#sam DOES sound like he's from the west coast because that's the place

[valleydean]

i know we all laugh about jensen and misha making their voices much lower and grittier for dean and cas but we really do not give enough credit to all three of them for the subtle accent work they did on that show because they really don’t sound anything like themselves apart from the rare occasions when jared’s accent slips out and sam sounds like a Good Ol’ Texan and when cas gets mad sometimes and says a word or two that sounds like a New Englander Ready To Throw Down

[thran-duils]

Use All of Me (P.13)

Title: Use All Of Me (Part Thirteen) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Steve Rogers. The Avengers are heroes saving the world but in this AU, they are also permitted by the powers in charge to have less than favorable business underneath their guise of mere superheroes. Steve and Tony are at the helm, keeping their empire’s wealth in check, both devious and perilous if crossed. Steve takes a liking to the reader at a party and it may be her undoing to her autonomy choosing to go home with him. Words: 3,575 Warnings: Dark AF, angst, emotional/mental abuse, smut, breeding, death

Part Twelve || Part Fourteen || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

A branch snapped out in the woods and you turned quickly towards the noise. It was dark outside still, the sun just starting to rise. You had been unable to sleep since 3:30am and instead of tossing and turning that could wake Yua up, you had come out onto the upper balcony with a book and a blanket.

The only sound you heard now was your heart pounding in your ears, worried that you were going to see a shadow step out from behind the trees in the shape of Steve’s broad shoulders.

But the woods were quiet, no looming figures. Slowly, you relaxed, the tension leaving your muscles. You could not see anything, so you nestled back down, opening the book again. After a few minutes, the sound was forgotten, and you were immersed in your book.

When you finally came back inside, Yua was up by then. You walked quietly by Natalie’s still sleeping form and made your way down the stairs carefully. Yua was already at the sink making herself some coffee. She eyed you as you walked into the kitchen.

“God, look how big you are,” Yua said groggily, eyeing your stomach.

“Good morning to you too. And yes, I can feel it,” you jested. “26 weeks.”

She laughed, “I mean honestly. Since this all started out… it’s like you swallowed a volleyball. It just hits me sometimes, still catches me off guard.”

“Soon to be a basketball, I’m sure.”

“Or bigger.”

“Probably bigger,” you admitted, grabbing a glass to get yourself some water.

“Well, you’re not that size yet. So, where is my breakfast? Cause you look like you’ve been up for a while. Why isn’t it ready?” Yua joked.

Yawning, you said, “Well, ma’am, I was actually going to go back to bed after I got something to drink. I’ve been up since 3:30. I couldn’t sleep. And now it’s catching all up to me. But if you would like, I could make you eggs.”

She waved you off, “I was just kidding. Go back to sleep. It’s still early enough! Do you want me to put a plate of food in the fridge for you for whenever you do wake up?”

“That would be nice,” you said before taking a large gulp of the water. You placed the half empty water glass back on the counter and said, “I’ll have that later too. Don’t want to drink too much at one time. The babies have declared a competition on who can kick my bladder the hardest.”

<><><>

Back in New York, Clint looked way too proud of himself as he strode into the room, but it caught Steve’s attention because that could mean only one thing. And that thing was going to bode well for him.

He was halfway out of his seat as Clint approached, a wide grin tearing at the sides of his mouth.

“I think I got it,” he said, throwing the few pictures he had printed out upstairs on the desk in front of Steve. Steve sat back down, pulling the photos towards him eagerly. “I saw that one of Natalie’s cousins had some photos up in the woods. I couldn’t get a location on them because I wasn’t friends with him. So, I got Shuri to make up a hack for me to gain access to an account. I chose one of the aunts, disguising it as a money scheme – she fell for it, clicked on the link. I was able to gain access to her account and was able to access more of the photos on his page. He’s got a cabin in New Hampshire.”

Steve was looking at the photos of the family outside their cabin.

“If she isn’t on the trains,” Clint said, excitedly. “Where are we now with the cameras? The west coast? We should have seen her by now if she was on the Amtrak.” He pointed eagerly at the pictures and said, “This might be it. It wouldn’t cost them anything to stay in and it’s probably secluded. It’s not too far but it’s far enough out of state.”

<><><>

Wanda was leaning back on the couch, flipping through a magazine. She had been watching the cameras for most of the early morning, but Tony had arrived around 6:30am, wanting to try different locations so she got up and left, giving him the space he needed.

The phone on the desk rang nearby, drawing her attention instantly, and she sat up, craning her neck to look at it. The phone was the number they had given out on the ads to call if anyone had any information on Y/N’s whereabouts. Tony’s gaze was locked on it too and before he could react, she was there, picking it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling about the missing persons ad.”

Wanda’s breath caught for a moment before she breathed, “Yes?”

“For Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Yes,” Wanda said more impatiently.

“Saw a woman like the photo at one of the cabins up here as I was on a walk real early this morning, right as the sun was coming up. She was sitting on the porch, very pregnant. I didn’t get a great look at her, didn’t want to gawk, you know. Plus, I think I was on their property, so I was probably trespassing, but I was following a doe—”

“Where was it at?” Wanda asked, cutting him off in the politest voice she could muster.

<><><>

“Steve!” Wanda called, taking the stairs by two. Steve called from the community room and she walked briskly, practically breaking into a jog. When she entered the room, she saw Clint, Sam, and him were looking at some photos on the table. Tearing her attention away from that, she said in a rush, “We maybe got something. A man named Will called about it, saying he thinks he saw Y/N.”

“In New Hampshire?”

“Y-Yes?” Wanda said completely confused at how he knew that.

Clint looked beside himself and Steve demanded, “Where at? Did you get a location?”

Wanda told him the address and Steve pulled his phone out, typing it into the maps app. He slammed his hand down on the desk in triumph, standing quickly. He thrust the phone into Clint’s hands. Sam was trying to peer over Clint’s shoulders to get a look too.

“That’s the same damn cabin,” Steve exclaimed, hardly able to contain his excitement. Wanda took notice of the pictures now, leaning over the table to look at them herself.

“Are we going now?” Sam asked just as Steve breezed past him. His eyes swept to Clint and said, “I guess so then.”

“Ha, teamwork,” Clint smiled, squeezing Wanda on the shoulder encouragingly as he walked by, rushing to follow Steve.

<><><>

The team was quick in their assemble upon arrival, Bucky and Natasha having to travel to get there which set Steve on edge because he had been ready immediately in his black suit, anxiousness coursing through him. He was pacing in front of the facility, having a hard time containing the hope blooming. His eyes were set on the tree line, wanting to just get into the car and drive to the address, scoop Y/N up and bring her back home.

He was not going to make the same mistakes he had that had let her slip through his fingers. If he could help it, she would never step foot off that property without him again. He would make sure she learned that lesson as soon as he got her home.

Tony met him at the edge of the entrance patio, not suited up. He was staying behind to monitor from there and he surprised Steve with a small drone, holding it out to him.

“You should not go in there guns blazing before you get sights on her or something to be absolutely sure. Use this. You don’t need to be barging into some random pregnant person’s cabin. Not a good look, not good press. Especially since you’ve got it out there now that you are looking for her. This drone is quiet, but it’s not silent so don’t fly too close or they’ll hear it and it’ll blow your whole covert cover.”

“You mean hovering above the place in a plane isn’t going to do that?”

“You’re not taking a plane, jackass,” Tony retorted, and Steve smirked in response. “Park down the road. You can go in on foot.” Steve thanked him, taking the drone. Tony ran his eyes up and down Steve and asked, “Was it really necessary to get up in the suit?”

“Can’t exactly show up in slacks. Just in case things get squirrelly,” Steve responded.

“’Squirrelly’,” Tony chortled. “Y/N will hardly be able to run.” Steve’s only response to that with a slight smile of acknowledgement. Tony stepped closer and said, “I got something else too. Of course, they say it doesn’t exist because the general public already has an issue with frothing at the mouth with conspiracy theories of the government tracking them. People honestly suffer from grandiosity in this country.” He noticed the impatient look on Steve’s face and apologized, “Sorry. Soap box. How do you feel about a GPS chip?” Steve’s eyes widened in surprise and Tony back tracked quickly. “Right. We can talk about that when she gets back home, safe and sound. I’ve just wanted to try out the new model and she seems like the perfect candidate, perfect circumstance. We’ll chat when you’re back. Don’t forget.”

Tony clapped Steve on the shoulder before walking back towards the door to the elevator.

<><><>

The trip up north was taking longer than Steve wanted it to, his fingers drumming impatiently on his thigh as he watched the trees go by. The thought that Y/N would somehow get tipped off and bolt before he got there was eating away at him. He was watching his phone anxiously, seeing them get closer and closer to where the cabin should be.

When Clint pulled off on the highway at what should be the end of the road that would lead to the cabin, Steve threw the door open and stepped outside. He was ready to let the drone go, flying it towards the direction of where the cabin was in a matter of a few moments, the only pause in the effort being from the drone having to start up. Steve was watching the viewing screen of the drone with intensity as it hovered over the trees, keeping an eye peeled as he followed the gravel road. The rest of the team was waiting around the SUV. Bucky leaned against the side, tapping his foot, trying to expel some of the pent-up adrenaline that everyone was garnering, knowing this needed to be executed without injury or incident.

The cabin was there at the end and Steve leaned forward in anticipation seeing the car.

“That looks like the car model,” Tony said over his earpiece. He was able to access the drone’s camera was well back at the facility. “Zoom in a bit to the license plate.” Steve did as he asked and Tony breathed, “Bingo.”

“Alright,” Steve said far more calmly than he felt. “That’s good enough for me.” He walked back towards the open back door of the SUV, walking up and placing the screen just inside. “The cabin is about half a mile away. Clint, stay here with the car and be ready to come up when we are ready to go. I don’t want Y/N to have to walk back down the driveway. Nat, Sam… you’re with me at the front. Buck, take the back of the cabin. Don’t shoot anyone unless I tell you to.”

“Taking the fun out of things,” Bucky halfheartedly joked.

<><><>

Stretching out on the bed, your toes curled. A sigh of contentment left your lips as your eyes opened, blinking away your sleep. When your vision focused, you saw the clock said it was almost 11:00am. You had managed to fall back asleep around 7:00am and you felt better now that you had gotten some more sleep. You could barely detect Yua and Natalie speaking in low tones, more than likely trying to avoid waking you up.

The serenity was shattered at the loud bang from on the first floor and you heard Yua scream in alarm. You sat up with difficulty just as the door from the balcony burst open. You jolted to the side, holding your stomach protectively.

Your heart rate slowed only for a moment upon recognizing the man who burst in was Bucky. When his cerulean eyes landed on you, gun pointed in your direction, your heart rate blew past normal, your breath quick.

“Bucky?” you got out in a gasp.

He relaxed ever so slightly, his eyes softening at the sight of you. His gun was no longer pointed at you, hanging at his side now. You did not miss the uptick of his lips, satisfaction flooding his face. But he still stayed on alert, ready to raise his weapon again if needed.

You sat up straight slowly, despite the commotion downstairs, keeping eye contact with him. Getting to your feet you tried to drown out the sounds of shouting downstairs, focusing only on him. His eyes flicked to your stomach, causing your hands to clench tighter around it and he made eye contact with you again.

“You can let me leave,” you said to him, your voice shaking.

Bucky’s laugh was humorless. “Y/N. Sweetheart, c’mon.” He was chastising you for even suggesting it with that tone.

“Buck?”

The sound of his voice rolling up the stairs made you freeze to the spot.

“I’ve got your doll in my scope. She looks good, Steve,” Bucky called back down towards the ground floor.

The sound of his foot on the bottom stair made you flinch. His footfalls were heavy, each step putting another nail in the coffin of your freedom. Your eyes flicked towards the open door and Bucky gave you a disappointed look, taking a step back towards it. He shook his head and you tore your eyes away from him, eyes fixated on the stairs.

He came into view quick, his height surpassing the staircase railing long before Yua or Natalie’s would. The same time elation flew through his features upon seeing you, you felt dread course through your veins. He was geared up, like he was going into a fight. Apparently, he did not underestimate the three of you.

Steve was a foot from you now, his gaze piercing and you were too afraid to take your eyes off him. There were a few moments of silence before he said quietly, “I admit, you have some loyal friends down there. They remind me of Buck.” You said nothing and he asked harshly now, “What did you think this was going to accomplish though, really, Y/N?”

You sucked in your bottom lip, unable to form a sentence in your frightened state about what he was there to do besides take you back.

“Answer me.”

Stammering, you said, “I… I just…” You were embarrassed he was shaking you up so bad. You had been in such a haze, hoping beyond reason that the three of you would eventually be able to settle down and it would blow over. The longer you had stayed away, the more the doubt it could work had been overshadowed by that terrible misleading feeling of hope.

Steve’s expression softened seeing you tripping over your words. He stepped closer and you instinctively stepped back. His lips formed into a thin line, stopping his advancement. “Y/N, doll, please. I want what is best for you. All I want is to take care of you. You worried me, doll. You worried me a lot. Do you know what it felt like to not know where you were? If you were safe? If the children were safe? Can you imagine how utterly upset you made me? How betrayed I felt when I realized you were gone? I leave to let you have a party with your friends, to give you space with them.” You almost flinched at the phrasing, like he had taken the words right out of your mouth. If he noticed, he did not show it. He continued on, “I leave a gift behind for you to find, something I built for you and the babies, and how do you repay me? You left. Without a word. Like I didn’t matter. Did you even see the gift?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Of course you didn’t. You didn’t care enough to look. You were only concerned with yourself. Out of everyone in the world, I didn’t think it would be you that would betray me like this. You told me you loved me.”

Heat rose to your cheeks as your eyes glistened with tears. He sounded deeply hurt, wounded. You could see it in his eyes.

“I can forgive you, Y/N. Trusting you is something else entirely. I don’t think that’s an option right now. But… I can forgive you. You just have to come back and be good.”

You averted your gaze, your chest tightening at his order.

Steve closed the space between you, and you did not move away this time. He hooked his fingers underneath your chin, tipping your head up. “It’s me…” Steve told you as his eyes hardened, and he warned gravely, “Or nobody.”

You did not have to imagine all the guns pointed at your friends downstairs. You either left with them both dead and back with Steve. Or left with them both alive and with Steve. Either way, he had you enveloped back to him. The degree of guilt is what you were choosing, that’s what he was giving you.

You were taking too long to answer.

Steve looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with Bucky. Bucky started walking towards the staircase where he could look down on the living room.

“Steve, don’t—” you choked out.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Good.”

You let out a strangled noise before you got out in between tears, “I won’t ever try to leave you again, I swear. I’ll stay home for you. I’ll take care of the twins. I’ll do what you ask, I’ll listen, like I promised. I’ll be happy.”

“Were you ever?” He asked coldly.

“I w-was,” you said shakily, nodding. Nodding to convince yourself, remind yourself that you had been. “I was, really.”

“And what changed that, hmm?”

“You… you locked me away in the house.”

His lips twitched at the accusation and you feared you had made a misstep, fearing for Yua and Natalie. He did not make a move though except to say, “And why did I do that?”

He wanted you to say what he believed. He wanted you to believe it too. The tears were fat rolling down your cheeks as you whispered, “Because… you wanted to keep me safe.”

“That’s right, doll,” Steve breathed easier, smiling. His fingers caressed your face. “That’s exactly what I was doing. And you pulling this little stunt proved my gut instinct was right, didn’t it? You need protection, especially from yourself. You are impulsive and don’t think about the long-term repercussions of your actions.” His hand came to rest on your abdomen, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, doll. I want you to just come home and let me take care of you. That’s what’s going to happen. Right?”

“Yes,” a voice that sounded like yours said; it was like you were outside your body. “Yes, I want that.”

“That’s what I thought,” Steve said, leaning forward and giving you a long kiss on your forehead.

“My friends?” you choked out.

Steve pulled away from you and smirked at you. “Hmm, maybe you can be concerned with more than yourself. Maybe I was too harsh there for a moment… what about your friends?”

“Please don’t hurt them. Please let them leave and go back home unharmed.”

He exhaled heavily and asked seriously, “And why should I do that?”

“Bucky would help you if you asked.” Bucky turned his head towards the pair of you and you tried to pretend like you did not notice his gaze. “It’s not their fault. I asked for help. It’s my fault. They shouldn’t be punished for my mistake. Please don’t make them pay for my behavior.”

Steve looked contemplative and you waited with bated breath, hoping he would react positively to your display of holding yourself liable. He wanted you to beg and you were giving it to him.

Over his shoulder, he finally ordered, “Let the ladies grab their things and get out of here. They’re safe… as long as Y/N continues to behave.” You opened your mouth to protest but he cut you off by pressing a button on his earpiece. “Barton, we’re ready. Come on up.”

