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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @ransomflanagan from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 5/?

summary: your plan goes to asbolute shit.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

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

word count: 9k, please pray for my fingers

a/n: there’s action, there’s gunshot wounds, there’s canon appropriate violence! this one has a lot of plot, a lot of action, and i truly want to sleep for seven days after writing this. you should listen to the glass cannon’s club playlist while you read, though, for vibez.

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You do have a plan.

Maybe it’s a little vague, a little messy, and a little up-in-the-air, but it’s a plan.

Get in, find Kiwi, avoid a handful of unsavory characters, and access the Alexandria Library.

Getting the hell out The Glass Cannon once you and Bucky were in was going to be a whole different plan entirely — one that was more improv than anything else. Hopefully, running a quick facial recognition program wouldn’t take long. With any luck, it would get a hit on any more recent aliases Innessa Sidrova was using after parsing the motherload of information Kiwi held onto with her life.

Kiwi wasn’t always known as Kiwi. She worked at SHIELD, like you, and back then she was known as Suji Awal. She stuck around longer — and she’d stayed on board during the active collapse to do heaven-sent work. It was an absolute Hail Mary, but while HYDRA had tried to purge all of SHIELD’s cloud data to protect their active agents and decades of progress, Suji had beat the hare in the race. Two steps ahead, she’d managed to pull nearly 97% of all confidential data including mission reports, agent profiles, and even electronic correspondence. While the metaphorical fire burned the documents behind her, she’d managed to salvage one of the only surviving, comprehensive looks at SHIELD before the curtain was pulled back to reveal HYDRA’s infection.

It had been used to try multiple HYDRA agents in the wake of it all in the federal courts. It was significant evidence, but after nearly all was reaped from the crop, Suji had taken the aptly named Alexandria Library and gone underground. Now, Kiwi was just another hacker in the thick of it and the Alexandria files were all but whispers.

It’s all about knowing the right people in the end.

Kiwi was a regular at The Glass Cannon. There was a nine out of ten chance you’d find her there. And if you didn’t find Kiwi, you’d probably find Climber and… Well, going to him wasn’t the most ideal situation, but out of the menagerie of acquaintances you’d gathered up throughout the years, you could trust Climber. He’d send you Kiwi’s way if you finally called in that favor he owed you. Either way, you’d find her and you’d get the files.

You just needed to avoid Alexei Gardzov.

Easy. Ish.

In truth, you barely get anything done Thursday — you’re too preoccupied in your head, running over the so-called plan even now as you fold laundry in the basement of your apartment complex.

You’d dug around in your closet, trying to find some semblance of an outfit. It was difficult. It wasn’t like the barely-there dresses and platform shoes were your thing anymore. Back then, your diet was mostly energy drinks and alcohol — in a way, it’s a relief to find that a good number of your staple outfits no longer fit. It made you feel like you really had put all this behind you.

You have.

Sure, it was the Rabbit you were going to have to be for tonight, but you’re not the Rabbit you were eight years ago. Good thing, too. You’re not too sure you and Bucky would have gotten along otherwise. Right now, your relationship with him was the biggest thing keeping you afloat — for the first time in a long time, you feel like you have some sort of purpose, even if it was a vague one at best.

You knew Innessa Sidrova was a threat — and you knew Bucky had to remedy that threat. You knew he felt responsible for creating her, for planting her in a position of power where she could manipulate and control. In truth, there was still a lot of vagueness surrounding his past. He’d made it clear he hasn’t been himself for a long time, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wade through the muck of his trauma to pluck out your answers. It just felt wrong.

If you were to say you hadn’t been tempted to go out on your own and dig, that’d be a lie.

Even now, as you pull out the ink-black top from the dryer and fold it neatly on top of the other pieces of laundry needed for tonight, you can feel it sparking like a lighter in the back of your head.

He was keeping something from you.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You nearly jump six feet in the air.

It’s Miss Bonnie — and she’s laughing when her feet touch the cold concrete of the unfinished floor. Her basket of laundry is balanced neatly on her hip, and she walks with a smirk on her face. Her hair is piled neatly on top of her head, and as she bends to plop the basket down, she offers a wink.

“I could hear you thinking from upstairs,” she ruminates, paisley and dyed skirts kissing the ground, “Like a little steam engine.”

You laugh quietly into your task. You duck your head and heft a black bra and jeans from the dryer. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

She looks up, eyes moving carefully from the laundry pile to your face. Her eyes glimmer with quiet curiosity. “And a big night planned, huh?”

You snort. “What was the giveaway?”

“It’s always the lacey bras,” she chirps and slides a smirk your way as she waggles a finger at your pile, “And the strappy little bodysuit was a good hint, too.”

You exhale with a laugh, bracing a hand against the dryer. She’s not wrong — you’d really forgone comfort with this outfit lineup. It was temporary, though, and well worth the efforts if it meant helping Bucky tick off a name from his list of amends. You knew how much those meant to him.

“So,” she continues, voice muddled as she continues to load the washer, “I take it this friend of yours is really helping you out of your shell?”

“I guess so. Yeah. It’s — It’s sort of a mutual shell-cracking, I guess.”

“Mm,” a hum, “You sound troubled, though.”

Your mouth opens as your fingers trace the line of the bodysuit. You pause, and you rock back on your heels. Miss Bonnie notices.

She waits patiently, bent at the knees.

“You ever just…” you wave your hand, “Feel like — I don’t know. He’s my friend. My best friend, honestly, and that’s… Really saying a lot. But, there’s stuff under the surface and I know it’s not my business but…”

Out comes a strangled groan.

“What? Like a crazy ex-girlfriend?”

“No, no — I don’t think so,” you mutter, “Wouldn’t surprise me, though.”

“Handsome?” she asks, smiling.

You close your eyes and ignore the smile on your face as you reply. “Yea, handsome.”

“Well, have you tried asking?” she shrugs as she stands, “Not about the crazy ex, but about the stuff you’re worried about? It never hurts.”

“Problem is, I don’t really think it’s too much of my business.”

Miss Bonnie hums at that and presses the start on her washer. She’s quiet for a bit, swaying slightly as she weighs the conversation and you watch — enamored with the older woman’s calm wisdom. She gestures openly with ringed hands.

“I think it’s normal for us to want to know everything about those we care about,” she says, “We want to know how we can protect them, how we can comfort them. But… it comes in due time. All of it does. You’ll find a time when he does open up about the ex, or whatever it is on his mind. You’re friends, after all.”

You’re nodding, chest tight with thanks.

Miss Bonnie’s face is soft.

“You got a picture?” she chirps like a bird looking for a worm, “I wanna see who this little friend is. And if he really is as handsome as you’re suggesting...”

You scoff and lean to dig out your phone.

“Cut it out,” you mumble as she moves closer, “No playing matchmaker.”

“Sure, sure,” she waves, leaning to watch as you scroll through your camera roll.

The only photo you have of Bucky is there from Tuesday night — after he’d housed nearly an entire container of noodles and promptly passed out during the third Lord of the Rings movie. You’d woken up around one in the morning to find that Poke had unceremoniously curled up on top of the supersoldier’s chest. Bucky’s hand was still in the calico’s fur as he dozed, the colors of the TV painting his face all sorts of peaceful. You’d taken the photo, shoving it in his face after gently nudging him awake.

He’s laughed.

You gesture to show Miss Bonnie.

Like ice, she freezes.

You notice a microexpression dart across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. You can’t pin it, but the way she bends to pull the phone closer and zoom in on her face comes off as interest. You blink, label it as shock, and move on.

Her voice sounds different.

“Handsome,” she mumbles plainly, preoccupied with the sight, “I get it now. What’s his name?”

“Bucky,” you say as she hands the phone back, “He’s… He’s a good person.”

Miss Bonnie just nods.

You tuck your phone away and plop your laundry into your basket. Ignoring the sudden quiet that had crept between you both, you haul up the stack and offer her a gentle smile. She’s fiddling with the washer’s timer.

“Thank you, Miss Bonnie.”

“Of course,” she rushes out, smiling gently, “And be safe tonight.”

“I will.”

With your promise, you ascend the stairs.

In that basement, Bonnie McLayne is no more, and instead, Innessa Sidrova remembers that night in Moscow, back in 1975.

She remembers the Winter Soldier.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Bucky calls you three times with no answer.

Normally, he’d just give up — but it was Thursday, and you weren’t answering the buzzer to your apartment either. He tries his best to ignore the strike of panic that sparks in his chest. It could stoke a wildfire, really, but he pushes it down and remembers to breathe. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’d do if something happened to you.

After all, you’re probably fine. Sleeping, maybe. The both of you had a long night ahead.

(Longer than either of you realize, really.)

It’s nearly seven o’clock, and after trying your cell one more time from his perch on your apartment’s stoop, Bucky decides to say fuck it.

A well-adjusted person might frown upon what he was about to do, but Bucky wasn’t exactly well-adjusted, now was he?

He rounds the back alley with long strides and easily finds that, with a little maneuvering, he can hoist himself upwards on top of the nearest dumpster. With a well-timed hop, he can also snag the bottom of the fire escape’s ladder and haul it downwards. The rest is easy, and he’s scaling the fire escape to the third floor with ease before he even knows it.

There’s even a smug little smirk on his face the whole time he does.

Finding your window is a little harder, but Bucky eventually spots Poke’s round little body smushed against the glass — it’s a dead giveaway, and after some prowling, he finds the window to your living room and unceremoniously throws it open.

It’s unlocked, for whatever reason, and he makes a mental note to have a conversation with you about safety and security in the city. After all, you never knew when an ex-assassin supersoldier was going to break in and pet your cat.

Upon opening the window, he pieces together pretty quickly why you’re not answering. Could be the music coming from your bedroom, or even the singing that’s coupled alongside it. From the bathroom across the hall from your room, steam has settled above on the ceiling. The whole apartment smells like fruit and soap and perfume and Bucky’s not really sure how to parse through all the sensory experiences that greet him with he shimmies in through the window, legs first.

All in all, they make him smile.

Bucky shuts the window behind him as he’s quickly greeted by Poke — the calico offers a gratuitous little chirp when Bucky bends to scoop up the cat. Easily, he melts. Poke is purring loudly in his ear as Bucky takes a moment to survey your apartment a little bit closer. Mr. Poke Bowl rubs his face against Bucky’s stubble as the man weaves through the kitchen.

It’s very you.

He isn’t really sure what that means at the end of the day, but all he knows is that he feels at home here. He feels safe. He feels comfortable. He feels like he can be himself. Not James, not Sergeant Barnes, not The Winter Soldier. Not even Steve’s Bucky, but just… his Bucky. Himself. Sarcastic and exhausted and a little cynical.

Bucky lets Poke down on the counter and moves to the fridge.

There’s still beer from the other night in there, tucked in the back, so he makes easy work on popping open a bottle and busying himself with petting a very adamant Poke.

As he sips the Leinenkugel, it’s no small coincidence that his phone buzzes again — for what feels like the hundredth time today — with a message from Janelle.

She was nice — pretty, too. Once upon a time, she would have been his type.

That was before he met you, though.

There’s a little pinprick of mortification at that quiet confession that’s been slipping into his heart more and more in the last few days. You are, after all, his best friend. He’s your best friend. Guilt swims with the feelings that have begun to pluck his heartstrings and he has to admit he’s not too comfortable with the song they play.

His biggest fear is fucking this up.

Fucking you up.

Honestly, his track record isn’t great. The whole defrosted-international-threat bit made it a little difficult to date. Janelle seemed to think the date had gone well enough, though, hence the handful of texts he’d been getting every few hours asking if he’s free.

Like usual, he ignores them.

Exercising his own free will is hard sometimes. Especially when it comes to saying no.

Taking another swig of the beer, Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and tucks his fingers back into Poke’s fur. The calico’s tail swings patiently as he sits and watches — and it’s a little weird how human his eyes are for a second there. He mmrrps and lunges for Bucky’s hand when he comes close, bonking his head eagerly against the cool vibranium.

It’s a different sensation.

That’s another big adjustment — learning how things really feel with this new arm. It’s not just handling recoil or gripping knives or throwing punches. It’s the soft tickle of fur, the gentle pressure of a warm rag to clean the joints. Meticulous upkeep wasn’t something HYDRA did often. He doesn’t miss the twinge of pain and molasses-like stickiness that came with a dirty arm. Blood was the worst. Always sat deep in the cracks.

He flexes his fingers. Poke meows again.

He moves to plop down on the couch. Poke follows.

You’re singing, still, to some song that Bucky’s never heard, when you push open your bedroom door and move towards the living room.

You jump six feet in the air and scream when you see him just sitting there, clutching a beer and petting Poke like he fucking lives here rent-free.

Bucky’s reaction is muted, mostly because he’s a little too preoccupied with your outfit and your jewelry and the pink eye shadow that creeps up your brow-bone. There’s glitter on your eyelids and lip gloss on your mouth and he can smell some sort of candy-sweet perfume coming off you. The plunging neckline of the jet-black top is enough to leave him shifting his gaze back up to your startled expression with a tight jaw.

His face is blank.

Then he offers that stupid fucking smile he does. Y’know, the tight-lipped one where he somehow maintains a dead-eyed look the whole time. If you weren’t trying to calm your racing heartbeat, you might have laughed. You hate the white-hot flare it sparks in your chest.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you hiss, waving your hands.

“We need to have a serious conversation about locking our windows,” he says as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and wags a finger at you, “Also, what are you wearing?”

“You — You fucking broke in through my window?”

“Yea, well, you were too busy pretending to be Britney Spears to hear me try and buzz up, and my phone calls.”

Sheepishly, you cross your arms. “Nice reference—”

A shrug from Bucky. “Thank you.”

“—Also, what are you wearing?”

He looks down at his usual t-shirt, leather jacket combo. He squints back up at you.

“I’m sorry,” he chirps, “You’re talking to me? Did the department store run out of fabric, Rabbit?”

You self-consciously adjust the plunging neckline of the bodysuit as you frown deeply. “I think I’m gonna skip on the fashion advice from the man who lived in a time where ankles were seen as scandalous.”

“I was born in 1917,” he mumbles as he stands, actively avoiding another pass over your outfit because as much as he hates to admit it, it’s not a bad look on you, “Not 1817.”

“Point being, we’re going to a club. And you look like you’re going to the local Home Depot,” you move to snag a set of dangly earrings that are sitting on the coffee table, “We’ve gotta look like we’re there to party, nothing more.”

Bucky sighs. He finishes the beer, places the bottle down and sheds his jacket. “So, what?”

You pry your eyes away from the flash of skin — his arm, flesh and blood, speaks to how strong he is. And, undoubtedly how easy it was for him to fucking scale three stories of the fire escape to bust in.

“So,” you mumble as you thread the earring in, “I have some of Jaimie’s old shirts. There’s probably something you can use… If they fit.”

Bucky exhales softly. “You kept them?”

“Didn’t have the heart to throw them out,” you reply as you gesture for him to follow you into your bedroom.

The back of your top is arguably more crisis-inducing than the front — it’s an open back, and Bucky settles on admiring the decor rather than the curve of your spine. He has to. For his own fucking self-composure.

Your bedroom is nice — and like the rest of your space, it makes him feel comfortable. It’s all warm colors and posters and plants in the corners. Across from your queen-sized bed, there’s a large desk with a triple monitor setup. That’s where the music is coming from. The little knick-knacks on your shelves and desk make him chuckle.

Then, he stops, halfway to the closet, and stares.

You blink over your shoulder as you bend, digging to the back of your closet to pull out the clear bin you’d piled most of Jaimie’s stuff into after the funeral. After you’d cleaned out his apartment on your own.

He’s looking at the poster — the one from Cap’s USO tour. It’s framed nicely, set up on the wall beside your desk. It’s got a gold frame, and Bucky can’t help but wander closer to look at the signature.

It’s Steve’s alright.

“How much did you pay for this?”

You scoff. Your necklaces tinker together. “Don’t even go there.”

“The jerk signed thousands of these,” he mumbles, crossing his arms as he leans closer, “And still, the fame didn’t go to his head.”

You smile softly, leaning back.

“Jealous?” you chirp, raising your brows as you pretend to swoon, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes, I’d just love to meet your dear friend—”

Bucky’s laughing as you swat at his knee, leaning back on the carpet like a damsel in distress.

“Shut up,” he snorts, “It’s a sore subject for me.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious — do you know how many dates I had to set up for the chump? And then, boom. I’m invisible.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter with a smile, unclicking the lid, “Some people just like blondes, Buck. I’m sure there were plenty of eyes on you. Stop being so dramatic.”

“Yea, the best friend, sure,” he mumbles at the poster, “Hell, he was taller than me. You know you don’t need to lie to me—”

“Listen, if I was some Lauren Bacall-looking nurse back then,” you wave your hands, “I’d have gone for you. Alright? Stop lamenting and get over here.”

He goes quiet and ignores the warmth in his cheeks. He squats by your side. “Shut up.”

“We seriously need to work on taking compliments,” you groan, throwing your head back, “I’m being serious, y’know, for once. And I’m not just saying it as your friend. You’re handsome and everyone knows it except you, apparently. My neighbor agrees that’s for sure.”

He squints.

You wave it off and gesture to your outfit. “She saw me doing laundry.”

“That explains nothing,” Bucky deadpans, “Literally nothing.”

“I showed her a picture,” you cry indignantly, moving to shuffle through some of the old t-shirts sitting on top of the bin, “Relax.”

He moves to plop down, crossing his legs beneath him. He decides to let the topic die — again, for his own self-composure more than anything. The compliment, though vehemently denied by the worst part of him, is tucked neatly in the homes of his heart. The idea of meeting you, before now, is a little intoxicating. What would it have been like?

Would you have even spared him a dance?

Bucky rubs his cheek. Poke meows and buts the door open with his head.

You’re wrist-deep in the bin when you speak. “He’s obsessed with you, y’know.”

Poke has already taken up a post in Bucky’s lap. Bucky smiles, petting Poke gently with his vibranium hand. The cat seems to like the cool metal. Bucky mumbles softly down to the calico, scritching his cheeks. “I like him, too.”

You pause long enough to try and remember the sight.

Bucky’s eyes find yours, and you’re quick to turn back to the bin.

“Here we go,” you exhale as you pull out the shirt you’d been looking for.

It’s a long-sleeve button-down, one that you can distinctly remember Jaimie wearing to his engagement party’s after-party — a real typical night of Jaimie being Jaimie. It’s black with a barely-there red floral pattern. It’s flashy enough that Bucky won’t look horribly out of place.

The only problem is Jaimie was a little smaller than Bucky.

“Try this on,” you mumble as you dig around trying to find something else in case it doesn’t do the trick.

Bucky catches the silk shirt and gives it a once over. He raises an eyebrow, and deciding against debating this, he simply nudges Poke off his lap and stands.

He moves to your bed, laying the shirt out. On your closet door is a full-length mirror. You want to snap it in half when you accidentally catch a glimpse of Bucky hauling off his black, cotton t-shirt and anxiously fumbling with the buttons on Jaimie’s old shirt. You have to breathe — and remind yourself that that’s Bucky.

Your Bucky. Your best friend Bucky.

When he calls your name, it sounds far away. You’re busy angrily sorting through old clothes.

“I look ridiculous.”

When you turn around, the first thing you notice is that it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, but the buttons are gapping along his chest, and it’s tight around his arms.

