#things i like to do: REALLY overthink tiny ass language details like that

[madeimpact]

Working on a reply and thought back to when I tried to come up with a given name for Pit’s human verses, and I landed on the most extra name possible. And my mind wandered to “I wonder how he got from Petros to Pit in those verses?”

This would have to vary by verse probably but for the Japanese speaking ones (pla, nge, pmmm), ペトロス Petorosu would probably be shortened to ペト Peto, which is REALLY close to ペット petto, or “pet”

So rather than just getting called “pet” by all his peers he went with Pit instead FALJDKSGDJFG

[y0itsbri]

Falling for You

ballet au one-shot for @gallavichthings 's a.u.gust

summary: dance instructor mickey! ian keeps messing up the lifts with the dancers, and mickey cannot have his girls injured because of this himbo, even if he is hot. he makes ian stay after class to practice on him -- and he swears there's no ulterior motives. but they're so close and his hands are all over him and he can feel his breath and it is so unprofessional but fuck it.

words: 2k

Mickey had a new guy in his class that wasn't doing... well... by any standards. Alright, the dude sucked. Mickey had been a ballet instructor for several years and not once has he met a dancer as uncoordinated and unbalanced as Ian fucking Gallagher.

Somehow, Ian had managed to not only rip the ballet barre off of the goddamn wall in his attempt at a grand plie, fallen flat on his face after pas de chat gone wrong, but he also managed to launch his fellow ballerinas onto the floor instead of the air.

He was a disaster.

Mickey had better shit to do with his time at the studio than patch up his dancers, and studio, after Gallagher's classes. Svetlana's father would have his ass if she got injured on his watch. And Ian being the only guy in their class, there was no way for him not to share the front-and-center spotlight with Svetlana.

Yeah, Mickey wasn't letting Ian any-fucking-where near Svet if he could help it. At least in his current state. Dude was a piece of work.

Mickey figured he would be a lot more upset about all this if Ian's apologetic puppy dog eyes weren't so goddamn convincing.

Fucking Gallagher.

--

"Ayo, Mands! Come help me with this!" Mickey called, echoing in the studio, now nearly empty besides the Milkovich siblings and a six-foot-tall ginger man looking both utterly clueless and utterly terrified. Mickey was utterly hopeless.

Mandy popped in the doorframe, sliding her shoes on but leaving them untied.

"Can't! I got actual shit to do! I don't live and breathe the studio like your sorry ass. No offense, Ian, my brother is great, please stay. Full offense, Mickey, get a fucking life!"

Mickey was left speechless and slightly embarrassed by Mandy's outburst and only managed to flip her off before she was out the door.

"Charming sister you got there," Ian let a quiet laugh slip before schooling his expression at Mickey's lack of amusement.

Mickey sighed and rubbed his hands down the length of his face for a moment. Ian and Mickey held eye contact a bit longer before Mickey abruptly straightened up and clapped his hands together. The noise startled Ian from his own amused trance.

"Alright, Clifford, how do you feel about private lessons for a little bit until you're not tripping over your own feet?"

Ian stepped forward to argue, but, proving Mickey's point, stumbled over the shoes on the floor in front of him. He didn't miss the way that Mickey's mouth quirked up on the side.

"Can't afford extra classes," Ian shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

"It's on me," Mickey swiped his top lip. He didn't miss the way that Ian's gaze lingered on his mouth,"Kinda need you..." really want you, "to, uh, look good..." as if he doesn't already, fucking red-headed alien-looking motherfucker, "on the floor..." of my bedroom, goddamn it, Mick, get it together! "the, uh, dance floor."

Ian paused, considering the way that Mickey was stumbling over his words in a way that one might call endearing, another might call the-worst-fucking-experience-of-his-life.

"I'll do it."

Do me. Seriously, go drink some water, oh my god.

Mickey literally took a sip from his water bottle, hoping that it would at least calm his nerves. He was a professional!

He crossed his arms over his chest. "You free after class?" A pause, "To work on some skills, I mean."

"It's a date," Ian smirked, leaning down to pick up his shoes from the ground in front of him. By the time he was upright again, Mickey had already started walking away, but the blush on his cheeks and the back of his neck could be spotted from a mile away. He was utterly fucked.

--

Mickey yawned and got up from his stretching position on the floor. He walked over to the stereo, systematically knocking his dancer's feet on his way over until they were all turned out and pointed.

"No Orange Boy today?" Svetlana asked, meeting Mickey's eyes with a challenging stare.

Mickey ignored the chorus of "He's so hot!" "Have you seen his arms?" and "Ian's the nicest!" from the rest of the girls.