He grasped your arm and you tried to yank your arm away from him. He was far too strong and jolted you to him. “Don’t go messing this up now, Y/N. You were doing so well. Don’t make this harder for me than it has to be to get you in the damn car. You got what you wanted with your friends; you just need to uphold your side of the bargain.”

~~~

Tags: @imsonick , @alexakeyloveloki, @kvzctam, @ironlady1993, @taintedgenre, @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @roxyfan14-blog @mrsnegan25 @coconutqueen21

[jobean12-blog]

Fool in the Rain

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader 

Word Count: 1,429

Summary: Bucky comes to your rescue or maybe you come to his. 

Author’s Note: This is for the HBC’s @the-ss-horniest-book-club​ continuation of drunk drabbles and the lovely prompt below from @buckys-henley​ Thank you for sending it in and to all the people on the west coast experiencing these fires, I’m sending my love to you always and please stay safe and be well and reach out if you need, I’m here! I had this idea while driving home yesterday and the prompt came in and I thought it would work well. Thank you all for reading and much love always! ❤❤❤

Warnings: Soft and shy Bucky, protective Bucky, sweet fluffy goodness, blushes and soft touches, kisses in the rain :) 

“Hey Buck, what are you staring at?” Steve asks, trying to follow his line of sight but there are too many people in the bar. Sam leans back in his chair and looks around, finding you seated by the bar. “Oh, the lady in red. I can see why she has your attention Barnes.” Bucky drops his eyes to his beer, ignoring Sam. Steve’s elbow nudges Bucky’s and some of the beer spills over, “why don’t you go say hi. I don’t see a boyfriend around.”

Bucky looks up at his two friends, eyes wide and his cheeks already turning pink. “I think I’ll just have another beer,” he mumbles, standing quickly and walking to the other end of the bar. “He has a full beer right in front of him,” Sam says, shaking his head. “It’s funny to see him like this, he was quite the ladies’ man back in the 40’s.” Both Sam and Steve laugh, trying to cover it up when they see Bucky returning.

“What’s so funny?” Sam presses his lips together but can’t stop the words, “Steve said you were a ladies man way back when. What the hell happened?” Bucky scoffs, letting his eyes drift over to you once again. “Shit” he grinds out, watching as you talk animatedly with some tall guy. “Too slow, Pal, told ya you should have went to say hi.”

Bucky glares at Steve, about to tell him off when his super solider hearing picks up on a distressed voice. He swings his head your way to see you push off the stool and back away from the guy. Your face is scrunched up in anger and you’re clearly upset. Bucky rushes over, picking up on a few words as he gets closer. “Hey asshole, I said no thank you. Can you please leave me alone?” The guy inches closer, his hand reaching out to touch you.

You swat it away, “I didn’t say you could touch me, take a hint!” Before the guy can make another stupid move, Bucky has him by the shirt collar, easily lifting him off the floor with his metal arm. “Hey dickhead, do you not understand what no means?” The guy starts to kick his feet and try to find footing and you giggle behind Bucky. He smiles, dropping the guy to the floor and turning to you.

“Are you ok?” You meet his eyes with an appreciative smile, “I am, thank you.” Your eyes quickly shift over Bucky’s shoulder and you open your mouth to scream and tell him to look out because the guy is about to throw a punch but Bucky turns just in time and stops him mid swing, twisting his hand awkwardly until the guy yells and flinches away. “What the fuck?”

The guy stares at Bucky’s metal arm while he rubs his wrist, “I guess you’re into freaks.” You slide up next to Bucky and take his metal hand in yours, holding it tightly and kissing his cheek. “Well I’m definitely not into douchebags.” With that you spin and walk from the bar, dragging Bucky behind you.

When the cool night air hits your skin you sigh in relief, not letting go of Bucky’s hand and smiling up at him. “Thank you again. I appreciate you coming to my rescue…” You motion for more, hoping he’ll give you a name. He shuffles on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand, “James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky.”

You stand on your tippy toes and kiss his cheek again, finally releasing his hand. “Thank you again Bucky. It’s nice to meet you, I’m y/n.” Bucky’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, his blush hard to hide even behind the scruff that lines his cheeks. “It’s really nice to meet you too and you’re welcome,” He finally manages to say, audibly swallowing while he stares at you. “You looked like you were handling him just fine but then he had to get touchy and I couldn’t let that happen.”  

You grab his hand again and start walking down the street. “Well, maybe but you handled it better. So, I hope I’m not keeping you from your friends back there” He looks at your intertwined hands in astonishment before answering, “nah, they’re fine. I’m not uh, keeping you from anyone or a date or um a guy or a friend or maybe you wanna be alone.” He keeps rambling, fumbling over his words and slowly squeezing your hand tighter.

You stop walking and trace your fingers along his jaw, “no, none of those things, looks like you’re stuck with me.” He gives you a lopsided grin, “I’m pretty sure it’s me you’re stuck with.” Beaming, you start swinging your arm, taking his along with it. “Sounds good to me, you did rescue me after all. And just for the record, Bucky, I don’t think you’re a freak. I’m sorry he said that to you.” He’s quiet for a moment, slowing his pace, “thanks, I’m glad you don’t.”

“I’m happy you were there,” you say sweetly, your eyes widening when an idea hits you. “Hey!” you shout, turning to face him, “wanna get some ice cream!?” He laughs, a real genuine laugh where his eyes crinkle at the corners and his nose scrunches up and you can’t help but smile, silently thanking the d-bag at the bar for bringing you Bucky.

“That sounds perfect, doll.” You squeal in happiness and keep walking down the street, chatting away about everything and nothing. The next two hours fly by in a flurry of yumminess, lots of smiles and soft touches. You try to touch him every chance you get, loving how his cheeks are permanently pink.

“So, what do we do now?” you ask, licking the last of your ice cream from the spoon and throwing it in the garbage. A cool wind blows and you involuntarily shiver, rubbing your hands up and down your arms. Bucky quickly takes off his denim jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, pulling it tight around your chest. “Thanks,” you whisper, standing in place and swinging your hips back and forth to make the arms fly out.

He grabs them and starts to tie them together, the both of you laughing way too loud for 1 am. When he finally gets you cocooned in the jacket, he looks you over, smiling smugly at his work. The first raindrop hits his nose and rolls off, the two of you looking upward just as more drops start to fall, the sky opening up moments later in a downpour.  

You’re shrieking and trying to get the arms of his jacket untied so you can drape it over your head. Bucky is trying to help but neither of you can stop laughing and by the time you’re free you’re both soaked. Still smiling he takes a step closer and pushes some wet hair from your face. You watch the droplets of water collect on his long lashes and meet him halfway, closing the gap between your bodies.

He doesn’t speak and takes your hand in his, resting it against his chest while the other curls around your waist. He starts to slowly sway back and forth in the street, the sounds of the rain and the city beating in rhythm with your heart. “Are you cold?” he leans in to ask, bringing his lips close to your ear. “No, I’m very warm actually, thank you.”

He nods and starts to pull away, but you reach up to cup his cheek, gently tugging his face closer. A drop of rain runs down your face and settles on your upper lip. Your tongue darts out to lick it off and Bucky’s eyes darken, his thumb swiping over the spot. His touch leaves fire in its wake and you need him to kiss you, tilting your head and barely touching his lips in a silent invitation.

It’s all the encouragement he needs to press his lips to yours, the rain all but forgotten as he holds you in his arms, dancing under the soft glow of the streetlight. The rain doesn’t stop and neither does Bucky, his tongue exploring your mouth and his hands combing through your hair. When you finally come up for air, your hands circle his neck and you rest your forehead to his. He nuzzles your nose and kisses along your jawline and up to you ear, sending shivers down your spine with his whispered words, “can we do that again?”  

@aesthetical-bucky​ @auro-ora​ @bugsbucky​ @bucky-on-my-mind​ @buckys-henley​ @buckstaybucky​ @breezy1415​ @buckys-broody-muffin​ @buckys-minty-breath​ @book-dragon-13​ @chuuulip​ @eurynome827​ @hiddles-rose​ @hailmary-yramliah​ @hawksmagnolia​ @ikaris-whore​ @imgaril-lindru​ @itsunclebucky​ @jhangelface0523​ @jewels2876​ @loricameback​ @lorilane33​ @addikted-2-dopamine​ @lokilvrr​ @littledarlinhavefaithinme​ @littleredstarfish​ @mushyjellybeans​ @marvelandotherfandomimagines​ @marvelgirl7​ @nano--raptor​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @randomfandompenguin​ @sallycanwait68​ @softpeachbarnes​ @tuiccim​ @this-kitten-is-smitten​ @the-wayward-robot​ @yansi1923​

[donniefinnerman]

under the cut, 1.1k i wrote a few months ago of michael and raphael talking before stull

At the edge of a lakeside forest on an island off the coast of Maine, Raphael waits. Before tomorrow, the lake will boil; for now, it laps unceasingly at its rocky shore. Sparse reeds, dimly silhouetted, rise from the water, and from the trees, a chorus of birds heralds the dawn. Of all the places he might choose to wait for the end of the world, Raphael thinks this is the most fitting. Forests, like all his Father’s creations, are full of lessons. They teach that all things have an appointed time to burn.

Lawrence sits nearly two thousand miles away, but even here, Raphael feels its weight like a slope under his vessel’s feet. The city is the drain around which the world spins. Soon it will all be over: Michael and Lucifer will meet on the destined battlefield, and Raphael’s older brother will kill his other older brother, and this godless world, broken beyond repair, will finally end.

Raphael has played his part. His work is done. All that’s left for him to do is wait. 

Without moving -- without having cause to move -- Raphael watches the sunrise. The horizon bleeds red; the sky bruises purple, then blue. For Raphael, this is the first time he’s witnessed a sunrise at this lake, but for his vessel’s eyes, it’s the last of many. Donnie Finnerman’s Sundays all followed the same ritual: he rose long before dawn, drove two hours in darkness, left his well-loved 2003 Subaru Forester at the trailhead, and went into the forest. He didn’t go hiking instead of going to church, he often explained to disapproving relatives. Hiking was his church. Who could stand here at dawn, surrounded by birdsong, and not feel God’s presence?

Raphael realizes, with sudden and sickening clarity, why he really came here. His wings twitch to flee, but he doesn’t. To flee would be to admit guilt, and Raphael can’t admit, not even to himself, that he doubted his Father. 

Michael believes He’s still alive, but Raphael has more faith than that. Their Father loved them too much to abandon them like this: lost, crying out for guidance, desperately clinging to what few plans He left behind. He must be dead, because the alternative—

There is no alternative.

The birds trill. The lake murmurs its susurrus against the shore. Raphael hears these sounds, and only these sounds, and he does not listen for anything hidden beneath them. Minutes tick by, each dragging the world closer to its end.

One moment, Raphael is alone; the next, he senses Michael’s grace five feet behind him, roiling with too many emotions to be named. Raphael doesn’t startle at his brother’s sudden appearance, but a flock of crossbills does, streaming out of the trees in a flurry of chirps and wingbeats. Raphael watches them go. If the flock flies east without stopping, they might live to see paradise.

They fly west.

“Raphael,” says Michael. His crackling grace belies his steady voice. “I can’t let you do this.”

Nonplussed, Raphael turns to face his brother— and his words die in his throat. Michael is wearing the weapon with which he’ll kill Lucifer: a human boy of nineteen years, pale and light-haired. The hands that will kill Lucifer hang at his sides, fingers twitching as though fighting the impulse to form fists. Lucifer will die at those hands. Lucifer will die. Raphael has carried the weight of that knowledge since his fallen brother was caged, but now it feels more real, more heavy, than ever before.

The boy is named for Adam, but his role is Cain’s. Sibling against sibling: the oldest story the universe knows.

“I’ll drag you back to Heaven myself if I have to,” Michael continues, after Raphael fails to speak.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What am I supposedly doing?”

Michael’s expression darkens, unamused. He closes the distance between them in three sharp strides, balls the front of Raphael’s shirt in his fist, and says, “I know why you’re here.”

Raphael is too bewildered to try to pull away. He looks at his brother, at a face contorted with anger and fear— and the fear gives him pause. Michael is the oldest and most powerful warrior in the universe, but whatever he thinks Raphael is doing, it scares him.

In seven hours, the first shockwave of the battle to end battles will turn the western hemisphere to ash. Only Michael and Lucifer will be able to survive it.

Understanding comes, and brings exhaustion with it. Raphael can’t remember feeling more tired than he does now. “I came here to wait, Michael. Not to die.” He shouldn’t have to say it. For five millennia, he and Michael have held together Heaven with fraying thread, the last two archangels in the Host; for five millennia, Raphael has been the one who stayed. And still, after all this time, Michael expects Raphael to abandon him like Lucifer and Gabriel and Father. The lack of faith stings.

Michael’s grip slackens. “You disappeared after Lucifer took Sam Winchester.”

“I didn’t disappear,” snaps Raphael. “If I was trying to hide from you, you wouldn’t have found me.”

The second it leaves his mouth, he regrets it. Gabriel’s death is an open wound in both of them, raw and bleeding, and the words are citrus and salt. Michael staggers back, dropping Raphael’s shirt. Somewhere in the distance, a tree cracks open, rent down the middle. Raphael doesn’t know which of them is responsible.

They haven’t spoken about it since it happened: the first time they felt another archangel’s grace shatter and detonate and die. In the terrible silence between aftershocks, Michael only said, He should have trusted Father’s plan. Killing Lucifer wasn’t his destiny. But Raphael knows his brother; knows him better, by now, than even Lucifer ever did. Michael blames himself for letting Gabriel run off, and he blames himself for failing, for five millennia, to bring Gabriel home.

(Michael wasn’t Gabriel’s only older brother. Raphael blames himself, too.)

Nearby, a large rock juts halfway into the lake; with a flap of his wings, Raphael takes a seat on it, leaving enough space to his left for Michael to join him. A moment later, Michael does.

“I didn’t disappear,” repeats Raphael, looking out at the water. “I won’t disappear.”

“I know,” lies Michael.

Nearly two thousand miles away, the first light of the last dawn touches Lawrence, and the morning star fades from the sky.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Love Where You Are

Bucky x Black Female OC.

Bucky's got to learn that sometimes people don't want more out of you than you already have. Not perfection, but what's there right now.

Fluff. Just lots of Fluff. Does take place right after The Falcon and the Winter Solider.

Masterlist (multifandom)

_____________________

“And if you are alone, that is the quietest most personal hell. And James, that is very hard to escape.”

It rings his ears, long after he leaves the office, long after he returns the notebook, long after the sun has set but sitting here, at the pier feels right. The boats rock gently with the waves and the metal anchors tap against the metal husks. It reminds him of New Orleans, of hearing the giggles and fake punches being thrown. The community that always banded together no matter what.

Bucky did really think he was alone. Just a guy, with a friend of a friend. Well, maybe he wasn’t really a guy anymore. Not in the sense that guys were young, making mistakes--that was a guy. Or at least the way he saw it back before. Back when Steve was still the kid stuffing his shoes with newspaper, and lying on enlistment forms. Back when Bucky was playing the courts for the both of them and nights out were spent drinking just as much as they were spent getting into tussles to save Steve’s ass.

A more fair assessment would be that Bucky was maybe a guy. He had made his mistakes while trying to fix them. But he sure as hell wasn’t getting younger. But he was a guy that’s definitely trying to move on. Trying to figure out what it means to be a guy now at this moment--even though the nightmares still linger.

Sam would probably tell Bucky that the nightmares are common. He’d maybe even say it’s a good thing. They show Bucky he’s still human. And maybe that’s what Bucky’s still struggling with--how to be human more than anything else. What does it mean to have friends again? What does it mean to get a chance of life that he gets some control in? No more fighting other people’s wars. Well, for right now at least.

“A fish out of water, I see.”

Bucky turns to the voice. “Who sent you this time?”

Patricia smiles before sitting next to Bucky. “You’re forgetting I’m the one who showed you this place. So the real question is why are you jocking my happy place?”

Bucky laughs. “I am not stealing your happy place, I swear.”

“Yeah, sure could’ve fooled me.”

“It is a pretty nice place to come to, just let go of everything,” Bucky whispers, staring back out at the horizon. The sun’s just starting to duck behind the horizon casting just enough of an orange glow onto the water. Patricia hums, turning her attention back to the water in front of them as well. And for a moment, it’s silent between them. Minus the slight buzz of the water beneath them of course and the traffic on the pier.

Bucky glances over his shoulder to Patricia. The moles are all still there, scattered across her face. She still looks the same, like she did when they met in Wakanda. Patricia’s not Wakandian at all. However, when Shuri started to oversee the Science center back in Oakland, she reached out to see if she could find some people locally to help her run it. Patricia happened to be one the very few people to make the list. And occasionally, she came to Wakanda to have meetings with Shuri when Shuri couldn’t leave, or didn’t want to. Though her visits were brief, Patricia never seemed to be shocked by Bucky’s presence, and a couple of times when he happened to be in the area of the castle, went out of her way to talk to him. And in those moments, though Bucky never had much to say then, Patricia would tell him about what was happening in the world, or share personal stories.

He’s not sure what made her trust him and he’s not sure why he trusted her either. Maybe it’s because at the time, she didn’t seem bothered by him. It’s like she just saw a man, some body, and not a machine. Bucky hadn’t told her, not initially who he was, or what he had done not initially. But then Patricia asked why he was in Wakana too. That question made him freeze, unsure of how to answer. And rather than answering it directly, he dodged around it and gave what he thought was a vague response. And in the sunset there, Patricia didn’t seem bothered by the answer. Instead she pushed forward, steering the conversation to something else.

“Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the country?” Bucky asks, suddenly realizing that he’s not even close to the West Coast.

“Vacation. Boss mandated vacation, but vacation nonetheless.”

“Visiting home then?”

“Yeah. Checking in on my mom and dad. They’re going on a cruise in a couple of days for their anniversary. And I try to see them before their yearly vacation too. The last I heard you were rag tagging it with Sam though. And I definitely didn’t think you’d say in New York, not after what happened.”

“You--how long have you been in town?”

“Long enough to hear and see that the life of being a superhero is never easy.”

Bucky never considered himself a superhero. Not after what he’s done. “Oh, no, I’m not. Just--” What was he doing? Trying to recklessly hold onto a person, to an idea of who he was in someone else’s perspective?

“Just Bucky?” Patricia suggests. Gently, she reaches out to take his left hand.

Bucky tenses for a second and then has to make sure to relax so he doesn’t hurt her. He goes to speak and the air leaves him for just a moment when she threads his fingers through his. With a deep breath he finds the sentence again, “You make that sound so complete. Because I-I don’t even know who Bucky is even more.”

“I think you have more of a clue than you let on.”

“Perhaps subconsciously, there is more than I know consciously.” Bucky almost wants to flex his fingers, try to figure out the right way to carry her hand and how much pressure to give. He glances down, the black metal of his arm accented with gold pairs nicely with the deep red brown of her skin. But it still feels foreign, like the first time he wore a shirt again with his new arm and he was worried the threads would get snagged in the divots.

“How long are you in town for?” Patricia asks.

“Oh, I live here in Brooklyn.”

“You never told me you were from Brooklyn.”

“Born and raised. I just recently moved back here. In Wakanda, when you told me about the pier, how you liked coming just to clear your head, I liked to hear how you saw it. Besides, it had been quite a few years since I had been back to see it. So, it was nice.”

“I mean it hadn’t changed all that much in a few years,” Patricia comments off handedly.

“Well, maybe it was, uh, a little bit more than just a few years.”

“Like several decades more.”

“Who told you?”

“I may just be the assistant director at the center, but I am let in on a lot of secrets that have a very real chance to impact us. Someone might think we have access to certain materials,” she taps his metal arm with the phrase, “or if we have information that may help them and we have to be prepared for that.”

“So that means you know about everything.”

“Only need to know. And your unique relation was classified as a need to know for me.”

With a sigh, Bucky shakes his head. “That makes this incredibly easier and ten time more awkward.”

“If it helps at all, James, clearly I haven’t run for the hills.”

“Please, call me Bucky. The only time I’m used to hearing James is when I’m in trouble or from my therapist when she was fed up with me. And as much as my mother would absolutely like to have a talk with me from the great beyond, I think I’m going to hold out on having to hear that lecture for as long as I can.”

“I don’t think she has that long of a lecture.”

It’s with a slight lump in his throat that Bucky realizes he hadn’t thought about his mother is so long. What would she think of him? What would she think of what he had done? He blinks back the tears and clears his throat. But the tears come back, the lump reforms. “Oh, God, I-my mom,” he whispers. She’d been gone for a while; that fact wasn’t new. But what was fact was that he didn’t want to disappoint her. Even though she was gone, it didn’t mean that Bucky was trying to make it hard for her to watch over him.

Patricia takes the hand holding his hand and gingerly rubs across his shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright.”

It takes a moment and a pinch at the bridge of his nose between his eyes to keep the water works at a minimum. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“I think this calls for ice cream. My treat. What do you think?”

“Oh-I don’t know.”

“C’mon. It’s a couple scopes. It’ll make you feel better.” Patricia stands, holding out her hand, fingers motioning for him to stand.

It’s here, in the in between, between standing and sitting, between giving into the ice cream and standing firm on his denial that he wonders, why would someone like Patricia be nice to him. As far as he knew, she didn’t know about war, or constantly fighting or always looking over your shoulder. And maybe that wasn’t fair. Maybe she knew more about it than Bucky was giving her credit for as a Black woman in America. Much like he hadn’t known the similar things about Sam and the shield. But why would she want to give someone like him a chance? Shouldn’t she be more afraid?

“What’s this all about?” Bucky asks, standing but not taking her hand.

“Ice cream to help soothe mental wounds.”

They stand face to face. He towers over her by a few inches. But it’s enough where she looks up at him ever so slightly. “No, if you know about me, why do any of this? Even back at Wakanda.”

There’s a pause from Patricia. She turns on her heel and he follows. Though he’s not sure he should be. They get a couple steps from the bench before Patricia exhales heavily. Perhaps, it was not the smartest move to admit this clearly after an emotional moment. But her nerve would leave her as it always did if she didn’t strike now. “On the one hand, Bucky, it’s this little thing called flirting.”

“Flirt-flirting?”

The wide eyes and dropped jaw make her laugh. “Yeah, flirting.”

“I am a little over a century old. But that-that is not flirting.”

“I am not great at it, but I was attempting,” Patricia returns, with a bit of annoyance creasing her brow.

“Oh, doll.”

“Aht, no, you do not get to ‘Doll’ me. I am not a doll. No, do I look like a doll?”

Bucky smirks. It’s all too easy; it would be all too easy. He won’t do it. Not now at least. “I apologize. But I’m just saying being nice to someone isn’t necessarily flirting.”

“Wakanda was different. I was trying to get to know you and I knew things were complicated for you. So I kept it to being nice. And then I knew I’d be Stateside most of the time. However, when I got the call from the Dora and Shuri that you were moving to the U.S, I thought maybe I could get a chance. But then the expo was coming up and I was essentially working as director and counselor to keep the center open late to let kids work and things just never worked. But then I saw you, here, at the pier and I thought it might be my chance. Sue me.”

Bucky nods as she speaks, keeping stride as they weave through the crowd. “So inviting me out for ice cream was the move?”

“It was like move two. Get you to go with me for ice cream so then I could ask you for dinner.”

“I don’t think you need to worry or waste time with me.” If Bucky could stop it, he would. If the little voice in the back of his head didn’t get so loud sometimes, he wouldn’t even have to deal with Patricia’s full halt and tugging him off to the side. If Bucky could keep the doubt down, his comment wouldn’t fall from his lips. But unfortunately, what he wants and what he does isn’t always on the same page.

“Repeat that for me,” Patricia demands.

It’s the way she says it, like he can try to repeat it but he’s sure it wasn’t lack of hearing that she’s asking. “I just mean--I’m still not like a hundred percent...together. And it’s not a process I can hope to do in seconds or one that I can promise won’t be ugly. So I don’t know--”

“Sometimes, Bucky, people want to love you where you are. No one’s perfect. Not even us non-superbeings. I’m not asking for the perfect you. I’m asking to go on some dates with whatever version of you is here, right now. I want to disasterly cook a meal and then order pizza. I’m asking you to give me whatever you have now. ”

And if you’re alone, that is the quietest most personal hell. But Bucky still doesn’t want to drag her into this world, this mess he was in. But here Patricia is, asking for whatever he has, whether it’s perfect or put together or not. And there have only been a few times in his life that people wanted whatever he had. It’s that soldier, the barking commands from his training officers that can make it hard. They always wanted more, they wanted perfection in some ways. They wanted obedience more than anything, but Patricia’s not asking for any of that.

“No-no one’s just wanted the mess I am. I thought I lost the last person that wanted that from me.”

“Well, if you let me in and say yes to ice cream and a dinner date, where I do not cook initially, then you’ll have gained another person that wants you for whatever mess you are.”

“By mess, I mean mess. Like I sleep on the floor of my own apartment. I just want you to be aware of where the bar is.”

Patricia smiles, a small tuft of laughter escaping her. “Consider my expectations set.”

“Then I would be honored to get ice cream and eventually go to dinner with you.”

Her grin widens, heats heating at the bit of a twinkle settling into his gaze. She’s thankful her blush is not visible at all. “You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that. Because a look like that is dangerous.”

“Looking at you like what?”

She circles his face with her pointer finger, “Like that, like you’re plotting something devious.”

Bucky laughs, holding his hands up in defense of himself. “You’re the one planning. Not me.”

“It’s a Mr. Suave look. I know it when I see it.” She starts back down the pier and Bucky’s quick to catch up, right hand slipping into hers. “See, now you’re plotting something for sure! But I’m not that mad at it.”

Gingerly, he gives her hand a squeeze. “Good. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

[smol-and-grumpy]