Your eyes widen a little and you swallow. You tilt your head.

Bucky’s frowning.

“Let me see,” you offer gently, standing and moving close, “It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t sound too sure right now,” he mumbles as you enter his personal space.

You’re nimble with undoing the top three buttons — it gives him enough room to move his shoulders, though, and the dip of the shirt along his sternum brings dog tags into view. You reach, momentarily entranced, and read them to yourself.

You smell like vanilla and sugar.

Bucky shifts in his boots.

“Y’know,” you say, moving to the sleeves, “I think this works.”

You roll the sleeves, stopping at his forearm.

When you step aside, Bucky can see himself in the full-length mirror. He looks less than enthused.

It’s not an entirely bad look — he’ll admit that much — but he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s too much chest and skin and… Christ, this shirt is tight. He does, though, look like some of those trendy folks he sees at Izzy’s bar every now and again. Hipsters.

“I look like a douchebag.”

“That’s the point,” you chirp as you close the box and shove it back into your closet, “Now the outfit matches the personality.”

He swats at your head on the way by. You laugh.

You’ve got boots in your hand, and you land on the bed with a bounce. Bucky is busy fixing his hair in the mirror while you zip up the thigh-high boots. When he turns around, you’re about three inches taller. He blinks, yet again entranced by the outfit.

Then, you’re muscling on the jacket.

It’s neon pink — and shaggy and cropped. It falls just above your waist and swallows you whole. But, Bucky’s attention is mostly on the back.

There’s a large, white embroidered Playboy bunny there, with RABBIT written across the shoulders in a chunky, blackletter typeface.

His brows are high on his face when you turn around.

You freeze.

“...What?” you ask, “Something on my face?”

“Playboy bunny, huh?”

You could smack him. “Weren’t you busy being a frozen dinner when Playboy came out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he says tightly as he follows you out of your bedroom and to the living room, “The Russians enjoyed their fair share of editions.”

“The Russians? Sure, what’s that saying? There’s no sex in the USSR?” you chide, “You can just say Bucky Barnesenjoyed his fair share—”

The tips of his ears are red. You notice. It makes you split into a grin that worsens the pink shade that’s crawling up his neck.

He coughs. “Have you ever considered never opening your mouth again, Rabbit?”

You nudge his arm. “Nah. Bothering you is more fun.”

He shrugs on his jacket, sighs, and decides that keeping quiet is just easier.

However, that’s not entirely your plan — and you speak quickly as you pull your purse over your shoulder. You’re rummaging quietly, stacking your wallet and phone inside. You glance up at him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he mumbles, bending to pat Poke one last time as you move to the door of your bedroom. He watches you flick all the lights off, and before you leave, you double check the calico’s food and water. He’s got enough for a few days. Bucky leans against the door frame, “Care to run me through the plan?”

Nodding, you move to open your front door.

“It’ll be easy,” you explain as you make room for him, “If we play our cards right—”

Bucky’s stopped, though, and is digging in his back pocket as his cell phone rings. You watch him exhale tightly, eyes on the screen the entire time he squeezes by you and starts down the hall. You make careful note of the delicate scowl on his face, only before you catch Miss Bonnie out of the corner of her eye.

Her door is half-cracked across the hall, and she’s watching.

She offers you a smile.

Bucky keeps walking.

You wave, lock your door, and jog to catch up to Bucky.

“Hey,” you call, “Earth to Mr. Claw Machine?”

His head snaps up. “Sorry.”

“Who was that?” you ask carefully, nudging his arm with yours, “Falcon?”

“I wish,” he mutters as he muscles the cellphone back into his pocket, “I wouldn’t feel so bad sending him to voicemail.”

“Yeesh,” you wince, “Lemme guess, was it the owner of the coral lipstick that was all over your face on Tuesday night?”

Again, that temptation to feel jealousy flares up in your heart. But, he’s here, isn’t he? With you. Ignoring her calls. And probably texts judging by the guilty look that’s on his face. You feel a little bad — but at the same time, Bucky’s a grown man. Maybe a grown man who needs to create some more transparent lines of communication with the poor woman, but still.

“Bingo. I mean — it’s not that she wasn’t great an’ all but…”

You raise both hands. “I’m not judging.”

He sighs raggedly as he bounces down the apartment’s stairs. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“What?” you ask with a laugh, “Dating? Yea, it’s pretty fucking terrifying, Buck.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

You hold the door open for him and slide him a pitying look.

“Because I am.”

The walk to The Glass Cannon is spent walking Bucky through the plan — and for the most part, he makes a point of nodding along and listening. His only real anxiety pops up at the mention of Alexei, which is relatable to say the least.

It’s dark, the streets are relatively quiet, and the spring chill has pricked your skin. Your heels click against the pavement, and you stalk along. Shoving your hands in your pockets of the pink, shag jacket, you huff.

You’re starting to feel the anxiety.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re both approaching the blue glow of the storefront.

Computers & Stuff was a family-owned and operated computer shop from the 90s that was taken over by a lesser-known hand of the Russian crime family in New York, the Gardzovs. Alexei’s father is the formal owner of the shop, and his son runs the lucrative activities of the underground club that lay beneath the graphics cards and motherboards.

Bucky, as you both near the entrance, speaks quickly. “Anything else I need to know?”

“Just follow my lead, okay?” you whisper.

The bell above the door dings when you pull open the glass door.

The lighting is sterile and if you’re real quiet, you can hear the dull hum of the fluorescents. The store is empty, save for one man behind the register.

You almost duck out the entrance at the sight of him.

Igor has been a bouncer at The Glass Cannon for as long as you’ve been a patron — and he’s also one of Alexei’s dogs. This part of the plan was something you’d considered only briefly, and for a second, you’re thankful you worried over the million and ten ways this would play out for days.

“Well, if it isn’t the little bunny.”

It’s said with malice. Igor’s tattooed hands land on the counter as he leans.

You, however, hold your head high. Bucky watches as something changes in your posture.

“Good to see you, Igor.”

“Is it?” he growls, stalking around the counter and quickly encroaching on your personal space, “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not welcome here, bunny.”

Bucky gets a good look at the man now — clearly an enforcer. He’s got prison tattoos, a shaved head. The long beard is a weak spot. Doesn’t seem to be armed. Blue eyes flick to you and the way you don’t even flinch when the man leans to breathe right in your face.

You just smile.

“I thought you’d say that,” you mumble, moving to swing your bag to the front and dig your wallet out, “But, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

Suddenly, there’s a hundred-dollar bill slipping from your well-manicured nails into the vest pocket of the bouncer. There’s a tense pause, then, while the two of you size one another up.

“Fucking your way through college paid off, huh?” he hisses.

You stay quiet.

Bucky, though, moves between you both with a quick shove. Immediately, Igor’s attention goes to Bucky as he sizes him up — he laughs. His nose is nearly touching Bucky’s.

“What’s wrong, pretty boy?”

“You should watch your mouth,” Bucky says evenly, “Or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

You’re careful to hide your expression; the feeling the words stir isn’t one that you’re happy about. This sudden protectiveness, though, makes you feel some sort of invincible.

Igor settles back on his heels.

He steps back.

He gestures to the back room with his head.

You keep walking when he calls out: “Careful, bunny, the dogs are going to be looking for you.”

You grit your teeth tightly and push through the fabric curtain.

He barks, taunting you.

Bucky is by your side in an instant, gaze still rooted over his shoulder at the hulking bouncer. He waits until you’ve settled down until you’ve said his name. His eyes fall to you, then to the stairwell before them.

Above it, in curled neon tubing, reads The Glass Cannon.

The windows are blacked out, but from his spot at the top of the stairs, Bucky can feel the rattle of a deep bass vibrate his ribs.

“Come on. We’re on a time crunch now.”

“Alexei?”

You nod as you lead the way down the stairs. “Word travels fast. We need to be quicker. Stick to the crowds. Remember, we just need to find Kiwi — then we bail.”

Bucky nods tensely.

Then, you open the doors.

Immediately, his eyes adjust to the darkness — neon and strobes and the pulse of purple and pink LEDs make his vision swim. It’s warmer down here, and the stairs leading down into the sub-basement is lined with people sipping drinks and chattering over the loud music. It smells like piss and beer and tobacco.

Again, Bucky watches as the person he knows melts away.

The Rabbit in front of him is different.

You reach, as if on reflex, for his hand.

When you turn around and flash him a smile, he has to swallow down a sudden rise of sheepishness.

The sea of people part around you, and Bucky realizes quickly that people recognize you. He can see their painted lips moving, muttering things into curious ears about the pink-clad woman in front of him; there are smiles there and frowns, and shock. You’re slow in your descent, making a show of the arrival — all while Bucky begins to piece together that The Glass Cannon is larger than he originally suspected.

As they near the bottom of the landing, he can see out across the floor.

There’s a square-shaped catwalk around the dance floor, laden with dancers on their designated poles. Tables line the outside of the cavernous room, and the bars along each wall are crowded — even still, these glimpses of his surroundings come in temporary flashes of light. The music coming from the center of the dancefloor is loud. The entirety of the scene is raucous.

He can’t imagine you finding solace here.

He tightens his grip on your hand. You squeeze back.

When both of you reach the bottom of the stairwell, the sea of people swallow you in a current of dancing and drinking and laughing, and you crawl into Bucky’s personal space to shout in his ear.

You’re still holding his hand tightly, pressed to his chest, as you lean upwards to brush your cheek with his.

“Follow me, okay?”

He nods.

You begin the methodical crawl through the dancefloor, working your way to the bar — there, you pause long enough to be served a drink that’s as pink as the glitter on your eyelids. The flecks dance in the lights, and Bucky graciously accepts a shot from the bartender who smiles sweetly like honey at you.

You bat your lashes, thank her, and stand gracefully from the barstool.

You take a pointed swig and scan the floor.

Kiwi would be in one of the private booths, you suspect — she was enough of a high roller here. But, with the crowded club bursting at the seams, it was nearly impossible to get to the other side. You sway a bit on your feet, still tightly gripping Bucky’s hand in your own. You refuse to let go.

For your sake and his.

Bucky is a silent shadow, eyes roaming the club — he watches a dancer dip down low and snag a green bill from a patron. Someone beside him laughs loud, another bumping into his backside as you continue to weave to the outer rim of the room. The music is so loud his heartbeat could be mistaken for an 808, and he feels the thrum in his bones.

If he wasn’t so overwhelmed, if he was drunk, maybe it could be fun.

Finally, out of the haze of bodies, Bucky can breathe.

You’re leaning over again, speaking quickly.

“I don’t see her.”

“I can’t see shit in here,” he calls back, eyes moving along the ridge of the room. He scans the booths set into the walls, set up on platforms, and roped off with velveteen, “Where would she be?”

“Hard to tell,” you mumble, “But I think I might need to go to Plan B.”

Bucky follows your solid stare.

In the booth directly across the floor from you, there’s a man in black — black everything, save from his hair. That’s the brightest blue Bucky has ever seen. He’s swallowed by a harem of men and women who are laughing and drinking and dancing, and he’s entertaining. Ringed fingers wave in the air, face split into a laugh so wide he swears it’s a mile long. He’s got glasses on and they’re tinted blue.

Bucky watches carefully as you move to his booth.

It’s like a prey surveying a trap — you’re careful.

Finally, when you stand before it, you let go of his hand.

“Hi there, Climber.”

The whole booth falls silent. The man stiffens, back turned to you totally. Bucky watches as his hands fall and slowly, the man you’d called Climber turns around.

His expression is stone cold.

His voice, however, is as warm as a hot poker.

“Oh my goodness, is that Rabbit?”

He ascends from the booth, platform boots leaving him to tower over you — he’s no small man, either. Bucky watches as he bends to kiss both of your cheeks and hug you tightly. He, however, doesn’t pull away entirely.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses, “You want to be roadkill?”

“I need to find Kiwi,” you whisper quickly, expression almost begging, “Please.”

He pauses, dimpled chin wavering a bit. Bucky watches him sniff, push his glasses back, and readjust his posture. Climber licks his lips and his eyes dart to Bucky. He’s thinking, Bucky realizes, and after a quick moment of deliberation, he seems to cave.

“Only because I owe you.”

“I know,” you say, raising your hands, “I know.”

In a dash, his demeanor changes once more. He’s flying over to his harem, waving his hands and blowing kisses and promising he’ll be back in a flash. They whine, they moan, but Climber appeases them with another round of jello shots from strobing syringes that a waitress is carrying by.

“Come on then,” he says, “And stop looking like such a prude.”

He begins to weave.

You follow hand returning to its spot in Bucky’s like a lifeline.

You’re sipping your drink, moving through the crowd easily. There’s a slight sway in your step now, and at one point you and Climber even get noticed by a pod of people who recognize your faces. It’s met with laughing and squealing and in the fray, the both of you slip back into the crowd. Bucky is taking it all in, desperately ignoring the tingle of a panic flaring in the back of his head.

Too many people.

Soon, though, Climber is moving towards a side entrance.

It’s a back room.

Suddenly, the dim lights and neon dissolve, and instead, Bucky is flashed in the face with the abrasive sting of fluorescent lights. It no longer reeks of spilled beer, and his boots don’t stick to the ground. No, there’s quiet chatter back here — Climber continues to lead the two of you through a maze of supply crates full of booze and soda.

Then, a right turn. And a left turn.

Someone is taking inventory.

“Kiwi, I know you’re going to hate me for this—”

The woman who turns around is beautiful. She’s in the midst of eyeing an open crate that looks just like the others but fitted with a hollowed center, marking off what looks like an inventory of burner cell phones. Her brown skin is decorated with glitter, her eyes streaked with the same green shade of her tightly shaved head. The green is bright and it reminds Bucky of summer.

Suddenly, her expression sours.

“What the fuck.”

“I know—”

“No,” she snaps, raising her hand and waving to the assistant beside her to take her tablet and make themselves scarce, “You need to get out of here.”

“I need your help,” you say finally, tone heavy.

It’s enough to make Climber sigh. Kiwi watches you, scratches her neck, and swallows.

She meets Climber’s eyes.

Then she breaks.

“Where the fuck have you been, Rabbit?” she asks, worries seeping into her eyes as she pulls you into a rough hug, “We thought you were dead.”

“No,” you shake your head, “But you know I couldn’t be around here anymore.”

“Yea,” Climber snorts, “Not good for your health, huh, love?”

“Alexei still wants your head,” Kiwi chimes in, crossing her arms, “Does he know you’re here?”

“Igor was on the door, so I’m sure he’s heard by now.”

Both of them curse.

Guilt flashes across your face as you screw your eyes shut and nod. “I know. I know, I just… I seriously need your help, Kiwi. It was worth the risk. It’s — HYDRA. I need to tap into the Alexandria Library.”

Immediately, the woman stiffens.

Her eyes flash to Bucky in the corner. He stares back.

“He waits outside.”

“You can trust him—”

“No,” she snaps, “I can’t. And I don’t. And I won’t.”

You give Bucky a pleading look. Between the two of you, a negotiation happens between your eyes. It’s a compromise, and finally, Bucky relents.

“Fine,” Bucky barks, tilting his head and giving you a tight-lipped smile, “Fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“He’s cute,” mumbles Climber as Bucky rounds the corner, long legs carrying him out of the supply room, “Boyfriend?”

“Shut up, Climber,” you mumble, waving your hand, “Just listen—”

“Who is he?” Kiwi asks, eyes still watching the doorway, “And why did you bring him along?”

You sigh, rubbing your brow. “He’s the one who’s trying to find this HYDRA agent. He knew her before.”

“So he’s HYDRA.”

“No,” you snap cooly, “He’s not.”

“So, just handsome, then?” Climber asks, hands waving, “Right. Great. Really making a case for yourself, Rabbit.”

“He’s trying to find a woman named Innessa Sidrova. She was one of the original agents who helped form the American HYDRA cell,” you explain quickly, “I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and… And he’s a good person. He’s my friend. I’m trying to help him, but I can’t do it without you. Both of you.”

Kiwi hums. She sighs. “That explains why you went MIA.”

“Aside from putting Alexei behind bars?” you scoff, “Yea, the GRC played a part in it.”

The three of you are quiet for a moment.

“Fine.”

You look up at Kiwi. Her hands are on her waist.

There’s an immense wash of relief that floods over you at that moment — and from the looks of it, Kiwi can tell. You move to grab her hand, and she grabs back. Both of you smile, and the hug that follows is warm. You’ve missed her. A lot.

“Thank you, Suji.”

Then, footsteps.

That relief is traded in for an anxious backfire of fear in an instant.

It’s slow. Dress shoes on polished cement.

Then:

“Oh, bunny, bunny, bunny. Tsk, tsk.”

Climber and Kiwi’s faces upturn to the doorway and they tell you everything you need to know.

So, you decide at that moment that you won’t be the prey tonight.

You turn around and come face-to-face with a man playing devil.

Alexei Gardzov is a handsome man — a beard and piercing grey eyes. His hair is tightly cropped, and intricate tattoos decorate every inch of his skin. Some of them are new, you realize, and there’s temporary pride that bubbles up at them. They’re from prison.

You almost smile.

Behind him, three goons loom.

“I’ve been wondering when you’d come hopping back,” he croons as he enters the room with the swagger of a man who trapped his dinner, “Well worth the wait, I think.”

His cologne hangs like smog in the air. He strolls up to you, and in a flash, he’s got your hair in a vice grip.

He yanks it back, you grit your teeth.

The barrel of a gun digs into your cheek.

“Climber, Kiwi, and Rabbit,” he sing-songs, “All in one room again like it’s NYU’s 2014 hack-a-thon. Isn’t that cute?”

Kiwi speaks. “Alexei—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, gun moving to flash towards Kiwi, “And stay out of my business, Sujina.”

The gun’s muzzle is cold. He’s rough, and you try to ignore the twinge of pain that comes with his unceremonious yank of your hair. Once more, he tsks. His breath is hot on your face. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey.

“I spent seven years behind bars,” he bites, “All because a’ you.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one trafficking girls—”

“SHUT UP!”

The pistol cracks across your cheek and the cement floor hurtles towards you. The gasp that falls from your lips is from shock; your fingers dig into the cold ground as you try to blink away the blurriness. Your ears ring. Blood drips from your cheek between your fingers.

Again, there’s a hand in your hair.

Now, the fight begins.

Climber and Kiwi are stuck, frozen in fear.

You don’t blame them, because Igor and the others have guns already drawn. One of them, one that’s young and you don’t recognize immediately, has a baseball bat in his hands.

Alexei drags you by your hair as you grimace, refusing to scream. Your heels scrape against the ground as you try to get purchase, but he’s quick to throw you back against the far wall.

“Don’t worry, Bunny,” he smiles, “I won’t kill you. Not right now.”

Then, a kick.

Right to the ribs.

You can’t breathe — you gasp earnestly at the white, hot shot of pain.

“Get up.”

You’re not listening, you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

“I said,” comes a growl as he reaches, hand in your hair again as he drags you up the wall. Your legs buckle, and you try to hold your chin high as you stumble upwards, “Get up.”

Then, there’s a hand around your throat.

Tight. Too tight. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t get his hand off your neck, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t fucking think, can’t stand, can’t see, can’t breathe —

“Boss!”

A new voice.

The pressure is relieved for a second.

A new face has run into the room — he looks frazzled, hair askew and gun out. He’s eyeing the scene before him in a moment’s pause.

