#pretend there’s a comma between those names

[crandberrysaucewithpulp]

i have to save up some cash like it’s on speed dial for the day the last freaky puppets come back to my area

[rxqueenotd]

The Girl Next Door part V

Pairing: Jeryd Mencken x OFC

Warnings: sexual content, age gap, affairs, unhealthy relationships, dubious morality, my improper use of commas, pure angst, mention of politics.

A/N: For the four people that read this, thank you so much. I almost scrapped this fic earlier this week (the full moon really had me in a full blown tizzy) but this chapter poured out of me at six AM this morning. (Y’all want me to make a tag list? Would that make life easier?)

WC: 1811

“You’re twenty-two?” He hung over my shoulder, watching with darting eyes as I filled out each line of the necessary paperwork for employment through the university.

“I feel like that should’ve been a prerequisite question, don’t you?” I looked back at him and shrugged with an alarmed look on my face.

“Is it my turn to ask if you’re legal?” I joked, watching as he crossed the kitchen and made his way over to the refrigerator.

“To be fair, I estimated you were around that age.” He grabbed the carton of orange juice and turned around towards the drying rack, plucking two wine glasses out, filling them with orange juice.

“Estimations aren’t exact.” I grabbed the glad he slid in my direction and lowered my eyes, “Not very careful of you.”

“They ID’d you at the restaurant, genius,” he shot back at me, “I’m observant.”

I slid the finished paper over to him. He picked it up, skimming the details as he sipped his orange juice.

“Luciano?” He glanced down at the paper and back at me, “That’s your last name?”

I shrugged, “What about it?”

“You’re one bad joke away from joining the mafia.”

“You’re one more insult away from waking up with a severed horse head in your bed.” I countered as I poured the remaining orange juice into the sink and rinsed out the glass.

He narrowed his eyes at me, following my eyeline as I idled about the kitchen, pretending I was focused on anything but him.

“Godfather one or two?” He asked.

“You hardly know me well enough to ask those types of questions.” It was easy to feign innocence when I wasn’t directly looking at him.

“HA!” He bellowed, “That’s rich considering the events of last night,” He laughed again, “You’re funny.”

“Now you’re turning pink.” He cocked his head to the side and lowered his eyes, “Don’t get all shy on me now, Livvy.”

“I’m not shy,” even with my proclamation, I still couldn’t look him in the eye, “I’m still processing it.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” he mocked with an eye roll,“Should we call a priest? Your therapist?”

“We could call your wife.”

That garnered the reaction I so desperately craved. A little hint of something boiling under the surface threatened to spill over and I waited with baited breath for him to tear into me. In a sick way, I anticipated it. Any crack in the surface to reveal his true nature, or anything of the sort. Something real, something I could latch onto. My own personal souvenir to remind myself that, like me, he was actually human. For a while, he had been a caricature to me. A walking trope actualized in the way he bantered with me, stared at me through his long eyelashes, existed within the confines of my home, my job, my dock. The only thing I knew about him was that he was a reckless driver, previously taught at a high school in Roslyn, liked two lemons in his ice water, and that he had an entire wife and a life so far removed from mine that he may as well have lived on Mars.

I itched for him to ask me my LSAT score, my favorite color, what fucked up series of events had led me to seek sexual gratification from my married neighbor with whom I shared a twenty year age difference.

It was at this very moment, I realized I was never built to be regarded as casual. In other words, being someone’s dirty secret only took care of the gap between my legs, my heart and ego bearing the brunt of his casual coolness.

I grabbed the form from his grip and held it closely to my chest.

“If there’s going to be an issue with us working so closely, I don’t want this job. I’m still technically employed at The Marina.”

He was quick to grab it back from me. A look of disapproval flashed across his face.

“We’re good, Olive.” He moved closer to me, patting me reassuringly on the shoulder.

I nodded, listening as his footfalls echoed from the entryway as he made his way to the front door.

I wish I had the restraint to walk away from him as easily as he walked away from me.

_________________________________________

A day later, we made the trip to the university together. A bad choice on my part, I know, but I genuinely enjoyed his company.

He didn’t seem to mind my company, nor did he seem to mind my stealing the occasional glance at him. A look of approval colored his features as he looked over at me while waiting at a stoplight.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just looking at you, Olive.”

“Well, don’t.”

That earned me a chuckle as the light turned green.

Getting approval from the university was child’s play. My fingerprints were clean, my background untarnished, my last name garnering enough attention from the hiring office that the job was offered to me on the spot. Turns out I didn’t need his help after all. Though I’d never admit it aloud, I appreciated his offer, flattering myself despite the obvious manipulative undertones both of us were well aware of when the job was offered, considered, and taken.

“You could have told me your grandfather is the district attorney for Manhattan, for Christ’s sake.” He spoke lowly as we walked back to his car.

He opened the door for me and I slid into the passenger's seat, watching as he skulked to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“Is there anything else I should know?” He asked, eyebrows piqued.

“Part two,” I said, and he looked at me confusedly, “The Godfather.”

“Right.” he chuckled, “Are we friends now, Livvy?”

“No, actually,” I rolled the window down, tipping my hand in the wind.

“We’re colleagues.”

_________________________________________

The second mistake I made that day was going over to his house to discuss lesson plans as well as his teaching preferences.

“No fancy transitions, no bubbly text, no stupid pictures,” he told me as he clicked through an example of one of his PowerPoint presentations.

“These are college students, not kindergarteners.”

‘Poli Sci 408- The American Presidency,’ his syllabus read, with a brief introductory statement framing the coursework: This subject describes the types, functions and roles of the Chief Executive, personal administration, administrative corruption, financial administration and administrative improvement.

“No fun in Professor Mencken’s class,” I mockingly saluted him, “I got it.”

Only later would I realize how ironic it had been to stand in the future president’s kitchen discussing the details of his class, which included administrative corruption, given the nature of our relationship.

When he left me alone at his laptop to click through his lesson plans, I did anything but that. I glanced around the kitchen and adjoining living room, my curious feet carrying me to the entryway. No colors, no personal style, no signs of life in the living space. The style screamed avoidant. Like he could pick up his stuff in one go and run out the door at any given moment.

What caught my eye the most, though, was the photo on the fireplace’s mantle. A wedding photo of him and his wife framed in plated gold with the words ‘From This Moment On’ etched into the bottom of the frame in flowing cursive.

I picked it up, my fingertips gliding gently across the glass as I inspected the photo. The refined ball gown she wore with its basque bodice dripping onto the tulle skirt met with a shirred waistline, all made of matte satin throughout. The delicate V back coming to a halt with a simple bow, the chapel length train trailing behind her as they gazed adoringly at one another. He could have been standing there completely naked in the photo and I still would have only noticed how her delicate collarbones peaked through from under the high scoop neckline. Her face, her timeless American beauty. Brunette hair down to her chin, curled under at the ends, framed neatly with a headpiece at the crown of her head. Her veil flowing gently in, what I imagined to be, the summer breeze.

Suddenly I was a little girl again, gazing through the storefront window on Madison Avenue as an elated bride-to-be twirled around in front of the floor length mirror, surrounded by her friends.

Mrs. Mencken was now as real to me as that woman had been. My guilt now had a face.

I slid the frame back onto the mantle and turned around, smacking right into Jeryd’s chest.

“Do you still want to call her?”

I shook my head vehemently, swallowing audibly as I looked up at him.

His face remained calm as he blinked down at me expectantly, his eyebrow sloping at the arch.

He fucked me hard against the wall after that. My legs wrapped around his waist like a noose when he hoisted me up and took me right there in his living room. A reward, I guessed, for not spilling my guts on his carpet or to his wife. In all reality, I had wanted him to fuck me. To break the code of professionalism that we had agreed on previously. I had dressed for the occasion, silently pretending a skirt with no panties was an innocent choice when he pulled it up to rest on my hips. The entire time, my head rested in the crook of his neck, my eyes burning holes through the photo that rested innocently in its rightful place on their mantle. I held onto him for dear life as he fucked into me, slowly coming to a halt as he pulled back to look into my eyes.

“Don’t do that.” He said, lowly chastising my wandering mind. “Don’t make it personal.”

I wanted to ask him what the fuck life is if it’s not personal but I stayed silent.

He brought his left hand to rest on my cheek as he balanced our weight against the wall. The coldness of his wedding band felt like something akin to holy water on the flesh of the possessed.

“Take it off,” I pleaded with him. He was confused by my outburst, his eyes narrowing down at me.

When I slid his finger into my mouth, the cold metal gripped between my teeth, he got the message. It pooled under my tongue briefly before I spit it onto the floor. The ring landed with a soft thud right in front of the rug on the fireplace.

He didn’t look away from me when he resumed his pace. Each time I tried to avert my gaze, he quite literally jerked my chin back to look directly at him.

I wanted to ask him if that was his idea of not making it personal.

But I didn’t.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Okay I got a question for you, resident Batfam Expert! I’ve been reading a lot of fanfic recently (because I love pain) and I was wondering how many of the pet names the family calls each other are canon? Because they have A LOT and they’re all pretty consistent throughout the writings. Some of the ones I’ve noted regularly are Baby Bird, Little Wing, Jay, Jaylad, Jace, Timmers, Timbo, Dickie, Dickiebird, and then Bruce calling his kids ‘sweetheart’. (Adorable) Anyway, thanks! Don’t feel a need to rush in answering :) I’m in no hurry

Sorry it took me so long to get to all of these, I’ve spent the last few weeks scrounging up every single resource I could get my hands on so that I could make a comprehensive list of which nicknames are canon and which are fanon and it took a SUPER long time. The bottom line is I ended up accidentally making a whole-ass Google Slides for every single batkid nickname, and while the whole project isn’t anywhere near finished yet, I managed to complete the slides needed to answer all of these questions. So...yeah! Here’s what I found:

Dickie/Dickie-Bird:

Jason seems to be the main nickname-user of the family, so aside from the aforementioned comics, there isn’t very much content of Dick being called “Dickie” or “Dickie-Bird”. (I also want to bring up “Big Bird,” which I see Jason calling Dick sometimes in fanfics. That one’s not canon anywhere, unfortunately.) Dick used to be called “Dickie” sometimes as a term of endearment during his circus days, but after that it’s not likely you’ll see any of his family members calling him something other than Dick. 

Little Wing:

Sadly, “Little Wing” hasn’t been used in any canon content after this comic, which is a major bummer since the fandom has turned it into one of Jason’s most popular nicknames (from Dick at least).

Jay/Jace/Jaylad/Jaybird:

(I didn’t list the comic sources for the more widely used nicknames since they’re so common in comics that you could find them pretty much anywhere.) 

I’d say that Bruce called Jason “Jay” far more during his Robin days than he does now, though that could be attributed to their more distant relationship nowadays. (Or maybe I just didn’t happen to read the specific modern comics in which he called Jason “Jay” or “Jace/Jase”.)

Yeahhh, sorry about this one. “Jaylad” is kind of the Schrödinger's cat of nicknames. The fandom ended up misconstruing the term over time. and losing the comma between “Jay” and “lad” so it became “Jaylad” and everyone just stuck with it.

The main person who seems to use this one is Roy Harper, as I haven’t yet found a comic in which one of Jason’s family members calls him “Jaybird”. You can open pretty much any comic with both Jason and Roy in it and expect Roy to say it at least once.

Timmy/Timbers/Timbo:

I haven’t seen anyone calling Tim “Timmers” in canon, but otherwise, most of the other common nicknames derived from Timothy are canon.

Pretender/Replacement:

I always found it wild how Jason never once called Tim “Replacement” in a comic, and yet we all managed to latch onto it anyway and make it his go-to nickname for Tim? That takes some dedication, man. Otherwise, Jason called Tim “Pretender” a few times during Batman: Hush, and that was about it. 

Baby Bird/Baby Bat:

I know a lot of people hate the nickname “Babybird” (for whatever reason), but honestly, I’m really hoping that DC makes it a thing because dammit, we deserve this breadcrumb at least. As of right now, the only batkid who has ever been called “Babybird” was Damian, and it was by his mom. (In fanon, it’s typically Tim who is called “Babybird” while Dick is “Dickie-Bird” and Jason is “Little Wing”. Who decided this, I have no idea but I’m not complaining.) I also included “Baby Bat” since I see that one pretty often too, and that one is sadly not canon either. The DC writers really don’t want us getting our hands on any family fluff whatsoever, huh.

As for Bruce, I don’t think he’s ever called his kids a term of endearment more emotional than “son” or “pal” because he has the emotional capacity of a dried-up raisin. All of those nicknames like “sweetheart,” “honey,” “pumpkin,” and any other names a parent might call their child are banned from Batman’s dictionary as far as the writers are concerned. Will that make me stop having Bruce call his kids “sweetheart” in my fics every chance I get? Absolutely not.

[mst3kproject]

The River of the Giant Alligator

A bunch of Italians pretending they’re not Italian in a movie about a guy who chose the wrong place to build a hotel… it’s like Avalanche by way of Devil Fish, with an alligator.  And racism.  You can’t have a 70’s Italian jungle movie without the racism, and this one layers it on real thick.  I think The River of the Giant Alligator has its MST3K bases covered.

Rich Asshole Joshua has opened Paradise House, a resort in the middle of the ‘virgin jungle’.  He proudly tells visitors that not only has he left the surrounding ecosystem undamaged, but he’s helping the local people by giving them jobs and improving their standard of living.  Naturally it’s not as simple as that.  Trouble begins when Sheena, the model they brought for their advertising photographs (just for a dash of Killer Fish), vanishes overnight.  Photographer Daniel and hotel manager Ally go to the locals looking for her, and are told that the River God has awakened and intends to drive the white people away by assuming the form of a giant crocodile and eating them all.  Considering how mind-bogglingly stupid the tourists in this movie are, that should take all of twenty minutes.

The locals, who call themselves the Kuma, have a name for their River God but it’s pronounced five different ways and I won’t guess how to spell it.  Because of the deep breathing sounds that presage its first appearance, I shall call the creature Darth Gator.

Let’s get the basics out of the way first.  The whole movie is dubbed and the voice actors are bad. The Darth Gator prop is completely immobile but they mostly keep it in the dark or in really tight shots so we don’t notice… it’s only the occasional ill-advised wide shot where it’s obviously fake enough to be funny.  There’s a spiky fence that exists mostly so that people can get impaled on it and a cloying little kid for no reason whatsoever.  The ‘wildlife’ is a stock footage smorgasbord that includes orangutans and hippos on the same river.  The worst effect in the film is a terrible miniature shot of the hotel on fire, which would have looked just fine if the people involved hadn’t forgotten that flames don’t scale.

So all that sucks, but is fairly harmless.  Now let’s talk about the racism.

We’ll start with the movie’s treatment of its two ‘love stories’, and I use the floating commas because neither of them quite qualifies. Daniel and Ally are the main ‘couple’ of the movie.  The camera lingers on each of them to show that he thinks she’s beautiful and she thinks he’s rugged, and they spend the whole movie hanging out on balconies and boats together and discussing whether the resort is good or bad for the local people… but they never get so much as a kiss.  This is kind of nice, actually, because there’s very little time to stop and make out when you’re being chased by a large carnivorous reptile.  It does, however, make for a hell of a contrast between them and the other ‘couple’ we see.

This is the model, Sheena, and her Kuma boyfriend. I am unclear on where this movie is set (the closest we get to a clue is Ally referring to the area as ‘the Orient’, which could honestly mean anything) but it’s perfectly clear that the reason they hired a black woman for their publicity photos is to make the place look ‘exotic’.  There’s a weird moment when Joshua attempts to flirt with Sheena by telling her, “it occurs to me that Eve herself may have been black”, which… yes, that is how human evolution worked, what about it?  All that aside, at the end of the day, Sheena runs off for a romantic evening with one of the tribesmen.  We never see her talk to this guy or have any clue what made her pick him over any of the others.  They just go fuck on a beach and then get eaten by an alligator.

So… we have blonde, blue-eyed white people having a perfectly chaste, wait-for-marriage love affair in which they actually get to know each other… and black people who run off with a stranger and screw out in the open like animals.  Holy shit.  I want to say I hope this wasn’t something the film-makers actively thought about, but it might be worse if they didn’t.  Naturally, this is also a version of the ‘people who have premarital sex must die’ trope from slasher movies, and the movie makes doubly sure we know this is Bad Behaviour by having Ally remark that the Kuma are forbidden from visiting ‘the Island of Love’ on the full moon.