Light My Fire - CH11

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She always thought her boss was an ill-tempered man, but when he presents her with a proposition she can’t quite deny, she gets to know him better. It’s not bad, right? Because all she has to do is being fake married to him for six months, sounds do-able, right? Right.

Warnings: Flangst, NSFW

WC: 2612

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons​​​​​​​​ <3

SERIES MATSTERLIST

BECOME A PATRON ~ BUY ME A COFFEE

Y/N watches as Ruby comes back out of Dean’s office. Ruby’s smiling but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She knows that Dean wants to see Ruby first thing because he wants to make sure that she is following his instructions on booking a trip for them. And suddenly, she feels guilty because Ruby knows that they’re going on their fake honeymoon, and she kind of hopes that Ruby’s going to be okay with it. 

“Oh my god,” Ruby groans, and lets herself fall into her chair, “I’m so fucking hungover.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Y/N agrees with her friend.

Ruby begins to work in silence and Y/N frowns. After a while she looks up from her computer screen and speaks up, “So, you wanna tell me about last night or?”

Her friend lets out a sigh, “Oh my fucking god, I’m so glad you asked!”

Y/N giggles. Ruby’s always so fucking dramatic, she loves it.

“So, did you go home with who I think you went home with?”

“My god, Y/N, it was magical! Magical, I tell you!” Ruby gushes, “But let me book that trip for you first and then we’ll go grab a coffee.”

“You okay with me going on a honeymoon?”

“Duh, I’m so happy for you! While you’re there, you can make him fall in love with you for real!”

“Ruby!”

“What?” Her friend gasps, “Just saying. I mean, have you seen how he treats you, how he looks at you? The woman who gets to marry him for real is one lucky bitch! I wish that was you because in all honesty, you deserve everything good, alright?”

“Yeah,” She says and doesn’t know what else to add to it, but looking at Ruby, she doesn’t have to because Ruby’s already on the phone with the travel agency.

*

Turns out that they didn’t have time for that coffee but they did go grab lunch at the coffee place close by and sit down on a bench right in front of their office building to have a little chat.

Y/N looks at her sandwich suspiciously. She’s still not sure if it’ll stay down. She takes a bite nonetheless, because she knows that she needs something in her stomach if she wants to survive the rest of the day. 

“So, Sam,” Y/N says while she chews. She looks over to Ruby, sees her friend tense up and she sees the blush in Ruby’s face. The woman rarely blushes so it’s even cuter to see it.

“Yeah, Sam,” Ruby tucks her brown hair behind her ear and bites down on her bottom lip as not to whimper out at the details of what happened last night.

“So,” Y/N raises her eyebrow in question.

“So,” Ruby gushes.

Y/N rolls her eyes and groans out in frustration, “Ruby! My god, just tell me, I’m dying here!” 

Her friend starts to giggle and the redness spreads to her cleavage. 

“Did you?” She asks, hopes that Ruby will finally tell her what went down (or rather who went down) last night.

Ruby’s chewing on her bite of sandwich and speaks with her mouth full, “We wanted to, but we didn’t, no,”

“What?” The bite Y/N took almost falls out of her mouth.

“I’m telling you, he’s a real gentleman, Y/N! Said he didn’t want to take advantage of me being drunk,” Ruby takes another bite, her lips curl up around the sandwich, “But I felt it.”

“You felt it?” She frowns.

“We slept in the same bed. And he was hard because we made out.” Ruby’s grinning at the image on her mind, “God, he’s such a good kisser. Just the way I like it. Rough but tender, and he’s big.”

Okay, so they’ve established that both Winchesters are gentlemen and they are both good kissers. Great. Life’s not fucking fair that two brothers have it all and they can easily put every other men to shame. 

Y/N frowns some more, but in a playful way, “Big?”

Ruby sighs, “Yeah, big hands, big feet, big—” She wriggles with her eyebrows, “—You know what!”

“Ooookay,” Y/N snorts out, “That’s too much information, but thanks for letting me know,”

“We’re going on a date tonight.” Ruby says nonchalantly, as if it’s no fucking big deal.

“You what?” 

“Yeah,” Her friend smiles, “And I’m not drinking if you know what I mean,” Ruby wriggles with her eyebrows again. She should stop doing that because Y/N knows exactly what she means without that stupid eyebrow wriggling.

Y/N’s truly happy for Ruby and she’s super happy that Sam treats her right.

When they finish their lunch, they notice a limousine coming to a halt right in front of the building and Amara steps out.

Oh, no.

That’s right, Sam has a meeting with her today. She almost forgot.

“Ugh, I don’t like her at all,” She says and Ruby wrinkles her nose at Amara too.

They walk into the building right ahead of the woman, hoping to get away on time but Amara’s close on their heels and the woman already starts to drop a remark, “Nice dress, where do you get it? Thrift store? Your husband didn’t even give you enough money to buy something decent?”

Y/N bites on her tongue so not to bite back at that stupid bitch. She really doesn’t feel like confrontation, and especially not one with people who she couldn’t care less about. It’s just not worth her time or energy, nor is it worth her patience that’s running thin today. So they just walk ahead to the elevator while Amara has to report to the front desk. Crisis averted.

After her lunch, Y/N sits down to do more work when she sees Dean walking out of the meeting room. He stops at her desk and asks her to bring him coffee. He had a meeting about investing in another company on the west coast, but she thinks that it might have not gone well because he looks a little downcast. 

“You okay?” She asks, and Dean snaps out of his trance. 

“Huh,” He sighs, “Yeah.”

“You had anything to eat yet?” She looks at him, concerned.

“Yeah,” He breathes out, “Garth ordered pizza for the meeting.”

“Okay,” Y/N says and smiles as an attempt to cheer him up, “One coffee coming right up.”

Dean smirks at her, “Thanks, I’ll be in my office. What’s my schedule?” 

“Well, you’re free for another hour.”

“Good, I need a break.”

He turns on his heels to walk into his office.

Ruby’s staring at her, “Wow, he’s not in a good mood, isn’t he?” 

“Doesn’t seem like it.” She agrees. 

“But he didn’t lash out, so at least there’s that.” Her friend shrugs, as she starts to type in an email.

“Yeah,” Y/N sighs, “At least there’s that.”

She doesn’t really know what it is but seeing Dean like that does not make her feel good at all. She likes the happy Dean, the playful Dean. Not a Dean who thinks he lost a goddamn war.

Walking along the hallway with Dean’s coffee in hand, she knocks at his office door first before she goes in. 

He’s sitting at his desk, looking over a contract that she has placed there while he was in the meeting. He doesn’t seem to notice her.

Closing the door behind her, she walks over to him and sets the coffee on the desk, “Your coffee,”

“Huh,” Dean looks up from the papers, “Yeah, thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” She asks but Dean’s lost in his work so she turns to leave. Doesn’t feel like disturbing him more than she has to. 

“Wait,” He suddenly says, “Come back,” 

She stops mid room and turns around to see him smiling. 

“Sorry, I had to finish reading that paragraph,” He explains and she smiles back at him, walks back to stand beside him. 

Dean moves his chair back, takes her wrist to pull her into his lap, making her yelp up and he chuckles at that. His arms are quick around her, and he rests his chin on her shoulder, “‘M glad we’re going on honeymoon tomorrow. I need a fucking break.”

“Are you okay?” She asks because he starts to worry her.

“I’m better with you here, yeah,” 

She can hear him smile a little and he places a kiss on the top of her head as his hands go around her hips. He maneuvers her around on his lap so she’s straddling him and she scrambles to get off, but he holds her in place.

“Dean, someone could walk in,” Her hands are braced on his chest and she looks into his face to find a grin, bright and wide. 

“No one dares to come in here, and you know it.” He whispers and pecks her lips. 

That’s true. Nobody ever goes near his office unless he’s calling for them to meet him. But still, she thinks it’s a little more than inappropriate to be sitting in his lap in his office when he is her fucking boss. “Still, we shouldn’t,” She says, and tries to get away but she’s weak herself, her body wants to stay, too.

Dean cradles her face with one hand, paints his thumb along her bottom lip before he pulls her close by the back of her neck, kissing her soft and deep. She hates that she loves it. Loves his kisses. They make her weaker than she already is.

She’s getting awfully wet down there and Dean’s getting hard, she can feel the friction of his bulge against her pussy.

“Your pants,” She says as a warning because she doesn’t really necessarily want to ruin his pants with how wet she is. 

He chuckles against her lips, kisses her once more, hard and demanding before he parts. He rests his forehead on hers, “You could take them off,” His hand goes to her breasts, kneads it through the fabric of her dress, fingers pinching at her nipple until they peek which in turn, makes her arch her back and drive her cunt harder into Dean’s hard cock. 

“We can’t do that,” She whispers, because they really can’t, can they? “Or can we?” She adds. Doesn’t really know why she adds it, but oh god, it feels good and fuck, she’d be lying if she wouldn’t want it.

Dean grins, it’s all cocky, “I want you to,” 

“But—” 

He kisses her harder, deeper, making her moan into his mouth and he sucks in her tongue, making her forget where she is. Her hands work on his belt buckle and Dean pauses the kiss, their noses touch.

“That’s my girl,” He coos, and that’s not fair. He has no idea what the praise does to her. 

Her hands work swiftly on his belt, and Dean’s hands are cupping her cheek as he kisses her over and over. He groans into her mouth when she grabs his hard cock in her hands. Her thumbs trails around his tip, smearing the drops of precum around his slit and over the velvety head. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans, presses his lips on her as he stands up from his chair, with her still around his middle, “I gotta—”

He doesn’t even care about the contract on his desk because she lays her on top of it, only swiping at the plastic cup of coffee, sending it to the floor. She can smell the spilled liquid. 

Dean lowers her onto his desk, kisses down her jaw, sucks in the sensitive patch at her throat, “I know I said I would take my time, but, fuck—” He kisses her again, “I need—” 

“It’s okay,” She grins, her hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the fluff on top of his head. 

His hands are restless, kneading and stroking along her legs and thighs, and he moans when his fingers find her panties and notices how wet they already are. One of his long fingers hooks around the crotch of her panties and she gasps when he threads two of his thick fingers through her bare and slick pussy lips. 

Dean leaves her neck to stand up straight, his hands grab her by her knee, folds them up. Her glistening wet cunt is now bare to him. 

“Jesus, look at you,” He mumbles, his eyes are dark, his lids heavy.

“Have you ever fucked someone in here?” She asks, but she doesn’t really know why she did, kind of regretting it immediately as soon as the words left her lips because she actually doesn’t want to know. 

He chuckles lightly, bends down to kiss her cunt, tongue parting her folds and lips sealing around her clit. He lets go with a loud obscene smacking sound before he comes up again and licks at his lips before he speaks, “Couldn’t help myself,” His breathing is ragged, “I just fucking love how you taste,” 

Dean lines himself up with her pussy and she bites on her lips when he pushes in. There’s the familiar stretch and she’s slowly getting used to it. Slowly getting fucking addicted to it.

“Oh god, fuck—” She closes her eyes and Dean leans down as he pushes himself deeper. His face is next to hers, his breathing hot against her ear.

“No,” He whispers, and at first she didn’t know what he was talking about until she realizes that it’s the answer to her question, “No, I haven’t.” He picks up a steady pace, fucks into her deep and slow, “But I always fantasized about bending you over and fucking you on this very desk.” 

He fantasized about doing this? About doing it with her? Doing it to her?

“Dean—” She starts to say but Dean claims her mouth, his tongue goes in as deep as his cock does, throwing her thoughts all over the place. He fucks her harder, sending the desk skidding along the floor. And she’s so close, so fucking close. 

“Christ, you feel so fucking good, I can never get enough of it,” He sucks at her throat before his tongue trails a hot and wet path to her mouth to kiss the corner of her lips, “Can you come for me, baby? Be a good girl and come on my cock, huh?” One of his hands goes to her clit, fingers rubbing circles on her little hood.

Shit.

What is he doing to her?

“Ye-ah,” She manages to stammer.

“Yeah?” Dean nose touches hers and he chuckles, “Do it, baby, come for me,” 

That last baby she hears out of his mouth does the trick, she’s convulsing around him and Dean has to hold her thighs apart so as she wouldn’t crush him. Her eyes cross for a brief moment before she has to close them because of the pressure. 

Oh god, what does this man do to her?

Dean chuckles and leans down, sprays kisses on her face when she comes back down from her high, “Feels so fucking good when you come around my cock.” His voice is strained and she knows that he’s close, too.

But before Dean could come, they could hear screams outside in the hallway. 

Someone’s yelling. 

Sam. 

And then she hears Ruby who was exceptionally loud.

“Miss Shurley! You can’t go in there!” That’s definitely Ruby. She hears some footsteps, they are coming closer and closer. So many footsteps. Oh god. And she’s still here spread on his desk and Dean’s still buried deep inside of her.

She can hear Sam, “Amara! Stop!” 

CH12

[simsadventures]

Only Mine: Chapter 4: The Encounter Part I

Summary: You try to forget all about the night and the dinner you had with Bucky, but some people just won’t let you.

Warnings: mentions of violence, mentions of rape (trying not to be too explicit), angst, mobster AU

Word Count: 2244

A/N: Remember, you wanted it @sebbbystaaan​ and @kneel-begyourpardon​. Don’t stone me for this little cliffhanger. Part II of The Encounter will come out tomorrow. Let me know what you thought xx

Series Masterlist __ Masterlist

< Previous Chapter 

The next couple of days were a blur for Bucky. He couldn’t figure out how anyone would be so cold towards him, especially a woman. He tried to think back to the night the two of you spent together, that maybe he did something wrong, or that he maybe not performed the way he usually does. But he shook this thought off, remembering how your thighs quivered and how your whole body shook. This couldn’t be the reason then.

All the women always loved when he acted like an alpha around them, so he didn’t understand what your problem was with things like him ordering food for you. A weird thought appeared in front of his eyes. Maybe you really weren’t anything like the women he was used to, and that he genuinely had no idea how to treat a woman, but he dismissed this as well. Pff, he was Bucky Barnes, every woman would fall to their knees to just spend a night with him.

He was standing in his room, staring out the window at his backyard. He could see three gardeners trying to create something beautiful of the mess the grass and trees were at the moment, and he loved to see them work. It brought peace to his weary mind. But somebody disturbed the peace by knocking on his door.

“Yeah,” he rumbled but didn’t make any effort of looking who it was. He had the nagging feeling that it was either Steve, or Sam, or both, and he didn’t need to see their faces. He could get all the emotions just from their voices, especially when the three of them were together, his right hands always told him everything just like they felt it.

“Staring into the distance, thinking of your one try love, mate?” Sam asked, humour laced in his voice. He could hear Steve snicker behind him and Bucky just rolled his eyes at their childish behaviour.

“You wanted something particular, or did you come in to tease me?” Bucky growled, his eyes now closed, with his fingers massaging the root of his nose. They’ve been there for a few seconds, and they were already giving him a headache.

“Teasing? You think this is teasing? Teasing would be if we came back to the scene at the restaurant. Man! The way she sassed you and how you stay quiet, that was hilarious! We were a little worried that you bit your tongue. This, this would be teasing, old pal.” Steve was smirking at Bucky, who was now intently staring at the two of them, wishing they would turn into dust.

“Haha, so funny! You done, assholes? I do have better things to do than to listen to the two of you.”

“Like? Staring out the window like you’re the cover of a sad-boy’s album?” This time, Sam and Steve actually high-fived, and all Bucky could do was to sigh. He might have been the boss outside the room, but here, in his personal quarter, they were just three old friends, teasing the hell out of each other. Bucky just hated that it was now his turn to be in the burning seat.

“Give me a break, ok? I just never met a woman like her, that’s all. But she made it very clear that she wasn’t interested and I’m not gonna hunt her down. I’ve got better things to do than to think about some sassy-big-mouthed girl. Any word on Pierce?”

Both of the men in front of Bucky shook their heads. “Nope, nothing. Apparently, he is still very much on the West Coast, and if he likes his own life, he’s gonna stay there. Don’t worry about him, we’re gonna make sure he stays where he should. Speaking of shoulds,” Sam said, and looked at Steve, importantly.

“Right, we should get on the streets today. There are some bastards roaming the city, raping young women. We should make a purge and show them what happens to guys like them. I spoke to the Commissioner of the NYPD, and he said that their forces could help us, we just gotta call them. He told me, that they almost had the guys, but that they weren’t scared of the cops one bit, and the Commissioner thinks they would be scared of us. He also gave us full permission to do whatever we think is necessary. He just wants them out of the city.”

Bucky nodded and clenched his jaw. He hated men like that. He might have been a jerk, but all his women went with him willingly, or, at least, he wouldn’t push himself on them sexually. He also hated the fact that some asshole thought it was a good idea to start that shit in his city.

“Call the Commissioner, and tell him that the patrols that would see anything suspicious should call us directly and that we’ll handle it. Let’s hope it’ll be enough, and that it will be over with quickly. Do we know anything about them?”

Sam was thinking for a while, as was Steve. When they felt like they thought of everything that could be important, they switched between the two of them and told it all to Bucky.

“There are two of them, apparently taking turns at the girls.”

“They sometimes take two girls, one for each. Most of the time, they, however, take one girl, and when they’re done with her, they look for another one, so they have at least two girls a night.”

“Which tells us they must be on the younger side of the spectrum, having the stamina for two rounds, pretty quickly after each other.”

“They use condoms, so the hype is not in breeding the women, but maybe over-powering them? They apparently don’t have a type, their victims vary from the colour of their skin to their height.”

“But, we do know that their favourite part of New York is Brooklyn, only one of the 10 rapes they managed to do happened outside of Brooklyn, so we should be stationed somewhere around there.”

Bucky listened intently, making mental notes and preparing a plan for the night, or several nights ahead of them. For a second, his mind wandered towards you, if you were fine, and if you would be fine, but he quickly dismissed the thought and concentrated on the task at hand. They had an eventful night ahead of them.

—-

Getting Bucky out of your head was easier than you thought. Mostly because you were buried in your work, deadlines licking your heels and you knew you’d catch absolute hell if you didn’t finish in time.

What also helped was that you couldn’t meet him anywhere. Because the two of you lived such different lives, you were almost a hundred per cent sure there wasn’t a possibility of the two of you randomly meeting again. Once was enough and you didn’t need him threatening you go on another date with him. You inwardly rolled your eyes at yourself, reminding you that it wasn’t a date and that you definitely didn’t want it to be one.

Bucky was a mobster, and you definitely didn’t have his icy eyes in front of you when you were falling asleep. Not. At. All. But, to tell the truth, that was the only time you actually thought of him, otherwise being pretty busy.

Natasha loved every detail of that night, and you thought she would soon start writing down quotes from the date. She was obsessed with someone putting Bucky in his place, even more so that it was her best friend who did that, and she had first-hand details of the encounter.

You were sitting at the publishing house, with 5 other people, all of you catching up with your work. Among others, a new secretary of the editorial director. She looked like a sweet girl, even if you thought she was a little too dolled-up for pretty much an all-nighter at a publishing house, with a bunch of uninterested people. Your director was gay, so there was no chance she would be able to get to him, and other than that, it was you, Kate, and Bruce, who was currently single, but too shy to even look Tania’s way.

You and Kate were discussing the best approach to one of the Young Adult books you were currently trying to edit so that it could be sold in the shortest amount of time. You felt a light tap on your shoulder, and when you turned, you could see Tania sitting on your desk. You cringed inwardly, really hating when people invaded your personal space but tried to remain calm and collected. It was still a long night ahead of you.

“I thought I knew you from somewhere, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. You were out on Friday night, weren’t you?” She asked sweetly, but the smile on her face didn’t reach her eyes.

You smiled politely and nodded. Not that it was any of her business anyway. “Well if you saw me, then I must have been out, right?” You started to turn back to Kate, who was obviously trying not to laugh but failing miserably. Tania’s hand stopped you.

“So you’re the girl of the month, then? Huh, would never guess his demands got so low but good for you. The best month of your life awaits you until he decides that you’re old news and kicks you out like a stray dog.”

There was so much venom in her voice that you were surprised she didn’t poison you spitting at you.

“Sounds like you have the first-hand experience with that, sweetheart!” You smiled oh-so-sweetly at her, and she was now sending daggers through her eyes. “Look, Tania, I don’t know what you think you saw, but it was just one dinner, and I’m definitely the girl of no month. I bet Bucky is a great guy for the month, but I’m seriously not interested. So you can stop keeping me away from my job, and maybe start doing yours and bring us all coffee?”

You were a bitch, and you knew it, but you just couldn’t help yourself. You hated when people were nosey and would ask you unnecessary questions about your personal life. It was called personal for a reason.

She scoffed, but got up from your table (not before she “accidentally” pushed some of the papers from the table on the floor) and asked everyone around if anyone else wanted some hot beverage. Everyone hummed in agreement, but never stopped with their works.

Kate showed you thumbs up excitedly but otherwise dropped the case, knowing you two could gossip about what just happened after the deadlines were closed and your asses weren’t catching on fire.

It was around 2 AM that you could finally send out all the files you were supposed to, and despite your exhaustion, you couldn’t help but feel happy and relieved. Tania went home around 11 PM telling you all that she wasn’t cut out for such things, and that she better go home to be fresh and pretty the next morning. You collectively rolled your eyes at her but left it without a comment, feeling like she wouldn’t get the sarcastic comments that were on the tip of your tongue.

You said your goodbyes with Kate, and both walked in different directions. You would typically put in your headphones and zone out, but you were aware that it was quite late, and that even if New York acted as the safe city because of Bucky and his crew, you heard about few rapes around Brooklyn and you didn’t want to take a chance.

So you casually walked down the pavement, thinking about how you didn’t want to get up the next morning, knowing it would be a massive pain in the ass. Your mind also wandered towards your breakfast, trying to imagine the contents of your fridge to think of what you were gonna make the next morning.

As you were deciding between scrambled eggs and pancakes, somebody behind you whistled. You paid no mind to it, thinking that it definitely wasn’t at you. But when the whistling came from much closer behind you, followed by a low “pussycat”. You could hear a chuckle, which sounded like coming from a different man, and a cold sweat burst on your forehead, while a shiver ran down your spine.

You quickened your pace, hearing that they did the same, and you suddenly felt the rush of adrenaline in your blood. You didn’t want to die, or be used like that, and tried to think of anything that would get you out of the situation. You got to run. You knew you wouldn’t be able to fight them, especially if there were two of them, but you weren’t willing to take a look and lose time with it. But even without turning, you could hear them getting closer every second, and when you could feel a hand on your shoulder, harshly grabbing you, you did the only thing that was left. You let out a loud shriek, which was quickly muffled by a hand over your mouth. Your eyes watered instantly, you were trashing in the attacker’s arms, trying to get free, but he wouldn’t budge. You never thought you would end up here, and with this thought, your mind grew hazy, and your body went limp.

/ Next Chapter > 

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[oilgroove]

That is a very upbeat statement

