#the italian men's field is getting so deep

[eggplantgifs]

Nikolaj Memola: Samson and Delilah » 2022 Junior Grand Prix Final

[peakyswritings]

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

PART I

Summary: When the conflict with a powerful family threatens to bring down the Shelby Clan, Tommy takes a trip to Italy. In order to stop the disaster, two families must become one: marriage seems to be the only way to seal an alliance and bring peace. It’s Nina Ferrante, fierce and rebellious, the one who slowly makes her way into his heart, with steps so light he doesn’t even realise it. But things are not as easy as they may seem: one, Tommy is expected to marry her cousin, and two - Nina has no intention of getting married.

Warnings: mentions of arranged marriage, slow-burn, small age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s), English is not my first language.

A/N: here’s the first chapter of my new series. This is set somewhere between season 1 and 2. At the end, you’ll find the translation of a couple of Italian expressions. Feedback is always appreciated🤍

SERIES MASTERLIST

SERIES MOODBOARD

Gif credit

Dividers credit

Tommy gazed out the window of the car, watching the landscape pass before his eyes. The small Sicilian village was so different from Birmingham. It was rural, peaceful, and the air was clean, he could fill his lungs without smelling the smoke and the shit. Beyond the uphill road, he could even hear the sound of the sea. Had he been in a different situation, he would’ve enjoyed that sound, along with the feeling of the sunlight on his face.

But he had to stay focused. Because he was alone, and the men in the car with him were speaking words he couldn’t understand. They could’ve easily taken him to an empty field and put a bullet in his head, and no one would’ve known. His hand went to the gun inside his coat, taking in the feeling of security brought by the contact of the cold metal against his skin.

Vincenzo Ferrante said something to the driver, then his eyes met Tommy’s through the rearview mirror. There was a strange glimpse in them, something that vaguely resembled amusement. He knew he had the upper hand.

A familiar tingling sensation crawled over the back of Tommy’s neck. It was the way of his body to tell him that danger was near, had started to get it in France, and it hadn’t left him since. His fingers forcefully pressed against the grip of the gun as his hold tightened for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he released it, his hand coming to rest on his lap. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. He had a deal with those people, and it would go through.

One week earlier

Tommy walked into the betting shop, his steps resonating over the wooden floor as he strode among the desks in the empty room. Empty, except for his aunt, who was waiting for him behind the main table.

“Here’s the information I found.” He said, tossing a folder on the wooden surface. Polly furrowed her eyebrows, grabbing it so that she could examine its content. It was full of photographs, letters and documents. God knew how Tommy had managed to get his hands on them.

“Go on.” She mumbled.

“Antonio Ferrante has two brothers, Vincenzo and Mario. They came to England when they were children, and they were raised here. Twenty-five years ago, Vincenzo and Mario went back to Sicily to start their business, both legal and illegal, while Antonio stayed here to carry on their legal race tracking operation. Of course, his organisation also has two sides. Vincenzo moves between Italy and England to help him with the other side. He’s here now. He’s been helping him with the attacks.”

Three attacks. Three attacks in one week. Tommy had never seen something like that. Those Italians were sly and quick, and extremely organised. They started by blowing up two of the pubs under the Peaky Blinders’ protection, then they proceeded to find one of their warehouses, and they blew it up as well. It was a matter of time before they came for the Shelbys.

Polly sighed, putting the papers back into the folder. Just when everything seemed to be going in the right direction, another bomb was dropped upon them. Quite literally.

Tommy rubbed his eyes, taking his time before continuing. “Ferrante was cooperating with Kimber. Thanks to this alliance, the family had secured a place at the top of the betting business. By killing Billy Kimber…”

“We stepped on their toes.” Polly finished his sentence.

“And now they want revenge. Yesterday they took three of our men.” He sighed, leaning against the desk behind him. That was another thing he had to take care of. He had to write to their families, send his condolences, and open a fund for them so that they could manage to sustain themselves without their husbands, fathers and brothers to take the money home. It was unpleasant, but it had to be done.

“It’s the Italian Mafia we’re talking about.” Tommy spoke again. “They have an organisation of bigger dimensions. If Ferrante calls the rest of his relatives from Sicily, it’s over for us.”

“So what’s the plan?” She asked, taking a cigarette from the pocket of her apron before placing it between her lips.

“Antonio Ferrante only has sons,” He started to explain, taking a match to light his aunt’s cigarette. “But his brothers have daughters-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Polly’s head shot in his direction, eyes wide with disbelief as she could already imagine what he was trying to say.

“I’m talking about marriage, Polly. I’m going to marry one of the girls.”

Tommy couldn’t even believe his words as he said them. Before Grace, marriage had never crossed his mind, and after she left for New York, he was quite sure he would never find another woman. But there he was, selling himself so that his family could survive.

Despite the initial shock, Polly quickly regained her composure. She took a long drag from her cigarette, pondering her nephew’s words. “Why would they accept your offer?”

“Because by joining our forces, we can take down Sabini.”

“Do you think they’ll go against their own?” She inquired, a hint of scepticism in her voice.

“The Italians are fighting among themselves, now. Ferrante is also at war with Sabini, and he can’t defeat him on his own. Once Sabini’s taken care of, we’ll grant the Ferrante family a good place at the top of the business, even better than the one they occupied with Kimber.”

As much as Tommy tried to sound confident, he couldn’t hide his agitation. He couldn’t estimate the odds, there were no chances, no percentages. Everything felt unpredictable and beyond his control. He turned to grab the bottle of whiskey from the desk and poured himself a glass under Polly’s stare. It felt like she could read into him, like she could see right into his brain and know each one of his thoughts. It had always been like that, since he was a kid. It bothered him, sometimes, but deep down it was a relief to know that there was someone who could understand him without needing him to speak.

He downed all the whiskey in his glass, relishing the burning sensation. It grounded him, in some way. “Today I’m meeting Antonio and Vincenzo Ferrante.” He said, placing the glass on the table with a thud. “I’ll make the terms for peace.”

“How did it go?”

Tommy heard Polly’s question before he could see her. As soon as he entered the kitchen, he was met with her expectant eyes, her gaze scanning his face, looking for an answer. She poured him a glass of whiskey as he removed his coat and placed it on a chair.

“They accepted.” He just said, grabbing the glass. Polly’s expression relaxed for a moment, and she breathed a sigh of relief, but that relief was swept away as she noticed how her nephew was avoiding her gaze.

She waited for him to continue, but her patience ran out quickly. “And?” She asked.

Tommy sat on a chair and took a sip of whiskey. “And I’m going to Sicily to meet my spouse.”

There was some kind of inflection in his voice, one that not even Polly was able to define. But there was also a small particular in what he had said, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’re going to Sicily?” She inquired, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“Alone?” She emphasised, leaning with a hand on the table, not taking her eyes off of his face.

“Yes.” He repeated, keeping his eyes on the bottle in front of him, well aware of how dangerous and imprudent it sounded.

“Tommy, are you mad?” She yelled, yanking away the bottle so that he would look at her. He finally raised his eyes, and silence fell between them for a while as he tried to find the words.

“I need you here to take control of the business while I’m gone. You’re the only one who can do that.” He explained, standing up so that he could speak to her face to face. “And I can’t take John and Arthur with me, because there need to be Shelbys here in Small Heath.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” She spat.

Tommy placed his hands on her shoulders, the hint of a smile making its way on his face. “Think of it like this: if I don’t come back, all of this will be yours.” He pointed towards the door that opened on the betting shop. “You’ll make a good fortune.” He joked, trying to lighten the air.

However, his aunt didn’t seem amused. She just shook her head, a look of defeat in her eyes. “I could try and talk some sense into you, but you’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

Without answering, Tommy walked past her to take ahold his glass and drink the rest of his whiskey. He cleared his throat, gathering himself as best as he could. “Vincenzo Ferrante is going back to his family in three days. I’m going with him.”

Present day

The car drew to a halt. Beyond an iron gate stretched a large garden, which was divided in two halves by a gravel path that led up to two big houses. As the driver got out of the car to open the gates, Tommy couldn’t help but feel relieved. No empty field. No ditch waiting for him.

“I guess you’re hungry, Mr. Shelby. It’s been a long journey.” Vincenzo Ferrante suddenly spoke, taking him away from his thoughts. Before Tommy could answer, he continued. “Later we’re having lunch, and I’ll introduce you to the family. Communication won’t be a problem, me and Mario raised all of our children to speak both English and Italian, just like Antonio. For the sake of business.” He clarified.

Tommy just nodded, unsure about what to say. He half expected to be dead before even getting to the village, so communication had been the last of his thoughts.

Not caring much about his silence, Vincenzo pointed towards the house on the left. “That’s my house, and the other is my brother’s. You’ll be my guest. Since we’re suggesting you to marry my niece Agnese, we thought it would be improper for you to stay in the same house as her.”

Agnese. She was said to be the oldest, and the prettiest, and the most fitted to be a wife. However, they had assured him that if he were to find someone more to his liking, he would be free to choose, he just had to make the decision before starting to court her. They wanted things to be done the proper way.

Tommy leaned back in his seat, the need for a cigarette suddenly kicking in. “It’s understandable.”

The brief ride towards the houses was silent. In that short amount of time, Tommy tried to guess what the following weeks had in store for him, how his life would look like in a month, but truth was, he really couldn’t tell. He had no idea, and that was terrifying, even for someone like him. But he had to stay calm, focused. He couldn’t allow himself to let his guard down.

When he got out of the car, he had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief. He was finally able to stretch his legs after being seated for what felt like ages. He thanked the driver who handed him his suitcase, then proceeded to take a look around. The two houses - even though they were separated from each other - formed some sort of angle. In the shared garden a long table had been set up, and from the numbers of chairs Tommy could tell that a great number of relatives would be joining them for lunch.

“Papà!”

A female voice echoed in the garden, and a raven-haired girl ran down the stairs that led to the front door of Vincenzo’s house. In a matter of seconds she was in the garden, and she wrapped her arms around the man’s neck.

“Ciao, amore di papà.” Ferrante said, taking her face in his hands to leave a tender kiss on her forehead. “Come stai?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but was quickly distracted by Tommy’s presence. A glimpse of confusion flickered across her dark eyes, then something really close to realisation seemed to hit her.

Ferrante took a step back, so that Tommy and that girl could be in front of each other. “Nina, this is Tommy Shelby. Mr. Shelby, this is Nina, my daughter.”

Tommy watched as she furrowed her brows, hesitating for a couple of seconds before holding out her hand. Her eyes, that a few seconds before were warm and full of affection for her father, were now cold and wary. And there was something defiant in the way she refused to be the first to break eye contact. It was something that Tommy wasn’t used to, he had grown accustomed to people lowering their heads in his presence, not daring to even look at him. This girl clearly knew who he was, and yet she refused to be intimidated. It was quite admirable.

Soon, Tommy realised that he had probably let his hand linger in hers for a bit too long. He let it fall to his side, clearing his throat. “Pleasure.”

“Nina, why don’t you show our guest his room?” Ferrante suggested, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “So you make yourself comfortable before lunch, Mr. Shelby.”

She said something in Italian, and even though Tommy couldn’t understand a single word, from the tone of her voice and her disgruntled expression he could tell that she was displeased. Nevertheless, a reproachful “Nina” uttered by her father, accompanied by a stern look, seemed to do the trick.

She glanced at Tommy one more time, before turning around and starting to walk towards the house. “Come with me.” She said, without worrying about whether he was following her or not.

Tightening his hold on the suitcase, Tommy started to walk behind her. If Nina’s cousin was half as hostile as her, he was truly fucked.

“Ciao, amore di papà”: “hi, darling” (literally - “hi, dad’s love”)

“Come stai?”: “how are you?”

NEXT PART

Tagging @zablife , cause I remember you asking me to tag you when this was out🤍

[cure-icy-writes]

Okay so. A lot of people have been making cute little dungeon meshi aus where it's modern, but specifically the cast lives in one place. Figured I should maybe share mine?

Anyways. Dungeon Meshi but it's midwestern.

-Senshi, i think, is a regular presence in the church but is the kind of christian that the pastor has beef with. He has an apron with two fish and five loaves of bread on it, and can be found at pretty much every barbecue and church potluck. No one's sure if he's really devoted to jesus or just heard the story of a guy feeding an entire crowd and started showing up to church to feed people. He has caused two married men to have their bisexual awakenings.

-The town they all live in has an extremely high density of restaurants, meaning the only thing to do around there is go out to eat. The gang goes out to eat new places a lot together!

-Izutsumi is a warrior cats kid who was probably bullied for hissing and biting the other kids. The gang recognizes that she's not mean, she's just badly socialized and also seventeen. She lives in a group home, but has been running away less ever since she got promised regular meals.

-Related: Chilchuk is a union guy who is covertly making sure every restaurant they go to is up to code. He keeps shutting down places for not having adequate safety measures for their employees.

-Izutsumi has decided she's going to hang out with Chilchuk sometimes and will stop by his workplace. He's insistent that he's not adopting any more children, but has been teaching her how to budget, how to lie convincingly enough to get a job, and the most ethical places to shoplift from with the fewest risks because she's going to steal things anyways.

-Marcille has never been to a cornfield in her life. She's a Chicago kid, who really misses her deep dish pizza and that really good Italian place, but she's here to study some rare microorganisms.

-Marcille studies a very weird field of medicine that involves looking for medical uses in odd places. She's looking to eliminate class divides in lifespan by trying to find more affordable medicines for diseases that primarily affect the lower class.

-Her father died of asbestos poisoning from working in unsafe conditions when she was a kid, so she's especially alert for it, and gets a little neurotic around flu season.

-Laios and Falin used to go to the creek behind their house all the time to catch crawdads, and sometimes he'll still do it for old time's sake.

-Laios flunked out of college because they couldn't handle his autism rizz. He's going to trade school for the culinary arts, but he keeps trying to cook things he shouldn't.

-Laios checked out the massive dragon books from the library and cried when he found out they weren't real.

-He does furry commissions online, but he's not the best with customer negotiations and keeps wondering how many nipples someone's fursona has. Chilchuk helped him build his profile to appeal to commissioners who like speculative biology.

-Falin watched her brother flunk and went "hm, I think I will not." she's an apprentice at a local gardening shop. You think she's a normal sweet cottagecore kind of girl but then she starts gushing about soil nutrients and sustainability and you realize. Oh. Oh this is the kind of girl who would romanticize being buried under a tree and having it consume her bones.

-Laios wears shirts with anatomically correct dinosaur skeletons on them, but he has to order them online and frequently complains that there are no good clothing shops nearby. Senshi heard him say this, and introduced him to fabric paint.

[renlyslittlerose]

Another Moonlight Serenade ‘B Side’. Based off the prompts that @ghostlingpupskywalker and @kittonafoxgirl suggested, regarding Obi-Wan’s reaction to finding out that Anakin was more grievously wounded than he first let on!

All’s Fair in Love and War (2k)

‘1944/05/23 Skywalker Queen Victoria Hospital East Grinstead, England

Dear Kenobi,

I hope all is well. Still stuck at the hospital, but I can’t complain too much. The food is warm, the beds soft, and the nurses are pretty. Did I mention we get free beer on tap whenever we want? I guess there are some perks to being wounded. But I can’t wait to get back out in the field. I miss the skies. I also feel like I’m not doing my part like I should. Rex keeps telling me that he can win the war without me, but I beg to differ.

My arm is still on the mend, as I am sure you can tell from the different handwriting. One of the new nursing sister’s has volunteered her time today, in exchange for a game of bridge later on. The RAF boys have been playing “Shove Ha’Penny” in the mess the last couple of nights. I still don’t find it all that appealing, but it’s the only thing going on, so I find myself learning the game despite my best efforts.

Well, there isn’t much doing. I’m due in for another surgery but rumour has it I’ll be discharged soon. Can’t wait. I’m getting sick of the smell here - too clean and sterile.

Wishing you well. Stay safe, and leave some fighting for me.

Skywalker.’

Obi-Wan fiddled with the edges of the letter, running the thin blue paper against the pad of his thumb. Anakin’s words stared up at him in unfamiliar, feminine handwriting. He’d been through six different nurses so far, each with their own particular way of spelling and writing, though their penmanship was universally legible and neat - unlike most of the officers’ who wrote as if they were being chased by a herd of wildebeest. Obi-Wan wondered when he’d get to see Anakin’s again - all sharp angles and the occasional misspelled word.

Anakin kept promising in his letters that there would be one more surgery - just one more - and he’d be right as rain again, but after three different hospitals and numerous surgeries later, Obi-Wan was beginning to suspect that something more grievous had happened. The facts didn’t add up, Anakin’s assurances sounding less and less comforting each time Obi-Wan opened a letter only to be greeted with the sight of another person’s handwriting.

He loathed to pry; he had no right, really. He knew he ought to take Anakin’s word as it was given, and believe him despite it all, and yet…

Worry sat in Obi-Wan’s guts, tangling deep in with all the other anxieties he’d swallowed at the start of the war. Though he’d only known Anakin a short while he already knew his habits, the little ways in which he carried himself bleeding through the letters he dictated. He was scared - scared and grieving and so terribly sad. It made Obi-Wan want to weep; to ask if he could help; to pack his bags and swim across the channel to see Anakin with his own two eyes - touch the scar on his cheek and kiss away whatever it was that had hurt him so. He wanted to hold him in his arms and tell him that it would all be okay, even though Obi-Wan wasn’t sure it would, or could, ever be right again.  

Folding the letter up, he slipped it in the front pocket of his shirt before leaving the mess tent. It was early afternoon beneath the hot Italian sun, the stink of petrol and oil thick in the muggy air. Most of the men had taken shelter beneath the trees that sprouted up in the hills, the tents far too hot to spend any time in unless you absolutely had to. Squinting back the sun he headed toward the tent at the end of the camp next to the freshwater source.

He found the field medic, Captain Buck, sat at a table, sweat beading down his forehead as he filled out a form in front of him. Next to him were a stack of other such sheets along with an opened water canteen, the contents probably long since dredged. Behind him a man lounged on a cot, bandages thick and white wrapped around his skull and his knee - a victim of an early morning motorcycle accident awaiting transport to a nearby field hospital.

Buck smiled when Obi-Wan stepped inside and sat back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him.

“I’m sure one of the boys would share his shady spot with you outside if you asked,” Obi-Wan said.