The deaths of Sheena and Nameless Kuma Guy also begin a pattern that lasts almost the entire movie.  Even though we’re told, repeatedly, that Darth Gator wants to drive the white people out of his jungle, for the vast majority of the running time it’s the brown people who are getting chomped.  We’re told that twelve white missionaries came here years ago and Darth Gator ate all but one of them, who then became a crazy jungle man (not gonna lie, Father Jonathan was my favourite character and I wish we’d seen more of him).  We see Sheena, her boyfriend, and the boyfriend’s brother get eaten alive.  Furthermore, most of the white deaths in the movie are at the hands of the Kuma, who run in and kill the tourists with spears and fire arrows in the belief that they’re doing their god’s bidding, and much of this happens offscreen. Those hit by the arrows quickly fall into the water and vanish from sight.  The only time the camera lingers on a white person dying is Joshua, who I guess they think deserved it.  The impression one gets is that white death is a horror better implied than shown, while brown death is a spectacle.  Again… holy shit.

The River of the Giant Alligator can’t seem to decide what we’re supposed to think about the Kuma people.  Early in the film they’re portrayed as victims.  These foreigners have invaded their land and built this giant hotel, and claimed to be helping them by giving them ‘work’. Ally notes that they’ll be able to live longer, healthier lives, but Daniel wonders if it’s worth it when they’ve basically become Joshua’s slaves.  The movie leaves this question hanging there without exploring it any further. When Daniel and Ally come looking for information about the alligator attacks, the Kuma direct them to Father Jonathan, knowing they’re more likely to believe a white man, even one who’s obviously not quite all there.  The movie really wants to be about the exploitation of indigenous peoples, treated as decorations and curiosities by white tourists.

The problem is, it wants to eat that cake, too.  By the end of the story, the Kuma have devolved into stock savages.  They attack the hotel and kill everybody, and kidnap Ally so they can tie her to a horizontal King Kong contraption as a sacrifice. The ending just makes it all the more confusing, as they turn up to discover that their god has been blown to bloody chunks after biting into a van full of explosives, and they cheer and they just leave.  Is it really that easy to kill a god?  Won’t a dead god demand vengeance anyway?  Does this mean they actually like the white people after all, and were only angry because Darth Gator was eating them?

The ending also muddles the movie’s other point, about the nature of eco-tourism.  One of the selling points of Paradise House is that it’s in the middle of virgin jungle.  Joshua brags about how he’s left the surrounding ecosystem untouched – but then we cut straight to trees being cleared using dynamite, and later we see live piglets being thrown into the river to keep the crocodiles hanging around so people can gawk at them.  You can’t build a hotel in the middle of a place and then call it ‘virgin jungle’.  You’re the one who violated it!

The script is a little unclear on whether Darth Gator is a natural or supernatural threat.  Ally and Daniel insist that it’s no mere alligator (I don’t think this movie knows the difference between crocodiles and alligators any better than I do) and Father Jonathan seems to believe it’s the Devil Himself, but it certainly dies like a flesh-and-blood creature.  Whatever its nature, it’s clear enough that Darth Gator represents the jungle striking back at these intruders to drive them out.  The Kuma literally say as much.  So what are we to take from the fact that it dies at the end?  Have we won the right to destroy the forest by killing its guardian?  I don’t believe the people who make these movies think this stuff through.

I can tell that we’re supposed to hate the tourists, and we do, although not always for the reasons the movie wants us to. Minnow, the red-haired little girl who ‘only likes to play with boys’, tries so hard to be Adorable that you want to punt her across the room.  Her mother leaves her to wander around the hotel alone, because Mummy’s got a smarmy mustached boyfriend to bang (even this relationship gets more attention than Sheena and Unnamed Kuma Guy, by the way… we are told that Mummy and Mustache have met before, and are here mostly to see each other rather than the jungle).  Other notable annoyances include a lady who seems perfectly sane until she starts talking about the aliens, and a guy who loves to complain about Youth These Days and will seize any opportunity to do so.

I kinda wanna gripe about these obnoxious characters, but I don’t feel like I can.  You may recall that I spent a month stuck on a cruise ship earlier this year.  I can tell you definitively that these people do exist, and I hate them even more in real life.

Man, this could have been a fun monster movie.  I’ve seen movies about man-eating crocodiles (or alligators… does it honestly matter that much?) that I really enjoyed.  Primeval wasn’t even that bad – it was about how humans are more monstrous than anything nature can produce.  Lake Placid had that immortal bit where Betty White says if I had a dick, this is where I’d tell you to suck it.  The River of the Great Alligator is just boring bullshit and things that seem kinda racist on the surface but then you think about them a little longer and realize they’re incredibly racist.  I went into this one hoping to like it, but it absolutely pissed on the last shreds of my optimism... like a lot of other things in 2020.

[wonderland-irwin]

Neighbour!Ashton

Word Count: 1862

Warnings: None

Summary: Bella gets locked out of her house when a cheeky friend from her past pops up to her assistance.

A/N: This may become a bigger story, I’m not sure what will happen. Let’s see how much people like this one! Neighbour!Ashton is not the title, its the current concept lol until I find a title. Enjoy! Let me know if you want me to continue this story line! If you wanna be tagged in other parts, let me know! (Also I tried to remove unnecessary commas! I edited the best I could)

~*~*~

Unable to get my feet under me, I slipped on the towel I’d placed on the bathroom floor instead of the bathmat and as I fell to the floor, I grabbed the towel rack for aid, and it crashed loudly beside me. Muttering curses under my breath I stood, snatching the nearest towel and wrapping it around myself. 

I fumbled with the lock in the door knob, then once I finally got it open, I hurled myself into the hall. Why was I never able to do anything? All I’d wanted was a shower to wipe the thin layer of sweat I could feel over my entire body off, but I’d barely stepped in and the dogs had begun to bark and howl at something.

I crashed down the stairs, spooking Olive, our grey tabby, and I raced into the front living room. Our shih-tzu’s - a breed of small dog that should be rather chil, however ours were far from - Peekley and Mushroom were standing on the back of the couch in the bay window, heads thrown back barking as loud as they could. 

“Hey!” I hollered, pulling my towel tighter around myself, “shut up!” Usually when they did this there was a person walking past with a dog or the poor paperboy. The dogs refused to stop, and I collapsed on the couch, leaning over them to pull the curtain back. Their barking was slightly valid when I saw the white mail van pull away from our house. 

“Stop,” I hissed at the dogs as the van drove around the crescent. They were usually good with their barking and stopping, but sometimes they got excessive. It was ridiculous.

I pat to the front door, pulling it open, stepping into the hot summer’s day, then pulling the door shut to keep the air conditioning in. There was barely a cloud in the sky and those home during the day were doing garden work. I grinned when I saw the box on the bottom step. A few days ago I had made a large order of novels I had wanted to read on my summer break, and it seemed to have arrived. I expected it to arrive at the house’s mailbox down the road, but it was so big that they had to deliver it right to our doorstep.

Adjusting the towel around me again, I bent to pick the package up when I heard the front door click shut. I shot up, sprinting up the steps and trying to push the door open. It rattled and I cursed. Our front door had an automatic lock that could only open with a key. My dad worked for a lock company and was testing it on our door, and long story short the thing was useless. 

“C’mon,” I begged, rattling the door. It refused to budge and my key was hanging on the hook by the front closet. The dogs started barking from the window, and I shouted for them to stop, the horror that it was mid-afternoon and I was stuck outside in my front garden in nothing but a towel was occupying my mind. I realized I may have left the back door unlocked, and I leapt from the porch, adjusted my towel yet again and darted down the cobblestone pathway, across the hot driveway and up the side of my house to the gate. I reached over to find the hook on the gate, then my stomach turned hollow as my fingers brushed a hard padlock fastened to the hook.

I cursed, balling my hands into fists and I stormed back to the front door. As soon as my dad got home from work I would demand he remove that lock and burn whatever prototypes his company had created. What an awful design.

My parents weren’t going to be home until that evening, and my sister was out with her friends at the amusement park. I was going to be stuck out there forever. 

“Bella?”

I whirled around, grabbing the top of my towel and clutching it to my chest in protection. I stared at the person. It was Ashton. I hadn’t seen Ashton or spoken to Ashton in years. He lived across the street, and we’d grown up as best friends. We got to high school and interests changed, our lives got busier, and we started to drift apart. I missed him sometimes. Sometimes someone would remind me of him, or I’d see him when he was home from college in the dark hours of the night lit by the street lights riding his yellow trick bike in aimless circles. Sometimes I saw his posts on Instagram, or I’d simply just think about him. And I missed him.

But mostly I tried to push that missing feeling away. Tried to pretend it didn’t exist.

“Hi,” I said quietly, staring at him. He was the same as the last time we spoke, which was at our high school graduation and our mothers demanded a picture of the two of us together. He still wore dark jeans and ripped band tees. He still wore black converse. Still had those pretty hazel eyes I knew every girl gushed over. He was a little older, had a couple of tattoos, but he was still recognizable as my old Ashton. 

“You okay?”

Mm, he still also had that cheeky grin. 

His eyes roamed up and down me, and I felt briefly violated before realizing he wasn’t looking at me in a way that meant he wanted to rip my towel off. He was being his usual cheeky self, and was probably very concerned why I was out in the street in my towel.

“It’s a whole thing,” I told him, “but my dad’s stupid lock locked me out of the house.”

“Ah,” he nodded. I nodded in return because I felt awkward, and a silence fell between us.

“Why don’t you come over to my place until your parents get home,” he offered.

I raised my eyebrow, “are you sure?”

“Of course. You’re  family.”

“Thanks.”

I adjusted my towel again, and took the steps slowly. Ashton scooped up my large box of books and quirked his eyebrow at me as he tucked it behind a planter on my porch.

“Books?”

I smiled, “of course!” He chuckled as we made our way across the street to his house.

“The water droplets on your shoulders sparkling in the sun are very pretty, Bella,” he said as we walked up his front porch and he opened the door for me to step through.

“Oh,” I said as he pulled the door shut, feeling off guard, “um, thank you.”

He flashed another smile before calling out to his mum, “Bella’s over!”

Ms. Irwin appeared from the kitchen with wide eyes, “Bella?”

I wondered when the last time was that Ashton and I stepped through the Irwin’s front door like this.

“Hi Ms. Irwin,” I waved, my face flushing.

She beamed, “hi, Sweetheart. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I nodded, “you?”

She just nodded and said, “you two be good,” before disappearing again.

Ashton rolled his eyes with a grin before putting a hand on my back between my shoulder blades and guided me towards the stairs. As we climbed, I looked at the photographs that lined the wall of Ashton and his little sister and brother. There were photos that had been hanging there for as long as I could remember, but some, like school photos, now showed them as older kids, Ashton as an adult. 

There was one photo that made my heart stutter. It was Ashton and I when we were about six. We were at the zoo, sitting on a bench laughing, my head on his shoulder, his head against mine. We each held a melting popsicle, the red and pink syrup all over our hands, around our mouths and on our chins. I don’t think a photo has been taken of me where I’ve looked that happy since.

“I love this photo.” I pointed it out.

“Yeah,” Ashton who had been at the top of the stairs, hopped down the last few to join me, “that was a fun

day.” 

We looked at it for a moment, then continued to Ashton’s room. I laughed when I entered.

“What?” He asked, rummaging around his closet.

“Ashton, it looks the same!” I wandered around the room. The room itself was painted a dark blue. Ashton’s bed was unmade, clothes were in piles on the floor. He had a desk, where his laptop sat, and in one corner his drum kit, the other a black bean bag chair. Knick knacks and odd belongings sat on shelves and in odd spaces on the floor.

“Like yours doesn’t?” He grinned, passing me one of his t-shirts. 

“Okay,” I laughed, “it might be.” My room was still purple and green. The doll house my dad had made me that I made Ashton play with me numerous times still sat on its shelf. I still had fragments of LEGO upon my shelves. My books cluttered every corner. Posters from movies and musicians covered my walls.

He chuckled, moving to his drawer and rummaging around. I pulled on his shirt, a Guns N Roses shirt with minimal holes, and pulled it down as far as it could go. Ashton passed me a pair of boxers, and sat at his desk as I pulled them on and ditched my towel on his floor.

I felt better now I wore clothes and stepped over to him. Folding my arms across my chest, I leant over his shoulder to see what he was doing. A message appeared on the screen once he’d logged in, and he clicked it.

_dirtycliffo: log in!

I grinned, “Ashton, is that Michael?” I hadn’t talked to our old friends  in a long time.

“Yes,” he frowned, typing back.

weeniebeanie: no

I suddenly exploded with laughter, clutching at my stomach. Then I leant over his shoulder so I could see his face.

“You still have your screen names from eighth grade?”

“Yes,” Ashton grumbled. He was avoiding looking at me, but I could see in his eyes he was smiling.

weeniebeanie: i hate that game

_dirtycliffo: c’mon. Luke n cal also suck

bread: heyy

“You still act like you're in grade eight too,” I laughed, resting my chin on Ashton’s shoulder as he logged into the game.

“Here,” he said, passing me a headset that was on his deck, “listen in.”

I twisted the headphones so we could both hear and Ashton could use the mic.

“Good, you’re here,” came Michael’s static filled voice.

“Yeah,” Ashton sighed, “but it’s not just me here.”

“Oh?” Calum’s voice came. It occurred to me that even though I wasn’t as close to them as I was Ashton, I kind of missed them too.

“Yeah. Bella-Wella is here too,” he replied, calling me my grade school name.

“Stop,” I laughed, nudging him, and he grinned.

“So it’s just like old times? Hey, Bella.”

“Hey,” I called back, and the boys started their game, talking about weapons and strategies. And I listened along. Just like old times.

[no1gaytheist]

A list of helpful English writing tips for amateur writers!!!

I get it, the English language is hard and stupid. As someone who has taken advanced English writing classes, I tend to notice a lot of simple mistakes that new writers make. So I am compiling a list of these common errors and how to fix them! (If needed, examples will be put at the end)

Dialogue! Dialogue can be really hard to write sometimes, and the most common mistake I see new writers make is with their spacing. This is important, so remember this: every time a different character speaks, you start a new paragraph. This is an English literary rule, and it also makes writing dialogue a lot easier. If you follow this rule, it will be easier for the reader to tell when the dialogue switches from character A to character B.

This is just a little grammatical thing, but it does bother me quite a bit. Instead of saying "for gods sakes," say "for God's sake." That's proper grammar *finger guns*

This one is a bit hard to explain, so be sure to check the examples at the end. When you start a new paragraph within a character's dialogue, leave the end of the first paragraph open (no quotation mark), and then start the next paragraph with a quotation mark.

This one is pretty simple and it probably seems obvious, but don't be afraid to use a thesaurus!!! I personally use wordhippo.com, but there are plenty of other resources online! This is also helpful for when you can't quite remember the word you're looking for.

Remember in school when your English teachers (if you had them) would tell you never to start a sentence with and, but, or so? Well if you're doing creative writing, throw all that out the window. You don't need that shit. If you feel like starting a new sentence with any of those words instead of just using a comma would be more effective, go for it!

Semicolons. Confusing little things, aren't they? Well never fear, because I can explain! It's actually not too difficult. Semicolons are exactly what they look like: a cross between a period and a comma. When using a semicolon, look at the statements on either side of it and ask yourself, "Would this sentence still make sense if I replaced the semicolon with a comma or a period?" If the answer is yes (to both the comma and the period), then congratulations! You've mastered the art of the semicolon.

Now that you've mastered the semicolon, it's time to move on to the apostrophe. Here are a few quick tips for you: apostrophes can indicate possession, such as "Marion's pencil." But here's a mistake I see very often: if a person's (haha check out that apostrophe) name ends in "s," you don't add another s to the end of it. For example, you wouldn't say, "Mars's blog." You would say, "Mars' blog." Along with this, there are some other weird rules with apostrophes. The main one (that even I struggle with) is the possessive "it." You probably already know that "it's" means "it is," but an apostrophe and an s usually indicates possession, so what do you do for the possessive form of "it?" This is one of those instances where the English language is stupid, because the possessive form of "it" has no apostrophe. In short: it's = it is; its = possessive form of it.