On 20 January 2004, George Bush Jr. the President of the United States gave his last (?) State of the Union Address. In this article, I will point out 25 fallacies of the speech on the war on terror. Fallacy 1. "By bringing hope to the oppressed and delivering justice to the violent, [the American servicemen and women] are making America more secure." Apologists of the war on terror are quick to point out that there have not been any major attacks on the U.S. since September 11, 2001. But what of the numerous terror alerts? And how did the deadly toxin ricin recently find its way into the US Senate for the second time! Or did & PTFE Bushes Manufacturers 8216;Senator' Ricin, the ‘terrorist,' win a re-election into the upper house? Does that not show that the terrorists still present a clear and present danger? Clearly an early warning signal! Fallacy 2. "Each day, law enforcement personnel and intelligence officers are tracking terrorist threats; analysts are examining airline passenger lists; the men and women of our new Homeland Security Department are patrolling our coasts and borders. And their vigilance is protecting America." Americans and indeed the world should not live under the false hope of being protected by the intelligence officers. Because the terrorists themselves are becoming more creative. Who has ever heard of shoe bombers before? The U.S. House Democratic Leader Nancy Pelosi exposed this illusion in her speech: "One hundred percent of containers coming into our ports or airports must be inspected. Today, only 3 percent are inspected. One hundred percent of chemical and nuclear plants in the United States must have high levels of security. Today, the Bush Administration has tolerated a much lower standard. One hundred percent of the enriched uranium and other material for weapons of mass destruction must be secured. Today, the Administration has refused to commit the resources necessary to prevent it from falling into the hands of terrorists." In this case, is America protected? If the answer is no, what about other countries with less security measures and porous borders? Fallacy 3. "We have not come all this way, through tragedy, and trials, and war, only to falter and leave our work unfinished." The war on terror is an unfinished business. In fact, the battle has only begun. Commenting on this, the New York Times Magazine said that the war on terror "is the beginning of an epic battle." And to support this, La Repubblica newspaper said: "Today we get the feeling that we are living in the middle of a tornado, an unparalleled catastrophe." Those are not the right words to describe the end of a story. Fallacy 4. "And by our will and courage, this danger must be defeated." That is a very upbeat statement. On 24 July 2003, US Vice-President Dick Cheney also sounded oracular when he said: "One by one, in every corner of the world, we will hunt the terrorists down and destroy them." Al-Qaeda has now mutated into multifaceted anonymous groups. And this new phase is more dangerous than the former centralized visible organization. Take a warning: Do not go to some radical Muslim country to search for terrorists. Because that your prodigal son, or your estranged husband, or in fact, that distant relative of yours may be a terrorist. A roll call in the prison at Guantanamo Bay reveals that even some Americans and Britons—citizens of two nations in the forefront of the war on terror—have been "Talibanized." Besides, these groups are becoming more desperate. They have succeeded in their use of surface-to-air missiles (SAMS)—tumbling down military aircrafts at will in Iraq. And make no mistake about it: these cave dwellers may crack a dirty nuke somewhere someday, or unleash a deadly plague. In that case, how would the world respond? Detonate a nuclear bomb? So you can see that "we are perilously near a new international anarchy" according to the Washington Post. The war on terror, therefore, is not winnable. Fallacy 5. "And one of these essential tools is the Patriot Act, which allows Federal law enforcement to better share information, to track terrorists, to disrupt their cells, and to seize their assets." Terrorism can not be wiped out by legislation. After all, these are man-made laws and man himself is imperfect. There must be loopholes, and the terrorists exploit the weakness of the system. Now, what if they stop living in cells? Or what if they stop keeping their money in banks? Then they would be as elusive as the shadows. Fallacy 6. "We are tracking al-Qaida around the world and nearly two-thirds of their known leaders have now been captured or killed. Thousands of very skilled and determined military personnel are on the manhunt, going after the remaining killers who hide in cities and caves—and, # one by one, we will bring the terrorists to justice." It is true that most of the key terrorist suspects—including Saddam Hussein—have either been arrested or eliminated. But according to Time Magazine, "Lopping off the beast's head may not kill the body." If Saddam or Osama bin laden are hanged today, more Saddams and Osamas will rise tomorrow. Terrorists want attention. And that is why various groups are eager to claim credit for any attack—even though they are not responsible. In like manner there may be a lord of the flies waiting for Saddam and Osama to pass on before taking center stage and bringing his pursuers to ‘justice.' Fallacy 7. "The United States and our allies are determined. We refuse to live in the shadows of this ultimate danger." Right? Wrong! We must continue to live in the shadows of the terrorists. This is because terrorism is as old as the history of man on this planet—6,000 years. We have never left its shadows. Rather, terrorism continues to increase with the passing of the day. It is no wonder that Time Magazine remarks: "Determining whether the West is gaining in the fight against terrorism requires interpreting shadowy, shapeless data. Yet this much can be safely said: international terrorism existed long before 9/11 and will continue long after that." This is the message of my published book, CHASING SHADOWS!: A Dream. (A book that reveals the terrorists' master plan to finally set the world on fire! ) Terrorism starts from the heart and mind, and this is fueled by the hypocrisy and double standard in this world—two things that are not in a hurry to go away. In this regard, killings and destruction will exacerbate, rather than stop terrorism. When will the world address the issues that cause this evil, instead of chasing shadows? Fallacy 8. "The first to see our determination were the Taliban, who made Afganistan the primary training base of al-Qaida killers. As of this month, that free country has a new constitution, guaranteeing free election and full participation by women." Afganistan is not a free nation. Terrorist attacks and bombings are the order of the day—signifying that the Taliban and al-Qaeda are back. Warlords are also doing their thing. The only ‘free' place in Afganistan is the capital Kabul. Some Afgans even long for the return of the Taliban because of security concerns. Democracy itself is not an insurance against terrorism—some ‘democrats' are known to terrorize their subjects. Ask Zimbabweans. Fallacy 9. "Since we last met in this chamber, combat forces of the United States, Great Britain, Austrialia, Poland and other countries enforced the demands of the United Nations, ended the rule of Saddam Hussein—and the people of Iraq are free." The U.N. did not send any country to invade Iraq and change its regime. It was a unilateral action, a pre-emptive war, which itself is a weapon of mass destruction. Says Nancy Pelosi: "But even the most powerful nation in history must bring other nations to our side to meet common dangers. The President's policies do not reflect that. He has pursued a go-it-alone foreign policy that leaves us isolated abroad and that steals the resources we need for education and health care here at home." The Iraqi government was toppled on the excuse that it possessed dangerous weapons that could sink the world in 45 minutes. (Sorry, Lord Hutton has cleared British Prime Minister Tony Blair, for sexing up the report on Iraq. Let's blame the BBC.) But about a year after the invasion and the collateral damage of Iraq—and after a thorough search of the deserts and tunnels in that country, no such weapons have been found! Again in the words of Nancy Pelosi: "The President led us into the Iraqi war on the basis of unproven assertions without evidence; he embraced a radical doctrine of pre-emptive war unprecedented in our history; and he failed to build a true international coalition." Fallacy 10. "These killers, joined by foreign terrorists, are a serious, continuing danger. Yet we are making progress against them." This was in reference to the American war in Iraq. The President did not mention the over 500 American troops that have been killed and the thousands that are wounded. Nor did he mention the scores of daily attacks against American soldiers, or the crashing planes. Is it progress when servicemen and women are killed or maimed? This reminds me of the saying: winning the war is not winning the peace.

[stuonsongs]

My Top 10 Favorite Songs of All Time - 2006 Edition

2021 Editor’s Note: I was looking through some old files and found this thing that I wrote sometime in the summer of 2006 at age 22. For all I know, it could’ve been 15 years to the day! Looking back, I’m not sure how many of these songs would still make my top 10. Don’t get me wrong, I still love all of these tunes, but I’m sure you know how it goes - You get older, you get exposed to more things, and your idea of good music expands. Anyway, I thought it might be nice to share with anyone who still uses this site. I present it in its original format without edits to my writing. I ended up writing full posts in this blog about some of these songs if you go through the archive. 

Stu’s Top 10 Favorite Songs…Ever

Let’s start with some honorable mentions. These were so close, and I thought about it for so long, but they had to be left off.

Honorable Mentions

All Summer Long – The Beach Boys

All Summer Long. 1964. Capitol

This song has been described so many times as being “the perfect summer song.” When you listen to it, you can’t help but smile from the opening marimba intro, all the way through. It just screams “summer” and it hurt me to leave The Beach Boys off my top 10.

Bleed American – Jimmy Eat World

Bleed American. 2001. Grand Royal

So full of energy, so rocking, and so what would’ve been the most recent song on my list. I wanted to keep it in the top 10 just so I could have a song from the ‘00s, but it wasn’t meant to be. When the chorus kicks in, I can’t help but headbang.

Marie – Randy Newman

Good Old Boys. 1974. Reprise

Randy has said that a lot of young composers pick “Marie” as their favorite Newman song, and I can see why. The idea of a guy having to be drunk to tell his wife that he loves her is pretty funny, and throughout the whole song it’s just the beautiful melody with tons of strings, all to a tune about a guy ripping on himself as he comes home drunk to his wife.

Does He Love You? – Rilo Kiley

More Adventurous. 2004. Brute/Beaute

I guess this is newer than Bleed American, so it would’ve worked too. This is another more recent song that it killed me to leave off the list. The outro is an arrangement of the main tune with a different chord progression performed by a string quartet. Very beautiful. Also when Jenny Lewis screams “Your husband will never leave you, he will never leave you for me,” I get chills every time.

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

So here it is. After a long day’s work, I’m finally finished. It actually turned out much different than I was thinking when I first started. The number one wasn’t really even in my top five when I started, but I slowly realized I loved it so much. I also left Ben Folds (Five) off this list completely, and I don’t know, I just feel the whole catalogue of Ben is so solid, none of the songs stick out to me that much. But anyways, here it is! After the break of course…

Stu’s Top 10

10.

(Love Is Like A) Heat Wave – Martha and the Vandellas

Heat Wave. 1963. Motown.

This one beat out “Bleed American” just barely. The reason being that somehow, despite being nearly 40 years older than Bleed American, it still has so much energy that it kills. Dan Bukvich once told our Jazz Arranging class that you can boil all the oldies you hear on the radio down to three categories: 1) Great Song. 2) Great Performance. 3) Great Arrangement. This song is one of the great performances. The handclaps throughout, combined with the driving baritone sax behind everything and constant snare drum action will keep anybody with blood running through their veins dancing all night long.

9.

Bodhisattva – Steely Dan

Countdown to Ecstasy. 1973. MCA

This song is my Freebird. It’s just a basic blues progression song at its core with some minor changes at the end of the form. The real kicker that drives this song home is the three minute guitar solo in the middle that isn’t nearly as rocking as Freebird, but it is highly proficient and takes me to places that just make me want to play the song over and over again. I have no idea what this song is about, probably Buddhism, but hey, this once again proves that lyrics rarely matter and the music itself is the core.

8.

Zanzibar – Billy Joel

52nd Street. 1978. Columbia

This song reminds me of long car rides on vacations down the west coast with my parents growing up. They used to play a tape of 52nd Street, or at least their favorite selections, constantly on these trips. I didn’t hear this song again until early in my senior year in college and remembered why I loved it so much. The song has a heavy jazz influence, displayed in the breakdown where Jazz trumpeter Freddie Hubbard does a solo. The best part of this song though is at the end of the 4th line of each verse, Billy does this “Woah oh oh!” thing that just makes me want to sing every time. It was between this and “Miami 2017 (Lights Go Out On Broadway)” which is also a great song, but the “Woah oh oh!” is too much for ol’ Stu boy.

7.

Rosalita (Come Out Tonight) – Bruce Springsteen

The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle. 1973. Columbia

Early Bruce Springsteen records have something that very few other artists can ever pull off without sounding cheesy or forced. It has this undeniable sense of urgency, like the world will fall apart and life will crumble through your fingers if this one moment in time doesn’t work out the way Bruce describes it. There are so many early Springsteen songs that just set a scene of “We have to get out of this town right now girl before it kills us, no matter what any of our parents, friends, anybody has to say.” There’s a line that kinda sums it up: “Well hold on tight, stay up all night ‘cause Rosie I’m comin’ on strong. By the time we meet the morning light, I will hold you in my arms. I know a pretty little place in southern California down San Diego way. There’s a little café where they play guitars all night and all day. You can hear ‘em in the back room strummin’, so hold tight baby ‘cause don’t you know daddy’s comin’.”

6.

I’ve Got You Under My Skin – Frank Sinatra

Songs For Swingin’ Lovers! 1956. Capitol

This song falls into the category of great arrangement. This Cole Porter classic tune was arranged for Sinatra by Nelson Riddle. The story goes that he was still copying down parts for the players while riding in the cab to the recording studio on the day of recording. After the players ran through it once with Frank, they stood up and applauded. The Baritone sax takes control here, outlining a Db6/9 chord throughout the intro. Of course, Frank’s vocal delivery is spot on and goes up and down in all the right places for the biggest emotion impact. It’s amazing how a song with no real chorus can be so good.

5.

A Change Is Gonna Come – Sam Cooke

Ain’t That Good News. 1964. RCA Victor

This song was not even going to be on this list, but then I ran across it while scouring my collection of music and remembered how good it was. Then I listened to it and was blown away by the level of detail that went into this arrangement. Sam’s vocals soar above the mind blowingly beautiful arrangement. The lyrics to this one actually add to the tune itself, speaking of wrongdoings in the world around him, and how social change is on its way in the form of the civil rights movement. The song flows with such ease out of Cooke that one might forget the weightiness of the content, but the song’s content is just so heavy that it’s impossible to deny it.

4.

Whatever – Oasis

Whatever EP. 1994. Creation

This song was released as a Christmas present to the U.K. from the Gallagher brothers and company. It never appeared on any full album, only being released as a single, and amazingly, it blows away anything else they’ve ever done. Think “All You Need Is Love,” but with tons of rocking energy and a snide, nonchalant attitude. The chorus speaks, “I’m free to be whatever I, whatever I choose and I’ll sing the blues if I want. I’m free to be whatever I, whatever I like, if it’s wrong or right, it’s alright.” Not exactly poetry, and the song isn’t exactly breaking any new ground either, but the song is absolutely perfect in every way, and it was going to be my #1, but perhaps the only reason it’s not at number one is because I’ve played this song so many times that at the moment, these next three are beating it, but who knows how I’ll feel in a few months. This song also pulls the same “outro performed by a string quartet” thing as “Does He Love You?” but even better. It’s so simple, but I can’t get enough of it.

3.

Mr. Blue Sky – Electric Light Orchestra

Out of the Blue. 1977. Jet

This is obviously the best Beatles song that the Beatles never wrote. The staccato guitar during the verse combined with the strings present in just about every ELO song combine to make a force that is undeniably catchy and musically challenging at the same time. This is really what makes ELO so good. I didn’t discover this song till probably Nov. 2005, and it was one of the best days of my life. I didn’t want to include two songs by the same artist in my top 10, but if I did, I probably would’ve added “Turn To Stone” on this list too because it is almost as awesome as this one. It’s a shame that just like Billy Joel, most critics at the time hated ELO for being overly creative musically (they called it pretentiousness). These days we have acts that really are pretentious (see Radiohead), but everyone loves them, even critics. I’m not knocking all Radiohead, just most everything post OK Computer. Sorry, got a little sidetracked there.

2.

Only In Dreams – Weezer

Weezer. 1994. Geffen

This has been my favorite Weezer song since about a month into me picking up Weezer’s debut album back around early 2000. It has this ostinato (a repeated motif over and over again) in the bass throughout most of the whole song, never even really resolving to the Gb major chord (excluding chorus, which never really resolves) that it wants to until the end of a 3 minute contrapuntal guitar duet when everything dies out except the bass which just retards on its own until it finally plays the single Gb we’ve all been waiting for. The song on the whole up until the guitar duet is pretty tame, but once those contrapuntal guitar lines start intertwining, my ears perk up every time. I can sing both lines at separate times upon request and when the drums finally kick back in fully at the climax of the song, I let out a sigh of relief or bang on my car wheel in exultant joy, whichever is more of an option at the time.

1.

All Is Forgiven – Jellyfish

Spilt Milk. 1993. Charisma

I always loved this song from the first time I heard it, but I didn’t realize how much I loved it until maybe April 2006. I found out about Jellyfish first semester of college in the Fall of ’02 and heard this song, and knew it was great. The constant tom-tom driven drums, the fuzzy, almost white noise distorted guitar, and the half time bass throughout. It was great. Then in April I put it on my mp3 player for the walk to school, and then I listened to it for about two weeks straight. Seriously. It runs into the next song entitled “Russian Hill” which is almost as good, but because it’s a separate song, I couldn’t include it on the list, but in my mind, they always run together and are basically one long 9 minute song. The ending just gets more and more white noise filled until you can barely take it anymore and then it just cuts off completely into the slow acoustic intro for Russian Hill. It’s perfect in every way. I think this would fall into the category of great song. And the way the song builds up right to the middle of the song and then cuts out completely except for some very VERY faint xylophone noodling, and then busts back in with some feedback directly into guitar solo. Man I love this song.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter thirty-six: pink orange red

“he draws his horses; pretend your anger, and draws his horses, being chosen also.” -”pink orange red”, cocteau twins

On a cold morning in the middle of November, Sam rolled over onto her side and strove to fall back asleep. The memory of standing out in the rain and mourning over Cliff still hung fresh in her memory. This was the third morning this week that she had woken up early because she swore she still felt him next to her. She still felt his memory within her arm's reach, right there, nestled right next to her in the safety of her bed.

She opened her eyes and lay her hand on the spot of the mattress next to her, even though there was no way someone of his stature would lay there next to her. He was right there. He was right next to her. And yet he couldn't feel her again. She couldn't feel him again. She woke up alone for the umpteenth time and she had no idea as to how to rectify it.

Anthrax had already left for Europe with Metal Church, and she had to look over the schedule again to find that Metallica had gone off out west for a little bit before they were whisked across the Pacific. Even though he promised her that she could call him at any given time as she so wished, she had no idea how to get in touch with Joey. It was a cold, blustery day there in New York City, and albeit the weekend right before Thanksgiving: she could go back out West to visit her parents, but that would only mean a couple of days there in Reno before she had to fly on back that Sunday.

Even though it was only for another week and a half before they came back to North America and played there in Poughkeepsie and New York City with the Cherry Suicides, it could not feel more of like an eternity. Those next ten days stretched into the form of ten years without having her friends there.

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the gray ceiling. She had everything and then with a flick of a wrist, she was back to square one. Back in bed in her own home. It would be four days alone for all she knew, unless Aurora and Marla weren't doing anything then. Four days alone and yet she wondered about the slight wish she had cast for herself. Some time alone to think about everything; some time to herself and no one else.

Indeed, as she thought more about it, she realized she hadn't had much time to herself until after she returned home from school or anywhere else, and even then it was only for a brief time. Four days alone and she could make it work for herself.

Sam sighed through her nose and lay her arms upon the top of the blanket. The question then was what to do in those four days.

All the art she had made up to that point was for someone else, be it Frank and Charlie or for a class. She very rarely cracked into her own private journal for herself. All buried under the weight of class and the very friendships she wished for and held dearly.

Four days alone and she could do it with that journal.

It felt as though she hadn't ridden in a car for a thousand years, even though she and Joey drove to Oswego together. If nothing, she could take the bus to the upstate area. But on the other hand, she wouldn't have her tour guide with her. She could wander about somewhere upstate, but then came the whole deal of taking a bus there in the first place. There was so much to do and yet so much she couldn't do.

Four days alone and there was so much to do between now and then.

She glanced down at her waist: she had lost a little weight in that she didn't seem so round with the blankets wrapped around her, but she also wished for Cliff's touch. She had cried all of her tears for him and yet she still wished for his presence. She wished for a presence. Someone to touch her, to understand her, to be the best friend that he never could be.

She knew the sun was about to come up within mere seconds: a brand new day and a brand new week, and one for herself no less. Nothing better to do than to make herself a cup of brew and go out walking before the snows came in.

Aurora had given her a string of dates to clock in and she knew that had to have been her last day before the Thanksgiving break. At least it was a mere part of the day rather than the whole thing. She would relish in every moment alone.

And yet she couldn't help but wonder about her parents. So far away from home and yet she knew she had to be there in New York. Her one true home. Her parents fought for her, every step of the way because she knew she would blossom on the East Coast. But every blossom wilted and withered and fell from the trees by the time the summer rolled around, and they were long gone come the winter time. She began to wonder about Christmas break with her parents: Chrismas break and without a man by her side.

Add to this, she also couldn't believe how easy it was for her to get into school, in that she barely made a waitlist of any sort. As far as she knew, even Marla and Belinda had been waitlisted before they were accepted in themselves. It almost felt too easy to get into that school. In fact, she closed her eyes again and thought back to those first few weeks when she submitted her things to her counselor Bill, and she started to wonder about him, and if he had a hand in other things, not just the admissions office. So many questions and yet so little time to ruminate over it all.

Sam opened her eyes and she gazed up at the ceiling once again, that time when the first glimmers of gray sunlighht appeared up above her. Today was a work day: she had to get up at some point. Get up, get dressed, and tuck her journal under her coat if in the off chance of her having a moment alone that day.

She took her cup of coffee with her on the subway ride down to the building itself, and all the while she wore that black hat Cliff had given her. She paired it with her long black winter coat and heavy black leather boots. If it snowed, she would stand out anywhere in New York: as black as the East River at night during a hefty rain.

She emerged from the cold subway station with the cup of coffee still in hand and her purse over her shoulder, and protected by the heavy and warm safety of her coat. The rain was upon her, if not the snow. With her free hand, she held onto the crown of her hat as she hurried up the sidewalk. Aurora's car was nowhere to be seen.

“Don't tell me I'm opening today,” she said aloud and out of breath.

A break in the clouds and she was met with a sliver of sunlight as she reached the front door. She pushed it open as if someone had already been there, and she recognized Eric's long fine black hair on the other side of the front room.

“Hey,” she greeted him.

“Hey,” he retorted; right next to him was Greg.

“Hey, girlie,” he followed up.

“Wow, I wasn't expecting to see you guys here,” she declared as she closed the door behind her. “It's Sunday.”

“Aurora wanted us to come in and do some paper work,” Greg explained as he took a seat in the chair against the wall. “Although to be fair we weren't expecting to see you here, either. Given it's Sunday and whatnot.”

“And we're gonna be here for a while, too,” Eric added. “It's just the nature of things at the moment.”

“It's a work day for me—it's only part time but still.” She then stopped right in her tracks. “Wait a minute, you guys are getting ready to record, aren't you?” Eric had a twinkle in his eye and Greg nodded his head. Sam then brought the cup of coffee to her mouth for a sip against the cold.

“Just about,” Eric replied as he took his seat there next Greg, “—I'm technically the one who founded the band so if nothing else, I have to be here myself. Greg is just here so he sees that he gets his money.”

“Dyin' to get our money,” Greg said as he tilted his head back and brought his hands to his chest.

“By the way, do you guys have a manager at all?” she asked Eric. “I was thinking about that a couple of weeks ago—given I'm the first member of fan club and everything.”

“A manager? No, not yet. The Zazulas are the ones overlooking us at the moment.”

A brief silence fell over that room.

“Kind of like the counselors at school,” she noted in a soft voice, and she took another sip of coffee.

“And if it's something important like that, you'd have to balance out that with school,” Greg pointed out.

“I've done it before,” Sam assured him with a raise of her finger.

“Well, if nothing, you gotta at least sit in with us, though,” Eric insisted. “I really wanna see you and I really want you to hear what we've got on deck. Louie and Chuck do, too. I think Alex does, too—given you're Cliff's girl and everything. He's back home right now so I don't know what to say about him.”

“I mean, she did do it with Stormtroopers,” Greg pointed out.

“I did it with Stormtroopers, yeah,” she recalled with a shrug of her shoulders, “and I'm part time with the label and assistant to Aurora, too. I could in fact sit in if you wish.”

“We go in New Year's Eve,” Eric added with a nibble of his lip. “New Year's Eve under the name 'Legacy.' I hope, anyways.”

“If I'm not there, what would happen?” she asked them.

“We'd be sad and be like 'where's our girl?' for the better part of a week,” he said with a straight face.

“Where are you guys gonna be?” she asked him.

“Pyramid Sound—out in Ithaca. We can take you out there right now if you'd like.”

“Nah, I have things to do,” she assured him, and then she snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute—I have Thanksgiving off. That's coming up here in this next week. You still gonna be here?”

Eric and Greg glanced at each other.

“We'll try,” the former vowed, “what’s your schedule like this week?”

“I have half a day Tuesday.”

“How ‘bout then?”

“Sounds good. As long as I don’t have anything important, of course.”

“We’ll get ya back home,” he vowed with a wink, and she extended her hand to him. His hand was warm and dry, but his fingers were rough from the incessant guitar playing. The door behind her swung open, and the three of them turned their attention to Aurora, who had a big grin on her face.

“What you all smiles for?” Greg asked her with a little shake of his head.

“Come on in, Marla!” she called back, and Marla stepped inside from the cold and the gray. The violet had gone and in its place was a bright neon orange at the crown of her head. But as her hair extended to her shoulders, the orange melded into a rich cherry red and bright hot pink. Every step about the floor it looked as though her hair changed colors from orange to red to pink, one right after the other as if her hair was comprised of watercolor. Sam, Eric, and Greg gaped at the sight of the hair and how it seemed to flow about.

“Wow!” Sam declared.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” said Aurora with a twinkle in her eye. “I helped out with it because it was tricky to get right, especially the red part of it.”

“I call it 'pink lemonade',” Marla added as she lifted her hair out from under her shirt collar: the pink and red near the bottom seemed to move about like waves. “I wanted to do it for the Cherry Suicides' show this upcoming week.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right! It's this week!”

“Providence and then upstate in Poughkeepsie.”

“We really gotta be here now, Greg,” Eric proclaimed right behind Sam and Aurora.

“For sure, Eric. Seeing a bunch of punk chicks with Metallica after a week of a great feast. And we owe li'l Sam here a ride out to Ithaca—”

Sam paid no attention to Greg's waxing lyrical given Marla's hair had given her some sort of awakening right before school started and then ended again for a bit. Some time alone but she knew it was going to be worth it, especially with hair like that.

She couldn't hardly focus on her work that day given she kept on thinking about her rendezvous with Eric and Greg in the next room, and also her seeing the Cherry Suicides with Metallica. How exciting it must have been for Zelda in particular. Sam was so distracted by the whole thing that she spent her entire lunch break with the journal in hand.

She thought back to Zelda and that day in her apartment when Aurora broke the news to her. They were coming home to Providence, and Sam couldn't help but laugh at it. She thought about that full bodied painting of Joey on canvas and how it was still in the back seat of his car. There was another thing she had to do: a better, more finessed rendition of Joey in the buff. But that thought led her back to Zelda.