“Why?”

“It’s rather hot in here, isn’t it?”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” He smiled despite the beads of sweat that dripped along his temple.

“I suppose it’s a state of mind,” Obi-Wan remarked. He resisted the urge to tug at the collar of his shirt. “How’s our Lieutenant doing?”

“He’s fine; just a little banged up. Probably more embarrassed than anything - I guess he got spooked by a passing goat and swerved into a ditch trying to avoid it.”

“Did the goat survive?”

“It’s who alerted the locals to his presence!”

“Perhaps we should take the goat with us - have it aid us as an early detection alert.”

Buck chuckled before sitting forward again, his hands locked together on the table. “Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but is there something I can help you with, Major?”

Obi-Wan hesitated a moment. It really wasn’t his business - Anakin had kept whatever it was from him for a reason. And yet…

“Queen Victoria Hospital back in the UK - have you heard of it?”

Buck nodded. “They’re known for their plastics unit - specialize in burn trauma and recovery.”

“Is that all they do?”

“No, but that’s why they send our men over there. Why? Do you know someone who’s there?”

“Yes - a fellow with the R.C.A.F. He was shot down a few months ago, but has been rather tight lipped about the extent of his injuries.”

“Stands to reason he was burned in the crash. It’s common for airmen to suffer from burns due to the fuel tanks in those things. They tend to… explode when filled with bullets.”

Obi-Wan had seen burn victims before. During his first year of service in the war he’d help drag a man from a burning Blenheim, a memory he’d tried to forget. He could still smell the scorched fabric of his uniform and hear his screams as their commander tried to put out the fire, touch brutal as he beat back the flames in an attempt to stall its quick creep up his legs and across his chest.  

The smell of his burning flesh reminded Obi-Wan of grilled pork, and he felt mildly sick for weeks any time he caught a whiff of cooked meat.

Obi-Wan’s gut twisted. Anakin was such a near perfect creature, youthful skin marred only by nicks and cuts caused by the errors of youth. The thought of his skin, bronzed and dotted with freckles and beauty marks, being twisted and torn and warped by the heat of flames made Obi-Wan want to be sick.  

“If he’s up and talking and walking, he’s going to be fine,” Buck said, his voice creeping back into Obi-Wan’s consciousness. “They’re doing some fabulous work over there; best of the best. He’d in good hands.”

“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. Swallowing the sour spit in the back of his throat, Obi-Wan smiled tightly as Buck. “I have one more question, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“Your typical arm fracture wouldn’t require multiple surgeries, would it?”

“Not if it’s just a regular break. Maybe one or two, if the surgeon didn’t know what he was doing, but setting the bone and casting it is typically good enough.” Buck sat back again and rested his hands on his stomach. “Did your friend hurt his arm?”

“Yes.”

“How many surgeries?”

“A fair few, though I’m doubtful they were all for his arm, if what you say about Queen Victoria is true.”

“Would I lie?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replied. “Though I wish you would right now.”

Buck’s smile tensed, sympathy flashing across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kenobi, I wish I could offer you more reassurances.”

Obi-Wan nodded and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, pulling the fabric of his shirt off of his sweaty chest. “It’s as you say - he’s receiving the best care available.”

“He is.”

“Thank you for lending me your ear.” Buck nodded, smile once again softening. “And let me know if you need any help when the truck comes for the Lieutenant.”

“I will.”

Obi-Wan slipped out of the tent into the marginally cooler air. As he walked back to his tent the letter in his pocket sat heavier.

XXX

‘I think I owe you a proper explanation for that. When I said that I was recovering, I wasn’t being entirely truthful. I’m fine, but there were complications with my arm. They had to amputate it.’

“Oh, darling…”

“You alright?”

Obi-Wan glanced up from his letter to peer at one of the men from across the table. It was late at night, the tent buzzing with men and moths as they congregated around the kerosene lamps that dotted the tables in the mess tent. Off in the distance Obi-Wan could hear the distant rumble of aircraft engines a few short miles away as night fighters took advantage of the cloudless skies.

“Fine,” Obi-Wan said, his breathing catching on his throat.

“You sure? You look a little piqued.”

“I’m fine.”

Folding the letter up he stood and left the tent with haste. It wasn’t until he was in his tent, sat on his cot, with a flashlight pointed at the letter did Obi-Wan read the rest of it. Anakin’s assurances he was alright and the photograph he’d sent of his garden did little to reassure Obi-Wan that he truly was okay. Losing an arm was traumatizing enough, but losing the ability to fly was like asking Anakin to breath without air, or sing without a voice, or love without a heart. Flying was everything to him.

And Obi-Wan couldn’t reassure him; couldn’t be there to help him in the ways he knew he needed help.

Instead he was stuck in the middle of Palestine, constrained by his duties, beaten down by grief and misery, made to stay and fight in a war that had already taken so much from him, and had stripped what little left Anakin had from him. All he could do for Anakin was write useless words of encouragement on blank sheets of paper while censors held him back from declaring his foolish, delirious love for him.

Anakin deserved better; they both deserved better.

It wasn’t fair. It was all so unfair.

Those who didn’t know loss and fear like a soldier did would remark that life wasn’t fair; that life was filled with ups and downs and we were powerless to stop them. Those religious would even state that things always happened for a reason, as if to make it sting a little bit more; as if to make you feel more inadequate, more powerless. But things didn’t just happen, and life should be fair. It was easy to say that it wasn’t because then it absolved humanity from even trying - for striving for something better.

Anakin wouldn’t have lost his arm, been burned, been tortured, stripped of his life’s goals and aspirations because there should have been no war - no conflict, no death, no misery. And if there had to be conflict then let the old fight’ the men in their suits in their offices who signed the papers and made the choices. Let them take up arms and come to blows while the youth lived in peace and security.

Life wasn’t fair because they made it so.

Obi-Wan was sick of it.

Standing, Obi-Wan kicked over his cot, watching the sleeping bag fall on to the sand covered floor as the wooden frame clattered in the quiet space. Next he kicked his side table, sending documents and a compass down on to the floor next to the bag, the two creating a mess that was satisfying for only a moment. It wasn’t often he acted out in such a way - not any more - but the anger came through him, hot and sudden and biting, making him want to scream and tear, to rage and cry. It was almost overwhelming, the sudden build up of grief, like a torrent of rain and waves against the hull of an already battered ship, continual and never-ending.

But the release only lasted a moment - a sudden violence followed by a calm that Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what to do with. It was almost easier to remain angry.

Taking a deep breath he looked down at the chaos he’d created, the light from his flashlight flickering off the turned over cot and messy sheets. As far as temper-tantrums went it wasn’t very impressive. The sheets could be cleaned up in moments, the bed righted in much the same amount of time. But at least it could be fixed, unlike everything else in the world.

He cleaned up the mess in the relative dark, his flashlight waving about the tent walls as he righted the bed and sorted through the papers. Once finished he kicked off his boots and collapsed on top of the sleeping bag, head cushioned by his arm. The letter sat in his free hand, the paper crinkled and worn. If he tried hard enough he could almost smell Anakin’s cologne on the sheet - cinnamon and something else, something that made Obi-Wan nostalgic for soft embraces and laughter against his neck.

He’d write a letter tomorrow, when the sun had risen and the crush of Anakin’s loss wasn’t felt as deeply. For now, Obi-Wan would wallow in his sorrow. He knew Anakin wouldn’t begrudge him for that.

[traipseartist]

October 13th - "Capri shirt. To go with my Capri pants?"

Naples in the daylight was a bit different than its Judge-Dredd-but-make-it-The-Madonna from the previous evening.

The old quarter (Antico Centrale) of Naples is a labyrinth and if you were from this city center as a child, I can see why NYC might have felt like rolling fields of freedom. Rose and I woke early to set out and find some pastry, determined to walk the city before hopping a boat to Capri later that day.

We left our flat with many elusive locks and began our journey into the medieval maze. Walking for a couple of hours led us to tight corners with towering Duomos, cafe and tobacco stands busting from every crack, cobblestones with gaps that surely sucked you straight to hell, teeming tourists, and trash.

The grey and creeping nature of the city enthralled me. I imagined a near millennia ago when they began to found the city and how sewage must have choked these alleys and made the towering height of some of these buildings even more claustrophobic. In a way I loved its filth, Rose was less charmed (and understandably so).

After consuming a delicious cappuccino (maybe the best I've ever had?) from two Italian men with noses that could break records and a sfogliatella (possibly the worst I've ever had?*) that was more dreaded to the roof of the mouth than your average bowl of Captain Crunch, we decided that perhaps hopping a boat a little earlier to Capri and getting lunch on the island was not the worst plan.

*it's worth noting this was a Sunday, and Naples being a very Catholic city was actually more functional than I expected it to be--but many of the pasticcerias and panaderias I had scoped out were shuttered for the holy day. Perhaps returning is in order!

After a 50 minute ferry ride from the porto, we arrived in Capri. This part of Italy feels like its long functioned to strictly serve tourists and so navigating the signs in a half dozen languages and buying tickets to ride the funicolare to the top was surprisingly a smooth endeavor despite this being a whole-ass island with, presumably, a local or two on it somewhere.

We walked about the tourist-ridden open air market precariously perched on the ledge of this mountain bursting from the Mediterranean and finally found a comfortable seat at Ristorante Panoramico, well signed but off the beaten path of lemon-themed trinkets and vats of olive oil and gelato for sale.

A quiet lunch looking down the hill towards Napoli was a deep exhale from the chaos building up to the moment: jumbling through the crowded Antico Centrale, weaving between crazy drivers leaning on their horns down to the port, the scramble to buy ferry tickets on the dock and the long lines on and off the boat to a very packed Capri had me feeling a bit like we were being railroaded on a very interesting but not at all calming or unique experience. Being able to take in the view, drink the espumante, and catch up with Rose over a Caprese salad was worth the build up.

After a generous and slow lunch, we perused the map of Capri to try and make some decisions. Our ferry back wasnt until 6:45pm, and we had four and a half hours at our disposal. Upon casual exploration, I came upon the old but precious home of Axel Munthe that had now been turned into a museum open to the public. I hadn't a clue who this Swedish physician and memoirist was, but as a filthy voyeur and a certified nebby neighbor, I love to walk through other people's very fancy abodes. Especially if they're old, ornate, or historical.

Google Maps advised a 30 minute walk from the restaurant and Rose and I, never afraid of a few steps to add to the count, set off to visit the Villa da Munthe.

The little back paths of Capri (towards Antecapri) are where the true character of the island lies. These paved footpaths are barely wide enough to accommodate a very well equipped Vespa, but lead to many beautiful hillside homes and hamlets that were a very interesting contrast to the commercial mall of shops we were dumped into upon departing the cable car up the mountain.

While walking the foot paths, Rose pointed many hundred feet up the cliff face to a highway wrapping the mountain and a very decrepit looking stone stairwell that lead above and below it. "Are those people on that all the way up there? Damn! You wouldn't find me doing that today."

Little did we know that in about ten minutes time, yes, actually, you would find us doing that today. Our tranquil walk was soon punctuated with HUNDREDS OF STAIRS.

Sweating through our cute tourist island-wear, we climbed 800 feet in less than half a mile, switching back and forth and passing people coming down from the top with looks of pity on their face--each time realizing we had so much further to go.

I prayed for Axel Munthe's ghost to come and lift us to the top, or at least bring us some stracciatella and alas, he never came. We pushed on, fantasizing about when we wouldn't have to set eyes on another stair before us.

Some 20 minutes of fighting for our lives and our quadriceps later, Villa de San Michel, Axel Munthe's renovated home (and once the abode of likely some member of the clergy being just on the edge of a crumbling chapel also on the property) was there before us.

We jogged past to acquire gelato and water and then worked our way in only 30 minutes before the museum's closing.

I feel like the oddity was well worth the climb but my damp body might have been pressed to agree at the time. Antecapri and the shops surrounding the house had the same dull touristic clang to them, but it was nice to rest on the cold marble benches and survey the busy port of Capri from on high.

We eventually began to work our way back down to the port directly, making it to the bottom of the mountain in time for an Aperol Spritz and a bit of dallying around a now-quieter Capritown before our ferry chariot returned to bring us back landside.

A not so terrible day, indeed.

[udo0stories]

By Gabi Meyers | Last Updated: Feb 27, 2024 | 6 min read Do you still have the workwear jacket your grandfather used to wear around the house? The one that seemed to be resistant to everything life threw at it, made of sturdy canvas with plenty of roomy patch pockets? That coat is a chore coat, my friend, and in 2024 it deserves a place in your closet. Get an article of outerwear with the potential to become a family heirloom instead of settling for the cheap, fast-fashion jackets. There is a chore coat out there just waiting to be the most durable item in your wardrobe, from well-known workwear brands to fresh interpretations of the timeless design. More than just a jacket, it is an investment that will last you many seasons and could even be passed down to your grandchildren in the future. In this guide: What is a chore coat? These jackets were initially made for French laborers and were constructed with lightweight functionality and durability. These days, they go beyond their origins in workwear and fit right in with daily attire. The chore coat lends a touch of rugged charm to any ensemble, whether you wear it with a t-shirt for weekend errands or layered over an oxford button-down for a casual Friday. It is ideal for fall, but it is also substantial enough to wear over any carefree summer ensembles you have not quite let go of. A chore jacket is the perfect piece to change up your everyday chinos and button-down uniform or if you are looking for a casual yet stylish coat to wear with jeans. What colors does a chore jacket come in? Chore coats in blue or navy and various tones of tan have been common in recent years. However, there are a lot more colors available now than there were previously due to the style of coat's explosive rise in popularity. You will see exactly what I mean when you scroll down to the #SGapproved shopping recommendations at the bottom of the post. What material is a chore coat made of? Chore coats are usually made of sturdy cotton or a cotton blend (cotton linen, cotton seersucker, etc.). But since they have become so well-liked, designers have begun to use more inventive fabrics—like corduroy—instead of the more conventional ones. What should I wear with a chore coat? A chore coat can be styled similarly to a denim jacket, field jacket, or Harrington jacket. In other words, casually. Don jeans and a chore jacket. Put it on with pants. either in a boot or a sneaker. This staple item of workwear is not meant to be handled with much care. Below is how to wear a chore coat: Look 1: sneakers and a beanie Can’t you see yourself wearing this on a weekend or to a casual office? Yeah, I can see that for you, too. Look 2: Workwear pants with a hoodie A monochrome look that’s kept from veering into boring territory thanks to the combinations of layers, textures, and those pop of color red socks. Look 3: bright blue with wide-leg trousers Wide-leg pants aren’t for everyone, but if you’re looking to try the trend, this chore jacket outfit is a great place to start. Look 4: denim chore coat Ready to try something different with denim up top? Opt for a chore coat made from the material. Sure, a trucker jacket style will always be in style, but this twist is fun and fresh for 2024. Look 5: olive green chore coat The neutrals combine to make for an easy-to-wear, sophisticated off-duty outfit. Shop stylish men’s chore coats Taylor Stitch Ojai jacket in navy, $188 Taylor Stitch Ojai jacket in smoked olive, $188 Todd Snyder Italian suede chore coat, $998 Banana Republic selvedge chore coat, $175 Bonobos chore jacket in deep port, $139 Dickies-lined chore jacket, $130 Everlane cotton chore jacket, $148 Gap denim chore jacket, $80

[inatelescopelens]

london 10th december

On our final day—for now—in London, we awoke to find it colder than ever; I walked down quiet streets of antique shops to High Street Kensington where I drank my morning coffee from a stool at the Pret window watching people file in and out of the station. In the gardens down the road the grass was all covered in white, from frost rather than from snow, stark against the trees. I crunched my way across the thickest fields of iced-over lawn and met with Mum back at Notting Hill Gate so we could begin the day’s activities. There was so much frost about that we even saw a bird standing on the surface of a lake rather than floating on it, and every leaf of the potted plants in the Italian garden was crowned in hundreds of icy flakes. A few highly committed joggers carried along on the park paths, undeterred by the deep chill of negative degrees.

We arrived at the Wallace Collection in Marylebone whilst it was still quite quiet and early and spent an hour or two exploring the exhibits. The house contains a somewhat obscene number of objects and artworks arranged into ordered galleries, my favourites being the ground floor rooms that display ornate historic weapons. So used to seeing them only in fantasy television shows and historical dramas, it was hard to process the reality of the medieval swords, spears and pikes. Even if created more for looks than actual utility in battle, the fact that these things once belonged to actual armoured knights was striking. Beautifully carved quartz made up the handles of daggers from the Ottoman Empire, while the bodies of impractical rifles were inlaid with ivory and jewels. My favourite piece of art in the Wallace Collection, which we always end up visiting in London, is Reynolds’ Strawberry Girl. This little alien child stares back at you from a sepia realm, hands clasped, the faintest flush warming her pale cheeks.

Once we had done our rounds of the collection we went around the corner to find lunch at a place recommended to me by a text from Matt the day before. Paul Rothe and Son was a small delicatessen offering a dizzying choice of sandwich fillings and salads, served up with a very warm attitude in the classic deli style. I had their pastrami sandwich, their bestseller, containing slices of tender smoky beef, Swiss cheese, pickles and a generous scrape of yellow English mustard between fresh brown bread. It was definitely one of the best sandwiches I’ve had in my life—at least, I can’t bring to mind any other I’ve eaten that was better, I would come back to London just to secure one.

From there we walked up to Baker Street for a glimpse of the Sherlock Holmes house inserted into the streetscape for the sake of tourists and to catch a train from Bakerloo into the centre of town. But when we arrived at Trafalgar we found the peak-hour line for the National Gallery a bit too confronting and the Portrait Gallery was closed for renovation, so we adjusted our plans. Having decided to split up for independent wandering, I went to take a look at a K-pop-themed store just off Oxford Street, where they sell albums and merchandise and accessories for K-pop fans. I bought TOMORROW X TOGETHER’s The Dream Chapter: Eternity and a small photocard folder before heading on my way. On Oxford Street I managed to come out the other side of the holiday shopping mayhem with a second-hand black and grey striped men’s Tommy Hilfiger sweater and a pair of black skate jeans, which felt like more than enough wardrobe expansion for one day. By now it was dark and I went home.

