bold and stupid. And maybe a little bit desperate.

-Not nearly as gorgeous as you

Progress. Most guys would be sexting you up the wall by now, begging to see you. Pleading to “hang out”. But, you’d learned, Bucky wasn’t most guys. You had to try with him, work to figure him out.

-Well then do something about it

You sent that text, and then your attention was caught by the loud THUD of Peppers forehead hitting the table.

And those we’re the events that lead you to the present, where you we’re helping Pepper out of the back of the car, her arm around your shoulders as she tripped onto concrete floor of the garage.

“Do you need help, Ms. Y/N?” George, the driver, asks wearily and you wave him off.

“No, we’re okay, Georgie. Thanks for coming to get us, have a good rest of the night”

The little nap Pepper had during the ride home had sobered her up enough that she could walk again, leaning heavily against you for support, but she could put one foot in front of the other. She’s muttering incoherencies as you make your way to into the elevator.

“I just really want this to be special, you know?” you catch a full sentence.

“And it will be, don’t worry” You reassure her, trying not to laugh. You knew, all to well, what it was like to be the drunkest person in the room.

“You’re such a good human, you know that?”

“I try”

“I think you should start wearing your hair in pig tails again”

When you get to her and Tonys floor, the penthouse at the tip top of the building, your not expecting what greets you.

As the metal doors open, they reveal none other then Anthony Stark . In his robe, his arms folded across his chest. Of course he knew the two of you we’re coming up, he’d been watching the security cameras ever since Pepper had called him, clearly out of her mind. You’d both worried the shit out of him, even though he knew reasonably you were both capable enough to take care of yourselves.

How the hell was he not supposed to worry, at least a little bit, when it came to the two of you?

The look on his face so stern and parent like you really are almost scared again. He used to give you that look when you’d run off, when you’d get caught with boys…

When Pepper begins laughing, flat out cracking up so hard that it echos around the vast, quiet, tense space you cant help but put a hand on your mouth to stop from joining her. You fail, miserably.

Tony watches you, both of you, drunk and cackling and ridiculous. The smile that cracks across his face is involuntary.

“Come on, you lush” He urges Pepper, taking her arm, pulling her away from you. She kisses his cheek sloppily, cooing how much she missed him.

You look away. You weren’t one of those people who were like grossed out by your parental figures being affectionate…okay maybe you were a little grossed out.

“I’m going to- go. Goodnight guys” You excuse yourself, jutting your thumb back in the direction of the elevator.

“Thanks for this” Tony refers to the giggling, drunk mess of a redhead in his arms.

“Your welcome” You singsong, before the doors close again.

Its a little ridiculous, how much time you spend in elevators in this damn building, you utter to yourself. The liquor haze is starting to fade and intensify, all at once and you spin on your heels a little bit, reaching into your handbag or your phone.

The texts on the screen slap you in the face.

-You drive me fucking crazy, do you know that?

-Where are you now?

-When are you going to be back?

-Y/N

Giddy. You feel giddy and girlishly foolish at how electrified those texts leave you. Doesn’t he know that had always been the goal? Doesn’t he know he made you feel just as insane? You needed to see him, you unsober mind decides.

“FRIDAY?” You ask the nothingness around you, and she answers.

“Yes, Ms, Y/N?”

“Where exactly is Bucky’s room?” Because he was always coming to you. Your floor, seeking you out. You’d never actually been to his room before. You knew if you tried to find it on your own you’d get extremely lost.

“Mr. Barnes room is located on the 22nd floor. Along with Mr. Rogers’ and Mr. Wilsons” She answers back and you quickly press the corresponding button on the elevator control panel.

“And which unit is his?” Because you didn’t want to wake Steve or Sam up, all the damn doors looked the same in this place.

“The second on the right hand side”

You take a deep breath.

“Is there anything more I can help you with, Ms. Y/N? Would you like me to alert Mr. Barnes that you’re coming up?”

“No, thank you FRIDAY. That wont be necessary. If you could please keep this conversation between the two of us girls, though, I’d appreciate it” You inform her, knowing that in reality Tony never checked the logs…but still…

“Of course, I’ll ensure complete confidentiality of this exchange. Is there anything else?”

“Nope. Thank you FRIDAY Have a…umm goodnight?” Talking to an AI is hard sometimes. Did you come off as polite or completely idiotic?

It had been the struggle of your life. Growing up with all of these scientists. FRIDAY tells you to do the same and you wonder if she had eyes, would she be rolling them at you.

The elevator ride seems to drone on forever and your nerves have you all kind of twisted.

You rummage around and pull a compact out of your purse, checking yourself over. Reapplying your lipstick, fluffing your hair. Fixing your boobs, adjusting them in your bra to where your cleavage is perky and attention grabbing. Rollerballing the perfume-stick over your wrists, dabbing them on your chest in an attempt to make you reek less of bar smoke and gin.

Fuck, why did you look so…ugh. Your cheeks were too red. You looked too flushed, your eyes too wild. Your head is swimming with conflicting thoughts when your reach his floor.

You swear, you’re having literal heart palpitations. When was the last time a boy had made you this anxious? You compose yourself, or at least pretend to. Your chin rising as you flip your hair over your shoulder in an attempt to silence all of the chaos you were feeling. A true example of fake it til you make it. Of course you trip on your heels as you exit the elevator, barley managing to catch yourself. Yeah, real slick.

Slinking down the hallway, you hope your being as quiet and ninja like as you feel. You stalk, almost cat burglarish past the doors, the ones that Steve and Sam slept behind, and made your way to Bucky’s. Your heart was pounding in your throat and the anxious blanket that seemed to enfold you made the back of your neck perpetrate.

Be cool, this is fine. It’s fine. You’re fine. He is DAMN fine…

Your reciting this inner mantra to yourself as you rap, lightly enough that you hoped it wouldn’t catch anyone else’s attention, on Bucky’s door. Your knuckles tapping out a little rhythm.

You really think you might chew your bottom lip off, in those moments you wait for him to answer.

When the electrically operated door finally glides open, you spit out your lip, attempting to you know, not look like you were totally freaking out, and grin up at him.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s steely eyes are wide, eyebrows shot so high they near disappear into the fringe of loose hair that falls into his face… but, it’s not really his eyes that catch your attention.

Usually, Bucky’s donned in either his tactile gear, of one of his Henley’s. Hoodies maybe? Even a leather jacket or two thrown in there. He was always, for the most part, covered up. But he’s standing in the doorway of his room donning only a snug, gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. His arms we’re on full display, and you force yourself not to stare.

“Hey there, handsome” You hope you sound more confident then you feel.

After your little text messages, and the fact that you hadn’t replied to his own, Bucky had been tied in knots.

He didn’t know what to do. Did he text you again, he was still getting the hand of this whole texting all of the time thing but he didn’t want to seem…desperate. Did he call you? Nah, that would be even worse. So he sat, fidgeting on the end of his bed for the better portion of an hour. He couldn’t really go talk to Steve, not wanting to hear the disapproving tone he knew he’d receive.

He could go find you? Hunt you down, scower the streets of Manhattan until he located you? A bar across the street from a flower shop, there couldn’t be too many of those, right?

It’s pathetic, how long he’d debated that idea, before dismissing it. Too much, that would be too much.

He had just started to calm down, a bit, still reaching over to check his phone every two seconds, when there was a knock on his door. He grumbled as he’d risen, thinking it had to be Steve. Or maybe Sam. He really wasn’t in the best of moods, so he answers it intending on telling whichever man it may be to “kindly fuck off”. He feels gob smacked when he see’s you.

“Y/N?” He could only sputter as you gazed up at him, your arms folded over your chest. A coy, near sinful smile on your plump lips. You we’re the very last person he had expected to find outside of his room.

“Hey there handsome” Your voice is different. He’d gotten used to your affectionate nick-name and you called him it just as often, maybe more, then you called him Bucky. But there was intention behind it now. Your tone smoky. Your eyes near predatory.

“Hey doll” His eyes scan the dark hallway behind you. Had anyone seen you come in? “What are you doing here?”

Your lips pull into a little pout and he instantly regrets his choice of words.

“I mean if you don’t want me here…” You try not to visually deflate as you feel the first waves of rejection. “I could uh- I could just go”

You fail.

You’d messed up, you chide yourself mentally. You’d pushed at one of his boundaries, and you shouldn’t have.

“No! That’s not what I meant. I just- I wasn’t expecting you. You’ve never been up here, you surprised me a little bit, that’s all babydoll” Bucky can see it on your face, the hurt that had began to cloud your features and he tries to correct himself because why did his brain have to go so muddy with you? He couldn’t ever manage to say the right thing.

“Good surprise or bad surprise?” You quip, that deviousness seeping back in and he cant help but grin.

“Definitely good” he doesn’t miss a beat and your flooded with warmth, with a gnawing need to touch him. There’s so much skin, so much that he usually kept covered. You ache to run your fingers along the exposed flesh, for him to allow him to touch him. For him to finally touch you the way you we’re dying for him to.

“Are you going to invite me in, Buck?” it’s a whisper. You want him to understand, that he doesn’t have to. That even though you want him to grab you, he could say no and you wouldn’t be mad(you’d be extremely disappointed, but not mad). You don’t want to push him. But as you gaze pleadingly upwards, through your surreally long eyelashes he doesn’t know how he’d ever be able to tell you no.

“Yeah, come in” He ushers you into the room and you slide past him in the narrow door frame, making sure to brush your self against him as you do, a feather light, barley noticeable touch.

He notices.

Bucky’s room is simple, you acknowledge as you look over it. Clean, the sharp modern décor that Tony had opted for, for the entire tower barley touched. There was a suede jacket thrown over the armchair near the large window like door that lead to the small, connecting. patio. There was a littering of papers and notebooks at his desk, and an open box of Oreo’s on his bedside table. Other then that- it didn’t really look like it was his. Like he’d settled into it, yet. Hadn’t he been here for nearly a year?

“What have you been up to tonight, Buck?” You start, innocently, as you toss your purse onto the armchair and take a seat on the foot of his bed.

He doesn’t know how to approach this. Well he knows, instinctually what he wants to do. What his body is yelling at his head to say. Seeing you there, perched on his bed was doing things to him. The way you were leaning back on your arms made your chest jut out, your heavy breasts on display. The thin material of your shirt not doing much to contain your ample cleavage.

You notice the way his eyes roam, it electrifies you. Thrills you.

“Nothing much, it was pretty routine. I aint got any grand stories for you, doll, sorry”

You chuckle, he’s just standing there. Looking so out of place. You cant have that, him being so obviously uncomfortable. In his own room of all places. You reach forward, your hand seeking his. The cool, prosthetic fingers are the ones you lace your own with. Tugging on them.

“Come 'ere” You urge him, voice pleading. Silvery. He obliges and sits next to you, your thighs touching you he’s so close.

He’s not nearly close enough.

Your fingers are still gripping his, and you pull his prosthetic arm into your lap slowly, gauging his reaction. He doesn’t stop you, not even when your fingertips begin to trail along the metal plates. You…he’d never given you the chance to really appreciate the appendage. It was an impressive piece of technology, the plates detailed and cutting edge. The science behind it-jeeze. Your mom would have been flipping her shit, you think to yourself. Would have been extremely fascinated by the vibranium panels. They way they moved, and reacted.

“Can you feel this?” You wonder, looking up to meet his eyes. He nods, gulping once.

“I can feel the heat, and the pressure of your touch…I cant feel the texture of your skin, though” Bucky had never had anyone handle his arm with such delicate care. With such child like curiosity. His heart was pounding in his ears.

You grab his other hand, then. The flesh one, and giving it a quick squeeze, and then flipping it, top open, so that you can trace his palm. With those same barley there touches. Your nails tickling his skin in a way that nearly had him twitching.

“Y/N” His voice betrays him. It’s something between a warning and a plea.

“Bucky” You tease back, giving him a challenging look. Challenging him to fucking finally take what he wanted.

…you could sense it would take a little more coaxing. Sigh. This man…

“I missed you all day” You confess to him, as you link your hands with both of his, holding them tight “All I could think about when I was at that bar was coming home and finding you”

His mouth goes dry, brain foggy.

You supplement his lack of words with your own. Still mojito fuled enough to continue on “And telling you that you drive me crazy too. That I want you to touch me so fucking badly, I think I might die sometimes. I want you, Bucky. I want you so bad” Your voice is cracking by the end, and you can barley look at him. So you bury your face in his shoulder, pressing a kiss against the sleeve covered vibranium.

“Tell me you want me, too” It’s an order.

It’s you begging.

Begging him to fucking stop this, to let you both out of your misery.

“I want you, Christ, you know I want you” Bucky croaks in admition as he watches you worship the physical part of himself that he hates the most. Kissing the arm he hid from the world, the one that had committed so many atrocities.

“How bad?” Your kisses are trailing upwards, over his collarbone, under his sharp jaw. Every inch of exposed skin that you can get.

“So bad” He breathes, harshly, as you nip on his earlobe. You tug it between your teeth.

“Then do something about it” you repeat your words from earlier. Hearing them, live, coming from your pretty mouth sends him spiraling and he turns his head, his lips capturing your own.

Finally.

Mystically.

Magically.

When you talk about this with him in the future you’ll tell him how kissing him made you feel like your soul was lurching our of your body, made your world spin and your nervous system scream at me; 'Bitch what are you doing to me’ as you sighed and moaned and knotted your fingers in his hair. Also, in the future Bucky will tell you that you nearly killed him. That you made him muster up every ounce of self control he had ever had.

When he’d pulled away, you’d just looked for other places you occupy your mouth. The cleft in his chin, his pretty jaw.

“Y/N” Bucky breathed, ragged, as he tried in what seemed like vein to get a hold of himself “you taste like a distillery”

You giggle at his assumption, railing upwards to his ear “What? You don’t like it?”

“No-it’s not that- We just cant do this tonight” His hands go to your shoulders, stilling you and you sigh, huffily and glare at him. Your face contorted in the most adorable pout he’d ever encountered.

“Why not?” you start “Don’t come at me with any of that chivalrous 1940’s bullshit, okay? I’m a grown woman, I know what I want and I don’t need you to think that I don’t”

He lets you rant, and he really does try to keep the smirk off of his face.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“Look, you’re drunk and you have to be up bright and early” He tries to reason but heat fills your eyes “And I cant help the chivalrous bullshit. It’s the way my ma’ raised me and I know it aint right for us to do…anything else, not tonight”

His words are like a pick axe to your heard.

“You know, I’ve never really been rejected before” It’s a thought, that you’d intended to keep private- but your inebriated mouth had different plans.

“Hey” Bucky strokes your hair “You know that’s not what I’m doin’”

You cant meet his eyes though, you look anywhere but at him and he sighs and rests his nose against the side of your face. If you only knew how desperately he was trying to be the good guy in this situation.

“I can go” you tell him, even though you want to do anything but. No, you want to stay here forever, as cliché as that sounds. With his scruffy face pressed against your own.