Their name was the Cherry Suicides, and they were dark and fast but incredibly girlish at the same time, almost like black cherries. They owed so much to Wendy O. Williams and yet they moved in a whole other direction altogether.

She brought the pencil to the paper and she sketched out Zelda's head first. All the inexplicable struggle with graphite and correctly shading everything was about to pay off with her short bob of dark hair. A little oval shaped face and deep seductive eyes, and then she followed it up with her lanky drummer's body and a myriad of cherries around her. Given she only had the one pencil to work with, Sam shaded in the cherries with the side of the graphite, but it was somewhat difficult given she kept the journal close to her chest. She drew it for herself and no one else.

But she still signed her initials at the very bottom of the page.

She kept it all firmly in mind as she went off to school for the next two days, and by the middle of the day on Tuesday, she wondered if Eric and Greg knew where she lived courtesy of the label or Aurora, or if she had to walk on up there after her last class. Indeed, she stepped out of that front building and she was alone there on the sidewalk. Not a cloud in the sky but a walk nonetheless and with her hand upon the crown of her hat as well.

Sam strolled inside and there was Eric and Greg congregated around Aurora, who had the clipboard in hand once again.

“—so I'll get that squared away for you guys once you get out there to Ithaca,” she was saying, and she turned around at the sight of her best friend in the door. “There she is!”

“Little Sam I am!” Eric declared. “You ready to go?”

“Let's move on out, boys,” she said as she fixed the brim of her hat.

“And remember if you guys need anything, call me back at my place or down at Montana,” Aurora continued.

“Will do,” Eric told her with a shake of her hand, and the two of them doubled back to the door and put on their sunglasses in unison.

“We're the men in black,” Sam decreed as she led them back outside.

“Hell yeah,” said Greg. Eric led them back to his rental car, which was parked up at the corner, right in front of Aurora's car.

“Shotgun,” Sam declared.

“Damn it!” Greg scoffed, and Eric laughed out loud as he took out his keys and climbed in first.

“Her and Alex, man,” Greg added.

“Alex always calls shotgun?” Sam asked them as she followed suit into the front passenger seat.

“Oh, he's terrible with that,” Eric replied. “Whenever we played out at clubs back in the Golden State, he made it a nervous tic of sorts. Sometimes he'll slip it in mid conversation—like we'll be walking to our car and he'll be in the middle of saying something and he'll slip in the word 'shotgun' in.”

“I remember the first time he did that, Louie looked at him like he just slipped in a foreign word or something,” Greg recalled as he shut the back door. Sam slid her book bag down between her legs. She could only assume that it was for the rest of that day and that they would get her home soon enough.

Indeed, when they got on the road, she took out her journal from the inside and returned to that drawing of Zelda. It needed something: it was the start of a new chapter for her and thus she needed to add something more to it. She gazed out the window at the scraggly trees that lined the highway and she thought about Joey. She wondered how he was doing while on tour and if he was staying away from all the booze and brutal partying.

Next to the shaded cherries on the left side of the page, Sam doodled a glass soda bottle. She had hope that Joey would turn his attention to singing and staying sober with things like soda for the duration of that tour. Clean and sober, like a bottle of soda. The cherries only made the doodle more appropriate.

She hadn't drawn glass much before, but she had seen it in person many times: that little bit of shine on the curvature of the bottle as well as the neck.

Right in between the bottle and the cherries, she got to work on a little rose, in honor of Rosita. And once she had finished the basic sketching, she ran the pencil over it all again to make their shadows richer and darker.

She lifted her gaze again to the dark forest outside of the car. Even though she was in the car with Eric and Greg, she was still technically alone. She sat in a car with two men she didn't really know very well and she was drawing right next to them to boot. She was alone with her thoughts. A few leaves still clung to the dark branches of all the trees, and each one of them were as orange as Marla's hair to contrast with the cold gray in the sky.

Soon the signs for Ithaca emerged from the scraggly, damp shrubs and the memory of the Stormtroopers of Death tour returned to her.

“I came out here with Joey last summer,” she said. “Took me out this way just so I could take a shower.”

“Context?” Greg asked her with a clearing of his throat.

“Touring with Stormtroopers and none of us had showered in days, and I finally couldn't take it anymore and Joey and I drove to his parents' house just for that.”

“Ohhhh, shit,” Eric groaned.

“Damn, that's rough,” Greg joined in, “kinda metal, though. You went from one place to another just for a shower and hung out with the Stormtroopers.”

Sam moved over to the right side of the paper and Eric took a glimpse over at her.

“Amazed you can draw while you're in the car,” he admitted. “I try to do that and I get dizzy almost immediately.”

“I feel the drive to create, you know?” she said as she kept her eyes on the cherries to the right of Zelda. “I want to make something in Cliff's wake, too. He did the same thing after his brother died after all.”

“That he did,” he replied in a thoughtful tone.

They fell back into silence and that gave her more time to finish the drawing. That one drawing just for herself, and she had ran the pencil over her initials once again by the time they rolled into that first intersection in Ithaca. She opened the journal even more across her lap for Eric and Greg to see. The former gaped at it and for so long that he kept the car in place there for almost too long.

“Holy shit,” he said as he lunged forward to the fuel station on the corner. Sam lifted up the journal so Greg himself could see it from the back seat.

“That's fucking beautiful,” he remarked.

“You ought to show that to Alex when you see him again—he's bit of an art kid,” Eric told her as he returned to the street.

“Oh, yeah, that's right!” She thought about that leaf of rice paper back in her apartment, still there in the safe place of her drawer. “What is with these heavy metal guys and a love of the arts,” Sam chuckled. “Lars is an art guy, Charlie's an art guy, and now I find out Alex is one, too.”

“You're a lot like us,” Eric replied, nonplussed. “We're dark and pissed off—there's something about you that's dark and pissed off. Aurora told me where the studio is—I just forget—oh, wait, there it is.”

It was a small brick building tucked back in the trees, with a little narrow walkway up to the front door that resembled to the walkway at school, and it stood a bit away from the actual road, and Eric told her it would serve as the perfect spot for them to get as loud as they could.

“Just so long as there's no one else in there with us,” Greg pointed out. “Come in here around New Year's and totally raise some hell.”

Sam lingered near the car, and she peered up at the dark trees. The one next to her still had a pair of leave on the lowest branch: a single dark red leaf next to a yellow one. She thought of Cliff and the yellow tulips back home, still strong and stout against all odds.

Within time, Eric and Greg drove her back to the Bronx, and by that time, night had fallen and she wished to make more art in Cliff's honor. Art for herself as well as him. She had a whole day to herself with nothing to think about and no one to spend it with, and thus she sat down with the journal and her colored pencils.

She thought about those thirty one ink drawings she had made the year before in honor of Spreading the Disease, except these were to honor herself and Cliff. All the colors, and all the dark graphite. Herself with Cliff. Their arms around each other's love and their lips pressed upon each other: nothing too much and nothing too intense, and yet making them took a great deal out of her. And that night, she went off to bed and fell asleep by the time her head hit the pillow.

She had cried out all her tears for him but drawing herself with him was what buried the coffin under the earth. By Sunday and her realization that she was to witness Zelda in front of a real crowd of people, she closed the journal and lay it on her desk. Its final resting place.

The show itself in Providence took place the next day while Sam was at school, but Marla insisted on going because the next day was Thanksgiving.

“We've got to—it's home coming for the Cherries,” she had said, and thus the two of them plus Belinda climbed into Charlie's car and they made the two hour drive to Providence once school let out. Every time Marla flipped her hair back, all the colors shimmered and waved about as if her hair was made of titanium. There was no way Zelda could miss them out in that big crowd.

And a big crowd it was: the four of them congregated off to the side, right next to the stage, and they watched the four girls roar forth in front of two thousand people. A band that had been playing in clubs were finally able to stretch their wings and let their sound ring out.

“This is the type of show they needed to play,” Belinda declared in a voice barely loud enough for Sam and Marla to hear.

They closed out their set with “Day of the Dead” and Sam thought about that night three weeks before. She closed her eyes and let the music guide her way. Cliff's arms. Cliff's safety and the extent of his heart. But alas, she couldn't.

She finally put him to bed. Zelda slammed the cymbals one last time and the crowd before them erupted.

“Thank you, Providence!��� Morgan shouted into the microphone. “We love our home!”

The four of them ducked off stage, and Marla clapped over her head once Zelda appeared with a wide euphoric grin on her face.

“Oh, my god, that was insane!” she shrieked as she picked up a full water bottle from a table next to the wall. She pushed her black hair back and she let Rosita pour the cold water over her hot forehead. “That's what I'm talking about!”

To think they were on the brink of disbanding and giving it all up, and they performed as though their lives depended on it. Even though she was hot and sweaty, Sam still threw her arms around her and held her close. And she stayed there with them as they watched Metallica, Sam's first time seeing them with Jason.

It seemed hard to believe, even implausible, to think that those three men had already experienced so much in such a short amount of time, much like how she did herself. But in that year alone, they had put out a brand new record and embarked on a huge tour, plus James shattered his arm, and then they lost their brother from another mother. And yet, here they were, in all their glory. Five years into the whole adventure and yet they had come such a long way.

At one point, Jason nodded over at her with a little smirk on his face. His curled bangs kissed his brow, and she could make out the little twinkle in his eye. She nodded at him as he played along: not even a few weeks into the fold, and he was already a good hard part of it.

“We're back, baby,” she whispered: the faintest of whispers such that the surrounding crowd couldn't hear her, but she knew Cliff could, even when she finally put him to bed.

[bidean-byedean]

new piece on AO3

xvi. family 

Day 16 of the SPN advent calendar (not festive)

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here.

You stop for the night.

Rated: G // Tags: second person POV, outsider POV, finale denialist, post-canon/canon divergent, bar owner Dean, everyone is alive and in love, domestic fluff // Ships: Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, Claire/Kaia // Word count: 5.6k

The bar is unassuming, gentle, welcoming. Tucked away but easy to find, if you’re looking. It’s still the midwest after all. Dean knows how much it looks like the old haunt; some of it deliberately mimicked, some of it inevitable features of the genre, some of it only became apparent in certain lights, like a ghostly apparition in a foggy bathroom mirror. These things that were hidden until Sam laid eyes on the place for the first time, or an old regular froze in the doorway, or after hours when Dean is cleaning up and swears he heard Jo’s soft giggle. 

When this happens, he pauses. Braced against the reclaimed wood of the bar, desperately straining his ears into the nothingness, begging for one more note. It’s only when a warm hand settles on his shoulder, always his left, somehow always, that he realises what he’s doing. There’s only one place that his prayers echo out anymore and all they do is remind Cas of all the things that Dean has lost, of all the parts of Dean’s life that he did not know, that he cannot restore. But at least now the old Hunter does not flinch at his touch. His body relaxes into the large, steady hand; grounded, brought back to the present where Jo’s laughter is an eternal echo that makes it neither real nor unreal. If their lives had taught them anything, the distinction is arbitrary. 

Cas helps him collect the last of the glasses, stacking them into long, precarious towers. Not as tall as the ones Dean makes; he’s not as easy in his body, not as used to being observed, and he hates the sound of shattering glass, hates the silence afterwards, hates that moment of momentum when the breaking is about to happen and is happening and has happened. For angels, it’s always about to happen and happening and happened. Or, it used to be like that. When and so it is written meant something. Before, when it was Castiel and Dean Winchester, not now, in the after, when it is Cas and Dean. 

There’s something deeply absurd happening here. You feel it when you first visit and you realise. Pulling off of a hunt in nowhere middle America, aching in your bones and, depending on what you killed, your heart, and you remember that Dean Winchester - yeah, that Dean Winchester - opened a bar around here. It’s already ridiculous, considering the things you’ve heard. Only half of them can be true, mostly the half that you can reconcile with your understanding of the truth. 

John Winchester’s boy? Haven’t you heard? 

Haven’t you heard he has a face you’d pay twice the going rate for? Haven’t you heard he’ll take it? Haven’t you heard he’s the best Hunter of his age? Haven’t you heard he sold his soul? Haven’t you heard an angel brought him back? Haven’t you heard he lost it again? To John? To the devil? To God? Haven’t you heard he was the most feared monster in Purgatory? Haven’t you heard losing his soul was nothing compared to losing his brother, to losing his angel, to losing his angel again, and again, and again? 

Haven’t you heard? They’re in love. 

So you roll up to the door of the bar and it just looks like a bar because the warding is painted beneath the sign holding the name, and the devil’s trap is in the shadows of the ceiling, and hex bags are stowed inside of the cushions of the stools, and a silver rosary consecrated by softly sung blessings, murmured by the human mouth of an Angel, sits in the water tank. Even if you know, you do not know. But you feel safe here, that is the point, the commandment of the space; welcome and be welcomed. And maybe you sit at the bar, tired and alone and lonely, surrounded (for the first time?) by people with whom you can speak freely and you realise the weight of speaking in code, always hiding, bearing a burden that sears into your soul until you’re not sure you have one anymore. You hear they burn out, that you can use them up, and then what are you?

But tonight you’re safe behind the warding and in front of a bar with a surprisingly pretentious beer menu and burgers that come with avocado and the word seasonal in front of some of the offerings. But there are people you’re familiar with, even if you don’t know them, you know them. Their faces hold the same weariness, their clothes practical or incongruous by design, masks and costumes and performances, all finally relaxed. So relax. 

Maybe you haven’t seen him since before John died, or before he went to Hell, or before he killed God(?), but that doesn’t matter. Maybe you read the books, enjoying being in the know, enjoying that you enjoy them differently from all the other people that enjoy them, for better reasons. Maybe his name is a myth passed from Hunter to Hunter, monster to monster, or between the two (is there a two? You try not to think about this too much). Older now, so much older than he could’ve ever hoped for. Masculine in every way you hope to be masculine, if you really understand what it means, but by hoping and understanding you fail. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and wears a flannel shirt over a band tshirt and dishtowel over his shoulder, and his jaw is sharp and hard and stubbled, and his eyes framed by deep crow’s feet; he sees you and you feel seen. His forearms are too tanned for the season, but you’re distracted by how they flex under the skin, and his hands are big and rest on the wood in front of you, just hands now, but they might as well be an armoury for all the death they’ve caused.

So, maybe you’re suddenly afraid because the things you didn’t want to be true? Suddenly reality has shifted and not only do they reconcile with the truth, they are immutable from it, it is more impossible that impossible things don’t happen to this man. 

Then he smiles.

“What can I get ya?” 

His voice is so low it’s like traffic from a highway just out of sight from your motel room, that when you lie in the dark becomes part of your body, as essential to your existence as the thudding of your heart and the huffing of your lungs and the buzzing from the dying lights in the walkway outside. It’s atomic. It’s celestial.

Wasn’t the other one supposed to be an angel?

You don’t know. You’re not used to having choices. Simple choices, selfish ones, luxurious ones: if you want fries or steak-cut chips, American or Swiss, IPA or stout or lager, light or dark, or spirits. It embarrasses you, how difficult it is, in the face of meaninglessness, how do you fare?

“Just a beer, man.”

“I gotcha,” he tips his chin understandingly and gets to work. 

Probably gets this all the time, an understood consequence of stepping outside of the comfort zone. Your comfort zone, not his, you realise. This is his domain, his playground, his paradise on Earth, as was the promised bounty for fighting on humanity’s side in the war. The one no one else had to fight in because he did. 

Did he still have the sword? 

‘German pilsner.”

“It’s good.”

His smile seems genuine and so is your surprise. 

“What you here for?”

You keep your eyes on his, if you blink, you’ll see it again. “Shifter. Of a sort.”

“Mmm.”

“Then home.”

That catches his interest. “Where’s home?”

“Iowa.”

Then he opens the ground beneath you: “Who’s home?”

“Whoever’s left.”

He grunts appreciatively, his gaze flickering over his shoulder. You notice the bands on his fingers. Silver, you assume pure, but it catches the light in a way that isn’t quite right, you stare at it. He twists it with his thumb, an unconscious habit, a soothing touch, a comfort. Even a Winchester needs comforts. It’s a comfort in of itself. 

A young woman, her blonde hair half-braided and threaded with metal, slides over the top of the bar, her leather trousers giving her enough slip over the wood. Her heavy boots thud onto the ground and she grins manically at his frown.

“What have I told you about-“

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you too, old man.” 

She kisses him on the cheek, he rolls his eyes, but leans into it, his mouth quirking upwards at the corners. Another woman appears, dark skinned and soft-eyed, she walked around the bar, civilised and grounded. The blonde throws her arm over her shoulders, you remember who they are: Claire and Kaia Nieves. The daughter of an Angel and a Dreamwalker. You heard they spared a family of werewolves on the West coast, you heard there’s a network for them, monsters who are not monstrous. You don’t like to think about what that means for you. The things you’ve done. 

“Where is he?” He gestures to the back and they disappear. He looks after them, his face soft and open; you can’t imagine him torturing souls in Hell. 

There are pockets of people throughout the bar: loners like you, pairs and trios quietly nursing their sustenance, groups crowding round tables, pulling chairs from elsewhere or standing when there are none free. They’re loud and joyful and free. Is it better to have a crowd? Is it enough to be adjacent? You’re not sure you have the energy to socialise, to make nice, maybe next time.

Someone enters and everyone’s heads turn, he’s called over to different tables, dropping by to say hello to everyone who calls his name: Sam fucking Winchester! He’s tall, made even taller by the short woman by his side, and their hands move animatedly as they talk, too precise, too many deliberate gestures to just be physicality. He watches her when she speaks, her voice is rounded and deliberate. Eileen Leahy. A Deaf Hunter. You remember someone telling you she was eaten by Hellhounds, dragged into the pit, and brought back by Sam, his magic, his love, willing to transcend the boundaries of life, upset the balance of the universe: all for her.  You feel ashamed for wondering how she made it far enough to meet the Winchesters.  It’s a fair question of any Hunter, the answer the same: in their own way. No one survives because they have all the makings of a Hunter, a preset list of requirements that they meet; you survive because you face the job with what you have and you do what you have to. 

Dean salutes her playfully, she smiles so wide it looks like it hurts. You can’t remember the last time you smiled like that, the last time you felt pain that didn’t hurt. She sits at the bar and Sam sits next to her, towering and gentle. You remember him. The Boy King. No longer a boy, his throne abdicated. Does he really have demon blood coursing through his veins? Hell is closed up now, sometimes a demon pops up here and there, but not like before, when the world was full of them, when all you did was exorcise and pray and holy water became a currency and left most of the community ordained ministers from variously dubious sites of divine origin, consecrated ground became the last stronghold against the end of the world. The future placed in the hands of Sam Winchester. Now you know the face. You struggle to imagine the Devil in his eyes, not when you’ve seen true evil. 

The Winchesters are not similar enough to be clocked as brothers. But there’s something in the tilt of their shoulders and their hazel green eyes and the cadence of their voices that suggests kinship, brotherhood, forged in the fires of Hell and gilded by the light of Heaven. They’re just men, you realise. Earthly and solid and real, no more myth than the one you beheaded just the other night, it’s blood as real as the blood that marks them Winchester. Just like anyone else. 

“Isn’t Claire supposed to be helping out?”

Dean sighs. “She’s upstairs. Giving her a minute, she hasn’t been around in months.” You think he sounds upset. “Typical.”

“It’s a good thing, Dean,” Sam pushes. “Her and Kaia are doing a hundred times better than we would’ve.”

“We?” He snorts. “At their age you were smoking oregano with your bougie friends. I was actually saving people.”

Sam pulls a face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch,” he signs it big and deliberate, winking at Eileen. “Hey, want another?”

It takes a second for you to realise he’s talking to you, by then all three of them have their attention on you, openly appraising you. You wonder what they read in your posture, your face, the way you’ve ripped a paper napkin into tiny shreds. 

“Any other recommendations?”

“Got a new dark in, like dessert in a glass.” He looks at Sam: “Finally found an apiarist to work with.”

“Apiarist?” You venture.

Dean looks towards the door that leads to the mysterious back. “Bee keeper. My-“ He pauses abruptly. “He likes bees.”

My. He. 

Perhaps you don’t mean to, but you eyes flicker to the rainbow flag over the doorway. You notice more stuck in glasses on the shelves, some of them rainbow, some of the blue-purple-pink bands, some of them orange-white-pink. What is it like? You know what people say behind his back, what they’ve always said, the people in the know. The men who had paid for a moment with Dean Winchester, the men who had gotten one for free, the men who had hoped for either, for anything. They still call him names. If only John could see him now. John always knew he was a disappointment. Wouldn’t be like this if John were alive.

That doesn’t seem fair. You didn’t know John Winchester, most people didn’t. He died so long ago and Hunters have a quick turnaround, reblooded often, rarely more than a decade of history able to be told first-hand. Dean watches you and your eyes and you wonder what he’ll do, if you became a threat, how does he eliminate threats now? You shiver at the thought. You let wistfulness seep through. You try to convey the kinship. The I see me in you and you in me. The you fascinate me the same way a shadow does. The show me your throat and I’ll show you mine. The secret language you’ve learnt to speak. The other one. Hidden even beneath the Hunter’s code. The more forbidden one. The one of monsters like you. Like us. 

It must work because he softens. He pours the dessert in a glass even though you didn’t order it and places it in front of you, next to the glass he places something small and shiny, he doesn’t wait for you to acknowledge it. It’s a metal pin. The silver knotted into a symbol you don’t know, impressively intricate for the size, and when you hold it, it feels unusually warm. You remember the way Dean’s ring caught the light, throwing it more than it should, almost giving off its own light, almost glowing. Whatever it is made of, this is its sibling. You pin it to your jacket, on the left lapel, the proximity to your heart neither deliberate nor indeliberate. It pleases him. You pleased him.  

The drink is good, better than the last. Truthfully, you don’t like beer that much, but it’s easy and universal and unassuming. This isn’t beer, not in that way. It’s smooth and creamy and sweet, it rolls around on your tongue, asking to be tasted, not to be drunk. The honey has that sharpness of real, pure honey, the slight antiseptic burn you get from eating it straight from the jar. You remember eating honey from a jar, a chunk of comb suspended in the golden substance. You didn’t know it meant so much to you. 

“Finally!”

“Get off my dick,” Claire bats back.

“Who the fuck taught you to be so rude?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no sense of upset between them. “What do you want with me?”

“Glasses.”

“Ughh, are you serious?”

“As a werepire.”

“There is no such thing as a werepire,” a new voice cuts in. It’s grumbling like Dean’s, somehow more gravelly; do they communicate in earthquakes? “Stop trying to make werepire happen.”

Castiel. 

You gasp before you can stop yourself. An Angel of the Lord, walking on Earth, living above a bar instead of Heaven. He’s nothing that you expect. Tall and commanding, but different from Dean and Sam, the same, but somehow very not. His eyes are bright and intense, as blue as the deepest sky, the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, a blue that you never thought possible until right this second. You feel as if you should look away, as if seeing beneath a hair covering, something sacred and prized, something that is not for public consumption, only God’s eyes. Only Dean Winchester’s eyes. What is the difference now? Is this bar paradise? Where is the divinity in craft beer and crude hunters, clawing out a life on the edges of society, wading through the horror in the hope of retaining peace, but not for yourselves. Nothing is for yourself. 

Except they have claimed each other. You heard Dean is branded, a scar of a handprint seared into his skin, a memento from when they met. They met in Hell. Castiel touched his soul and raised him from Hell and fell in love with him, literally fell. Who would love you if they had seen your soul? Seen the personal realm of Hell you curated? Can you even love yourself?

Doesn’t it leave you breathless? 

And then the picture shifts. Castiel turns and you see a child, old enough to walk, but small enough to get away with demanding not to. It’s balanced on the Angel’s hip like it belongs there, like his body (is it his? Who did it belong to? Are they still there? Did they ask for this?) was made to hold it there. Dean ruffles their hair, their ambiguity is intriguing, refreshing for the Hunting community. Youth is a clean slate, you are never more full of options, full of potential, which slowly seeps from you as your choices narrow, as life demands decisions, assigns decisions, weighs you down with expectations and being perceived, an object for perception rather than existence. 

You’ve heard about the child. A nephil. But no one knows the details. No one is brave enough to ask. 

The child reaches for Dean and is pulled into his arms, plastered against his chest, small and content and belonging. You wonder what their life will be like. Will they be a Hunter? You doubt it, you doubt the doubt. How do you choose to bring life into this life? It’s too hard, too sad, too lonely, too destructive. Not even dandelions grow through the concrete paving of a Hunter’s solitude, of their broken soul and heart, tings you drag along behind you like a yoke, reminding you that you must keep going, that one day, you will not be able to keep going. The baggage. How do you inflict that on a child? When will this creature’s heart be torn out of its chest and put inside a box and chained shut, only to be your greatest weakness and source of strength?