For dinner, we went around the corner from our apartment to a local pizza shop called Arancina, where we ordered a delicious eggplant and parmesan pizza takeaway. Their pizzas, which you could also get by the slice, were formed in rectangles from bases of perfectly cooked, crisped dough. We had to wait a while because with it being a Saturday night and a World Cup matchday amongst other things, the strain on the kitchen from takeout was high. But the staff were very friendly and apologetic about the wait and the restaurant was a good place to people-watch as a variety of families, workers on their way home and delivery drivers came and went. Back home we half-heartedly turned the television on to the soccer to watch England lose their final; as patriotic hearts across the country broke in two, we packed up in preparation for the next morning and went to bed.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 9: The River Thames]

You are a Russian grand duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You don’t hate each other at all.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

A/N: We’re approaching the end, fam! There are only 3 chapters left after this one. As always, thank you so very much for reading. 💜

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Language, historical warfare, sexual references (not graphic), Italian cuisine slander.

Word count: 4.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @okilover02​ @adrenaline-roulette​ @youngpastafanmug​ @m-1234​ @tensecondvacation​ @deacyblues​ @haileymorelikestupid​ @rogerfuckintaylor​ @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @someforeigntragedy​ @mo-whore​ @mellowfellowyellow​ @peculiareunoia​ @mischiefmanaged71​ @fancybenjamin​ @anne-white-star​ @theonlyone-meeeee​ @witchlyboo​ @demo-wise​ 

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

He can feel his boots sinking into the cold mud, even in his dreams; he never sleeps, not really, not deeply enough to forget where he is. The terrain grows into him like the roots of a tree—gunpowder, rainfall, mustard gas, craters, smoke, artillery shells, flooded trenches, the screams of horses, the wails of men—until no separation exists between the killing fields of Passchendaele and his blood, his bones. He has trouble remembering what it’s like to be warm and dry and still. He has trouble remembering what it’s like to be home.

“Hardy!” someone shouts in the darkness as they shake him by the shoulder. He comes awake roughly, grappling with it, like a ship tossed by waves. “Get up! Get your gun! They’re coming over! They’re coming over!”

Franklin Hardy rolls onto his stomach—mud splashing below, artillery shells whistling overhead—and grabs his rifle. He crawls as men shriek all around him, orders and encouragements and prayers and the ravings of the mad. He can hear the rumble of tanks, feel the tremors of the drenched and ruined earth. He can smell a profound dankness and decay that he fears will never wash off of him.

And as he peers over the top of the trench and takes aim, he can see pinpricks of approaching gunfire lighting up the horizon like stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

Joe’s eyes are squinting, suspicious. “Are you two fighting again?”

We’re having breakfast in the dining hall: Belgian waffles and black tea. Ben passes me the bowl of sugar cubes before I have to ask. “No,” he and I reply almost simultaneously.

“You are always fighting,” Joe groans as he drowns his waffle in chocolate sauce and fluffy spoonfuls of whipped cream. “Fighting over stupid, insignificant things. At each other’s throats like rabid dogs, as if we’re not all on the same team. Friends, not friends, friends, not friends, it never stops! Ridicolo, ridicolo.”

“We’re not fighting!” Ben snaps, then he rubs his eyes with a deep sigh. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all. His shoulders are slumped, his voice is weak and colorless, there are dark half-moon shadows under his reddish eyes. It pains me to see him like this; it twists through me like a shudder. I watch Ben with great concern, my hands opening and closing beneath the table, but I don’t know what to say. Outside, cold rain falls from a grey sky. It knocks in sheets against the windows like pounding fists.

“Whatever you say, Beniamino.” Joe takes huge, sloppy bites of his waffle, dripping chocolate sauce and whipped cream all over the formerly white tablecloth. Guests at neighboring tables glare at us menacingly.

“In other news,” Ben says. “We’ll likely dock in London around sunset.”

“Finally!” Joe exclaims, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling, as if he’s thanking God.

“What are you planning to do?” I say. “Once you get to America, I mean.”

Joe grins hugely, cunningly. “I’m so glad you asked, Lana bella donna. Because I have been considering this question for many days. I am going to open a pizzeria.”

“A what?” Ben says.

“A pizzeria!” Joe looks annoyed now. “And maybe it’ll have a café too. Cappuccinos and macchiatos, and tiramisu for dessert of course. I will show the Americans all the wonders of Italian cooking. And I will make a fortune!”

Ben picks listlessly at his waffle. Now I’m the one monitoring his appetite. How intensely ironic. “Mate, you are a disaster in the kitchen. And no one eats Italian food.”

“Not yet, they don’t! But they will. And I’ll be there to collect their nickels and dimes.”

“What are nickels and dimes?” I ask.

“American currency,” Ben tells me distractedly. “But Joe…Italian food? That’s never going to happen. Americans are steak and potatoes people. You’d be better off opening a…a…I don’t know, an Irish restaurant. Or a German one. For Christ’s sake, you’d have better luck peddling Russian food, pushing a cart around Central Park loaded high with chebureki and pavlovas.”

“I will open a pizzeria,” Joe insists stubbornly. “And it will be wildly successful and I will take my thousands of dollars and open even more pizzerias all across the nation. Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, Los Angeles, they will all get a Signore Mazzello’s Pizzeria.”

“I’d eat there,” I say, doing my best to be supportive. I know nothing about business, and even less about whatever a pizzeria is, but I’d give it a try for Joe.

Joe beams. “Ah! Lana bella donna, you are an angel among men.”

“Except that she’ll never step foot in America.” Ben takes a sullen swig of his tea. “And even if she does, she certainly won’t be eating some Italian immigrant’s peasant food.”

“You are such a cynic,” Joe complains.

“And you’re delusional.”

“Well, we cannot all work for the New York Times now can we, Beniamino?”

Ben doesn’t answer. He stabs at his waffle and forks soggy pieces into his mouth.

“What about you, Lana bella donna?” Joe says. “What are your plans when this journey is behind us?” And then he remembers. “Oh, well, I suppose…you’ll be…wedding planning…?”

“Yes,” I reply with conviction. “Although I’m not sure I’ll have much say in the arrangements, his family has quite a lot of…traditions. But I suppose they might let me pick the flowers, and maybe give me a few dress designs to choose from.”

Joe nods, devouring the rest of his waffle. “Hmm.”

“It’s a good time of year for a wedding,” I continue, unable to stop myself. I speak almost compulsively. “Christmas and the new year, it’s so festive and romantic. Everything will be red velvet and gold and sprigs of holly. Candles flickering, carols being sung, sticky toffee pudding…” My wistful smile vanishes. Alexei won’t be there to eat his favorite dessert, the one he only ever got once or twice a year when we visited our extended family in London. Alexei will never be anywhere again. An insurmountable, icy, black heaviness settles over me. It’s more than a wave; it’s the entire goddamn ocean.

“That’s enough,” Ben says. He stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s go back to our rooms. We need to pack up our things before we dock tonight.”

“I’ll join you later.” Joe waves over a waiter to order a second waffle. “I’m playing Tontine with the Frenchmen again. Wish me luck. They’ve already taken half my money. Not to worry though. They are very loyal friends, unlike you, Beniamino. They’ve all promised to visit my pizzeria if they ever find themselves in New York City.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Ben and I sprint back to our quarters, holding our coats high above our heads to block the downpour. The maids are still there, dusting and wiping and sweeping and carrying billows of fresh white linens under their arms. We usually don’t cross paths with them—housekeeping comes around to all the first-class rooms during breakfast and departs by eleven o’ clock sharp—but the rain has prohibited walks around the desks or tennis matches or whale watching or any other activity to bide our time until the ship sails up the River Thames and into London. In my bedroom I find a young woman—my age, perhaps, or Tatiana’s—with freckled skin and frizzy red hair tied back in a simple knot. She’s struggling to tuck each corner of a fresh sheet beneath the mattress.

“Here, let me help you—”

“Oh no, miss,” she replies in an Irish accent. Her eyes are skittish and grey and very wide. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll be done in just a moment.”

“But it’ll be much easier with two people,” I say. “I’ve never made a bed before, I’m not entirely sure how, but I’ll help you if you show me—”

“I can’t, miss,” the maid pleads with those startled eyes like a doe’s. “I can’t have guests cleaning their own rooms. I’ll lose my job.”

“Oh. I see.” I settle into the chair by the window, my hands clasped in my lap, as the maid watches me warily. Rain patters against the glass, cold and clear. I’ve been surrounded by maids and servants and guards and butlers my whole life, of course; but they were always peripheral and relatively anonymous, like secondary characters in a book, as if when out of sight they simply stepped off the page and vanished into thin air until summoned again. Now they look different to me, more fleshed-out and permanent, because I am starkly aware that this maid has a family somewhere, a future and a past, and maybe even an invisible web of obligations that keep her rooted in place the same as I do. She was born not so different than Ben, than Louise. “What’s your name?”

“Kathleen, miss. Or Kathy, if you like. I’m Kathy to my friends and kin.”

“Well Kathy, if I cannot assist you, would it be alright if I stayed to watch? And maybe ask a question or two?”

“I suppose,” Kathy says guardedly. She resumes struggling with the sheet.

“Where are you from?”

“Killarney, miss. In County Kerry.”

“You’re under the dominion of the British Crown, then.”

Her grey eyes go stony, foreboding. “Yes, miss. Along with the rest of Ireland. For now.”

“And what would you want the royal family to know about your people, if you could tell them anything? King George and Queen Mary and the Prince of Wales.”

Kathy mulls this over for a long time. “Anything?”

“I work in Sir Buchanan’s office. He’s the British ambassador to Russia. Or he has been for years, he’s nearing retirement now. I’m a typist for his press attaché. I’m in the business of collecting public opinions.”

“You’re not looking to get me in trouble, are you?”

“Never,” I reply softly, genuinely wounded.

Kathy nods and collects her thoughts. “I’d tell them that we don’t need them or want them or care to hear a single word about them for as long as we live. But I suppose that if four hundred years of rebellion haven’t made an impression on them, my complaints aren’t very likely too.”

“Why don’t you leave? You could go to America. That seems to be what everyone else is doing now.”

“Why should I leave? I was born in Ireland. It belongs to me. Your kings and queens are the ones who can’t get that through their thick skulls.”

We stare at each other from opposite sides of the bedroom: Kathy rigid and sharp like a blade, me stunned into silence. Then her ferocity melts and turns to an apologetic, off-balance smirk.

“You asked, didn’t you miss?”

“I did,” I reply ruefully.

Kathy at last subdues the bedsheet and begins changing the pillowcases. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No, I’m thankful for the truth. That’s what I wanted.” I study my palms, smooth and soft and unstained by scars or callouses. “Do you have siblings?”

“Oh yes, miss. Five of them.” She counts on her fingers: “Patrick, Nora, Connor, Liam, Michael. And four others who died, God rest their souls. You?”

“Five as well,” I say with a faint smile. And then I scramble up some Anglo names for them: “Olive, Theresa, Mary, Anne, Alexander. What about a husband? Or a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriends!” Kathy chuckles as she shimmies a pillow into its new case. “I’ve had my fair share of those. None of them were looking to marry, though. They stumble along making faithless promises from one girl to the next, as if we were pubs instead of people. Just places to stop and rest and kick their feet up for a while before they’re off on their way again.”

Kathy doesn’t seem terribly bothered by this; she hums while she works. It’s a bright and cheerful song I’ve never heard before. I watch her for several minutes before I speak again. “Kathy…can men tell if…” I search for the right words, the delicate words. “If you’ve been with another man before?”

She stops fluffing the pillows and looks at me. “You mean whether or not you’re a blushing virgin?”

That’s a crass way to put in, but I nod.

Kathy looses a great peal of laughter. “Well, miss, they all certainly think they can, don’t they?” She wipes the tears from her sparkling eyes. “But you’re asking if they can actually tell?”

I nod again sheepishly.

“No, miss,” Kathy says with a sly grin. “They haven’t got a clue. You can trick them as good as they trick you, and they’ll trick you plenty so don’t go feeling too bad or deceitful about it. Every man has his own set of ideas about how to tell, and they’re always wrong. Just act real frightful and shy—‘Oh, Tommy, I’m not sure, I’m just a timid little lass, will you take good care of me?’—and he’ll never know the difference. And if he happens to be one of those men who has ideas about blood being involved, as if men know more about bleeding than women…” She rolls her eyes. “Then a sprinkle of blood from a pricked finger or a tiny vile of animal blood will do the trick.”

“Interesting,” I say, looking nowhere in particular. Thunder booms outside, followed by a trailing flash of lightning like the train of a gown. Kathy finishes with the bed and gathers up the dirty linens in her arms.

“Anything else I can do for you, miss?”

“No, Kathy. But it was a pleasure to meet you.” I fish around in my pockets for the British money that Ben gave me in case I ever wanted to buy snacks or souvenirs from the shops on the first-class decks. I find four crumpled one-pound notes and hand them to Kathy.

“You too, miss,” she replies dazedly, gawking the money. “You aren’t so bad after all. It’s not your fault your kings and queens are mass murderers.” And then she sweeps out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

My belongings are packed, my hair is braided, my skin is chilled from the driving wind and rain outside; it batters against the windows, threatening to drown me. I drag my luggage out into the living room to find Ben there inventorying the trunks, pointing at each and murmuring what’s inside, rubbing his chin absentmindedly as he calculates if anything has been forgotten.

“My jewels are in there somewhere, I hope.”

“Of course.” He pats the lid of the largest trunk. “They’re at the bottom of this one, underneath my pajamas. Safe and sound. And I have something else for you too.”

“Really?”

Ben reaches into the trunk and pulls out a book with a red cover and embossed with golden lettering. It’s quite small, good for travelling, but several inches thick. Ben gives me the book. The title reads: A Brief History of the British Monarchy.

“Ben!”

“It’s just a little something,” he insists nervously. “I figured, you know, since you’re going to be a part of the monarchy soon, maybe you’d be interested in something like that…and maybe you already know everything about it and the book is pointless, that’s fine, whatever, I just thought I’d give it a shot…it has a lot of information about the queens in particular, and that’s hard to find in my experience, so that really stood out to me…and honestly I can’t watch you read that goddamn Tarzan book over and over again because it’s absolutely pitiful and I’m already melancholy enough. So please read this now. And I’ll translate any words you don’t know.”

“Ben, this is wonderful.” I flip gingerly through the pages. “When…? How did you get this?”

“I went for a walk this morning. Early, right around sunrise, before the rain came in. I had a hard time sleeping after…after we talked, so…” He shrugs. “Anyway, I ran into a guy who was sitting on a deck chair and reading that book. British, mid-forties, a businessman of some sort. Oil, maybe. Or coal. We chatted for a while and then I finally convinced him to sell me that book. It took some wrangling. Cost me a whole pound.”

“Oh.” I try to act casual. “And is one pound…a lot?”

“One pound will buy you a hell of a steak dinner. Or approximately twenty loaves of bread, whichever you prefer. So yes.”

“Good to know,” I say, thinking that Kathy had a very successful morning indeed. Ben frowns down at the floor; the lines in his face are numerous, collapsed, deeply sad. “Ben…are you still upset about last night? Or did that man say something to you?”

“He came aboard at Copenhagen yesterday. He told me the last thing he heard was that the Germans had just launched a massive counter-offensive in Passchendaele.”

Passchendaele, where men drown in craters of rainwater and mud and corpses; Passchendaele, where Ben’s younger brother is fighting. “Oh god, is Frankie…?”

“I don’t know,” Ben says. “I won’t know for weeks. Months, maybe. Whenever his next letter arrives. Or doesn’t.” His voice breaks off. Ben stares out the window and says nothing more. We watch the rain fall grimly, torrentially. Perhaps the same storm is flooding trenches cut through the once-green fields of France, Germany, Belgium. My own troubles suddenly feel so small, a pebble in the sea.

“I’m sorry. Ben? I’m so sorry.” I reach for him—tentatively at first, expecting him to push me away—and then more boldly. My hands land on his. “Ben? Sit with me.”

He follows me to the couch, fumbles his tarnished steel lighter from his pocket, and lights a cigarette with trembling hands. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “I feel so fucking useless. I feel like I’ve worked so hard my whole life and I still can’t do anything worthwhile. I can’t make this world any better, any less horrifying. I can’t save anybody.”

“Yes you can. You saved me.”

Ben just shakes his head. When he exhales in a rush of smoke, he turns away, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I know women like you”—royal women, he means, affluent women, and I wish he’d stop saying that—“don’t smoke, I’m sure it bothers you, but I really needed one and it’s still pouring outside…”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I say. “You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

“Really?”

“Papa smokes…” I stop and correct myself. “Papa used to smoke a pipe. The smell reminds me of him. You remind me of him sometimes, too. The good parts of you, the gentle parts.”

Ben looks at me with slick green eyes. “I’m afraid of that,” he says quietly. “You’ve never been alone before. I don’t want you to just think of me as the interim authority figure that your ownership has been transferred to. I don’t want you to like me because…because…because I’m here, you know? Because I’m the one telling you what to do now. I have no interest in owning you.”

“That’s not how I think of you.”

“No?” Ben says, perhaps a little hopeful.

“No. And I don’t want you to think of me as some petulant, tragic, fragile little girl who needs to be treated like a bird in a cage. I don’t want to be secluded. I don’t want to be lied to. I want to learn everything I can about the world before it’s too late.”

Ben sighs, takes one last drag off his cigarette, and puts it out in an ashtray on the end table. Then he runs his hands through his hair like he does when he’s frustrated, when he’s scared.

“You still don’t understand why I’m doing this. Why I’m going to the Windsors.”

“No, I don’t. But I understand that it’s important to you. So I’ll make sure it happens.”

I take Ben’s left hand in my own, and he lets me. My fingertips trace his knuckles, his scars, the blue ghosts of his veins. “I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt. It rips me in half.”

Before I can ask him to, before I can ache for it, Ben moves first: he cradles my face in his hands, skates his thumb along the line of my jaw, studies me with seeking emerald eyes, leans in to kiss me…and then he stops.

“Ben, I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

“I want you too.”

We step through the space between us like a doorway. Ben is warm, and gentle, and forbearing; I have the overwhelming sense that he is still holding a part of himself back. Yet his hands explore my neck and my waist and the small of my back, and he unties my braid so my hair is loose and free, and when I fall back against the couch cushions he follows me. I can feel the tension unraveling in his muscles, his nerves. I can feel his lips smiling against mine.