Svetlana raised her eyebrow in question and Mickey's defenses flew out the window. This goddamn power dynamic was going to be the death of him.

"I put him on private lessons until he's no longer a disruption to the class," he shrugged.

"Aww," one brunette pouted.

"Disruption to class or disruption to tiny bulge in your pants?" Svetlana smirked, earning some scandalized gasps from the other dancers.

Mickey flipped her off, "The fucker made me take out a greater insurance policy with all his accidents, don't be fucking absurd."

A blonde nodded understandingly from the back of the class, "My ankle is still a little funky from the last lift we tried."

Mickey held his arms out in a display of I-told-you-so and Svetlana rolled her eyes.

"Great!" Mickey clapped his hands together, earning the full attention of his class as they hurried to their feet, "Now that all the hot drama is outta the air, let's do a quick warm up combo across the floor. Chasse step pas de bourree double pirouette step arabesque, in 5, 6, 7, 8..."

--

Ian had been waiting outside the studio for the last ten minutes of class, more-so watching his instructor shift around than paying attention to what the dancers were actually doing. That's probably what got him into his current predicament, and he couldn't decide whether that was a curse or a blessing. Mickey's arms flexed as he pointed across the room to call out someone's weak spot.

Yup, it was a blessing.

Oh shit, Mickey was looking his way. Was this a double sided mirror? No, of course not. Why would there be a double sided mirror? Oh, Mickey was definitely staring at him. Fuck. Wait, did he just wink? No way, he must've just blinked. With one eye. Yeah, totally normal. Nothing to overthink, Ian.

Get it together!

--

Mickey dismissed his class five minutes early and it had nothing to do with the Jolly Ginger Giant standing outside his studio.

While most of his dancers wordlessly accepted the easy out, Svetlana stayed back to taunt. "Have fun with private lessons," she sneered, jerking off an invisible cock.

"Choke on it," Mickey retorted tossing her warm-up jacket at her face, which she swiftly caught.

Svetlana turned and made a show of looking Ian up and down, his cheeks turning pink under her intense gaze. She faced Mickey head on, "You will be vegetable stew by the time this man is done with you."

The fuck does that mean?

Sometimes Mickey thought that Svetlana spoke in riddles just to mess with him. He blamed it on the Russian accent, never mind he was part Ukrainian himself. The languages were similar, but not identical, fuck you very much.

But, damn, forget that, Gallagher looked good. He was wearing his usual white tank top and grey sweatpants, but Mickey never got the opportunity to openly ogle in class. Not that that was what he was doing now.

Ian returned the long look appreciatively before stepping closer and Mickey snapped back into professionalism, well as far as professionalism goes, Milkovich-style.

He turned his back on the bane of his pathetic existence and snapped a quick but polite, "Get your shoes on and we can get started."

"Oh, right."

That seemed to be enough to get the gears in Ian's head going again as he dropped his bag to the floor, echoing in the truly empty studio, and dropping down onto the floor himself to secure his ballet shoes, which may as well be clown shoes for as big as his feet were. Mickey fit into the same brand as the girls, but he had to order special for Gallagher.

"Thanks for doing this, Mickey."

Mickey. The way that this man said his name was making him feel all sorts of flustered that he would most definitely deny.

"Mandy said you don't usually make exceptions."

"Gotta catch you up to speed or you're gonna be dancing with the 5 year-olds, man."

Ian tilted his head considering.

Mickey frowned, "Don't do it."

Ian smirked and Mickey had to look away as a grin and blush creeped up on his own face.

"Alright, so we'll start you off with the basics."

Mickey went through their normal class routine, but broke it down slowly, pausing to explain certain positions in details he couldn't afford to spend time with in class, specifically how not to fall. It should have been fairly obvious in his opinion, but Ian still managed somehow. The first few times, he was on the floor before Mickey even knew he was going down.

But the third, Mickey made a mistake. Mickey instinctively reached out to catch him.

As soon as he realized where his hands were, he pulled them off like he'd been burned, which he may have well been. He pulled his gaze to his feet, studying the floor while he composed himself.

"Mickey," Ian waited until he looked up, and then he spoke so quietly, "You can touch me."

And what made things worse was that Ian's dazzling eyes left little to the imagination. They both knew where this was going, and the moment was too intense too quick. The longer their eyes held, the hotter Mickey felt his neck grow.

"Ya know," Ian stepped closer. "To fix my positions..."

Mickey swallowed, "Uh, I think we're done for today."

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. He never meant them to begin with. But if Ian stayed any longer, Mickey was going to climb him like a tree and that really wasn't under his personal code of professionalism, no matter how loose those terms may be to begin with. It was getting late anyways, he reasoned with himself.