“Or you can stay- I could use one of those cuddle sessions your so good at” His hand comes to your cheek, the one that his face isn’t pressed into and strokes the aple of it with a tenderness you’d never encountered. No one had ever been so soft with you before. It was always touching- grasping and needing. But not with Bucky.

Bucky was different.

You huff and turn to face him finally, running your nose against his for a moment “Fine. But you owe me”

And he did, you make a mental note of what he’d have to do to pay you back.

You fall asleep in Bucky’s bed, wrapped in his arms, the smell of him surrounding you. You sleep shitty-aly, as you always do when you’ve been drinking. But Bucky, he doesn’t remember the last time he’d gotten so much rest. He’s out like a light five minutes in- and once again, he thinks before the foggy haze of sleep envelopes his brain, he knows he’s in some deep shit when it comes to you.

———————–

Okay I know I keep promising smut and trust me guys it’s coming but every time I write these two I just see them holding each other. Like seriously this story gives me all the feels because I feel like Y/N is such a sexual character- except when it comes to Bucky. With him he brings out this whole other side to her. Okay, leave me some feedback! And again- the taglist for this story is open! Love you, babycakes!

@devenrenee @skeletoresinthebasement @kendallefire @mellifluousbabe @toniinhere @agentmstark @purplekitten30 @bellaballanda @yslbucky @arabellaaurorabarnes @prinxessofspace @supernaturally-lucky @sngforme @kyritha @the-strandedgypsy @teenagekixks @arabellaaurorabarnes  @saysay125 @papi-chulo-bucky @iamwarrenspeace

[negativefate]

rambling stream of consciousness essay i wrote to myself dec 29, 2014

listening to harsh noise music while driving down the highway i had just taken off at 630 from my house and before that woken up at 5 to get ready and finish cleaning the last set of things and before that leaving a party at kevins house and not telling anyone that i wasn't going to be there for new years and causing disappointment and before that seeing a show at dead leaf with a great 8bit band at the end and before that walking back and forth to the liquor store to get some beer and before that awkwardly getting dinner after my cousin came to visit when we probably should have gotten dinner with them and then before that i am cleaning up the basement again, organizing stupid cables, making a couple old devices work which is fun, but is it worth the time spent even? if not, then is my time on this planet even fucking worth it or am i just making trash like i believe these actual physical well designed objects that come to my home are so jump to me landing in kansas city and here i put on a tape just to get in the mood again i get there only an hour after landing i clumsily look up directions to get to jacks house on my phone i find there’s a bus that gets me there for fuckin a dollar fifty and i give them 2 and they give me a ticket for 50 cents back i ride the bus and i'm pretty tired for lack of sleep, and we drive through some weird semi industrial areas that are sparsely developed yet there are people getting on and off the bus fairly consistently i almost don't even notice who is getting on and off and at one point i look back to the back of the bus and see that i don't remember hardly any of the people getting on one person is looking back at me with a mousey face i typify some of these midwest people's looks certain women especially have a certain look that just reminds me of various nondescript porn actresses or something i start reading a economics book and it talks about oil prices and how scarcity reflects prices and is a major signal to the economy it is an interesting point of view but i look for holes in the logic because it seems obviously presenting a plain vewpoint it is clear that the US for example doesn't give a fuck about scarcity or perhaps the signalling system is so degraded that there is a runaway development the roads are overbuilt the cars are overrunning the roads if i take the face value economic view that this is a supply and demand problem i see it as a very perverse value system that rewards wasting they clearly even mention that soviet economies have gross inefficiencies and if we reflect on our own inefficiency it's clear to see that we are not perfect i feel that the author should have made this more clear i notice that i passed a street that i saw on my map (wyanadote) and while i didn't think it was "already" time to get off, several people are standing for several city blocks instead of sitting waiting to get off therefore I realize perhaps we're at a central location and certainly we are I stumble a couple blocks from the "main transit center" to another crossing on wyanodote, and i pass several office buildings with retail space that is broken down on the first floors first an eye doctor shop, filled with eye product ads but being torn to pieces otherwise then a sandwich shop, with dark cloudy windows and closed signs and a vibe of a previous generations comfort food when i reach the bustop at the streets that i had spotted on my map i was pleased and the troost bus came almost instantly i didn't understand how to scan my transfer so the lady did it for me, and i was acting bashful she was wondering if i knew it was the troost bus and i said yes i was wondering if that question was loaded i rode the bus in the front and looked at all the people that got on and off as we went towards jacks house we passed a row of two story townhouses that were red and white and repetitive that just looked like a dead end life situation for successful people i remembered my talk with my dad about retirement plans and investing money and about how i was literally thinking of blowing my brains out rather than do that and how i was yet again thinking about suicide in the bus i didn't even take it seriously but the vividness of me blowing my fucking head off was really awful i finally started recognizing some troost landmarks and scrambled off the bus i gave my ticket to a guy that wanted a transfer and he lamented being late for the bus that i just got off i don't know how to respond to this very well but wished him luck i walked up to jacks house and there are birds and squirrels and life just running wild there it is bright and sunny though a bit chilly (maybe 40 deg) and all these animals just were simply flourishing i walk inside through a couple closed doors and find my keys in the decorative chicken ornament i was surprised to also find several condoms inside the chicken, which was really amusing (e.g. the rooster...cock...haha) then i sat for a minute and petted the cat i wondered why the cat wasn't outside killing all the abundant wildlife whatever i was wearing three jackets because i was convinced that frontier would charge me for stuffing my jacket in my backpack and making it oversized in reality they didn't appear to care but they charge 50 dollars for a goddamn carry on that wasn't declared so i didn't risk it so i take off several layers and start my car i find where i left several of the christmas presents that I had meant to bring back home in the trunk and sort of kick myself for it i consider taking my car to a dealership to get it fixed up but have no idea where i also consider getting some food somewhere but decide to just hit the road i'm fairly tired still so i decide the stop off at fast food a couple miles out of town during the ride i am listening to some shitty talk radio about some guys that are talking about their "online trading academy" for stock trading i pull over and get some mountain dew, burrito and gasoline. slurping reality blub sucker is all i am at that moment. i do a couple stretches but it doesn't really feel very good. i am still listening to the radio in the parking lot and i notice that they replay recorded segments of themselves suggesting it is not at all a live show. at that point i decide it's time to blast the "white eye of winter" cassette and just start driving. i decide intentionally to start making stream of consciousness analogies to the noises instead of just letting it wash over me in some nonverbal stupidity i realize music journalists are probably better than me at this but i take some interest in just naming the feelings that i get so I'll repeat that hear a full spectrum white wash starts and then quickly gets crushed into a rumbling full force debase attack that's totally intentional about getting a skull crushing sound "large numbers of priests that were administrating the gulags were arrested and presumed killed" "others were sent to the labor camps...and suffered more slowly...assumed to be part of stalins fringe" a demented drum sound with a short delay time and extremely high feedback pounds and is absorbed by a sea-worthy hiss that fuzzes out and pounds once again to a deep drum a wind swept saturation takes hold and kills everything around it dead leaves litter the ground like there was never life anyways a thin veneer on the surface of our planet oscillations that never even really meant anything the dark fades away...like a comet that is completely grey....without color next a dirty fucking liquid sounds like it's being squeezed through a rubber feeding tube and a vaguely operatic chorus sings in the background, lulliby for a screaming nightmare some full bodied drone hovers over the chorus and takes the 17th century in it's arms and lays it gently to rest, taking each of the sharp moments, the sick deaths, the negative atrocity culture, and bringing it up onto a safer place, one where the only thing that matters is th industrialization of our times the industrialization has replaced any notion that feelings matter, any notion that a fair working environment is something that people deserve we could give retards something to do but it's already done and if you go up the ladder you see more and more things have been automated away you don't think about the roads being built do you? you don't think about the farms that cover 80+ percent of arable land do you? even when you're flying from new york to LA you don't hardly notice that humans have claimed this land for themselves scintillation frequency evokes this convulsive thought control that rises into a nasty chemical haze that demands more resources it's silenced into yet another flailing drippy sound fade out

a electric whip takes the stand fucking whining about the deprivation of resources and stuggles to make some connection fiercely spitting out brief moments of feedback between any number of frequencies that it can communicate on with an aether with non-existant endpoint it takes on more and more endpoint arcing back on itself and driving the frequencies into logical conundrums that antirepel itself and howl into additional painful derivative maneuvers it makes no difference to the machine what the effects of it's energy is being expended on, but only that some noise is being made taken astray leading reclamation of a formerly _done wrong_ system that is now instantaneously trashed and thrown under to make way for something more unplanned more unrelenting in it's consumption of power and antisocial connectivity whining and crying you see tear droplets form in the wave spectrogram taking a full 90 seconds to develop from a mixture of waveforms into a coherent pattern at your notification level notification level that is aloof from what you are supposed to be paying attention to but is instead wired into the inverse avoidance pattern the end the beginning once more gain blasting the appearance of nothing into a oscillation that has wavelengths spanning over years in time \ the bright lightning shatters a dark blank sentimental moment between us vaccum heavy rain sucks the white light from the heavens turning your back onto the keloid frostbite fallow bulbous pulsing face  trancerotten yellow drainage trapnell decade trip fucker stumble block meaningless powernazi storm chaser populace chain reveals a mathematical rule. a pseudoconsistent logic to resolve fndamental curry's paradox from thin air what you thought was a clumsy blind behemoth is now an industrialized system that seemingly stands on it's own regardless of what yo even thought your very presence is nothing more than that like a dinosaur a placement that just gives you a central prominence as i start the other side the lull the powerful lull of harmonics drilled deep into the subcortex drilled deep into the somnambulist deity that rocks the beddy-bye to sleep that keeps the sharp reality away for at least some time for that reality of simple nature, the spikes of inedible plant matter, the vast nothingness that humans have somehow decided is rightfully theirs. homesteaded one small plot at a time until the federal government stepped in and purchased the large swaths of land a musical pattern that resembles a shaman opening and closing it's arms above it's head and taken drumming starts thathits something that's the vbrational equivalent of a untuned drum mode across an entire flood basin drumming starts that calls into question or owner ship of that land and the melodic butterfly that was once a welcome sight is now almost  gone a tick tock dog growl gargling on some infected bacteria sinus cavity occupies the entire space you can hardly remember what things that you thought reckless distasteful nonsense squanders what was left of your vague fact driven storyline a sigh of relief ahlzagailzeguh stomps something fierce onto the mixing floor and drives metallic shards of broken dreams into the woodwork you don't think about who built your house did you/ why do you think you are worth anything to the other people around you when i say you am i actually referring to myself? i'm just desperately trying to offload my stupidity onto someone else? what is vulnerable to critique? i sit almost braindead when i face some of the most important situations yet when something is inconsequential i can leap into action and hurl retarded insults atpeople who don't deserve it like this girl that played prince at a party for like 4 hours i walked up to her and nearly choked her lights out and when she closed the computer i said no! play something else! i proceed to chose a random song that i thought was good off of youtube and then i proceed to just stand there and drunkenly creep on some peoples conversation wishing i could have just chosen a song that was better it's not my fault right? no, it is... there's a huge societal expectation that can't handle you being this way there's a roaring electric god that isn't going to cradle you in your arms while your social environment sees you as if you were a crying baby on an airplane take just a couple things at a time put them "in their right place" maybe then you won't have a crushing retardation lingering over everything you touch repeat this ad nauseum don't think for a minute that you can "escape" this reality you're "personal experiences" (your vacation, your hanging out with friends) is so far deviated from your systematically disassociated life happenstance that your better off to just give the middle finger to everyone and everything until it's over until it's over and you drop a sharp process into the ground and levitate transgressional power you can physically and mentally fail during this tremble weirdly under the occipital signal tension  drab naked torbid flippant crater wield two basic components and when suddenly connected create a huge imbalance that sends flux reeling superintensely into the weak painless skinless meat proper happenstance flayed skinless animal carcass rotting spongiform encephalitis eschera coli sacchromyces schizophrenia pombe river blindness parasite trapped nderneat the helencaste psycholayer obligate individual disease question i never know what to say

[nicoismywaifu]

Junai Lens Part 1 feat. KotoUmi (properly formatted this time)

As promised, the first part of my overly long, questionable in quality and annoying to format series comes to my Tumblr account for people who don’t have large fics crash when they open!

Words: ~9500 (yeah, I know, I’m sorry) Pairings: NozoEli and KotoUmi AO3 link: here! Summary: Basically, Nozomi uses her spiritual powers and meddlesome nature to get everyone together in a romantic comedy with light magical realism vibes. Ofc, that means her girlfriend Eli gets dragged along for the ride, too.

Nozomi must have had a rough day.

That was how it seemed to Eli, seeing her slumped over Eli’s sofa with a glum, defeated expression on her face. It was striking – Nozomi had nevermade a look like that before, just as she had never called Eli so late at night. It just wasn’t in Nozomi’s character, always having a permanent, contented smile; always so cheerful about absolutely everything. Although she might’ve been a little too grab-happy with her friends chests, but that wasn’t Eli’s concern right now.

Eli hated seeing Nozomi look so depressed. So instead, she had hugged her gently in the doorway, before easing her onto the couch and laying a comforting arm around her shoulder for a few minutes, before deciding Nozomi could use some tea.

Eli returned from the kitchen with a tray of green tea, along with some assorted chocolates and shortbread. All of Nozomi's favourites. Although some of the chocolates Eli laid out might have been for herself, as she placed the tray upon the coffee table before sitting and carefully snuggling next to Nozomi on the couch.

‘Thank you, Elicchi,’ Nozomi said, her voice quiet.

‘It's fine,’ Eli replied, smiling as she reached out to squeeze Nozomi’s hand. ‘Anything for you, Nozomi.’

‘Elicchi…’

Sniffling, Nozomi squeezed Eli’s hand back before reaching her other hand across to the tray and grasping a cup, blowing the steam off the top before taking a large gulp. To Eli’s relief, Nozomi gave a contented sigh as she eased back into the sofa afterwards, resting her head against Eli’s shoulder.

Eli decided then to bite the bullet. Hopefully Nozomi was up for getting things off her more than ample chest. ‘Nozomi? Is something the matter?’

She had suspected the answer, but it was confirmed anyway when Nozomi’s response was to groan and recline further against Eli’s body. Eli quickly began to feel another rush of sympathy for the other girl. Had she been too pushy in asking?

‘Sorry, you don’t have to talk about it if-‘

Nozomi half-smiled as she placed a finger to Eli’s lips. ‘It’s fine, Elicchi. I’ll tell you.’

Eli gave a small nod and another inviting smile of her own – code for “take all the time you need, Nozomi”.

Nozomi took a deep breath and cast her eyes downwards before finally answering. ‘I just can't take it anymore, Elicchi,’ she admitted. ‘They're really starting to get to me.’

‘They?’ questioned Eli.

‘It's just too much,’ Nozomi continued, now clutching her hands to her face. ‘I just… I just…’

Anger coursed through Eli as she placed protective arms around her girlfriend. As far as she was concerned, there could be no justification for making her precious Nozomi feel so down on herself.