It seems strange, in this ocean of a world that we live in—dark with torment and deep with bones—that something as insignificant as two bodies intertwined could build an island where the winds blow softly and the sun pours down like rain. It’s better than Crimea, it’s better than Italy or Greece or the Isle of Wight, it’s better than any place I’ve ever been. Ben is right here, his hips pressed against mine, but I want him even closer; I’m unbuttoning his shirt when I hear a key rattling in the lock of the front door.

As the hinges creak open, Ben and I tear away from each other. We’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, fidgeting with our clothes and breathing raggedly, when Joe saunters in.

“Ciao!” he announces with a wave. “Oh, look at all that luggage. Now I am reminded of the packing I have left to do. Che triste.”

“Did the Frenchmen clean you out already?” Ben manages, rubbing his forehead. His hair is hopelessly disheveled.

“They will be buying many, many pizzas from me in the future, let’s leave it at that.”

“Joe, what’s a pizza?” I ask.

“What is a pizza! Mamma mia.” He demonstrates, forming layers of air with his hands: “You have the dough, and then the sauce—always tomato sauce!—and then the cheese, and then whatever you are wanting to put on top. Salami, sausage, mushrooms, olives, almost anything you can think of.”

“Beets?”

“Beets?” Joe blinks at me. “No, no, assolutamente no. Never beets. Che brutto.”

“Oh.” I try not to seem disheartened. “Russians like beets.”

“Ah, perhaps. But you will not be a Russian for much longer, will you?”

I stare at Joe and he smiles back. It’s a drawn, knowing smile, a little challenging, a little sad.

“You two should come outside,” Joe says. “I think the rain is stopping. We can take one last walk around the ship and then watch the London skyline rise out of the sea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Our ship glides up the River Thames as the stars rise and the sun sets, disintegrating behind a curtain of patchwork clouds, the sky scarlet and blood orange with celestial rage. I ask Ben if we’re going straight to Buckingham Palace—I’m jittery with nerves that are half-impatience, half-dread—but he says no. Uncle George has been hunting up at Balmoral Castle in Scotland, and we need to wait for him to return before I can be presented to him. I’m taken aback by this, not because I’m so eager for the journey to end but because I had assumed the British royal family would still be in mourning for my own. I tell Ben this, and he just looks at me, and then he puts his arms around me and pulls me in close, and I inhale all the smoke and cologne and light and darkness of him like the interwoven sheets of the horizon.

We pile our luggage into the cart and Kroshka drags us through the knobby streets of London. The man that Sir Buchanan has arranged for us to stay with, Ben informs me, is a cousin of the prime minister: he’s important enough to be in the inner circle, to be safe, but not so important that people will notice me coming and going from his residence. I instantly commit myself to hating this man, because it was the prime minister who convinced Uncle George that it was far too risky to offer asylum to the Romanovs. Well now seven people are dead and butchered and buried in unmarked graves, I think venously. Is that enough risk for you?

Yet when I meet the man who is hosting us, I find it surprisingly difficult to hate him. He is mellow and courteous and handsome and he greets us at the door himself. He shakes Ben’s hand and nods at Joe and then he looks at me, really looks at me, and he must have seen plenty of photographs of my family because his blue eyes go wide and his mouth falls open, and in a whispering exhale he says: “Oh my god.”

Ben clears his throat. “This is Lana Brinkley. She works for Sir Buchanan. She’s a typist.”

“Right,” the man says, absorbing the cover story, absorbing the fact that I am still alive. And then he takes my hand with great care and presses his lips to the back of it. “Welcome. I’m Gwilym Lee.”

We dine on shepherd's pie and red wine and I wash the ocean from my skin in a bath nearly hot enough to scald me. I steep in the water until it goes cold, staring at the wallpaper tangled with roses and thorns and vines, thinking about everything beneath a soft fog of nothing. I have several rooms to myself and a queen-sized bed—the irony is not lost on me—and I slip beneath the blankets wondering how many nights I have left before I move into Buckingham Palace.

Just before midnight, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. Ben opens it just a crack and peeks inside. The luminescence from the hallway spills in like daylight. He doesn’t need to ask the question; of course I want him to stay. I nod and he comes to me, climbs into bed, opens his arms, bundles me into them and breathes me in like smoke.  

I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep against his chest within minutes, and all night I dream of home.

[wkemeup]

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You're not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was... happy.

Dark army green was torn like rags as his shirt barely hung off his shoulder, exposing the blood and grime covering his skin beneath. Silver dog tags hung at his sternum; muted in their color, lacking the shine they once possessed, though they chimed against one another with each of his steps. He settled outside the Colonel’s tent and as he slouched to the wooden post, they fell behind his shirt. The last remaining tie to his identity nestled by his heart.

You could spot the trail of blood from his left ear, a light scruff covering his cheeks and jawline, bruising under his eyes from a lack of sleep and over exhaustion, but it was his hair that drew your attention; short, swept over his forehead and parted to the right. Its messy strands that did nothing to cover his eyes even as he dropped his chin to his chest and lit the cigarette he’d nestled between his lips.

You knew who he was, heard stories from Steve and read the articles hung in the Smithsonian; stories of what he was like in his youth, before the fall, before Hydra twisted and warped his mind and mutilated his body. And yet, none of it prepared for the laugh that echoed through the courtyard as he waved at an old friend at the center of the crowd surrounded by men who once mocked him, now lifting him on their shoulders for bringing hundreds of their men home alive.

It was him, and it wasn't.

Your Bucky.

You almost forgot why you were standing on a military base in a newly Allied Italian war front in 1943 as Bucky shook the hand of a soldier as he passed by. You recognized him from the drawings on Steve’s desk and the old faded photo album shoved into Bucky’s nightstand drawer.

Dum Dum Dugan.

He was taller than you pictured, rougher around the edges too, but he had a kind smile and a laughter that bolstered through the camp.

It was like a scene from the film clips they used to show you in school; ones of soldiers huddled around campfires in the middle of a war zone, reminding you how incredibly human these men were, that they weren’t just numbers in a fatalities list. They were real and significant in their entirety. They had hopes and dreams, fears and families.

Focus! This isn’t a field trip, you reminded yourself sharply, the words of Director Fury echoing in your head.

There was a file located in the Colonel’s office, the contents of which well above your clearance level, though it wasn’t your business to know what it contained or why Fury decided to risk sending an agent back to a war two of the Avengers’ current members barely survived. You were a part of SHIELD long before you were an Avenger, so you knew how to follow the chain of command. You didn’t ask questions.

Get the file. Get the hell home.

But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Bucky.

He was laughing again, taking another drag of a cigarette you’d never once seen him smoke in your time as he talked with another one of the Commandos. Jim Morita, you thought. He seemed happy, relieved even, and as Jim made his way to the nurses’ tent, Bucky pushed the lighter into his pocket, pulled the cigarette from his lips with a puff of smoke, and paused.

He narrowed his eyes in your direction, a slight tilt of his head, and you realized your mistake when ocean blue caught you staring from across the open green. A smile slowly curved up broken lips and your stomach plummeted because suddenly he was jogging towards you, dog tags bouncing against his chest with every step he took and there was nowhere for you to escape.

You shoved your gun to the waistband of your pencil skirt and draped the back of your jacket to conceal it. It wouldn’t be surprising for you to be carrying a weapon, not with the uniform you wore indicating you were on rank with the likes of Peggy Carter, but it wasn’t a gun Bucky would recognize. It was from your time, one you did not ever travel without, and the technological advancements wouldn’t be easy to explain.

When Bucky reached you, he pulled to a slow stop and casually ran his fingers through the short mess of hair, pushing it back to expose his eyes, the dirt lining the creases in his forehead, and the bruising above his brow. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth as he looked you over, eyes trailing down to your shoes before returning to your face, a heavy sigh on his breath and he leaned on the wall beside you.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around, doll,” he said and even the tone of his voice seemed different from the man you knew. Lighter, maybe. Confident. Flirtatious.

He smirked, a whistle on his tongue and he seemed a little winded as he shook his head. You wondered if he felt your connection to him, knew the depths of your care for one another before he’d even met you, but you pushed the thought aside quickly.

Wistful thinking.

“Don’t think you’ve been around for a while, Sergeant,” you replied steadily, because even though your heart was racing and your stomach was twisted to knots, you were still an agent and you knew how to manage your emotions and keep your panic hidden behind the surface.  

“I guess you saw the welcome wagon, huh?” he chuckled, turning back to the crowd as they continued to gather around Steve.

It was almost as strange to see Steve from this time as it was Bucky. He had the same kind of innocence that the Bucky standing before you carried now. He hadn’t lost his best friend yet, hadn’t made the decision to trade his life for the people of New York and bury himself in the Atlantic, hadn’t missed out on a lifetime with a woman he cared so deeply for, could even grow to love.

Bucky faced you again and you saw it in his eyes, too.

It was hope, you realized. They were still holding onto it.

“Just glad you made it home safe, Sergeant Barnes,” you said evenly, trying not to focus on his left hand as it raked it through his hair. There was a scar on his palm that ran along his lifeline, red and angry and in need of treatment. There was dirt caked under his nails, in his knuckles, dried blood on his wrist, and you resisted every urge to reach out and grab it just to feel the pulse of his heart in his fingertips or maybe even the warmth of his skin.

You were used to cold and metal and you let yourself wonder what it would be like to be held by these hands, hands that were completely and entirely Bucky’s, hands that he didn’t despise and held away from you like it was something outside of himself, like it could act of its own accord and hurt the woman he wanted so desperately to touch with nothing but a tenderness he hadn’t known in decades.

“Please doll, it’s Bucky,” he requested cheekily. He waited for a response, though when he didn’t get one, he was unbothered by the silence.

He twisted the cigarette in his hand, twirling it like a baton and you were mesmerized by the way it danced through the fingertips of his left hand. It dropped ash as it flipped between his middle and index finger.

“So...” he drawled, amused by your trance, “do I have the honor of your name as well?”

You snapped your eyes away from his hand to find that smirk across his face again. It was one that felt strange to you, foreign almost, from the Bucky you knew. It was confident, charming, but there wasn’t a trace of arrogance or presumption. It was the smirk of a man who could still manage to flirt with a woman moments after returning to a camp he was captured from weeks prior. He was quite proud of himself and it read on his face.

“Y/n,” you finally admitted, watching him carefully as he repeated your name, testing it on his lips, and it still sounded like honey and silk. It seemed to be one of the few things that felt constant between these versions of Bucky; your name on his lips, in his voice, as he smiled at you. It was still as sweet.

“Y/n is a lovely name,” he said, “suiting for a lovely woman.”

Steve had mentioned this Bucky was a charmer in stories of their youth. Each time it was brought up, your Bucky would shake his head, roll his eyes, maybe even blush a little as he sank down into the couch as Steve recounted the dates he used to go on, the women he’d bring to Coney Island, the dance moves that could make any woman swoon.

You’d ask him about it, tease him as to why he didn’t take you dancing and win you comically large stuffed animals with his unparalleled marksmanship. He’d brush it off and say it was all luck of the draw but you know better than that. He was a flirt in these days and as handsome as ever, even with blood dripping from his ear and scars on his face. You couldn’t imagine a woman who would turn down a man as charming and beautiful as he was.

You wondered how much Bucky remembered of these days, if he could still recall the one-liners and the flirty comments, or if it felt distant, like he was watching something outside of himself, standing behind a glass wall and simply observing.

He was sweet with you, teased you behind closed doors and made your heart soar, but you couldn’t imagine a world where he would seek you out amongst a crowd, not knowing your name or face and flirt so openly like this.

Your Bucky retreated to corners of crowded rooms with a drink in his hand that did little to relieve him from the anxiety in his veins. He nursed a bourbon as he sought out open spaces away from the overstimulation of music, chatter, glasses on bar tops. 

He was quiet, reserved, and favored whispering jokes in your ear that would have you rolling with laughter over saying them aloud for the room to hear. There was an intimacy in it and you were thankful for every glimpse he gave you past the demons who had come to obstruct his heart.

But this, this Bucky, the light-hearted charmer with a world of pain ahead of him, was not a man you ever expected to encounter firsthand.

Over his shoulder, a group of men called his name. He rolled his eyes, trying to wave them off but they only yelled louder, hollering and whistling as he tried to shield you from their teasing.

“I suppose I’m being summoned,” he grunted reluctantly.

You glanced back to his friends, Dugan, Jim, and Steve among them as they waved frantically at him. A smile etched to your cheeks, knowing that this was his element, beside Steve when he didn’t have the shadows cast over him and he could live in a moment where he just might see himself as one of the good guys.

“Yes, I suppose you are,” you smiled at him, enjoying the way his brows pinched together as he shot a glare back over in his friends’ direction before he turned back to you and let his features soften again.

“Will I see you around?” he asked, hopeful and eager, and it took you by surprise.

You didn’t know what else to say so you nodded, eyes glancing to the Colonel’s office. You had a mission to complete. It was the reason you were sent back to this timeline in the first place. It had caused enough problems when Fury assigned you; Steve arguing as to the necessity of it, Bucky leaving the room abruptly without another word. You hadn’t even been able to track him down before you left and you’d never once gone on a mission without saying goodbye to him.

You supposed that for him it may only be a few seconds, but you didn’t know how long you’d be stuck in 1943. You missed him terribly, even when he was standing right in front of you.

“I’ll find you again, then,” he said with a wink. He put the cigarette between his lips again, thought he didn’t light it, and jogged back to his friends. He paused halfway, turned back to you with a simple salute, a shake of his head like he was surprised you’d gone along with his flirting, and then, his back was to you.

Tears burned in your eyes before you felt the lump in your throat.

For a moment, it was easy to forget that he was just coming off of weeks behind enemy lines, that he already had the serum running like toxins in his veins; the same Hydra concoction that would save his life when he fell from the train a few weeks later and would allow him to survive long enough to endure decades of torture.

You knew this Bucky carried demons, that he wore a mask the way everyone else did. You knew that there were times that he smiled just long enough for someone to notice before they turned away and his eyes fell downcast to the floor. You knew that he joked and flirted and laughed because how else was a man drafted to a war he never signed up for supposed to cope with the blood on his hands.

They were different masks than the ones the Bucky you knew carried, but they still shielded the pain underneath. The masks you were familiar with were overflowing and demons seeped through the cracks and broke into his soft moments of relief. They were weathered and breaking in your time but he still tried to wear them, still tried to put on a brave face despite the monsters in his dreams and swarming in his past.

This Bucky could still hide his demons.

This Bucky, who smiled so easily, was almost nothing like the man you knew.

But he will be.

Your heart broke for the time in between.

***

Seventy-two hours. That’s how long Fury said you’d need to obtain the file. Seventy-two hours maximum. A load of bullshit that turned out to be because two weeks later you were still trapped in the heart of a world war.

You’d managed to avoid Bucky as much as possible, though that proved rather easy as he’d gone off with Steve and the rest of the Howling Commandos liberating Europe and punching Nazis. But the times in between, when they returned home and regrouped for a day or two, he’d spend his first hour at camp seeking you out while the rest of his team was catching up on sleep.

He was persistent, you’d give him that, but he was never forceful. He’d simply talk with you as you tended to the tasks assigned to the cover you were portraying. He’d lounge out on the grass while you cleaned weapons or follow you through the bunker as you alphabetized personnel files, asking you questions about your day, trying to convince you to get dinner with him at the mess hall, telling you dramatically inflated stories of his heroism on the battlefield that made your stomach ache with laughter.

You understood why Steve was so determined to help Bucky get back to how he was before Hydra. He was incredibly endearing, outgoing, witty. Your Bucky still had those things but they were in pieces, strung together with scotch tape and staples. They were muted a little, but they were still there, scratching at the surface.

It had been a few days since you saw Bucky last and you found him again as you walked right into the square of his chest on your way out of the Colonel’s office, file absent in your hand because yet another day had gone by without any sign of the document.

Hands quickly dart out to grab onto your forearms and he chuckled lightly under his breath, steadying you on heels you were entirely not used to wearing; an era appropriate necessity, Tony told you. You would have like to throw one at his head right about then.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” Bucky grinned, stepping back to give you space. 

He had a few new scrapes and marks on his face, but otherwise he looked unharmed. His smile was enough to tell you he hadn’t been injured enough to require medical attention. There wasn’t a pinch in his brow indicating pain, at least.

He brushed his hands off on the thighs of his pants and judging by the mud on his boots and the rifle draped over his shoulder, he hadn’t even made it back to his tent before he came in search of you.

“Of course, Sergeant Barnes,” you replied and despite the way he was smiling so sweetly at you, teeth biting down on his lip, you swerved around him towards your own tent.

“Call me Bucky,” he reminded you, stepping aside for you to pass, though he followed your pace.

“Well, Bucky,” you said, clenching your hands, “it’s good to see you safe. You should get to the med tent, don’t you think?”

“Later,” he shrugged, waving you off, cheesy smile on his lips. “I wanted to see my best girl first.”

It punctured right to your chest and though you knew he was teasing, that he was flirting innocently and smiling when he could be giving into the harsh realities of war, it hurt. It hurt because you saw pieces of your own Bucky in him and knives embedded and broken through skin with every laugh, every smile, every word he said, because you knew how quickly it will be taken away, how hard it will be just for him to find small pieces of this and let his guard down long enough to let even Steve in again, let alone you.

There was a guilt that festered and boiled deep in your stomach, that physically ached and burned. You knew too much about his future, about the things that will happen to him that would rip that sweet smile from his face and turn him inside out, until it took decades just to find the will to live again. You could hardly look at him without tears springing to your eyes.

You thought about telling him, about warning him of what would come and maybe create a new timeline where he was free from Hydra, where he might go home from the war and see his mother and sister again, maybe meet a woman he could love and have a few kids. But then you remembered Tony’s warning, that certain events were fixed and what happened to Bucky that day on the train, would never be changed. There was too much history riding on it.

Your sweet Bucky was fated to Hydra from the start.

"There’s a dance tonight, you know.”

Your heels dug into the grass and brought you to an abrupt stop, balance wavering somewhat as you held your arms out to the side. Bucky chuckled, that smile of his so bright it was almost blinding and he quickly jogged back to you. He offered a hand and you took it just long enough to pry your heels from the dirt.