Or will it be happy?

“You need to go to bed, buddy,” Dean says quietly, his voice so steeped in affection it makes your chest yearn. You can’t help being in earshot. That doesn’t make it right. “Want me? What’s wrong with your Dad?”

The child murmurs something silently. 

“Okay. I got you,” his arms seem to tighten. “Cas? We’re going up.”

Cas. It rolls off of his tongue so easily, the repetition of a thousand, a million, making it more at home in his mouth than his own name. An Angel of the Lord called Cas because he stands on Earth, because he is not part of Heaven, because he is of Dean, not of God. He touches the child’s face gently, tenderly, motherly, and you ache for such simple, all-consuming affection, for someone to look at you with the reverence of worship at the altar of a god that speaks back. Castiel’s (because Cas is not for your mouth) hand runs down Dean’s arm, his fingers trailing, prolonging, and when it drops away, Dean leaves. 

You’ve nearly finished your dessert in a glass without even realising, it’s good. Too good. You could drink it all night, but you shouldn’t. The list of shouldn’ts is getting too long. You can’t remember anything left that you can do, that doesn’t conflict with an imperative for self-restriction. Where do you have to be? Who is expecting you? What is your next move? Why are you even questioning it?

He notices you. 

“Ah, Sweet Dreams. How did you like it?” He tilts his head, a little more than most people would, reminiscent of a puppy, of the velociraptors in that film, assessing your prey potential. You’re aware of his magnitude. You’re aware of your insignificance. 

“Very smooth. Filling.”

“That is the problem, but Dean humours me.” 

“With the bees?”

He nods seriously. “They’re dying at an alarming rate, you know.”

“I did.”

“Have you been here before?”

“First time.”

“Welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“You look tired. Are you staying the night? We have rooms.”

 “Uh-“

“That’s not a proposition,” he adds quickly. “Dean tells me that I sound like I’m hitting on people when I say that.”

You smile at his humanness. “I didn’t feel propositioned.” Would you like to? “I- I usually stay in my car, to be honest.”

His smile falters. “I wouldn’t advise that, it’s very uncomfortable and you’re much safer in here. The warding is some of my best work.”

“You never actually asked if I was a Hunter.” Hoping he’ll smite you?

He narrows his eyes playfully. “I didn’t have to. I know Hunters.”

“You must know everything.”

That catches him off guard. “Not as much as I used to.”

“What?”

Another head tilt. This one is more amused. “I guess news doesn’t travel as fast as you think. I am depowered,” he uses his fingers to make air quotes around the word. He laughs, but it’s a grating, sad sound. “Fallen.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “So, a room?”

You somehow agree to stay. The rates are reasonable and the weather turned recently, so you know that even if you get some sleep in your car, it’ll be fraught and restless, and a warm bed in the safest place in the US is hard to turn down. You wonder if they’re both always this attentive or if its you, if you’re really that pathetic, if it rolls off of you like a stench, trails after you like blood, someone else, yours. You accept the insistence of kindness from the Angel, former, no, current; he says otherwise, but you see divinity in his eyes, in his smile, in the way that he touched Dean, in the way he held his child.

“Was-“ You swallow and finger the pin that Dean gave you. “Was that your kid?”

Castiel nods happily. “Jack.”

“And Claire?”

Castiel looks across the bar at Claire, laughing loudly and talking in big, dramatic gestures with a group of Hunters. “Yes.”

He doesn’t offer clarification. You feel stupid for wanting some. All of the impossible things you’ve seen, why do you care? Why do you need to know the details? Why does it matter that they are together? That they created a family? Do you think you can too? Do you think you’re as special as Winchester? 

He leans on the bar. ‘Claire is my vessel’s daughter. I took her father from her.”

“That’s intense.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And Jack?”

“He-“ He pauses. “He chose me. You know how are nephil are.”

“Sure…”

“God, he is too good at that.” Dean interrupts loudly, pressing his face into the back of Castiel’s shoulder. “I always fall asleep putting him down.”

Castiel pats his head. “He’s spoilt.”

“Yeah, well, gotta make up for tryna shoot him, huh?” You and Castiel share a look. You do not ask for clarification. “You stayin’?” You nod. “Awesome. Another drink?”

The room spins gently around you, but you’re content to watch the show. It’s not one that would be on TV, but it should be, warm and carefree and soft, it’s the show of a family. They move around each other in a practiced dance; Sam and Eileen and Claire and Kaia and Castiel and Dean. So many of them. All alive. All in love. So much love. It’s hard not to watch Dean and Castiel, they’re captivating. Beautiful. You notice the magnetism, how they’re constantly touching, brushing, holding, pressing, it seems so easy, it would seem so easy if you weren’t watching, but you are, and you see how Dean watches the room, the way he look out before he does something deliberate, the way he pauses, the way he checks himself and checks himself checking himself. Dean tells a joke you don’t catch. Castiel responds by kissing him. You feel like you shouldn’t be watching. Your heart won’t let you look away. They talk an inch from each other’s faces. You wonder what it feels like to love someone like that. 

Once you save the world, you can have it too.

God, you’re so tired, it’s a tired that sinks you into the ground, that makes you blood slow and your heart sticky and blinking a dangerous game. You want to see the end of the episode though. You don’t want to miss a moment. 

Thud. 

“Game over kiddo,” Claire comments when you sit up suddenly. “Past your bedtime.”

“I’m older than you,” you say, or slur, or think.

She laughs. “Sure. You got a room? I’ll show you up.” She frowns. “That’s not a proposition.”

You laugh. “Like father, like daughter.” 

Her eyes slide over to the pair. “In all the ways that matter.”

The room is small and cosy: a double bed and thick duvet, a jug of water on the dresser, a small plate with cookies on it. 

“Dean makes them,” Claire says as she watches you examine the room. “Don’t tell him I told you, if you remember that is.”

“Not tha’ drunk,” you protest, but the world spins when you close your eyes. 

“Uh-huh. If you need anything just, uh, deal with it? This isn’t the Hilton. My D- Dean gets up pretty early, but if you wanna get away there’s like a key box and stuff. Night.”

The door clicks closed and you’re left alone. Your head feels fuzzy and full and empty at the same time, and you wonder how you got here. You wonder it a lot. Every time you’re searching for a hunt, driving to one, checking your weapons, reading the lore, tracking down a creature that has no right to exist. 

That has no right not to exist.

For the first time in… well, you can’t even think about it, you sleep well. As soon as you crawl into bed, curled under the heavy duvet, surrounded by warmth and softenss, it creeps into your brain and takes away the tension from your body. You don’t even think to check the room for warding or make an escape plan, the assurance of safety here is like the knowledge that the sun will rise tomorrow, to doubt it seems like an insult to you and the universe. Maybe there is gentleness in the hunting life, a tender hand of comfort and understanding that will offer quiet and healing and rest, between the blood and guts and bones and death. Life. 

You have dreams you don’t understand, but they don’t scare you. Nothing hunts you in the dark corners of your mind, you are not lost, you are not running, you are safe. Bathed in blue-white light that feels like sunshine and makes your lips tingle. It’s pure and divine and you do not feel worthy, but the feeling does not last, the self-loathing is soothed, washed away like a baptism of permission to see the way you try, how hard you fight, how hard you live. 

Like any seasoned Hunter, the dawn brings consciousness, even though you definitely haven’t had enough sleep, yet you feel rested. More rested than you have in years. The ache in your bones that keeps you awake too late and forces you from shitty motel beds too early seems like a distant memory, one from a life you’re not sure you actually lived, like a reoccurring dream that permeates you waking days, but the relief, that’s real. Like the shower you take, the water almost too hot, the water pressure almost too hard, but it purifies you in a way that you thought was no longer possible, not after the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen. 

Packed and ready to go, you linger by the door, wondering, briefly, what the rush is. Why do you need to leave today? What is really waiting for you at the other end? 

But this is not home. (Nowhere is home.)

Being in a bar in the morning feels wrong, the grey light filtering into the room that’s already too lit, too exposed. Somehow it feels inviting though. A couple of people are already in the room, sipping out of big mugs with plates piled with toast and pastries and even cooked food. Who’s the chef here?

“Mornin’! How’s your head?” Dean grins brightly from behind the bar. He’s wearing a stained apron that says lord of the pies and the way he looks at you makes the floor feel soft underfoot, so you forget that he actually asked you a question. 

“No complaints yet,” you quip, daring to make a reference that exposes you both. Your fingers find the pin on your jacket, still oddly warm, already a comfort. 

He allows a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee, please, lots.”

“You’re speaking my language.” The coffee smells good, expensive, something that you would pay $7 dollars for because you know what you’re really buying is the chance to sit somewhere beautiful and put together when you are anything but. “Milks and sugar just there.”

Although it feels like sacrilege, you forgo the pancakes he tries to convince you on; you’ve never had much of a stomach in the mornings, but especially not this early, after drinking, with such a long drive ahead. You’ll regret not eating in a few hours, but you’ve never been kind to your future self, why start now? You watch and sip your coffee and let the day seep into your brain, acknowledging that you have to live today, get on with it all. Again. 

Three cups in and it’s time to go. You were hoping to see Castiel again, but he hasn’t appeared. Disembodied hands produced Jack through the doorway, but you couldn’t tell who they belonged to, maybe Castiel, maybe Claire. The toddler is more awake, he follows Dean around behind the bar, babbling nonsense that Dean replies to in a gentle, but grown up tone, always acknowledging his sentences, even when there’s no real answer to give. He’s a father. Embarrassingly you imagine him as the father of your children, however that would happen doesn’t matter, it’s a fantasy. A fantasy of security and domesticity. The only knives that Dean Winchester yields now are the ones in his kitchen; the only flesh he cuts through is whatever is on the menu, already slayed and butchered; the only fights he has are bickering with his family.

Family.

Your family is somewhere, out there, maybe where you left them, what’s left of them. Dean picks Jack up and they dance to the song on the radio, some sugary pop song that makes Jack laugh in that infectious toddler way and you get to witness the Dean Winchester sing all the words, perfectly. This isn’t the Dean that ruled Hell or Purgatory or Earth, that was the Hunter and the bow, the sword to Castiel’s shield, that fought the Devil and God and the every other cosmic entity. Could this Dean Winchester have saved the world? 

But maybe this isn’t his weakness. If you do not have a soft underbelly then why do you need to have claws? If you do not have a reason to fight then what drives you to win? Dean bares his throat to the world to show it that he has something to protect, and that is what makes him so dangerous. What do you have? Where is the kink in your armour? What are you fighting for?

The bar disappears into the distance, shrinking in your rearview mirror the way a dream slips through your memory like water between your fingers as consciousness takes over. The roads are all the same, the towns are all the same, but you are not. The dread in the pit of your stomach is no longer a knife holding you hostage, but a knot attached to a rope, pulling you back, anchoring you. For all the time spent fighting it, the magnetic pull to a place you felt you could no longer love, people you could no longer have if you wanted to survive. They are what convinces you to survive. You think about the way Dean and Castiel looked at each other when the other wasn’t watching, you thinking about the way Sam never stopped smiling when Eileen spoke, you think about how Claire became a teenager again in Castiel’s arms. 

On the second ring, your phone connects.

“I’m on my way.” 

[glenncoco4]

Pt. V

Last chapter of Trader.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They sit quietly in the small room waiting for the doctor to return with her blood test. Apparently if you’re a federal agent you can get a rush on these kind of things which the husband and wife duo are most definitely grateful for.

It’s about an hour later when there’s a knock on the door and the redheaded woman walks into the room. “Your baby is absolutely fine, Mrs. Deeks.”

“You’re sure.”

“Positive.” The doctor walks up to the other side of the bed and begins squirting some gel onto the agent’s belly and then moves the wand back and forth across her semi protruding belly. “Listen for yourself.”

“Deeks, that’s our baby.”

Her awestruck voice pulls him out of his trance. He leans forward, placing his forehead against hers as the beautiful, life changing sound fills the room. “That’s our baby.”

“Hold on a second.”

Kensi’s not sure what to take of the woman’s tone and quickly turns her head back to the doctor. “What? Is there something wrong?”

“Doc? Why does the heartbeat sound like that?” The father-to-be’s voice shakes with worry. No, this can’t be happening.

“That’s what happens when multiple hearts are pumping but a different beats.”

“Wait, you can’t mean-“

A smile spreads to the OB’s face as she turns to the parents to be. “Congratulations, it looks like you’re having twins.”

“I’m sorry…twins?”

“That’s right and it looks like you’re about 10 weeks along.”

Kensi’s eyes go wide in shock. When she took the multitude of pregnancy test the day they had to abruptly leave for D.C. she figured she was only about 4 weeks along. Their case load had been hectic for the past few weeks and they barely had time to go home for a couple hours at a time much less wonder about if she was pregnant or not.

She looks over at her husband this may be more than what they bargained for but its welcomed. More than welcomed, which is why there’s a soft smile on her face and tears pooling in her eyes when she looks back up her love, his cerulean blues shining in awe. “I guess this is where God laughs at us.”

He leans forward smiling against her lips. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

XXXX

The partners step off the elevator and into the bullpen immediately being met with the rest of their team, Ellie, Nick, Jack and Vance who are standing off to the side of the elevators.

Sam looks at the pair up and down, checking for anything that may tell him where his two coworkers were. “Hey, you guys okay?”

Deeks places a comforting hand on the small of his wife’s back knowing that she’ll want him to say something because right now she’ll spill everything if she opens her mouth. “Yeah, we just had to take care of something.”

The former Army Lieutenant tilts her head as she looks at the brunette sensing that something’s going on more than what the two are letting on and judging by the glow of the woman she’s got a pretty good idea of what that something is. “You sure?”

“We’re all good.” Kensi finally speaks up when she sees understanding in Jack’s eyes. She has a feeling that the psychologist may know a thing or two about what she’s going through now.

The detective knows that they both would like to move this conversation along so he moves the conversation to what they’re here for in the first place. “So what happened with Argento?”

“Convicted and sentenced to 50 years.” The director states, nodding his head in relief.

Kensi’s eyes go wide in surprise. “Really? So are we still in danger or not?”

Ellie speaks, gladly sharing the good news with the pair. “Well Kasie did some digging and found some defining evidence against Argento’s wife and the Senator.”

Callen asks, surprising Kensi and Deeks that he doesn’t already know. “What kind of evidence?”

“The kind with a list of names all dealing with the case and at least half of them being killed within the past week.” Jack nods matter of factly.

This time it’s the SEAL that speak up even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer to his question. “Were our names on it?”

The director nods in confirmation. “Your team, Sarah MacKenzie’s, everyone that ever served under Argento and about a dozen other people.”

“But how do we know there aren’t more out there?” Deeks asks mainly for the sake of his wife and their unborn children. Our babies.

“Well the last two members of the hit team were the ones that were after you two. One of them said he would tell us everything as long as we kept Blye away from him.” The head of NCIS turns too said woman with a furrowed brow.

Deeks, Ellie and Nick chuckle at a proud Kensi, knowing exactly why the guy didn’t want to be anywhere near the agent.

The team leader smirks. “What did you do, Kens?”

Kensi’s eyes light up in pride as a smile spreads to her face. “I hit him where it hurts.”

“At least this one had his weapon out.” Deeks looks at her sending her a playful wink.

Nick can tell there’s a story there by the way they're acting. “Wait, what?”

Kensi shakes her head knowing that one story could lead them down a rabbit hole and prevent them from getting home sooner. “A story for another time.”

“So we’re good to go back home?” Deeks asks with hopefulness.

Jack nods with a bright smile, glad that their West Coast colleagues aren’t in danger or as in much danger as usual. “All good.”

They all begin exchanging goodbyes so they can get back to the hotel and pack.

The husband and wife duo reach the raven haired and blonde agents, glad that through all of this mess they were at least able to make new friends. “You guys should come visit us sometime. I mean we have a bar and-“

“We’re in.” Nick cuts off the detective knowing he doesn’t need anymore convincing to visit their new friends on the West Coast.

Kensi and Ellie embrace in a hug, excited about getting to know each other better. “Great! We’ll set something up.”

The detective shakes the raven haired agent’s hand. “See you guys and thanks for watching our backs.”

Nick turns to his partner shaking his head. “We should probably be thanking you…Crush Crew.”

“Hey, we’re a team.” The ding sends them in motion as Deeks grabs hold of his wife’s hand and guides them inside the the elevator. As the doors close the brunette agent lets out one last parting surprising everyone including her husband. “Later, Black Anacondas.”

[jayjay547]

SHIELD's Best Podcast and Other Things Bucky Should Not Have Done: Chapter One

Summary: Bucky Barnes: natural poet, amateur author, and relationship expert. The last part was a heavy exaggeration, but he's fooled enough people into thinking so; after all, his advice was held to such high regard that he got a spot on one of New York City's most popular podcasts. He even liked to think he was revolutionary for helping break down the stereotype of relationship experts being perfect at handling relationships. If only someone had asked him for advice on how to deal with falling in love with two different people who were coincidentally in love with each other.

Not that it would have mattered, anyway. Bucky never followed his own advice.

Chapter Word Count: 3,309 words

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

AU: Modern/College

click here to read on ao3

click here for the masterlist 

Bucky didn't ask to be famous. 

Not that he was in the normal sense of the word. No one in New Jersey knew his name, much less anyone on the West Coast. Actually, most people in New York City probably didn't know who he was, but that was okay. He liked to think the people who mattered (meaning people within a half mile radius of him) knew who he was, at least a little bit. 

If one was to go up to a college student about to go into their first lecture of the day at New York University and asked them whether the name "Bucky Barnes," or "James Buchanan Barnes" if it was a day for formalities, rang a bell, the most obvious and common answer would be along the lines of "that writer boy." Not "that failed mechanical engineer," not "the one who can't do any type of science to save his life," and definitely not "the boy who cried in his car while eating ice cream after his ex-boyfriend dumped him." Especially not the last one, even if that particular low moment was just the beginning of his rise to fame. 

He also wasn't quite famous enough to get stopped while walking through hallways, unless it was by an older professor of his; even then, it was a reach. As he walked to his class, nobody really gave him a side glance. He liked to think that the people who did were somewhat appreciative of his looks, but that was wishful thinking, the thinking of someone who was still in the rebound period of getting over a relationship even though the break up was a year ago. 

When Bucky walked into his poetry concentration class, though, he knew more than a few people recognized him. There was only one picture of him that was published with his writing, a professional headshot and all, and while Bucky looked like a wreck most days in his life, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. 

He sat down on one of the benches, shuffling the papers he brought with him around, just to look like he was doing something. Not long after, there was a tap on his shoulder. Bucky braced himself for his first fan interaction of the day (and the month, but he wouldn't tell you that). 

Turning around, he was met by a face that was somewhat familiar to him, even if he couldn't place the name. Maybe she was a fellow writer, or something of that sort. Her blonde hair was tied up in a low ponytail, and the wrinkles near the bottom of her forehead suggested that she spent a hell of a lot of time frowning. "What's up?" Bucky asked, angling his body towards her as best as he could. 

"Are you James Barnes?" Her tone was blunt, the voice of a woman who did not mess around. If she wasn't in his class right now, Bucky would think that she was a Business major. There was always the possibility that she was a double major, but that was a bit excessive. 

"Yes," Bucky said, before quickly (and clumsily) adding, "But I go by Bucky." 

"Bucky," she parroted, as if the nickname was much too personal for her. Maybe it was. "That's from your middle name, right? Buchanan?" 

Up until now, Bucky hadn't had any stalker-type fans, and he was hoping that he would keep that record. Of course, his middle name was published with his work, but still, it was odd. "Yes ma’am,” he responded. 

The woman stuck out her hand, and Bucky shook it. She didn't seem fazed by his gloved hands, and he appreciated the lack of questioning around why he was even wearing gloves inside a warm classroom. “My name's Sharon,” she said. Her handshake was firm, practiced, and Bucky wondered again whether she was in Business. “You're the one who wrote the open letter, right? ‘What's Wrong With City Days?’”

She was much too put together to be a stalker, but who the hell actually knew the title of his first published piece? Bucky didn't even know some of the titles of his own works. “Uh,” he said intelligently, “Yeah. Yes, that's me.” 

Sharon put her hand on the desk in front of her, tapping at it for a second or two, drawing attention to her perfectly manicured nails. Bucky wished his nails looked that nice. “Well, I've read your work, Bucky,” she sighed out, as if it was a tragedy that had happened to her. “And I thought it was superb.”

Maybe she was a little too put together; Bucky wasn't sure he knew anyone who used the word “superb,” much less anyone who used it to describe his work. Stalker wasn't off the list yet. “I'm glad you think so,” he said slowly, before slapping himself mentally. He was being rude. “Sorry, I'm still not used to people reading my stuff. Specifically that piece.” Bucky winced, his mind going a hundred miles per hour. “Kinda wish people hadn't read that piece.” 

Sharon leaned forward, closer to Bucky. “Why not?” She asked gently, taking him by surprise. She looked sincere enough, and he wished he could tell her, but then the door opened. As the professor walked into the classroom, Sharon straightened up, sitting back into her seat, and Bucky took that as his cue to face forward. 

Why not? The question stewed in his head as the professor Mr. So-and-so, who Bucky had missed the name of, promising himself that he would just read the syllabus, started to drone on about basic topics. 

Why not? Maybe because it was around the time he found out that Brock Rumlow had been cheating on him throughout the entire duration of their relationship. Maybe because, right after that, he realized that he couldn't pass any of the classes meant for engineering. Maybe it was because he had then been notified that he had to go in for another round of surgeries on his arm. 

There were a lot of reasons why “What's Wrong With City Days?” hurt. But he had still published it, as a dramatic and overly emotional person does. Correction: Natasha had published it, but only after Bucky told her she could. 

He had written it in between the first and second operation on his arm. The hospital TV didn't play anything he was interested in watching, and staring downwards at his laptop while it played Netflix gave him a headache he couldn't bear to have. So he wrote. And he wrote. And then he napped, woke up, and wrote some more. He may have even written when he was high on anesthesia, which Clint told him didn't make much sense. 

Getting pieces of metal inserted into your arm was apparently the best motivator there was.

He stared ahead at the professor who continued to talk, the words passing through Bucky's head quicker than the man was saying them. It was only the first day of this class, and Bucky knew he would have catching up to do.

His phone screen turned on, placed next to his binder and all his messed up papers, a notification popping up. He swiped it. 

Spider Mom

Walk Lucky when you get back. Ty 

Bucky coughed quietly under his breath to disguise the laugh he felt bubbling up his throat at Natasha’s bluntness. He texted back a quick confirmation before clicking his phone off. Behind him, a pair of eyes bored into his back, so much so that Bucky swore he could feel it. When he turned back, Sharon didn't even disguise the fact that she was looking at him, smiling slightly at him when they made eye contact. As embarrassed as he was to admit it, he looked away first. 

The minutes ticked by as Bucky entered a staring contest with the right-facing wall. His phone lit up a few more times, but he didn't check it. The one portion of exposed brick was getting more and more interesting by the second; Bucky was convinced if he looked at it any longer, he would have enough ammunition to make another viral poem. 

And then suddenly, the lecture ended. Most likely, the end wasn't as sudden to others as it was to Bucky. 

While Bucky was scrambling together the papers that he had put on his desk for nothing, the quiet sound of footsteps coming up behind him alerted him that Sharon was still here, and still interested in talking. 

“Where do you go after class?” She asked briskly, and what was left of Bucky's “Stranger Danger” alarms went off in his head. Against his best interest, he answered her.

“I walk over to Martinelli's, the coffee shop. Do you know it?” He added as her lips tilted up into a half smile at the name. She nodded slightly.

“You could say that. Let me walk you over?” She asked kindly, but something told Bucky that it wasn't really a request. He could obviously say no, but something about her compelled him to accept.

“I could always use the company,” Bucky muttered back, stringing his bag over his right shoulder. Together, they walked out the classroom, and after a few more steps, they entered the outside world.

“So,” Sharon said immediately, as if the cold city air allowed her to talk freely. “I have some questions.” 

“Uh,” Bucky got out. He had only done one interview for his writing, and he had prepared so thoroughly for that one, only for half of his words to be taken out of context. “Go for it.” 

Something that Bucky realized very quickly was that Sharon walked very, very fast. He widened the length of his strides, huffing cold breaths of air as the woman started to speak, barely sounding out of breath. “Do you know what SHIELD's Best is?” 

Bucky's heart skipped a beat, and not because he was struggling to speed walk. SHIELD's Best: the most popular podcast in New York City, not just NYU. There was no real reason why it had the renown that it had; listening to it, though, was explanation enough. If the topic was relevant, it was covered. Bucky even swore multiple times to Clint and Natasha that the podcast covered things that weren't even out yet. They never lingered on the same topic twice, and there was something for everyone, it seemed. It was his source of news, and the source of news for most people in the city. The defining part of it had to be that the four speakers all had undeniable chemistry, not to mention that they also had very, very nice voices, especially the two men. 