‘Alright,’ Eli decided, her ice-blue eyes becoming firm. ‘Tell me who did this to you and I'll take care of them.’

Nozomi shook her head and remained silent, despite Eli’s encouragement. Even after all that, it still seemed difficult for her to name the culprit, probably afraid of what Ayase-style retribution might look like for her wrongdoer. It was only after Eli softened and instead sent over a long, pleading look that Nozomi finally gave in and whispered.

‘It’s Nicocchi.’

Eli was stunned. ‘Nico?’

But Nozomi wasn’t finished. ‘And Maki-chan.’

‘Nico and Maki?’ Eli exclaimed. It was a shock, having her two good friends being named as Nozomi’s tormentors. But that shock was soon replaced by realisation. ‘Ah. I get it,’ said Eli, coming to a conclusion of her own. ‘Something happened again, didn't it?’

Nozomi nodded weakly. ‘You know that new cake store that opened up recently?’ Eli nodded, so Nozomi continued. ‘Well, I gave them a shared coupon there that I just happened to have. It was the perfect opportunity for them.’

Eli could see where this was going, but she asked anyway. ‘How did it end up?’

‘They ended up shoving cake into each other's faces. Literally. They got kicked out of the café for disturbing everyone. I just don’t understand it at all, Elicchi,’ Nozomi whined.

At the sound Nozomi made, Eli took even more notice - whining Nozomi didn't appear very often, and it wasn't a sound Eli liked to hear her girlfriend make outside of the bedroom.

‘I'm exhausted as well,’ said Nozomi, now letting her complaints flow freely. ‘I used up all my energy the past few weeks and it's done nothing. None of the others were like this.’ She turned her face desperately to meet Eli’s. ‘Are the spirits leaving me now? Just like my parents?’

Eli again wrapped her arm around Nozomi’s shoulders. ‘I’m sure the spirits would never leave you,’ she reassured her.

Nozomi had tried everything she could for those two – she had worshipped some shady gods, performed some rituals she really wasn’t proud of and sent her spiritual blessings to them every time their back was turned. But it hadn’t been enough, when it had been for everyone else she had turned her attention to.

Some people in this world might have called it pointless mumbo-jumbo. But Nozomi knew better – the power of the spirits was real, and there was living proof of this all around her. So rather than being a mere annoyance, the fact that Nico and Maki only seemed to be arguing even more now was closer to a full-blown identity crisis for Nozomi.

Eli’s attention was then suddenly drawn as Nozomi stood up, prompting Eli to let go of holding her.

‘Hey Elicchi, do you mind if I go through your pantry?’

‘Of course I don't mind,’ replied Eli. ‘But what are you planning to cook at three o'clock in the morning?’

Nozomi shook her head. ‘Not cook. Drink.’

‘I'm afraid I still don't understand,’ said Eli, now even more baffled.

‘Elicchi, I came over for the same reason why anyone visits their Russian girlfriend when they're feeling down,’ said Nozomi, as she simply kept strolling into Eli’s kitchen before opening up some cabinets. ‘To drown their sorrows with vodka.’

Eli groaned. So that’s what Nozomi was after. Thankfully for her, despite the sounds of cupboards being opened and closed coming from downstairs, Nozomi was still yet to find the liquor cabinet, and it was locked anyway.

Wait a moment.

It was locked, right? From when her parents last visited a few months ago?

Now unsure herself, Eli decided that the blankets could wait – she’d first check the drawer of her parent’s room for the cabinet’s key. She was stopped as she began making her way there, however, by a groggy looking Alisa who stood at the top of the staircase, wondering what the commotion was about. ‘Onee-chan?’ she asked, yawning at the end. ‘Is Nozomi-san alright?’

‘Don't worry, Alisa,’ said Eli, placing a hand onto her sister’s shoulder. ‘Nozomi is completely-‘

‘Aha!’ came Nozomi’s muffled shout from downstairs, as the sounds of rummaging now stopped completely. ‘I knew you'd have the good stuff, Elicchi!’

Eli grimaced. ‘-not fine at all.’

Breathing a Russian swear under her breath, Eli made a mental note to do a better job of hiding her parents’ liquor as she sprinted back down the stairs and into the kitchen to wrestle a bottle of Stolichnaya from Nozomi's hands, holding it above herself and out of Nozomi’s shorter reach.

‘Awww,’ Nozomi returned to whining, ‘no fair, Elicchi!’

It had started out with parfaits, as did most of the afternoons that Nozomi spent with Eli. But unlike most of those sugar filled afternoons, the two ended up stumbling upon an interesting sight after exiting the café and walking over to the local shopping district.

Arms linked together as they made their way downtown, a glimpse of deep blue and light ash in the corner of her eye caused Nozomi to stop and turn. There really was no mistaking the sight.

It was Kotori and Umi, of course, sat beside each other on a park bench with their backs turned to the other pair. Dragging Eli by the hand, Nozomi went in for a closer view of the action. From a convenient blind spot, they observed a normal looking Umi, contrasted by a decidedly nervous Kotori, who didn’t meet Umi’s eyes as she blushed and fidgeted in her seat.

‘So,’ Kotori began, hesitating, ‘was this a fun afternoon, Umi-chan?’

‘Of course,’ said Umi, grinning at Kotori. ‘I always enjoy spending time with you, Kotori.’

Kotori looked like she had just won the lottery. ‘Umi-chan!’

‘After all,’ Umi concluded happily, ‘you’re my closest, childhood friend.’

Kotori looked like her lottery winnings had just been burnt in a fire. ‘U-Umi-chan…’

Glancing down at her wristwatch, Umi stood up from her seat. ‘Sorry, I have dojo practice to attend now. See you next time, Kotori,’ she said, giving Kotori a fond wave goodbye as she exited.

‘Yeah.’ Kotori didn’t match Umi’s enthusiasm, not bothering to look up as she waved back. ‘See you, Umi-chan…’ To her credit, she was able to make it until Umi was completely out of sight before rolling her head back on the bench and groaning to herself. ‘Umi-chan… Why are you making this so difficult for me?’

‘What’s difficult?’

An undignified ‘eeep!’ was given as Kotori squealed and turned around, facing the unexpected conversation starter. ‘N-Nozomi-chan? And Eli-chan?’ she squeaked out, having noticed the other girl as well. ‘Did you hear all of that?’

‘Sorry,’ said Nozomi. 'I didn’t mean to.’

(That was a complete and utter lie.)

‘But if I had to guess,’ Nozomi continued, completely unabashed, ‘it looked almost like you were trying to be romantic with Umi-chan!’

‘Oh,’ said Kotori as her frown turned deep and gloomy. ‘So I guess that means you’ve discovered my secret, then. I’m in love with Umi-chan.’

‘That’s fine, isn't it?’ asked Eli, smiling at Kotori kindly. ‘Umi’s a wonderful person.’

Kotori’s expression was more dubious. ‘Well, it would be fine, but…’

Nozomi leaned in curiously. ‘But what, Kotori-chan?’

‘But everything is “shameless” to her, apparently!’  

Having shouted loud enough to surprise herself, Nozomi, Eli and even a few passers-by, Kotori brought a hand over her mouth in embarrassment, muffling herself as she said ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Nozomi, waving her hand dismissively. ‘But what do you mean by everything, Kotori-chan? Something like a romantic kiss in the park?’

‘That’s “shameless”, according to Umi-chan,’ replied Kotori.

‘Holding hands as you walk?’ Eli asked.

‘Shameless,’ Kotori answered straight away.

Nozomi tilted her head, hand on her chin. ‘Looking at each other fondly?’

‘Also shameless.’

Eli raised an eyebrow. ‘Accidentally sharing a drink?

‘Shameless,’ said Kotori, getting rather used to the word.

‘But it was an accident,’ clarified Eli.

‘Doesn't matter to Umi-chan.’

‘How about just walking too close beside each other?’

Kotori buried her head in her hands. ‘Shameless.’

Nozomi let out a whistle. ‘Okay, I think I get the picture.’

‘That’s what makes things difficult with Umi-chan,’ continued Kotori. ‘I want to do all those things that Umi-chan calls “shameless!”. I want to ask her to be my girlfriend. But if all those things are shameless…’ Kotori’s voice dropped and her expression turned pensive, ‘then how would she react to having another girl confess their feelings to her? Umi-chan’s the traditional sort of girl, y’know? I'm not sure something like that would ever cross her mind. So if I ask her suddenly, she might just think I’m weird…’

Eli placed a supportive hand to Kotori’s shoulder. ‘Umi’s already received plenty of love letters from girls at our school, right?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Kotori replied, ‘but she doesn’t get what they mean at all! She misinterprets them and thinks they all just want to be her friend or something! And she didn’t get what this meant as well, either: me inviting her to a fun afternoon with just the two of us.’

‘So she’s dense as well,’ said Eli, sighing.

‘As oblivious as the male protagonist in your usual romantic comedy,’ Nozomi observed.

‘But Umi-chan is far more handsome than any guy!’ Kotori cried out.

‘Fine then,’ said Nozomi. ‘Just imagine Umi in a tuxedo or something, as if she were in the Love Wing Bell costumes you made back then.’

So Kotori imagined. That tall, graceful, upright posture which Umi had, that refined smile, that slender frame with just the right muscle tone across her arms and lower torso giving a low whisper of ‘Ojou-sama’ right beside Kotori’s ear...

Her nosebleed was inevitable and voluminous.

‘Kotori?!’ Eli yelped in surprise. ‘Are you okay?’

Kotori simply reached into her purse with a quick movement and retrieved a handkerchief. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice muffled now from pinching her nose shut. ‘So because Umi-chan is really dense, it’s really hard to tell her how I feel. Not to mention that she might just think it’s shameless in the first place.’

‘Aww.’ Eli and Nozomi cooed in unison, both exchanging a look of sympathy with Kotori. It was soon followed by Nozomi turning sideways to wink at Eli, who winked back in response. The exchange was beginning to feel very odd to Kotori. But she couldn't quite put a name to what she felt. If she had to guess, though, it gave her the kind of impression that an important plot point was about to be uncovered, or something.

‘Let me show you something, Kotori-chan,’ said Nozomi, conveniently on cue.

Kotori watched in confusion as Nozomi drew a step backwards and retrieved her tarot deck from her handbag. ‘Um, Nozomi-chan, what are you doing?’

‘Just an impromptu reading,’ Nozomi replied off-handedly. ‘Tell me something first though. Do you believe in the power of spirits?’

‘I do!’ Kotori chirped, an excited smile now gracing her. ‘That’s why I always pray at the shrine. Myojin-sama has always been good to me.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Nozomi replied sincerely, as she drew the top card for herself to see. ‘Ooh, that's a fun card!’

Kotori’s interest was piqued. ‘What is it?’

Turning the card to face Kotori, Nozomi smirked. ‘The Lovers, of course. Though really, why would I be surprised? I guess there really is no helping this, then.’ Now drawing in a deep breath, Nozomi closed her eyes and placed both arms by her sides. She looked serene, like a buddha, before her mouth opened once again.

‘Nozomi power, tappuri chunyuu!’

Nozomi brought a hand up from her side, pointing at Kotori with her fingers in a gun shape. In a split-second, a heart-shape, coloured purple, formed around her fingers before shooting itself towards Kotori and impacting into her chest, left-of-centre.

Kotori looked down at where the strange energy had struck, then back up at Nozomi in a double-take, her eyebrows knitted together like stitching of a tapestry. But as soon as she opened her mouth to question it, Nozomi held up a finger to shush her.

‘Wait for it...’

On cue, a stream of particles, now kaleidoscopic in colour, languidly drifted outward from Kotori’s body, and began to put themselves together like bits of a puzzle. To Kotori, it looked as if a vivid watercolour painting had fizzled in from thin air, and now floated a few feet in front of Kotori’s face. The refreshing scent of flowers tinged the air.

Awestruck, Kotori gasped at the surreal scene. ‘Nozomi-chan, what is this?!’

‘Just some spiritual magic,’ Nozomi replied. ‘A spell to bring your heart and feelings into focus. Simply put, it’s your junai lens!’

Kotori’s awe turned into something more questioning. ‘That name’s a bit embarrassing, don’t you think?’

‘I think it’s cute!’ Nozomi retorted, crossing her arms in a huff.

‘Maybe you should actually explain to Kotori what a junai lens is first,’ said Eli, looking rather unimpressed with her girlfriend.

‘Oh. Right. Good idea, Elicchi.’ Nozomi coughed twice into her fist before beginning her explanation.

‘When you fall in love with a person, it feels special, doesn’t it? It’s like that person is the centre of your world; they’re all that you can think about. When that happens, a junai lens crystallises in your heart, protecting the feelings you have for that person. The feeling of pure, heart-throbbing love. In this case, the love you have for Umi-chan. And because I’m spiritual, I can see your lens, just like I showed you!’

‘Wow…’ whispered Kotori, amazement shining in her eyes. ‘That’s incredible, Nozomi-chan!’

‘I know, right?’ said Nozomi, very chuffed with herself.

Eli just rolled her eyes. ‘Very modest, Nozomi.’  

‘Shush, Elicchi.’ Nozomi’s soft expression returned as she faced Kotori again. ‘I can only show it to the person with their own lens, though. Oh, and Elicchi, too, but she’s a special exception.’

‘So only the three of us can see this right now?’ asked Kotori.

‘Correct,’ said Eli. ‘Yours looks quite lovely, by the way.’

‘So basically,’ Nozomi concluded, as Kotori blushed from the weirdest compliment she’d ever been given, ‘everyone who’s fallen in love has a junai lens. And this one is yours, Kotori-chan. What do you make of it?’

‘It looks like… a garden of blue and white flowers? No, wait.’ Kotori squinted, scrutinizing the floating image more closely. ‘Anemones?’

Nozomi hummed to herself. ‘Interesting reaction…’

‘If I remember correctly,’ said Eli, placing a hand to her chin in thought, ‘white anemones symbolise sincerity. It's hanakotoba.’

‘Well then,’ Nozomi said, with an air as if that had settled everything. ‘To the sincere Kotori-chan struggling with her feelings, I’ll lend some of my spiritual power. Hai, pushuu!’

With her fingers again pointed back at Kotori, the suspended image dissolved into a concentrated white stream before rushing back into Kotori’s body. An invigorating glow radiated and pulsed around her, and she felt the flowery scent further in her nostrils now. Again, Kotori felt a strange sort of embarrassment to have to send another confused glance at Nozomi, who answered her unasked question with another wink.

‘It’s a spiritual blessing, Kotori-chan. You deserve it, and actually, you might need it.’

‘With the lens in mind, we know that you’re swept up in your pure love for Umi-chan and okay, that is actually embarrassing to say out loud,’ Eli continued, as if reciting a memorised speech (the first part of her sentence, at least).

Nozomi took over. ‘That is to say, although the spirits have recognised and blessed your feelings like you just saw, there is no guarantee that your feelings will be returned. This isn't something that will magically make Umi-chan fall in love with you. The spirits wouldn't approve of that sort of attraction.’

‘Oh.’ That was all Kotori could say.