You tried not to focus on the feel of it; the callouses on his palms or the grip of his fingers, the warmth in his hand or the fact that it was made of flesh and not solid metal. You let go as soon as you were able, though he didn’t seem to take any offense.

“Just a few of the guys are going,” he continued to say, pushing his hands into his pockets. He seemed nervous as he swayed in his stance and brushed his hand through his hair. “Thought it could be fun and, well, don’t know the next time I’ll get the chance to ask a pretty girl to dance with me.”

A pink rose in his cheeks, light and flushed, and it surprised you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sergeant Barnes,” you said slowly, voice almost a whisper and his smile didn’t falter for even a moment.

“Bucky,” he reminded you again. So persistently charming.

“Bucky,” you repeated, “I don’t think it’s--”

“When was the last time you did somethin’ for fun, doll?” Bucky whined playfully, slumping his shoulders until you swatted him on the arm. He rubbed at it with a laugh in his voice. “I promise it’ll be a good time. You have my word.”

“I have work to attend to,” you argued, though your resolve was fading quickly. You never liked saying no to Bucky, even from your time, but it was the innocence, the hope, intertwined in shades of blue that made it that much harder.

“Come on, darlin’,” Bucky smiled sweetly at you, a crack in his lips and a bruising on his cheekbones, still as beautiful as he’s always been, “we’re shipping out to the Alps tomorrow and I don’t know when I’ll see you next. Just one dance, doll, and I swear I won’t ask you for anything else in my life.”

Your heart skipped. “The alps?”

Bucky nodded, pursing his lips. He lost his playful smile for only a minute as it melded into the solemn, determined expression of the soldier you’d seen memorials painted of alongside brick buildings in Brooklyn.

“We were able to confirm Zola’s on a Schnellzug traveling along the Danube River,” he said, quite proud. “We’re gonna bring the bastard in and put an end to this war.”

Your throat was dry, like sandpaper and dust, stones filling your chest, and you kept your features as blank as you could manage but everything inside you was on fire. He seemed so pleased, eager almost, and you felt your stomach lurch.

“Whaddya say?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice for the first time and you turned to find him nervously chewing on his lip. “Fulfill a soldier’s dying wish?”

“Okay,” you blurted out hastily, biting down on the inside of your cheek because he didn’t know the gravity of what he just asked. You clenched your hands to fists at your side, nails digging into your palms until it stung, but you were well trained and you hid it from him before he could notice.

“I’ll pick you up at eight?” he asked, slowly backing up to his tent with the widest smile you’d ever seen on his face. It wrinkled up by his eyes and stretched into his cheeks. So light, so unburdened from horrors that had not yet warped and twisted their way through his mind and body.

“Okay,” you replied again, unable to say much of anything else for the lump in your throat was starting to choke you.

Bucky disappeared into the camp and you were left standing in the open; tears burning in your eyes, slipping down past your lashes and over your cheekbones, knowing that by this time the following day, he’d be in the hands of Hydra.

***

You located the file an hour before Bucky was meant to pick you up. It sat on the edge of your cot, watching you, because you weren’t signaling Tony that it was time for you to come home. No—you were adorning rouge to your lips and curling your hair the way you’d seen in the movies Bucky liked from his youth, the transmitter hidden in your bag under the mattress.

An emerald dress swung at your hips, one that you’d borrowed from one of the exceptionally kind nurses. She seemed to be the only one who wasn’t glaring at you from across the room for daring to take the attention of the famed Sergeant Barnes and insisted you wear it since she was on shift for the evening anyway.

You slipped into the heels, brushing down the skirt of the dress and caught one last look in the mirror. The sleeves hung off your shoulders, exposing collarbone and a faded scar along your clavicle from a mission in Brussels six months prior. Bouncing curls pinned up from your neck and bright red upon your lips, you looked like a painted model in the posters hanging in the bar hall.

You wondered how your Bucky would feel to see you like this, if it would make him happy to be reminded of his youth, or if it would bring back memories too painful to let stir to the surface.

A knock rang on the post outside and you quickly pushed the file into your bag at the end of your bed. Out of sight and out of mind, at least for the next few hours.

“You ready, doll?” Bucky called from outside the tent as you started to make your way to the exit. “Steve’s been breaking my back all day saying you weren’t gonna show and I really need to prove him wro— oh wow.”

You stepped out from behind the flap of the tent, ducking under the low hanging ceiling and Bucky’s words seemed to die on his tongue. He pulled a lip between his teeth and eyes glanced down over you; not with a hunger, but instead with a genuine kind of awe. His smile was aching on his cheeks as he tried to bite it back.

“You look stunning,” he exhaled, shaking his head. “You’ll be the envy of every dame at the dance.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Sergeant,” you replied.

He wore his dress greens; dark olive overcoat with golden buttons down the center, two pockets at the breast, two at his hips, golden tie around his neck and a series of military badges in bright, vibrant colors along the right side of his chest. He looked like the images you’d seen in the Smithsonian; the man he tried so desperately to emulate; the one with honor and dignity, he said.  

Bucky offered you his arm, and you took it graciously. Your hand slipped around the crook of his elbow, holding onto muscle where you once only know metal, and he guided you down to the jeep at the edge of camp. There, Steve, Dugan, Morita, and a few of the other Commandos were there waiting.

Steve stood against the door of the jeep, a woman you easily recognized in a dark red dress at his side; Peggy Carter. Steve seemed surprised to see you on Bucky’s arm, but when he hung his head, he was smiling, like maybe he was pleased to lose his own bet.  

Bucky grinned, nudging your side before he turned to his friend. “Pay up Rogers!”

***

People were laughing, smiling, amongst the backdrop of a war that would almost certainly take the lives of half the men in this room. It was something of beauty to witness until it started to break your heart.

You’d spent nearly an hour on the dance floor with Bucky; letting him spin you around, lead you through dances you should have known if you had grown up in this era, though he paid it no mind. He liked teaching you, liked it when you stepped on his toes and grimaced apologetically at him. He liked seeing you flustered because you were not a woman who easily blushed. He enjoyed the twinge of embarrassment in your ears when you’d bump into a couple beside you and he’d quickly yank you back to his arms in a protective cage, the light rumble of his laugh in vibrations through his chest.

“I tried to tell you I’m no good at this, Bucky,” you said after a young couple on your left sent another glare in your direction for turning the wrong way in the middle of a Charleston Stroll.

“I don’t need you to be a good dancer, doll,” he smirked, pulling you impossibly close so that your chest was flush against his, the slow sway of your bodies in contrast to the fast-paced jives surrounding you. “All I wanted was an excuse to hold you like this.”

The music faded into long, melodic notes as your breath stilled in your lungs. The chaos around you fell into gentle motions as couples hung off of one another and the world seemed to come to a stop. You expected to find a teasing grin on his face, maybe even a hint of laughter, but there was sincerity in the blue of his eyes, a slight trace of longing because he knew what he was facing the next day on a train running through the ravines of a snowy mountain.

He smiled sweetly at you, carefully slipping your hand into his and guiding your other up to his shoulder. He set his right hand at the base of your back, fingers pressing into the soft curves like the keys of a piano, just feeling, and it reminded you of how your Bucky grounded himself in the worst of his nightmares; how he’d hold onto you, grip you so tightly he’d leave marks by the mornings that would ultimately add to his guilt, though they were colors on your skin you cherished. A physical symbol of his fight towards recovery.

You found yourself doing the same as you clasped at his left hand. With every dip of the beat and every sway of his body to yours, you squeezed at his hand; feeling for the slight give in the muscle, the warmth of flesh, the hard callouses on his palm. It was so real, so him, so tangible right in front of you and you felt tears prickle in your eyes.

“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked quietly, noticing the trail of your gaze on his hand and the glossiness consuming your eyes.

You shook your head, brushing away the wetness on your cheeks and setting your hand back to his shoulder, though this time you curled up closer to him, focusing on the steady beat of his heart under his fingertips. “Nothing, honey.”

“’Honey’?” he repeated, chuckling a little under his breath. “You getting sweet on me, doll?”

You smiled, letting your head rest onto his shoulder, cheek brushing his collarbone. His hand started to run in smooth circles on your back, his nails traces shivering into your spine. It was something your Bucky did for you, to help ease the tension from your muscles.

“’Course not,” you replied in a breathy sigh, “I’ve got a fella, you know.”

"You don’t dance with me like you’ve got a man waiting on you,” Bucky retorted cheekily, though there was no jealousy in his voice, no resentment. He didn’t seem surprised, but he didn’t pull away either. He sighed, a heat of his breath brushing over your exposed neckline. “Tell me about him?”

You lifted your head from his shoulder, just long enough to caught sight of the tenderness with which he watched you. The corners of his lips curved up, only a little, before they fell again.

On some level, you wondered if he knew that he would never find even a semblance of normalcy in returning home from war, that he’d never settle down in the time that he knew and grow old and have children running around at his feet; that instead of showing up on his mother’s doorstep with bags in hand and a smile of relief, it would be two men dressed in uniform even he didn’t know, carrying an envelope that would break his mother’s heart.

You squeezed his left hand again, letting your right trace up along his jawline and cup the side of his face. He sighed, leaning into the touch. Clean shaven and smooth on his cheeks, decades younger.

“He’s a good man, even on his worst days,” you said tenderly. “He’s been through... so much, things that no one should ever have to experience. Anyone else might have crumbled under all that pain, but he’s still kind, still loving and impossibly sweet. He’s the best thing to ever happen to me though he argues against that most days.”

Bucky nodded, listening quietly as you continued.

“He’s handsome, like you, though his hair is longer, his shoulders a little broader with muscle,” you teased lightly and Bucky scoffed, feigning an offense, though he was smiling. “He’s quiet, different than he used to be, and there are always setbacks, always days where the pain outweighs all the good in his life, but doesn’t give into it. He’s a fighter, a survivor. He’s my best friend.”

“He take you dancing?” Bucky asked with a grin and you shook your head.

“No, not like this. Crowds aren’t easy for him.”

“He one of ours?”

A military man. He knew exactly what you were alluding to, so you nodded.

“Parts of him never came back from the war,” you confirmed, a frown pushing at your lips, “but he’s not broken. He’ll dance with me in the living room if I ask, let me hold him like this even when he feels like a stranger in his own skin. He tries, he heals. I know how hard it is for him to open up and I’m grateful for every moment he can let his walls down, if even for a second, and he shows me pieces of who he used to be, pieces of who he still is.”

A silence passed over the two of you, the music and the sight shuffling of feet around you taking over as you curled into Bucky’s side.

Bucky, but not your Bucky.

“You love him?”

Your relationship with Bucky was messy and complicated. You slept in the same bed most nights, pressed against one another to fight off the demons in his sleep, but you’d never touched him intimately, never so much as kissed his lips no matter how many times you’d wanted to. You met him in the ring and sparred until you were both aching and sweating, until you collapsed to the mat and talked for hours just staring up at the rafters. You were the first person he sought out when returning from a mission and it was his name you shouted for when you were surrounded behind enemy lines.

But there were darker forces between you; ones that kept him from letting himself open up completely, that kept him on the edge from you because Hydra was still in his mind, still convincing him he wasn’t worth the good in his life and he didn’t deserve to be treated with the affection and care with which you showed him.

Even when he kept you at a distance, he still held pieces of your heart, exposed and vulnerable in the palm of his hand.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes darting to the collar of his shirt because you couldn’t dare to look him in the eye. You felt him squeeze at your hand, patterns on your back, and he pressed you closer to his chest; so perceptive of the heartache in your voice.

“Sounds like you might want to get home to him, huh?”

You shook your head, feeling embarrassed. “What? No, of course not. I’m-- I’m here to dance with you, right? You’re shipping out tomorrow for the alps and I—I owe you a dance, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled. “Sweetheart, we’ve been dancing for hours. Look around, everyone’s practically gone home for the night.”

You narrowed your eyes, surprised, until you scanned the room to find that he was right; the dance floor was near empty and the staff had already begun cleaning up the refreshments table. Only the pianist remained on the stage, playing gentle melodies while his bandmates placed their instruments in their cases. He smiled at you, a short wink before he turned back to the pages of his sheet music.

Steve and Peggy were sitting by the bar, talking quietly with one another, unbothered by the lateness or the lack of party guests and the absence of alcohol beside them. Jim and Dum Dum must have hitched their own rides home because they were nowhere in sight, though a few stray men swaying on unbalances legs stumbled by the door.

“I’d say this was a pretty nice last go of it all,” Bucky sighed, a genuine smile on his face. “Zola’s not a threat physically. Can’t imagine we’ll have too much trouble bringing him in, but you never know, right? I couldn’t pass up an excuse to bring a beautiful woman to a dance.”

You bit down on your cheek until blood pooled in your mouth. You swallowed it back, tasting of copper and it burned on the way down.

“Certainly can’t blame you for that,” you replied, forcing your voice as steady as you could manage.

The pianist slowly brought the song to an end, chiming on the high end of the keys before closing the lid and stepping away. Bucky sighed, a nod the indicated that the magic of the night had ended and he moved to step away, but your hands darted out to the sides of his face.

“You’ll get through this,” you said sternly, adamantly, because he needed to hear it. The confusion read on his face though he didn’t question you. “You’re strong, Bucky. You’re brave. Please remember that.”

He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed, though he nodded slowly.

You stepped back suddenly, letting your hands fall away from his face. It was a gesture too intimate for the man standing in front of you, one you’d done countless times for the man he’d ultimately become, and while he didn’t flinch at the touch, it surprised him. Perhaps it was the heartbreak on your face, the guilt, that confused him most.

“I--I should go,” you said quietly. “Thank you for the dance, Sergeant Barnes.”

“The pleasure was all mine, doll,” he replied, a soft smile etching up onto his features.

He was so young, so untouched by the damages that would be inflicted upon him; even after he’d already been captured and held by the same men who would break him from the inside out, he still carried a hope about him. He was different at the start of it all.

You loaded into the back of the jeep and Bucky slid in beside you. He kept his hand at his side, didn’t try to push into your space because, after all, you had someone waiting on you, but you could see the twinge in his fingertips, how he ached to hold your hand. It broke your heart.

At the end of the night, he walked you back to your tent. Hands shoved deep into his pockets and a tight smile on his face, he asked, “will I see you again?”

You thought again about telling him the truth, warning him that he wouldn’t find his way home for nearly seven decades and when he did, he’d be a changed man in a time he didn’t know. It wouldn’t change anything. Your Bucky had always gone through the horrors of what Hydra inflicted on him and what you did in this time wouldn’t affect that.

“Of course,” you replied with a smile light on your lips though you forced it into your cheeks. He sighed of relief. “I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“What about your man?” he inquired, a teasing grin and a raise of his eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in friendship, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Whatever you’ll give me, sweetheart,” he replied, smiling so wide it much have ached, and you tried to memorize the way it wrinkled up by the blue of his eyes. You wondered if you’d ever see him smile like that again, like the very act of it didn’t rip him to pieces.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, light and short, a feather’s touch, and you watched as a light pink flushed his face. A thumb brushed along his cheekbone to rid him of the lipstick staining on his skin, but he gently pushed your hand away.

“Let me brag a little to the guys, won’t you?” he laughed. It was a sound so sweet it threatened to tear you in two.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you said slowly, stepping back to the tent.

He sighed, shaking his head as he took one final look at you, the last one he’d know for nearly seventy years. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

***

There were still tears in your eyes as you were pulled from between the cracks of space and time to land on the platform of the Avengers’ hanger in update New York.

Tony was down on your left, adjusting the buttons and levers on a massive computer board, slamming his hand against a faulty monitor until it shifted from a grainy static to a sharp input of bright green data. Steve was rushing up to you, already starting to remove the gear from your back and help you out of the suit. The file had slipped easily from your hand into Natasha’s and she was gone from the room before you even noticed, racing it off to Fury.

"Where is he?” you choked out, lump burning in your throat.

Steve paused for a moment, eyes flickering down to the floor because he must have seen the tears in your eyes. There was no need to specify. Steve knew exactly who you were looking for.

"The training room, I think.”

“Training room?” you repeated, surprised, eyes narrowed as Steve helped you slip your arm from the sleeve of the suit.

"He’s, um, he’s not coming, Y/n.”

“He always comes,” you insisted, peering up and over Steve’s shoulder to get a better look at the door, but they were still closed shut. There wasn’t a time since you’d joined the Avengers that Bucky wasn’t the last person you saw before you left and the first person you ran to when you came home.

Steve swallowed, continuing to work on your suit. “Y/n, the—the idea of you going back there, it wasn’t easy for him. You saw how he stormed out of the debriefing when Fury assigned you to this mission."

“He’s never not been here, Steve. Why would he--”

“Well for one,” Tony piped up, eyes still glued to the computer board, “he wasn’t entirely keen on shipping you back to the time where he was walking around with a brain that had yet to be thrown in a blender and a personality with a range wider than a pet rock."

You gritted your teeth, hands clenched to fists. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Tony shrugged, powering down the platform as Steve removed the last remaining panel from your suit, “just means that he’s probably sulking somewhere because only that idiot could be jealous of his own damn self.”

You looked to Steve who only bowed his head, lips pressed to an apologetic line, and suddenly, you took off running; sprinting across the room and shoulder shoved to the double doors at the exit. Neither Tony nor Steve were foolish enough to call after you, to believe that you’d stop for anything when it was Bucky you were running towards.

You passed by Sam in the living room, who pointed a finger to the gym, not even lifting his head from his cereal bowl. Clint waved from the couch, cheesy grin and all, before Wanda threw a pillow at him, hushing him as he tried to ask you how the mission went. It was all noise; nothing that you could hear when your focus was on Bucky.

When you made it to the gym, you found it to be empty, save for the distinct grunts in the far back corner, the slamming of fists against a sandbag, the labored breaths of a man in pain. 

Bucky stood with his back to you, muscles evident under the thin layer of his navy t-shirt, sweat soaking through the fabric and clinging against him. His whole body utilized in every punch and you stood back and watched until he ultimately hit it too hard and the bag dislodged from the ceiling, falling to the ground and rolling next to two of the same. Sand poured from the hole he’d created.

Bucky groaned, brushing his hand over his forehead to rinse the sweat from his eyes. As he turned around to hang another bag, his eyes landed on you, a flinch flexing throughout his body, a catch in his breath, because it wasn’t often you could sneak up on him. He swallowed, trying to find his bearings.