“Can’t you see I’m a little bit busy?” Alexei snags as you gasp, clawing at his hand. He swings his head to the figure in the doorway with an annoyed bark, “What is it?”

“The cops, boss,” he stammers, “They’re here.”

“What?”

“They’re here for her, boss.”

A slow turn to where his finger is pointing. His gaze lands on you. Alexei laughs.

“Well,” he says as the goon disappears, “Isn’t that just peachy, bunny?”

The choking starts again.

Then, a metal hand.

Vibranium.

You watch it swing, you watch it grab Alexei’s throat.

Suddenly, you can breathe.

Suddenly, Bucky Barnes enters the fight.

You make friends with the ground again as you duck, just as Alexei is rammed into the wall above your head by his throat. As you cough while Kiwi calls your name — you can hear a fight. But everything’s moving slow, and it’s not until the first gunshot that you’re kicked into action. It’s loud. Your skin pricks alive.

Someone screams.

You stumble to your feet, eyes finding Bucky’s form moving quickly between the three goons — the gunshot had come from the pistol that had somehow found its way into Bucky's flesh and blood hand. One of the men is on the floor, suit pants stained with a bullet wound through the thigh. He’s wailing. Bucky doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care. Maybe both.

His face is cold.

Another gunshot is fired off, this time richoting between you and Kiwi and Climber and embedding itself into the cement wall overhead. The three of you scream, ducking reflexively.

That’s when Bucky snaps.

“Now would be a good time to go!”

Kiwi’s hands are on your arm as you quickly break through the doorway through the storage room. Climber is following, checking over his shoulder at the carnage that Bucky begins to reap in the room.

He’s hysterical, trying to jog in his white platform boots. “What the fuck, Rabbit!”

Your voice is hoarse. You’re clutching your ribs. “Not now, Climber!”

“I’m parked in the back,” Kiwi says, ducking through plastic flaps as she helps you through the back of the club, “Come on, we’ll go through the trucking entrance.”

You hear Bucky call your name — he’s jogging to catch up, gun drawn in his hand. Seems like he made good work of the others, sporting nothing more than a split lip. You turn, pausing for a moment to take inventory of his well-being.

And that’s all it takes.

Alexei Gardzov, limping, steps in front of you and Kiwi and Climber at an intersection in the hallway.

There’s a gun in his hand.

The first thing you feel is the impact.

Like a truck slamming into you at full speed. For the fourth time tonight, you have the air robbed from your lungs. It’s instant confusion.

Then comes the pain. Hot. Hotter than the sun. Hot like white flames. It tears through your shoulder and all you can do is gasp; you’re sent into a stutter step — and while the world around you continues to move, you’re busy reconciling with the fact you’ve just been shot.

A bullet flies by your head.

Alexei Gardzov drops.

You’re grasping at your chest, staggering, when Bucky breaks into a sprint — but you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just your shoulder, it’s just your arm, you’re okay, you can feel your fingers and you can breathe and the pain is nearly unbearable but you’re okay.

Then, a baseball bat.

It clocks Bucky directly in the skull. He’s clotheslined.

It’s Igor.

The gun from Bucky’s hands clatters across the ground to your feet, and you’re too busy trying to get to Bucky to realize — but, you’ve got tunnel vision and adrenaline and at that moment, you think a good sidekick doesn’t need anything else in this life.

Igor goes to swing at you, but you duck. Your stiletto crushes through the top of his shoe. He screams and in a flurry of pain and panic, you manage to snag the bat quick enough to turn and clock him under the chin with a roll of the wrist.

His teeth clack together and he falls backward, unconscious.

“God, I really wish you could have seen that, Buck.”

You spit. Blood paints the ground.

The bat clatters to the cement as you fight through the pain. Kiwi and Climber are by your side in an instant.

“No, no!” she screams, “We do not have time for this—”

“I am not leaving him,” you snap, nearly screaming at the woman, “Come on and help me with him. Now.”

After a sigh of resignation, Kiwi shoves the gun she’d snagged from the ground into the back of her jeans. You’ve got your hands around Bucky’s ankles as Kiwi and Climber take his torso — and the four of you make a break for the back entrance. You can hear the cops outside now, and there’s the chatter of Russian following you into the back parking lot.

“Hurry up!”

“He’s not exactly light as a feather, you know!”

“Shut up, Climber!”

You’ve got Bucky halfway into the back seat of Kiwi’s white Cadillac when another bullet whizzes by your head.

“Fuck.”

Kiwi hops into the driver’s seat as Climber scatters to hop the hood and throws himself into the passenger's seat. You lean, clinging to the door of the backseat as Kiwi peels out of the parking lot. It swings wide open and you curse loudly. You can see Alexei’s men watching from the back entrance, shouting in Russian — so you muster all your strength to pull back and throw the door closed as Kiwi’s car bounces over a speed bump and rams through the parking meter’s gate.

In the rear window, the front of the club is surrounded.

Red and blue lights illuminate the street — but Kiwi is quick.

No one follows.

And when she finally makes it to the Manhattan Bridge, you exhale.

Bucky’s head is in your lap. He still hasn’t come to — there’s blood coming from his nose and you’re worrying. You lace your fingers into his thick, brown hair and chew your lip.

Kiwi’s voice pulls you from him.

“When were you going to mention the vibranium arm, huh?”

You laugh. It’s more of a breath of air than anything. Your head rests back against the seat. Your shoulder is still on fire. You’re hot, but cold. You’re bleeding still. Your ribs aren’t right. You know that.

“I can’t believe he shot you,” Climber mumbles, “He fucking shot you.”

“And your boy toy shot him,” Kiwi says, sparing you a look in the rearview, “So you better pray he’s dead.”

You ignore the commentary.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe,” she says, accelerating into Manhattan, “Where I can get you those files and you can keep your head down.”

Sounds like a plan.

Better than the one you had, anyways.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky x you #BOY OH BOY THE FORMATTING I WANNA SCREAM

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sneakerdoodle · 3 years

Text

"(Not) Alone", Chapter 2

Rated: K

Get some uhhhhhh friend times, winter outfits, background gays and existential crisis! Alternative summary:

"Miriam is like you're gonna' rummage through the contents of my heart? okay. what's in your drawers"

- @buttercup-bug <3 big thanks to them for their support and consultation too!!!!

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General warnings: states potentially resembling a panic attack; moderately graphic metaphors, including mentions of drowning; familial tension

- This time I see where I'm flying, at least, - Miriam mutters, seemingly to herself.

Kiwi, fiddling with the strap of the bag hanging behind them, thinks back to Miriam's first and latest visit to Chismest. The flight there is hard to remember through the blur of pain they were in, but they can vaguely recall their friend complaining about the smog through coughing fits, as well as the jerking movements of the broom as she would aggressively rub her watering eyes.

Now, the skies above Chismest are clear, and the frosted trees below are sparkling in the sunlight. It is quieter, too, without the incessant thud of machines that would vibrate through the atmosphere in a low vague hum.

- Still too hecking cold, - Miriam grumbles and clenches her fists harder around the broom to get the blood flowing.

Bard readily leans closer in, sharing whatever body heat they can. Their cheek smooshes against Miriam's back, and the next words come out slightly muffled.

- You must be glad we're packed! Want me to get your cape?

Miriam shakes her head emphatically.

- Nope, thanks, no bag-rummaging in the air.

Kiwi nods slowly, looking past their dangling feet, down below, to the town's edge.

Miriam brings the broom to a bit of a rushed stop, and it hovers in the air, gently swaying up and down. Bard straightens, pulling away.

- Well, we're here. Where to? - Miriam's head is turned as she examines Bard's face, questioningly and with a hint of suspicion.

- Down! - he chirps nonchalantly. Miriam rolls her eyes.

- Thanks. Great tip. It's too early to go to the Observatory, so down where?

Bard contemplates, sinking a bit into their shoulders, and watches the town below. It's changed, a lot. The streets are lighter, and the people are moving through them at a much more of a leisurely pace. There seems to be no shame about being out and about during daytime, no one is in a hurry to get from one place to another. From somewhere below, they can even hear what sounds like faint, soft music.

Bard smiles timidly, entertaining the thought of actually having a good time in their hometown.

- Let's go on a tour!

They land at the outskirts, and Miriam shivers instinctively as the snow crunches under her foot. Bard immediately dives into the bag Saphy has lovingly packed for the two and pulls out a warm woven cape and a wide magenta scarf, presenting them to Miriam with a shining smile. She takes them from their hands, begrudgingly, as if having a body capable of getting cold is something to be self-conscious about. As soon as the cape rests on her shoulders, however, her expression softens into one of comfort and quiet content.

Bard follows her example and wraps a similar long shawl around their own shoulders. It's soothing, both with its warmth and weight, and they close their eyes for a second, sitting with the calm. A long hand-knitted striped scarf follows, and Kiwi feels the most equipped for the cold they can possibly be.

The bag is still heavy on their shoulder. They reach in and pull out a warm and pointy winter hat – and can almost hear Miriam's defenses coming right up. She looks at them with a determined frown, fight-ready.

- No.

- Aw, come on, Miriam! - they try not to smile too widely. - You should stay warm!!

Miriam stares at them in ferocious defiance, unblinking, for a good ten seconds. With a groan, she finally caves in, snatches the hat out of their hands and puts it on. Her face goes red with embarrassment, and she promptly looks away and pulls the scarf over her mouth.

Pulled on in a hurry, the hat sits on Miriam's head slightly sideways, with ruffled hair sticking out from under it and getting in the girl's face. She puts one messy lock away in a jerky motion, tucking it under an ear flap before crossing her arms and looking down at her feet. Bard watches in unconcealed endeared amusement.

- How come you don't get one, - Miriam blurts out, in a tone that implies that she does not expect much of an answer. With an annoyed sigh, she grabs Bard by the sleeve and heads towards the town.

- Not a word to Saphy.

Walking through the streets of Chismest is... strange, almost overwhelming. The town is unexpectedly loud, with the voices of its residents bouncing from one corner to another, sounding from the windows that used to barely ever open. The distant sounds of music Bard heard from up on the broom are closer now, creating an uncharacteristically melodic ambiance. And the weirdest of all, there is so much variety.

Beth's diner is inviting people in to try Katya's new pastry recipe. The Gift House is no more, replaced by a general store. Tanya stands in front of it, fixing a sign that reads: “Next island fruit shipment: TUESDAY, 12 PM”. She notices the two guests and waves at them before going back inside.

Johann is standing in front of the ex-factory building, frowning at the timetable of various workshops, community meetings and the Astronomy Board sessions, apparently figuring out a scheduling issue with Elmer: the lesson on identifying local plants seems to be encroaching onto the public presentation of his newest potential enterprise.

Miriam lingers under the very lantern she would spend her time by back when she and Bard visited Chismest together for the first time. She looks at the large building that used to house the endless deafening machines. It is still slightly shocking in how it looms over the rest of Chismest.

- ...Weird, - Miriam says after a while. Bard hums noncommittally. Miriam looks at them, impatient for a more engaged response. - Very weird, right? I'd only been there for a week, and it still freaks me out to be around this... thing. How are they all just, getting on with it???

Bard is quiet for a moment, unsure whether anything they have to say is worth voicing, but Miriam's gaze is insistent, so they give it a try.

- They're taking it back?.. I think... it's always been their town, and now they can sort of... take it back for themselves?

Put into words, the thought surprises them. They reflect on it for a moment. Is that the reason they still aren't keen on coming back, even after hearing all about the wonderful transformations Chismest has gone through? Maybe it's never been their town, they way it has been for all its other victims, all these other people that were hurt by it but never left. Has it.. always been a question of belonging? Not one of finding a better life?..

She is pulled back out of her thoughts by Miriam's skeptical hum. The girl shifts her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably a couple of times before asking, unsure:

- Do you... wanna go in?..

Kiwi hurriedly shakes her head, and Miriam lets out a sigh of relief.

- Yeah. Me neither.

They continue on their way, approaching the Clocktower Pub, which appears to be the source of music tinting the town views a subtle but cheerful color. In front of the pub, a group of people is gathered in front of a samovar in a seemingly passionate discussion. Among them, Bard recognizes Elara. Like everyone else around her, she is holding a steaming mug.

Boris splashes some of his tea as he swings his arm to make a point.

- Zere is enough coal, no? Nothing iz broken, so why fix?

Elara wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, still calm, but more ardent than Bard remembers her. Before she gets to make her defense, Miles chimes in with a tired groan.

- Yeah, well, the Lights are right there every year, so why the hell not.

- But ze expenses...

- Why not think of it as an investment... - Elara starts, before noticing the two visitors approaching the group. She blinks in surprise behind her glasses. - Oh! You're here already.

Kiwi smiles awkwardly while Miriam waves her hand, then demonstratively hugs her shoulders. The next moment, a mug of tea lands in her palms, expeditiously passed from hands to hands from where the samovar is sitting on a large wooden table. Miriam looks down at it in surprise, startled into her special sort of quietness, processing the simple and natural act of kindness.

- We arrived early! - Bard replies, smiling gratefully at Miles who hands them another mug. - Just walking around for now!

Elara nods slowly.

- This place has changed a lot, hasn't it?

Bard pulls their lips into a smile. For a moment their gaze lingers on Elara, thoughtful. It's so different, seeing her as a part of the community, freely sharing her practical solutions, engaging openly rather than conducting interventions from the margins. She fits right in.

- Well, Winston will be waiting for you in the evening. I hope to stop by as well.

She turns to Miriam, who's been quietly sipping her tea and looking at the group from over her mug.

- You're going to need to have a night's rest before heading back, aren't you? You are welcome to stay at the Observatory, if you would like.

Miriam chokes on the tea and coughs, her cheeks growing pink.

- Oh, - she croaks out, - no, I'm good. Uh. Thanks.

Elara nods.

- Well, let us know. Now, if you excuse me...

She turns back to the group, where Miles' eye rolls are starting to get dangerously expressive.

Miram finishes her tea in a bit of a hurry, circles around the gathering to place the mug on the table and slips away, seeming slightly overwhelmed by the hospitable treatment. Bard follows, waving goodbye to Elara and the rest.

They catch up to Miriam and look around absentmindedly, eyes gliding over the fronts of multi-storey buildings. Ahead, they catch a smudge of orange and red – and slow down. Miriam slows her pace, too, and follows his eyes to where flowers growing in front of the window of his childhood home are nodding their colorful heads to the faint music.

Miriam stops with a quiet sigh.

- Are you sure about it all? - she asks, with the emphasis that is only natural, considering she has already had to ask this question at least thrice.

Bard tears their eyes away from the flowers and turns to her. They take a few seconds, then nod.

- Yeah 🎶, - they sing, low and quiet, and fidget with their hands for a second before continuing: - Just... for a bit there, can you...

- ...Yeah. - Miriam rocks back on her heels for a moment, gearing herself up, then steps towards Kiwi and takes them by the hand. Her expression is nervous and awkward, but she musters a small reassuring squeeze. Bard feels slightly less alone. - Come on.

Bard's hand sits firmly in Miriam's as they sigh before knocking on the door; Miriam does not let go once they are already inside, either, waved in by Kiwi's Mom.

- Sit down, now! - Mom coos in her customary enthusiasm. - I will brew you some tea. Are you and your friend hungry, muffin? - before Kiwi can mumble anything vague in response, she continues: - I have the lunch all ready! Too bad your father is on one of his walks. - Mom shakes her head with that signature vocal laugh. - What a restless man he is!

Bard's sigh of relief is so resounding that for a moment, they are scared Mom will notice. Luckily, she seems too busy rummaging through the cabinets. They look at Miriam, reassured, and loosen their fingers. Miriam's hold persists, however. She gives them a serious, meaningful look, an “I'm here, okay? So don't be stupid” that she can't quite express with her words. Only then, she lets go, but does not break eye contact. Bard's gaze drops down to their feet as they take a second to internalize the sentiment. When they look back up, their smile is timid and grateful.

- Are you hungry? - they ask in a dramatic whisper. Miriam shrugs, then shakes her head. - Thanks, - Kiwi says to Mom, voice slightly strained, - I think we'll just... hang around!

- Nonsense! - she titters in response, turning around with a tray already holding a tea set. - At least have some tea with your old momma!

Bard gives Miriam an apologetic look. She seems downright agonized at the thought of forcing more hot beverages down her throat so soon.

The tea break is the appropriate amount of awkward. Mom asks Miriam about the life in Delphi and the everyday routines of an average witch household, and Miriam grumbles her replies while doing her best drinking impression. The ruse is up once Mom goes to pour everyone another round and discovers Miriam's cup about as full as it was at the start. After having a proper laugh about “that curious friend of yours, muffin”, she finally dismisses the two of them, saying it is time for her to take care of some chores.

Bard plops down on their bed and sighs. They look at Miriam with a sorry little smile. She is standing in the door, looking around the room with a perplexed expression.

- I've never been here before, - she notes, mistrustfully, somehow.

- Oh! I guess you haven't! - Bard looks around the bare walls and minimal furniture. It's not much.

Miriam seems to arrive at the same conclusion.

- Doesn't seem like you, - she says, poking a bouquet of dried flowers.

- There used to be more, - Kiwi mumbles absentmindedly, resting their chin on their hand. - Miriam!! - they gasp with a jump as their friend throws one of the drawers of the bedside table open. Miram stumbles backwards, startled.

- Yeesh, sorry. I thought you weren't one for personal boundaries??

Bard sits with this fair observation for a moment, processing their own hypocrisy.

- W... well--

- I'm not pushing or anything, - Miriam grumbles, - just... surprised you're familiar with the concept.

Bard shrugs and hums an awkward inconclusive sound. They look over to the open drawer and shuffle closer to it to see what is inside. Miriam pointedly looks at the wall in a demonstration of her respect for Kiwi's personal space.

At the bottom of the drawer, there is a handful of crayons and an old notebook. They pick it up and leaf through it, an array of colorful drawings flickering in a quick succession. All the bright fantasies of their childhood are momentarily revived before them. A small smile tugs at the corners of Bard's mouth.

They linger on one page and giggle, then open the notebook wide and hold it in front of them, demonstrating. Miriam looks over and arches her brow.

- What am I looking at exactly?

- Me!, - Bard helpfully supplies. - As a witch 🎶.

And that is exactly what the drawing depicts. A younger version of them, with a different hairstyle, in a pose resembling an overexcited starfish, clad in dramatic dark robes and a pointy hat with a big glowing star on it.

Miriam stares for a good few seconds.

-....why.

- Because witches are cool!! - Kiwi exclaims, without a shred of sarcasm. The skeptic look on Miriam's face deepens. She squints at the drawing.

- Is... - she snorts, - ...is your hair pink?

Bard cracks up again, and Miriam shortly follows, the two dissolving into a duet of giggles.

Kiwi pats the space next to them, and his friend joins, looking over his shoulder at the series of doodles detailing Witch-Bard's magical adventures.

Hours pass effortlessly, in joint reminiscing, daydreaming and doodling.

***

- ...and once you're all set and sure of where it's pointing relatively to, uh, the Anchor, you use the finder to, well, find things!

Winston pauses his slightly nervous chirping and looks at his audience comprised of Miriam, struck into overwhelmed silence, and Bard, who is otherwise occupied.

- Did... did you get any of that? - Winston inquires with the same frantic smile.