Noting Kotori’s look had gone from highly confused to the absolutely perplexed look one makes when they encounter a question on a test that they should've studied harder for, Eli sighed and decided to simplify. ‘Basically, you still need to make Umi fall in love with you, because this isn't a love potion story.’

‘Ah!’ Kotori chirruped. ‘I get it now!’

‘Great,’ said Eli, thankful for her quick summarising skills learned from teaching μ’s three idiots. ‘So let’s go over things once more. You're in love with Umi, but you're worried about how Umi will react.’

‘And that's all because,’ Nozomi cheerfully added, ‘you’re worried that she thinks doing yuri stuff together is shameless!’

Eli rubbed at her forehead with second-hand embarrassment, feeling a headache coming on. Kotori also blushed once more before replying. ‘Essentially, yes.’

‘Okay, that’s settled then!’ Nozomi rubbed her hands together with glee. ‘This looks like just the job for me to meddle with, I mean, help your beautiful love blossom!

‘What Nozomi means to say,’ said an exasperated Eli, ‘is that we’re always here to help you, Kotori. That’s what friends are for. So, would you like us to help you out with confessing to Umi?’

‘Eli-chan, Nozomi-chan…’ Kotori looked between them both with glistening amber eyes, before bowing her head deeply. ‘I'll be in your care!’

‘Alright, then!’ said Nozomi. ‘I’ve got just the plan in mind!’

‘Basically,’ Nozomi had said, ‘we just need desensitise Umi to shameless things!’

To summarise, Nozomi’s grand theory was that if Umi thought everything was shameless, then they would simply wear her down by normalizing shameful displays in Umi’s life, so that they wouldn't be shameless anymore!

Eli was unconvinced of this plan for several reasons. And she was especially unconvinced of the method that Nozomi had chosen to execute that plan. But despite those misgivings, she just couldn't say no to her girlfriend – Nozomi had been beaming with happiness as she came up with her idea, and Eli was struck by a sudden onset of gay from how ethereal Nozomi's looked at that exact moment. So naturally, she found herself grinning and nodding along instead of saying, ‘Hey, wait, this is actually a bad idea and I don't think we should do this.’

So as Eli reached the hour of reckoning in the clubroom containing herself and seven other members of μ’s, she just sighed to herself, resigned to her girlfriend induced fate. She looked at the time on her phone.

3, 2, 1…

‘E~li~cchi!’

Slamming the clubroom door to gain everyone’s attention, and especially grabbing Nico’s (‘the Idol Research Club doesn’t have the funds to replace doors all the time, you know?!), Nozomi waltzed towards a remarkably unsurprised looking Eli, placed both hands to Eli’s posterior and began the process of mining for gold with her tongue, on the assumption that such alluvial deposits were to be found somewhere in Eli’s mouth.

In response, Kotori gasped, Honoka fist-pumped, Hanayo squeaked before covering Rin’s pure, innocent eyes, Rin screamed about becoming blind, Maki blushed furiously because that's just what she always does and Nico made a noise of immense disgust but still watched them curiously. Everyone had some sort of reaction to the kiss.

Everyone except for Umi, that is.

Instead, she kept a strange, blank look on her face, devoid of any outward emotion. Being most interested in her reaction from the start, Eli and Nozomi eventually broke from their exceedingly long kiss to look at Umi with questioning, slightly flushed faces. It was then that Umi got to her feet with a brisk motion, said ‘Please excuse me,’ then walked through the clubroom door, with the others hearing her footsteps disappearing down the adjacent hallway.

Honoka was the first to react, hurriedly cramming her belongings from the table into her bag before bolting for the door.

‘Honoka-chan, where are you going?’ asked a confused Nozomi.

‘I really don’t like the vibe that Umi-chan is giving off,’ Honoka replied, face creased with worry as she turned around from the doorway. ‘I can tell, since I’ve gotten Umi-chan mad enough times before. This time her aura feels like… some kind of killing intent, maybe?’

Eli gulped.

‘I don’t feel anything like that from her,’ replied Nozomi, casually reclining her chair backwards. Of course, this was because she was supremely confident in her spiritual powers to spot such changes.

‘Okay then, your funeral!’ shouted Honoka, already having dashed out the door. Her footsteps sounded down the hallway, stopped, and headed back towards the clubroom as she poked her head in once more. ‘Oh, and Eli-chan’s too!’

‘Why me?!’ Eli yelled to Honoka, who had already sprinted off again and slammed the door shut behind her, much to Nico’s chagrin.

Feeling Eli’s newfound anxiety, Nozomi placed her hand over Eli’s with tender affection. ‘Don't worry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. Am I right?’

‘Nozomi…’ Eli’s eyes began to water up as she squeezed back. ‘You're right.’

The room fell silent as the door opened again. There stood Umi, with a grin on her face, a quiver of arrows strapped to her back and a traditional Japanese bow in her hands.

‘You’re more than welcome to try being shameless again,’ she said, still smiling as she addressed Eli and Nozomi. ‘I need some practice for my love arrow shoot.’

Eli and Nozomi decided against doing so, despite Umi’s encouragement. They were instead grasped by a sudden urge to get some exercise as they turned, jammed open the clubroom window and took a running vault through it.

Thank god all their idol practice paid off.

‘Okay,’ said Nozomi, slightly out of breath and hands still trembling from the earlier events that day. She, Eli and Kotori now sat together on a bench, shaded by the tree within the school’s sunlit courtyard. ‘We need a different plan, since I don’t think the desensitisation route is going to work out.’

‘It has to involve Kotori, then,’ replied Eli. Like Nozomi, she also a haunted, thousand-yard stare in her eyes. ‘At least Umi won’t threaten to shoot her with an arrow.’

‘I think Umi-chan was just joking with that,’ Kotori came to her crush’s defence, before having a second thought. ‘I mean, probably, anyway.’

Eli shook her head. ‘And when has Umi ever made a joke?’

‘Ummm…’ Kotori faltered and didn’t complete her sentence. ‘A-Anyway, what do you think I should do, then?’

‘I’ll leave it to Elicchi this time,’ said Nozomi, her default expression of coy smirk returning in an instant. ‘She’s the expert. Did you know that she’s always reading the love advice columns in those girly magazines?’

‘Really?!’ gasped Kotori, quickly placing both hands in front of her mouth to stifle herself from giggling.

‘Nozomi,’ Eli whined, ‘you're ruining the cool image everyone has of me.’

‘I think it's cute though!’ Nozomi protested with her arms folded in front of her.

‘Wait a second. If Eli’s the expert, then why did Nozomi come up with the first plan?’ asked Kotori, looking confused again.

‘I just really wanted to kiss Elicchi like that,’ replied Nozomi, shrugging.

‘So that’s it, huh?’ replied Kotori, downcast.

Eli chose to ignore Nozomi’s impure motives, as she instead came up with an idea to help Kotori. ‘Umi’s being dense to the subtle things you’re doing, right? So instead, try to convey your feelings in a way that she’ll understand.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kotori, tilting her head to one side like an owl.

‘Umi’s always writing our songs, and she likes poetry. So if you put all your feelings into writing, I'm sure she'll understand how you feel.’

‘Eli-chan!’ Kotori sparked again into a bright smile. ‘I’ll do my best!’

Hunched over the desk of the empty classroom, Kotori opened her notebook to a fresh page and tapped her pen against it a few times, thinking of where to start with her writing.

She was determined to repay Eli and Nozomi. They were busy helping Honoka out with her Student Council duties that afternoon, since Umi was leading extra archery practice for an upcoming tournament and practically strong-armed Kotori into having them act as her replacement as well, so she could focus on something they said was much more important.

It had all worked out well when she wrote Wonder Zone, didn’t it? Okay, maybe it took her a few goes and a minor crisis of confidence back then – and Kotori only had one song to deal with. Just another thing about Umi which amazed Kotori. Naturally, her thoughts wandered across to Umi herself.

Umi - A girl raised on tradition, just like Eli had said. A girl who could list kendo, calligraphy, archery and traditional dance as her hobbies.

So surely haikus would resonate with her soul – assuming Kotori could write something half-decent. But Kotori had pure love as her inspiration, and love always wins in the end! Well, except in those angsty stories.

And there’s a lot of angsty stories…

A-Anyway, with Umi as her muse, Kotori got to work, humming Printemps’ songs to herself as she placed pen to paper and worked herself into the (wonder) zone. Her pen glided effortlessly for the next twenty minutes, punctuated occasionally by her counting the number of syllables she had used on her fingers. After writing around 10 haikus straight in a concentrated flurry, Kotori decided to review her handiwork, flicking the notebook back to the first page she had written.

She wasn’t expecting anything as good as what Umi could produce. Umi really was amazing. But surely, with all the feelings she had within herself, she could turn them into at least one decent haiku, right?

Her eyes scanned over her first neatly written haiku:

Umi-chan smells nice

She’s just like the ocean breeze

I really like it.

‘Why am I talking about her smell?!’ shouted Kotori to the empty classroom. The classroom remained silent in response.

Tearing the paper from her notebook, she quickly turned it into a scrunched mess, before flinging it at the bin placed in the corner of the room. She missed by a good metre, but was too annoyed to go and pick it up as she instead went on to read the next haiku.

Umi-chan is cute

So I sometimes get nosebleeds

She’s ikemen, too.

Another piece of paper met its crumpled doom. ‘Even Honoka-chan could write better than this!’

It was then Kotori realised that, just maybe, going with her pure-love-for-Umi to try creating poetry wasn’t the best idea. And she definitely should have paid more attention to her writing in class. Hands shaking, she turned the page to look at what she predicted would not be a literary masterpiece.

Tonight, Umi-chan

Let’s visit a love hotel

I want to “Wild Stars”.

'Why?!' wailed Kotori, slamming her head onto the desk with a bang. ‘Why did I write this?! This is actually shameless!’

She knew all along that she wouldn’t come close to what Umi could do. But this was just mortifying – words came out, but they never expressed what she had wanted them to do; she had gotten lost somewhere along the way, or maybe she had never been on the right track from the start.

Kotori tore all the remaining pages with writing on them out of her notebook, walked over to pick up the one she had tossed earlier, and slammed them all into the bin.

‘I see,’ was all Eli could say after Kotori related how badly her poetry writing had went in the Student Council room after.

‘Surely it can’t be that bad?’ Nozomi asked, a puzzled look on her face. ‘Just tell us some of what-‘

‘No!’ shouted Kotori, a profuse blush on her cheeks, ‘it really was that bad! It was spicaterrible!’

‘Well, maybe we could help fix it?’ Eli suggested.

Kotori shook her head so fast that it seemed to blur. ‘It needs fire to fix it!’

Nozomi looked torn. ‘Now I really want to see what you wrote…’

‘Well then, maybe we should just stick to what you’re good at,’ said Eli, trying to placate Kotori and deflect Nozomi at the same time. ‘How about keeping it simple and making some special treats, just for Umi? Dense as she is, she should be able to understand that much, and you’re good at cooking as well. It’s perfect.’

Nozomi clapped her hands together. ‘Ooh, nice idea, Elicchi!’

‘Eli-chan!’ Kotori sparked, receiving a second wind. ‘I’ll do my best! Again!’

Tying on her favourite blue apron in her kitchen, Kotori set about grabbing ingredients out of cupboards and utensils from their hiding places, all whilst singing happily to herself.

‘I know happy holiday, happy holiday…’

To Kotori, cooking was a simple process – just take it one step at a time, follow the instructions and keep Honoka from eating them before they’re done. So while macarons aren’t the easiest treat to prepare, Kotori had made them enough times before to be confident in her ability as she set to work. And especially since Honoka wasn’t there to eat everything.

‘First, you preheat the oven… then triple sift the almond meal and icing sugar, whisk the egg whites in the blender… add some more sugar, beat it until shiny, transfer it to the almond meal and fold it all until smooth… Done!’

Kotori took the bowl into her hands to admire her handiwork. They looked great! Umi would surely be impressed with her domestic skills, and would say something like, ‘Kotori, I want to eat your cooking for the rest of my life. Please marry me.’

Or that’s what Kotori thought, as she spaced out with happy thoughts of Umi munching on her delicious treats. Her loosened grip on reality was unfortunately met with a loosened grip on her bowl, which slipped from her hands and headed towards the ground.

‘Ah!’

She caught it when it was halfway to the floor, and breathed a sigh of relief. She placed the bowl back onto the counter.

‘Now,’ she said with undaunted confidence, ‘add the food colouring to each batch… then transfer them to the pastry bag… squeeze them onto the tray… done!’

Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Kotori looked upon her creation with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Now, time to add some decorations!’

Bustling away to grab some cream and jam for filling, Kotori left the tray for a moment. However, she had placed the tray with a corner protruding from the benchtop, and accidentally knocked it with her hip as she returned, leading to the entire tray falling towards the ground again. She needed all her reflexes to avert disaster, diving to catch the tray an inch from the ground.

Cooking is the process of combining ingredients, but that requires the ingredients to survive until the end.

Hands trembling, the now decorated rainbow macarons managed to remain on the tray as she placed them into the oven, closed the door, and then hurried out of the kitchen before anything else could even think about going wrong.

She settled into the living room couch, tired but satisfied. And not for the first time that day, she drifted back into happy Umi thoughts as she thought about who she was doing all this work for in the first place.

‘You’re always working so hard, Umi-chan…’

She placed a hand over her mouth and stifled a yawn. The macarons still needed a good half-an-hour of baking. It was the ideal time for her to rest her eyes, as she reached for the blanket, placed a pillow beneath her head and relaxed, still musing to herself about her favourite blue-haired girl.

Loud beeping woke Kotori from her rest on the couch.

‘I must’ve dozed off…’ she said, yawning as she picked up her phone and flicked the screen. ‘But I didn’t set an alarm?’

Kotori glanced around in confusion as her senses began to return bit by bit. Something just didn’t smell right – as in, literally didn’t smell right.

‘What is that…?’ Kotori sniffed the air a few times before her voice jumped an octave in panic. ‘Is that burning?!’

Now well and truly awake, Kotori jumped off the sofa and sprinted into the kitchen, greeted by a cloud of smoke which began to pool around oven’s general vicinity. Frantic, she opened the oven door, and coughed as more black smoke emerged from the source of Kotori’s troubles. She made a despairing wail.

‘No, I forgot to set the timer!’

Defeated, she shut off the oven before slumping down onto the kitchen floor, clutching her cute oven mitts to her face.

‘Why is all this happening to me?’

‘Well,’ Nozomi said, turning the charred confection between her fingers with sympathy, ‘it’s certainly been cooked, at least.’

Eli placed a gentle hand to Kotori’s shoulder. ‘They look kind of like Oreos.’

‘But they were meant to be rainbow,’ Kotori replied, wearing a glum frown and black circles beneath her eyes. Having made her way to the temple where Nozomi was finishing up her evening duties, Kotori stared at her feet, unwilling to make eye contact with the other two. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered.

‘What for?’ asked Nozomi, puzzled.

‘I keep messing up, even when you’re helping me so much.’ Kotori bowed her head deeply, arms at her side. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Eli eased Kotori back upright. ‘Don’t worry, Kotori. We know that you’re doing your best.’