NEVER PUT THE PUNCTUATION OUTSIDE OF THE QUOTATION MARKS!!! (See the examples at the end)

This one is more of a personal preference, but have you ever heard of the Oxford comma? It's easiest to explain by example, so I'll just put the example right here. With the Oxford comma: I went to the store to get apples, oranges, and pears. Without the Oxford comma: I went to the store to get apples, oranges and pears. Both of those sentences are technically correct, so it's just a matter of which you prefer. (I prefer the Oxford comma)

I sometimes see people end dialogue with "said [character]," and while this is technically grammatically correct, it's a fairly old fashioned way of writing. Unless that's the style you're going for, I suggest you switch the two, i.e., "[character] said."

Correct forms of your! It's real simple but I see people mess it up all the time. You're = you are. Your = possessive form of "you."

In the same vein as "your" is "their." They're = they are. There = a place. Their = possessive form of "they"

When writing a quote within a quote, use apostrophes where you would normally put quotation marks (see example).

I'll be sure to add more if I think of them!

Examples:

1. "The English language is really dumb," character A said.

"I know what you mean," character B replied.

3. "Pretend that this is a really long paragraph of emotional dialogue.

"Now I am continuing that emotional dialogue in a new paragraph."

6. This sentence could be split up with either a period or a comma; but I think a semicolon would work best.

8. ❌ Is it too late to say "happy birthday"?

✔️ Is it too late to say "happy birthday?"

11. "You're looking beautiful today! I love what you've done with your hair."

12. "They're having a party at their house, and they want us all to be there."

13. "In the words of my lesbian cousin, 'a flannel a day keeps the straight dudes away.'"

I really hope you found these helpful. Please reblog to help out new writers!

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

(Full Version, A-Z)

author: @storybycorey

rating: R

word count: approx. 8000

summary: The ABC’s, as told by Fox Mulder.

For those of you looking only for part Z, just scroll a bit more than halfway down!  (or take a read back through the whole thing- there are references back to the first 25 letters in the final installment!)

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for XFiles

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you...” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late.  I’m not sure I should drive.  Do you mind if I—” 

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.”  She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear. 

“Of course not.”  He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times.  He shudders. 

They’re quiet.  He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it Sounds of Scully and play it every night for the rest of his life.  

He longs to touch her.  A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger. 

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.” 

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist.  His thighs nudge her bottom.  Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly.  He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

It’s nice was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice.  He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time.  Even if this is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read.  He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought...”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing.  Bedroom rules.”  It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again.  “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera...  He named my brother Charlie.  It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then.  Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…”  She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest.  “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too.  Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight...”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta's not as brave as Dana is....” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.”  He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips.  “You’d need a Romeo…”  He doubts Wherefore art thou, Mulder is quite what Shakespeare had in mind.  

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts.  Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing?  

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot.  I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be... What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it.  Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families.  We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s.  I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr.  She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks.  It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them.  Things were simpler then.  There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path.  That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned.  Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made.  With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his only choice, from the very beginning.  

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot.    

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess...” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for….  Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.”  

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning. A is for Apple.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the No that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short.  

He waits.  And he waits.  And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not no.  More.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind.  Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached D though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name.  

By E, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip.  

By F, she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure.  Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By G, she’s murmuring my God against his palm, Mulder against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

H… I… J... Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

K... “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…”  He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (that’s illogical, Mulder, he expects her to say).  She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that.  Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. L... (“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)… M… N… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck.  By O, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

P... “That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb...” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

Q... (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)… R… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters.  Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

S… T...  By U, he can’t keep from touching her.  A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him.  Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By V, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

W and X fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well.  Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own.  Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them.  He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?”  Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow.  She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world.  “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser.  He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so.  It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—A for the arc of her hips as they rise; B for her short, quickened breaths; C for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; D for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; E for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; F for fuck, for oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?”  Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between.  

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder...”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer.  Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world.  

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

[sunflowergirl522]

Legally Blonde 3: Harvard Variations

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Just a legally blonde AU with you starring as Elle Woods. Based on both the movie and the musical.

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 1908

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Pulling up to the school fills you with excitement. It’s a new atmosphere than it is back in California but you’re enjoying it so far. 

“Oh, Rocket! It’s so exciting! Look, Harvard!” Rocket turns from the window of your convertible to you and gives back a small bark with his tail wagging.

The moving van pulls up right behind you when you get to your dorm building. Students begin to gather around and chatter amongst themselves about the scene in front of them. 

“Well this is our home for the next three years, Rocket. Oh, are you thirsty? Let’s get you some water. Sweetheart, you just look parched. Here you go.” You pull out a collapsible dog bowl out of your purse and fill it up while placing Rocket on the ground. “Good boy, Steve’s gonna be so excited to see you. Guys, this way.” You walk into the building with Rocket and the moving guys right behind you, ignoring the comments a few people yell towards you. “Now, don’t be scared. Everyone will love you.” You look down and say it to Rocket when in reality you’re just trying to hype yourself up for this.

***

“Hi. Y/L/N, comma, Y/n.” The man behind the table looks you up and down before handing you your group of papers.

“Class schedule, map, book list.” He flips through his list of names to mark you off.

“Wait a second, my social events calendar is missing.” This causes him to look up at you, not sure what you’re talking about.

“Your what?”

“Social events. You know, mixers, formals, clam bakes, trips to the Cape.” He only chuckles and looks back down at his clipboard. “Okay. Has Steve Rogers checked in yet?”

“Um… No. You know, maybe you should check with the cruise director on the lido deck.”

You only hum to yourself before turning and walking away trying to ignore how the comment affected you. You pretend as if you didn’t feel a stab in your heart and a twist in your stomach. You just place a happy smile on your face ignoring the thought of what if you can’t do this.

***

“Hello, I’m Bucky Barnes, welcome to the hallowed halls of Harvard Law. I know first hand how hard you’ve all worked to be here today so let’s go around and say a few things about yourselves.” Bucky speaks to the three students on the bench in front of him.

“My name is Thor Odinson. I have a masters in Scandinavian Studies, and a Ph.D. in Theology. And for the last eighteen months I’ve been teaching self defense classes to those who need them.”

“Welcome to Harvard.”

“Tony Stark. I won a Fulbright and a Rhodes. I write financial software codes but that’s a challenge I’ve outgrown. How many yachts can one man own? Some say that I’m a pompous creep, somehow I don’t lose that much sleep. Why bother with false modesty? Harvard’s the perfect place for me.”

“Welcome to Harvard.”

“Hey how’re you doing, I’m Valkyrie. I got a Ph.D. from Berkely in Women's studies, emphasis in the History of Combat. I did the Peace Corp overseas, inoculating refugees in family clinics that I built myself from mud and trees. I fought to clean up their lagoons and save their rare, endangered loons.” Just as Bucky is about to welcome her she stands up and speaks again. Bucky just sits in her old spot. “But now I’m on the legal track, because this country’s out of whack and only women have the guts to go and take it back. We'll make the government come clean and get more people voting Green, and really stick it to the phallocentric war machine.”

“I love your top, it is so fatigue chic!” All of their heads turn to look at you when you speak. “So how psyched are you guys? First day at Harvard Law! My name is Y/n Y/l/n and this is Rocket Y/l/n.” You move in front of Valkyrie and shake her hand. 

“Uh, we were just going around the circle, tell us something about yourself.” 

“Me?” Bucky just motions for the seat between him and Tony and nods. “Okay, well I have a bachelor’s degree from UCLA where I was Zeta Lambda Nu sweetheart and president of my sorority, Delta Nu, and last year I was homecoming queen. Oh! Two weeks ago I saw Beyonce at Fred Segal, and I talked her out of buying this truly heinous cable knit tube top. Whoever said orange is the new pink was seriously disturbed!”

Bucky chuckles a bit at that more at the way you said it than anything else. “I did not know that.” 

“Does anyone know where I can find Civil Procedures Class with Professor Fury?”

“Actually some of us are heading there, so I’m sure somebody would be happy to show you.” Bucky missed when everyone darted away. “Ah well it’s in Hauser, over there, second building on the left.

“Thank you.” You smile at him and get up to leave.

“You know, I don’t think dogs are exactly allowed in class.” Bucky stands and you turn towards him.

“Oh, Rocket’s not a dog, Rocket’s family. I’ll just drop him off in my room, he’d be happier there anyway. I’ll see you later then!” You give him a little wave before turning and leaving. Bucky just stands there for another minute with a small smile on his face.

***

Walking down the hall to your class you see Steve reading things off of a bulletin board. It stops you in your tracks. With a new found confidence you walk up and start to pass him. 

Steve does a double take as you pass. “Y/n?”

You fake surprise as you turn to look at him. “Steve? I totally forgot you go here.”

“What are you talking about? I’m sorry. Are you here to see me?”

“No, silly. I go here.”

“You go where?” You can hear the confusion seeping out of his voice.

“Harvard. Law school.”

“You got into Harvard Law?”

“What, like it’s hard?” You completely down play all of the hard work you did to get here. “Oh, my gosh, Steve, it’s gonna be so great.” Steve’s mouth stays agape as he tries to come to terms with all of this. “Oh, uh, time to go. I have to go to class, but meet me after on the benches, okay? Alright bye!” You leave Steve behind with his mouth still wide open in complete and utter shock.

You sit in the front of the class and pull out your little notebook after seeing your classmates all on laptops ready to type notes.

“A legal education means you will learn to speak in a new language. You will be taught to achieve insight into the world around you, and to sharply question what you know.The seat you have picked will be yours for the next nine months of your life. And those of you in the front row...Beware.” The professor looks straight at you with the eye without the patch and your smile falls for a minute. “The law is reason free from passion. Does anyone know who spoke those immortal words? Yes?” He calls on the big guy you had seen when everyone was introducing themselves.

“Aristotle.”

“Are you sure?” Professor Fury approaches him and leans towards him.

“Yes.”

“Would you be willing to stake your life on it?” 

“I think so.”

“Oh. What about his life?”

“Ow.” The man that the professor hit with a pencil ducks down.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I recommend knowing before speaking. The law leaves much room for interpretation, but very little for self doubt.” Fury takes the seating chart from in front of you on his way back to the front. “And you were right. It was Aristotle. I assume all of you have read pages one through forty-eight and are now well-versed in subject matter jurisdiction. Who can tell us about Gordon v. Steele? Someone from the hot zone. Y/n Y/l/n?” You look up and get surprised with him in front of you.

“Um, actually, I wasn’t aware that we had an assignment.”

“Peggy Carter. Do you think it’s acceptable that Ms. Y/l/n is not prepared?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you support my decision to ask her to leave class and return only when she is prepared?”

“Absolutely.” Fury turns to look at you expectantly. You close your mouth fuming over this and pack up your stuff before getting up and leaving. You go straight outside to the benches where you’re supposed to meet Steve. 

Bucky looks up and follows you as you sit down before going back to his work. When you begin mumbling to yourself he begins to get concerned. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Ya. Do they put you on the spot like that all the time?”

“The professors? Yeah, they tend to do that. What did Fury kick you out for?” You haven’t looked up yet so it shocked you that the man speaking knew whose class you were just in.

“Oh hello again!” You smile at Bucky when you turn to see him behind you. “I didn’t know there was a reading.”

“He made me cry once, not in class, I waited till I was in my room but yeah. He’ll kick you in the ass. He’s tough, really tough.”

“Great.” You sigh and turn back around.

“It gets better though. Who else do you have?”

“I have Pierce, Hill, and McCoy.”

“Speak up in Pierce’s class. He likes people who are opinionated. And in McCoy’s class try to sit in the back. He tends to spit when he talks about product liability. And for Hill, make sure you read the footnotes, ‘cause that’s where she gets a lot of her exam questions from.”

“Wow, I’m really glad I met you.” You beam at him and Bucky likes you he can feel it.

“Hey, Y/n.” Steve comes up to you and your attention immediately goes to him.

“Hey! Thanks for all your help.” 

“Good luck.” Bucky watches you get up and approach Steve before he gets up himself.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Hi. Uh, so… How was your first class?”

Oh, it was good, except for this horrible preppy girl who tried to make me look bad in front of the professor. But no biggie. You’re here now. So how was your summer?”

“Good. It was good.” Steve stumbles over his words, still not believing that you’re here.

“Did you do anything exciting?” It was at that moment when the girl, Peggy, comes up from behind Steve.

“Hey!” Steve chuckles nervously not sure how this will all pan out. “Have you met Peggy?”

“Oh, hi. Peggy Carter.”

“Do you know her?”

“Uh, she’s…”

“I’m his fiancee.” His grandmothers ring glistens in the sunlight.

“I’m sorry. I just hallucinated. What?”

“Yeah. She was my girlfriend in prep school. And we got back together this summer at my grandmother’s birthday party.”

“Steve told me all about you. You’re famous at our club. But he didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

“Boo Bear, I didn’t know she would be here.” Hearing him call her the nickname he called you was just a stab in the chest.

“Excuse me.” And with that last word you turn to walk away, tears in your eyes.

[back-on-my-bullsh]

Band-Ten-Heart

Summary: A long bus ride provides Peter the perfect opportunity to tell you how he feels. Now all he needs to do is actually talk to you.

Warnings: Fluff! cursing, some angst if you use a magnifying glass, probably some improper comma usage, marching band lingo.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Here it is! My very first fic :D A lot of this is based off of my own experiences in high school marching band so, y’know, take this with a grain of salt or whateva. Feedback is always appreciated so... let me know what you think, I guess.

“Hey Peter?”

Peter’s eyes shot up from his phone to meet yours across the aisle of the bus, his brows raised.

“Could you hold this for me?” Peter glanced down at your outstretched arms to see you holding a mirror towards him. He nodded, taking it from you and holding it out so you could see yourself in it.

“Doing makeup on the bus? A bit risky, don’t you think?” Peter gave you a concerned smile.

“Occupational hazard,” you shrugged, “they don’t usually give us time to do it there.” Peter hummed in affirmation as he watched you paint long strokes of pastel colors around your eyes.

“Pretty impressive,” he said, admiring your precision.

You paused to smile up at him, “lotsa’ practice, I suppose.” He nodded again and your eyes returned to the mirror so you could keep working.

Peter thought back to all the times he’d arrived at competition sites or rival high schools, only to see you with your makeup and hair perfectly done, ready to take the field. He inwardly cursed his band director for keeping the woodwinds on a separate bus until now. The charter bus taking them to their next competition had enough storage to allow the whole band to fit onto two buses rather than the usual three, and the nearly ten-hour drive had prompted Mr. Keely to allow them to sit on whichever bus they pleased.

Peter had immediately decided to join you with the rest of the color guard, determined to finally ask you out. He even managed to snag the seat across the aisle from you. His confidence wavered, however, when he realized he had no earthly idea what to say to you. The two of you were friendly, sure—you’d been going to school together for years—but you’d never been close.

But Peter was intent on changing that now. He’d spent nearly all of the trip trying to come up with a topic of conversation until you had finally hit him over the head with one, and now he couldn’t stop staring at you long enough to think of what to say.

“You good, Pete?” Peter’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry,” he blushed, “just admiring your handiwork. You’re really good at that,” he nodded towards you as you continued painting the intricate design on your face.

“Thanks,” you replied with a warm smile, and Peter swore it was brighter than the sun.

“I wish I was that talented,” he sighed, shaking his head.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Parker,” you quipped with a smirk, “I saw you on Opposite Day this summer. That eyeliner? Snatched.” Peter let out a laugh, genuine and bright.

“I wish I could take credit for that,” he chuckled, “that was all my aunt, though.”

Your hand flew to your chest as a look of shock covered your face, “Peter Benjamin Parker!”

“How do you know my middle name?”

“You mean to tell me that for the past two and a half months you just let me believe you were a secret beauty guru?” You scoffed at him, “I have never felt so betrayed.”

Peter bit back a laugh as you continued to scold him. “Honestly, Peter,” you paused to dig through the bag of makeup next to you, pulling out a tube of lipstick before meeting his eyes once again, “I’m not sure our friendship can survive this.”

“No! Don’t say that,” Peter faux-pleaded, a smile tugging at his lips. “How do I make this better?” He grabbed your wrist gently and gave you his best puppy dog eyes.

Your facade broke as you burst into a fit of giggles and the sound made Peter’s heart flutter. “I suppose I can let you off the hook since you have been holding my mirror for like twenty minutes,” you teased, a warm smile plastered on your face.

Peter smiled back as he pretended to wipe his brow, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief. When he looked back to you, your eyes were looking down at your lap. He quirked his head and followed your gaze to find that his hand still attached to your wrist. A blush rose in his cheeks as he quickly pulled away, mumbling a “sorry,” before returning his hand to the mirror.