“Wait,” Bucky said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Sharon slowed down with much more grace, turning to face Bucky in the middle of the slightly crowded sidewalk, a smile on her face as if she was already anticipating his question. “Are you Sharon Carter?”

She laughed, and Bucky felt a swell of pride for being correct, followed by a torrent of embarrassment for their entire conversation up until now. “I'll take that as a yes, then,” she murmured, and Bucky forced himself to move towards her as she started to walk again. Sharon Carter, one of the speakers on what was possibly one of the most influential podcasts, was walking with him to a coffee shop. 

The multiple shops passed by as they walked in silence for about a hundred feet, or something like that, which Bucky appreciated. It gave him time to collect his thoughts, and there was a lot to collect. After they passed a few more signs, though, Sharon decided that enough time was given. 

“So you're aware that we have guest speakers?” Sharon asked, and Bucky tripped. At least, he almost did, but he corrected himself right away. He couldn't wipe away the humiliated red that stained his cheeks, though. 

“Yes, I'm aware,” he said, stringing his words together as carefully as possible. He refused to mess up whatever was happening before it even happened. 

“Well, Bucky, we want you to guest speak about your writing,” Sharon said smoothly, as if it wasn't the biggest (positive) thing that had happened in Bucky's life. “I will say it was sheer luck that I have the same class as you this year, but don't think this is just a convenience grab. One of our speakers, Steve, really likes your work.” 

Bucky turned red again, which was not the best look for him, but at least he could blame it on the cold. Steve - amazing, supposedly kind-hearted Steve with a voice that Bucky would die for - liked his work?

It was only after they walked a few more steps that Bucky realized that Sharon was probably waiting for more than a lovesick look from his face. “Yeah, uh,” he got out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I'd love to. It'd be an honor,” he finally said, and Sharon smiled again. Maybe she could sense his sincerity, as wrapped up in his awkwardness as it was. 

“Sounds good, Bucky,” she murmured in reply, slowing down. In a daze, Bucky realized that they had reached their destination. Out of pure habit, he moved to open the door. It was only after Sharon thanked him and went into the shop that Bucky remembered that she had only said she would walk him there. Once again, anxiety threatened to overwhelm him, his brain piecing together every possible bad impression he had made on the woman. 

“Hey Sharon. Hey Bucky,” was what the two of them heard upon entering the shop. Sharon immediately waved to Bucky’s (kind of) employer.

"Hey Angie. I was just walking Bucky over here," she threw out casually, gesturing vaguely to Bucky, who was still trying to figure out why Sharon was familiar enough with Martinelli to call her "Angie." 

"Cool, cool. Didn't know you guys knew each other," she added, her eyes darting between the two of them. Bucky could have said the same thing back, but his mouth had a tendency to betray him, so he kept it shut. 

"Just met today. So, Bucky," she stated, all professional, "Let's exchange numbers and you can let me know when you get back home so we can discuss times when you're not busy."

Bucky took her phone hesitantly, starting to type in his number as he spoke. "Actually, I live above the shop." 

Sharon's eyebrows went up. "Really?" Bucky nodded as she continued, "I actually haven't met any of the others who live here." 

She had to stop confusing Bucky. His head couldn't take much more thinking. Why would it be a surprise that she hadn't met them? Sharon mistook his blank stare and silence as disdain, adding quickly, "I'm not planning on meeting anyone else today, so don't worry about introducing me." 

"Oh no, it's fine, I was just..." Bucky muttered, handing back her phone carefully. "Thinking. I was just thinking." In front of him, Sharon opened up her messages, clicking the new contact he had made for himself, sending a text. In his back pocket, he felt his phone buzz, but for her sake, Bucky made a show of taking his phone out and checking to see whether he had gotten a text. He had, and he quickly created her contact. 

“So,” Sharon started again, sliding her own phone back into her pocket, a movement that mirrored Bucky's. “We usually record on Saturdays. Does that work for you?”

Bucky nodded, wordlessly, which was an appropriate enough answer for Sharon. “Alright, good. I'll send you some stuff about it later. Basically, you're allowed to pick any piece of work that you would like to share, but let me know which one by tonight. I will then send you a rough outline of questions that will be asked, but try not to practice answers. It's more engaging if it doesn't sound like you're reading off a script.” 

As much as he tried, his mind was still struggling to wrap itself around the information that Sharon was calmly relaying, as if she had practiced it multiple times over, but just enough to still be natural. Her smooth way of speech had to be attributed to the fact that she was on a podcast; Bucky refused to believe that people were just born that charismatic. He nodded again, barely remembering to answer her. 

“Alright,” she said, checking her watch. “I have to go. I'll text you later. It was wonderful meeting you, Bucky.” Her voice was honest, sincere, as was the smile on her face. It was contagious, and he let a small smile slide onto his face as well. 

“It was nice meeting you too, Sharon,” he replied back, just as sincere, earning him a flash of teeth in Sharon's smile before she made her way towards the door, only stopping to give a quick goodbye to Angie. Even after the bell on the door stopped ringing and she was past the sight of the windows, Bucky kept standing there, frozen to the floor. 

“Hey man,” came Angie’s hesitant voice, and Bucky made a small sound of assent to declare that he had heard the woman. A few more seconds without a reply, and Bucky turned around slightly, just enough to see her in his peripheral vision. “Clint mentioned to me that he wanted you to take out Lucky?” 

Bucky groaned, but it was the reality check he needed, at least.

- - - - -

When he finally came home from the long walk, he entered through the back entrance of the shop. From personal experience, bringing the happiest, friendliest golden retriever in through the front of the shop would take from Bucky about an hour of his life. Bucky and Lucky (yes, they rhyme) clambered up the stairway to the small upstairs area with two doors across from each other. The door on the left was closed, signalling to him that Wanda and Pietro, the siblings that lived there, were not home; Wanda liked to leave the door open when she was, claiming it helped with “air circulation.” 

He opened the door to the right, simultaneously leaning down to start loosening the harness around Lucky. For his efforts, Bucky got a slobbery kiss on the cheek which he took in a stride. Closing the door behind him, he unleashed Lucky, who made a beeline for his water bowl. Bucky collapsed on the one tiny couch, leaning his head back on the top of the cushion so he could stare at the plain popcorn ceiling. 

Almost immediately, his phone buzzed. Letting out a long sigh, he fumbled for the phone he had thrown clumsily onto the couch, blinding swiping on the notification once he felt the phone in his hand. 

Sharon 

Saturday, 1:00 pm. Don't worry about eating lunch beforehand. 

Also, let me know what piece as soon as you can. 

He read the text again and again in his head. For the hundredth time, he clarified to himself that it was PM and not AM before making ten alarms for Saturday, starting at ten in the morning and ending at noon. Immediately after, he returned to regarding the messages again, only glancing away to make eye contact with Lucky, who had decided that the only rational thing to do after drinking water was drool on Bucky's leg. 

“Well bud,” he muttered, reaching out to scratch behind the dog's ears absentmindedly. “I'm really doing this, huh?” 

Lucky just stared at him, which was a good enough answer for Bucky to send a quick reply to Sharon, confirming his attendance and assuring that he would, in fact, pick a piece of his writing by tonight. 

“It's just a one time thing,” Bucky said to the rest of the room. “It's a breakthrough, but it's only a one time thing.” 

masterlist

[for-bucks-sake]

Old News.

Pairing: Steve x Reader Word count: 5.5K. Warnings: Angst, a lot of smut!! (Unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), just a tiny bit of choking and cockwarming.) some fluff. Summary: Sometimes, even being Captain America isn’t enough.  A/N: This one was requested by the lovely (and very patient) @fandomslut666, I like to think it’s somewhere between the area of catws and aou.  Your comments and reblogs are so appreciated you don’t even know. Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoy! Btw, requests are open!

Gif’s not mine.

“Captain Rogers! Captain Rogers!” His name was thrown at him from every possible direction, repeated again and again like a mantra. Countless of eager eyes seeking his gaze, desperately enough to convince him they would do anything for just a moment of his undivided attention.

Steve wasn’t a regular at press conferences. Usually, it was more of a Stark territory, but once in a while he was forced to go; it’s good for PR, they said, the people love seeing their captain.

He only went because of her anyway.

In all honesty, Steve would rather fight on his own twice as many journalists than answer their questions. A man with a striped tie and a combed hair nearly pushed a microphone to his chest. Also, he thought, make them be ninjas.

“Please, everyone, let’s all stay calm and in time, The Captain will answer each and every one of your questions.” A woman with a neat hair pulled back smiled, adjusting her grey pantsuit when she spoke. The buzzing in the room gradually died down.

Steve knew who she was. Penelope was one of The Avengers representatives in the news and the media. She was very stern but not any less kind because of it. He assumed she was very good at her job.

His eyes bore into the crowd, his guts twisted in disappointment when he couldn’t locate her.

“Captain Rogers will only answer question regarding the body formerly known as SHIELD, as well as the latest mission of The Avengers and the new aiding initiative for helping PTSD suffering veterans recover.” Penelope glanced at Steve as he nodded, confirming what she said.

He was already debriefed an hour ago, but the woman knew who she was dealing with, and after the scandal of last time…he needed to be reminded he can’t be saying exactly what’s on his mind.

“Captain Rogers will not answer any further questions referencing political views nor personal life.” Penelope smiled, “use your time wisely. Thank you.”

In a brief second suited arms were raised as high as they could, it was like the were in a competition of who can speak louder and raise his hand higher. Steve adjusted in his seat, his suit widely uncomfortable and restricting;

“It makes you look professional.” Natasha said,

“Handsome.” Clint added,

“As long as it’s not your stealth suit or those god awful grey sweatpants…” Tony huffed and physically pushed his broad shoulders out the door, sending him to the jungle.

“Carl, go ahead.”

A man from the back row stood up and cleared his throat, smoothing down the wrinkles of his pants.

“Captain Rogers, it’s an honor to meet you again.” Steve nodded, not even the faintest smile on his lips, “what is your stance regarding the conflict in the middle east? Will you explain-“

“Let me stop your right there.” Penelope talked straight to the black microphone, “Really, Carl? I thought we were very clear with our instructions. He will not answer that. Next!” She announced, already scanning for a different journalist with her eyes. They fell on a young woman, so contrasted in that view of tired dark suits, her confidence refreshing and covering everything she lacks in experience.

“The LA Times, y/n.”

Steve’s eyes lit up when he saw her thin golden bracelet sliding down her wrist as she raised her hand up.

Despite the scuffs that filled the room, a satisfied grin decorated her features when her name was pronounced ceremonially, her stance straight and impressive.

“Captain Rogers.” Y/n smiled, not missing the way Steve’s eyes roamed over her body, he swallowed the gulp in his throat and smiled back.

“Will the initiative Mr. Wilson and you have come up with only be relevant to the citizens of New York? Or should we expect to see more branches soon?”

Her skirt was hugging her curves perfectly, light purple that ended just above the knees, enhancing her body’s already sinful shape, even when she was fully clothed.

Steve swallowed again, registering her question only by some miracle; “Sam Willson is the mind operating behind this incredible innovation,” he began. 

Y/n exhaled, her mind already forming the words that soon will be written on her laptop; Captain Rogers, looking authoritative in a navy suit, humble as always, credits his fellow Avenger and good friend Sam Wilson for their conjoint hard work on the anticipated “VetsForVets.” project that will debut in two weeks.

On a second thought, maybe she should scratch that comment about the suit. He does look authoritative though, and if she may add, fucking hot.

He was uncomfortable, she could see that, the way he was fidgeting with his white collar even though he didn’t have a tie, his overly tensed back, the strain in his voice when he spoke, but mostly, because he told her.

“Apart from New York, we expect to open addition stations in Washington D.C. and Boston in the next three months.” The tight fabric of her white t-shirt clung to her breasts, showing just enough cleavage to drive him crazy but still be considered appropriate. How he managed to form a coherent answer, he didn’t know.

“We aim to expand to the midwest as well, and hopefully, in six months, we’d reach the west coast. Our main goal is to be where we’re needed. Anywhere that might be.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Y/n licked her lips and looked straight at his darkening eyes. The both of them knew exactly where they needed to be.

-

“Fuck, Steve.” Y/n whimpered, back crushed against the bathroom stall in full force, bones hitting the plastic in motions coordinated with the rapid slams of their hips.

He shushed her gently, bringing his fingers to her mouth in a gesture so delicate it clashed with his violent thrusts, “we don’t want to be heard, do we?”

She threw her head back, hitting the stall, eyes shut in pleasure. Accepting his fingers and sucking on them in a desperate attempt to be quiet.

Steve pulled his hips almost completely out, she opened her eyes just in time to see his lower abdomen contracted, sculpted abs shrinking and a devilish smirk on his lips before he pounded into her again, forcefully pressing his way into her pussy as she squeezed her eyes shut, mouth closing tighter around his digits and filling with her own salty flavor that lingered to his skin, evidence of her previous orgasm.

“Good girl.” He rasped when she only squeaked, visibly preventing herself from making any louder sound.

They still were in a building full of journalists, after all, and damn good ones. It would be too easy for them to connect the dots if they heard anything at all. And then, all hell breaks loose.

“Shit, you feel so good baby.” He groaned into the crock of her neck, adjusting his grip on her ass and squeezing her between his thighs. When he was sure he had her secure in place he lifted his palm from her body,

“FUCK!” She moaned when he spanked her, left hand hits back hard and unforgiving on her cheeks. The place when he landed his hand heated up, skin prickling and burning in an already red spot.

Steve renewed his grasp on her skin and lifted her body against his, his cock still inside her, its stretch more defined than always when he raised her up, easily finding a comfortable position to support her in the air just in the right angle, even with one arm only.

“Steve.” Y/n cried, tears forming in her eyes as her shoulders hit the stall again and Steve picked the pace of his thrusts. His hipbones brushed against the inside of her thighs, smoothly sliding in and out as shiny sleek leaked from her hole down to her ass. She was at his mercy again; one wrong move and she could meet the hard stone floor. If it was anyone else she might’ve been worried, but not with Steve.

His free hand slowly sank down to her throat, dragging over her red lips and her chin, leaving a wet trail of saliva. The grip was loose around her neck, heavy and felt on her hot skin.

Steve bit his already swollen lips and tightened his hold, using it to bring her mouth closer; He couldn’t help it. She looked so wrecked. And delicious.

To think that less than an hour ago she was still in her fancy little skirt, strutting around with a smirk on her flawless makeup covered face. So collected and pretty- now look at her;

Melting like jelly between his arms, so begging and desperate and even more beautiful than before, needy for his cock even when it was already inside her. The thought alone made him smirk just before he crushed their lips together, taking advantage of y/n’s gasp of surprise and sliding his tongue past her lips, stroking slowly the inside of her cheeks and her own tongue- moving against each other in a sloppy rhythm.

The heat in her lower belly ignited, threatening to combust as she felt it raise to her flushed cheeks, painting them in what he thought was the most beautiful shade of pink.

She moaned into his mouth, trembling so much he had to bring down his other hand, nearly covering her asscheeks with his palms, squeezing hard but holding her in place.

“Hold tight, doll.” Steve warned, picking up the speed of his movements, slamming into her boneless body in a vicious pace.

Her grip on his biceps tightened, breast moving up and down to her ragged breaths, muffled curses leaving pulp lips and getting lost in her own pleasure.

He jerked his hips, making her produce an utterly sinful sound, dripping erotism and lust; the fire in her stomach finally consuming all of her as she burst. Fingers clawing hard into Steve’s muscles, mouth open and thrown back along with her head, legs shaking so violently she thanked god she wasn’t standing on her feet.

Steve buried his face in the crook of her neck again, leaving an uneven trail of sloppy kisses as he rode his high with her, her walls clenching around him and milking every bit of his pleasure when he marked them with his cum.

-

“Ugh shit, the mess we’ve made.” Y/n stared in terror at the mix of juices leaking lazily down her thigh. She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and gathered the liquids in a somewhat awkward position.

“Do you need help?” Steve didn’t even bother to button his dress shirt. He laid on the closed toilet in blissful obliviousness, the expensive suit Tony got him was in a puddle on the floor. Oh wouldn’t he be furious if he ever found out.

He reached his hand and placed it on her hip, caressing the skin under her thin panties and smiling at her, she returned the smile but slowly zipped up her skirt, forcing Steve to remove his palm. He thought it would be the perfect time to ask her.

“Hey y-“

“I gotta go.” Y/n picked her phone from her purse before he could say anything, seemingly unaware of his attempt to speak. She had too many messages, and the governor of Georgia tweeted something completely scandalous again, she needed to see if someone has written about it…

“Already?” He was disappointed, voice higher than usual and sobered up from his post orgasm euphoria.

“Yeah, uh…sorry Steve.” She didn’t look up from her phone, blindly searching for her tight t-shirt, “next time, ok?”

Steve nodded but he wasn’t sure she could tell. He located the white fabric that was thrown near her legs and passed it to her. She mumbled a distracted thank you and kept typing, only stopping once when her head was stuck inside the collar.

Steve chuckled lightly when he watched her while buttoning his shirt, slowly, without any real effort. He thought that he can make time last forever by staying in there, in the last stall of the VIP rest room, and she would stay with him.

She slipped into her Louboutins swiftly, (they were her only pair, she wore them when she had to leave an impression, she once told him in a vulnerable moment of truth) waved goodbye, and just like that - she was gone.

Steve didn’t like how empty he felt, the feeling of bliss already out the door just like her, grounding him with sheer force and striping him of his joy.

He should really get used to that by now, he thought as he picked up the blue suit, the void in the pit of his stomach getting terrifyingly deep.

Steve held his fitted blazer above his shoulder and pushed the door open with a sigh, meeting his own face in the mirror. He couldn’t ignore the fragments of past expression that masked his features before it faded away.

The creases were rooted on his forehead, curved lines and loose corner of mouth, blue dim inside his orbs.

Something downed on him then. He looked sad.

-

Y/n waved her magnetic card in front of the small machine, waiting for the familiar beep to arrive. The glass doors opened automatically, letting her in the elegant looking lobby. She sent a hurried kiss in the air to Daniella, not even having the time to chat with her dear receptionist friend as she walked to the elevators with determination, nodding when Dani held her phone, and pantomimed texting, as to let her know she won’t get off that easily.

From there the way to her cubicle was short. It was small and unimpressive but for her it meant everything; at her young age she managed to score her position in the LA Times’ branch in New York. She was ambitious and persistent and unforgiving- people her age could only dream of what she does. Most of them are stuck as an underpaid interns, their names written on coffee cups instead of being on top of articles. She, on the other hand, just returned from interviewing Captain America.

Y/n didn’t need a fancy office with see through walls to know she was damn good at her job, she only had to look at what tasks she was given.

So yes, a shower would be incredible right now, but also meeting her deadline that was pretty much today.

“Y/n! The boss wants you in her office.” Ruth’s assistant lightly touched her back, bringing her attention to him as she was too concentrated into typing.

“What? Right now?” It wasn’t unusual her boss required a report after a big press conference, normally she would just mail it to her, though. Speaking to her directly was only reserved to special news. Or perhaps, a slap on the wrist. Or something way worse.

What if she somehow found out she was sleeping with Steve? This could be a disaster. Everything she previously wrote about him or with relations to him would be considered unreliable. All her work for nothing and she will never be worked with again. Unethical and stupid and-

“You coming?”

Y/n nodded slowly and got up in terror, steps heavy in her suddenly very uncomfortable heels.

Jamie the assistant opened the door for her and she thanked him weakly, shrinking when she stepped forward and met with the proud back of the stern woman.

“Do you have a dress?” The grey woman ask nonchalantly after what felt like an hour of silence.

“I’m sorry?” Y/n asked, confused, trying to hide her baffled face when Ruth turned around, patting one of her famous black pantsuits .

“Did the press con go well? Have you started your report and article yet?” The tall woman seem to ignore her own question, confusing washing over y/n even further.

“It went better than expected, got enough material for a great piece about Rogers and Wilson’s project. Both the article and the report will be at your desk by the end of the day, ma’am.”

“Very well.” Ruth nodded, “now do you have a dress? I have an invitation to the Gala Stark hosts in two weeks. I already confirmed going, but unfortunately something came up and I can’t go. Since we cannot afford missing it- every single paper in the city is going to be there- and you are already familiar with the story, I thought you were fit for the job. That brings me to my question- do you have a dress?”

-

Steve loved watching her falling apart beneath him. Her trembling thighs secure between his arms, face buried deep between her folds and her pleasure to him mercy.

It was so intimate, sometimes. How she would whisper his name like some kind of a secret, a soft hidden truth that was only known to them.

Y/n dug her nails into his scull, weaving her fingers through his hair and pulling him impossibly closer, tongue debouching her heat, his lips applying more pressure to her core.

His cock twitched in his pants when he looked up, just for a moment. He had to watch;

She looked like a work of art, his name leaving her nearly bloody lips again and again, thick lashes fluttering on her cheeks, hair spread on the pillow in a mess that almost seemed artificial.

“Fuck!” She yelped when Steve buried his head again, grazing his teeth against her clit and biting it gently, her body squirming as he pressed a kiss to it right afterwards.

Steve bucked his hips into the matters, his crotch desperate for some friction, the delicious noises she made and being surrounded by her sweet smell were almost too much.

Content it would last forever, he felt the desperate grind of y/n’s hips against his face, and the thrill of watching her cum overpowered the pleasure of prolonging the dwelling of her flavor on his lips.

Steve groaned into her center, flicking his tongue and squeezing her thigh hard, holding in place a handful of her body as he consumed her passionately.

Ignoring the shaking of her legs he continued, back arched above the sheets as bids of sweat formed on her temple, shutting and opening her eyes in hopelessness when she chased her high, feeling the warm liquid finding its way out of her hole and right into the Steve’s waiting tongue. The sensation of him licking every last drop astonishingly erotic, arousing all over again her sensitive clit.

Y/n exhaled and looked down, exhausted.

His satisfied grin was utterly unholy, jaw coated with her juices, the sensual licks of his tongue on his lips can’t cloak that cocky expression he didn’t dare to steer. Intense stare fixated on her swollen bit lips, as if he could actually devour her whole with his eyes only.

Y/n never shied away from him, not even once- but something in the way Steve watched her from between her legs, so focused and fascinated at the same time - raised her blush higher on her cheeks, the urge to close her thigh almost overpowering her.

He kissed her left inner thigh for the last time, sending shivers down her already shook spine. He cupped her sides, bringing himself up. One corner of his lips curved his smirk even wider as he captured y/n in a kiss, smearing her up with her own release and biting on her bottom lip before he pulled away.

The pout her mouth shaped into gave him the last drop of courage he needed to gather, her still erratic breath hot on his skin when he formed the words in his mind into a question.

“I was thinking…” He began, choosing his words carefully, the growing boner in his boxer doing nothing to clear his mind, “there’s this event next week. Tony…Tony Stark is hosting it. It’s for “VetsForVets”, and I thought,” he inhaled, for some reason her breaths not as close as before, “I thought that I would love it if you went with me. I mean…That I want you to come with me. I mean, only if you want to, because I want you. To come with me, I mean.” He kept stumbling over his words, making it even more of mess than it was. Steve knew it would be awkward, but this lame attempt had him fighting the burning desire to punch himself.

Y/n flinched back, moving backward and pressing herself against the headboard of her bed, her pout turning into a frown.

“I’m sorry if I, I just assumed-“ He found it difficult to create the sentence even more than before, “it’s a thing for the press, actually, I thought you’d wanna go, since you may know some people, uh, there.”

He watched her eyes losing any trace of previous lust when she spoke, “I’m going.”

“You’re going? With…with me?”

“No, I mean,” y/n said reluctantly, “I’m already going. I got an invitation from work.”

“Oh…” Steve said, visibly confused as to why she said it like it was a bad thing, “we can still go together, it would be even easier since you already got the clearance to-“

“I’m going alone.”

Steve exhaled sharply, his mind filling with silver fog he couldn’t find the source of, eyes closing and then opening wide again.

“You…Don’t want go with me?”

People seemed to forget who he was, once. Just a skinny kid from Brooklyn that was too short to reach any girl’s eyes and couldn’t throw a punch to save his life.

People seemed to forget, but he remembered. He remembered every woman that looked down on him, dismissing him over his looks. Every foot he stepped on, limbs too awkward to dance. He remembered, and he never blamed anyone but himself.

So when y/n’s gaze met his, apologetic and with a hint of pity, he remembered.

“Steve I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” He was on his feet in no time, already pulling his shirt back up, feet searching for his boots.

She got up after him, her sex still bare with a small trace of her wetness that was there before.

“It’s okay, really.” And everything about him screamed it wasn’t, “I asked. You said no. What’s the big deal?” His t-shirt was half up, fabric too tight for his muscles, he already had one shoe on.

“Because, I don’t want you to be upset! It’s nothing about you. I just…can’t show up as your date. It’s unprofessional.” She tried to explain, laying a comforting hand on his forearm. She could feel the clenched muscle under it, flexing harder than it should.