‘But then why isn’t it good enough?!’

Taking a stunned step backwards from the outburst, Eli could feel something begin to change within Kotori. Nozomi, for the first time in a long while, was at a complete loss for words as she also watched Kotori, mouth agape.

Her hands curled into tight fists and trembled by her side.

For the first time either of them had seen, Kotori’s patience had run out.

A gale blew. Nozomi and Eli braced themselves against the sudden wind, squinting at Kotori as their eyes stung and the sky became overcast. At the centre of it all, Kotori’s long ash-coloured hair flapped upwards. Her eyes became dull, and her figure looked like it was shrouded by a black outline coursing around her body.

Nozomi gasped in horror. ‘Don’t tell me…!’ Frantically pointing her fingers at Kotori, she shouted the requisite charm.

‘Nozomi power, tappuri chunyuu!’

Like before, a stream of particles slowly floated out of Kotori’s heart. But instead of dancing through the air, it was as if they were forcing their way upstream a river of treacle. The second, more noticeable thing was that they were all coloured ebony black. And instead of assembling into the garden of white and blue, they now formed a murky tempest too hazy to see through.

‘I knew it,’ Nozomi shouted out in panic as she saw the outcome. ‘Kotori-chan, your lens is getting corrupted! The spirits are going haywire!’ Worried about being drowned out by the wind, Nozomi cupped her hands around her mouth to project her voice into the tornado. ‘Kotori-chan, listen to me! you need to calm down and remember your original feelings!’

But Kotori was either unwilling or unable to listen to the other girl. Darkness now shadowed the top half of her face, as a flurry of leaves and small rubbish kicked up and hurtled through the shrine.

‘No other choice.’ Nozomi grit her teeth. ‘Hai… pushuu!’

The aura circulating around Kotori made for Nozomi like a spear of tar, and she cried out in pain as they pierced into her upper chest. The dark substance began to drain into her body. All Eli could do was watch, hand placed in front of her open mouth as Nozomi bore the strain of Kotori’s negative energy, her knees buckling as she struggled to remain upright.

Instead, it was Kotori’s knees which gave out and slumped to meet the ground, as the opaque substance that had surrounded her now vanished, completely disappearing within Nozomi’s body.

‘What just happened…?’

Rubbing at her eyes and blinking, as if she had just woken up from a dream, the first thing Kotori noticed was a worried Eli tending to Nozomi, who was lying on the ground. ‘Nozomi-chan!’

Nozomi gingerly took Eli’s hand as she picked herself up off the ground. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, giving Kotori a tired smile. ‘I’m fine. But there’s something more important that I need to check on.’

Nozomi gave her spell with no more than a whisper, and the same beautiful garden from before appeared. Kotori looked to Nozomi for an explanation.

‘Depression clouds everything it touches, even the dearest thoughts in your heart. So I used my energy to channel them out of your corrupted lens.’

‘Nozomi-chan…’ Kotori sniffled, then placed her hands to her eyes to try and plug the tears she now found leaking out. ‘This is my fault, isn’t it? I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’

‘Silly Kotori-chan,’ Nozomi replied, gently scolding like a mother as she placed her arms around Kotori. ‘Having depressive thoughts isn’t your fault. Your reaction just happened to be so overwhelming because of how strong your feelings for Umi-chan are in the first place. But sadly, my cure is only temporary. Negative energy is more likely to build up again if you keep getting down on yourself. Something has to change soon, Kotori-chan.’

‘I know. In fact, I think I knew that all along.’ Kotori looked up with a soft, bittersweet grin. ‘I just have to tell her, don’t I? Because I’m just thinking of Umi-chan, Umi-chan, Umi-chan all the time, I can’t concentrate or do anything right. And nothing will change if I only wish for things. But still, I… I don’t know if I’m…’

‘You don’t have to be ready right away,’ said Nozomi, rubbing a gentle circle into Kotori’s back. ‘Just tell us when you are.’

Hugging her close for support, Kotori found that Nozomi was warm and soft against the descending evening cold. ‘Okay.’

A few quiet minutes later, Kotori waved her goodbye, her eyes still a little puffy around the edges.

Nozomi waved back, felt herself become faint, and began to fall towards the ground. Eli caught her before she could meet the pavement.

‘Nozomi,’ she asked, concerned, ‘are you really okay?’

‘Yeah,’ she replied, voice faint. ‘Just a little tired is all. I might’ve used a bit too much energy this time.’

Propping an arm beneath Nozomi’s armpit to steady her, Eli hoisted the other girl to her feet and began walking. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

Nozomi gave a weak smile as she leaned against Eli’s shoulder for support, still finding enough strength to teasingly whisper. ‘How forward of you, Elicchi…’

Eli couldn’t help but groan.

A certain Skype chat seen via Eli’s phone, D-Day minus one:

(・８・): eli-chan, nozomi-chan

(・８・): i did a lot of thinking

(・８・): and i think… i’m finally ready now

(・８・): i know that no matter what happens, Umi-chan and i will always be best friends

(・８・): although I would prefer to be her girlfriend, y’know?

Ayase Eli: That’s very mature of you, Kotori.

Ayase Eli: I’m impressed.

(・８・): eli-chan!

I’mspiritual69: soooo, tomorrow’s the big day, right?

(・８・): yes, ive got the whole afternoon planned with umi-chan

(・８・): im still really nervous though ((ﾟ□ﾟ;))

I'mspiritual69: that’s fine

I’mspiritual69: elicchi and i were thinking that we could meet up with you beforehand and make sure that you’re nice and settled before your date

(・８・): you’d do that for me?!

(・８・): thank you! (＾ω＾)

Ayase Eli: It’s no problem at all.

(・８・): it’s just…

(・８・): this’ll work out better than the other times right? ( ´△｀)

I’mspiritual69: of course!

Ayase Eli: Hopefully.

(・８・): well, i’ll be in your care, again

(・８・): i should rest up for tomorrow

(・８・): oyasumi! (︶｡︶✽)

Ayase Eli: Goodnight, Kotori.

Ayase Eli: Oh, one last thing before I go to sleep as well.

Ayase Eli: Nozomi, can you please remove the 69 from the end of your username?

Ayase Eli: It’s incredibly juvenile.

I’mspiritual69: but it’s my birthdate, elicchi

Ayase Eli sighs deeply.

I’mspiritual69: This message has been deleted.

Ayase Eli: Nozomi?

I’mspiritual69: wrong window, sorry

Ayase Eli: Oh, okay then.

Ayase Eli: Good night, Nozomi.

I’mspiritual69: night, elicchi!

Meanwhile, a certain Skype chat seen via Nozomi’s phone:

I’mspiritual69: elicchi still doesn't realise you can set nicknames for people on skype lol

Cutie washboard: loolllllll

In front of the bustling train station and its fountain, Nozomi stood in the middle of Eli and Kotori, placing her arms over their shoulders as she leaned them in for a three-person huddle.

Nozomi’s expression was deathly grim. ‘This is it, men.’

‘Men?’ Kotori asked, blinking in confusion.

‘She’s been watching too many war movies,’ said Eli.

‘My bad on the gendered language,’ apologised Nozomi, before moving to correct her error. ‘This is it. Hey, that actually works better!’

Eli’s palm met her face. ‘Nozomi.’

‘Right.’ Nozomi gave a cough to either clear her throat or to add to the dramatic tension of the scene. ‘Let’s start off by making sure we have everything we need. First off, do we have a Kotori?’

‘Present!’ Kotori replied cheerfully.

Eli brought a pen and clipboard from her handbag and ticked off a box on a piece of paper.

Nozomi moved onto the next item. ‘Cute outfit?’

Kotori looked down out of reflex. A modest and stylish grey dress (the former probably being more important to Umi).

Eli ticked once more. ‘Check.’

‘Cool sunglasses?’ Nozomi asked.

Eli reached into her handbag again, retrieving three sets of the pink, square-rimmed variety. ‘Check.’

‘Ummm,’ Kotori found herself interrupting, ‘why is that a necessity?’

‘You know,’ Nozomi replied as if it were obvious, ‘so I can have some fun and follow you- I mean, monitor your progress on your date!’

Kotori groaned. Eli gave her sympathetic look.

‘Okay, then!’ Nozomi cheerfully rubbed her hands together. ‘We’ll get you prepared with some last-minute cramming before your date, just like how we teach Nicocchi!’

Kotori folded her arms over her chest. ‘Please tell me that doesn’t mean washi-washi-ing!’

‘First off, we’ll…’ Nozomi trailed off, as she noticed Eli becoming distracted. ‘Is something wrong, Elicchi?’

‘No, it’s just that…’ Eli pointed towards the movie theatre. ‘Isn’t that Umi over there?’

Nozomi and Kotori both looked to where Eli was pointing. Eli was right – in the ticket queue, dressed dashingly with red beret, blue blazer and striped skirt was Umi. It might have just been Kotori’s keen eye, but she also looked a bit nervous for some reason.  

‘Change of plan!’ said a cheerful Nozomi, already dragging both Eli and Kotori along with her as she got in position to shadow Umi with some moves pulled straight out of Metal Gear Solid. The sunglasses really completed the look.

Watching her like a hawk through the crowd, Kotori saw Umi as she walked to the theatre door, took suspicious looks around her surroundings left and right, then disappeared into the darkness beyond.

‘She went into theatre three!’ announced Nozomi.

Eli turned around and scanned the movie listings for the film playing in that theatre. She shook her head. ‘That can’t be right,’ she said. ‘It’s that new French romance movie they’ve been advertising on NicoNico.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard of it!’ Kotori replied with excitement. ‘Amongst other things, it features chin-in-hand kisses and young girl romance! But why would Umi-chan be going to such a movie?’

‘There’s only one way to find out!’ said Nozomi, her voice getting further away from Kotori as she walked towards the ticket counter with money already in hand. ‘Three tickets, please!’

‘I don’t think Umi-chan is enjoying herself.’

To Eli and Kotori, Nozomi was whispering the obvious as they sat together at the back of the movie theatre.

Umi, not so much sitting in her seat as forming into a tightly wound ball on top of it, had her arms huddled around her knees as she watched the movie with a mixture of confusion, genuine interest and a few cringes of terror as the flirting and undertones between the characters built up.

Simply put, it was hilarious to watch.

Definitely more entertaining than the movie, thought Nozomi as she passed the popcorn between them. Clearly, her two companions agreed, their eyes on Umi as they chewed on the slightly too greasy treats.

The three watched her in silence until the movie reached its climax. The teenaged protagonist with long, teal twin-tails leaned towards her pink-haired counterpart, already having her eyes closed and lips waiting for sweet contact.  

That was the exact point where Umi stood up, walked briskly towards the aisle, and covered her ears with her hands while sprinting towards the door.

Kotori watched Umi’s departing figure with disappointment. ‘Umi-chan…’

‘Come on,’ said Nozomi, either not noticing Kotori’s reaction or trying to divert from it. ‘Let’s follow her some more!’

Head thrown back over the top of the white park bench, Umi cut a figure suggesting that they had already seen entirely too much for one day. It wasn’t even noon.

Watching from a distance, Kotori flicked her sunglasses up and tilted her head in confusion. ‘Why is Umi-chan at the park now? By herself?’

‘Maybe she just wanted to watch the birds for a while?’ Eli suggested.

‘Umi-chan!’ Kotori cooed, looking lovestruck.

‘Or,’ Nozomi said with a smirk, ‘she could be meeting up with someone else, like a cute kohai from archery club!’

‘Umi-chan,’ said Kotori, her expression turning darker than her sunglasses.

Eli didn’t need spiritual powers to tell that Kotori’s scowling and fist-balling was not a good thing. ‘It doesn’t look like she’s meeting anyone though!’ she replied cheerfully, clamping a hand over Nozomi’s mouth without Kotori noticing.

‘Oh,’ said Kotori, dark aura fading in an instant.

Eli breathed a sigh of relief before removing her hand from a Nozomi’s mouth. She was kind enough to let her take a gasp of air before yanking her by the ear and angrily whispering to her. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed after what happened before?’

Nozomi almost looked apologetic for her actions. Almost. The playful glint in her eyes meant otherwise, as Eli knew too well. ‘I know, I know, but I just can’t help teasing people!’ Pausing, she pressed a finger to her chin in thought. ‘I guess that makes me an S?’

‘More like an M for inviting trouble on yourself,’ replied Eli.

‘Hmmm, I guess we’ll just have to figure it out between ourselves later. Could always do with spicing things up in the bedroom-’

‘Nozomi!’ Eli squeaked, cutting Nozomi off as she turned to Kotori instead. ‘Sorry you had to hear all that, Kotori.’ But instead of receiving a reply, Eli was left making a double-take. ‘Wait, Kotori? Where did she go?’

‘Over there?’ said Nozomi pointing over to the bench Umi was sitting on as if it were obvious.

Umi managed to snap herself out of her funk, shaking her head and turning her attention to the people populating the park – in particular, the scores of cute yuri couples exchanging hand-holds and affectionate looks between them on a pleasant, weekend, not-quite-afternoon stroll together. That was enough for Umi’s head to flump downwards again, only looking up to shoot a glare at one couple with the temerity to hold hands as they passed in front of her. The worst part was that they didn’t even notice, with those girls happily swinging their arms together as they exited the park.

Umi sunk down into the park bench once again. ‘I guess I’m still not used to this yet. And I’ve been trying so hard to change…’

Losing herself in thought, she never noticed Kotori’s quiet approach from behind.

‘Umi-chan.’

Umi jumped from the bench before turning around in shock. ‘Kotori?!’

Like the film she had reached earlier, Kotori knew that she had reached the turning point of this story. ‘Umi-chan, I... I’ve wanted to say something to you for a while now.

Umi gave a visible gulp as Kotori drew a deep breath to steady herself, meeting Umi’s nervous eyes with an earnest look.

‘Umi-chan,’ she began. ‘I want to do the things that couples do. I want a future with us being together. I want to be your girlfriend, Umi-chan! Because I’m in love with you!’ Kotori’s sudden rush of bravery faded, as tears glistened in her eyes. ‘Is that shameless of me?’ she asked. ‘To be in love with another girl?’

‘Kotori,’ Umi replied seriously, taking Kotori’s hands within her own. ‘There’s nothing shameless about that. Because… because I love you as well.’

Kotori felt her eyes welling up again – this time out of a disbelieving happiness. ‘‘But… why? I was trying so hard, and you didn’t even notice me…’

‘No, Kotori. I’ve noticed for a while, now - you were more than a childhood friend for a long time. It’s just that I didn’t think I was ready.’

‘Ready for what?’ asked Kotori. ‘A relationship?’

‘Not that, just…’ Umi drew a breath and began to blush. ‘It’s just the k-kissing and all the other things, really. I know it’s what couples do and it’s beautiful and all that but…’ Umi looked down at her lap in embarrassment. ‘That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I want everything to be perfect for you, Kotori-chan. And I’m not. So I tried to work hard and conquer my weaknesses. But… It didn’t go quite so well.’