Noticing the break in the background noise of thorough astronomical instructions, Bard finally looks up from giving Berry all of the most loving pets in the world – to see Miriam looking at them in quiet despair. Reading the look of blissful unawareness on her friend's face, she sighs.

- Can't you, like... write it all down or something??

Winston nods hurriedly, already on his way to the desk. From the looks of it, he has pretty much moved into the observatory full time, and happily. Bard watches him stick his hands into the pockets of the labcoat and make it flap against his legs, for about the tenth time in the past hour. They wonder why an astronomer would need a labcoat. Do they have to get one too?

Miriam walks over to Kiwi and watches glumly as they scratch Berry behind her ear.

- Aren't you excited? - Bard asks, noting the moody energy. Miriam hums in uncertainty.

- Just... - she gives another annoyed sigh and kicks the floor with the pointy toe of her boot. - Nothing. - She crosses her arms and averts her eyes, then finally shares in a low, muffled voice: - ...hate feeling stupid.

Bard looks up, blinking in surprise.

- You're not!! You know so many awesome things, Miriam!

She stands there silently for a few seconds, before crouching next to them. Bard readily scooches over.

Miriam slowly, nervously extends her hand towards Berry. Their four-legged friend sniffs the tips of Miriam's fingers before lovingly sticking her nose into the girl's palm and wagging her tail. Miriam exhales in relief and gives Berry a few slow, focused pets.

- Thanks. - There is another pause as she struggles with the words for a bit. - We're... gonna try together, yeah?

Bard flashes an enthusiastic smile.

- Yeah! 🎶

- ...Okay, - Miriam does not look away from the dog, who is leaning into the touch with half-lidded eyes. - Then… don't make me figure it all out on my own, - she continues in a more casual grumble. - Don't hang around here for too long.

Bard nods slowly, turning away from Miriam, back to where Berry has dissolved into a euphoric puddle.

- I... won't.

Winston returns with a small stack of papers scribbled over with a frantic hand and awkwardly shoves them in Miriam's vague direction. She just barely manages to get back up on her feet and not lose balance as the paper tumbles into her arms. Winston hurriedly withdraws, slapping his arms along his body, and laughs nervously as Miriam disgruntledly tries to keep the pages from raining all over the floor.

- Uhm, - Winston fiddles with his hands and avoids Bard's eyes when she looks up, questioning. - Is it... just you?.. I mean, joining the project...

- There are many!! - Kiwi rests their chin in their hand, thinking back to Delphi and recounting everyone who seemed excited about the arrival of the telescope. - Ryan and Mitzi, so Dani as well, Lena, Fredrick, Whit...

- Shockingly, - Miriam mutters from where she is still fussing with the instructions, trying to fit them into the overpacked bag. Bard shoots her a scandalized look, a trained non-verbal substitute for “Miriam, be nice!!”.

Winston marks each mentioned name with a nod, a wide thin-lipped smile on his face.

- I... don't know who any of these people are, - he concludes, finally, before turning away and marching back over to his desk. There seems to be a glimmer of genuine joy in his embarrassment, however. Bard thinks back to Elara's letter, inviting them to become a part of the mapping initiative.

“I would be proud to take credit for the project, were it actually mine. Winston is, undoubtedly, the heart of the operation. I told him his conception of it was outstanding - he seemed equally hopeful and horrified. I think he'd take great pleasure in that: making this sort of connection with so many new people. Finding... cohorts, if you will”.

Once the last final glare of sunshine dissipates completely, Winston invites his guests over to the observation deck, the telescope in tow. Kiwi and Miriam fumble with the stand under his fretful watch, but manage to fix the apparatus in place without breaking anything. Winston points out the Anchor star, once again, and fixes the telescope on it.

- Try the finder first, then--

- Yeah, yeah, - Miriam hurries to interrupt, and Bard catches the familiar notes of embarrassment in her voice. They gently bump their shoulder against hers in silent support. Miriam draws a steadying breath. - ...I think we got it. Uh, thanks.

She looks over at Bard, quietly tilting her head towards the telescope in invitation. They light up and step towards it, holding their breath. The most beautiful colors bloom in their mind, inspired by all the magical stellar landscapes pictured on the walls of the observatory. What will be the first shade of the whole rest of the Universe that they will see?

Bard puts their eye straight to the eyepiece (Winston whimpers somewhere out of view, forcibly choking the word ''finder'' back). They squint, trying to make anything out in the blur.

- Well?? - Miriam asks, antsy.

- Iiiii don't see anything! - Bard replies, hoping their disappointment is not too apparent in how hollow their usual casual tone comes out.

From the sounds of it, Winston is on the verge of unraveling as he is trying desperately to let the two figure things out on their own.

Miriam groans.

- Stupid overcomplicated glass tubes... Let me... - she steps towards the telescope cautiously, like it is a wild animal, and stares at it for a while. Then reaches for one of the lenses lined up at the end and moves it out of the way with an unsteady hand, looking deeply unsure and skeptical.

- Try now?..

Bard puts their eye back to the glass, trying really hard to not get their hopes up.

- Miriam, - they utter under their breath, - come look.

Through the lens of the telescope, they are seeing another world. It is distant, silent, seemingly unmoving. And yet, in the swirling pattern of stardust, they sense a spiraling dance, sweeping their soul away with it.

Pure, awe-struck exhilaration rises in their chest, all but bringing them to tears in a sudden crescendo – when suddenly, they feel their heart drop, endlessly, like it is hurtling through the dark suffocation of space surrounding the twirling stars.

The arms of the spiral galaxy, its overpowering gravity, remind them of the dark pull of the black hole at the end of time. And no matter how hard they try not to think about it, they know exactly what lies on the other side.

Bard all but jumps away from the telescope and stumbles backwards, instinctively throwing their hands up in front of them in a protective gesture. The familiar despair laps at her heart, and suddenly she feels so hopeless she could cry.

- Kiwi??

Bard blinks a couple of times and turns to Miriam, who is giving them the most concerned look they have ever gotten from her. Winston is hovering behind her, not even trying to conceal his panic.

Miriam steps towards them gingerly.

- Are you okay??

Kiwi draws a breath and tries to straighten himself up.

- I, uh... - they look at their feet, struggling to find any words that would sound at all plausible. But this time, they can hardly even convince themself to brush the overwhelming feeling off as unimportant, as their trained impulse commands.

Miriam takes another step and reaches for them, then freezes. She throws a quick self-conscious glance at Winston, one breath away from shriveling up. Winston seems to take it as a hint.

- Umm, I'll!!.. - he fumbles with his hands for a second before sharply turning around and marching over to the exit without another word, to descend back into the observatory.

Miriam remains frozen in place, stubbornly inspecting the patch of grate floor beneath her feet, until Winston's steps fade away; then throws her head up, looking at Kiwi with a concerned frown.

- What was that??

Bard looks down at the floor, uncertain, as if the needed words were scattered all around it in a chaotic pattern.

Miriam opens her mouth, seemingly preparing to speak again, but no words follow. She stops trying to catch Kiwi's eyes and lowers her own, crossing her arms.

Bard looks up to see her face overshadowed by a disheartened, lonely, distant expression, and feels a tug at their heart. Perhaps... Perhaps it's worth trying to talk about.

They lower themself to the floor, back leaning against the dome, and sigh shakily.

- Do you... do you ever get... scared?..

Miriam looks up, still lost, but apprehensively open.

- Like... in general?

Kiwi looks at their hands resting on top of the knees for a moment, trying to figure out what they are attempting to share.

- Of... the world, I think. Or... the universe... - they cross their arms and hold their shoulders. - How it's... really big.

Miriam's posture loosens and softens. She sits down next to Kiwi, hugging her knees, and looks at them expectantly.

Bard goes on.

- It's alright if there are a lot of people, - they're not sure this makes sense, but it's hard to talk about as it is, so they just let themself continue, - 'cause then together, you are something big enough? But if it's just you..., - they feel their mouth go dry and their body tense up with adrenaline, the vivid, unraveling sensations of the recent nights creeping up from the back of their mind. They swallow, hard, and grip their shoulders.

Miriam is silent for a good while.

- ...It's not, though, is it? Just you?..

Kiwi looks over to see her staring in front of herself with a concentrated, contemplative frown. Her words are coming out labored and strained, like she is unhappy with having to actually say them out loud.

Miriam's head sinks into her shoulders, just slightly, and her fists clench, before she speaks again, sounding almost fearful to assume:

- We're figuring it out together?..

Bard feels a crack at their heart, stinging and painful, breaking them away from the deep cold despair that's been filling it with steady certainty. They never meant to imply that Miriam's friendship is anything other than cherished, and comforting in every possible way.

- We are! - their smile comes out pensive, but somehow rejuvenating still, just like the fresh crack in their chest. He leans against Miriam's shoulder. - It's just.. - they take a second, trying to nail down the core of the overwhelming feeling that's been haunting them for the last couple of weeks, - what if we weren't?..

It's surprisingly hard to articulate what exactly is making Kiwi freeze with terror every night. This weird incessant pull, somewhere out of life, as if some part of them is trailing behind, threatening to bring them down with it, to drown them. Like some immeasurable weight their limbs are getting too numb to carry, slowing them down, making their legs give off, while everything else effortlessly speeds forward. They cannot find any context or explanation for it – not one they are ready to face, anyway. All they have is this overwhelming, overpowering, incomprehensible fear. What if they get left behind?

Miriam sits with the idea, silently. Her expression is difficult to read, but for a moment, Kiwi seems to catch a glisten in her eyes, and feels immeasurably guilty. They don't get to express their concern, though, before Miriam speaks up again.

- I... do get scared, - she takes a deeper breath, - of... being alone. Again. But I'm not. - The last words come out almost stubborn, like Miriam is arguing with a naysayer. - Things are changing, right?.. It... doesn't have to be the same.

Kiwi holds that thought: “Doesn't have to be the same”. They try to take comfort in it. A distant, neglected part of their heart aches and squirms at it, like a disturbed wound.

Doesn't matter. This can change. Everything else is.

The two sit in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder, each rocked by their own waves of chilling thoughts. But – Bard has to remind themself – not alone. They are not alone.

- The stars are really cool, - they say quietly, with a small, meek smile. Miriam looks at them, glum and questioning. - You should try the telescope!

- ...Nah, - their friend replies after a moment of contemplation. - Whatever. - She rocks back and forth a couple of times in uncertainty before carefully suggesting: - ...Wanna go back inside?

Bard nods slowly.

- Maybe... in a moment?

Miriam wordlessly settles back in. Kiwi closes their eyes and leans heavier into the touch, focusing fully on the warmth of their friend's arm against their own, holding onto that feeling with everything they have.

They bring the telescope inside with them, already dismantled, and pack it into layers upon layers of protective wrapping with Winston's help. It is then hoisted up on Miriam's broom as she floats a couple of feet above ground, testing out if it would be possible to carry the instrument on her own.

Miriam slowly lowers the telescope to the ground and hops off.

- Should be fine?? - she says nervously, which does not at all reassure the sweaty and frantic novice astronomer. Winston gives her a shaky smile, nonetheless.

- Great! - he croaks out and rushes to change the subject. - Um!! If you're not in a hurry, Peter is coming over soon?? I thought it... might be good... - he trails off, looking at his guests in a silent plea to interpret the rest of the sentence on their own.

Bard and Miriam exchange glances. Bard certainly is not itching to go back to their Mom's... parents', home, and his friend does not seem to, either. Kiwi looks back at Winston and nods excitedly.

- Sounds great!! 🎶

Peter shows up about half an hour later, bringing his balalaika and, quite unexpectedly, a fruit basket. As Kiwi tries to process the dissonance between his ever-melancholic demeanor and the colorful bow on the basket's handle, Peter seems to be processing the presence of anyone but Winston at their meeting place. It doesn't take him too long, though. He silently hands Winston the gift, then turns to greet the two ex-co-saboteurs.

He shares a mutually awkward but overall amicable handshake with Miriam, then moves on to Bard and startles them once again, by putting a hand on their shoulder and sighing meaningfully.

- It is good to not be the only person of musical nature around here, - he shares. - I'm sure you are familiar with the longing.

- Sure! - Kiwi chirps out with a smile, not even trying to parse this.

The four of them settle down at the center of the large domed room, right on the floor, and Berry excitedly joins them, curling up between Winston and Miriam. The group passes the fruit basket around and shares the news from the last couple of months.

- Chismest is a changed place, - Peter shares solemnly while pulling apart a peeled orange. - People are no longer weighed down by the chains of numbing, thankless labour. We are finding joy in communal connection and personal power, once again. The need for manufacturable happiness substitutes is no more.

- Cool! - Bard looks at the small fuzzy kiwi fruit in their palms and considers the implications of eating it. - Langtree is sort of haunted now!

Winston produces a vague high-pitched sound in reaction to that, like a choking questioning laugh.

- Well, there were ghosts there before, - Bard readily elaborates, - because they were worried about their families before the... – a cold wave of terror washes over their heart, once again, at the thought of the end of their old universe, and they gulp, as subtly as they can, -...the world almost ending. And they did return to the Spirit World, at the end, but we can contact them through the songs they've left behind! And some of them just visit on their own. Mary always follows Woody around, so I guess... it's Woody who is sort of haunted now?

The room is silent, for a bit. Miriam absentmindedly nods along to the familiar story while picking berries out of her hand, and Winston and Peter are processing the mound of new information. At last, Peter nods wistfully.

- The world is healing at large, - he pronounces, chewing on an orange slice. - People are finding more ways to forge unbreakable bonds with those they meet and those they've lost. It fills me with great hope. I had to express it in a song, - he throws a somber, mournful look around the room, - it is in B major.

Peter strikes the first chord on his balalaika and closes his eyes, swaying slowly back and forth. Kiwi feels the familiar fizzy excitement of a life performance bubble up in her chest – along with a slight prick of jealousy: he never did get around to learning any instrument.

Peter continues his playing, the sound climbing up and up, reaching for some beautiful, exhilarating future that now, for the first time in many long years, seems to be just around the corner. The energy is moving and contagious, the waving melody pushing Kiwi's heart closer and closer to this sensation of unbounded hopeful anticipation with every strike against the strings.

Peter starts harmonizing, his melancholic voice blending with the movement of the music in paradoxical, enchanting ways. Winston joins in, his voice high and nervous, but bustling with genuine restless joy. For a while, it is just the two of them, singing their hopes and prayers for what tomorrow brings. They share a glance and smile at each other, a brief, shy moment.

Miriam, who's been nodding off for a while, is swaying softly to the rise and fall of the symphony with her eyes closed, hugging her knees. Then, there is a soft, unexpected sound as she quietly joins the harmonies, her voice gentle and raspy, as if she is simply muttering in her sleep. There is a small, hesitating smile on her face, lurking behind the hair falling in front of it, but visible enough from where Kiwi is sitting.

Miriam opens her eyes, leaving them half-lidded; her voice grows slightly louder. She looks over at Bard – and stops, the now so familiar confused, vaguely concerned frown setting in.

The sudden interruption on her part draws the attention of the other two, and now the whole room is looking at where Bard is sitting, back straight, extremely tense and hyper-aware of not having sung a single note.

There is a moment of deafening, unnerving silence as Peter stops playing.

Kiwi feels short of air.

They must look really pathetic, because the next moment, the music picks up again, mercifully, although without the same sort of blissful absorption. Winston and Peter return to singing between the two of them, as if conjuring an invisible screen for Miriam and Bard to communicate on the other side of. Miriam continues looking at Kiwi, concern growing deeper, grumpier.

Bard casts their eyes down and takes a shaky breath.

There is shuffling next to them, and suddenly they feel Miriam's hand on their own. They meet her questioning look once again, but she promptly averts her eyes, already feeling awkward. Instead, she squeezes their palm harder, passing on a bit of a reassurance.

They sit in silence for a while, one hand holding another firmly, until the song passes the bridge and returns to the final repetition of the chorus. Bard looks up at Miriam, and she looks at them. They find silent agreement in each other's eyes, and just as the first note of the chorus is about to break, they draw a synchronized breath and join in.

Bard's voice is quiet and unsure, and so is Miriam's, and there is comfort in that. It feels like mutual acknowledgment of something Kiwi isn't quite ready to put into words. And it's different from the high-spirited call of the song, but it belongs. And with every note shared in a low-key, tentative voice between the two, Bard feels a bit more secure.

The melody draws the two of them in once again, gradually and insistently, and at the end of the chorus, their voices sound firmer, brighter, conceiving of the same reassuring promise. The final note rings in the air, and the company shares a moment of sweet, comfortable, inspired silence. Then, without a word, Peter strikes the strings again.

The second time around, all four of them sing from start to end. Kiwi gives Miriam a grateful, timid smile. They settle into a comfortable volume, audible but private enough. There is still a slight tremor to it, and from time to time, it tumbles down, missing the high upbeat note. But Bard tries to find relief in the comfortable unity the group is sharing, and the others seem willing to accommodate. Through all the self-consciousness and hesitation, and the deep underlying fear of what it means to struggle with something so natural, Bard tries to focus on the swelling of the music, and lets it carry them wherever it wishes.

The door to the Observatory opens in the middle of the song, letting in the cold night air and Elara, looking tired but distinctly happy. She lingers at the entrance, taking the sound in, then slips past the group into her room, as quietly as she can - but leaves the door just slightly ajar.

Here and now, everything is alright.

***

It's like being dragged on a hook wedged deep into your heart. Your tired, aching heart, endlessly bleeding out into the nothingness around you.

The world is twirling in a symphony of color and sound, somewhere else, somewhere ahead, somewhere that exists. Somewhere with space to soar through in its triumphant spiraling dance.

It is a state you can never reach again. You are expulsed, empty, broken. The world chose light and movement. It chose to leave you far behind. The weight of you was never significant enough to make it reconsider its trajectory.

You were never significant enough to stay around for.

It's a cruel joke, to still sense it, constantly, hurled through space and time you are left on the outside of. The proverbial hook sits firmly in your beating flesh. Every turn of the unfathomable planet indulging in its endless dance out of sight, out of any conception to your lost, isolated mind, is another tug on your pulsing wound. Each of them reminds you of the life that goes on without you.

The elusive, torturous link drags you along, like an endless drawing punishment. You resent it for leading you on. Why keep any illusion of connection when you have already been severed, irredeemably, tossed aside like a rotten part threatening the whole? Why tether you to the existence that is no longer yours, if not to take sick pleasure in giving you false hope, and watch you agonize over every movement of the vital dance far beyond?

Life is malicious. It did not simply choose to leave you behind. It decided to never let you forget.

You're not giving it the satisfaction of making you hope. It will have to learn that you were never foolish enough to believe, even for a moment, that you are not alone.

***

Kiwi wakes up with a start and bolts upwards, hand at their chest, gripping the fabric of their pajamas. They are short of breath. Again.

Desperately wading through the panic flooding their brain, they attempt a breath, waiting for the tightness in their chest to soften and recede, bit by bit, letting her steady her heartbeat. Once they can fill their lungs again, they breathe in, deep, and pull their knees up to their chest to hide their face in.

The panic fades, leaving them one on one with the dull, isolating desperation. It sits at the center of their being, patient, waiting for them to turn their attention to it. And Kiwi tries his very best not to, but it's there, time after time.