His brain was beat, irrational with that screen of black smoke that made him even angrier, “I’m just a job to you, then?”

Steve spat his words at her, flinching away from him once again as he shook his shoulder to get her hand off.

“You’re not just- what are you even talking about? Steve, I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It sure don’t seem like it.”

“God,” she moaned in despair, “I can’t be seen with you. It can ruin my career, did you know that? I would definitely lose my job at the Times. Which I fucking love, by the way.” Steve opened his mouth to react, but she beat him to it.

“Everything I have ever wrote about you, which you should know, is a lot, would be considered biased. Invalid. Fake. Do you know what happens to journalists who publish fake new?”

“But it’s not fake.” He whispered.

“Yeah, well, they don’t know that.” Her throat was sore, her head was hammering with the pain of a sharp needle that was permanently stuck inside her temple. Her vision was blurry and kept losing its focus.

“Then tell them.” He knew the fight was already lost, “I’ll tell ‘em.”

“And you really think they’ll listen?”

Steve took one last look at her and fixed his laces, eyes stinging with tears he barely managed to blink away.

She was right. Of course she was. And he couldn’t afford being angry, but he was. He told himself it was at the situation and not at her, and it felt like a lie.

“See you around, I guess.” Steve adjusted his jeans, the uncomfortable stretch still there but not as irritating as before.

“Yeah,” y/n said, watching him leaving her room on his own, talking more to herself than to him, “see you around.”

-

Y/n didn’t stop throwing up all morning. The terrifying thought of pregnancy dug its way to her brain but it wasn’t it. She checked.

Might be because today is the day of the Gala. Biggest event she’s ever been to all alone. Must be performance issues. Excitement, maybe.

She didn’t even think about the fact Steve will be there. Who even Steve was, anyway?

It’s been almost two weeks since what was their impromptu breakup, separation, termination of relationship, Whatever that was. And when her temper cooled down, a couple of days after, y/n realized something.

She realized she missed him. She missed him so much.

Calling in sick wasn’t an option. She will not fuck up the first time she’s given that kind of opportunity, not even for a man. Not even for a man like Steve.

Her red dress was hung outside her closet, she could see it from the narrow space left open between the bathroom door and the wall.

Sharp pains hit her stomach again, nausea and disgust pulsing through as she emptied what was left in her into the toilet. She can go.

She is going.

-

Even Steve didn’t see anything quite as extravagant, and he’s known Tony for years. The ballroom was decorated with the colors of the American Flag; massive sheets of red velvet and silk descended from the artificially tampered ceiling, a technology Steve didn’t fully understand made it seem like they were looking at a sky colored with changing shades of blue. The marble floor was different as well, now indigo instead of stoney beige. As for the white- it was in everything else.

The chairs and the tables, even the bar. The walls and the donation and information stations, the odd one out being the small stage that looked like a hill raised from the floor, covered in a velvety royal blue fabric. Tony was pulling all the stops to promote “VetsForVets” even though it wasn’t his.

He didn’t seem to mind though, given Steve didn’t let him donate the entire amount they needed for all the branches in plan and even more, Tony wanted to help as much as Steve allowed him, and he did an amazing job at it.

Steve searched with his eyes for anyone familiar, catching Sam and Tony standing near the stage. He approached them quickly, press hasn’t arrived yet.

“Tony!” He called, “this is incredible, I don’t know how to thank you.”

Sam patted him back with a smack and nodded, “I tried it man,” Sam smiled, “he won’t accept any thank you but a thank you.”

“Enough about me now,” Tony adjusted his glasses, “it’s your night.” He motioned to the two of them and put his hands on their shoulders, furthering them from each other and creating a space to walk through between the two.

Sam chuckled and shook his head, nodding to the entrance as a new wave of people streamed past the door, cameras and microphones in hand.

The knots at the bottom of his stomach twisted, mouth dry as he hastily searched for the inevitable.

That’s when he saw her.

Her wine colored dress fit right in the background, like she was just another mesmerizing decoration. The silk hugged her body perfectly, embracing it down until the fabric reached her mid thigh, ending with a wrap.

His gaze followed her up, moving through her bare arms, modest cleavage, the thin straps that highlighted her collarbone, until they reached her face- lips painted outrageously red, rosy blush high on her cheeks that couldn’t obscure something was off. He wanted to approach, ask her what’s wrong, before he could move she locked eyes with him, watching him watching her. Y/n retreated back to the crowded area behind her, blending in with everyone else.

- She vowed not to drink, her stomach still not recovered from the rough morning it’s been through and the last thing she needed was to make a fool of herself in front of some of the most important people in the world. And him.

Yet for some reason, the combination of an open bar with the most exquisite cocktails she’s ever seen and the overwhelmingly good looks of one super soldier, made her reconsider her decision.

Now she was pleasantly tipsy, talking to a handsome stranger and circling her sparkly straw in her nearly empty glass, even between unnecessarily loud laughs and drawn out touches she was too aware of the side glances she was getting from a particular person across the room.

They kept calling them the men of the hour, then why did he feel like he was the smallest person in this room?

Steve muttered a distracted apology as he moved past the donors they were talking with, Sam looked at him questionably but Steve dismissed his worry, smiling wide and congratulating all of them a with a good night. Sam was charming them way better anyway.

Determined, he walked to the bar and ordered himself a useless whiskey. Once he got his order he turned around to lean on the high counter, sipping slowly from the amber liquid. He glimpsed quickly at the man y/n was speaking with, getting closer an inch with the wish to be noticed.

Steve downed his drink in one go, longing for how carefree it used to make him.

“Oh, excuse me just a minute.” Jacob cut her flow of words to look above her head, his eyes lighting up when Steve nodded at him.

Jacob ducked down abruptly, “this is Captain America!” He whispered loudly, sending unpleasant breaths in her direction.

Y/n jumped in her place, breath hitched in her throat. “Fuck me.”

“I’m sorry?”

She heard Steve’s breathy chuckle too close to her neck.

“You are Captain America, right?” The man that slowly revealed himself to be more and more disappointing asked.

“Steve Rogers.” He stuck his hand for a shake, smile lopsided, “nice to meet you. Y/n.” He acknowledged her by nodding to her direction.

“Oh, you two met?” Jacob’s eyes seemed like they’ve never shone brighter.

“Briefly.” Y/n answered sternly. The cosmopolitan she drank already on its way up.

“Oh, great. I’m Jacob. A big fan, Cap. Captain America. Can I call you Cap?”

Y/n rolled her eyes and kicked Steve’s foot not very subtly. His amused grin didn’t leave his face even then.

“Steve is fine, Jacob. Thanks for coming here today. It means a lot.” He managed to say through his smile, just before Jacob’s phone vibrated loudly.

“I gotta take this.” He mouthed and pointed to his phone, strolling away objectively to find a quieter spot.

Steve leaned against the white bar again, crossing his legs and watching a general spot in the distance, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Jacob. Really?”

“Shut up.”

“What? He seems like a nice guy.”

“We literally just met ten minutes ago. And even if he is - that’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The music filled the silence between them, ceiling somehow capturing the blue of Steve’s eyes the exact moment y/n looked up.

“I’m sorry. About the other day. I overreacted.” She said finally, breaking the static noise.

Steve place his empty glass on top of the counter and scratched his jaw, “no you didn’t. You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one who needs to-“

“I’ve missed you.”

He raised his gaze to meet hers, eyes sincere, her mouth slightly open. Like it was inviting him to come in.

“I’ve missed you too.”

When Jacob finally returned from his call, they were no longer there.

-

Steve steadily moved up her body, his weight held by his forearms to her sides. It was slow, paced. So different than any sex they’ve had before.

Sensual and incredibly frustrating. Desperate pulls of fabric and skin seeking impossible proximity, wets sound of him sliding in and out, the smell of sweat and alcohol intoxicating in their noses.

Y/n walls squeezed Steve’s cock tight inside her, clenching and releasing and pulling him deeper inside. He let his fingers down to her clit, adding to her arousal as he circled it lazily, not breaking eye contact even once.

Steve came first. Having her in his arm more profound than the act itself.

She was a close second, waves of pleasure hitting her one after the other to the voice of Steve encouraging her to cum between his throaty groans, moaning loudly as he shot warm strips of cum inside her.

“Shit.” Y/n exhaled. He was still on top of her, his cock buried deep inside. She didn’t know what about that moment changed her mind. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Steve is worth losing some things so she could win new ones. Better ones.

“They’re probably looking for you.” She giggled breathily.

“Mmm, ‘think we can afford five more minutes. Can’t we? Unless you…unless you have to go?”

She thought about every time she left hastily after they finished. Grabbing her phone first thing and everything else next. Leaving him alone.

“Don’t worry.” She whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

[emeraldbirdcollector]

Chapter 2 of Alice’s Tale (MTAP prompt, “Alice and Jack on their way to Portia”)

Part two, in which I have made up relationships which probably don’t exist in canon, but aren’t, I don’t think, directly contradicted either. (Sam says she has family in Portia at one point, but we don’t see who it is...but there’s only one person in Portia who really has any family resemblance to Sam and could conceivably be her family, so I ran with it.)

Finally, they made it through the gates, but it was a mile or so down the road before Remi spotted the Alliance flag. Thank Peach, they got too distracted with looting to pursue. Not that it did us a blessed bit of good, but at least there's a place we can regroup. He rode for the camp, and breathed out a great sigh of relief when he saw Captain Parker riding up and down, directing the flow of refugees and retreating Corps members with her usual firm hand. She was one of the few Corps leaders he trusted, and he was glad to see her in charge here.

“Remington!” she called out as he neared. “What's the situation?”

“Not good, Captain. We've got a rout on our hands, and they're rioting through the city.”

She shook her head. “Not good, not good at all. At least that'll keep 'em occupied a bit, maybe get them reckless and drunk. We've got reinforcements on their way from Atara. Too late for today, but if we can regroup before they do, and evacuate as many of the civilians as possible...”

Reinforcements. Finally, some good news. “Speaking of which. Found these two about to be taken to the slave markets in Duvos. Can we find 'em a place to go?”

“Parents?”

He shook his head. “Casualties.”

Her eyes softened. “Poor little mites. We've been directing refugees behind the lines, but...they're just kids. Here.” She tossed him a couple of ration bags. “There's a Church of the Light a few miles down the road. They find homes for orphans, don't they?”

“Might be a bit overwhelmed right now.”

“They might be. But it's the best we can hope for right now. I'm sorry, kids. There's not much I can do for you.”

Alice nodded, clearly trying to keep her chin up. Jack just stared at the horse's neck, unwilling or unable to move or talk.

“Be back by sunrise, Remington. As rested as you can be. We're going to need all the soldiers we can get.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He saluted, and spurred his horse further down the path, following the stream of refugees fleeing south.

They had ridden out of sight of the camp before Alice spoke up, hesitantly. “Thank you for doing all of this for us. We probably shouldn't be taking you from your duties...”

“Protecting civilians is my duty. I'm not going to leave two little kids to wander alone in this chaos if I can help it.”

“We don't even have anything to give you...”

“It's my job, I tell you.” He kept his voice even, but the anger came through nonetheless. “I don't ever want be the kind of Corps member who has to take bribes to do his job.”

“Pa said the Corps always took bribes.” Jack picked the worst moments to speak up, in Alice's opinion.

“Some do. I won't.” He took a breath, and smiled down at them. “But enough of that. Do you know where you'd like to go, given a chance? Have you ever seen places other than Lucien City?”

“Not really,” Alice bit her lip. “We never traveled much. Ma and Pa were too busy with the shop.”

“Where are you from?” Jack piped up. “You don't sound like you're from Lucien.”

“Good ear, kiddo. I'm not. I'm from Portia.”

“Where's Portia?”

“Far southeast of here, on the Eastern Sea, beyond Sandrock. The only real way to get there is by boat from Barnarock. But it's a lovely place, lots of countryside and forest, a clean fresh river full of tasty fish, even some mountains. Portia Town is pretty small, just a hundred or so people, but it's cozy and warm and everyone knows everyone else. It's spring, now, all the flowers will be blooming, and it's so peaceful and pretty...” He shook his head. “Sorry. I get homesick sometimes, especially in the middle of all of this.”

“It sounds so lovely...I understand why you miss it. I love flowers,” Alice said wistfully.  “I wish we could go there someday. It'd be nice to be somewhere where there isn't any danger at all...”

“Well, it is on the Peripheries, and there is a Collapsed Wasteland nearby, with some odd monsters in it. But the Civil Corps there is dedicated and they keep the town pretty safe. “

“Wow, a real wasteland? Have you ever been in it?” Jack perked up, forgetting his troubles for a bit, and Alice's heart filled with gratitude.

He chuckled, a warm rich sound. “Yes, as a matter of fact. See, there were these two younger kids – Sam's about your age, Alice, and Arlo's two years older – and they snuck in once after school, a couple of years ago, on a dare. Sam's not one to turn down a dare, and she got Arlo to go with her by telling him it would be good training for the Flying Pigs – he's wanted to try out for them ever since he was old enough to know who they were.”

“What happened to them?” Alice asked.

“Well, they got pinned down behind a rock in the middle of a field full of Slurpees...”

“What's a Slurpee?” Jack interrupted.

“It's a great blue creature, kinda like a big fuzzy lizard with a round clowny face – they're not that dangerous, but they can get you with a stream of nasty freezing liquid...stuff...if you don't know how to predict and dodge it. Anyway, I hadn't wanted to snitch on the kids to Mr. Isaac, our teacher, so I snuck in myself, but I had the good sense to bring a couple of weapons with me. Gave Arlo one of the swords, and Sam a dartgun – she always was better with ranged weapons – and we fought our way out. Didn't even get caught, and I've never told anyone till now. So if you do get to Portia, don't tell Mr. Isaac or Mayor Gale on me, all right?”

“I won't. On my honor,” Jack said solemnly, and Alice stifled a giggle.

“Sam sounds like she gets in trouble a lot,” she commented, hoping to hear more about a girl her own age, living in a safe and happy place.

Remington laughed out loud. “That she does, especially the time she beat up the mayor's son. But she got off easy for that one.”

“How come?”

“She beat him up because he'd been picking on his little sister Ginger, and the mayor dotes on his daughter. Ginger's a sweet girl, but she's kinda fragile – her mother died when she was born, she'd never been strong either, and it seems like Ginger takes after her. But her brother Gust thought of her as the one who killed his Mama, and he was pretty awful to her. Sam kicked his butt into next Tuesday, and he left both of 'em alone after that. Last I heard, he'd taken himself off to Atara to study architecture or something. Sam always did hate a bully. She's got a heart of gold, she really does, and she'll always look out for anyone who needs her help. You ought to look her up, if you do get to Portia. Her family are refugees from Lucien too.”

“Really?” Alice asked. “How did they get there?”

“Her Pa is in the Civil Corps, in the front lines a bit further west of here, and her Ma got tired of always being in the danger zones. So she left before Sam was born, and headed down to the coast with Sam's older sister, Carol. Sam's Pa came to visit sometimes, when he was on leave, and Sam was born a few years later, just before her Ma decided to move into Portia Town. But her Ma got the sweating pox, and she died when Sam was only four, so she was mostly raised by her sister, and Carol wasn't much more than a girl herself. So Sam kinda grew up wild. But like I said, she's got a good heart, and she's done all right. And now Carol's gotten married, and had triplets, and Sam babysits for her pretty regularly, so it all comes full circle.”

Jack looked up at his sister. “Are you gonna raise me, now, Alice?”

“Hopefully she won't have to,” Remington said. “The Church will find you a nice family to take you in.”

“But I'll stay with you, I promise. No matter what, I won't let them split us up.” Alice wrapped her arms around her brother and hugged him hard.

“You keep to that. You two stick together and care for each other, and everything will be OK.” Remington hoped the kids couldn't hear the way the words had to fight past the sudden tightness in his throat. He'd never had siblings by blood, but Sam and Arlo were as close as made no difference, and he suddenly missed them both terribly.

[itskateak]

Oceans and Stars - Chapter 3

(Art by itskate....do not repost without permission)

Story Summary: A story of how Bucky Barnes falls in love with oceans, stars, and the woman who gave him the reasons to.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Velika Dante King (Fem!OC)

Chapter Summary: Something has Velika on edge but she refuses to talk about it. She's looking for answers and takes the team with her. 

Words: 1.9K

Warnings: Mentions of war, anxiety, and death

A/N: The version of this song our choir did can be found through this link, now. :) It's a rehearsal version as we didn't get to perform it...so my choir teacher talks at the very end. 

Masterlist

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭?

The helicarrier touched down on the Arctic tundra, expertly maneuvered to land on the edge of the coast. The engines melted divets in the thick snow as they powered down. The water froze to create an icy sheen as soon as the engines shut off. The setting sun painted the land with soft pinks and oranges. It was still early enough in the winter season that the sun hadn't set for the few months to cover the tundra in a long night.

Velika pulled a heavy fur cloak around her shoulders, securing it at her neck. The bear fur would keep her warm even in the subzero temperatures when the sun was fully below the horizon. She tugged a pair of gloves on, tucking the ends into her jacket sleeves, and took a deep breath as the tailgate lowered to the edge of the ice. The cold air blew in immediately, swirling snow onto the landing.

"Christ, that's freezing!" Sam gasped, wrapping his arms around himself. He rubbed his arms quickly to generate some heat.

"We're above the Arctic circle, Wilson. Of course, it's freezing," Velika responded, starting down the ramp.

"So, what're we looking for?" Tony met her outside, hovering above the ground. "I'll do an air recon and see if I can find whatever it is."

"Ruins or a temple made of ice. If the temple is still standing, then the ice should look like it's holding galaxies and the aurora." Velika flicked her flashlight on and pulled her scarf up to cover her face.

"Got it. Magical ruins." Tony nodded and blasted off, heading north. He disappeared into the light of the sun, his armor blending in with the star.

"Don't make me carry you through the snow," Bucky teased, pulling the fabric mask up over his nose. "I am not doing that again."

"Serbia was different!" Velika shot him a glare. "The snow was three feet deep and I had two bullets in my leg." 

"She's got you there, man," Sam said through their coms. He was staying at the ship to track their GPS locations because he didn't like the cold. He refused to trek out into the frozen lands.

"No one asked you, Wilson," Bucky grumbled, tucking his chin into the collar of his jacket. He shoved his hands into his pockets despite wearing gloves. 

"At least someone's on my side." Velika shifted the fur cloak to block against the wind blowing from the east. "Once we get on the ice, the snow won't be so bad."

"Ground Control, this is Major Tom. I'm seeing nothing to the north. Gonna follow the coast down to the east before circling back to the west." Tony's voice made her sigh in frustration. Anxiety was already building in her chest. They had to find it.

"This is Ground Control to Major Tom. We copy." Velika took the lead toward the west. She squinted through the darkness, scanning her light from side to side. The ice flow was silent other than the howling wind and the conversation between them.

"Since when is he a Major named Tom?" Bucky asked, brow furrowed. 

"It's a David Bowie song. Come on, Barnes!" Sam sounded exasperated as he sighed.

"Who?"

"David Bowie was a musician from the sixties and made music pretty much until he died in twenty-sixteen. He acted in a few movies as well. Played the Goblin King in Labyrinth. Ground Control to Major Tom is a quote from his nineteen sixty-nine song Space Oddity," Velika explained absently, scanning the horizon for anything that might indicate they were heading in the right direction.

"See! Even Velika knows who Bowie is!" Sam's grin could be heard in his voice.

"Sam, my brother slept with the man back in the eighties. I had no idea who he was before that," Velika laughed, shaking her head. Sam sputtered in her ear in disbelief. 

Bucky smiled to himself, glancing behind them to make sure there wasn't any wildlife to threaten them. He hadn't heard her laugh in a while and it made him relieved. 

"East is clear. Heading west." Tony interrupted. Sam confirmed that he had him on the radar. 

"What do you expect to find out here?" Bucky asked, catching up with Velika. He lifted his shoulders to block the wind from whipping his face and squinted as a particularly strong gust blew past.

"Someone who can help." She responded, dropping her head. "I hope."

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"She's really snippy today." Natasha mused as she poured herself a glass of milk. 

"I heard her on the phone the other day talking in a language I didn't recognize. She said her brother's name once or twice and kept running her hand through her hair like she does when she's stressed," Wanda tossed a piece of popcorn in her mouth. Her laptop was open in front of her and she had just paused the tv show she was watching.

"I don't know what's up with her. I asked and she shook her head and clammed up." Natasha wrinkled her nose up.

"Even Bucky has no idea what's bugging her," Steve sighed, looking up from Bucky's text message. The team's dynamic had been tense for a week after Velika's sudden personality shift. "He's tried to talk to her but she just shakes her head and walks away."

"I suggested that she needed to get laid or something but she just glared at me and left the room." Sam leaned against the counter, his arms folded across his chest.

"Guys, I need a favor." The woman in question suddenly swept into the kitchen with a notepad in her hand. 

"Oh, hi. You're chipper today," Sam shot her a smile and got a glare in return.

"Try me, Wilson." She growled. "I'll be in conference room B. Meet me in ten minutes." Velika left as suddenly as she arrived.

The room was silent for a beat before everyone glanced at each other with the same thought. Something was up.

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"You want to do what now?" Tony asked, a brow arched.

"It sounds crazy, I know. But if there's even a chance that it's real, I need to find it. It's important." Velika had spent the last hour reading through her annotated version of an old legend about an ice temple that was home to Fate. She was sure she'd found the place it was describing.

"Well, I'm not doing anything this weekend so I'm game." Tony shrugged.

"I'll go as long as I get to stay in the helicarrier," Sam said. "I don't do cold."

"I'll go," Bucky, who had been silently worrying the inside of his lip the whole time, finally spoke. He looked up from the table and nodded once to double down on his statement.

"I only need three other people." Velika smiled for the first time in a week. Her eyes were alight with relief and her shoulders sank like a weight had been lifted off them.

"Let's get prepped, then."

                       ⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅ 

"Velika, we've been out here for two hours. It's getting darker by the minute." Bucky called from a few paces behind her. His metal arm was starting to stiffen and twitch. "We need to head back to the helicarrier."

"It has to be here! We can't go back without finding it." She shouted back, eyes squinting to peer through the darkness. The wind had died down out of nowhere and the sky was completely clear of clouds. The stars did little to light the way and the moon was entirely in shadow.

"Velika!" Bucky grabbed her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. "What's going on with you? The last week you've been moody and distant. Now we're searching through some barren and cold land for a legend."

"It doesn't matter. We just have to find it." Velika tried to pull away from him, but he held her in place. "Bucky, please. I have to find it." Her eyes glistened with tears and her voice faltered. "There's no other option."

Bucky furrowed his brow in concern. He opened his mouth to question her further when she suddenly let out a broken sob, tears spilling onto her windburned cheeks. "Velika?"

"It's the last chance any of us have. The only option to save us from war." She cried, wiping the tears from her face before they froze in the subzero temperature. "I don't wanna fight, Bucky. I don't wanna face them. Don't wanna risk being dragged back to be put under their control."

"I don't understand." Bucky stepped around her, ducking his head to look her in the eye. It was hard to see in such darkness.

"Rising tensions between Hell and Heaven means that war is closer than it's ever been." She hiccuped, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe. She had kept this breakdown at bay for so long but now that she was faced with the prospect that the expedition failed, everything fell apart. "Any attempt at peace with Heaven we've tried to make has failed and if I don't find this temple and talk to Fate..."

Bucky pulled her into a hug, holding her tightly. "Velika, I think it's just a legend. If we haven't found it by now, I don't think we'll find it at all. I'm sorry." 

She clutched at his jacket, shaking in his arms as she sobbed. His heart ached for her. When America had been on the verge of joining World War Two, he had been praying they wouldn't. But he knew they would in the back of his mind. "I don't wanna leave you guys. I don't wanna fight."

"I know. But you've done all you can and now all you can do is wait to see if war even breaks out." He soothed, rubbing her back. "And spend as much time as you can with the people you care about.

Bucky continued to hold her as she calmed down, whispering what he hoped were comforting words. War was a huge weight on anyone's shoulders. The fact she was trying desperately to find a peaceful solution to avoid it just to stay with them made his heart swell, but he felt that was selfish. 

Velika lifted her head after taking a steadying breath, eyes soft and expression vulnerable. Her lips parted slightly and she looked past his shoulder in wonder. "Look."

Bucky turned his head to follow her gaze. "Oh, wow."

The Northern Lights were dancing overhead in vibrant colors of green. Purple lined the top with a pale red barely flickering at the tips. They moved like waves in the ocean, lighting up the sky brighter than the stars. 

Velika drew in a shuddering gasp. A coil in her ribs made dread settle in the pit of her stomach. The lights were telling her something. The answer to her question. They were the temple she was looking for. "Two months." 

"What?" Bucky turned back to her with a questioning look. He hadn't quite heard her while he was distracted.

"Gorgeous." She said, louder, covering up her revelation.

"They are. Come on. Let's head back to the helicarrier. I'm starting to feel the cold." Bucky gave her a lopsided grin and took the flashlight from her hand. He started back toward where they had come from and she sighed sadly before starting after him.

Two months later, Velika received a letter announcing the death of her ex-commander and the birth of war. 

𝓢𝓸 𝓯𝓪𝓻 𝓪𝔀𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮?

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