‘Is that why you walked out of the movie?’ Kotori asked, curiously. ‘Not because they were girls?’

‘Of course not. Wait, you saw that earlier?’

Kotori nodded.

Umi slumped down again with a groan.

Yet even as Umi’s cheeks burnt with mild mortification, Kotori felt upbeat - the memory of burnt sweets and rumpled paper now made her laugh to herself. As it turns out, they had both been guilty of trying too hard for each other.

‘That’s one thing I really like about you, Umi-chan,’ she said. ‘How you’re always trying your best at everything you do.’

She flashed a radiant smile, leaned over close, and flicked at Umi’s forehead with her finger. Umi flinched more from surprise than pain as she looked at Kotori, dumbstruck. ‘But Umi-chan you dummy, this time you were wrong from the start! Because an imperfect Umi-chan is good enough for me. She always was. And she always will be.’

She met Umi’s eyes and her smile turned fond and kind.

‘I love you, Umi-chan.’

‘Kotori…’ Umi whispered. ‘I love you, as well.’

A warm, contented feeling settled between them as they held each other’s hands, and Kotori leant her head against Umi’s shoulder. Kotori almost wished that feeling could last forever.

But wait. Kotori put that thought on hold. Wasn't there still something missing? Something that's in absolutely every romantic story?

‘Um,’ Kotori began, ‘Umi-chan, we’re usually meant to kiss at this point, but…’

‘What?!’ shouted Umi, rather ruining the good atmosphere that had been built to this point. ‘Here?! But that’d be shameless-‘

Umi cut herself off as she heard Kotori already sighing in resignation. She could hear her mental gears grinding against each other in opposite directions, sounding something like this:

It's shameless! The number one act of shamelessness in the world! And to top it off you're in public, Umi Sonoda! Don't you dare do it, or I swear you'll spontaneously combust!

But Kotori is the most important thing in the world, and she wants you to kiss her! And her lips look so soft…

But it's shameless!

But it's Kotori!

Umi made up her mind, psyched herself up, and actually slapped herself quite hard.

‘No, I said that I’d do my best!’

Kotori turned to look at Umi again in bewilderment. It only got more confusing from there for her, as she found Umi now had her eyes closed and her lips pursed, her body trembling a little.

‘Ummm…’ Kotori blinked her eyes several times to make sure her eyes weren’t tricking her. ‘Umi-chan, what are you-‘

‘Hurry up and kiss me, Kotori!’ Umi shouted, now actually drawing stares from some startled passers-by who weren’t paying much attention beforehand, which might have mortified Umi if she had known. Thankfully her eyes remained well shut instead, as she remained leaned halfway towards Kotori. ‘I-I really can’t take much more of this.’

‘Umi-chan,’ Kotori said kindly, ‘you don’t have to push yourself.’

‘It’s okay.’ Umi's words were finally becoming calm and settled. ‘I want to do this.’

Kotori still took some time before deciding. ‘Well… if you’re sure.’

She began to lean in, stopped herself, then smiled. Umi was just too cute to not spend a few more seconds teasing. Finally becoming satisfied, Kotori giggled, placed gentle hands to Umi’s shoulders, and leant in the rest of the way when Umi relaxed in her grasp.

Umi’s lips were softer than macarons, as they parted softly from Kotori’s own. And okay, there may have been a bit of tongue involved as well.

Kotori finally broke the kiss and smiled. ‘How was it, Umi-chan?’ she asked, peering at Umi intently.

‘Kotori…’ Umi whispered as her eyelids fluttered open, looking a little dazed. ‘It wasn’t bad, actually.’

‘So then,’ Kotori began, hopeful lilt in her voice, ‘we can do it some more?’

Umi’s reply was curt. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Aww,’ said Kotori, her head dropping sadly.

Seeing Kotori’s disappointment made Umi give a quick reply. ‘No, I mean, I’d like to get some more practice first. In private, preferably?’

‘Aww!’ shouted Kotori, glomping onto Umi in a bear-hug. ‘Umi-chan! I love you so, so much!’

‘K-Kotori!’ wheezed Umi, sounding short on oxygen from Kotori’s constricting show of skinship, ‘I just said in private!’

A discreet few benches away, Nozomi beamed to herself as she passed her phone to Eli. ‘I think I captured the moment best with this picture.’

Eli took one glance and gave a smile of instant approval. ‘Good job. Come on, I’ll treat you to something.’ This time it was Eli taking Nozomi by the hand as they snuck away unnoticed, to grab a round of victory parfaits. Truly the best kind.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ said Umi, having wriggled out of Kotori’s very public display of affection. Was it just Kotori, or did Umi have a different, non-shamelessness related kind of blush? Maybe it was the hug? ‘I liked your haiku, by the way. It was really sweet, Kotori.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kotori asked, genuinely confused.

As it turns out, written on one of the pages that Eli retrieved from the classroom’s wastebasket was a haiku Kotori forgot about writing. Umi, who Kotori noted was definitely blushing now, quietly handed over an uncrumpled piece of paper for Kotori to read.

Always beside me

Like a seagull needs the sea

This bird needs Umi.

[gettinziggywithit]

The Next Contestant

Alright, so I got parts 1 and 2 written for one of my Undermusic fics. It’s Underfell Frans based on Nickelback’s song, The Next Contestant feat. Foreigner’s Counting Every Minute sprinkled in the middle!

The club right behind Grillby’s bar was the hottest joint in the Monster District. The old, crumbling building was literally vibrating with energy from both the Monster activity that inhabited the place and the crushing guitar and drum beats that filtered through its stereo speakers. Most humans avoided the Monster District like the plague, but some humans were curious by default and little by little, they snuck into the district as it was still highly frowned upon to be seen meddling with monsters. The monsters soon found how easy it was to manipulate humans through their various sins whether it be greed, gluttony, or especially lust. They flocked to the darkened atmosphere of Grillby’s bar and if one knew the right password, were led back beyond the shelves of monster and human liquors to a simple door that held behind its locks, a sordid wonderland filled with debauchery, cheap drinks, and pretty women.

On one of these nights, Sans sat at one of the tables in the back of the room where he could keep an eye on everyone around him. He wasn’t here for the liquor or the women. He only had eyes for one and that was currently his mate who was serving drinks from behind the bar in a too tight, too short mini dress. He was less than pleased when he found what Frisk was doing on the side to help bring money to the table, but when he realized just what she could make in one night and how much she enjoyed it, he gave in. But, stars, why did it have to be this place?!

Grillby's could make a mean burger and fries with the good mustard, but this was a seedy hole in the wall filled with lesser than desirable monsters and even less desirable humans. Sans glared at the nearby patrons who flocked to his mate like flies to honey as he chewed on the cigar he held between his teeth and inhaled, feeling the pungent, tobacco ridden smoke fill his non existent lungs. Frisk was a bartender in this hell hole and was apparently the favorite of many from what Grillby had to say. Sans was livid when he learned that not only was she doing a job on the side but at a stripper bar no less! One night he stomped up to the joint, bent on dragging her out and away from lustful glances. That particular night did not end well and she ignored him for the better part of the next week.

She only gave in when he finally apologized, much to her surprise. Sans was not the time to give out genuine apologies, if any apology at all, and eventually they reconciled. After a long conversation 'rules' of sorts were set up followed by lots of reassurance from Frisk that she belonged to him and him only. The rule he found out that she already had in place to begin with was no touching...at all. Frisk admitted that any touch was uncomfortable and even at one point was painful. Sans smiled, his bond with her was strong enough that she would tolerate no touch except for his. For the monsters around her that was easy to broadcast, she had bonded with not only a boss monster, but Sans Gaster. Any monster who had a brain knew she was off limits the minute she was nearby. The humans, though? It was near impossible some nights to get the men to leave her be. Most would leave be once she firmly said, “No, I'm taken" or a “fuck off” followed by a deep set glare from either Grillby or Sans, but there was always someone who would push just a little more and end up on the wrong side of Sans. He had taken numerous humans outside to the alley and persuaded them to leave and never come back. That proved useful until Grillby started to complain that he was driving his business away and sans relented, only to take the trash out when Frisk gave him a sign. She only worked certain nights, but he wished she would take a night off because as more humans wandered in, the more he had to get involved.

"Look, sans, I only work Tuesdays,Thursdays, and Saturdays and only from 8 to 2AM. Grillby is well aware of our rules and while he doesn't like to play babysitter, he does interfere if you're not there to stand watch." Frisk was getting ready for work, applying makeup to her face. Once done, she stood and walked over to sans who was sitting on the bed, frowning. “He shouldn’t hafta look after ya at all. I don’t like seeing all those humans stare at ya like fucking meat on a stick, just wanting a bite.” He growled as his red eyelights met hers, “Yer mine, Frisk.” She took his skull in her hands and kissed the side of it, leaving a lipstick mark. "There, now you're visibly mine and I'm visibly yours. Don't even think about wiping it off tonight. I'll be looking for it when I come home...maybe I'll leave more if you're good."

Sans shifted in his seat, his pants now feeling about two sizes too small. He still bore the lipstick mark on the side of his head and any snickers or jokes he received were ignored as he pondered what she would have in store for him. Saturday nights were the busiest and the bar was packed. Grillby would run the bar with Frisk and even though they both knew where they stood with Frisk, Grillby just loved to test sans and flirt with her. He wouldn’t hesitate to go skull to flame with him if he didn’t back off. But, when it was busy Grillby was far more interested in bringing in the cash.

“Hey there, sugarskull, whatcha doing back here all by your lonesome?” Sans didn’t even move as the scantily clad female monster approached him and all but bared her three breasts at him. He gave her a glance up and down. Pft, not even comparable to his mate’s curves. “Beat it, I got no time for bitches like ya. It’s not like I’d get a lot ‘fer a coupla G, anyway.” The monster gasped and then stomped away and sans grinned, tapping some of the ashes off the cigar. It had a been a long day at the car shop and he would like nothing more than to grab his mate and head home for some quality alone ti-

“BROTHER.”

Shit. There went any semblance of a good night. Sans turned to see his brother, Papyrus with his arms crossed and glaring at him. Mettaton was behind and had draped his four arms all over him and was smiling deviously at Sans. He shot a dirty look at him, if there was one thing he disliked more than humans preying on his mate, it was his brother’s shit talking boyfriend. “W-what’s up, Boss?” Sans crammed the cigar back into his mouth to try and alleviate the rising anxiety. Papyrus managed to untangle himself from his boyfriend and sat down across from his brother, still glowering.

“WHAT IS THAT MARK ON YOUR SKULL?”

Sans could feel his face grow hot, he didn’t have to explain to anyone else why he had the kiss mark, but his brother wouldn’t take no for an answer and had to know anything and everything. “Itsa, itsa a kiss mark, bro. Frisk said I hafta keep it on till the end of the night.” Papyrus cackled, “A KISS MARK?! IS THAT ACTUALLY HOW HUMANS MARK ONE ANOTHER?! HOW SAD. A MARK SHOULD BE PAINFUL, PERMANENT!” Mettaton draped himself over Papyrus, “Mmm, and you do know how to mark someone good.”

It was Papyrus’ turn to blush and he looked away, murmuring something to Mettaton. “Well, my love, the audience calls!” And with that Mettaton sauntered away and into the DJ booth where Napstablook was currently working. The lights dimmed and the men started to hoot and holler as the music started up and women flocked to the stage, stripping to the playing music and gathering tips from the drunken men. Sans grabbed one of many mustard bottles and started to down it, at one point in time this would’ve entertained him, now it just bored him.

Hours passed and he damn near fell asleep, but his brother jostled him awake near closing time. He sleepily rubbed his tired eyes and looked towards the bar. Grillby was stocking the liquor and wiping down the glasses with Frisk nowhere in sight. He stood up, knocking mustard bottles everywhere much to his brother’s irritation and stomped over to the purple flame fucker. “Alright, Grillbs, where is she?!” Grillby didn’t even react as he kept cleaning the glasses, “that’s gonna cost you, Sans. Pay your tab and we’ll talk.” Sans growled, “Ya got five seconds to hand her over before I dunk yer fuckin’ head in the sink!”

Grillby merely purred from behind the bar, “Careful, sans, the fun hasn’t even begun yet”. Sans yanked on his tie pulling him down to his level, “whaddya mean by ‘fun’? And choose yer next words wisely.” All of sudden, Mettaton’s voice rang out across the room, “AND FOR OUR FINAL SHOW, A TREAT FROM THE DAME HERSELF, MISS FRISKY BUSINESS!”

Sans nearly choked on air as a silence crept across the room with every patron and even the dancers stopping to witness the performance. Sans growled as he surveyed the crowd to see men, women, and monster alike already staring with lustful intent. The silence was soon broken by the sound of Mettaton switching out his digital mainframe to pull up an old vinyl record player and plug it into the stereo system. A small 45 was retrieved and the needle hovered over the spinning disc. “Now boys and girls, I will remind you only once of the golden rule: you are forbidden to touch or even approach Miss Frisk in any sort of way.” Mettaton chuckled lowly, “if you choose to ignore the rule…” He glanced over at sans and smiled, “well, you’re in for a bad time... Enjoy!”

The sound of a rocking guitar blared through the speakers as a figure rose from the middle of the stage. Handcuffed and shackled lazily on the pole ascending from the shadows was his mate, who was in a red and black ruffle dress that hid much of her figure to his relief. The pole rose to its full height and she glanced around the room her eyes hidden from others under black lace. Sans swore he felt burning intensity from beneath the lace as her gaze landed on his. She had eyes for him and him only.

As the lyrics began, she broke free of the restraints, tossing them every which way and spinning around the pole, gracefully. Sans was flabbergasted. He had no earthly idea that A. Frisk would EVER do something like this and B. look so damn good doing it. The song approached the chorus and as it did, Frisk began shimmying out of the ruffled skirt, earning whistles and shouts from the audience. Free from the skirt, she kicked it at the men in the front row where they tore and fought for it.

Whenever she looked out to the crowd she only made eye contact with sans, and for a moment, sans thought it was just her and him in this dingy little shithole. She turned and his eyelights nearly fizzled out when he saw a pair of skeletal hands printed on the back of the black silk underwear she wore. “HEY BABY, I GOT A BONE FOR YOU!” Sans quickly got to his feet and located the man who shouted at his mate. There was one going in for a bad time. Grillby snagged his hoodie, “Sans, remember what I said last time. Only if they touch-” Sans growled back and shook off his grasp, “Last time she was just serving your piss beer to them, now she’s up there showing off what should be for me!”

Grillby finished the glass he was washing, “Who said it wasn’t for you? Frisk is the one who asked for this little show. Such a shame she only asked for this once, she seems to be a natural.” Sans felt his teeth grinding, “Shut the fuck up and keep those embers to yerself if ya know what’s best for ya.” Grillby merely chuckled as sans turned around to enjoy the rest of the show..