They look up to where Miriam is asleep on the opposite end of the couch, her knees tucked up to her torso. She looks grumpy, even now – perhaps because Bard had straightened their legs in their sleep, again, not leaving her with much space to get comfortable. Or it might be the blanket that has fallen to the floor, leaving her open to the chilly atmosphere of a Chismest night.

Kiwi slides off the couch, as lightly and quietly as she can, and walks over to the fuzzy woven quilt. They pick it up and hold it in their hands for a moment. It's about as old as them, and worn, and the hastily mended patches look glaringly out of place even in the heavily dispersed light. Bard covers Miriam, as slowly and gently as possible, and hopes the threadbare blanket is enough to keep her warm.

They shrivel and hug themself, staying still for a moment, in the dark and quiet. Or... partial quiet. From their, parents', room, they can hear the quiet cooing that immediately transports them to their childhood, and the many sleepless nights spent with Mom peacefully dozing behind the closed door. Tonight, she is joined by deep, mighty sighs and an occasional cough, uncannily close to jingling chimes. Kiwi isn't sure they will be able to fall asleep again, with the new addition disrupting the more familiar ambiance.

She looks over her shoulder, to the window, behind which the colorful flowers are gently bobbing their heads in the quiet wind. That is familiar, at least. A splotch of color in the dark northern night, as she stands alone, barefoot, cold, feeling inexplicably lonely.

Bard leans into the familiar sensation of rough floorboards under their soles as they quietly make their way to the window. He climbs up onto the chair pushed against it and gently presses his hand against the frame. It opens, letting a gust of crisp fresh air in. Bard takes a deep breath, hoping the night chill sobers them up, soothes them, yanks them out of this quicksand of weird, confusing feelings.

The night tastes so disorientingly different. Breathing is easier than it has ever been around these parts, with the once ever-present tint of soot gone and all but forgotten. The air is pure and sweet, and the flowers blooming in it are shining brighter than ever.

Bard looks at them with distant eyes, feeling herself sink deeper into the sand. Their defiant colors used to be a source of greatest comfort. The many nights spent at the window, leaning onto the ceiling and looking out, endlessly waiting, passed easier with the company of the resilient blooms, still joyful and bright in this cold, suffocating place. When the flowers responded to Kiwi's song with a play of color, a new nightly routine took root. Bard barely thought about the wait, anymore. It was about the shimmering petals, the glow in the dark night saturated with smog, and the promise of greener pastures somewhere far away. It was a promise of a different place, full of sun and nature and song, where the world would respond to the melody of their heart.

Chismest is that place, now. Its own brand of it, and definitely falling behind Langtree when it came to daytime hours, but renewed, and welcoming, and singing. A redeemed and reclaimed environment, no longer poisoning all life it gives home to. And the flowers at their Mother's windowsill seem to celebrate that with every fiber, unfolding proudly and happily to drink in the fresh clean air. The world has changed for the better, and they healed alongside it, naturally, as its inalienable part.

...Can Bard still do the same?

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Just a simple song. One sweet song to share with their long-term friends, to join in on the celebration.

Bard exhales a note, low and soft as to not wake Miriam up, feeling around for the melody they sang not so long ago: Peter's new piece. Just as earlier, they are stumbling over the notes, which feel clumsy and wrong in their chest, like a puzzle piece that is being forced into a misshapen hole. But perhaps, that is okay, Bard reassures themself. It doesn't have to be perfect. It has always been enough to just sing from their heart.

They open one eye, fearfully, their face scrunched up into an apprehensive cringe.

The color does not shift even a shade. Notes fall flat onto the petals, not one of them moved even in the slightest.

Bard lets the song die away once their breath is exhausted. They look at the flowers, endlessly lost, searching for any hint of an answer. What had to even happen to take something so natural away from them? What could they possibly have lost?..

Something scary crawls up to the forefront of his mind, replacing the vaguely panicked confusion with a feeling of cold doom. He could try singing differently. He could sound the notes that have been ringing in his ear the past weeks.

Kiwi breathes deep. Singing the song would mean... something. Something big. It almost feels like on the other side of it, they might stop recognizing themself. But... if this is the only one they have left--

Over on the couch, Miriam grumbles in her sleep and fusses under the blanket, disturbed by the cold night air. Kiwi hurriedly pushes the window shut. Their friend settles a few seconds later, burrowing deeper under the warm cover.

Bard sighs and throws one final dejected glance at the unresponsive flowers on the other side of the glass. They curl up in the chair and hold themself tight for the rest of the night.

#wandersong #kiwi wandersong #the bard wandersong #there are also #miriam wandersong #winston wandersong #peter wandersong #elara wandersong #and co : )#(not) alone #my writing

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all-things-helltalia · 4 years

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Hetalia characters while sleeping according to my friend (pt 6)

Holy Roman Empire: kissy noises until one day it switches to quiet snores

Latvia: Chirps

Lithuania: Purrs

Luxembourg: *sleeps until falls off bed and snores*

Belgium: *Sleeps peacefully*

New Zealand: *Snores like a kiwi bird sounds*

#aph holy roman empire #hws holy roman empire #aph hre #hws hre #hre #aph latvia #hws latvia #aph luxembourg #hws luxembourg #aph belgium #hws belgium #aph new zealand #hws new zealand #hetalia #hetalia is shit #hetalia shitpost #everything hetalia

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unholyplumpprincess · 4 years

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Sunny Side Up

For my baby @kiwi--bot ! It’s a lil late Valentine’s gift of our Destiny ocs :D

Summary: Honey knows Apollo, she’s so sure of it. She knows that voice, she knows their eyes, she knows their warmth. Yet Apollo strains away, seeming to toy with her it feels like- a possible misunderstanding that can be solved with a bit of sunshine and conversation.

Fandom: Destiny 2

Relationship: Honey (Oc)/Apollo (Oc)

Warnings: SFW, hurt/comfort-esque situation, soulmates, mentions/hint of Apollo getting frisky with people but nothing explicit

Words: 3k

________________________

Apollo was damaged.

That much Honey understood. She’d worked with Exos near all her life, working alongside Banshee in her own shop- she knew the first signs of memory loss and corrupted internal workings. Of course, Exos were just as alive as she was, just as alive as an Awoken, just as alive and breathing as anyone else. Honey had taken to putting sticky notes up for Banshee to ensure he remembered things, jotting notes down and helpfully reminding him whenever she’d pass by.

Apollo? Apollo had been different than just reminding them of things. They seemed attached at the hip to Honey, not that she really minded, company was fine in her book. And having someone so chatty to fill the quiet air while she worked on her mods was rather nice. Especially looking over and seeing them sat up on one of the counters, swinging their legs in their expensive outfits and happily chatting of a story she’d already heard once or twice.

They were flirty, that wasn’t missed by Honey. How their hands would slide into Honey’s curly hair to absentmindedly push it behind her pierced ears, or they’d take her hands and bounce up and down in excitement about buying her new things. Or how sometimes they’d stand a bit too close, not quite looming despite their tall height, but being close enough it made Honey’s cheeks flush beneath the dark grease when she was working.

But. Honey was no fool.

~Rest under the cut~

Apollo flirted quite openly with anyone they found attractive. Hook ups that Honey got to hear of as they happily chatted and swung their legs and Honey could feel the ugly sharp fangs of jealousy enclose around her heart. “That’s nice, sugar.” She’d say while torching a piece of metal and thanking that her blast shield was down to hide her furrowed brows.

Love was...absent from Honey’s life. Getting her heart broken wasn’t on her To Do list. Oswald, her beloved ghost- may the light bless him always- was her companion. When she’d go to sleep, Oswald was right next to her on her nightstand on his own specially made pillow. Often times she’d fall asleep with her hand curled around him lightly, as if afraid he would ever leave her in the night.

Honey didn’t quite tend to take the hints from people if they did like her, and when she did, when she finally gave it a shot, there was always complaints. She worked too much, she didn’t spend enough time with them, she was out on missions, how come she always followed Cayde’s orders to a T? And then the worst was when he...when he passed. A person she’d been seeing at the time had brought up how she had no right to be grieving that long.

So now. Love was absent from Honey’s life. No one ever fit, no one clicked quite that well with her, and she started to believe that her need to work hard would always get in the way of any sort of relationship. So, she didn’t. Happy to just be with Oswald and surrounded by her plants and get up and go be a Guardian where she was needed to lead.

And yet. Apollo was always there. Even if Honey said she was busy, they’d happily twirl in their cute new expensive cloak, “Don’t be silly!!!! I’ll come sit with you- I HAVE to show you all my new cute outfits! Look at this one already!” And they’d follow her, working with her schedule just to spend time with her.

Boreas, Apollo’s ghost and glorified babysitter- according to him- took quite nicely to Oswald in turn. Allowing them both to mingle off to the side. Although Honey is pretty sure Oswald has a crush on the poor ghost, often times hearing the quick shushing of Boreas and Oswald’s soft, whispery laugh.

Honey had awoken in this life with a mission in her heart she never understood. This frantic feeling and whispering in her body of ‘Where are they?!’. All her life she thought this was her need to keep Oswald beside her. And now when she looked at Apollo, she wasn’t...so sure.

They shouldn’t have crossed her mind as a potential romantic partner. They were everything she was not. Loud, excitable, always wanting to shop and never having to work. Able to flirt and go out. But ever since she’d found them with Calus, it’s like she knew them. Anytime they said her name, it was like her first time hearing it be said. When they chirped their various pet names for her like calling her a flower, how if anyone else were to say those things to Honey, she’d brush them off.

And then just last week, what was putting Honey through all this turmoil, was Apollo showing her a symbol they drew. Explaining fondly that they’d always dreamt of this symbol and that they thought it was pretty. Going so far as to pull their choker from Calus aside to reveal the symbol of a sun on their upper chest.

The exact. Same. Symbol. That Honey had woken up tattooed with on her upper spine.

The same sun. The same pattern. The same one that Honey saw whenever she’d try to dig up research on her old life, assuming it had just been associated with her tattoo. And then she was looking at the exact same shape on Apollo’s chest.

It could have been coincidence, Honey tried to tell herself that day, only offering a few words. It could have been coincidence; She tries to tell herself as she desperately searched through her numerous journals that night of what she’d written down of her findings. Staring at her underlined notes with question marks when she’d found words hinting that she was married to someone in her old life. All the curious articles implying she’d been married to someone just like Apollo.

Apollo liked her, that much Honey understood. Apollo flirted with her just as much as anyone else, but then would go in seek of someone else to have a fling with. Something that always hurt Honey quietly.

And they couldn’t have known- could they? What if Honey was just hopeful? What if her findings weren’t entirely accurate? But a remark from Oswald confirms that she had always triple checked her findings. But if- if Apollo WAS that person she’d been married to- that was the past. That was the past, she’s sure tons of other people walking around had been married in the past and just didn’t know.

Night after night of trying to explain these thoughts to herself, tearing herself apart over it and Oswald pressing his shell to her cheek fondly as she’d let tears spill down her face. Soulmates were just a concept; They were Guardians for goodness sake! She just wanted to know her past for herself. And yet...

Now she’s looking at Apollo twirling their long cloak in their fingers and leaning on a wall as they giggle at some cute titan. Honey has seen this song and dance before, where Apollo bats their pretty eyes and talks someone into something. She’s seen it after they’d tried it on her, where it made her feel like she was just going to be another fling, another story in their book.

It hurt.

It hurt for Apollo to flirt with her, to convince her to go out with them for a few hours of relaxation from work. It hurt for Apollo to flirt, to make her chest flutter, only for them to turn back around and act like it never happened. It hurt, it hurt to be so confused of her own emotions and to have them play with her like that.

They didn’t mean to, that much Honey is sure of. They were forgetful and clearly trying to hide from something in their own mind. They maybe were using handsome and pretty Guardians around to leave those feelings behind. But were they honest with Honey? Was she something they considered special like they said, or was she just someone they wanted to fuck?

Honey doesn’t realize she’d been staring until Apollo’s violet gaze turns to her and she sees them light right up, watching as they totally ignore the titan who was clearly into them as Apollo comes skipping towards her. “There you are, fire flower!!! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! What were you doin’ in your room for so long, huh? You have guests over?”

It’s spoken with a smile, but even Honey can see the way Apollo asks that question. It’s insinuating something, something that makes Honey glance back over to that titan Apollo just abandoned just to wrap their arms around her arm and speak so excitedly. How Apollo would leave anyone just to come chat with Honey, to wrap around her and gleefully talk about their day.

Were they lonely just like her? Did they feel the same but instead of hiding, they sought company of others out? Was...Was Honey just hopeful?

“We need to talk.” Comes spilling from Honey’s lips in a breath before she can even ponder her worries any longer. Almost regretting it the second it passes her lips and Apollo seems to pause. They normally don’t pick up on serious hints, but maybe those words strike something in them, feeling the familiar fidgeting on her arm.

But before Honey can swallow down her pride and retract on her statement, Apollo oh so cheerily agrees and starts walking with her towards her workshop. Once inside, it’s quiet for once as Apollo releases her to stand closeby, fidgeting with their cloak and a tic forcing them to do a quick jerk of their head in a little shake before they pipe up. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” Honey answers quickly, a heavy sigh falling from her lips as she takes a few steps back to rest her lower back on one of her countertops. A hand runs through her curly white bangs, her fingers brushing her bandana tied around her head to hold her puff in place. Her honey golden gaze lifts to look at Apollo staring intently at her, and she feels her heart twist at their soft expression. “No, sugar, ya’ haven’t done a thing wrong.”

Honey must look distressed, her eyebrows knitting and her hand resting on her forehead as her eyes close and she tries to focus on all this information she’s learned. How her feelings for Apollo weren’t just looking at them and thinking they were pretty, but the high sense of longing. That high sense of ‘I found you’ finally coursing through her veins. Did they feel the same? Was she just another thing to flirt with?

Hands rest gingerly on her waist and make Honey hum soft in her throat in a way that makes her throat feel heavy when she swallows. Apollo was rather physical, always touching, and now it hurt even worse to feel them trying to comfort her without invading her space too much. “Honey...?”

The way they murmur her name, their voice box wavering in a way she’d never heard. They were always so cheery, to hear them sound like that just because of her-

A tightening of her already closed eyes forces the tears to spill down her round cheeks. Her throat is tight as the words ache to spill out but all she can manage is her full lips parting, only for them to quiver as she shuts them again. When was the last time she had cried? She couldn’t remember- Oswald always insisted it would make her feel better. One too many times of going ‘I’m fine’ and sucking it up.

“I can’t do this, Apollo,” She finally breathes out, her hand falling from her forehead to wipe at her tears before her eyes open to look up at them. Their violet optics make her heart pound with how gently they look at her, confusion on their features as her fingers wrap lightly around their wrists where they hold her waist. “I can’t take not knowin’ if you’re playin’ with me. If ya think I’m just some fun toy o-or-”

Honey’s voice quivers when their eyes meet, swallowing harshly as she tries to figure out her words correctly. Emotions always got the better of people, no longer allowing rational thought. She was no stranger to natural human emotion. “What is it ya want? Ya have everythin’ ya could ever desire, ya have playmates for days, ya have Calus under ya thumb.”

Apollo’s head tilts in that cute little way they always do, furthering Honey’s distraught emotions. They look so confused looking over her face, their hands lightly squeezing her waist and one coming up to brush the new tears from her cheeks. “I want you, silly! Why are you crying? Are you hurt?” They just sound so honest, only furthering Honey’s frustration.

“Ya say that an’ then go off an’ come back tellin’ me stories of how ya got friendly with someone else. I like you, Apollo, but I’m not some one-night stand o-or toy, I ain’t gonna be someone you just toss aside-” Fresh tears spill down Honey’s cheeks without her wanting them there, feeling ridiculous for crying about a person of all things. But all the information she found out- her feelings, that feeling of ‘I found you’, even now coursing through her in hot waves when they touch her.

Apollo is quiet as their hand cups Honey’s cheek, stroking their thumb across it to wipe her tears, and Honey is helpless but to lean into their grasp. Her own hands shake as they hold weakly to their wrists, unsure whether to push them away or draw them closer as she gathers her breath and her thoughts.

“I messed up didn’t I?” Comes so softly from Apollo that it seizes Honey’s heart. She goes to say something, to calm them, to ensure they don’t fall into another episode, but Apollo continues with something that makes Honey’s eyes shoot open and up to look at them. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew...what?”

“That you’re mine, silly,” Apollo says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. They cock their head again, a twitch in their shoulder when Honey looks at them with what must be a surprised look. “Uhm- I think like. We are- or, were, together at some point? I mean, I don’t think, I know, but I thought you felt the same and I thought you were trying to take it slow-”

“What did you just say?” Honey breathes out, cutting them off as her eyes flicker back and forth between theirs, reaching up to cup their cheeks almost frantically as Apollo’s eyes light up in surprise.

“You were taking it slow?”

“No- no, no, we were together at some point- what do you mean by that?”

“Oh! When I first saw you when we were with Daddy! I knew who you were! I don’t remember things very good,” They pause there to kind of giggle, as if their own memory troubles could be funny to themself. “But I remember you! Or, well, another version of you! I thought you just wanted to take it slow, but I kinda still wanted to, ya know, have sex! So I didn’t wanna pressure you and tada here we are!”

Just like that, they’re back to chipper, only to pause again when they see Honey’s look on her face as if recognition crosses her features. Apollo seems to pout, not having the mouth to do so, but they still try. “Oh, boo! Did I make you upset again?”

Honey chokes out a laugh through her tears, dropping her hands to their shoulder to press her forehead against their chest with this loud feeling of relief coursing through her. And confusion- recognition? Oh, she couldn’t understand her own emotions. ‘I found you’ rings in her head again, surrounded by glowing hot light in the form of a celestial outline of a sun. Her sun-

Their sun.

It’s like their light twirled together in a stream of intricate ribbons that drew them back to each other. And it all makes sense now- the news articles she had seen and read. She’d been married in her old life, to someone she only saw clippings off. Someone who was dressed in the most beautiful of outfits, intricate rings along their nose connecting to their ear, beautiful gauzy hoods, beautiful saris. The face always blurred out or almost burned out.

Honey doesn’t realize she’s crying until Apollo’s arms finally slip around her waist to hug her tight. Something Honey did when Apollo became overwhelmed and incoherent. So many questions ring in her mind, but all leading back to the curiosity Apollo mentioned.

They wanted intimacy with other people because she wanted to go slow- they wanted physical touch, that much Honey understood with how touchy they were. They were never good at wording things quite right, so even Honey understood they didn’t mean they were upset she wasn’t ‘putting out’ so to speak. They just wanted to be physical. Honey couldn’t help but feel the same way.

When the hug is parted and things have settled down, Honey offers for them to sit down and talk about where they want to go from here. They both agree for a relationship, Apollo about near bouncing out of their seat until Honey sets her hand gently on theirs to soothe them. Honey gently mentions that she doesn’t mind Apollo seeing other people, but maybe when she’s a bit more comfortable with them so they can talk more about terms.

It’s the first time Apollo is allowed to stay the night. With the sun carving on their upper chest fitting perfectly against Honey’s upper back sun tattoo when they press together with Honey wrapped in their arms. Finally able to get her first wink of restful sleep.

Honey was just as damaged as Apollo was.

But, together?

They could become whole.