You chuckled as you turned your attention back to your reflection, swiping on a lavender lipstick and smacking your lips together a few times before leaning back to admire your work.

“What do you think?” Peter’s eyes met yours once again and he couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face.

“Looks really good,” he nodded.

“Is it more ‘magical fairy princess’ than last week?”

“Dunno,” he confessed, “missed last week’s game.”

“Right, the internship,” you recalled, taking the mirror back from him and swapping it for your phone. “Mind taking a few pictures?” Peter shook his head, taking your phone and snapping a few shots of you from different angles. You thanked him while and pulling some makeup wipes out of your bag.

Peter furrowed his brows, “Wait, why are you taking it off?” He watched the design smudge and fade away as you wiped your face.

“Well for starters, we’re still like, five and a half hours from the competition site,” you joked, “and for seconders, this was just a test. The judge at the last competition complained that the makeup wasn’t readable but I haven’t had time since then to adjust it so I’m doing it now.” You finished cleaning your face, tossing the wipes back in your bag before standing and returning it to the storage compartment above your seat. You grabbed your phone from him as you sat back down, “Gotta send those to the rest of the guard so they know what to fix later,” you mumbled before turning in your seat to fully face Peter, sticking your phone between your thigh and the blue velvet of the seat cushion.

“Can I ask you something, Pete?” He nodded and you continued, “You haven’t been around a ton since you got the Stark internship, which sucks ‘cause I know the c-nets could really use you,” Peter watched your fingers fidget with your sweatpants as you rambled and he wondered what it would be like to feel them intertwined with his own. “And I get that it probably takes up a lot of your time which begs the question,” you tapped his leg with your foot and he looked up at you, “how come you didn’t just quit?”

Shit. Peter inwardly cursed as he felt heat rise to his cheeks. This was it. This was his chance to tell you how he felt. To tell you that he would’ve quit ages ago if this wasn’t the only time you saw each other. He wanted to tell you that he’d been stretching himself thin for over a year just so he could spend time with you. That he’d quit every other extracurricular in order to be Spider-Man but couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing you every day, so he stayed. He didn’t even like the stupid clarinet, he’d only picked it up to make May happy.

“I, uh-“ he stuttered, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“Not that I want you gone, or anything,” you were quick to correct yourself. Peter’s heart raced as he felt you slide your hand into his, “I’m just worried, Pete. You seem real tired and yesterday you kept messing up your drill and you almost got hit with a flag…” you trailed off, rubbing small circles onto the back of his hand with your thumb and Peter thought he might burst.

He took in a deep breath before meeting your gaze, your eyes were filled with concern and he swore he could get lost in them for all eternity. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out, instead he let out a long sigh and pressed his eyes shut.

Fuck it.

“I didn’t want to quit because I was afraid I wouldn’t see you,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes closed tight.

He felt your thumb come to a stop on the back of his hand before you slowly pulled your hand away entirely and Peter’s heart sank. He wished he could take it back, return to the friendly banter you’d had just a few minutes ago before you asked that question. Why’d you have to ask that question?

“Hey Mark?” Peter’s eyes flew open and he whipped his head towards the boy sitting next to him.

Mark turned to look at you, brows raised. “Would you mind swapping seats with me? Peter and I are gonna watch some Star Trek.” Peter swiveled in his seat once more to give you a confused look.

“Sure, whatever.” Mark grabbed his stuff and shuffled past Peter into the aisle while you did the same.

Peter was sure his heart was about to burst out of his chest when you plopped down next to him, pulling your laptop out of your backpack and resting it on your lap. Peter just watched as you queued up an episode of Next Generation, unsure of what was happening.

You plugged in a pair of headphones, putting one in your own ear and handing the other to him. Peter’s skin burned as his hands brushed yours. His mind was short-circuiting; there were so many possible outcomes to his confession and he honestly didn’t know which one this was. Were you just ignoring it? Forcing the moment away with sheer willpower?

You pressed play and the episode started but Peter wasn’t paying attention. His only focus was your presence beside him. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He needed to say something. He opened his mouth to speak but you raised a hand to stop him.

“Nope. Me first.” Peter closed his mouth and put on a tight lipped smile. “You know, there’s a long-standing tradition in almost every marching band on earth,” you started. “Well, less of a tradition and more of a universally acknowledged truth, and that is ‘guard kids date percussionists’.” Peter’s heart fell as the pieces clicked together. This was a rejection.

“For the most part, it’s true. Did you know the last three people I dated were all drummers?” Peter shook his head at this, biting his bottom lip in an effort to keep tears from welling in his eyes. “Yeah, two from drumline, one from pit.”

“I don’t see how thi-“

“Uh-uh. Still me.” Peter sighed as you pressed on. “I think it’s because our personalities mesh so well. Drummers are cocky, they have to be to lead the band like they do. And color guard? You’ve got to be one stubborn, confident motherfucker to toss around a six foot metal pole all day.” Peter just nodded, his eyes glued to the laptop screen.

“But drummers are also assholes,” you sighed and Peter could feel your eyes on him. “Peter, I’m getting real fuckin’ sick of dating assholes.”

Peter’s eyes widened as your words registered. He slowly turned to meet your gaze as you continued, “Clarinets, on the other hand?” You rolled your eyes in mock indignation. “Clarinets are awkward, oblivious, fumbling nerds,” you paused, searching for the right words, “but they’re also sweet, attentive, and wicked smart.”

Peter’s heart was pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it from your seat beside him. What is happening??? A million thoughts were going through his head as he searched your eyes for an answer.

“My point is…” you shut your eyes, drawing in a deep breath and Peter’s heart leapt into his throat. “Peter Parker,” your eyes met his again, “I’m really glad you didn’t quit.” Your voice was practically a whisper as you leaned towards him, and Peter thought he must be dreaming.

Your lips met his in a gentle kiss and Peter could hear your heart beating as quickly as his own. You pulled back after a moment, bottom lip pulled between your teeth and your gaze fixed on him. Peter’s eyes looked between your own before he brought a hand to your cheek and pulled you back towards him. His lips crashed into yours and he cursed himself for waiting five whole hours before doing this.

You giggled into the kiss and Peter’s heart fluttered at the sound. He wanted to stay like this forever, lips pressed against yours, feelings of mutual longing finally being hashed out. That feeling intensified as your tongue swiped across his bottom lip, silently asking permission. He granted it enthusiastically, parting his lips and dancing his tongue with your own. He felt you shift below him as you moved your laptop to the side and lifted the armrest separating your seats before threading your fingers through his hair. Peter moaned at the feeling of you tugging his curls and he pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

The two of you sat like that for a few seconds, catching your breath and processing what had just happened. You pulled away slowly, eyes never leaving his own. The smile etched on your face made Peter’s stomach do flips.

“You know what else is great about clarinet players?” Peter hummed, already leaning in to kiss you again.

“Talented tongues.”

Tagging some people, I guess:

@holland3000 @marvellousparkerpeter @stuckonspidey @hillsnholland@keepingupwiththeparkers @madmadmilk @definitely-not-black-cat@afterglowparker @dtftomholland @lousimusician @spideyyeet @starksparker@wazzupmrstark @toms-gf @spideypeach @mjandliz @webbedparkers@moorehollandplz @hollandlovely @thirsttrapholland @marvellousparkerpeter@spidey-starks @mcuspidey @gyllenwh0re @mrs-hollandstan @condy-wants-a-cookie @edgy-hufflepuff-bro @pink16panther @makylaolson16 

[epicstuckyficrecs]

How To Tag Stucky Fics Part 2: Rating, Warnings, Fandoms, Relationships & Characters

Preliminary comments

First thing you can do to understand the tagging system better is read the Tag FAQ on ao3! And while you’re at it, I would suggest you also read the Wrangling Guidelines. Understanding the work of tag wranglers might help you to tag your fics better!

My aim with this is to encourage you to better use AO3’s tagging system, which means using canonical tags (especially for Fandom, Relationship and Character tags), VS unfilterable tags, which is everything else that’s not “canonical”. But any tag is better than no tags! Long, rambly tags are better than no tags! That’s what we have tag wranglers for! But my opinion is: if there’s a canonical tag for something, why not use it?

Tagging is an art, not a science. There are pretty much no absolute rules, which means that ao3′s tagging system’s biggest advantage is also its biggest disadvantage: you can do whatever you want with it! You can tag as much or as little as you want.

Every fandom has its quirks and odds about tagging. I’m obviously focused on Stucky, and incidentally on the MCU, so what I say here might not necessarily apply to all ships/fandoms.

As such, my opinion is as good as anyone else’s. I’m not pretending to be the utmost authority on how to tag: I’m just trying make good use of my experience to give writers some recommendations! These are my personal recommendations and in no way are you forced to follow them.

Tagging 101

Tagging has two main purposes, so you should keep them in mind while filling out the New Work form:

Content: tagging the content of your fics, so that readers who want to read said content can find your fic!

Trigger warnings: tagging content in your fics that people might want to avoid.

Basic rules of tagging (to help facilitate the job of our amazing tag wranglers):

Separate your Fandom, Relationship and Character tags by commas! There should be only one item per tag.

Always Use The Characters’ Last Name. Here’s why. Basically, when you tag with “Cute Peter”, wranglers have no idea if you’re talking about Peter Parker or Peter Quill or any of the hundreds of Peter characters in the Archive!

Personally, I would avoid using emojis in tags.

Some of these recommendations (and more) can be found in this AO3 News post under the How To Make Tags Work For You header.

Just read this post if you have no idea how tag wranglers actually wrangle tags. It’s really informative. The TLDR is: your tags are seen with no context, mixed in with all the other tags of other works in the wrangling interface, which are sorted by alphabetical order. Wranglers don’t know which tags in their workload belong to the same fic. Rambly Tumblr-style tags are fine, but just remember: “each tag stands on its own in the filters. Think about the idea you’re expressing in each tag, not just in your tags as a whole conversation. (...) Don’t assume that sarcasm, hyperbole, etc. will come through during sorting.”

Without further ado, let’s get into the actual tagging! I’m gonna be following the same order as if you were posting a new fic on AO3 :)

RATING & ARCHIVE WARNINGS

You can click on the little interrogation point in the form if you don’t know exactly how to tag for rating and warnings or check out the Ratings and Warnings section of AO3’s Terms of Service and FAQ. The only thing I would advise you here is to be as truthful as possible.

One important thing to know would be the difference between “No archive warnings apply” and “Choose not to use archive warnings”. From ao3commentoftheday:

“No Archive Warnings Apply means that the fic has nothing in it that people need to be warned about.

Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings means that the fic very well might include things that people would like to be warned about, but the author has decided not to warn because that warning might spoil the story (or for some other reason)”.

If you decide to use Choose Not to Use Archive Warnings, here’s a few options so your readers can still make an informed decision about reading your fic:

Additional Tags: You could use the Additional Tags field to list any details about what might be triggering in your work. For example, if there is a Character Death, but you don’t want to tag with MCD because it’s not a Major character, or it’s only temporary… There are tags for that! There was a great discussion on this post re: warnings vs spoilers on ao3commentoftheday, if you wanna go have a look!

Tag + Author’s note: Another thing you could do is use the “Additional Warnings In Author’s Note” tag and, as the tag says, give more details to your readers about triggers or warnings in your author’s note.

Author’s note (at the beginning) + End note (at the end): You could also write down a small summary of the triggering parts of your chapter in the end notes, and direct your readers to it in an Author’s Note at the beginning of the chapter.

FANDOMS

As I said above, please use the canonical Fandom tags!

MCU

I would really recommend you read this post on how to tag in the MCU! But basically, you should mainly be tagging your fic with Captain America (Movies) (or whatever movie is the focus of your story!). No need to use more general tags like Marvel (Movies) or Marvel Cinematic Universe ON TOP of your movie tag, it’ll show up there anyway! (If you’re writing RPF, use the Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF tag)

Always remember that if you’re tagging more than one fandom, you need to separate them with a comma! Don’t use a slash / or “and” (like “Captain America/Game of Thrones” or “Captain America and Game of Thrones”), or else it will create a single new tag that will be impossible to wrangle.

If your fic prominently features events or characters from other MCU movies (like The Avengers, Black Panther, etc.) or TV shows (like Agents of SHIELD or the Defenders), you could even add those fandom tags! But I wouldn’t if it’s not a major part of the plot though. For example: if Scott Lang is Bucky’s roommate, I would probably not tag with the “Ant-Man (Movies)” fandom tag. Ask yourself: would someone looking for Ant-Man fic want to find mine?

In fact, you can mostly apply this strategy to the whole tagging process. Ask yourself: would someone looking for xyz want to find my fic?

Also note that tagging multiple fandoms in the MCU will not make your work a Crossover according to AO3’s search engine, since they are under the same Metatag (aka Marvel Cinematic Universe). But if you tag another fandom in the bigger Marvel Metatag (for example, “Winter Soldier (Comics)”), then it will be considered a Crossover. (according to AO3: “Crossovers are defined here as works with at least two unrelated fandom tags, as determined by how tags are wrangled.”).

Alternate Universe

If your fic is an AU taking place in a non-MCU fandom (for example, Harry Potter), it’s up to you to decide how you want to tag.

Fandoms: You could add the Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling tag to the Fandoms field. Be aware that your fic will be considered a Crossover according to AO3’s search engine.

Additional Tags: there’s a few different ways to tag for AUs.

Alternate Universe - “...” : for example Alternate Universe - Hogwarts

Alternate Universe - “...” Setting: for example Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting

Alternate Universe - “...” Fusion (or just Alternate Universe - Fusion): for example Alternate Universe -The Little Mermaid Fusion, because there wasn’t a HP fusion tag in this case lol (according to Fanlore: “A fusion is a type of fanwork which merges two or more fandoms by incorporating characters from one fandom into the setting of another as if they had always been there.”) (emphasis mine)

In any case, you could also add the Crossover tag to the Additional Tags field (according to Fanlore: “A crossover is a fanfic in which two or more fandoms are combined in some way.”)

You could do all or neither of those things! As always, there are pretty much no absolute rules when it comes to tagging. But again, the more accurate you are, the better it is for your readers! :)

Now, I’ve used Harry Potter as an example, but there are a ton of Alternate Universe tags (under the Sub Tags section) for a great number of fandoms!

RELATIONSHIPS

From AO3’s FAQ: “The significant character interactions in the work, including romantic and/or sexual relationships and pairings (indicated in the Archive's canonical tags by a '/', e.g., James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers) and platonic relationships such as friendship, family, teammates, etc. (indicated in canonical tags by a '&', e.g., Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff). You can use whatever notation you like. Separate different relationships with commas.” (emphasis mine, and I changed the pairings for MCU ones)

So basically:

romantic or sexual = use the slash  /

platonic = use the ampersand &

I would recommend:

To only tag the one (1) main relationship in your fic (whether romantic or platonic), unless your story really focuses on more than one sexual/platonic relationship or contains a graphic scene depicting the second couple.

Any side pairings/friendships can go in the Additional Tags field (for example: Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov or Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes Friendship).

Ask yourself: would someone looking for xyz want to find my fic? Or as ao3commentoftheday put it: “Only tag the ship if someone who ships it would be satisfied with the amount of content (or ‘screen time’) that ship gets.”

Here’s a good post on what not to do when tagging Relationships. Namely:

Using portmanteau ship names like “Stucky”, or

Tagging multiple variations of the way you can refer to one ship, like: “Steve/Bucky”, “Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes”, “Steven Grant Rogers/James Buchanan Barnes”.

It’s not a huuuuge deal since they’ll just get synned to the James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers tag, but there’s no need to use all of those when you have a perfectly good canon tag!

Again, there are no rules on how you need to tag your works. I would only recommend that you use canon tags as much as possible and that you choose the tag(s) that accurately represent your story.

CHARACTERS

Use canonical tags! I was incredibly surprised when I searched for the character “Steve Roger” in the Tag Search and ended up with almost 600 tags. The Characters field is not the place for “Mention of Steve Rogers”, “Pre-Serum Steve Rogers”, “Alpha Steve Rogers”, etc. Those should go in the Additional Tags, or else any modifier you’ve put before “Steve Rogers” will be useless, since it’ll just get synned to the Steve Rogers character tag.

Also sounds obvious but… don’t tag Relationships in the Characters field. And vice-versa.

Only tag the main characters! Try to keep it to a minimum. Don’t tag every single character that appears in your fic! (especially if there are a lot of them  and most only make a short appearance)

If you’re not sure who to tag, ask yourself: if someone reads my fic, in a year’s time, who would they remember being in there?