Frisk was now on her knees, playing with the hooks that held the bodice together. Sans was shaking his head no, but she nodded yes and slowly started unhooking it one by one. When it was down to one last hook, sans was nearly gouging marks into the bar with his clawed hand while the other palmed at his very apparent erection. She was mouthing something to him, “all for you, just for you” and then she ripped the bodice open revealing a bra made of nothing but skeletal hands holding them up and caressing them. The mark that sans made was ever present on her shoulder and she flaunted it for all to see.

Oh fuck it all, sans wished those were his hands right there, right now. As she moved her own hands all over her body and gyrated rhythmically to the music, sans was sure he was drooling. The dollar bills rained down on her as she sensually rose to her feet and retreated back to the pole. The song was going into it’s final run and she hoisted herself up onto the pole, swinging her legs out to then close and hug the pole. Her movements were sleek and fluid and she twisted herself up, down, and around the pole, much to the delight of the onlookers.

Frisk ended her performance curled around the top of the pole and slid down elegantly, graciously accepting the flurry of dollar bills that were thrown at her. One of the female strippers came out with a silk robe that Frisk quickly put on and finished picking up the bills. Men and Monster were yelling and whistling asking for personal lap dances to which Frisk only smiled and shook her head, saying her dance card was permanently filled.

Sans was caught between wanting to take her out back to discipline her for the little “show” she put on and fucking her into next week. Both could be done very easily. He watched as she jumped off the side of the stage and began to make her way towards him. She had taken the lace mask off and was smiling deviously at him. He gave a malicious smile of his own back and for a moment, he saw a spark of uneasiness in her eyes. Oh she knew what she was in for.

“SANS. THAT WAS...AN INTERESTING SHOW YOUR MATE PUT FORTH.”

Sans’ head swiveled, eyes glowing brightly at his brother, “That’s enough of yer talk, Paps. Take the conniving sexbot home and fuck off.” Papyrus smiled down at his brother and was about to retort when Frisk yelled out, “HEY, DON’T TOUCH ME!” Papyrus quickly stood to the side as sans leapt to his feet. Frisk was trying to wrench her arm away from a drunken patron who didn’t know the meaning the word, “don’t”. “Aw, c’mon sugartits, I can do better than that bag of bones can.” A lewd swipe of his tongue over his lips sent her pulling back, trying to twist out of his grip. “Not even in your dreams, asshole.”, Frisk managed to snarl back.

The offender growled back and forcefully yanked on her wrist. A sharp popping noise was heard and she let out a high gasp, crumpling to the floor, cradling her now broken wrist. Silence was met across the bar and the patrons nearest the man, all scooted back and away. A near homicidal throb of magic emanated from sans at the bar as his left eye spilled forth bright red magic. Papyrus had a scowl on his face as he produced two large bones out of thin air. Grillby’s flames danced dangerously as he bellowed, “OUT. NOW.”

If there was a problem before, there was definitely a problem now.

[bissswhwifi]

Dinner with the chef

Olicity // AO3 // 2510 // more fics

summary: here is my second submission for the Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon prompt was taste. The idea was a meet cute in a grocery store.

Food, if there was one love in her life, it was food. She loved it a lot and you could stay that it was the only real stable relationship she had in her life, well except for the time short period of time she went through during her finals at MIT. She tends to skip several meals and get through her day mostly only on coffee.

To put it in words Felicity wasn’t the best chef but she was able to make at least something simple, eatable but far from what you would find on your plate when at a five-star restaurant. So she was happy that her job as VP of Palmer Technologies recurred her to go out to dinner at least one a week for some kind of lunch meeting. Then there were the days she would stay in the office way too late and then her dinner would contain out one of the granola bars she held in her desk and a cup coffee. The rare times that she did make it home in time for dinner she would usually order take out anyway because she was way too tired to cook and clean up afterward.

It had been a long day filled with meetings and nagging board members coming to her office one by one to nag to her about how their new plans were doomed before they would even start production. After all of that she didn’t have the strength left in her body to stay late at the office, so going home a little early couldn’t hurt anybody right and her boss was out of town and even if he knew. He didn’t really care if she did.

The only thing was that she found out she forgot the most important part. Food, her fridge was empty, she literally didn’t have any food in her apartment but the empty fridge wasn’t going to stop her. She needed to do something to keep her hands busy, something other than work and cooking herself a simple dinner was just what she needed because from ordering big belly from time to time, well it was giving her a big belly.

It would only be a short five-minute walk to the closest grocery shop that was still opening. She didn’t even know what she was going to make for dinner. The discussion she had with herself on her way to the grocery store didn’t help her come up anything. So even after wondering around the store for some time she finally stopped in front of the pasta aile but once there, she still had to pick what kind of pasta she was going to pick. Who was going to care if she was still in the same dress as she wore to work, her hair in a messy ponytail and traded her heels for her way more comfortable panda flats.

The last Wednesday on of the only days of he had during the month and it also was the night him and Thea would both make time to have a normal dinner together. Between his job as the full-time head chef at Verdant and Thea as the full-time manager of the nightclub of the same name. They only were apart by a mile or so but both of their schedules weren't really forgiving, so they literally had to plan their time together.

Thea had called him that she would be a little later because there had been a problem with on of the liquor distributors and Roy didn’t know how to handle it alone. It took Oliver a while to get over the fact that his little sister was all grown up and in a healthy relationship. Something she didn’t get from him and he was proud of that. He was happy for her and he could see so much of their mother in her.

So here he was shopping for groceries because he had forgotten to get them yesterday after he had finished work. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be here but he’d rather be at home cooking his dinner already.

“Mac and cheese or real food. That’s the question.” her heard a feminine voice whispered. Looking for the person who the voice belonged to her found a petite blond holding a box of inkstand Mac and cheese in her hands while standing in front of the pasta and looking up at the rest of the options in front of her.

“Well, that is the question we need an answer to some day.” He said in a whisper when he walked passed her, he just couldn’t stop himself from doing so. For some reason, he recognized the voice from somewhere but he couldn’t make himself put a name to the voice just yet but he had seen that blond pony tale before.

She turned around in shock as soon as she heard him say it so that she could see who was standing behind her. Once she turned around and he saw her face he knew instantly who it was that was standing in front of him. That blond hair and those big blue eyes that were always hidden behind her glasses, he could almost recognize them out of a lineup if he had too.

“Hi, I’m Oliver Queen.” He said holding his hand out waiting for her to shake it.

“Yeah, I know who you are. Everybody in Starling knows who you are since you competed on master chef. Even before that. Oliver Queen, the ex-billionaire playboy turned chef, now the head chef at Verdant, the most popular restaurant in town. So, yeah. I know who you are.” She started rambling as soon as wanted to open his mouth again to tell her that her that he was sorry for scaring her like he did.

“Sorry, for the rambling. I’m really hungry and really stressed out. Felicity Smoak.” She said holding out her hand after collecting her thoughts and trying to come back from her embarrassment after a short but awkward silence between the two of them.

“And is it wired to say that I know who you are?” He asked her after shaking her hand and tilting his head a little.

“Not really, I get it a lot these days. Being VP of a company as big as Palmer tech does take away a part of your privacy and I have to say; I eat at Verdant at least three to four times a month, if not more.” She said a little embarrassed playing with the box of Mac and cheeses in her hands.

“And I will thank you for that. So why were you talking to the pasta, if I could ask.” He said turning to the to shelve of pasta with a small smile forming on his lips.

“Well, I wanted to eat pasta but I’m not really that good of a cook. I wanted to make something different than Mac and cheese, something a bit healthier. And then I remembered that Mac and cheese is as far as my cooking skills go.” Felicity said while she was trying not to sound too stupid.

“Now that’s a big struggle for a random Wednesday evening.” Oliver replayed while ignoring his phone in his pocket that started to vibrate.

“It is, any suggestions as you being the chef between the two of us.” She asked with a small and shy smile on her face after she finally turned to face him again.

“Personally I would stick to the Mac and cheese but maybe change it up a bit. Throw in some bacon in. Not make to make it to difficult.” Oliver said before this time his phone went off at the same time as Felicity’s stomach made a rumbling sound.

“Sorry I have to take this.” He said after he saw Thea’s name flashing on his screen.

“Go ahead, I’m going to see if they still have the Sponge Bob Mac and Cheese.” She said turning on her heels and making her way back to the pasta.

“Speedy what’s up.” He said answering his phone while not taking his eyes of Felicity who was now crouched's down looking at the different kinds of kids Mac and cheese.

“I’m so, so sorry but I have to cancel. The distributor was late and forgot more than half of our order so we wouldn't have enough to open tonight. So I need to fix it before I’m able to go home.” He heard his sister, hearing the stress in her voice.

“Don't worry, I totally get where you’re coming from. It happens to all of us. I will see you for brunch on Saturday, right?”

“I’ll be there, I really have to go now. See ya.” She said before she hung up.

“Felicity, would you like to have dinner with me?” He made himself ask her, it had taken him a while but just seeing her comparing the two box’s that she was holding made him smile and feel something that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Dinner as in a date?” She looked up at him with surprise on her face.

“Dinner, as in me making dinner for the two of us. My sister just canceled on me and after a stressful day I think that Mac and cheese isn't  going to cut it.”

“And ya, as in a date.” He said after a small pause and helping her up from the floor.

“How could I say no to someone saving me from burning down my apartment and offering to make me dinner at the same time. And of course spent the time to get to know you better. I would like that very much.” She said while they made their way out of the ail.

“I have to admit, it’s been awhile since I’ve been on a date. Being VP and all doesn’t really give you much time for a social life outside of my office.” Felicity said after they walked through the store for a while.

“Same with me. Working at Verdant is a dream job but it also means working mostly in the evenings.” He said while picking a few things off the shelf's for their dinner along the way.

“Oh, I feel so bad for making you cook on your night off!” She stopped him right before they reached the checkout line.

“Don’t worry about that. I still had to make dinner for myself and now at least I have someone to keep me company while I cook.” He said after placing a hand on her shoulder as soon as he saw that she was a worrying way too much about everything.

“I walked here, my building is only five minutes away. If you want you could use my kitchen, it’s pretty big and I never really use it.” She said once they walked out of the store each of them caring a bag of groceries.

“Fine by me. My bike is parked a couple of block from here. Nothing big.”

On their walk to her building Felicity talked about how she ended up buying an apartment with a kitchen she barely used in the hope she would pick up cooking as a hobby. Because in her words ‘being a fully grown grown up and having cooking skills that stopped at boiling something was pretty sad’.

It made Oliver laugh a the fact that someone with the same amount IQ points as a genius still got disappointed about not being able to boil something without having anything go horribly wrong. He had to say even if this wasn’t the most normal first date, it was defiantly already better than most of the dates he had gone on in the last two years combined. He already knew more about what type of person Felicity Smoak was and the person walking and talking next to him, he really wanted to get to know all about her.

It wasn’t every Wednesday that Felicity invited someone she barely knew into her apartment but Oliver wasn't just someone. The half hour she had exactly get to know Oliver, to her it felt like she knew him for years. She could he herself around him without getting an annoyed look every time she went one of her rambles went on a little bit too long.

“Welcome to my humble abode, don’t mind the papers everywhere. I didn’t really know before I went to get groceries, that there would someone coming home with me.” Felicity said when she opened the door to her apartment.

“When you said that you had a big kitchen, you weren’t kidding.I think it’s even bigger than mine.” She heard Oliver say when he followed her through her apartment to the kitchen.

“I know but it’s so beautiful and I fell in love with the apartment when I first saw it. The whole apartment is the way to big for me but it’s home for me.” She said before she sat the bag down on the kitchen island next to Oliver’s bag.

“The pan’s are up there. If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll grab us a bottle and some glasses.” She said after she showed him where most of the kitchen tools were and made her way to the pantry, to come back moments later with a bottle of her favorite rose.

It was nice, just talking about the most random and drinking some wine while Oliver made dinner for the two of them. Oliver even let her help with the vegetables while Oliver baked the salmon and for some reason what she made was eatable and she was really proud of that.

“So, your hair used to be black? I could never see you with black hair.” Oliver said after Felicity told him about her time at MIT after he told her about him having dropped out of four colleges.

“Just wait one moment.” She said ruched after drinking the last bit of rose that was still in her glass. She almost jumped off her chair seated at the bar in the kitchen where they ate their dinner.

Oliver followed her to the living room where she was seated on the floor with a box of photos. He saw on the clock that it was nearly eleven o’clock and looking back he saw the three now empty wine bottles.

“found it.” He heard the voice that he now loved to hear fill his ears.

“Well, that I never expected,” Oliver said as he sat down next to her and she gave him on of the photo’s of her in her full goth.

The two of them sitting on the ground of her apartment surrounded by papers and old photo’s, both a little drunk and smiling like idiots when looking at each other. He had to thank Thea for not being able to show up fro their dinner or else this would never have happened. “Can I kiss you?”

“I would like that very much.”

tagging my cabin mates: @wherethereissmoak @thebookjumper @tdgal1 @laurabelle2930 @green-arrows-of-karamel @veertje2001 @dmichellewrites  @olicityhiatusficathon

[rowanstories-blog]

Something Beautiful

The TV's murmur filled the room as Ronald Swint, known to others by names like Ron, Daddy, Asshole, and That Guy from the Street Corner, fiddled with a scratched and mildly broken smartphone. More like a dumb phone, Ron thought as he checked to see whether the shattered corner of the screen could still detect his touch. He never understood the appeal of a phone that was easier to break and harder to use than one with twelve buttons and a speaker. He didn't grumble too much about that, though; someone would put a lot of value on what he thought of as literal garbage. The saying 'one man's trash is another's treasure' couldn't have rang more true.

"Daddy!" The shout came through the open window, repeating as it moved closer to the front door.

Ron looked up from the phone as the door swung open and a young child, his only son, rushed into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

"Daddy, I sold so much lemonade! Look at how full my bag is!" He shook a small felt bag with unhindered enthusiasm, temporarily drowning out the TV's mumble with the sound of clattering coins.

Ron slid the phone back into his pocket, careful to not let the cracked side rip his pants any more than they already were, and took the coin bag from his son. "You're right, this is so heavy. Must have sold a lot." He forced a smile. "I'm gonna go in the kitchen and count this up for you, so you know how much you made."

"Can I help this time? Miss Evergreen says I'm a good counter."

"I'll let you count once I check it first, okay?"

His son grumbled a bit, but didn't continue his protest. His attention turned to the TV, now showing a commercial for a movie filled with explosions and cars. The rapid lights and scene changes put the child into a wordless trance, and he seated himself on the floor against the couch, fully invested in the flickering screen.

With a deep breath and a strong heave, Ron forced himself off the sagging couch, feeling several limbs crack in the process. As he walked toward the nearby kitchen, he felt his bones sag with the pull of gravity, reminding him with each step just how badly his body reacted to the passage of time. He did have one thing going for him, though; he didn't have any scraggly white hairs growing like weeds on his head. His early onset baldness had made sure of that.