#Honey x Apollo #Honey (Oc)#Apollo (Oc)#Destiny #Destiny 2 #Destiny ocs #Ocs #princess writing

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copychatnoir · 4 years

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WIP Wednesday

I really need to convince myself to write more of this, so I’m going to use external encouragement to get it going. It’s a snippit from what is currently the first chapter of my AU, The Miraculous Tales of Bug Chanceux and Kuro Neko.

The day was already long and hot. It wasn't even noon yet. Luka sat in the shadow of the Liberty’s deck, gently strumming his guitar. The cords were smooth and lazy, just like a sunbathing cat in the summer. Every few beats, he stopped and jotted down a few more notes on a music sheet. Then, he repeated the same rhythm with a few new notes added on. The cycle repeated. Luka was in his own rhythm where only the sound of his music could reach.

This was one of the few moments he had to himself and he was happily strumming a melody that was the essence of his superhero partner, Kuro Neko.

Once he reached what felt like the end to the song, he paused. He set his guitar to the side and read the entire song over, listening to the cords ring out in his head.

This was a good first draft.

A quiet, but still squeaky voice spoke up from Luka’s hoodie, “Wow, Luka! That sounded wonderful! It really sounds like you were thinking about summer.”

Luka smiled and picked up his guitar, taking a moment to strum a couple nondescript notes before speaking up. “Thanks, Tikki. It’s about lazy cats on hot summer days.”

“Oh! It’s about Kuro Neko! That’s so sweet! I bet she’ll love it.”

“I don't think it's done yet. There’s something I missed...” Luka frowned, reading over the sheet music again.

“I know you’ll figure it out! You always do!” the small, ladybug kwami chirped.

Luka nodded absently while reading over the draft again.

He folded up the sheet music and tucked it into one of his creation folders. He would come back to this later. Hopefully sooner than later.

At that moment a notification pinged on his phone. Inessa shared a picture that was just taken by the Ladyblogger. Kuro Neko was lying on a rooftop, taking a cat nap. The caption read “Kuro Neko might secretly be a real cat. (=^w^=) I wonder if she’s lactose intolerant too? lol”

Tikki giggled, looking at the photo from Luka’s shoulder. “Just like you said: lazy cat on a summer’s day. You two are really in sync.”

Luka didn’t comment, staring intently at the photo. He knew she wasn’t able to get out much. It was hard enough for her to get out for akuma attacks. Looking at photos made it so much harder for him to figure out what people were actually feeling.

“Luka?” Tikki asked.

He blinked, coming back to himself. “I want to check on her.”

Tikki nodded, slipping back into the hood of the hoodie.

Looking to his side, his sister and her girlfriend sat under the mast of the ship, sharing an iPod and sipping their iced lemonades.

“Juleka, Rose? I’m heading to the store. Need anything?” he asked, while shouldering his guitar and putting away the folder.

The two shared a look. Rose was about to answer when his mom poked her head out of the captain's quarters (her bedroom). "You're going to the store? Can you pick up some more pretzels and licorice?"

Luka felt a small pang of frustration that Juleka was the first to read. She pointedly asked their mom, "Out already?"

"I know, I know. If you could just grab another bag, Luka." With that, their mom went back to whatever she'd been doing.

Luka held in the sigh of either exasperation or frustration. Maybe it was going to be both.

This was why he picked up extra shifts.

Rose spoke up, "We're good, Luka! The fridge has all the lemonade and water we could need." Her voice was a bit more forced with chipper than she actually was. He knew it was for his sake. Rose was pretty much his sister by now and she could get extremely protective of him.

He smiled and nodded at them both. "Thanks. Make sure you stay in the shade. You both burn easily." His smile was a little forced too.

~~~

Luka’s first stop was the market. First was the pretzels, then some licorice, a small pack of raspberry cookies for Tikki (he got a gentle headbutt of thanks for that), [something for Rose], and [something for Juleka].

Last, he went to get shakes for both Kuro Neko and himself. Looking over the options, he remembered the caption that was attached to Kuro Neko’s picture. Was Neko lactose intolerant? She did have a subtle, weird reaction whenever he gave her a milkshake. He grabbed a strawberry-chocolate milkshake for himself, then a lactose-free strawberry-kiwi shake for Neko.

~~~

Luka walked by a coffee shop as he was headed to a secluded alleyway.

“This is impossible!” a frustrated customer exclaimed. “It’s too hot to do any of my work out here!” The well-dressed man slammed his laptop shut, steaming with anger.

“Just go inside already.” The woman across from him said, bored and exasperated with his nonsense. She sipped from her iced coffee. “You’ve been complaining for the last 15 minutes straight.”

The man huffed and grumbled loudly about how this whole thing was ridiculous, but still packed up his things. With that done, he stomped inside the shop.

Luka got out one of his cold bottles of water and set his bike’s kickstand out. He walked up to the woman who he assumed was the frustrated man’s friend.

He held out the water bottle to her saying, “This might help.”

The woman took a moment to respond. She was surprised and confused, but took the bottle after a moment. “Huh,” she mumbled, then looked back to Luka with a smile on her face. “Well, aren’t you a sweetie.”