In any case, if you want to mention a character without putting it in the Characters field, you can use the Additional Tags!

Stay tuned for Part 3 where I’ll be tackling the Additional Tags! :D

See Part 1: A Comprehensive List of Stucky Tags here.

See Part 3: Additional Tags here! 

You can also access a handy bullet-point checklist that summarizes these posts on Google Docs here! 

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Two

Forwards and charging onward! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Where the Fight’s Hottest Point-of-View: Leo dan Brock

In battle, Leo’s father used to say, a man discovers who he truly is.

The Northmen were already turning to run as his horse crashed into them with a thrilling jolt.

He smashed one across the back of the helmet with the full force of the charge and ripped his head half off.

He snarled as he swung to the other side. A glimpse of a gawping face before his axe split it open, blood spraying in black streaks.

.. And what Leo is is a Northman in Union clothes. If we’re less generous with him, he’s Leeroy Jenkins. He’s, with respect to FlynnLevy on TheFirstLaw’s reddit, Leoroy Jenkins!!

A lance shattered, a shard flying into Leo’s helmet with an echoing clang as he wrenched away. The world was a flickering slit of twisted faces, glinting steel, heaving bodies, half seen through the slot in his visor. Screams of men and mounts and metal mashed into one thought-crushing din.

With a title like Where the Fight’s Hottest, we were going to get a fight. This chapter’s first half’s all fight and blood, and, man, there’s that crispness and visceral impact of Abercrombie’s battle prose. I make no bones in saying that he’s hands-down one of the genre’s bests, as far as I’ve read. Abercrombie just knows how to make a blow crunch and chop off a limb and make you feel it, be part of the moment. 

And this is a great example of it. Just read how claustrophobic this feels, how much only Leo can register hearing because his helmet’s visor won’t let him register any sight beyond the minute glints and flickers of battle. It’s mostly hearing, because Leo himself can’t see past his slit and Abercrombie appreciates a good tightness of voice. All sound and fury in a storm of violence.

A horse swerved in front of him. Riderless, stirrups flapping. Ritter’s horse. He could tell by the yellow saddlecloth. A spear stabbed at him, jolting the shield on his arm, rocking him in his saddle. The point screeched down his armoured thigh.

Riderless, huh. My god, is Ritter another battle-idiot? At least Leo stays on his horse to slaughter the Northmen! Aside from that, let me draw more attention to the way Abercrombie breaks down his sentence structure: short sentences and multiple commas, each carrying their immediate action, because the battlefield’s not a place where long stretches of thought can occur without a man trying to bash your brains in.

He gripped the reins in his shield-hand as his mount bucked and snorted, face locked in an aching smile, flailing wildly with his axe on one side, then the other. He beat mindlessly at a shield with a black wolf painted on it, kicked at a man and sent him staggering back, then Barniva’s sword flashed as it took his arm off.

Stour Nightfall’s standard. So, does this mean Rikke and Leo are going to meet, considering Uffrith won’t predispose her to Stour and Stour won’t be sweetened by Leo’s loving ax to his men’s heads?

He saw Whitewater Jin swinging his mace, red hair tangled across gritted teeth.

1. Whitewater? So Jin’s born near the Whiteflow? Hm, I wonder if it’s a Name like the other Named Men or just a geographical name. I’m hedging on the latter, but it’s an interesting thought. 2. Red hair, huh. I’m not crazy enough to assume that’s Vitari’s Cas (why would he be up North, anyway?) but, given this is a story where the next generation will be focused on, I’m definitely looking carefully for redheads.

He pointed at Stour Nightfall’s standard with his axe, black wolf streaming in the wind. He howled, roared, throat hoarse. No one could hear him with his visor down. No one could’ve heard him if it had been up. He hardly knew what he was saying. He flailed furiously at the milling bodies instead.

Someone clutched at his leg. Curly hair. Freckles. Looked bloody terrified. Everyone did. Didn’t seem to have a weapon. Maybe surrendering. Leo smashed Freckles on the top of the head with the rim of his shield, gave his horse the spurs and trampled him into the mud.

This was no place for good intentions. No place for tedious subtleties or boring counter-arguments. None of his mother’s carping on patience and caution. Everything was beautifully simple.

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is, and Leo was the hero he’d always dreamed of being.

Well! Leo’s certainly no Jezal. He’s a far more wild and battle-hungry shit, and, in some ways, that comparison both elevates and damns Leo. He’s certainly got the glory-hounding that Jezal had, except backed with some legit battlefield competence right away, but at the same time, there’s something terribly more... hidebound about Leo in a way that Jezal wasn’t at the start. Jezal was a noble ignorant pissant because he just wholesale bought into his station and the assumptions that came with it until reality beat him down later.

Leo’s actively killing people and just loving it. Loving being a hero, loving being a leveller of men, loving the simplicity of battlefield politics, one ax swing at a time.

It makes him a more specific character, writing-wise, compared to the more vacuous nature of Jezal at the start, but my god. Leo is no thinking man here. If anything, the remark of heroes and all this battle fury in him makes me think there’s quite a bit of Gorst in Leo before my first thought that he was the next generation’s Jezal (something that I think holds sort of true, Jezal was also an unthinking dumbfuck who thought he was the best ever).

Time will tell if Leo grows past that...

He swung again but his axe felt strange. The blade had flown off, left him holding a bloody stick. He dropped it, dragged out his battle steel, buzzing fingers clumsy in his gauntlet, hilt greasy from the thickening rain. He realised the man he’d been hitting was dead. He’d fallen against the fence, so it looked as if he was standing but there was black pulp hanging out of his broken skull, so that was that.

Hah! I’ve always wondered how axes blades can stay on, despite so much abrasion and blows. I’m glad to see this, for a change. And, man, those beautiful short sections in-between commas, so many quick beats of actions that don’t linger in the moment.

Also, sheesh, Leo. Was there a thought you ever had before you swung.

The standard-bearer was a huge man with desperate eyes and blood in his beard, still holding high the flag of the black wolf. Leo spurred right at him, blocked axe with shield, caught him with a sword-cut that screeched over his cheek guard and opened a great gash across his face, carved half his nose off. He tottered back and Whitewater Jin crushed the man’s helmet with his mace, blood squirting from under the rim. Leo kicked him over, tearing the standard from his limp hand as he fell. He thrust it up, laughing, gurgling, half-choking on his own spit then laughing again, his axe’s loop still stuck around his wrist so the broken haft clattered against his helmet.

A fight’s some messy shit, guys. It ain’t pretty, and Abercrombie gets across that ugliness while writing some really entertaining, quick-paced, in-the-moment battles, another reason why his fight scenes whip.

Leo ached all over: thighs from gripping his horse, shoulders from swinging his axe, hands from gripping the reins. The very soles of his feet throbbed from the effort. His chest heaved, breath booming in his helmet, damp, and hot, and tasting of salt. Might’ve bit his tongue somewhere. He fumbled with the buckle under his chin, finally tore the damn thing free. His skull burst with the noise, turned from fury to delight. The noise of victory.

No one gets out unscathed or without being downright exhausted. When you’re down with where the fight’s hottest, you end up paying prices for being in the middle of war’s forges, hot and spent and full of fire in your throat and body all over. Though, Leo shoves the costs for the victory in the moment...

He almost fell from his horse, clambered up onto the wall. Something was soft under his gauntleted hand. A Northman’s corpse, a broken spear sticking from his back. All he felt was giddy joy.

No corpses, no glory, after all. Might as well regret the peelings from a carrot. Someone was helping him up, giving him a steadying hand. Jurand. Always there when he needed him. Leo stood tall, the joyful faces of his men all turned towards him.

Ugh. He’s worse than Jezal in some ways! Just sees all the glory, the honor, and the victory and doesn’t mind all the dead he made to get it. Admittedly, they were enemies, and their goal’s likely to kill him (Northmen, am I right), but man, Leo’s really got a toxic attitude to violence and the comparison to Gorst only grows stronger from here, given Gorst’s attitude towards loving violence, no matter the butchered meat.

And it certainly makes him a succinct counterpoint to Rikke, who, at least, felt bad for killing someone. That’s practically a unicorn in the Circle of the World. Leo? He’s all for the violence, unthinking violence. He fits comfortably into the typical fabric of the Circle of the World far more. And I don’t think Leo’s coming out of this better than Rikke, personal liking-wise, despite Rikke having tropes I was never predisposed to.

“The Young Lion!” roared Glaward, climbing up beside him and clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, making him wobble. Jurand stretched out his arms to catch him, but he didn’t fall. “Leo dan Brock!” Soon they were all shouting his name, singing it like a prayer, chanting it like a magic word, stabbing their glittering weapons at the spitting sky.

“Leo! Leo! Leo!”

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is.

He felt drunk. He felt on fire. He felt like a king. He felt like a god. This was what he was made for!

1. Welp. There’s that old familiar Jezal arrogance. Leo and Jezal definitely share some character DNA by both being vainglorious nobles wanting to prove themselves for want of glory and honor. 2. Leo dan Brock, huh? That just means we might get Finree and Hal down the road!! Hell yeah, Finree was one of the best parts of The Heroes! I’ll definitely take more of her!

In the lady governor’s tent, they were fighting a different kind of war. A war of patient study and careful calculation, of weighed odds and furrowed brows, of lines of supply and an awful lot of maps. A kind of war Leo frankly hadn’t the patience for.

A problem with every battle: you got to attend to the stuff in-between the battles, the sheer contrast between the simplicity of a battlefield, the quick beats of action sentences, and the longer sentence structures Abercrombie uses here, full of adjectives and attention to the minutiae, and making it clear Leo’s no longer part of a battle and has enough space of mind to deride all the complications of life past a fight.

The glow of victory had been dampened by the stiffening rain on the long trudge up from the valley, doused further by the niggling pain from a dozen cuts and bruises, and was almost entirely smothered by the cool stare his mother gave him as Leo pushed through the flap with Jurand and Whitewater Jin at his back.

She was in the midst of talking to a knight herald. Ridiculously tall, he had to stoop respectfully to attend to her.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, FINREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

I really love the implication that Finree commands enough respect that others have to meet her eye-level instead of her having to crane up at others. She’s done well for herself in the years to come, I’m so proud!

“We don’t need the king’s bloody help!” snapped Leo as soon as the flap dropped. “We can beat Black Calder’s dogs!” His voice sounded oddly weak in the tent, deadened by wet cloth. It didn’t carry anywhere near so nicely as it had on the battlefield.

“Huh.” His mother planted her fists on the table and frowned down at her maps. By the dead, sometimes he thought she loved those maps more than him. “If we are to fight the king’s battles, we should expect the king’s help.”

“You should’ve seen them run!” Damn it, but Leo had been so sure of himself a few moments ago. He could charge a line of Carls and never falter, but a woman with a long neck and greying hair leached all the courage out of him. “They broke before we even got to them! We took a few dozen prisoners …” He glanced towards Jurand, but he was giving Leo that doubtful look now, the one he used when he didn’t approve, the one he’d given him before the charge. “And the farm’s back in our hands … and …”

His mother let him stammer into silence before she glanced at his friends. “My thanks, Jurand. I’m sure you did your best to talk him out of it. And you, Whitewater. My son couldn’t ask for better friends or I for braver warriors.”

Snrrrk. With good reason, Leo. On a serious note, there’s definitely an efficiency of characterization here and you can tell the dynamic between Finree and Leo here, just from this: the sensible mother and the charging-bull heir. A part of me wants to pity Leo because if Black Dow couldn’t budge Finree after she was kidnapped, what chance do his brash and immature words have?

But, at the same time, wait, that fight was just for a farm? I’m getting ASoIaF flashbacks here, and none that suggest anything good of Leo’s sense of priorities. Not that I expected better of his decision-making, but yeesh.

Jin slapped a heavy hand down on Leo’s shoulder. “It was Leo who led the—”

“You can go.”

Jin scratched sheepishly at his beard, showing a lot less warrior’s mettle than he had down in the valley. Jurand gave Leo the slightest apologetic wince. “Of course, Lady Finree.” And they slunk from the tent, leaving Leo to fiddle weakly with the fringe of his captured standard.

Look on the bright side, Leo, at least you’re not the only one who can be cowed by your mother.

His mother let the withering silence stretch a moment longer before she passed judgement. "You bloody fool."

(Winces) I saw that coming too, and Abercrombie’s got a gift for the sharp dialogue. The succinct one-liner.

“Great leaders go where the fight’s hottest!” But he knew he sounded like the heroes in the badly written storybooks he used to love.

Ah, that good ol’ shading of lesser fantasies. And, yes, Leo, you are kind of a dumb, brash hero from a lesser fantasy conceptually, but that’s the thing: Abercrombie’s not gonna let you be comfortable being just that. Finree’s there to make sure of that, narrative-wise, if nothing else. That’s part of why I read Abercrombie: watching him deconstruct, contort, and twist these character archetypes and poking them with sharp steel from all angles.

“You know who else you find where the fight’s hottest?” asked his mother. “Dead men. We both know you’re not a fool, Leo. For whose benefit are you pretending to be one?” She shook her head wearily. “I should never have let your father send you to live with the Dogman. All you learned in Uffrith was rashness, bad songs and a childish admiration for murderers. I should have sent you to Adua instead. I doubt your singing would be any better but at least you might have learned some subtlety.”

Damn, Finree, no pulling punches, I see! All that frankly needs to be said, but I get why Leo feels his courage turn to jelly before the dominant personality Finree is to him.

Also, this does explain why Leo’s the way he is because there is no way Finree wouldn’t have cut down Leo’s growing ego to manageable size, had he still been with her. Though, whoa. Leo was sent to the Dogman?

That. That means Leo and Rikke probably already know each other. Um. Damn, I can’t see them getting along, not with the way Leo is now, but, at the same time, Finree’s already pressed against the walls, military-wise, and Uffrith’s scorched to ash. They might not have a choice, but to work together...

“Won what? A worthless farm in a worthless valley? That was little more than a scouting party, and now the enemy will guess our strength.” She gave a bitter snort as she turned back to her maps. “Or the lack of it.”

“I captured a standard.” It seemed a pitiful thing now he really looked at it, though, clumsily stitched, the pole closer to a branch than a flagstaff. How could he have thought Stour Nightfall himself might ride beneath it? 

Yup, ASoIaF flashbacks. Except, where GRRM doesn’t really sell out the better parts of the actors there, Abercrombie here is just pitiless with how much Leo gets dragged for rashness and being drunk on songs and war.

“Listen to what you’re told. Learn from those who know better. Be brave, by all means, but don’t be rash. Above all, don’t get yourself bloody killed! You’ve always known exactly how to please me, Leo, but you choose to please yourself.”

Careful, Finree, you might drag your son away from him climbing Mt. Ego. We don’t want him exercising sensible judgment, god forbid. Admittedly, Finree sounds pretty “my way or the highway,” but, at the same time, she’s hardly wrong and knows her son well enough to cut him down to size.

"You can’t understand! You’re not …” He waved an impatient hand, failing, as always, to quite find the right words. “A man,” he finished lamely.

She raised one brow. “Had I been confused on that point, it was put beyond doubt when I pushed you out of my womb. Have you any notion how much you weighed as a baby? Spend two days shitting an anvil and we’ll talk again.”

SNAP. My god, Finree’s just a treasure trove of cutting quips here. Though, good to know, at least, Leo knew that dismissive remark was lame as shit. Wish he stopped short of saying it though. Masculine egos getting chopped down makes my day, especially since Leo’s basically mini-Gorst now.

“Like your friend Ritter looked up to you?”

Leo was caught out by the memory of that riderless horse clattering past. He realised he hadn’t seen Ritter’s face among his friends when they celebrated. Realised he hadn’t even thought about that until now.

“He knew the risks,” he croaked, suddenly choked with worry. “He chose to fight. He was proud to fight!”

“He was. Because you have that fire in you that inspires men to follow. Your father had it, too. But with that gift comes responsibility. Men put their lives in your hands.”

Had? Is Hal retired or something? He shouldn’t be that old. Maybe he got a war disability and can’t perform his military duties anymore? Where is he?

And, the thing is, Leo, you’re in charge of them. You can’t keep Leoroy Jenkins-ing all over the place and pretend it’s going to work out because...