"What about the lifts? That's the important part, right?" Ian questioned, eyes pleading like he would die without this one skill being taught to him by his oh-so-unprofessional instructor.

Mickey sighed. Ya know what? Fuck it.

Mickey sauntered over to Ian, pressed his back to Ian's front, and grabbed one of Ian's massive hands and placed it on his own waist.

Ian gave an experimental squeeze and Mickey softened in his grip.

Ridiculous.

"We're not doing the lift are we?" Ian murmured breathily, hot air making the hairs on the back of Mickey's neck tingle.

"What do you think, Firecrotch?" Mickey pushed his weight back into Ian's chest, which would be the second mistake of the day.

Ian toppled over backwards, landing with a painful sounding thud and sending Mickey down on top of him before he rolled off the the side with a groan.

Ian started laughing and Mickey was concerned. Was this idiot actually fucking concussed this time? He wasn't sure how he would explain this to his insurance company.

Mickey straddled Ian's lap, gently slapping his face, "Are you good, man? Alive?"

"Never better." Ian was still smiling like an absolute goof.

Mickey raised an eyebrow in concern.

"Seriously, I just can't play things cool," Ian raised his hips to grind against Mickey's ass, "Obviously."

"You're an idiot," Mickey rolled his eyes, and all Ian could do was grin and reach up towards Mickey's neck, pulling his down until their lips almost touched, sharing breaths and excitement.

"Maybe," another breath, "But I still got you to fall for me."

It was Mickey's turn to laugh, more of a raspy exhale than anything. His "fuck you" was almost lost between them as they fell together at last.

(side note: this was the lift that they were going to do, so i feel like the hand on the waist makes sense -- gotta have a visual lmao)

[lenarish]

APH Lithuania is SO complex.

I don’t know how I got so obsessed with this character, but more and more I always end up thinking about the same fact of how f*cking well his personality fits the country and it’s history.

This is going to be a random ramble about Liet, as a person who roleplays as him on this deep, deep hole we call Hetalia. He deserves attention!

First of all, one of the things people will learn about Lithuania if they see the things Himaruya tell us about him and what history tells is that he, and his problems, are not what they seem to be at first glance. Let me explain;

When people write Lithuania or think of his main traits, they immediately remember him as the ultimate doormat. Well...he is! But the reason is not because he is weak, or because he is afraid of the others, or maybe because he is naive, like people may think sometimes, or portray him as. One cannot tell that it’s all because of PTSD as well. Like we can see, he is described as serious, and with a strong perseverance. One time, even being said to be more serious than Germany. But what I find most interesting is...

This says a lot about him. Maybe one of the most well represented personifications psychologically on my point of view just because of this really really really good person detail together with the serious and persevering ones. And finally, I’ll tell why.

Lithuania’s history is marked by how different it was from the Western Europe when it came to the territories’ treatment.

Century after century, there was a lot of intense and longstanding wars going on, starting when Lithuania in hetalia would be just a child. Eastern Europe never was the best part of the continent as we all know. It was too cold. People at the time were hungry, tired, and terrified of the Mongol and Ottoman Empires. If you see videos of how Lithuania was changing year by year on youtube, you may notice that there were huge territorial expansions in a tiny gap of time, that were kept that way for centuries. The explanation is; Lithuania was a badass, the Lithuanian culture at this time still held the pagan attitude of considering an honor to die in battle, as their beliefs were that no one truly died, they would come back in a second life as vėlės(spirits/souls). The conquered territories overall liked the Lithuanians, because they were very good rulers, respecting the languages and costumes of the people and protecting them, as well as the ones still willing to fight against the enemies.

...And winning.

All the Lithuanian history is painted by the fact that he was the protector. Sure, Poland was strong, Ukraine was strong, but Lithuania was the one keeping everything together.

Now think about APH Lithuania, him as this tiny child...

Kicking the crap out of not only Prussia on many battles, but also a lot of more armies at the same time. No wonder Russia wanted him as a friend, and why Lithuania was so quick to offer his friendship to Russia if he wanted.

His attitude fits perfectly.

I’m not saying that he was the only country kicking ass, but certainly we see the others acting as children and having a life. All we see of Lithuania is him working, pleasing, and overthinking.

Later on the comics, we see that it ended as people easily taking advantage of him or hurting him, and he doesn’t seeming to mind, or to act against it. And it’s not entirely because of his PTSD from the Soviet times. Oh, no, no, no. He is rehabilitating, and these scars concern Russia, only. It just makes sense that he doesn’t complain, he is...used to it.