Luka smiled at the compliment and gave a short nod, before heading on his way.

~~~

Bug Chanceux vaulted up to the rooftops, groceries safely stored in his yo-yo and bike locked up in an alleyway.

The air was quiet around him and he swung over to the rooftop that Kuro Neko had claimed as hers for the day. The wind must’ve gotten the message that today was a laid back day.

Seeing Neko on her rooftop, he landed lightly on the roof across from her. One of the tips of her faux ears twitched. He was already found out.

Bug took a running leap to Neko’s rooftop. Swift as lightning, she whipped out her baton to trip the spotted superhero.

He should have known she was up to something.

His foot caught and he rolled into a somersault to keep balance. He landed harder than he wanted to, but he did land on his feet.

He gave the superheroine a flat stare. She didn’t even open her eyes to rumble out, “You’ve got to be better than that,” and punctuated it with a smirk.

Bug Chanceux rolled his eyes and sat himself next to her, careful not to get in the way of her sun rays. The yo-yo opened to the glow of the void holding his groceries and pulled out the milkshakes.

He let the cold air around and the shadow of Kuro Neko’s milkshake call her attention enough to open her eyes. Right as a drop of condensation landed right on her nose.

With a hiss, she nearly bats the milkshake away, but Bug saw that coming. He hoisted the drink away from her, snickering. She turned a not-actually-mad glare to her partner in crime-stopping. He smirked at her and quoted her back, “You’ve gotta be better than that.”

Neko scoffed in indignation. Before she could retaliate, Bug Chanceux offered the strawberry-kiwi shake to her.

That stopped her in her tracks. She blinked twice at the offered drink, then took it quietly. She took a sip of the drink to hide the small flush of her cheeks.

Quiet lingered for the first drinks of the shakes. Neko paused, then looked at Bug with her head tilted. She noticed that it tasted different from the previous ones he'd gotten her.

“My friend says that cats are lactose intolerant,” Bug leads off, answering her unspoken question.

“Really?” Neko asked quizzically.

“Is it true for cat heroes too?” Bug prompts.

Kuro Neko snorts before she could stop herself. “Yes, but it’s a coincidence. Not a cat thing. I’ve always been lactose intolerant.”

Bug nudged Neko’s shoulder, playfully scolding, “You should’ve told me sooner. I wouldn’t have gotten you things with milk in them.”

“You never asked,” she simply states. “And it’s rude to refuse offerings.” Another sip of the shake.

Their peace was interrupted by a loud crash. The two share a look.

Neko pouts, turning back to her smoothie and staring longingly at it.

Bug sighs, but goes ahead with putting his milkshake away into the yo-yo storage void.

Kuro Neko looks back at her partner, then back to her shake. Then, back at Bug, this time locking eyes with him.

Suddenly, Bug Chanceux realized what Neko was going to do. “Neko-!”

His objection was no use. The moment she saw him even start to dissuade her, she downed the entire rest of the shake.

She smirks smugly at him for just a moment. Bug knows what’s happening before it even starts.

The black cat hero hisses and holds her head with one hand, squeezing her eyes shut.

Bug sighed. He should’ve known she would have done something. She’d do it even if he tried to object. “Hold your tongue to the top of your mouth. I’ll meet you there.”

With that, he flicked the yo-yo out and swung toward the commotion.

Behind him, Kuro Neko forced herself up, in spite of the brain freeze, then vaulted after him.

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itsomgitsgreenblogging · 4 years

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A Never-Ending Feast

Yes, it is me again. Really we all should have expected this, but when Jester pulled out Heroes' Feast in episode 105, my friend alixcat basically said, yeah, you are writing a fic about Jester using Heroes' Feast right? And I was like....yeah, you right. I'm back on my Labor of Love bullshit 24/7. This one's for you!

Jester often shows love through acts of service, OR 5 times that Jester summoned a feast for others and the 1 time she made a feast for herself.

Bon appetit!

Read on AO3

Preview:

The trudge to the inn was a terrible one. It was one of those summer days that clung to your skin and sowed misery with the humidity. It was almost a relief for it to start raining, but as soon as it did the wind howled and shook the trees with intensity, and the sky cracked open with lightning and thunder. Yasha looked unbothered by the storm, but Beau grumbled and trudged her way through the front door of the inn looking like she had been personally insulted. It didn’t help that when they ordered food, all they received was burnt chicken and wilted vegetables coated in oil.

“I can’t believe we spent money on this shit,” Beauregard snapped, her temper hot and lashing like a whip. She cast a dirty look to the innkeeper, who plainly ignored it and continued on with their day.

“I know what will make us all feel better,” Jester said, fluttering her fingers with her excitement. “I have that new spell that makes the food! Everyone, let’s go upstairs to our room and I’ll make us a feast!”

“I’m down,” Fjord said, picking up a particularly sad looking green bean from his plate and watching it flop around in an extremely unappetizing manner, not that Jester ever believed that beans were good. They were one of those things that Mama swore were good for her, but if they were so good for her then maybe they ought to taste good too! Regardless of her feelings about green beans, the Mighty Nein all followed Jester up to their room, where she settled down on a blanket and pulled out her jewel encrusted goblet. For a moment she prayed, and then the Traveler’s energy pulsed through her.

What kind of feast shall it be today? Jester heard the Traveler ask.

I’m thinking...summer! The kind of things you would eat on a beautiful summer day, the kind of summer day that Beau would love, not whatever this shitty day is!

Magic overflowed from the goblet, and out from the ground plates patterned with flowers, and bowls of porcelain began to appear like they were sprouting flowers and tall grasses. Strawberry shortcakes with dollops of indulgent creams that were scented of vanilla and the zest of lemons, peach crumbles with layers of streusel flavored with the warming spices of ginger and cinnamon to give it just a punch of flavor. Scoops of coconut ice cream covered in toasted coconuts and topped with pineapple sauce and bright cherries. Bananas dipped in chocolate and covered in toasted nuts and strawberries, slices of banana cream pie and rhubarb pie.

Veth picked up a glass bowl containing a trifle half the size of her body, layers of cake soaked in rum, blueberry sauce, custard, berries, and jelly that was arranged like a large fruit display. Caleb began cutting slices of a pavlova, sweet toasted meringue garnished with kiwis, passionfruit, strawberries and cream. Yasha and Fjord were busy sharing a pineapple upside down cake and coconut ice cream, as Beau worked on her own plate that she stacked high with pies baked into jars.

“I’ve never had iced tea before,” Caduceus said, taking a long indulgent sip from a glass.“Would you like some?”

“Oh yes!” Jester said as she took the glass. It was iced tea as her Mama made it, the signature Nicodranas brew layered with black-citrus tea with sweetened condensed milk and coconut milk. Jester sighed as the flavors mingled on her tongue. She took a mouthful of streusel next, sighing as the tender peach melted her in mouth with the brown sugar and coconut and made the flavor of summer. She dipped forkfuls of banana cream pie in pineapple sauce, cut chocolate covered bananas to add to her slice of pavlova. She took indulgent sips of different drinks to refresh her palate and add more flavor, watermelon tea or frosted lemonade or fizzing fruity floats with scoops of ice cream that melted into foam that lapped at the edge of goblets the size of bowls.

By the time the hour was up and the feast vanished, Jester had truly eaten her fill. She sighed as she settled into bed that night. For a moment she swore she felt Beau’s eyes on her.

“Thanks Jester,” Beau said, voice rough with feeling. “That did hit the spot.”

“Of course,” Jester said with a smile that Beau couldn’t see. “Any time.”

______________________________________

They sat camped outside the dungeon, in the bubble as Caleb meticulously casted. The villagers there had complained about something coming up from the depths of the old abandoned mine. Jester wondered idly if it could be gnolls again, but based on what Fjord and Beau had discovered while snooping about it seemed to be something far more...trickey.

“We just don’t know what we are gonna be walking into,” Fjord said worriedly as he balanced the Star Razor across his knees. Yasha who had been minding the perimeter came back and settled down, looking a bit unnerved. Jester felt a quiet sense of concern for her. It really was awful how she kept getting mind-controlled all the time! Jester would need to talk to the Traveler about that some time to see if she could help.

“If we hit it hard enough, it’ll fall,” Veth said, cocking her crossbow confidently.

“It might not hurt to prepare ourselves though,” Caleb said as he sat himself down next to Veth. Caleb then caught Jester’s attention with an awkward wave. “Jester, would you be, perhaps, capable of creating that feast again? To...ah...bolster our efforts?”

“Yeah, yeah yeah yeah,” Jester said thinking about it. “I can do that today!”

“Can you include some meat?” Veth said, picking at her teeth. “Any at all?”

“I have to give Caduceus something to eat!” Jester said, reminding Veth as she pulled out her bowl.

“Aw, that’s nice,” Caduceus hummed as he fixed his sleeping bag.

Jester settled it on the ground, and as she had done before she called the Traveler’s power to her.

What kind of feast shall it be today? Jester heard the Traveler ask.

I’m thinking...warm and filling! Something crisp like an apple on a brisk fall day, and the flavors of a Harvest Close Festival.

And there on plates and bowls patterned with leaves in brilliant autumn colors was their feast. A whole roast duck glazed with orange sauce and served on a platter on a smear of plum applesauce with skin so crispy that it cracked when Caleb took his first bite. Bowls full of sunny pumpkin soup topped with crisped onion, that paired perfectly with loaves of bread that were stuffed with fennel-pork sausage that Beau downed so quickly that Jester was half sure it would be more effective to just raise the bowl to her lips. Rabbit in rosemary-wine sauce, served with sides of potatoes mixed together with a spicy savory mustard, and mushroom risotto with rice so tender it brought tears to the eyes.

And then of course dessert, which Jester was mostly concerned about and wouldn’t dare to stint on the servings. Apple pie with cinnamon-sugar dusted on crumbling crusts. Baked apples covered luxuriously thick caramel sauce and covered in peanuts, and elephant ears swirled in cinnamon and drizzled with frosting. There were slices of smooth and glossy pumpkin pie and crunchy and delicately sweet pecan pies topped with dollops of whipped cream, and sweet potato cheesecake with gingersnap streusel crumbled on top. Goblets were full of apple cider, or hot chocolate with toasted marshmallows and drizzled with salted caramel, and coffee made buttery and rich with swirls of cream and brown sugar and even pumpkin. Butterscotch cookies pressed into the edges of large glasses of milk were what caught Jester's eyes first and foremost.

"This is my favorite thing," Jester said as she dipped the warm cookie into the glass of milk that had a rim encrusted with chocolate dust and cinnamon sugar, sighing as the butter, crunchy edges of the cookie, and the sweetened warm milk melted together in perfect harmony. Veth pressed in close to her, finishing off her plate before grabbing a glass of milk and cookies.

"This reminds me of when I was a girl," Veth laughed, her eyes misty. "But my mother wasn't nearly as good of a cook as your magic is."

“Aw, thank you,” Jester chirped, trading her now empty glass for a new plate and taking bites from pecan pie and long sips from cream-pumpkin-coffee. She gave Veth a side hug that Veth gladly leaned in to.

"It really is lovely," Caleb said, with a soft reflective look of his own as he stopped up soup with a piece of bread. His dark fingers sweeping around in a well practiced movement before popping the last piece of bread in his mouth.

“Hey, save some for the rest of us,” Beauregard teased as she elbowed Caleb.

“There’s plenty to share,” Veth argued with no heat. “I’ll make you a plate.”

Jester said nothing, but cuddled more firmly against Veth's side as she enjoyed her cookies in milk, thinking of a time with her own mother and perhaps something like this.

_______________________________

The ship rocked them back and forth as they gathered in the captain’s quarters. Jester had been full of energy ever since she learned that today was Fjord’s birthday. He had asked for nothing big or special, trying to argue that he couldn’t know his actual birthday and that he was getting too old for celebrations, but all of them had gotten him gifts regardless. Small little useful things, because Fjord would have surely refused anything more than that. Once the others had finish gifting things to Fjord, which he took with an increasingly tender and misty-eyed expression, Jester pulled out her jeweled goblet and set it upon the table. She casted the spell as she usually did, feeling her chest fill with the energy of her god.

What kind of feast are we having today? The Traveler asked curiously.

A celebration! Jester responded exuberantly. A fancy dinner party!

Upon the table that Fjord had set up, the plates and bowls and trays appeared, bubbling up from the spell like little boats buoyed on the water. A sweet and creamy lobster bisque, besides a tray of mussels steamed in white wine garlic and lemon juice, and nestled between buckwheat galettes made of salmon, capers, and dill. Mashed potatoes that were made smooth and rich with exorbitant amounts of butter found a place next to plates of mushrooms and gnocchi in a tomato cream sauce, and spicy butternut squash soup. Crispy crab cakes with a rainbow of dipping sauces in bowls shaped like shells and baked oysters dusted with spices and cheese. There was even a whole braised octopus in the center of the table, arranged among slices of lemon.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” Caleb admitted as he looked at the perfect slices of raw tuna in a loose approximation of a raw bar. “Is this supposed to be raw?”

“It tastes pretty good,” Veth said, scooping up her own serving of the ceviche of raw tuna marinated in lime juice and tossed with onions, tomatoes, avocados, and cilantro. She slurped down mussels at an alarming rate and did her best to encourage Caleb to cry the crispy calamari with the garlic aioli and the steamer swimming in butter.

"Look, our favorite!" Fjord said, sharing a knowing look with Beau and Yasha as he motioned to the plate full of fried fish and potatoes with tartar sauce. Beau and Yasha laughed as they loaded up their plates, pressing the flaky white fish into sandwiches made from the warm fresh white bread.

“What’s for dessert?” Caduceus asked curiously.

“Chocolate! You can’t really have a birthday without a chocolate cake,” Jester said excitedly as she moved to cut slices of a decadent chocolate cake, moist and sweet and filled with chocolate cream and raspberry sauce, settled besides saucers of chocolate mousse, and crisp cannolis filled with sweetened ricotta and chocolate chips. Chocolate covered strawberries were gathered in a luxurious array of white, milk, and dark and covered with nuts and candies. Stacks of salted caramel millionaire’s shortbread with crisp butter-cookie sandwiching layers of caramel and covered in chocolate, even bubbling pots of chocolate and caramel fondue with a wide array of fruits and snacks to dip into the heavenly smelling liquid.

“Thank you, Jester,” Fjord said with a wide smile that had lantern-light glinting off his tusk. “Thank you all of you. This has really been the best birthday I have ever had.”

“Don’t forget to blow out your candles!” Jester said, offering him a slice of his cake. Beauregard reached over to the goblet and pulled out a candle, passing it to Veth who planted it on his cake. Caleb reached out to punch the candle and it lit and began to glow.

Fjord blew out his candle, and closed his eyes to make a wish. As she took a bite of her own slice of cake and then dipping a forkful in the chocolate fondue, she wondered if any wish could top this simple pleasure as she pressed it against the top of her mouth so it could just melt away bit by bit and she could savor it. She would try to savor it all, for as long as she could.

____________________________

No one enjoyed trudging through a swamp, especially not Caduceus. Jester knew the Wildmother was a powerful god god, but it seemed to her that she could look out for Caduceus a little better. Jester found that the task often went to her, and of course she didn’t mind. Caduceus was steady as a rock, let Jester braid his hair, and listened intently whenever Jester rambled. The least Jester could do was yank Caduceus out of muck puddles whenever he fell in them, in return for being such a good friend. Jester could tell though that Caduceus was relieved when they stopped for the night, and Yasha who had fallen into a bush of prickers was just as excited to be bedding down. They would have a hard day ahead of them the next day, this Jester knew. So when Yasha quietly asked her if she could cast Heroes’ Feast to aid them, Jester already knew what was on the menu.

What sort of feast tickles your fancy, my dear Jester? The Traveler asked her.

Now seems as good a time as any to have an afternoon tea!

At night?

Of course, duh!

I do love the way you think. The Traveler chuckled as the goblet summoned for them their feast, spreading it about the dome.

Their afternoon tea was spread out on three tier and four tier porcelain stands decorated in flowering vines, kettles appeared and whistled merrily as they did as did beautiful tea sets in a variety of flowering colors and painted with rabbits and ducklings. Nestled among the kettles and tea cups were pots of toppings, from sunshine yellow lemon curd to vibrant marmalade and a treasure trove of jams to clotted cream and thick yellow custard. There was a stand of finger sandwiches all cut in diagonals, like cucumber and herbal butter, watercress and fluffy egg salad, prosciutto and goat cheese, and smoked salmon and cream cheese. One that Jester scooped up was a fluffernutter that made Jester smile. The next stand was a twisting array of scones filled with fruit or berries or nuts or spiced with cinnamon in turn, hearty spiced pumpkin muffins, blueberry muffins, lemon-poppy seed muffins, and danishes filled with jams or sweet cheeses and dusted with sugar or drizzled with vanilla frosting. And then of course, the cookies. Trays of cookies from madeleines with their shell-like filigree edges to smooth as button macarons to stacks of simple butter cookies and shortbread surrounded them like patches of wildflowers.

“Oh Jester, this is wonderful,” Caduceus sighed into his cup of tea. “Let me pour you a cup?”

Jester nodded enthusiastically as Caduceus poured her a cup of ruby-red tea. Jester took a sip and was immediately struck by the gorgeous strawberry almost malty note of it. Dipping in a shortbread cookie and eating it made her whimper with the sublime pleasure. The shortbread simply melted into her mouth like a dream, like it was meant to be together.

“It’s too bad we can’t stop for an afternoon tea every day,” Jester sighed as she excitedly cut open a scone to layer it with clotted cream and blueberry jam and lemon curd. Caleb watched her do this and mirrored it, though adding far less then she did of all three toppings except the lemon curd. Jester didn’t understand why he was being so stingy, but not everyone could truly appreciate sweets as she did.

“I can’t eat rich food too often,” Beauregard admitted as she cornered the market on tiny finger sandwiches. “It’s a nice once in a while thing, but otherwise it screws up my workout routine.”

“This is magic food though,” Veth pointed out. “Does it really count?”

“Tastes the same, and feels the same in my stomach,” Beauregard said with a shrug.

“What are these tiny orange things?” Yasha asked as she eyed a canape.

“That would be salmon roe,” Fjord explained and when seeing Yasha’s befuddled reaction further explained, “fish eggs.”

“Tasty,” Yasha said, offering no more explanation on that as she popped it in her mouth.

“All we need now is a fancy place to sleep,” Jester said excitedly as she poured another cup of tea and tried that one. This tea was bright and citrus and with a strong floral note, that perfectly matched the lemon-poppy seed muffin and was smoothed by the lemon-vanilla frosting on top. “You guys have got to try this tea! I’ll get everyone a cup!”

“It tastes like flowers,” Veth said, doing that thing where it sounded like she was complaining but she really wasn’t.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Caduceus asked, smile sweet on his face. Yasha smiled too, but didn’t say a word.

_____________________________________________

In Jester’s nightmares, there was a different kind of feast.

The room itself was familiar, and Jester could almost feel like she shouldn’t be there but couldn’t remember why in the haze of the dream. There was a single window above the door, casting the glow of a red and violet twilight across the room that was cluttered with bottles and jars and strange books and drying herbs. The only other light was fat candles of yellow-beeswax, choked by glass and made dim, and the dying embers of a hearth. The table was set for two, and yet as Jester looked around she was the only one in the cramped little home. Even the ceiling cages swung empty and creaking amongst the wooden slots. Jester took a seat, and just as she did she saw her goblet sat in the center of the empty table.

Her goblet overflowed, and out of the spreading liquid came a menagerie of sweets. Jester set herself upon them all with a reckless abandon. A strange sludge in a crusty bowl ended up being blueberry soups with dollops of sweet cream, overturned cups ended up being creme brulee with glistening caramel crusted on the tops, casseroles full of bread pudding steaming with cinnamon and drizzled with butterscotch and topped with ice cream flecked with ice cream. There was a bouquet of flowers that filled the air with their sugary scent, that as Jester plucked a beautiful pink bloom melted into her mouth with the flavor of rosehip and fairy floss. Forks melted in between her fingers and she realized they were made of chocolate, and the placemats were now made of crunchy honeycomb. She bit into her glass only to realize it was made of shards of sugar flavored with mint and the liquid within like pressed and sweetened lemons and melons. She took more ravenous bites, filled her plate high and yet somehow treats continued to spring from that never-ending goblet-

The liquid from her goblet splashed and overflowed as it turned over under the weight and gushed out like a strange pulsing wound, dripping off the edges of the tables and onto Jester’s skirt and seeped in. She recoiled from the sensation, scurrying away as she swiped at it with her fingers. With her vision and the dim light she could see that the liquid was a oily black. The candles all flickered as if shuddered by a breeze, the smoke hazy and twisting as it tickled the low-hanging herbs that were drying from the ceiling. The liquid began to splatter onto the scratched and dusty floor, pitter-pattering at an ever-increasing rate.

“Now, now my dear,” a familiar croaking voice said as a large hand settled upon her shoulder, fingernails slicing past layers of her cloak. Jester could hear the cracking of dusty-joints and the lumbering crunch of her footsteps. “You have prepared such a feast for me.”

“I...uh…” Jester squeaked as she felt a too long finger mind her neck. She didn’t dare to move, afraid that such a movement would slit her own throat, but let Isharnai tip her chin up and back so Jester could see the witch hunched over her.

“Such a precious giving girl,” Isharnai cooed, and her strange face came into focus, dull green eyes searching Jester for some truth that Jester desperately didn’t want to admit. “So full of misery. What a treat you are.”

“I’m not,” Jester said, her heart pulsing quick and fast in her ears. Her fingers were slick with the black liquid now, it was up to her thighs now bunching and collecting her skirts and glueing them to her legs. But it was her fingers-suddenly she couldn’t move them, as if she had gone numb at the wrist. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t breathe as suddenly the panic overtook her. Where were her friends? Where had everyone gone-?

“We are friends. Friends don’t lie to each other,” Isharnai said, voice cruel with softness. “Now come, don’t you want your last cupcake?”

-Jester looked up to the table again and saw wilted flowers and cracked bowls and something bleeding-it was a heart and it was still beating and the whole home contracted and pulsed like it was a thing alive and in the center of it all there was a single cupcake that glistened with gold and-

What a horrible dream! The Traveler’s voice swept across her mind like the wind on a winding path. For a moment she felt like she was falling and yet she didn’t fear as the wind carried the scent of autumn. No need for this, sleep now Jester and know I am with you.

And so the color of her dreams changed, and she slipped into something safe.

____________________________

The girl behind the counter was a teenager, fresh faced and with her hair in twin braids. She had a dusting of freckles across her thin nose and smiled happily when Jester walked through the door of the little bakery in the nowhere town that they had stopped in for the night. It was bright and early the next morning, and Jester had snuck out apart from her friends in hopes of finding something that answered her prayers. The Traveler truly was with her in this endeavour.

"What can I get you this morning?"

"What do you have?"

"Would you like savory or sweet?"

"Sweet, always sweet," Jester said seriously, because sweets were no laughing matter at all.

"We have muffins, blueberry, cinnamon swirl, and cornbread. We also have cinnamon rolls, and we do have cupcakes."

"What kind of cupcakes?" Jester asked excitedly.

"We have a honey-apple cupcake, gingerbread cupcake, and a carrot cake cupcake. The carrot cake is our topseller."

"Carrot cake," Jester grumbled, feeling her nose scrunch. She knew that it was a popular flavor, but she just couldn't wrap her mind around a vegetable in a cake. But she did know from Beau's grumbles that she enjoyed carrot cake even though, as Caleb had pointed out, it was rather nerdy and old-fashioned of her. Beau had given him a solid punch in the arm at the teasing and had disagreed in the way she did where she wasn't really disagreeing but more arguing for the sake of arguing. "Alright, I'll take a dozen, but like a mixed dozen. Four of each flavor?"

"Absolutely, that'll be four silver."

Jester slid the girl six silver and smiled.

"You keep the change," Jester told her and watched as the girl's eyes widened and she nodded vigorously. The girl quickly packed up the cupcakes and tied the box with a string before handing it off to Jester. She smiled and thanked her again before heading off. Jester walked for a little bit, finding the apple tree just outside of the inn that they were saying. Carefully she set her box on the ground as she pulled out her own handkerchief and settled it amongst the roots. She carefully opened the box of cupcakes, careful not to jostle any of them. She lifted one out from the box, the honey-apple cupcake Jester assumed based off of the drizzle of honey that covered the swirl of vanilla buttercream.

“I thought we might share this,” Jester said as she crossed her legs, feeling the morning dew and the sunshine dappling her face as the trees shifted with a breeze. She lifted the cupcake to her lips and took a bite. She sighed at the flavor of the sweet floral honey infusing the cake with its buttery undertones and mellow vanilla crumble, the sharp flavor of the apple-filling that was syrupy and made decadent with brown sugar and cinnamon and the tang of lemon, and of course the melting buttercream frosting that dissipated like a vanilla cloud. Jester felt a hand touch hers, and a shoulder bump against her own.

“Thank you, Jester,” the Traveler said whispered and when Jester blinked there was a second bite taken out of her cupcake.

Jester laughed, and went to take another bite.

#critical role #critical role fanfiction #jester lavorre #5+1 fic #food descriptions galore #read with a snack

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softbens · 5 years

Text

Freak Like Me → Ben Hardy

pairing: ben x f!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+. slight exhibitionism.

prompt: a good girl who does bad things to you. what more could ben want?

“Dude! Go away, you’re annoying me.” Ben whined as you snickered once more. He was in the middle of a Mario Kart race. Actually, you both were. You and a couple of friends had set up a kickback at his, drinks and games were involved. You’d already finished in first and now you were messing with Ben. “Just because you’re way ahead, doesn’t mean you get to pick on me.” he pouted. He was peeved already, he was originally in first place. But you had sent the flying blue shell his way and pulled through.

“Hey, hey, chill. I’m only joking,” you pinched his cheek, earning his swatting hand as he continued to whine as he dodged a green shell.

“Stop it, I’m gonna fucking choke you out if you keep doing that!” Ben lightly threatened with grunt. You couldn’t help but flutter your lashes at this, which he couldn’t see.

“Oh yeah? You promise?” you were only half-joking. His friends chuckled beside him as they found their way over the finish line. They were amused as to how you two called yourself friends. Maybe you weren’t the best of friends, but you and him were pretty close. The flirting and bantering almost convinced them you were dating.

The blondie finished in last place, ending the grand prix. The group that was already playing began to disperse, giving up the remotes to those who were waiting. Shouts could be heard from the other side of the room due to a game of Jenga happening. Ben had followed his friends, joining the small group around the foosball table. He let his eyes linger on you as you slipped away to the kitchen.

You hummed to yourself as you poured yourself a cup of the jungle juice you and Ben had made the night prior. It was incorporated with a lot of fruity, light liquors and juices as well as chopped kiwis, limes, and strawberries.

“So, what’s up with you and Ben?” you turned and saw Andrew, the guy who placed 3rd in your Mario Kart session. You moved to the side as he grabbed a cup of jungle juice for himself.

“Nothing, why?” you munched on a strawberry as he rolled his eyes, clearly disapproving of your answer. “What??”

“You can’t tell me there’s nothing going on between you two, I mean, the guy’s had his eyes on you the entire night.” as if on cue, your eyes flickered toward Ben. And Andrew was right. Out of habit, you gnawed at your bottom lip, looking back at your drink.

“There’s nothing going on Andrew,” you told him as you sipped on your drink. “We’re just friends.” he stared at you blankly before blinking a few times and shaking his head.

“You really just okay’d him to choke you, and there’s nothing going on?”