His mother’s face had softened. That made him more worried than ever. “He’s with the dead, Leo.” There was a long, strange silence, and outside the wind blew up and made the canvas of the tent flap and whisper. “I’m sorry.” 

... There’s a price to charging into a fight. Always.

No corpses, no glory. He sank onto a folding field chair, captured standard clattering to the ground.

Another facet of what I love about Abercrombie’s writing? These re-contextualized echoes, always there to pound the POV in the head about how their earlier selves were so naive and foolish until reality snapped its jaws against them. It’s a cleverness of structure I love.

“He has a wife …” Leo remembered the wedding. What the hell was her name? Bit of a weak chin. The groom had looked prettier. The happy couple had danced, badly, and Whitewater Jin had bellowed in Northern that he hoped for her sake Ritter fucked better than he danced. Leo had laughed so hard he was nearly sick. He didn’t feel like laughing now. Being sick, yes. “By the dead … he has a child.”

"I will write to them.”

“What good will a letter do?’ He felt the stinging of tears at the back of his nose. ‘I’ll give them my house! In Ostenhorm!”

“Are you sure?”

“Why do I need a house? I spend all my time in the saddle.”

Okay, I’ll stop ragging on Leo and give him this: he’s got a far bigger heart than Jezal did at the beginning. He’s a bit of a shit to his friends unintentionally, but once he sees he’s fucked-up horrendously with his friend, he’ll give generously for it. Too little, too late, but at the same time, that’s far more than Jezal ever did back at his start. It makes for a nice dichotomy of Leo being a savage, battle-hungry warrior and too much heart. Leo’s that very thoughtless friend who overcompensates when he fucks up and can’t argue out of it.

"You have it in you to be a great man, but you cannot let yourself be swept off by whatever emotion blows your way. Battles may sometimes be won by the brave, but wars are always won by the clever. Do you understand?”

Intense Bayaz vibes here.

“Good. Give orders to leave the farm and pull back towards the west before Stour Nightfall arrives in force.”

“But if we fall back … Ritter died for nothing. If we fall back, how will that look?”

She stood. “Like womanly weakness and indecision, I hope. Then perhaps the rash heads on the Northmen’s side will prevail and pursue us with manly smiles on their manly faces, and when the king’s soldiers finally arrive, we’ll cut them to pieces on ground of our choosing.”

Ha ha, clever, clever, playing onto their prejudices in order to cut them down. However, I don’t think Black Calder, if I’m right on my theory with him as Stour’s father, will play that easily to that game, given he knows a thing or two about playing weak and docile for advantage...

Also, this reminds me of this saying from Stolicus:

“The ground must be a general’s best friend, or it becomes his worst enemy.”

So, just good military sense, or has Finree read Stolicus? I don’t remember her having read any military geniuses by name in The Heroes, but since she’s taking charge, I imagine she had to brush up, if being Kroy’s daughter didn’t already get her used to a military chain of command and tactics.

She had her soft voice, now. “It was rash, it was reckless, but it was brave, and … for better or worse, men do look up to a certain kind of man. I won’t deny we all need something to cheer for. You gave Stour Nightfall a bloody nose, and great warriors are quick to anger, and angry men make mistakes.” She pressed something into his limp hand. The standard with Nightfall’s wolf on it. “Your father would have been proud of your courage, Leo. Now make me proud of your judgement.” 

... Wow, I am slow. Hal’s dead, isn’t he. Why else would she say this if Hal could just tell Leo himself somewhere else? Damn. That’s kind of a blow, considering Hal was a pretty decent guy, and this world sorely needs more decent people. How did he die? I suppose illness or was he called out for the Union-Styria War? 

Though, this does explain a lot, like why people defer to Finreee on face value, considering Leo’s probably... wait a second. (consults the timeline) He... should be, at the very least, over eighteen, if not twenty. Why isn’t he already Lord Governor? 

It’s interesting that Finree uses a similar hot/cold method of parenting as she did with being a wife to Hal. Withhold a certain amount of affection so, when she actually does let it out overtly, it has more power over the beloved one. Also, Finree, that might be true, but the men who worship Leo probably aren’t worth that much beyond a sword hand. I guess, when you’re short of men, you want anyone who can lift a sword though. (sighs)

He trudged to the tent flap, shoulders drooping under armour that felt three times heavier than when he arrived. Ritter was gone, and never coming back, and had left his weak-chinned wife weeping at the fireside. Killed by his own loyalty, and Leo’s vanity, and Leo’s carelessness, and Leo’s arrogance.

“By the dead.” He tried to rub the tears away with the back of his hand but couldn’t do it with his gauntlets on. He used the hem of the captured standard instead.

In battle, a man discovers who he truly is.

And you’ve discovered you’re a softer heart than you realize, Leo. That’s not really a bad thing. Just means the world hasn’t beaten you down enough yet. At least you know that now...

“Nothing I didn’t deserve.” But Leo managed to smile a little, too. Just for the sake of morale. No one could deny they all needed something to cheer for.

It grew louder as he raised that rag of a standard, and Antaup swaggered forwards, throwing up his arms for more noise. One of the men, no doubt drunk already, dragged down his trousers and showed his bare arse to the North, to widespread approval. Then he fell over, to widespread laughter. Glaward and Barniva caught Leo and bundled him high into the air on their shoulders while Jurand planted his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes.

The rain had slackened off and the sun shone on polished armour, and sharpened blades, and smiling faces.

It was hard not to feel much better. 

... Oh, you little shit. Ritter just disappeared from your mind, didn’t he, didn’t he. Were the aesthetics of idealized military really enough to prevent Ritter from entering deeper into your thick skull? Well, I suppose Leo really does share character DNA with Jezal. Two steps forward, one step back! 

Like, Leo is definitely an incisive riff on the Original Trilogy because he’s both a lot better and worse than Jezal back then: way more open heart and earnest, less cowardice, classist contempt, and petty humiliating of others than Jezal... also more toxic masculinity and unthinking recklessness that’d make a bull say “whoa, my fellow bull, slow down.”

My god, I’d bang Leo’s head against a wall, if I knew it’d do more than break the wall.

As a conclusion, the first half of this chapter is a treat for the battle-lovers, I’ve went over how Abercrombie’s prose really sinks into you and lets you feel the weight and blow of every swing and crunch, but it’s the second half that shines all the more for me: the dampening cold after the fight’s heat, the messiness after the battle and it makes for a symmetrical structure, compared to Rikke’s first, which was good, but if we’re talking purely chapter craft, I might be more included to say this one’s better.

Though, I will say, I’m not warming to Leo the same way I did with Rikke, even despite how many tropes in her I was ready to be opposed to. Leo’s not a vain cock in the way of Jezal, character-wise. He’s close, but he’s a specific kind of meathead that I just shake my head at. He’s definitely a stronger-written character and he’s not that shitty a guy by comparison, but ugh.

Leoroy Jenkins.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

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All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Stephanie Catozzi

My mother’s hand squeezes around my infantile one, small, petite, and plump even for a 12-year-old. I feel the cold, hard shaft of the metal handle, the gun weighty in my hand. My mother’s breath, laced with Bacardi rum and stale Marlboro lights, coaches me to squeeze harder, my tiny fingertips biting under the pressure and turning light purple at the tips from being held so forcefully.

“You have to hold it like you mean it, steady.” She coaches.

“I don’t want to,” I whine, almost silently.

               The wind kept biting my plump cheeks, and I felt my legs, bare in the November air, tingling and pocking with cold bumps.

               This has become a routine, my mother getting intoxicated or high, and taking a sudden interest in her children and choosing the worst time to suddenly teach us some life skills. My brother, with his autism, is too heady a project to undertake. So, it is me, who at 11 pm is hauled from my kitten covered sheets and dragged outside for an impromptu lesson on protecting myself, undoubtably due to some loosely based on a true story Lifetime network film where a girl, most likely Tori Spelling, is victimized.  

               Thankfully, she loses interest surprisingly fast this time, and when she loosens her grip on my hand, I am able to wrestle past her, knocking her to one knee as she curses and I bolt back into my bed and lock the door. She staggers in and pounds for several moments, calling me names, before I hear her door shut and know she has passed out.

My mother hasn’t been quite right since my father died. I see her leaving often to doctors’ offices, complaining of ailments ranging from pains to depression and anxiety disorders. Her pills litter the tops of our 80’s style maroon kitchen counters; every consistency you can imagine from syringes to tiny multicolored capsules. In the mornings, we see her guzzling down the liquid medications, never using the tiny, clear ridged top that is supposed to serve as a barbie sized measuring cup. Instead, she uses that as a pseudo lid when she gets too inebriated to remember where she put the child proof cap the pharmacist carefully clicks into place. Her arms are littered with pock marks from needles. Some self-inflicted and some from all the blood draws ordered by her physicians. She has become obsessed with this idea of teaching us how to protect ourselves since my father passed. Which later I will realize is terribly contradictory, since the basis of most our inflictions come from her blatant negligence.

               It isn’t until I start having sleepovers with girls outside my neighborhood that I will realize this isn’t a normal occurrence. I spend time with girls whose parents bake them cinnamon buns in the morning slathered with extra crystalline icing, whose mothers collect little figurines cased in glass cabinets without fingertips smeared on them and father figures who go off to work, kissing cheeks instead of backhanding them like the other dads in my neighborhood would do. It’s a foreign world to me, and oddly, it makes me surprisingly uncomfortable to be in such a serene environment. Almost mundane as wild as that may seem to some. Beige. I always notice this common color scheme in these safety net homes, everything was always varying shades of beige from the carpets to the placemats to the sheets. Beige everywhere.

               In the morning, it’s as if nothing has happened, as she bustles around the kitchen getting my brother’s routine down to match the Velcro pictured descriptions that are supposed to help with his over stimulation. I can tell there is something tangible and tense in the air, the blatant ostracizing of me from our tiny family unit. I will learn later that it is due to embarrassment over her own actions, but in the moment from my young perspective, I have somehow failed her.

I gather my things, my teal Jansport backpack smeared with pen marks and patches, and dig in the back cabinet, shoving expired bags of chips and soup out of the way to find a long lost granola bar and walk out the door, pausing before turning the silver knob to look back slightly out of my peripheral at my mother to see if she pauses at the sound of me leaving. She doesn’t.

The bus stop holds a sense of comfort for me, knowing that I will be headed to the one safe institution I have in my young life, school. There are rules, teachers, consistency, and scheduled mealtimes. I know what is coming and when. I know what is expected of me and it isn’t laced with alcohol and substances, or parties in my home with strange men who grab in places they shouldn’t and burn your arms with their cigarettes when you try to yell in protest for someone who is too inebriated to come to your rescue.

Teacher’s take special interest in me, I must exude some sense of chaos at home, my behavior is mildly disruptive with chattering to my fellow neighboring classmates, often causing my desk to be moved adjacent to the teachers to curve my “social butterfly” antics.

Years later, I will run into my favorite English teacher, Ms. Mueller, and she will subtly hint at the signs of abuse she saw from my rumpled clothes to my bruised arms and vacant expression from exhaustion. She will tell me of a time she went to my mother’s store, at the height of our home tsunami during my high school years, and the words heatedly exchanged between them. From that point on, in school, before I have this knowledge, I will choose to spend an hour every day after school with her and be exposed to various forms of literature. She will bring books with her and give me deadlines throughout the year, hoping to keep me driven and expand this world I escape to through books.

Oddly enough, my thirst for books came from the very person I was trying to escape.

In fifth grade I had a teacher I absolutely loathed. It was truly, the first person I had a deep hatred and resentment for. I remember the feelings of rage and a craving for the demolition of our high-ceilinged classroom. Ms. Symzick was a small, petite woman who would prance around her classroom in various shades of loud pinks and magenta, shouting in her irritatingly shrill, chalkboard scraping screeching voice. She had a serious inclination to class favorites, and those favorites tended to be the children of affluent parents she co-vacationed with in the Bahamas and Jamaica, frequently referencing scuba diving explorations and inside jokes she had created with the kids poolside while they showed off their attempts at underwater hand stands. She accused my indifferent attitude towards her and my inability to pay attention to her reading “out loud” to the class on comprehension issues. My mother responded, in typical Tammy fashion, and greeted me that afternoon with a stack of VC Andrews books. Her philosophy was that I needed something to read that could hold my attention in a mildly traumatizing way. Make the book risqué enough for me to care, and it would cure my non attentive approach to active listening. It certainly worked.

While my classmates were reading books about bridges crossing into Terabithia to conquer exciting pretend lands, I was obsessed with mentally trying to connect the incest family trees of wealthy families stuck in attics, toiling away pasting together paper flowers to create gardens. I craved reading about these fucked up families, and was elated to find that not only where the books thick with small font which meant they lasted longer than my classmates small flirtations with literature, but they also were in series so I could follow these families for generations. I would blow through a book a day if it was the weekend, absorbing finally, every comma and black small printed letter flowing into my mind through an osmosis of obsessive reading.

I sit next to Holly and hold her hand under our jackets in solidarity. Holly has the same house as I do, which is baffling and comforting for my young mind. Her brothers shout and throw things in their drunken rages, blaming their parents for their adult failures and losses of custody over children. Her father sits on the couch, sleeps on the couch, drinks on the couch, argues from the couch, he exists on the couch, never intervening. When he would winded from yelling, he would clutch a small, metal vile necklace he always wore. I would learn later it contained a single pill that would melt under his tongue because he was prone to panic attacks from his time in the military.

Holly will sneak into my room, late in the night, when things get bad and she climbs into my bed, cold hands and feet pressed against my calves for warmth. She rustles under my sheets and presses her perfect little bud lips against my cheek and snuggles into my neck and falls asleep fast, just as our thermostat registers the drop in temperature from the window being pried open for her to come in and the furnace clicks on, as always, I fling my leg out from under the blankets, so as to not wake Holly and soak in some cool air as her body heat radiates against my own. I love her and want to protect her, as she is the only one who has ever expressed a kindred likeliness to what I experience behind closed doors. She protects me as well, when my mother opens the door slightly to see if I am awake or when she is under the influence ready for another “life lesson,” she will always close the door and slither away when she sees Holly’s body next to mine.

Holly knew about these moments, in the dead of night when my mother would make her way into the room. She was the one who saw the handprint makes in shades of black and blue, purple then fading to yellows and lime greens. She would take my arm, and lay her hot, brown palm slowly and softly on top of the blue and purple marks so gently, brushing the tops of the soft baby arm hair then would turn over, as if nothing had happened. It was the act of acknowledging, that would transition into acts of protection. She knew if she was there, those marks wouldn’t appear. Holly became an ever-present staple in my life, it was truly as if she was holding me together, fastening my frayed edges to keep them from being burned by my mother and faceless men’s lighters.

This is my day to day, and night to night. The seeking of comfort in concrete things and people outside my home and struggling to find a purpose outside of myself.

Years pass, the same abuses remain constant, even after the school nurse contacts my mother over concerns she has when she sees my bandaged fingers from a screaming hot iron. The difference is the older I get, the more I learn to fight back, slick mouthed and learning to block hands quickly with forearms. I develop the internal switch, for numbing and hardening emotions to dispel any sense of misery or hopelessness, I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable around her and show any form of pain or exaggerated anger. I treat her with complete indifference, which in her drunken, high moments causes absolute meltdowns. Her emotional levels skyrocketing due to inebriation, and my disconnect growing more profound with each outburst. I start to want more, more than these walls and house. I want to sleep peacefully, quietly, and safely. A concept I had never visualized for myself that I thought was coveted for children with two parents and yards without brown spots and littered with dog feces.

I sit, at 15, in my English class, the scared space I have carved out for myself. Ms. Mueller, walks past, having just kicked Gary out of class for shouting at her.

“Dyke gave me a F,” he rages after we are returned our midterm grades.

“Out!” Ms. Mueller declares, stunning me at how she so gracefully and passively dismisses him and his hate slurred words.

As she passes back to her desk, I feel a blue piece of paper get slid under the flesh of my forearm. I slide it under my notebook, I can tell through its delivery, she doesn’t want me to attract any attention through receiving it. She looks pointedly at me, and when the bell rings I rush out to see what it is she has slipped me.

She knows I am not happy with her today. Ms. Mueller detests Holly. There is this just under the surface acknowledgement that they don’t address one another, ever. Holly feels Ms. Mueller is trying to come between us and take time I should be spending time with her and instead am choosing to spend it reading, which is the most boring thing in Holly’s mind. Oddly enough, Holly has detention or make up tests almost every day after school, so her time wouldn’t be spent with me regardless. Holly is known to have her behavioral issues, shouting at teachers and authority figures much in the same fashion as her older brothers do to her and her parents. It is a cycle that has already began its inheritable rotation.