With a swing of his arm that he thought looked like a no-funny-business mobster, but in reality looked more like the flail of an inflatable tube man dancing in front of a gas station, he knocked a pile of beer cans off a section of the table, sending them clattering across a floor that hadn't been swept in the better part of a decade. He poured out the coins from the felt bag and began counting the cents. After the first few coins he realized he'd need some mental energy to continue, so he grabbed a few of the remaining beer cans from the table until he felt one with liquid still inside. He took a sip with each coin he counted, a room-temperature and slightly stale reward for such a tedious task.

"That's three bucks, that's three fifty," he mumbled as he sorted the coins. "Ugh, who pays for lemonade with dimes and pennies? And this- what, an arcade token, seriously?"

He grabbed the gold-looking coin from the pile and gave it a closer look. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a reworking of an old golden dollar. but some things were off about it. For one thing, the face on the front wasn't Lady Liberty, or anyone recognizable, for that matter. It looked like a face rendered from what his son could draw; the eye was a bit too far from the front, the nose a bit too large and pointed, the mouth extended too far across the cheek. From its features he couldn't even tell if it was meant to depict a man or woman. The stars around the face, or what were supposed to be stars on the regular golden dollar, were instead various types of music notes. On the back he saw the recognizable laurel wreath, but where he expected to find the words "United States of America" and "One Dollar," he instead saw only symbols and glyphs that looked nothing like letters he recognized. He rubbed his thumb across the material as he held it in his fingers, assuming it to be some kind of plastic. To his surprise, it felt just like a real coin.

"Damn immigrants, bringing their freaky rip-off money here," he grumbled, flicking the odd coin back into his son's bag.

Once he determined that his son's labor had brought in exactly $21.47, he began putting coins back into the bag. Not every coin, of course. For each coin he put away, he moved two to the side, under the old newspaper just in arm's reach.

"All done," Ron called as he returned to the living room, seeing his son still glued to the TV. "There's $6.34 in here, and it's all yours."

His son's attention snapped away from the mumbling box and he ran up to his dad, grabbing the bag. "$6.34? Wow, that's like five candy bars!"

"That it is. Now go clean up the front yard, your mom will be here soon." Ron tried not to wince as he brought up his ex-wife.

His son nodded enthusiastically and ran out the front door, using more energy in a moment than Ron had stored for the entire day. He let himself fall onto the couch, resuming his investigation of his sidewalk phone find.

Several minutes later, he heard a sound all too familiar to him: the sputter and stop of an older pickup truck in his driveway. Through the open window he heard his ex-wife and ex-father-in-law speaking with his son, cooing over how good the lemonade stand looked and what a good businessman he was finding something to sell. Ron rolled his eyes. Tacking a sign to a tree and making lemonade on an old refrigerator box wasn't something to be impressed by; it was the oldest way for kids to make money in the book.

"Ron?" he heard his ex-father-in-law call. "We're picking up Max." No reply. "You awake in there? It's only 4pm, don't tell me you're already out for the day."

Ron scoffed. "I'm awake, old man. Do what you like."

He could hear his ex-wife speaking hushed frustrations with his ex-father-in-law, but he focused on fiddling with the phone until he heard the old pickup's engine sputter and groan as they drove away.

Once he was sure they had left, he got up from the couch and returned to the kitchen, dumping the hidden coins into his pocket. There hadn't been need to hide them this time since they hadn't come inside or had him stand up, but it was better to be safe than risk them hearing the clatter of coins in his pocket and try to pick yet another fight.

---

"Three cases of beer? Why not two, you only got two hands." The cashier chuckled with a polite smile.

Despite her trying to package it as a joke, Ron knew she meant that as a serious observation of his buying habits. He didn't often come in for buying on a Wednesday afternoon when she worked, but he didn't doubt for a second that the cashiers all spoke to each other about the regulars in the liquor store, especially those who also spent some time on the streets around it.

He long ago lost the anger he used to feel from being judged by such people, but that didn't mean he had the patience to put up with their 'jokes.' "So how much is it?"

Her smile momentarily fell into what he assumed was disappointment, but returned just as quickly. "That's $14.96. Cash or card?"

"Cash," he mumbled as he tossed the coins from his pocket onto the checkout counter. He could see the cashier's eyes gloss over in frustration, but her job required her to say nothing to him, which he very much liked. He let her count up the scattered change, watching to make sure she did it correctly, until all was accounted for.

"Have a nice day," she said, wishing for the exact opposite.

He grabbed up his change, glancing down at his hand. Something felt missing, though he knew she hadn't made a mistake with the math. He shook his hand a bit, checking to see if that would help him feel better. It didn't.

He grabbed the beers and quickly made his way out of the store. The feeling of something missing still gnawed at him, but it was nothing a nice drink wouldn't fix.

---

Ron collapsed into his bed, letting the empty beer can in his hand fall wherever the laws of physics sent it. The clock on his desk lit the room with a bright 1:56AM. The red numbers hurt his eyes to look at, so he closed them, trying not to succumb to the feeling of the room spinning around him.

The drinking had not, as he thought, filled the increasingly noticeable feeling that something was missing from his person. With every drink the feeling seemed to grow, and he kept checking his pockets: keys, phone (the 'smart' one he planned to sell), phone (the one he owned that actually made sense), wallet, change, receipts. He looked through the receipts in case one had become separated somehow. He even looked around the house in case something was off. He didn't clean, since that would be far too much effort for a drunk man, but he did move the mess around a bit, checking to make sure his few belongings of mild value remained in their spots. They did.

He gave a big sigh into his bed, blowing some crumbs and hairs on his sheets into the darkness. Perhaps, he considered, it was simply one of those days. Sleep would help the feeling pass.

As his body relaxed for sleep, he felt a weight between his fingers. Something small, cold, with a bit of texture. He rubbed his thumb on it. He felt a warmth in his chest well up, spreading slowly through his veins to his aching joints. The dull pain he always felt washed away with the warmth. It had been so long since he felt so at ease; even drinking couldn't compare to such calm and warmth. He felt his mind drifting further and further from his body, until he fell fully asleep.

---

When Ron awoke, all the pain and aches he came to expect from waking up, especially after a night of drinking, hit him without mercy. He got up and mindlessly began his morning routine, grabbing a beer from the table nearby to take the edge of his hangover off. When he grabbed it, his hand jolted with pain, and he dropped the can.

He looked down at his fingers, and through the haze of his half-conscious mind, he realized that the tips of his first two fingers and thumb were a bright red, the skin rubbed raw. As he looked, he felt the distant memory of a warmness in his dreams, but his mind refused to be any more clear than that.

He shrugged it off as yet another drunken injury, picked up the can with his opposite hand, and continued his routine, doing his best to ignore the nagging feeling of something missing, something empty, from the day before, and the new feeling of something forgotten from his sleep.

Several hours later, Ron ambled outside of the nearby tavern, waiting for happy hour to begin. His success at selling the phone he found on the sidewalk deserved a little bit of celebration, he thought with a smile. He could spare to use a few extra dollars on some good hard liquor before returning to his beer stash at home.

Some of his street friends watched him, coming up to ask what the occasion for going to the tavern was. Some asked if something special happened with his son, like getting into a sports league or winning a spelling be. He wouldn't answer, pretending to put on an air of mystery. In all truth, he had no idea if his son had done anything of note for quite some time. That wasn't their relationship, and he was perfectly okay with that. His son didn't seem to mind, so why should he? It's not like six year olds were off winning awards anyway.

Once the nearby church bells chimed for 4pm, he darted into the bar, reminding himself that he would have one nice drink, nothing more.

He had his drink in minutes, and it was gone in several more. The thought of leaving occurred to him, but that gnawing feeling of emptiness, which lingered through the day as a whisper, returned with a vengeance as he looked at the change he tossed on the counter for his drink. He found himself ordering another drink, and another, each time staring at the coins and bills he tossed on the bar to pay for longer than he had ever before.

The sun fell outside, and the nightlife regulars began to take their usual seats in the bar. A woman sat near Ron, and he couldn't help but stare. At first he only focused on her feminine assets, but when she looked over to him, he couldn't look away from her face. It was unlike any he had ever seen. One of her eyes sat further out on her face than the other, and her long pointed nose sat just off center of her face. As he stared, she smiled with a long grin, stretching into her cheeks. She spoke to him, her words undecipherable but spoken in a voice that sounded exactly like music. The musical sounds filled his ears, his head, his whole being with a calm and relaxing warmth. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

He felt his mouth and body moving in response to her, but all of his conscious attention was on the face, a sight that dulled the feeling of emptiness within him. 

---

Ron jolted awake, quickly darting his eyes around the room to see where he ended up the night before. Somehow, despite his alcohol-induced loss of memory, he made it back to his house. As he tried to create a sequence of events in his mind, his hand bumped into something in his bed. No, a someone. His memory sparked. The woman, the beautiful woman from the bar! He hadn’t had a night filled with such wonder and beauty in all of his life.

The woman stirred, and slowly rose, back to Ron. She looked around, then looked back at him with a smile. "Hey sexy," she whispered.

Ron's heart fell. This was not the beautiful woman he remembered from the bar. Her eyes sat evenly apart, and her tiny nose matched the shortness of her mouth. Her voice had no song quality; it spoke just the same as all other voices in his life. His heart ached with the feeling of loss, ripped deeper than he ever felt before.

"Get out," he whispered.

"What was that?" the woman asked.

Her voice, the hoarseness of each syllable clashing with each other, ripped at his ears. Her ugly face could make only sound, not wonderful music. "Get out!" He grabbed beer cans, pillows, whatever he could, and threw them at the woman as she grabbed her skirt from the floor and darted out of the room in horrified tears.

As he prepared to throw a final can at the door as a well-deserved 'fuck you' to the woman for her deception, he noticed the drops of red that now spattered the room. His gaze locked onto his two fingers and thumb, now bloody at the tips and throbbing with a dull pain. Without thinking, he rubbed them together. He expected a jolt of pain, like he felt when they touched other things, but instead the pain subsided, and with it some of the emptiness inside of him dulled too.

With that motion, he remembered. The coin. The one from his son's lemonade stand. It had the face of beauty on it, and his dreams of rubbing it made him feel so warm, so healthy, so complete. He had something magical, something divine, in his own fingers! And now, it was gone. His heart fell, and the emptiness returned.

No. He wouldn't let something so precious go so easily. It had only been two days, and no store would take a coin like that as currency. His son still had the coin, he was sure of it. He would just need to go to his ex-wife's house and get it back.

A part of him nagged him to jump in the shower, or at least put on some new underwear, but the rest of his being couldn't wait. Every second he wasted could potentially be the second that his son dropped the coin down a drain, or threw it in a pond, or any number of other ways a young child could lose something as small as a coin. His head pounded with the thoughts. The shower could wait. He may not even need a shower once he got the coin back; it made all things beautiful, and beautiful things would never become so impure that they'd need showers. He would be able to drink to his heart's content in a world of music, and wake up the next morning just as fresh as the day before!

He shook the cobwebs off his bike and rode off into the streets, cursing under his breath about his impounded car and revoked license.

---

It took longer than Ron would have liked, but by noon he arrived at the sidewalk in front of his ex-wife's house. He hated the little garden out in front of the light blue walls, he hated the welcome mat covered with suns and umbrellas out on the tiny porch, and he especially hated the lawn gnomes hiding under the flowers and bushes. He did his best to avoid looking at their creepy faces as he knocked on the front door.

His ex-wife answered the door. "Ron?" She didn't hide her disgust. "What the hell are you doing here? It's my time with Max, you know." Her face turned from a disgust at him to an entirely different revulsion. "My God, did you shit your pants or something? What's wrong with you?"

The words of her voice throbbed in his ears like the sound of scratching metal, but he fought through the feeling. "The coin," he stammered, struggling to focus. He felt his fingers and thumb rub together, and the words came to him. "The kid took a coin from my collection, and I need it back." A perfectly viable excuse, he thought.

"Since when do you keep any coin instead of spending it on booze?"

"This one's different. Valuable." He stopped himself from revealing any more.

"Well," his ex-wife said with a bit of a smile, "in that case, maybe I'll sell it to make up for all that child support you owe."

He felt a bullet shoot through his heart from her words. The coin, his precious coin, sold off to god-knows-who! As he stared at her, the anger he felt that morning surged back. He hated hearing her uneven, un-melodic voice saying such horrid things, saying anything at all! And her face, her even eyes and centered nose, only served to enrage him further. The corners of her small mouth continued to smile, and he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"I'm getting it myself!" he declared, forcing his way into the house. His body, while worn down from the passage of time and overworking of his liver, still had enough strength left to push his ex-wife aside and rush into the house, making a line for his son's room.

He burst in to see his son sitting on the floor with some coloring books. His felt bag, his favorite storage item, sat next to him.

"Daddy?" his son asked, confused. "Why are you back in Mommy's house?"

Ron didn't answer as he grabbed the felt bag and poured its contents on the floor, shuffling through the coins, crayons, and other contents. Not a single item he saw glinted with the gold he longed for. "The coin," he said pointedly, staring down at the pile of junk before him.

"W-what?"

The word echoed in Ron's mind, ripping at his insides, making the emptiness inside him intolerable. He grabbed the child, throwing him against the wall, holding his ugly even face in a single clenching hand. "The coin! The golden coin I left in your bag! What the hell did you do with it, boy?"

The child began crying, his face even uglier than before, the sobs and cries tearing Ron's mind apart. He continued screaming, demanding answers, shaking the obstacle between him and his coin against the wall with each word. He heard yelling and footsteps behind him, but he couldn't worry about that. He needed the coin. No one would stop him from having that divine, wonderful-

Something smashed into Ron's head, sending a single jolt of pain before everything cut to darkness.

---

Ron's eyes slowly opened to bright white light all around him. He heard an even beeping in the distance. He tried to get up, to look around, to do anything at all, but his body refused to respond.

He heard a tune ring out nearby. His eyes darted to the most beautiful doctor he had ever seen, his long gaping mouth opening and closing to create the tune. The doctor gestured at his papers, pointing at a nearby IV drip from time to time. The movements lined up with the tune from the doctor's mouth like a rehearsed performance.

A nurse came into the room, her uneven eyes meeting his, and their two beautiful faces performed a wondrous duet for Ron. The doctor pointed at the neck of the nurse, miming her being struck. The nurse let her body go a bit limp from the acted blow. The two continued their song as they moved, the sights and sounds filling Ron with a warmth unmatched by any he felt before.

The performance ended, and the two waited for Ron's response. He wished to applaud, to praise their wonderful features, but his body refused. The two left the room, heads fallen. Ron hated to let their wonder go unmentioned, but he couldn't imagine they didn't know how beautiful they were already.

His eyes glanced around the room, clearly in a hospital, and then to himself. He noticed his arm rested on his stomach, though he couldn't entirely feel it. On his arm laid a note, propped for him to read.

"Ron: You're lucky my dad didn't kill you. I'm getting sole custody of Max. Burn in hell with your damn coin."

His eyes wandered to his hand. Between his fingers and thumb rested a small circle of gold. His thumb rubbed slowly and continuously, and while Ron couldn't feel the movement of his thumb or the texture of the coin, he felt the warmth and wonder that the coin possessed flowing into him, filling the emptiness and longing inside of him with something absolutely beautiful.