“You forget something?” he asked, voice low, tired. He didn’t realize you’d already gone and come back.

“No,” you replied, trying to mask your hurt though it did little use, “did you?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes darting down to the floor as he bent to grab another sandbag from the line. There was guilt etched into his features as he hung the bag on the chain as if it weighed nothing. It was then you noticed his bare hand, how it was beaten raw and bloodied.

“Jesus, Buck,” you gasped, reaching out for his hand and for the first time in nearly a year, he pulled away from you. He held his hands close to his chest, crossing his arms when he’d realized what he’d done, having seen the hurt on your face. You stepped forward to comfort him, but he flinched away.

“Talk to me,” you pleaded, tears in your eyes because you’d just left him to face 70 years in hell and all you wanted was to hold him again. Your agony for him ached deep in your bones, but he was keeping you at a distance, walls up, protecting himself from a threat you couldn’t see. “Did I—Did I do something?”

“No,” he said quickly, sternly, because it was one of the few things he was absolutely certain of. “No, sweetheart. It’s never you. It’s never anything you’ve done.”

“Then what is it?” You took in a shaky breath, one that barely took in air for the stone lodged in your throat. He glanced up at you and winced at the tears burning in your eyes.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” he asked slowly. He swallowed. “Me. You saw—me.”

“Yes.”

“But is wasn’t me,” he said, almost in a question. “It was some parallel version of me, right? That’s why I don’t remember... not because of what Hydra did to my head?”

You nodded, taking a cautious step forward. When he didn’t retreat from you, you took another. He kept his stare on the ground by your feet; appearing small, as if he didn’t tower over you, as if the strength of his body couldn’t snap a cement brick in half. Your hands slipped into his and you felt his whole body sigh of relief as you brought them closer to you.

Even the cold metal of his left hand was a familiar comfort for you; cool and solid, tangible. It was a piece of the man you knew. His right hand was swollen, skin broken at the knuckles, raw and bleeding. You winced as you quietly examined the wounds, carefully turning his hand in yours to get a better look.

“Will you let me wrap this?” you asked gently and after a few moments, he nodded. 

You led him carefully to the edge of the ring and sat him down on the raised edges; a kiss to his forehead as you backed away and you quickly grabbed the first aid kit from the latch under the ring.

Box in hand, you sat down beside him and pulled out the bandages, disinfectant wipes, and soothing gel. You set the kit on the floor and gestured for his right hand. It was quiet as you worked, applying the disinfectant and cleaning the damage he’d inflicted. You felt his gaze on you, studying you as a crease furrowed in your brow in concentration.

Several moments of silence passed before he spoke again.

“Do you see it now?”

You narrowed your eyes, confused by his sudden question. It was something he did often, let his mind wonder and spin until finally something stumbled out, whether it made much sense or not, but you were exceptionally patient with him. You sighed, gently easing the cooling gel onto his knuckles. He hissed at the sting of it.

“See what, honey?”

“Why you shouldn’t be with me.”

You closed your eyes, jaw aching from how tightly you clenched it. You could feel your lower lip trembling, tears burning in your eyes when you looked at him again.

He was better than he was when you’d first met. He didn’t wear the dark circles under his eyes in permeant stains anymore, didn’t leave grease caked into his roots, or wasted away closed off in his room without food for days at a time. But he still carried guilt in his eyes, still hung a heavy shame over his shoulders, still found himself unworthy and irredeemable, even on his best days, no matter how hard he tried to believe you otherwise.

“Bucky,” you sighed, his name aching in your voice, “why would you say such a thing?”

“You know now,” he replied flatly, like it was what he’d been waiting for, like he was so sure that his worst nightmares were already true, “you know what I was like then and how—and how broken I am now. I can’t be him, Y/n. I won’t ever be like that again and I-- I can’t give you the things he could. I won't be enou--”

“Stop, please,” you whispered, holding tightly to his hand as you wrapped the bandages. A tear slipped past your nose and fell to the white fabric along his knuckles, soaking into the cloth. “It broke my heart to see who you used to be, what you were like before Hydra, before all the pain they’d inflicted on you. You were... light and sweet and so impossibly charming.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes to the ground ahead of him as he listened, nodding along. You could tell he was preparing for the worst, like you might tell him that he was right, that this past version of himself opened your eyes to how empty he’d become, how weak and burdensome, how he was only a shell of the man he used to be and he’d never be enough for you.

His hands were shaking in your own and you swiftly lifted them to your lips and kissed at his knuckles, first upon flesh and then to the cold metal of his left. It pulled a gasp from him, an involuntary sigh of relief.

“I saw pieces of you in him, Buck. In the way he’d watch from a careful distance, how he smiled to himself when he thought no one was watching, the kindness in his eyes, the way he said my name,” you continued, letting his left hand sit on your leg so you could reach up to cup the side of his face, gently drawing his attention back to you. His eyes were red, strained, and you smiled sweetly at him. “It’s the same way I see pieces of him in you. You still tease and joke, even if it’s quieter, more intimate. You still make me feel like my hearts going to beat out of my chest when you look at me. You’re still impossibly charming, Buck. You are to me, anyway.”

He shook his head, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Sweetheart, you’re not broken,” you soothed, sweeping your thumb along his cheekbone. You grazed bristles of hair along his face, scruff from a few days without a razor. “You’re not less than who you were then. Just different. The things that happened to you changed you, Bucky. They’d change anyone. I don’t ever expect you to be the man you were before the fall.”

Bucky took in a shaken breath. “I thought—I thought you might prefer him. The way Steve does.”

“Oh honey,” you exhaled, pulling him into your arms, his head resting on your collar and you stroked your hand along his back to ease the tremors away as he clung to you, “Steve doesn’t--”

“He wants me to be how I was,” Bucky mumbled, his lips muffled by the sleeve of your shirt. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling himself closer. “He doesn't think I can see the disappointment on his face, but I can. I know he misses how things were.”

“Steve just worries about you, Buck,” you said gently, rubbing circles along his back. “He just wants you to be happy. He wants you to be okay.”

It was like he didn’t even hear you, so caught up in the rush of consuming thoughts in his mind, threatening to do him in.

“I’m scared you’re going to start looking at me like that.”

You sucked in a harsh breath, though you willed your voice as steady as you could manage. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Like I’ve disappointed you,” he admitted simply, like he’d thought about it a dozen times over. “I always thought I had nowhere to go but up with you. You’d only seen me at my worst but… but now you’ve seen me then and—and I don’t know if I can take you wishin’ I was him, doll, because I’ve tried and I—I can’t and I don’t want to lose you because I think it might ki—”

“Look at me,” you requested sternly, pulling him from your embrace and guiding his eyes to you. His cheeks were red, ocean blue of his eyes wet with tears as the words died on his tongue. “I will never ask you be someone you’re not. I would never want you to.”

He shook his head against your hands. “But I’m—”

“You are the man I’ve always known you to be,” you insisted. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, one that you felt his breath leave him as you pulled away. His eyes were glossy but they were vibrant blue as they met yours. “You are the man I fell in love with, Bucky. You, as you are right now. Not some idealized version of who you think you should be. Not the man you were in the forties. You.”

His entire body was rigid in your arms; solid, like stone and steel, and when he finally pulled back, there was an ocean of disbelief in his eyes. Lips slightly parted, brows pinched at the center and a flush of red in his cheeks. An imprint of your sleeve was prominent along his temple as his eyes searched yours, seeking out a deception he would never find.

“You love me?” he whispered, voice barely audible, but you watched as his lips mimed the words; the way he licked at the dryness and tried to swallow back the sandpaper in his throat.

“With everything I have, honey.”

When he finally did let himself exhale again, the breath carried a world of relief in its release. A smile hung on his lips, curving up into his cheeks, and wrinkled into his eyes. A vision of a man decades younger, lighter, where the blue was brighter and the stones were lifted from his shoulders.

“You love me,” he said again, though this time it wasn’t a question but simply a statement of fact. He repeated it again, like he was engraving it into his mind, into his memories where Hydra couldn’t touch it, where it would be protected and entirely his.

“I do,” you giggled, playing with the ends of his hair. “Any chance you might--”

Lips were suddenly on yours, melded and perfectly warm, soft, eager, and you wondered why you ever thought he was any different from the man he used to be. His hands snaked up into your hair, curling delicately into your scalp as a sigh left his breath and touched your cheek. He kissed at your jawline, your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, and returned to your lips where he was wanted most.

When he finally pulled back, you let him go reluctantly, and he set his forehead to yours; the brightest smile on his face you’d ever witnessed and you were almost certain it must have ached in his cheeks from lack of use, but god, was he beautiful.

“I love you, too.”

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[dearestones]

Hetalia Matchup: China 

Warnings: Fluff. 

@aeriscallanga Request: Hello can I have a Hetalia romantic male matchup?

𝗦𝗘𝗫𝗨𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬/𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗦: Biromantic Pansexual and Genderfluid; He/They (though I'm biologically woman irl)

𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘: 20 years old, 5'1", Southeast Asian. Chubby with brunette bob cut hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a small beauty mark on my forehead. My style is in between soft grunge and soft punk (not a big fan of dress except for occasions) but loves to wear Korean makeup style

𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗬: Muggleborn Ravenclaw with a patronous spirit of Hummingbird, an INFJ (last time I checked at MBTI test), my enneagram is 4w5 and my moral alignment is Neutral Good. I may have a slight introverted tendencies and awkward nature, I describe myself as fiery, swears like a sailor, confident, jokester, and, passionate. Religious, super talkative, sometimes hyper (because of excitement), giggly (I always laugh for stupid reasons), nerdy, actually sweet and nice though I can be aloof, intimidating, and scary when I get so angry. I tend to become really fiesty, stands boldly on what I believe (claiming myself as a realist though some of my views doesn't makes sense), and unbothered to be true to myself, clumsy, stubborn, hopeless romantic, young-at-heart, unfortunate and inattentive. I have "no bs" towards the people that I hate, sarcasam and savagery is my main language. But on the other side, I overthink a lot and cry over small things many times, small mistakes leads me to provoke me even more that sounds like a drama queen, yet recognizes a soft spot for dumb jokes, cheesy pickup lines and prefer people with a good sense of humour who see myself as equal. Chill in academics, but very competitive that manages to the top even for my dreams---I'm very dedicated on what I want for my life, and I display modesty and gracefulness towards some people that deserves respect. One notable feature about her is her multi-potentiality due to being naturally gifted in artistic fields (this includes singing).

𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗦: Arts, choir, poetry, karaoke, literature, history, makeup, beauty pageants, fun/deep/dumb conversations, expanding my knowledge in Christianity, documentaries (about saints), reading interesting stuffs, talking about social issues, and creative writing, chilling both indoors and outdoors.

𝗛𝗢𝗕𝗕𝗜𝗘𝗦: Drawing, singing, dancing when nobody's around (I'm very bad at it), sharing nerdy or opinionated thoughts, walking like a model (if I ever feel so confident), sleeping, listening to music (from rock to kpop), chatting or browsing on social media, watching videos on YouTube, making terrible jokes/puns, watching cartoons, writing, reading interesting things, and conceptualizing my artworks. I also used to study Italian language a bit

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After going through your description, I think you pair well with China!

China is also a short person, especially in comparison to his fellow Nations, but he finds that your cute height is just enough for him! He’ll constantly dote after you and will place tiny little butterfly kisses over your beauty mark on your head. 

He doesn’t do grunge, often preferring a comfortable style associated with older men or plain business casual, but he finds that your aesthetic really pairs well with your personality. 

What China truly loves about your personality is that you’re always yourself. You never refrain from expressing your true feelings and he finds himself in silent awe at just how emotive you can get. As a Nation, he often finds his hands tied when it comes to his government and his intervention in foreign policies, so to see someone who has far more freedom than him is somewhat of a gift and a novelty.

Unlike some other people, China relishes in the many facets of your personality. The ups and downs of introversion, outburst, swearing, etc. are all so fascinating to him. He’s a being with over four thousand years of experience under his belt. To find a lover, he needs to find someone who can effortlessly keep him on his toes and you more than fit the bill.

He’s also very competitive at heart (have you seen him go head to head with America as the next global superpower?) and will love to give you a challenge if you ever feel so inclined. He will literally challenge you to anything, even if it has nothing to do with academics.

Speaking of academics, he’s a firm believer that education will set you far in life. When he sees that you have your own goals and ways of achieving them, he finds himself pleased. He likes people who are decisive and know what they want out of life. 

Furthermore, China absolutely loves the plethora of interests and hobbies that you have. Again, he’s an older Nation, so he’s probably seen and heard of everything before. He’ll more than likely be able to keep up with your conversations and even recommend or push you to seek out more hobbies that are related to your old ones. He’s a fan of your singing and finds it soothing. 

Please sing him to sleep. He’s an old man, his joints are aching, and life gets too hard sometimes. He needs the motivation to sleep. 

Anyway, China will give you a grounded balance to your vivacious, authentic nature. He may act like an old man too much at times, but really, he’s just teasing you. Don’t worry, you can tease him right back. 

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If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

HETALIA AXIS POWERS/WORLD SERIES MASTERLIST

[editorandchief]

Choice We Made|Bonnie Gold

Warning: None

Pairing: Shelby!reader x Bonnie Gold

Summary: Reader and Tommy aren’t seeing eye to eye which leads them to make some rash decisions.

Being Tommy Shelby’s daughter Y/N never felt like her father really loved her as much as everyone thought, of course he was protective of her like her was for the rest of the family but protecting cane with the Shelby name.

It wasn’t always like that just as many thing Tommy changed after the war, and no matter how hard she tried she could never get him to look at her as he had before. That was until Grace showed up, she put the spark back into her fathers eyes the only difference was he only had it for Grace not her, and once Grace snitched them out and left it was back to the same cold, emotionless stare that he had before.

“No” Y/N said staring unwaveringly at her father.

“What?” He asked even though he and everyone else had definitely heard her. Tommy had just announced the ‘glorious’ return of Grace and the upcoming baby and wedding.

“I said fucking no.” She replied.

“Well it seems you mistook my relay of information at a request for permission.” Tommy stated and his usual cold stoic voice. “This is happening.”

“So she snitched you out, leaves you high and dry, and marries come Calvary man.” You list off as you stand from your seat. “and after one fuck we’re supposed to welcome her back with open arms?”

“What you mouth.” He warning pointing his finger between her eyes.

“Carful Tomas your wouldn’t want anyone to know your my father.” She snapped back.

“Y/N I know I haven’t exactly earned your trust-.”

“I’m not talking to you whore!” She shouts at the blonde who in her eyes made it even harder to receive her father affection.

Slamming his fist onto the table Tommy to get a to his feet now staring you in the eyes.

In situations like this people could really see that you were indeed Tomas Shelby’s daughter. You shared the same deep blue eyes, jet black hair, and chilling demeanor.

“Now I’ve had enough of this, Grace is having my child and both of them will be apart of this family.” Tomas tells you.”

“Fine.” Y/N stated pushing back her chair and starting for the door.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Tommy asked having how sat down rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“Marry you whore Tomas have you child.” She opens the door. “But is she’s apart of this family, I won’t be.” She finishes walking you slamming the door leaving an eerie silence in her wake.

“Are you just gonna let her go Tomas?” Polly asked waiting for her nephew to do after his daughter.

“Leave her pol.” He replied reaching into he breast pocket pulling out a cigarette. “She just need to blow off some steam then she’ll be done with this tantrum.”

“Tantrum? My niece just denounced our family and left this house.” She said snatching the cigarette from his lips. “You better hope this is just a tantrum.”

Two Years Later

“Just two targets.” Aberama stated knowing Y/N were already a bit hesitant to do a job in Birmingham, as she, Aberama and Bonnie watched as the two apparently Italian men setup and aim at what looked to be a funeral. “Y/N.” He called nodding in the direction of the man who seemed to be keeping watch.

Unfortunately for him he was watching in the wrong direction as she easily snuck up behind him covering his mouth before shoving her knife into his neck only to deal out several more to insure the job had been done, not taking any notice that the other Italian mans attention was now on her as well as his gun only turning at the sound of Bonnie’s gun launching a bullet at the man’s back.

“You should be more careful dove.” Bonnie slightly chastised as he moves towards her laying a kiss on her forehead.

“Why would I need to do that with you around?” She joked back as Aberama belt the final shot into the chest of the man Bonnie had shot.

Mounting the back of Bonnie’s horse as the men loaded the bodies onto the back of the others.

“Polly!” The familiar voice carried across the field has they rode closer to the group, it was stupid of her not to think it would be her family the caravan burning should have been her first close, not a lot of gypsy families in Birmingham. But who was dead?

“500 each, 100 for the brace,” Aberama informed not stopping for confirmation. “Where do you want them?” He asked.

“Charlie take them to the yard.” Tommy answered not even looking up if her had we would have seen the eyes identical to his belonging to the daughter he lost two years prior.

“Y/N,” Polly calls drawing her and everyone else’s attention, it had been so long since anyone had even dared to say the name of the missing shelby. “Y/N Shelby, and where the hell have you been? Off the fucking horse, Now” she ordered. Deciding that obeying would give her a better of survival on the inevitable scolding she was in for, dismounting the horse after insuring Bonnie she would meet up with him later.

As soon as her feet were sold on the ground Polly wrapped her around waist leading her away from the black clad crowd, but not before her eyes were drawn to Tommy only to find his following her as she exited the field.

✨

Arriving at Charlie’s Yard with Polly, Ada, and Lizzie was a relief to Y/N, after hours of being yelled at by Polly and a little by Ada then immediately smothered with hug and kisses both demanding to know everything about her travels over the passed years.

Although she did miss most of her family she had to admit it was still a bit awkward in the presence of the people she thought would have forgotten about her by now. The news of John’s death had also left her a bit in shock not knowing what kind of condolences she could offer for the loss of her uncle and her cousins.

“Never did I think my high heels from pairis would be stepping through the shit of small Heath again.” Polly complained as they entered the yard were it looked like dinner was just getting stated.

“In only temporary pol.” Ada assured as they went to take their seats.

Y/N made her way to the end of the table toward Aberama and Bonnie, the younger of the two sliding over a seat to make room.

“How was it.” Bonnie asked as Y/N became comfortable in her seat as Bonnie secured his arm around her waist placing a kiss on her lips.

“Well I’m alive.” She answered laying her head on his shoulder. “Which is more than I expected.