               “She’s not good for you, you have too much inside you for that one.” Ms. Mueller had told me suddenly, interrupting me reading silently beside her while she worked on the summer reading list for the class, and my own which had easily an extra fifteen books added to it. At the time, I didn’t really understand what it was she meant.

“Too much inside me? What the hell?” I thought. I glared defiantly at the top of her head, wishing I had the nerve to reach out and rustle her short, cropped hair out of its artfully tousled with hair paste landscape just out of spite. She didn’t look up, nor acknowledge my anger filled face, and after some time I set my mouth in a taught line and kept reading. Leaving that day without saying a word when our hour was up.

I open it up and see it’s a flyer, for some summer program called Upward Bound and kids interested in colleges. I had never imagined myself being on some pristine collegiate campus. That was also reserved for the cinnamon bun kids whose parents showed up to every sporting event, cheering them on from the sidelines and pumping their fists in the air, visualizing college scouts coming with hefty scholarships and grants. Not for me, who begged for rides to and from practices, relying on my grandparents for transportation sparsely, so they wouldn’t see the state of our house. My mother would always get angry when her parents came to drop us off, always insisting on coming in to survey the

damage in the house from holes in walls to dirty dishes crawling with critters and cats licking dirty pans for burned egg pieces.

I folded the flyer in half and hastily shoved in under my stack of books on the bottom self in the locker I share with Holly. I am always the bottom shelf, to take my lacking height into consideration. She can’t see it; she will lose her mind. I know this, our codependency has blossomed into a full relationship of unhealthy proportions, two emotionally crippled humans attempting at something far too adult.

I wait, as always, for her to come meet me briefly, and she does. Angry brown eyes, jet black hair, browned skin from her native American heritage, and slanted eyebrows. I forgot she was angry with me from this morning when I pulled my hand away from hers when Kim snatched the jacket up that hid our weaved fingertips.

“Mr. Mason is such an asshole,” she huffs slamming her books in the locker, standing on her tip toes to launch them to the back where we hear them ding as they hit the metal back.

“What happened?” I ask, gauging her temperance to see where we are at. Holly drives the emotional state of our relationship; she being the more volatile of the two of us.

“He gave me detention for missing all that homework,” she huffed as she slammed the locker shut. “I just want school to be done already, I hate it.”

I watched her stalk off, wordless, now definitely wasn’t the time to broach the subject of an academic summer camp that focuses on colleges. Holly was not interested in anything remotely studious, let alone something that would separate us for an entire summer.

I watch her turn the corner of the light seafoam green colored hallways, waiting until I can be sure she is completely out of sight before slamming my elbow into the door right above the turn lock, causing it to pop open, a little trick Tommy showed me last year when he had this locker. I hop up on the toes of my sneakers and grab the flyer out from my Roman History classes textbook.

It is in that moment; I realize I don’t want to stay closeted with Holly and hide holding hands. I don’t want to stay in a home I feel constantly threatened in, showing all the scars on my skin and inside of my flesh. I don’t want to be stuck slinging burgers at the diner down the street, or as a cashier at the grocers. I don’t want to struggle against the New England seasonal depression of grey skies to salt crusted and frost heaved roads. I don’t want to be tied to this place where I feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, never moving forward and back, just in one constant place.

The flyer announces the meeting is today, in Ms. Mueller’s classroom of course, but an hour after we usually meet. I know Holly has detention, so if there was ever a time I could go and take a glance at what this whole thing is about, it is today when she will be occupied for a definite set amount of time.

I watch the clock anxiously for the last two periods, bouncing my leg in anticipation, choosing to focus more on the seconds hand than the other two since it moves at such a faster pace. Holly isn’t in my last two classes; they are AP and she is sequestered into the more remedial ones where they mostly watch movies instead of getting lectures from young teachers who still feel they can make a difference and impact our lives.

Ms. Mueller is at the door, leaning against it with her arms crossed, her cuffs folded up at the elbow, creased slacks and pointed shiny ebony dress shoes, almost as if she was waiting for me. Now that I look back, I think she was.

“Well here she is, take a seat.” She gestures to the open door.

I look in and see every seat is filled mostly with kids from other schools and a couple familiar faces of girls I have barely exchanged two words with. I slide into a seat near the door, resolving that if I need to make a quick getaway, I will at least have an easy shot to the door. Ms. Mueller positions her chair in the doorway; it’s like she can sense what I am thinking and gives me another one of her pointed stares.

A young man with a lot of vigor and energy and radiant brilliantly white smile bounds up to the front of the room. I will learn almost immediately that his name is Craig when he finally stops bounding around and announces who he is, that he went to Bates College, and dives into a lengthy description of what Upward Bound really is. There are other individuals up there as well, all standing in a line with various colleges strewn on their tee shirts and sweatshirts: Colby-Sawyer, Keene State, UNH, Plymouth State, are some of the names I spot.

The program is a six-week summer session that focuses on preparing students for college and even offers opportunities to take college level classes that can be accredited. Six weeks on a college campus, right in my hometown, sleeping in the dorms, going to classes, they even offer sporting events and excursions to local spots for day trips. It sounded too good to be true.

I looked around the room and saw most of the kids had that same look as I did, clinging to every word. “Give me an escape, please. Tell me I won’t fall through the cracks and be left right here where I started.” Their faces all seemed to say.

Craig took the basic Q&A after his dialogue of wonderous academia enchantment and promise, everyone asking the same things I was wondering. I wouldn’t raise my hand and attract attention to myself, no way.

I saw her then, Jodie, sitting with her hand up to ask more about the sporting opportunities offered, field hockey specifically. She sat with her blonde hairspray scrunched hair, long eyelashes and friendly, wide open blue eyes. I was amazed at how drawn I was to her instantly, like she was the bright glinting Christmas tree of hope in contrast to Holly’s darkness and shadowing pessimistic outlook on life and humanity. There was also this underlying feeling emanating from her. She was wearing adidas snap pants and her field hockey jacket, I knew without knowing, I knew she had the same attraction to females as I did. When Craig answered her question to her satisfaction, Jodie thanked him, and I saw her sign the sheet to enroll and receive more information. I watched that sheet for the rest of the presentation and when we were wrapping up, Ms. Mueller caught me at the door, the sign sheet in her fingertips.

“You forgot something,” she stated, a black pen in her other hand, held out to me.

I stepped aside, opening my mouth to let out a string of excuses, all based in fear and simultaneously worried that if I failed at this camp, I would disappoint her.

“Don’t.” She held up her palm that held the pen. “Sign the paper.”

I realized in that moment; this was my chance. I was on the edge of something, a choice. I knew what I would lose, and I quickly sobered to the reality that what I stood to lose, didn’t outweigh what I had to gain.      

So I made the choice, to take a chance, put the pen to that blue paper, and signed my name, choosing to take that chance, choosing something so much bigger for myself than I could have ever imagined and taking the first step to end the cycle that would have ensnared me just as it did many others. It even would claim Holly in the end, leaving her to browning pine trees, closeted and affairs in secrecy, the shame and impending alcoholism, cursing from her couch just as her father did.

[blaithinwrites]

May the Best

Summary: A year ago Bucky lost his arm and his memory in a motorbike accident. Somehow his journey back to normality involves pretending to date the rich and troubled Tony Stark.

(loosely, so loosely, inspired by to all the boys I’ve ever loved with a lot more angst)

Chapter 1 (AO3)

Bucky was angry.

He was always angry these days. The feeling was a hot itching madness that churned under his skin. He burned with it, his teeth clenched, his muscles screaming after hours held in tension,

And Brock Rumlock seemed determined to break any sort of control he had.

Bucky punched his hands into the pockets of his hoodies, fingers curled into fists. He could imagine himself letting go, swinging up and punching Brock’s smug, sneering mouth.

Brock, unaware of how close Bucky was to knocking him down, rocked back drunkenly on his heels, gesturing wildly. Liquid sloshed out of his red cup, drops flying out to land on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky breathed in slowly through his nose, almost deaf due to the roaring inside his skull.

“Barnes! Nice to see you’re all in one piece.” Brock’s eyes dropped to Bucky’s covered right arm. Even with his hoodie, the stiff, unnatural, metal edges of his prosthetic were obvious. Brock snorted, “Well almost one piece.”

Bucky surged forward. The movement sent Brock stumbling backward, caught off guard by the sudden invasion of his space. He staggered and scowled, his eyes narrowed, hazy and bloodshot.

“Buck!”

Steve was stood at the centre of the party, illuminate gold and silver by the flickering bonfire as he waved his arms to get Bucky’s attention. Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the small boy, drowned in the Bucky’s oversized coat.

Beside him, Brock snorted, “Still hanging around with that weirdo then?”

“Don’t talk about him.” Bucky hissed, snapping back to Brock. Brock was visibly wobbling now, eyes unfocused as he stepped closer to Bucky. Repulsion and irritation sizzled through Bucky at the sight.

“You know Barnes, you’re different,” Brock said, flicking the dangling cords from Bucky’s hoodie. “Did you scramble your brains when you lost your arm?” Bucky’s fist landed solidly on Brock’s nose, bone-crunching beneath his fingers. Brock crumpled to the ground, cursing and heaving in pain. Bucky stepped over him, energy thrumming through him.

“Bucky!”

The red mist that had swallowed Bucky evaporated slowly at the sound of his name and Bucky was suddenly aware of the lull in sound. Behind him the party had ground to a halt and Bucky could feel the eyes of the party goers on him, judging as they whispered to their friends.

Bucky could imagine what they were saying, James Barnes was back and he had already broken the nose of the star quarterback.

Bucky stuffed his hands back into his hoodie, ducked his head and strode away. He didn’t run but it was undeniably a retreat.

He didn’t stop until the party was a distant flicker of lights and sounds on the horizon. Bucky crouched down, dropping his head into his hands. He had found the shadowy edges of the woodland, far enough away from the illicit high school party to avoid any wandering partygoers.

“To be fair, I think its fairly common to punch Brock Rumlow when you first meet him.”

Bucky glanced up to see Steve standing above him. He was smiling but the skin around his eyes was tight, worried. Bucky was getting really of people looking at him like that.

“Coming here was a mistake.”

“Leaving you with Rumlow was a mistake,” Steve retorted. He dropped to the ground next to Bucky, sitting close enough that their shoulders pressed together. “And that one’s on me.”

“He knew there was something wrong with me. He asked if I had scrambled my brains. I just got so mad.”

Steve didn’t say anything. Pressed up against him, Bucky could hear the faint rattle in Steve’s chest. He could feel the way Steve’s chest was over expanding, heaving. Bucky hadn’t thought about how Steve had found him so quickly; he must have run flat out to catch up.

“Take your inhaler,” Bucky ordered, and Steve smiled weakly, digging through his clothes to comply.

“You haven’t changed that much,” Steve told him after a moment. “You always used to tell me to take my inhaler and you always gave me your jacket when I was too cold.”

Bucky snorted, “How long I have been doing that for?”

“Since we were toddlers.”

“Then why haven’t you learned to bring a coat yet?” Bucky demanded and snagged Steve around the neck, rubbing his knuckles into the boy’s hair. Steve choked with laughter, sharp elbows flailing into Bucky’s face.

“Mercy! Mercy”

Bucky let Steve go and a moment of perfect, happy silence strung out between them. Steve’s body was a bony comma curved against his and the lights from the party crackled before them, illuminating the dark, cloudy sky. Bucky felt the restless, anxious part of himself simmer down and wished that they could stay like this forever, just him and Steve. No crying parents or prodding doctors or cruel schoolmates.

A twig snapping behind them was all the warning they got.

“Woo!” A male voice called out in surprise. He was walking fast, running right over Steve’s outstretched legs. His arms flailed and a wild arm slapped Bucky around the head. The boy stumbled onwards, cursing as he tried to find his footing and coming to a wobbly stop before them.

Bucky jumped to his feet, hands curling up at his side, his teeth bared. For a moment he thought it was Brock but a second glance at the figure showed the boy was too young, too small to be Rumlow.

The boy held his hands up at the expression on Bucky’s face. His eyes were huge, luminous despite the darkness. He seemed amused by the entire affair. “Hey, at least half of this unexpected encounter is on you two – sitting in the dark in black clothing.”

“We wanted some privacy.”

“Uh huh.” The boy said in a way that Bucky suspected meant he was wiggling his eyebrows.

“Not like –”

“I’m not judging! Whatever floats your boat, man. Just be careful of frostbite, some things don’t recover from that!”

“We’re not –” But the boy was already stumbling off, waving lazily behind his back.

“Who the hell was that?” Bucky demanded, staring at the wavering figure.

“Oh, that was Tony Stark,” Steve said.

There was something in Steve’s voice, a note of flatness that Bucky hadn’t heard yet. He glanced down at the boy, but it was too dark to make out the expression on his face.

“Do I know him?”

“Oh, No. He transferred just before your accident, I don’t think you ever met him.”

“Huh…”

“Let’s go home. I’m freezing.” Steve said, getting to his feet.

Bucky glanced back towards the party. Tony was a tiny, barely distinguishable dark figure in the distance. The golden glow of the party haloed him as he stretched out his arms, a showman making an entrance.

“Didn’t you want to go to this party?” Bucky asked. The party, a prelude to the school year starting, had been Steve’s idea. A soft way of introducing Bucky back to his schoolmates and a way of filling him in on the people he was meant to know but could no longer remember.

“Nah, I only come to hang with my friend and here you are.”

Bucky turned away from Tony’s dramatic outline and smiled down at Steve. He nudged the shorter boy, unable to quite express the churn of relief and gratitude he felt as having Steve as his friend.

“Alright then, let’s go. Hopefully, Brock won’t remember that I punched him.”

It had been near Christmas when Bucky had had his accident.

Not that Bucky remembered much about it, just flashes of snow and falling, of pain.

His first proper memory was of waking up in the ER. He remembered the smell the most, the overpowering scent of disinfection, the tang of blood and burning skin. He remembered pain, unbearable, impossible agony radiating from his arm. He had looked over, trying to see what was hurting. Hanging from his shoulder was a mangled, bloody mess, unidentifiable as an arm.

There had been a flurry of activity around him, hands holding him down, pinning him still as he tried to fight, to get away. They had injected him, to put him under, but those few seconds had seemed to string out for infinity. Never-ending moments of pain and panic and confusion.

Bucky had known what they would do, he had heard them say amputation and he had tried to protest to beg them not to. But his throat was raw and the anaesthesia made his tongue numb.

His arm had been amputated, but that wasn’t what the doctors were most concerned about when he’d woken up. In his accident, he had hit his head and there was swelling on his brain. Bucky didn’t understand the technical terms, but he did realise that his memories weren’t right. He hadn’t recognised his family, he hadn’t recognised Steve.

For months Bucky had been confined to the hospital, carefully monitored and put through rehab for both his physical and mental injuries. Physically he had made an amazing, unpredicted recovery and some rich businessman had heard of his accident and had paid for him to be fitted with the state-of-the-art SHIELD prosthetics.

But his mind.

It had been eight months and Bucky’s memories were still half hazy, like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. He could remember people but rarely the times he had spent with them. The doctors treated Bucky like a science project, an interesting specimen they had found and captured. The last visit had resulted in a memory journal where Bucky was meant to write anything new he remembered but Bucky had stopped regaining memories months ago and to fill the blank pages Bucky had just started writing about the people around him.

He wrote about how his mother cried at night and how he hated the pity in her eyes. He wrote about Steve, wrote about how they were best friends but how sometimes he looked at Steve and wanted more than friendship and he wondered if he had always felt this way or if it was just after the accident. He wrote about his nightmares of his amputation, the panic attacks he had been having, how he sometimes looked at his metal prosthetic and got so mad that he wanted to tear the world apart.

Steve was too polite to say anything but Bucky had figured out he hadn’t been this angry before the accident. People had described him as carefree, as charming. Now they were wary,

Bucky was getting tired of feeling like he was somehow failing to be himself.