“Choke me out. Meaning kill me, which I’m fine with.” you chuckled nervously, furrowing your eyebrows at him, hoping he’d pick up on your humor. And he did, but he wanted you to say what he wanted to hear. What was true. You could feel your face heat up, you blamed it on the alcohol c it always made you flush. You could feel the alcohol running through your veins and taking over your senses.

“Y/N,” he said sternly with a knowing look. You couldn’t believe this was happening. Never in a million years did you think this would happen.

“What is it that you want me to say, huh?” you shrugged your shoulders. “That he’s a good guy who happens to be really fucking attractive and I wouldn’t mind him spitting in my mouth?” you tried to catch the letters before they formed into words but they were already out of your mouth.

“Shit, that’s not what I was expecting,” snorted Andrew. “I was expecting a ‘maybe I like him’ but damn girl, you into that freak shit?” a part of you wanted to be ashamed for saying such words out loud. That was sober you. Intoxicated you on the othet hand...

“And what about it?” you raised an eyebrow as you rose your cup. Andrew did the same, laughing at how confident you seemed. After clinking cups, you downed whatever remained in your cup, taking the fruit too.

The night seemed to go by like a blur. The party moved outside in Ben’s backyard. A bonfire was lit. How no one lit their drunkselves on fire baffled you. Almost everyone was intoxicated and/or couldn’t be trusted with fire.

You were swinging around Ben, giggling as you danced with him. The music was a pretty mellow r&b genre. Which was a transition from the trashy trap music that had been playing inside. He held you at an arm’s distance, not wanting you to fall.

“Pretty girl,” Ben lightly chirped, nearing his nose against the side of your cheek, his lips ghosting over your skin. Your jaw fell slack at the sudden movement. He was so close to you. He was drunk, no less than you were; so he definitely didn’t mind being affectionate with you.

“Mmm’hi baby,” your hand grabbed at his arm, clutching it tightly as he reeled you into his chest as he fell back onto the outdoor lounging chair. You landed right in his lap, turning your body so your legs hovered across his lap. You couldn’t help but snuggle and curl into him with a small giggle. Your eyes lingered on his hand as it slid up your bare thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. And he left it there. He was tempted to shove his hand up your skirt. And he would have, everyone else was too preoccupied to even notice you two. He needed to hear you say you wanted it.

“You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” his voice murmured. You took the opportunity to flutter your lashes at him with a questioning glance, your eyes slightly widening to make them look more doe-like. “About me choking you out?” it was like all seriousness had seeped into your bones. He already had you at his mercy.

“What about it?” you blinked blankly at him, not sure what your emotions should be. Your heart was racing.

“I was thinking about how sweet your face would look with my hand wrapped around your throat.” he glanced down, letting his fingertips brush against your collarbones. He quickly slid his hand up your soft skin, his hand cupping the side of your neck. He hadn’t applied any pressure, just resting it there. You gave him a challenging look. “Andrew told me you were into that type of shit. I mean, I’m already into you, no doubt about it,” he dryly chuckled as he slurred on his words. “But having a freaky girl? That’s a bonus. When he told me, I knew I had to have you.” at this, you were stunned. Of course Andrew meddled, of course Andrew told Ben; thank you Andrew, for this.

You pictured it. You gasping with your back arching from his bed, his hand tightly gripping your throat as your nipple was between his teeth. Oh, the sounds you’d like to make for him. A glimpse of his fingers being shoved into your mouth as he pushed himself deep into you, his raspy, deep groans. The thought of the sounds you’d like to hear from him had you more weak than your inital thought.

You couldn’t take it. Ben was going to ask you if you were okay, you’d been so quiet, he wasn’t sure if he crossed his boundaries. You cupped his scarlet-blushed cheek in your small hands and kissed him. He grunted, hand slightly tightening around your throat. You purred against his lips, rubbing your thighs together.

Without noticing, you’d trapped Ben’s hand in between your legs. With a flick of his hand, he had your legs parted again. He could feel the sticky heat forming further up your thighs. He nipped at your bottom lip, a whimper escaped your lips. You wanted him to take you right here.

“You want me? Come and get me,” you hummed amusingly, hoping off his lap.

Jesus, you must’ve wanted to be punished. And he liked it.

#this has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time and i never finished it #ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy smut #my writing

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kiwikakumei · 2 months

Text

bit of a slap to the face when coworker laments that she's being a bother to her large group of friends; I tell her that she's got worth and her friends love her and she tells me "yeah! I do! Thanks for the comparison to you!!"

like.

dude I'm already in self hate city already, please realize what you just said to me.

#quiet kiwi chirps #must be nice to be respected and thought about endearingly cant be me

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girls-scenarios · 5 years

Text

Ocean Muse

Idol: Miya (GWSN)

Prompt: This is probably pretty unique but can I request a fic for GWSN's Miya with a female reader? The reader works as a rescue diver and Miya is an artist. Miya surprises the reader with a painting of sea life + her diving and Miya confesses at the same time? Feel free to change up what you need to lol. A fluff piece, non-idol!AU. If you do this one thank you! And make sure to take care of yourselves this blog is amazing!

Writer: Admin Kiwi

A/N: I love GWSN, they seriously have no bad songs and are all super sweet and fun girls. I really recommend you all check them out! They also upload covers and short videos of themselves that have English subs, so you can get to know them well! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

♡ Tip Jar♡

It was frustration that originally drove Miya to that cliff by the sea that overlooked the beach. For a month, she’d holed herself up in her studio, working to no avail. Hundreds of pieces of paper and canvases littered the floor, painted and then trashed out of frustration. During her most successful year yet, she’d hit a wall: she could paint nothing she was satisfied with and had no inspiration for anything new. Frustration took over, and it was that frustration that led her to pack up her things and head to Jeju, ready to give up forever.

Jeju was exactly what she needed. It was summer, and the air was warm, kissing her skin and relaxing her sore muscles. The picturesque scenery and the peaceful atmosphere even encouraged her to pick up her paintbrushes again, ebbing the anger and annoyance from her shoulders. But it was the cliff that truly changed everything.

She found it while she was out driving, looking for a good spot to sit and relax, and perhaps even paint or draw a little something. It was located near a busy beach and, further down, a dock, where fishermen were always going in and out. But up on the cliff, it was quiet, the wind carrying up the faint sounds below. There was a small bench located near the edge, as well as a metal fence, and that was why she stopped her car and walked over. The air was clear and salty, the sun warm, and somewhere nearby, birds chirped. Down below, she could see families coming and going, and it made her smile.

This was the perfect spot.

She settled down on the ground near the fence and pulled out her sketchbook but left it closed on her lap, breathing in the clear air and closing her eyes. When she opened them again and looked down, something near the cliff bottom caught her eye, and she leaned over to look. Divers, all in black diving gear, were walking out of the water. She had heard about the female divers here, but this didn’t seem to be the same thing. In fact, they seemed to have some sort of health or emergency symbol on their suits. Fascinated, she watched as the group began to take off their equipment and masks, talking among themselves.

As she watched, a gentle wind brought a laugh up from below that seized her heart as the wind ruffled her hair. You pulled off your mask and revealed your face, knocking the breath out of her as you ran your fingers through your wet hair and smiled, saying something to your friend that she couldn’t hear. Despite how far away you were, Miya couldn’t take her eyes off of you. There was something so... alluring about you. About the way you skillfully took apart the equipment with a smile on your face, all while seeming to lead the team. She’d never believed in love at first sight, but what else could this be?

When you walked off towards the pier, carrying your equipment, the spell was broken and she could breath again. Turning around, she stumbled back to where she’d left her art supplies and quickly opened her sketchbook, sitting down on the bench. Your smiling face still ingrained in her mind, she began to draw, full of inspiration for the first time in months.

The sketch turned out wonderful, a still of you looking out towards the ocean and smiling, and she hung it up in her new, makeshift work space in the studio apartment she was renting. A thrill rushed through her veins again, and she itched to paint you, to get a closer look at your smile, and to see you again.

So she ended up back at that cliff, her sketchbook in hand, eyes trained on the sea. She had a reason to paint again.

Sometimes, you showed up on the beach. Other times, she waited only for you not to appear. Through her watching, Miya started to understand your schedule and your job. You were a rescue diver, that much she’d gathered from overhearing your conversations when the wind was right, and this beach was a practice site where you trained new divers, which explained why you weren’t there every day. Her sketchbook filled up with drawings of you: you coming out of the water, you laughing with your trainees, you diving into the ocean. Alongside those drawings were sketches of ocean life, the beach, and the view from the cliff. Everything seemed to inspire her now, and she loved it.

Eventually, she worked up the nerve to go down to the beach one Monday when she knew you’d be at the beach. Sure enough, you showed up thirty minutes after she did, leading your team towards your normal spot. She watched in awe as you suited up for the dive, taking note of all of the different types of equipment in her sketchbook. This close, she could hear you explaining them all, so she jotted down notes, wanting to make sure her paintings were as realistic as possible. It was interesting, too, how much work went into diving. It fascinated her that people could remember all the rules.

When you went underwater, she busied herself with drawing a group of seagulls and a two nearby fighting crabs until you resurfaced once again. As you chatted with your group and took off the equipment, she took a deep breath and psyched herself up. She had to talk to you. It was now or never.

Thankfully, you always had a habit of walking behind your group, so she wouldn’t have to stop you in front of everyone. As you picked up the last of your things, the rest of the group already going ahead, she carefully approached you.

“Um, hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but could I ask you something?”

You looked up, a bit startled, before smiling, standing up straight and nodding. “Hello, and sure, I don’t mind!”

“Can I ask what you guys are doing out here? With the diving, I mean.” She felt embarrassed as she spoke, her cheeks heating up. This was dumb. What was she even doing?

“Oh, I’m training some of my trainee rescue divers! The water is deep in this area so not many families come over here, but it’s still a relatively safe dive spot, so it’s a good training area.” You tucked your wet hair behind your ear, looking at her curiously. “I hope we aren’t getting in the way of anything.”

“Oh, no!” She waved her hands quickly before gesturing to her sketchbook. “I’m just an artist and I’ve been coming to this beach for inspiration. Since I see you here a lot, I started to get curious. It’s really fascinating to watch you dive.” Did that sound weird? She was sure, but you didn’t seem to think so, your smile widening.

“Oh wow, I’ve never met an artist before, but I’m glad you find diving interesting!”

“Can I ask what a rescue diver does?”

You thought for a minute. “Well, we do a lot of things. A lot of times we get called in to help with sinking boats but really we’re called for any water-based accidents. And sometimes we help with collecting things from sunken boats or cars that might help if there’s an investigation.”

“Wow,” Miya said, eyes wide in awe. “You have a really important job. Isn’t it stressful?”

“To be honest, yes,” you said with a little laugh and nod. “But it’s my passion so I don’t mind it.” You held out your hand. “I’m (Y/N) by the way.”

“I’m Miya.” She shook your hand and smiled. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Can I ask you something in return?”

That took her by surprise, and she raised her eyebrows. “Oh, sure! Since I asked you so many, it’s only fair.”

“What do you do? As an artist, I mean. I’m not really familiar with that kind of stuff.”

“Mostly I paint, but I like to do sketches before I start my paintings. Especially if I’m painting something real. Like the ocean, for example. I want everything to be right.” She shrugged. “It’s nothing impressive but I enjoy it.”

“No, I think it’s impressive! I can’t paint so I’m always amazed with what artists can do. I’d love to see your work sometime, Miya.” You smiled brightly, and internally, Miya panicked. How was she supposed to explain a sketchbook full of, well, you? Swallowing, she quickly flipped through the book, finally landing on the sketch of the crabs from earlier.

“Here’s one of the sketches I did today. It’s nothing special, though, it was a quick drawing.” Her cheeks flushed and she wished she could show you something better. But you, on the other hand, let out a little gasp when you looked at the page.

“What are you talking about? That’s a great sketch! If this is just a quick drawing, your paintings must be amazing!”

She blushed even more, laughing nervously. “I don’t know about that.”

“I’m sure they’re wonderful.” You checked the watch you had on under your sleeve. “Hey, I’m off after this, so if you want, why don’t we grab some lunch? You can tell me more about your art, and I can explain more about diving to you.”

Was this really happening? Miya felt a little dizzy but she grinned, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. “I’d like that.”

“Great! Then let’s meet at the noodle place up by the pier. I have to get dressed, but I know the owner there. She’ll give us a good deal.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, hardly believing what she was saying. Out of all the things she’d been expecting to happen, eating out with you was not one of them. But she wasn’t about to complain.

Despite the difference in jobs, it turned out that the two of you actually had a lot in common. You had the same music tastes, the same tastes in food, and the same favorite books. And, of course, both of you loved the beach. It was easy to chat and laugh with you, because you felt like a friend already.

When she left the noddle shop by the pier, Miya had her muse’s number in her phone and a smile on her face. She couldn’t wait to get back to work.

“Can I sketch you?” This was probably something she should have asked you before, but it was only now that she had the courage. She was sitting on the side of a boat, her legs dangling over the side and arms resting on the metal railing, watching as you got ready for yet another practice dive. When you smiled at her, she was overcome with affection and courage. The words just came out on their own.

“Me?” Your cheeks colored as you pulled your face mask up to look at her. “I-I mean, are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Whenever I see you getting ready, it gives me a lot of inspiration.” She had never seen you flustered before, and it was kind of cute, making her smile as she watched you busy yourself with tightening your vest.

“I don’t mind it,” you said, voice soft as you pulled the mask back down to hide your face. You were ready to dive now. “I’m flattered, actually.”

“Thank you. I’ll show you the sketch when you come back up.”

Whenever you jumped into the water, Miya got a rush of adrenaline, as if she was the one in the suit. Your head bobbed back above water for a moment and when you looked up at her, she couldn’t help but to smile and reach her hand out to you.

“Good luck.”

You didn’t say anything in return, your mask and oxygen mouth piece already in place, but you reached up to touch her hand, giving it a little squeeze before pulling away and giving her a thumbs up. Then, you were underwater, and she watched for as long as she could see you before you disappeared into the deep blue, leaving her with a pounding heart and a pencil in hand.

She could always tell when you’d had a long day. You would text her late in the evening, asking if she wanted to go get late dinner or meet up at a bar to chat. Sometimes, you would even invite her over, or she would, on occasion, invite you over to her place (after desperately cleaning up, of course). Your texts would be a little shorter than usual, and once the two of you got closer, you started to include little sad faces. It was cute, and she found herself doodling them in the corners of her pages.

On long days, you just wanted someone to chat with, so that you could forget the events of the day. She always made time to go out, putting off her art in order to meet up at your choice of a place. It was a little open-air bar and seafood place that became your go-to. From the benches outside, the two of you could see the beach. A light wind blew through every night and dark waves lapped against the sand and rocky cliff sides, providing a soothing background noise while the stars shined brightly above, twinkling as the two of you quietly talked, ate, and drank. Sometimes, it was cold, and the two of you huddled together for warmth. Other times, it was warm enough that the bench was hot to the touch.

Tonight was a cold night, so it didn’t surprise Miya when you leaned your head on her shoulder, letting out a sigh. The wind played with her hair and whipped against her face, but the noodles she had were warm, and she touched her hands to the bowl, warming her skin.

“Hey, Miya?” Your voice was light and airy. She figured you were already a little tipsy as she turned her head slightly, only to find your face inches from her own. You were looking at her with wide eyes, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Y-yes?” She managed to get out. You let out another sigh and turned away to look up at the stars.

“What do you think happens when we die?” Your question caught her off guard, and she froze, not knowing how to answer. You shook your head, still leaning on her shoulder. “Never mind. I’m sorry. That was a heavy question.”

She took a deep breath, then reached over to gently put her hand over yours. Deep inside, she knew why you were asking that question, and she wished she could make it all better. “All you can do is your best, (Y/N).”

For a moment, you were silent. Steam curled up from your untouched noodles. “I guess you’re right.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Once again, you shook your head, sitting up straight. “Not really. But thank you for the offer.” You stood from the bench and she watched as you walked over to the railing that separated the eating area from the road and rested your arms there. “Sometimes, I wonder why I do this job. Especially on days like this.” You tilted your head back and looked up at the sky. Your hair caught in the wind and your eyes fluttered closed as you breathed in the ocean air, half in the shadows cast by buildings and half illuminated by the mosquito lights and the stars.

“You do it because you’re passionate and you love to help people.” Miya paused, trying to find the right words. “Sometimes you can’t fight fate. But you have more successes than you do failures. You’re an inspiration to me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You turned back to her and smiled, a soft, sad smile, and there, with your head framed by the stars and the ocean lapping at the beach behind you, you looked almost ethereal. “Thank you, Miya. I always feel better when I talk to you.”

This was a moment she wanted to ingrain in her mind forever, so she took in the lighting and the way you looked, etching the memory into her brain. “I’m always here for you when you need me.”

You stepped back to the bench and let out a long breath, body falling into Miya’s and your shoulders sagging. She caught and held you, hugging you close, and you seemed to relax a bit in her arms, eyes closing once again. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“No, I’m the lucky one,” she said, looking out at the ocean. You chuckled and she swallowed thickly, closing her own eyes. If only you knew how truthful she was being.

“Come on, let me teach you how to dive.” You were grinning widely, as if you weren’t proposing the scariest thing Miya could possibly think of. She could feel the blood drain from her face as she stepped away from the boat and back onto the pier, slowly shaking her head.

“I-I don’t know about that.” It was no secret that she was easily scared, but diving was a whole other level of terrifying. Even with all the equipment, the idea of being deep underwater made her heart drop. “I mean, I’ve never done anything like it before.”

“I’m a certified trainer,” you said with a laugh, reaching out your hand. “I won’t let anything bad happen. I promise.” When she didn’t take it right away, you raised your eyebrows. “Do you not trust me?” Your voice was playful, as if you were teasing her, and she groaned, taking your hand.

“I do trust you, but I’m not sure I want to be underwater.”

“Then how about this.” You pulled her onto the boat, the one you usually used when going out diving. It seemed much more intimidating today than it was when Miya just went out to watch. “We don’t have to go very deep. We’ll go to a more shallow area with roping to follow and I’ll stay right by your side the entire time. If you ever get scared and want to surface, all you have to do is give me this signal.” You pointed up, and she nodded, her heart pounding.

“I’m just really nervous,” she said, pressing her hand to her heart, and you smiled.

“That’s normal. I was nervous on my first dive too.”

The boat began to move and Miya swallowed, looking out at the deep blue ocean. Then, she took a deep breath and looked back at you. “Can I ask you to do something for me in return for me diving with you?”

“Sure.”

“I need photos of ocean life for painting. Do you know where to get a waterproof camera or something?”

You laughed. “I already have one of those, so we can do that today! Come on, let’s get you suited up.”

Miya sighed and let you tug her over to where the equipment sat. There was no way she could get out of this now.

The ocean was beautiful. Miya had seen plenty of documentaries about the ocean and underwater exploring, but seeing it up close somehow made it even more beautiful. When she first dove in, the water was cloudy and it was hard to see. But then, as the water cleared, she found the rope and grabbed on, looking around in awe. Already, she could see fish. She didn’t know the types of fish, but there were plenty, schools of them quickly swimming away from her. Where the rope sat, algae and seaweed was growing, and further up ahead, corals.

There were so many wonderful colors that it almost made her forget all of her fears. She studied everything closely: the green seaweed and the purple coral growths on the rocky sea bottom, the striped fish, the green, slippery eel, blue and red corals and hidden crevices with crabs inside. There was even some pink and tans mixed in, making a rainbow paradise under the ocean.

By the time she resurfaced, her heart was pounding for a different reason. That trip had led her to an artists paradise, and although she wasn’t sure she’d want to do it again, she was so glad she’d agreed to give it a try.

“That was amazing. You see that every day?”

You beamed and shook the water from your hair, looking proud. “More or less. It’s usually further out so there’s bigger fish and stuff, but yeah.”

“You have an incredible job.” Miya gasped and laid back on the deck, looking up at the clear blue sky. “But I’m not sure I could do it. You’re incredible, actually.”

Laughing, you laid down beside her. “It takes a lot of energy, but I love it.”

Turning her head, Miya looked at you, feeling her heart swell with affection. You looked so happy and satisfied and beautiful, and her feelings bubbled up, threatening to burst out of her chest. She wanted to say “I love you,” but she forced it down, looked up at the sky, and closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready to confess. Yet.

Painting was a slow process, because Miya wanted it to be perfect. All of the sketches, all of the photos, and all of the colors and moments she’d collected over her time in Jeju with you combined to make her final painting. Purples, blues, pinks, reds, blacks, and greens swirled together as she tried to recreate her feelings: the thrills, the ups and downs, the love, and the happiness she felt around you. She locked herself in her studio and painted with a passion she hadn’t known in months, pouring her all onto the canvas until, finally, it was perfect. It took her two weeks to finish the painting.

It took another week before she worked up the courage to give it to you.

-Hey, when can you come over? I have something I want to show you.

-I can come over now! Is that okay?

It was now or never. Miya took a deep breath and looked at the painting one last time. It sat on its stand in the middle of the room, everything else cleaned up and put away around it. It was as perfect as it could be, so she placed a white sheet over the top, and busied herself making sure everything else was perfect.

By the time you got to her studio, she had changed clothes, now in a fresh pair of jeans and one of her nicer button-up shirts with her hair perfectly in place. She was so nervous her hands were sweating, so she quickly wiped them on the jeans before taking another breath and opening the door.

“Hello there.” Your smile made her heart skip a beat. You were also dressed nicely, at least nicer than you usually dressed, looking like you were about to go into town. “Have you finished with whatever piece of art made you disappear on me?”

She flushed and rubbed at the back of her neck, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, I tend to disappear when I’m really focused on something. I didn’t mean to ignore you or anything.”

You laughed, touching her arm and making butterflies appear in her stomach. “It’s okay, I was just teasing you. I’m excited to see what you created!”

Her mouth felt dry, but she knew she had to do this. So she smiled and closed the door behind you, gesturing towards where the painting was. “Come in, then, and I’ll show you!” She led you to the front of the stand and then left you there, moving beside the painting and raising her eyebrows. “Are you ready?”

You nodded, bouncing a bit on your feet. “So ready!”

This was it. All of her months of Jeju had led up to this moment. All of her months of sketching, the time she spent taking photos, the laughter she shared with you, and the inspiration she’d felt since she first saw you, up on that cliff. After a moment of hesitation, her nerves making her hands shake slightly, she pulled off the sheet.

There, on the canvas, was a painting of you. You were diving, heading for the seabed, swimming as gracefully as a mermaid. Around you were fish, corals, seaweed, and plenty of other sea life, all of the things she’d seen when diving with you. A rope ran along the seabed, and on the sleeve of your wet suit was your rescue diver symbol, proud in the deep blue of the ocean. A crab looked up to you, raising a claw in greeting, and bubbles gently floated up towards the surface, some of them curved in the shape of a heart. The colors of the ocean swirled together with care, bringing the entire painting together and pointing back to the most important part of the painting: you.

You gasped, bringing your hands up to cover your mouth as your eyes grew wide. For a moment, you stood still, before you moved forward to look closer at the painting, blinking away tears.

“Oh my god, Miya,” you said softly, voice breaking ever so slightly as you looked from her to the painting. “It’s... It’s so beautiful. I’m so touched.”

“It’s for you,” she said with a smile, making you gasp again, waving a hand.

“No, I couldn’t take it, really. You worked so hard on it, there’s no way!”

“I worked hard on it so that I could be proud when I gave it to you.” She wet her lips, clasping her hands together. “When I came here, I was totally lost. I couldn’t paint anything and I had no inspiration. But then I saw you, and that all changed. I had never seen anyone I was so fascinated by. You inspired me in a way that I hadn’t been inspired in a long time. I could draw you forever. You really became my muse.” She took a deep breath again before continuing. “Then we got to know each other and.... I realized that I really liked you. With you I experienced so many new things and felt so many emotions. I felt passion again. All because of you.”

“Miya....” You stepped closer to her and she quickly continued before she could lose her nerve.

“(Y/N), I like you, much more than as a friend. And I’m giving you this painting to let you know my feelings. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, but I wanted to tell you.”

You smiled, and before she could register what was happening, you were wrapping your arms around her in a tight hug. “How could I not love you, Miya? You’re incredible. I was hoping you felt the same way.” At your words, she let out a sigh of relief and hugged you back, making you laugh softly. “I’ll treasure that painting forever. I promise. I love it.”

“I’m so glad.” She felt a bit like crying, but smiled instead, pulling away to look at it. “I made sure it was perfect. Just like you.”

“I’m far from perfect,” you said, shaking your head, “but the painting is absolutely perfect. I can’t believe I’m dating such a talented artist.”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. She’d been wanting to hear those words for a long time. “Oh.”

A playful smile came to your lips, one that she recognized well now. “We are dating now, right?”

“I don’t remember ever asking you to start dating me,” she countered, just as playful, making you laugh again. She loved that sound.

“Then I’ll ask. Miya, will you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Great, now we’re dating!” You tilted your head, smile softening. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

Miya was reminded of that day, the first day she really met you, with the tide rolling in and the sun high in the sky, sand in-between her toes and her heart in her throat. She might have already been in love then. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Can I kiss you?”

She laughed, leaning her head against yours, her heart overflowing with happiness and affection. It was desperation that first drove her to Jeju. But it was love that was driving her to stay.

“Always.”

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