Part 2 ?

[passable-talent]

*to the tune of the victorious intro* here i am, once again, feeling love for one mr. christensen once again

gif is by the lovely and talented @haydenchristensengifs​ , to whom as well as @haydens-moles​ i am dedicating this to. we’re all on the lorenzo train together babes.

im ignoring the entire plot after like. the twenty minute mark. it’s cool. we’re cool.

Lorenzo Di Lamberti x Male!Reader (Virgin Territory, 2007)

because i want nothing more than to ride through the italian countryside with him on him. look at him. he’s perfect.

tw: internalized homophobia. also theres lots of discussion of virginity and chastity and sex in here, though there’s no actual fucking. 

You felt horribly for the cities, so filled with their plagues and their sins. Not you. No, you had chosen the holy path, where you were going to work on the sin within yourself. 

The Sacred Sisters of the Bleeding Heart. You’d made your way there only a few months ago, when you had finally figured out the reason that you had never appreciated the women who’d tried to offer their hands to you. 

You had thought it was a sin, but Mother Superior said otherwise, and offered to guide you through your understanding of yourself. This is natural, she told you, just as natural as any other sin. You just need to understand the way in which to act on it.

You took her to mean that you could feel it, but never act upon it. 

Turns out, as you’d find out, that wasn’t quite what she meant. 

Nuns were meant to be virgins, right? That’s always what you’d thought. And yet, the gardener seemed to enjoy the fruits of their virginity quite a bit. 

And no, you weren’t like that. Even if you were going to allow yourself the bending of the rules that they were enjoying, you didn’t want to do it with him. He, uh, wasn’t your type.

You mourned when he died, though, even if it wasn’t the same way that the sisters mourned. However, he was taken away, and not even a day later was there a new one. 

Whenever the sisters went for walks, you accompanied them. You were close friends with most of them, and enjoyed walking beyond the confines of the walls of the convent. 

And when they heard a tree branch crack, and found a man lying on the ground, you were the one who lifted him across your back and carried him back to the convent. They thanked you profusely, and then, as per the usual arrangement, stood guard at the door to make sure Mother Superior didn’t come by while they did whatever they wanted to do. 

First, they kneeled at his side, and slid up his tunic at his stomach. You couldn’t help but let your eyes slide to them, and whatever they were doing. 

Sister Andrea lowered her mouth to his stomach, right above the waistline of his pants, and even through the veil over your eyes, you could still pick up on the smooth muscle there. 

You tore your eyes away as a smile came to your face, listening to what they were whispering about. But you’d grown distracted, and only when her footsteps were right outside the door did you realize you’d failed in your job as lookout. 

You gave a quick whistle in warning to the sisters as Mother Superior crossed the threshold into the doorway. 

Deaf and dumb, hmm? Good for the sisters, they certainly were going to miss their gardener. You, not exactly- he was just a man, even if a gorgeous one. 

This gardener was certainly an improvement on his predecessor. Still, you weren’t going to lose the purity you’d cultivated. No man was worth it. 

Then again, he looked like that...

No, he was the gardener, and he indulged in all of the sisters, didn’t he? There weren’t other men like you. You couldn’t assume that he would even appreciate your attention. 

Wait, why were you wondering about that? Regardless of whether or not he’d want you, you couldn’t. You could not indulge. No. 

“A bit of sin is healthy!” Sister Catarina would tell you as she walked with you through the halls. “No one will think any less of you, dear.” 

“No, no,” you said, teasing your fingers through the sheer fabric of your veil. “It’s not- enjoy yourselves with him, but that’s not what I’d be interested in.” 

And you’re telling the truth, honestly. You’re not interested in him. You’re not!

You were wandering the garden one day, not long later, singing to yourself. You often did so, hearing your voice echo through the fields and off of the walls. Then appeared the gardener behind you, you only heard him thanks to his footsteps. 

You didn’t wear a full wrap like the sisters, just a veil over your shoulders that you sometimes pulled over your face. So he couldn’t have possibly thought you female- no, he knew. Still, he walked closer to you, and it seemed as though he was trying to ask you something.

He put his fingers in front of his mouth, and opened them as he pulled them forward. 

“No,” you said, shaking your head, “I wasn’t speaking.”

He cocked his head, then, as if asking what you were doing instead, if not speaking. 

How were you to explain singing to someone who could not hear?

Singing- it’s not just from the voice, though, is it? It’s deeper than that. Hoping to explain, you brought your hand over your heart, then trailed your fingers up your throat as well. Maybe he’d understand your meaning- that singing came from the heart, instead. 

He didn’t quite look like he understood. 

Slowly, you reached out, taking his hand into yours. Though there were rough patches at the base of each of his fingers, his palms were soft. You lifted it to your throat, knowing that the vibrations of your voice would feel different when you talked than when you sang. 

You swallowed, and felt your adam’s apple move against his hand. He took a hard breath before his eyes met yours. 

“This is what it feels like when I speak,” you said, both moving your fingers away from your mouth in the way that indicated speech, as well as holding his hand against you.

“And-” you pressed your hand to your heart, then drawing your fingers upward, past his knuckles, in the same motion you’d used to describe signing before. 

You started humming, at first, always finding it difficult to sing in front of others. After a moment of that, you started singing, a simple melody, the same you’d been singing before. You watched him, watched his eyes drift from his hand on your throat, to your lips, before catching your eyes as well. 

He nodded, after a moment, and you figured that he’d understood. You took your hand from his, and slowly he pulled away. You found yourself nearly missing the warmth of his hand around your neck, but pulled your mind from your thoughts before it went somewhere you wouldn’t be able to get it back from. 

Now more than ever, you had to be careful. It was one thing to think he was beautiful while admiring from afar, but now, now you had shared a moment with him. You’d sung to him, even if he hadn’t heard you. He’d put his hand on your neck, with long fingers and soft skin and fond eyes.

So now you had more to push to the back of your brain. You thought you were doing fine- until he was tossed out, for lying. Turns out, he wasn’t deaf and dumb at all. 

He sat outside the doors of the convent, leaning in the shade, hoping to maybe catch a ride. You appeared on the top of the wall, sitting down with your legs thrown over it. 

“So,” you said, making him look up at you. “You heard me, the whole time.” 

“Yeah,” he said, a small smile on his face.

“You heard me sing.” 

“Mhm.” He shifted his shoulders against the wall, tilting his head. You kept his gaze for a moment, then looked out across the path, and the forest. 

“So what now? Where do you plan to go?”

“Oh, I’ll find somewhere else. I’ll make my way.” He looked out, just the way you did, at the rustling green leaves. “And you? You’ll stay here?” Without an answer, you tipped your weight forward, dropping to the ground outside the walls, your white veil fluttering off of your shoulders and down to the dirt. 

“Nah,” you said with a bit of a smile, “I think I prefer it out here. White isn’t my color.” He laughed a bit, turning his feet to the side and making room for you on the step he was seated on. You took him up on the offer.

“I’m Lorenzo,” he said, finally giving you his name as he extended his hand to you. You took it, once again feeling the softness of his palm. 

“(Y/N),” you answered. 

“Well, (Y/N),” Lorenzo said, “You have a lovely voice.” You shook your head, turning your gaze away.

“I don’t sing in front of people, you know,” you said, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“Which is, I guess,” Lorenzo said, pressing his feet flat to the wall beneath him, “why you sang in front of who you thought was deaf.” 

“How was I meant to know you were lying?” You accused, shoving his shoulder with more intention this time. 

“Oh, please!” He said, laughter working into his face, and lord, he was beautiful. “I’m dropped into a villa of beautiful women, and all I need to do is keep my mouth shut? Could you blame me?” 

“I guess not,” you said, shrugging quickly. “It’s not exactly to my taste.” 

“No?” Lorenzo asked, looking sideways at you. He gave you a quick glance, and though you looked up at the blue sky, you could nearly feel his gaze as it slid down over your collarbones. “What is to your taste, then?”

You shrugged, taking a deep breath. Were you about to admit it to him?

“Golden hair, strong shoulders, long legs.” You tried to force back a smile, looking down at your hands for a brief moment. “A man.” Before you could let yourself feel too vulnerable, you added- “Not a gardener, though.” 

There was a quick moment of silence between the two of you, and you wondered if you’d said something that surprised him. Would he be angry with you?

“I lean that way, sometimes,” he said with a laugh, resting his head back against the wall. “I can’t blame you.” 

You turned your head to him, and lord, you had always known he was beautiful. You’d always known. But now he was in front of you, and you weren’t so strongly fighting yourself anymore, and you knew that he was like you, at least a bit. 

So you bridged the gap, and kissed him. 

And you’d thought his hands were soft. His lips? His lips were perfect. His hands came up to your face, and one of them slipped around to your neck, keeping you close. You took your hands first to his ribcage, but as the kiss continued, they slid up to his back. 

When you broke away, you couldn’t help but keep your eyes on him. Damn, he had beautiful hair. No wonder the sisters called him an angel. 

“So what now?” You asked again, still close, still his hands on you. “Where do you plan to go?” A smile quirked on Lorenzo’s face, and he lifted his hand to take his fingers through your hair, pushing it from your face. 

“I’ll make my way,” He said again, smiling. His smile turned wicked, briefly, as he added, “I don’t think I’m going to want to be a gardener, though.” You narrowed your eyes, wondering if- he couldn’t possibly be referencing what you said earlier. That you wouldn’t want a gardener. “And you?”

He hadn’t taken his hands from you. He hadn’t even moved his eyes from yours since he’d opened them. You’d let your eyes stray to him plenty of times while he was within the convent, and maybe you were projecting, but you didn’t think he looked at any of the sisters like that. 

“We’ll see.” 

-🦌 Roe

[shutterbug2012]

Cursed Euro Report time!!! (early for once because I don't care about sleep apparently)

🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 ENGLAND WON THE SEMI-FINAL!!!!!

Tumblr Louies were conflicted between rejoicing on behalf of Louis and the fact that we deep down do not vibe with England as a concept at all. But once again, the things we do for love for Louis Tomlinson.

The Englishmen were very HAPPY to win! Seriously, the way they are so naturally getting on top of each other, getting on their knees, getting straddled, putting their asses up in the air. 🌈L-O-V-E 🌈

Congrats to your boï Kane, for shooting the winning goal!!! Good for him for mastering the art of putting a ball in a hand-guarded hole on the second try!!! The first time is often slippery but usually the second try ends up being making everyone come together!! There's shooting, there's shouting, it's basically sex.

Ok so I decided to check out Team England's twitter as per usual and I was like... there's not gonna be anything left they've used all the innuendos possible but BOY OH BOY was I wrong!!!

Here are some of the most recent thirst tweets:

For a moment, we can breathe. (that's what she/he/they said 😏)

I know it's growing strong... (that's what they said 😏)

So good. So good. So good. (that's what they said 😏)

So many BIG performances! (that's what they said 😏)

We're tired just looking at it (that's what they said 😏)

One more to go. (that's what they said 😏)

Still up? (that's what they said 😏)

A night we’ll all remember (that's what they said 😏)

They could straight up include the 🍆 emoji every time and it would WORK. In short: the social media manager is on crack.

We got Loutent from the match, even tho it started with some VERY DUBIOUS footage of a "Louis" who was wearing atrocious clothes and had suddenly bulked up overnight... FAKE NEWS!!! I was feeling superior and wanted to call everybody out on that obvious mistake but I had fallen prey of the Bus 2 tattoo fake scandal the day before so I didn't feel like I was standing on high ground....anyways!

Real Louis appeared later on, with his "boyfriend" Hot Luke, his "girlfriend" (El), and his girlfriend's girlfriend (Ella), his girlfriend's girlfriend's boyfriend (Ella's bf I don't know his name) and his boyfriend (no quotation mark here) Hot Bald Guy with Glasses aka THE real Mr. O™️, I have declared. His presence is becoming strongly suspicious and if he's there on Sunday then they're definitely doing it, I don't make the rules. (I have not seen any trace of Oli but I could be wrong. Maybe he was at Hogwarts...hahaha)(also one bucket hat was in view because of course there was)

Not that I'm counting but I've counted 3 Bald Men™️ within a 1 meter radius of Louis in yesterday's pub footage, so... draw your own conclusions at that. 😌The man has a clear type.

SO!!!! Finals on Sunday!!! Against ITALY 🇮🇹!!! Our 11 Englishmen better get ready to get their asses licked kicked, to get 💦destroyed 💦 on the field (and maybe off of it too, who knows 😏) to get 💦dominated 💦 by strong Italian sports gods as the ✨tension✨ will be hard high and at the end of 90+ min of balls play 🤲, each team will try to chase their own release 👅and be declared the winner of the ⚽️ Euro 2020 ⚽️!!!

Louies conundrum will come to an end as I believe the general consensus is that England will/should/deserves to lose, but at least the team will have made it 'til the end and thus provided us with Louis footage for as long as possible and also made Louis very happy, which is all we want (no, we don't want music or first-person content, whoever told you that...!!!). We shall see, but unless Louis treats us to a HD selfie if England wins, then I could care less about the brexiters getting the cup, which, may I remind them, is called the EURO cup.

Also the final is on Loudependence day??? 👀 Is something going to happen??? IS MUSIC COMING??? Louies, who have been tolerating Louis' football antics (the tweets! the jerseys IG stories!) for weeks and are desperate for any kind of information on LT2 coming directly from the Boss himself, are franticly asking themselves... Alas, there is no way to know right now...

But I'd say, in conclusion to this 1,000 words essay, that we can't infer that England making it so far in the tournament is based on Louis' wishes and Louies energy backing his deepest desire... BUT we have learned that 🕯manifesting🕯"works" so we need to gather our strength and send ✨good vibes✨ for music content soon. *starts chanting*

In the meantime KMM at Wembley, YES KING!!!

xoxo,

Gareth Girl.

a wild ride from start to finish but so worth it 😌

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Music is so good for the soul, and during these hard times we must all help each other to find moments of joy.

- Dame Vera Lynn (1917-2020)

Dame Vera Lynn, the beloved British singer, died 103 years old on 18 June 2020. Surprise at her death is swiftly replaced by the sad realisation that it marks the end of a chapter in British history. Many of those who grew up with her music have died during the Covid-19 pandemic. How poignant that her death should come on the day that President Macron arrived in the UK to mark the 80th anniversary of General De Gaulle’s rallying cry to the Free French and to give the Légion d’Honneur to London, the city that weathered the blitz in 1940.

From the battlefields of France, the Netherlands, Italy and North Africa to the Far East, whenever soldiers gathered around a radio set or gramophone, the smooth vocal tones of Vera Lynn were sure to be heard.

It is impossible to gauge whether the outcome of the war was swayed by songs like ‘There'll Always Be an England’, ‘We'll Meet Again’, ‘(There'll Be Bluebirds Over) The White Cliffs of Dover"‘ and ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’.

But for countless men in uniform, the lyrics and the slim, wholesome young blonde woman who sang them seemed to offer a vision of what they were fighting for.

To modern ears, the words might sound corny but at a time when Britain stood proudly against the Germans, their patriotic appeal was irresistible.

Vera Lynn epitomised an archetypical, essentially decent Britishness, practical and fair-minded - notions which shone through the songs she sang.

Even her version of the German soldiers' favourite song, ‘Lili Marlene,’ managed to sound like a patriotic lament, a far cry from the darker sexual undercurrents implicit in the versions by Marlene Dietrich and Lale Andersen - ironically both of them anti-Nazis who became the German forces' sweethearts.

Vera Lynn's most famous song remains We'll Meet Again, recorded in 1939.

Lynn’s wartime popularity was boosted because of the song.   The song’s appeal to love and stoicism - "Keep smiling through/Just like you always do/ Till the blue skies/Drive the black clouds far away" -- made it the perfect war-time anthem. It proved powerfully uplifting for departing soldiers, and it has endured as the defining song of the British campaign. The song re-entered the UK charts at No 55 amid the 75th anniversary celebrations of VE Day.

As she wrote later in her 1975 memoir, Vocal Refrain: “Ordinary English people don’t, on the whole, find it easy to expose their feelings even to those closest to them.” We’ll Meet Again would go “at least a little way towards doing it for them”.

In later years, the song, with its reminders of home and exhortations of courage, has become an indispensable part of national commemorations. And, with its swooping and strangely haunting melody, it has entered into popular culture. It forms an ironic accompaniment to the explosion of atom bombs in Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964); it is deployed with alienating effect in the Pink Floyd song Vera (The Wall, 1982); and it provides the eerie aural backdrop to the Tower of Terror ride in Walt Disney World, California.

But when Lynn began singing it at the age of 22, she had little idea that she would be singing it for the rest of her life.

Indeed the song found favour again this year when Queen Elizabeth II, in a rare public address to the nation, urged Britons to remain strong during the coronavirus lockdown.

"We should take comfort that while we may have more still to endure, better days will return: we will be with our friends again; we will be with our families again; we will meet again," the monarch said.

Vera Lynn was born in London's East End on March 20, 1917 as Vera Margaret Welch.

She began singing in local clubs at age seven and joined a child dance troupe, Madame Harris' Kracker Cabaret Kids, at 11. By 15, she was a teenage sensation as a vocalist with the Howard Baker Orchestra.

She adopted her grandmother's maiden name Lynn as her stage name, making her first radio broadcast in 1935 with the Joe Loss Orchestra.

She worked with another of the great names of the pre-war period, Ambrose, whose clarinettist and tenor sax player, Harry Lewis, she was to marry. The couple had one child, a daughter.

In war-time, Vera Lynn came into her own, hosting a BBC radio programme, "Sincerely Yours", appearing in a forces stage revue, and making three films.

So what did Vera Lynn have that propelled her to stardom during the war, when she became the “forces’ sweetheart”? Youth primarily. She was in her early 20s when war broke out – Elsie Carlisle, the iconic singer at this time, was in her 40s and recorded very little during the war, while Gracie Fields, who was astonishingly popular in the 1930s, had the temerity to marry an Italian and sat most of the war out in North America.

The country was aching for a new female singing star and Vera Lynn – youthful, toothily wholesome rather than glamorous, and with an innate modesty that suited an austere and dangerous age that had no time for displays of ego – fitted the bill. She had a powerful, bell-like voice – at times she almost recites the words and employs oodles of vibrato to underscore the emotion of her songs – that was perfect for a singalong. It is when the audience joins in with her songs that you get a lump in the throat.