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, HWANG MINO !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty-three, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +5, durability +4, agility +7, dexterity +4, intelligence +5. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

           O.

the cartography of his veins spread before his eyes: here, where he bruised in metronomes — here, where he fractured his vertebra — here, where he dissected his laments.

against the riverbed where stories run in rivulets of red, in the stream of incongruence, lies the corpse of a manmade construct. called it death. named it fear. at the end of the day, its soot is ripe and ruined in his fisted palm, leaving inked teeth marks in shades of dying black.

the night sky thinks about a carnage that dreams: in this story, the sequence wears a reverse order.

sometimes, he is a motel with a crooked figured chalked on the creaky floor. all those streaks of blood that they scrub so hard but the wallflowers still remember what they witnessed. all the wallflowers that wilted, when murder sprayed their dormant status with sins. also the bed where he thrashed, all simulated forms of unspoken words transferred into acidic non-verbal. and that bed sheet wearing new colors, the hue melting like waxwork with flames that attracted these fallen, falling moths.

he is also the thump. victim now on the plane; bloodshed is beautiful when you are made of this chaotic smoke, imprisoned by your glass ribcage. quite a vision, quite a beauty.

the wooden boards, the outline. and everything in-between.

                        ( glass of half-full / empty water; tv playing static like sorrow. )

rest with me: i am an aftermath of this death, but i’m not in the coffin.                                                                                   ( i am the coffin. )

             I.

out of soft violence he bloomed: marigold and cinnamon, seeping through the interstices of mama’s cusps. she sighed, milkflower petals of her skin dripping in vigilant white as she shared the space of a husband’s with someone else. he was three, he remembers vividly. other colors of the spectrum spoke on the concave and convex of her features; she splintered in ways that he never understood between the grips of a man that was not his father.

membranes of his unfinished bedtime spillage carved memories like no other. he was supposed to be fast asleep, lost in the depth of cocooned safety in his crib. a watchful, taciturn witness to the event that unfolded before him, he always pretended that this was not the guilt that marred her face years later — that this was not the shame that spun the partiture of her elegies. against the gossamer edge of time, she would always be reminisced, another sway of chandelier against the stark ceiling of their mansion. this was the first beauty that painted the inglenooks of his memories.

first and foremost, insanity is hereditary, and so is sadness.

            II.

the child of threnody did not grow away from his mother; instead, he planted more seeds of lachrymose within the particles of his being, enveloped like chrysalis. the soothsayer across the street on an autumn day whispered to him little pieces of how to build a temple with his body, column per column, until he reached the sky shaped out of weary cultures and faded nebulas. spinal pillars stood against the horizon; he became acquainted with the after dark lullabies that ate away at his father’s core.

the difference was that his father was rotten with penumbra, while he soaked himself up in the act of liminal drowning. the similarity was that they both were too lost to be salvaged, feet tangled around the anchors.

he learned to love his mother in ways that she haunted his bones.

            III.

the incisors: to love was to hurt. he had teeth marks inked on his skin, with his aching marrows to prove his dedication. wrought in a burial was his flesh burning with forgotten maggots, rigor mortis veneering his architecture. this was the universe’s design; this fruit of deathless christening, this flower of seared capillaries.

the boyhood museum inevitably let him rest in this catacomb where mourning became the norms. here, he fell in the charm of death, its brutal hands wrapped around his neck with the weight of affection. it claimed him; it claimed his mother, then it claimed him. he learned to love it, too, in ways that he loved his mother.

he, however, had always known how to love the anatomy, the bones — he had always known the blueprint of humane edifices by heart. from the gentlest to the harshest, pound by pound, it called for his name. and he held their ideas inside him for the longest time, until they were no longer the same. until they, too, clattered into the rush of dissonance.

open battlefields were ribbons of suffocation, wisps inside his knots of an esophagus. but violent streaks ran nowhere but in his bloodstreams, rhyming the overture of sleepless hours spent on the longing.

            IV.

the revenants of revolution never skipped a heartbeat: there was always a lub-dub of life shivering underground. found himself stranded there before he, too, learned to love. and he loved, again and again and again, until he loved too much.

on the night three days before his eighteenth birthday, the moon hung itself like his mother did. stabbed and left for dead, their hatred mirrored his love — too much, too much, too much. he made a deal with the death for another paradox, promising that this time, he would learn to love better.

( in the end, he does not love better. death carved him into stalactites instead. )

            V.

the turpentine of twilight lures the deaths back to its morgue, sometimes in ashes, sometimes in commas – sometimes a period of crawling with smokes in-between. tattered teeth with keyholes and keywords, all rattling keys and sentences caught between the fangs, chewed up and spat out on the concrete. the start is always silent, the voices contained. in a room for two: housed between the flimsy walls would be him, bare to the skin to the flesh to the bones to the marrows. he drinks the quiet and lets it soak his blood vessels, veins and arteries creating a map like corrupted city streets.

nights are craters of the moonless dreams, deep enough to be called canyons. against the core of the bases would be arrhythmia waiting to happen. clasped to the soil would be footprints of indulgence – this is an elegy to addictions. every cursive of a movement creates a dynamic that he yearns so much, too much. every victory in the battlefield fractures the wasteland where he usually closes his eyes. wear and tear of the muscles and sinews, but here comes the marching sound of tomorrow; almost furtive, almost invisible. he doesn’t die tonight.

MUTATION.

darkness or shadow manipulation enables him to perform various tricks as long as there is the provided source of said element, which would be aplenty during the day and night. he’s able to mimic the darkness itself, using it as a means of transportation by opening portals through shadows, as well as producing offensive and defensive measures by solidifying the element, mostly by constructing weapons and shields. he can only use what’s available and enlarge it instead of creating it from full-fledged light.

STRENGTHS.

teleportation through shadows is what he primarily relies on, although this means that the shadows must not be too far apart — at four to five meters at the maximum in the distance, degree varying to his current stamina and energy. at this point in tier omega, he has yet to be able to merge himself fully in the darkness, so the transport is done via creating portals that he can dissolve into.

he can see in the dark due to enhanced vision, and this can be applied as seeing during the day. his sight is almost as perfect as it is in the light, although it could use some more honing. when new levels are unlocked, it’s possible for him to eventually see better in the dark than light. also, this application doesn’t require any adaptation.

umbrakinetic property construction via solidification of the element, and this includes weaponry to attack and protect himself with. solidified shadows work in the light as if it’s a solid matter as long as it’s been created to perfection by him prior to launch. this can also be used to trap people into their places by producing tendrils around the said people’s ankles, immobilizing his opponents.

WEAKNESSES.

up until this point he cannot create darkness out of nothing; there has to be sources, as small as they might be, to aid him during the expansion of darkness. he can make a small, condensed shadow into something bigger, but in the rare chances there isn’t any darkness at all, it will render his powers void.

distance of travel is limited, as teleportation through portals deplete his energy. it’s just faster than running, but it also consumes his energy as much as running would, just slightly less. when he’s exhausted, he won’t be able to perform this correctly, and there’s a possibility for him to be trapped within the portal for a few seconds.

moving shadows also prove to be troublesome towards his ability since it means that he might have to follow the shadows’ direction than his own. his teleportation also relies heavily on creating portal to portal from motioned shadows, causing this to be a hassle when it comes to reaching his destination.

he might be on par with light manipulators, depending on the opponent’s expertise. might find difficulties in adjusting his powers if all the shadows are erased via the light manipulation, which ends where he cannot perform his abilities at all.

while maintaining the solid features of the well-constructed items might not be a big problem, processing the dark energy to solid mass has proven to be a trouble for him, and it can take from below a minute for small projectiles like bullets, to up to five minutes to bigger weapons.

in the vein of inability to create darkness, while he can combine shadows to merge them into a bigger mass, but passing one shadow to the other via well-lit plane might exert more energy than necessary unless the shadows have been modified to be more solid.

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

Finale posted tomorrow!  

We’ve made it from A-Y, and I know some of you have been waiting for the whole thing to be posted before reading, so thought I’d gather it all together in anticipation of the finale tomorrow at 7 PM!

Each of the letters up to this point have been approx. 200 words, but Z is close to 2700 words, so I promise it will be a satisfying end to our alphabet!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet, Letters A-Y

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 4612

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z posted tomorrow night (9/25) at 7PM EST!

[amandaoftherosemire]

Sing For Me - Chapter Four

Fandom: Marvel Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC (Sasha)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, OFC Sasha

Author: @amandaoftherosemire​

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1,705

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: language, angst, fluff, slooooow-burn. (Future chapters will be NSFW due to smut)

Summary: Sasha has a plan to win Bucky over. She tries texting him in the hopes that he will be able to open up when they’re not face-to-face. It does not go as planned.

A/N: Not consistent with Marvel canon. I just started writing fanfic, please be patient. I’m open to constructive criticism and any help more experienced writers would like to offer. More slow-burn. This was ridiculously self-indulgent but if anyone has half as much fun reading it as I did writing it, I won’t feel too guilty over it.

Banner by @hellzzzbelle​

Text in Bold: Bucky    Text in Italics: Sasha

Sing For Me Masterlist

Chapter Three here

Chapter Four

Can’t sleep?

Bucky stared, nonplussed, at the message. He looked at the contact name again. The Ice Queen. It was definitely Sasha. But why? Bucky started to type. Deleted it. Started again. Deleted it. He felt like a complete moron. He typed out a quick two word response and hit send before he could overthink it any further.

No. You?

Sasha smiled. She had watched the three dots appear and disappear several times. She wondered why those two words took so long. Did he have to think that hard about just two words? Was he nervous? Or shy? Or annoyed?

Was she just embarrassing herself? Was she throwing herself at him? Just because she thought she felt something from him as he watched her the night before didn't mean he actually wanted to get to know her. Maybe he was blushing at her today because he was embarrassed for her, flirting and stealing his crunchberries.

"Stop," she told herself, quietly. "Just be yourself. That way if he does come to like you, it will be for you and not what you pretended to be. We've learned this lesson." She typed out a quick response, trying to be casual.

Nope. Insomnia blows. What are you up to?

Bucky was utterly confused now. He couldn't figure out what this was. Why was Sasha texting him at all? Let alone to ask what he was doing? Bucky decided to answer with the truth; it was easier than trying to figure this out.

Reading. You?

There. That was good. He answered her question and the 'You?' at the end made it seem more friendly. He hit send right away, not wanting to think about it further. He immediately regretted it.

Sasha smiled a little when she read the message. She already knew that Barnes could be a man of few words. However, it was a good sign that he was asking after her in return. Maybe he just needed a little nudge. She decided to try a little tiny bit of flirting.

Staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what’s playing on your TV. ;)

She was trying to get him to turn his TV down. Disappointed, Bucky shot back.

Is it too loud? I can turn it off. I’m not even watching it.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Sasha muttered viciously under her breath as she shot off a quick

No!

Muttering fiercely to herself, "Too intense, Sash, too intense," she shot off another text.

No, it’s fine. I didn’t mean for you to think that I was complaining. I forget sometimes that tone doesn’t always transfer over text.

Bucky was beyond lost. Like, blindfolded, stripped, and dropped off in the middle of the Amazon rainforest lost. If she didn't want him to turn down his TV, what did she want? Why was any of this? Bucky opted for the safe answer.

Okay.

Okay? Okay?! What the fuck did that mean? Sasha was so aggravated she pushed herself up and out of bed and started pacing around her room. Okay? How was she supposed to work with that? What could she possibly say now that didn't sound crazy or pushy?

As she fluttered back and forth, it slowly dawned on Sasha that she had both hands in her hair and was tugging viciously. No, no, no, she thought, as she carefully loosened her fists and removed her hands from her hair. It starts with yanking hair, she reminded herself, and this is not a big enough deal for a panic attack.

Like that matters. Deep breaths, idiot; that’s how to stop it before it starts. Sasha didn’t want to go outside so she opened the glass door a crack and walked back to her bed. Climbing in, she sat cross legged in the middle and taking deep, even breaths, she closed her eyes.

Around twenty minutes later, a much more calm Sasha opened her eyes and flopped backward with a huff. Though meditation had helped calm her anxiety, it had done nothing for her irritation. After a few minutes, she knew she was never going to get to sleep with this whatever it was between her and Barnes unresolved.

Over a half an hour after Bucky sent his "okay" message, and long after he'd given up on a response, his phone chirped.

So I’m never going to sleep as long as it’s in my brain so I just want to apologize for being such a disaster. I was trying to make small talk before I started subtly charming you into being my BFF so I can ditch Tony once and for all but, if I may mix my metaphors, that went tits up before I even got out of the gate. And if that last clause didn’t give me away for the ridiculous creature I am, I don’t know what will but I am sorry.

Bucky read the message three times, just to be sure he was reading it right. It had been so long since a dame like Sasha had flirted with him, he hadn't recognized it for what it was. He felt like a fool.

In his defense, girls like Sasha didn't go for him these days. The sweet ones went for Steve now, hardly a surprise. Not that Bucky lacked for female companionship, but he attracted a different kind of woman. The dames he'd been with since he'd his recovery had been drawn to the dark in him, attracted to the danger. They made it clear that they were in it for the night and nothing more.

He loved this new century's broader acceptance of female agency, sexual agency in particular. As a matter of fact, women who knew what they wanted and didn't hesitate to ask for it were his favorite thing about the future. But he understood and accepted that a certain kind of dame wasn't for him. He wasn't fit for a dame who lived in the light.

On the other hand, she had said she wanted him for her BFF. He mentally thanked Peter for explaining that one to him a while back. And Sasha was flirty with all of her friends, regardless of gender. Flirting back, just a little bit, could be harmless, right?

Bucky read her message for the fourth time and drew a blank on how to respond. He couldn't access the suave ladykiller he'd been back in the day. He didn't know how to talk to a dame like this anymore. He had to say something, though. She'd laid it out and he couldn't not answer. He was an asshole, not a monster. Finally, he sent the first thing that came to mind.

Clause?

Sasha looked at the single word message in disbelief.

"Are you fucking joking me right now?" she hissed. Fuming, Sasha shot back an answer.

It wasn’t the whole sentence that gave me away, just the last part after the comma. Thus, clause.

Bucky was cursing himself viciously under his breath when he heard Sasha hiss and his head snapped up. He looked to his open glass door and realized Sasha must have her door open, too. He hadn’t understood what she had said, but the aggravation came through loud and clear.

Bucky's face spread into a wolfish smile. He just couldn’t help himself. There was something satisfying about pestering the sweet ones. Back in the day, he’d liked to tease a dame, rile her up, and then charm her back into his arms. With a grin, the next text he sent was designed to irritate.

Thus. Okay.

I'm going to murder him, Sasha thought, as she screamed into her pillow. She was fairly certain that 'okay' had become her least favorite word. Even worse than 'moist', and god, did she hate the word 'moist'. Seriously, 'okay'? Fine, she thought. She had explained herself and the conversation was closed.

Ten minutes later:

So, we cool?

Bucky had to give her credit. He was fairly certain he had heard her muffle a scream of rage. He had nearly choked to death stifling his laughter. Since then, however, not a sound. Aside from that one scream, she was a stone cold professional at seething in silence.

He had been dying waiting for her to respond. He didn't know how she had gone so long before texting him again. Bucky felt amazing. He had forgotten how much fun this part of the courting dance could be. Still, he felt like she needed one more good push before he could start bringing her back around.

Sure.

Sasha sat in the middle of her destroyed bed. She had thrown the pillows to the ground and torn the blankets apart. She, with a rigidly, coldly controlled hand, delicately set her phone on the nightstand and concentrated on deep breaths. Tony was right. Why did she even want to be friends with Barnes? The man was a complete asshole.

Fifteen minutes later, her phone lit up.

Can’t sleep?

"FUCK YOU!" Sasha shouted at the top of her lungs.

Since the day she had first walked into Avengers Tower to meet with Tony after she hacked into his private servers, she had never once heard Barnes really laugh. She assumed he did, just not when she was around.

However, when she shouted, she heard in response a loud roar of laughter. She was so astonished, without thinking, she shouted, “Shit! The door’s open!”

Bucky howled. There was really no other word for it. Despite herself, the sound of Bucky’s genuine, uninhibited amusement charmed her. She pressed her lips together, trying to hold on to her indignation.

Unfortunately, Bucky couldn’t stop laughing. Her continued silence just made it more and more life-threateningly funny to him. He knew the longer it took her to laugh, the less likely she was to laugh at all, but he just couldn’t wrap it up.

With tears streaming down his face, and a touch of fear that he’d gone too far sliding up his spine, he finally heard her laugh. She chuckled wryly, clearly against her will, and Bucky laughed harder.

Finally calm, Bucky was wiping his face with his sleeve when his text tone went off. He looked at his phone and started laughing again.

No. You?

Chapter Five here