She came to represent so much, especially to the service personnel she entertained tirelessly during the second world war. She visited Burma, Egypt and India to give concerts for troops stationed there, an act of courage that should not be underestimated. These were difficult, dangerous journeys and not for nothing was she later awarded the Burma Star. She symbolised resilience and indefatigability, embodying a strength of character that transcended mere art. Nazism had no chance against this winsome, optimistic, joyful yet tender young woman.

Lynn gave up singing after the war but was persuaded out of retirement in 1947 and began a whole new international career, with appearances in the United States in 1948.

She became the first British artiste to have a US number one with "Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart", her most successful record, in 1952. However Vera Lynn's career foundered in the rock and roll era and she cut back on public appearances.

Artistically, it must have been infuriating to be forever associated with the wartime struggle and she did attempt to move on, recording a few Beatles numbers in the 1960s and even making a country disc in 1977. But nothing could shift the way she was seen by the public: a symbol, quintessentially British, of that unimaginably long, bleak, ultimately triumphant wartime struggle; an icon frozen in time.

She accepted her status as a living museum of wartime music and culture with customary good grace. “I never thought the ‘forces’ sweetheart’ tag would stay with me,” she told the Radio Times in 2014, “but it has, hasn’t it? I thought it would last for the war period, then I’d just be another singer. Of course I’ve never minded that everybody always connects me with that time. It was so important.”

For decades, she was a beloved figure at celebrations to mark the anniversaries of the June 6, 1944, D-Day landings in France or VE Day, the end of the war in Europe on May 8, 1945.

Her last public performance came in 2005, at the 60th anniversary celebrations for VE Day in Trafalgar Square. She performed a snatch of We’ll Meet Again, and told the crowd: “These boys gave their lives and some came home badly injured and for some families life would never be the same. We should always remember, we should never forget and we should teach the children to remember.”

She was awarded an OBE in 1969, and made a dame in 1975, for her charity work. She has given her name to her own breast cancer and child cerebral palsy charities, and has also worked with charities for military servicepeople, including Forces Literary Organisation Worldwide (Flow)

In 2009, at the age of 92, she became the oldest living artist to make it to No 1 on the British album charts, with a greatest hits compilation outselling the Arctic Monkeys.

During the build-up to her 100th birthday in 2017, Dame Vera said she found it "humbling" that people still enjoyed her songs.

The Queen wrote to her: "You cheered and uplifted us all in the war and after the war, and I am sure that this evening the blue birds of Dover will be flying over to wish you a happy anniversary."

Her songs spoke to people caught up in war, trying to respond to its emotional extremes as best they could. They encapsulate fellowship and battling through, not jingoism, for all the flag-waving that accompanied her appearances at commemorative events. “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.” The lyrics could not be more banal, yet her genuine spirit invested them with deep humanity. As HM Queen Elizabeth II herself understood, what keeps us going in times of war and pandemic is the thought that we will be reunited with our loved ones, when the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.

RIP Dame Vera Lynn

We’ll meet again....

[imaginesforjohnnydepp]

Violette Pt. 4

@kittenlittle24  @evelynrosestuff

Johnny was glad that he took up Violette on her offer because he had to get out of Los Angeles; Violette was a gracious host and they fell back in sync with each other. While she was at work, he took the opportunity to explore the area to find souvenirs for his kids and check up on them, other times he’d go through Violette’s books and movies and photo albums, which were his favorite things to do. The albums were completely filled up with pictures. There were pictures of her at weddings, work related parties, vacation pictures (lots of them), newspaper clippings of her accomplishments. It made him happy knowing that Violette became so successful and is well respected, because she deserves it.

When he heard the keys at the door, he quickly closed the book and turned up the volume on an episode of Chopped just as Violette walked in, shaking water off her umbrella and putting it in the stand.  “Sorry I’m late! I was held up with paperwork then there was a wreck, but on the plus side I got Italian!” It was nearly eight thirty when they sat down to eat, the both of them digging into their shrimp pasta as they filled each other in on their day. Since it was Friday and Violet didn’t have to be at work the next day, they watched TV together after dinner, the living room dark except for a lamp on a low setting. It was halfway through a second episode of Fraser, the one where Fraser accidentally tells Daphne about Niles’ feelings for her before the wedding when Johnny noticed Violette had fallen asleep.

Her head was tipped back and her chest was gently rising and falling; she looked so comfortable and peaceful he felt bad for waking her. Johnny shook her gently. “Hey Vi? It’s time to wake up, you’re gonna hurt your neck like that.” Slowly, Violette came to, lifting her head from the back of the couch, her eyes slowly opening. “Huh? What time is it?” 

Her voice was heavy with sleep and she stretched, arms above her head. “Bout time for you to go to bed. You fell asleep halfway through Fraser.” Violette knew he was right; she had a long day at work and now all she wanted was to apply a serum or two and get into bed. “You’re right, it’s been a long day. Do you want the bathroom first?” He shook his head no, and she smiled  before heading to her room.

“Good night Johnny.” They both headed their separate ways, and as he changed into his pajamas, Johnny could hear Violette doing her night time routine, the faucet running every few minutes as she rinsed her face. He checked his phone for messages, emails from his lawyer and Amber’s, two missed phone calls from his family about funeral arrangements, all things that can wait until tomorrow; he hooked it up to the charger and placed it face down. After a few more minutes, the faucet turned up for the last time, and Violette knocked twice before opening the door. “Bathroom’s all yours now.” 

He tried not to notice how long her legs looked in her pajama pants or how ample her chest looked, even in an oversized shirt. Frankly, ever since he got here, Johnny’s been trying to ignore how gorgeous Violette is; she looked good in just about everything she wore: her work clothes where the slacks she wore clung to her legs like a second skin, the leggings and tank tops he saw her in, drenched in sweat when she came back after a morning run. It was like acting in front of a green screen and trying to ignore how ridiculous Bill Nighy looks with black dots on his face as he wears a gray leotard. Johnny couldn’t ignore the fact that Violette has an ass and breasts, and he felt guilty checking her out when her back was turned, but what could he do? He certainly wasn’t going to tell a grown woman to cover up in her own home; with a sigh, he shuffled into the bathroom to do his business.

Meanwhile, Violette was in bed, simultaneously reading and going through her text messages; due to the torrential rain that would be coming this weekend, book club was cancelled (which she was grateful for because she’s kind of behind the rest of the group). Violette was just about to call it a night when a new message appeared, from Angela. I know you took my floral dress the other day. Mikayla said she saw you leave with it.  Yes, she did take the dress but that’s only because Angela took her favorite Dooney and Bourke handbag (something that happened months ago and Violette has yet to see it back in her closet) but unlike her sister, she plans on actually returning it. And what about it? she typed back. You can pick it up from the dry cleaner on Basin Street tomorrow, and you’re one to talk considering I haven’t seen my Dooney and Bourke purse since New Years.  

Once the message was sent, she went back to her book, which had five chapters left; Violette reached for the notebook and pen and started scribbling notes about the chapter when her phone buzzed again. Thank you. And as for your purse, I think Miki has it. It’s hanging on the doorknob of her closet. Probably thought it was mine. But how’s it going with Johnny? Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, and she didn’t know what to say. How is it going with Johnny? Violette wanted to tell her sister that things are great, like nothing’s changed between them, about her growing feelings for her ex husband, but all she texted back was that things are fine. 

Really, only fine? Leave it to Angela to be overly observant, might as well come clean now. It feels like nothing’s changed between us even though a LOT has. We’re cracking jokes, eating together, going out. It feels like old times. Violette knew what Angela was going to say next: that they need to slow down, how Johnny probably isn’t ready for another relationship when he already has so much going on. She hastily texted: And I know what you’re going to say next, but I can’t help it. He’s still Johnny. I gotta go, it’s late. 

She put her phone on the charger and placed it face down on the nightstand. Violette hoped that all her feelings toward Johnny could just be chalked up to not getting enough sex or boredom or loneliness, because really, what would a relationship with Johnny look like today? Probably a long distance relationship and media interference, and she’d had enough of that from last time to last a lifetime. Besides, Violette never dates men with children, and in her age group, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack to find a single male in their late forties/early fifties who doesn't have children. Shaking her head at the thought, she pulled the covers up over her head and waited for the air conditioner to kick on to lull her to sleep.

So this was how the rest of their week went, both of them pining over the other without the other’s knowledge: Johnny pretended not to notice her figure and his growing attraction and Violette pretended that she didn’t harbor romantic feelings for him, until one day Johnny couldn’t take it any longer. He brought up the question while they sat in Violette’s car at a snowball stand, the a/c blasting and the radio on a low volume. “Why are we doing this, Vi?” The question was so out of left field that she almost choked on a bubblegum flavored hunk of ice. “What do you mean?” she asked, sucking the bubblegum syrup from the ice. 

“I mean, why are we ignoring… whatever this is? We’re adults, Violette, we should be able to communicate with each other.” She was sure she was doing a good job at masking her feelings, but apparently she was wrong. “Because Johnny, it wouldn’t matter. Your life is in LA, with your children and work and my life is here. What could we actually do about it? You’re only here for another week.” Violette was actually glad that he brought it up now, because there was no way they would be able to do anything about it, since Johnny would be here for another week before going home. Leaving Violette alone with her unresolved feelings.

“And you already have so much going on. Are you sure this is what you want? If you’re ready for this?” Violette put another spoonful of her snowball in her mouth, sucking off the syrup until the ice was hard packed on her tongue. “Is that what you’re scared of? That I might leave again?” Johnny asked. “Not might, but will. As you can see, I don’t have a normal work schedule and I’m not a fan of long distance relationships.” And because I’m scared you could hurt me again,” she added in her head.

“Johnny, we’re not in the ‘80s anymore. We’re so different now, we always have been.” Johnny sighed before putting his cup in a cup holder. “We’re not that different, you’re still you and I’m still me. We’re older now, have more life experience. Violette, we were so young when we got married. And I moved on from her long before I thought about filing for divorce.” She took his words into consideration, really thinking about it. Was the reason why she never remarried is because that deep in her subconscious, Violette knew she and Johnny would make their way back to each other?

“Just one chance is all I’m asking. Please.” He looked so sincere, and the offer was so tempting. How many times had Violette had this dream of Johnny coming back to her and begging her to take him back? Too many times in the early days of their breakup, and Johnny was right, they’re older now, old enough to know what they want in their partners. “What do you say? Can you give me another chance? We can take it slow, whatever you want.”

Violette put the last spoonful of her snowball in her mouth, savoring the last bite as she thought it over. While she was a little apprehensive about the whole thing, she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t at least a little curious as to how a relationship with Johnny would be like today. A lot of traveling back and forth, probably meeting his kids at some point. And what about long term? Would they live together?

 Get married (or in their case remarried)? “We’ll take it slow?” Violette asked, just to make sure. “As slow as you want,” he answered. Violette smiled and grabbed Johnny’s hand. “Okay.”

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First”: Volume 3, Chapter 1

Summary:

Erik N'Jadaka Stevens. The top student in his graduating class at the Naval Academy. The youngest graduate to do so.

Erik excels at M.I.T. studying bioacoustics and sonic warfare. Hounded by Tony Stark to become his protege in Malibu, Erik sets out to forge a path that will take him into the military and Special Ops to complete his ultimate goal: Revenge for his mother and father and the overthrow of the Wakandan Royal House. With the help of his roommate, Disa, he may have found a way to balance first love and his need for justice.

NSFW. Smut. Mature Audience Only.

"My nose wide as the Red Sea (Red Sea) Lips full, fillers don't fill me (Fill me) Soon as my cousin killer's on trial (Woah) Family gon' pull 'em sitting courtside Godsend they say, we singing la-la-la Don't want no vultures on our si-i-ide Looking black as the messi-i-iah I got time…

When we die, where do my people go? To the stars where they can't steal your glow When we die, where do my people go? To the stars where they can't steal your glow Superpower"

Kirby—"Superpower"

Chocolate City.

That's what they called this particular section of dorm housing on the fourth floor of the building known as New House that Erik N'Jadaka Stevens found himself standing in at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

M.I.T.

"No man, this dude is different. He's twenty, but he acts way older. Quiet. Not real friendly…I don't mean in a bad way…he's just not gregarious. Grad student, not a freshman… I didn't ask. He applied to be here and Jay said he'd be a good fit. Oakland…I don't know…"

They were feeling him out already.

The lone voice he heard was in another room talking on a phone. The person wasn't even aware that Erik had entered House One that Chocolate City shared with iHouse, another identity-based undergraduate group who used the first two floors while they used the other three top floors.

Erik had money to get his own apartment or his own house if he wanted. Working for Tony Stark as an intern and a Stark Fellow for a year prior to M.I.T earned him money to live like an adult. Hell, he gave up a luxury apartment and tasteful eclectic furniture to move cross country and hunker down among thirty-one young Black men from around the world—correction, thirty young Black men, and one young white Italian man—who came to study a wide range of STEM-related fields.

Erik stared at the Chocolate City Mission Statement on his phone:

"Chocolate City is a brotherhood of MIT students and alumni who identify with urban culture and share common backgrounds, interests, ethnicities, and/or experiences. By cultivating a tradition of social, intellectual, character, and leadership development, the Brothers of Chocolate City exemplify a high standard of excellence which is founded on continual growth. We seek to enrich the MIT and greater global communities by embodying the principles of our brotherhood."

Taking a deep breath, Erik took time to meditate on what his purpose was in being there in that commons room space at that moment. It was a promise to his Uncle Bakari, Aunt Shavonne, and his Grandpop that he would spend at least six months in the dorm to have a proper group living experience that he didn't have at the Naval Academy. One that was less rigid and military guided. And not a juvenile hall. He shook off the memories.

Six months.

He gave his word.

Erik rolled the suitcase he had with him against a wall and the movement alerted the unseen speaker to end their call. A lanky fade-wearing young man with glasses and very light skin walked in from another room.

"Hi, Erik?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, welcome! I'm Rasheed. Junior year. Engineering. One of two Co-Chairs here. You look different from the Zoom chat…hair is longer…"

They shook hands and Erik ran his fingers over the short 'fro he was cultivating. It was one of the perks of being away from The Naval Academy and Stark Industries. He could let his shit grow freely. He could wear regular clothes. He could stand down.

"Growing it out for a minute."

"Are you wearing gold slugs?"

"Yeah," Erik said becoming annoyed with comments about his appearance.

The moment he left Tony Stark's employ he had pure gold panther slugs made for his bottom teeth to match the ones his Baba used to wear.

"Is this all your stuff?"

"Nah, I have some more out in my car."

"What do you drive?"

"1970 Chevrolet Chevelle."

"What? A muscle car. What color?"

"Black."

"I'll go down and help you bring the rest of your stuff up. Everyone is still moving in and finding the campus. We're having a dorm meeting with the Chocolate City crew before the big New House meeting downstairs later tonight."

"Okay. Cool."

Exiting the elevator, they walked down the large hall on the first floor to the exit. Outside the afternoon air was crisp and Erik admired the brick of the building as they walked away from it to where he parked temporarily.

Rasheed whistled when he saw Erik's car.

"You sank some money into this bad boy."

"My grandfather had it for years. Fixed it up and passed it on to me. He still adds stuff to it if I ask him too."

"That's cool, bruh. Real cool."

Erik pulled out two more roller bags and a duffle, along with his computer bag from his trunk.

"That's it?"

"Yep," Erik said.

"You can stay parked here until tomorrow night. That's when you have to use your residency parking passes and move it to your assigned area."

"Bet."

Moving his things back up into his assigned floor, more young men had arrived in their commons and introductions were made. One husky guy with a crimson and white MIT sweatshirt sat on a couch with his laptop playing music. The music switched up and a voice Erik recognized filled the room.

ButtaFly.

A DJ that hosted a popular MIT radio show. A DJ he listened to for months while he worked for Tony Stark.

"You are listening to the Cosmic Café…up next I'm going to have some new music by Kirby, Seinabo Bey, and I'll also throw in some classic Mutabaruka dub poetry. I want to give a big welcome to the new students arriving for the start of a new school year, especially to the young men of Chocolate City. My homegirl Jennifer is the Graduate Resident Tutor there so hey girl…I hear some really brilliant new students are over there, so welcome… welcome to all the folks over at New House…"

Erik stood in front of red and white hoodie.

"Where is the campus radio station at? Do you know?"

"WMBR?" hoodie asked.

"It's in the basement of the Walker Memorial Building," Rasheed said.

"Is that far from here?"

"Not really if you don't mind walking."

Erik pulled up the campus map on his phone.

"What room do I have?" Erik asked.

He followed Rasheed down a hall to the far end. Two twin beds, two desks, a decent window…

No one else had belongings there yet.

Erik picked the side away from the window and dumped his stuff.

"Thanks for helping me," Erik said.

"No problem—"

"What time is the meeting?"

"In two hours—"

Erik left the room with Rasheed at his heels.

"The rest of the guys will be back, and your roommate—"

"Later. I gotta go peep something first. I'll be back on time."

Erik passed by more Black male undergrads entering Chocolate City.

"Hey, Erik!"

Darcy, the other Co-Chair called out to him as Erik headed toward the elevator. A bright white smile on a rich round mahogany face tried to get his attention as Erik swept past.

"I'll be back!" he called out again.

Erik checked his cell phone. ButtaFly's show lasted for another thirty minutes. He stuck in earbuds to listen to her as he walked outside once more. Zipping up the bright orange windbreaker he had on, he used his phone GPS to guide him to his muse. The voice that haunted him for so many months when he worked for Stark. The voice that soothed him when he was in bed alone. The voice that seduced him when he pleasured himself in that big queen-sized bed he used to own.

Things were different now.

He had a twin bed and a male roommate. He had to share cooking duties with young men when he once ate with billionaire playboys and a Black Princess of Monaco. Erik used to fly on a private jet with Tony Stark anywhere in the world and had access to tech that these students were just trying to learn about and would never get to see on a higher level in a lifetime.

So different.

No more smoking weed and jerking off naked to Buttafly's voice in private trying to imagine what she looked like as he came in his hand with deep guttural moans. Very shortly, he would come face to face with the woman of his dreams.

A woman who helped guide him back to his ultimate purpose in life and she didn't even know it.

Chapter 2 HERE.

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