As Vydūnas once said ‘’The tension in the lithuanian mind is manifested in a very characteristic fashion; the greater the difficulty, the more he is disposed to accept all with serenity, and even with gaiety and jest.’’

The point where it starts to get complex is; Lithuania wants to protect and please to the point where he forgets about his own needs. He as a country grew up taking care of others, and now his anxiety is one of the reflections of it. As a complement of...what could be the most reasonable result? 

Atlas personality.

Compulsive caregiving defines Lithuania completely, he doesn’t know when to stop, and the fact that he seems to want that Estonia stay with him, as well as sometimes slightly bossing him and Latvia around, could mean that he still think he needs to, not giving space for them. Because that's the only thing he learned to do and to be in life.

That’s why the fact that Poland is helping him with his PTSD is not sufficient. And one can say ‘’well, but now things are fine! He has space and time to work on it too’’. It’s...not true, though. Sure, there’s no more brutal wars and brutal bosses, and he has his friends with him, now being independent.

But we are talking about these guys;

They were talking about Poland in this strip. The baltics are...strangely jealous of him with Poland because he is ‘’too close’’, and as we can see, Poland doesn’t seem to be the particular problem, since Latvia seems to be lowkey threatening Estonia. So are they jealous of everyone that gets ‘’too close’’??? They love him, but the two of them alone gives Lithuania so much trouble that he doesn’t have space to get better, because he needs to be the responsable one, the ‘’big brother’’, and that’s problably his own fault unintentionally for insisting to much on taking care of everything alone(what he often does, and right after we see him complaining alone about having to do it). Just see their interactions, for god’s sake, Lithuania always has the final word on almost everything.

And about Poland, we all know how much stress he gives Lithuania even if the two love each other as best friends. Lithuania still has some really tense stuff going on with Poland, and neither of them talks about it.

Was not the fact that Lithuania is a really really really good person, Himaruya could have taken another path for him, considering his epic past. I dare to say he could have been very similar to Denmark and Prussia in personality. Yet, he is not.

Well... The King of Eastern Europe still has a long road to walk before finally having peace. He needs someone to show him that he doesn’t need to carry the world on his shoulders, and that the ones he love will be okay if he does so. Maybe one day Poland will, who knows? It would be awesome to see some character development...but for now I just keep dreaming.

[itsapapisongo]

the long night

An excerpt from a work in progress in honor of @vernosaur​ because sic semper tyrannis is a fantastic story.

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

          [1] THE city was cold.

The fact that it rained a few hours earlier had certainly made the night even colder than it was supposed to be. In the distance, a few blocks away, sirens could be heard as they echoed across Queens. Everything seemed fine, nothing out of the ordinary, yet the evening felt a tad foreboding for Hong Kyungjae’s taste. After a few minutes of thinking of why it bothered, it hit him: It’s because, for a city that’s known for being loud, the city itself was too quiet—and that was never a good thing.

Not even the talkative Webhead that patrolled these blocks had made a grand webslinging entrance yet. Matter of fact, Kyungjae hadn’t heard nor seen anything of that friendly, but noisy webslinger critter in what seemed like weeks. He made a mental-note to ask the guys about Spider-Boy later in the night.

The lack of movement in the streets unnerved him.

His eyes diverted from the dashboard to the building opposite him—large, old, in need of some remodeling—and felt like the place should be occupied not by the Daegu Crew but by someone who really needed a home. It was, after all, a pretty adequate location to be fixed and made into an apartment complex. He knew that wouldn’t happen for this place, as old and as close to collapse as it was, had been owned by people who cared little for the needs of the many for over five years. His boss, however, seemed to have other plans for it; or so he had heard.

Kyungjae sighed and decided not to overthink (or think for that matter) of anything that could upset him, fingers being unconsciously drummed against the steering wheel. Against his better judgement, the silence transformed his calm to impatience, his mind rapidly extracting past events he’d rather not revisit. The memories flashed in no particular order and this overwhelmed him as he had no time to avoid the emotional whiplash that ensued and failed to endured. Moments flashed rapidly in vivid detail.

That first week in the Bronx that tiny, piss-smelling room and sharing the floor with nine other guys; the long sleepless nights several weeks after, during which he was forced to learn the “basics”; the moment where he was indoctrinated in the Crew’s rules, forced to hold a switchblade for the first time. The memories—more like vivid nightmares—made him want to vomit, but he settled for a faint gag that he passed off as a burp.

Why now, he thought, massaging the bridge of his nose, of all moments?

Maybe after a year with the Crew, avoiding cops and all kinds of trouble, he had become jaded and paranoid. Perhaps, he had grown a conscience—or, maybe, he always had one, but had ignored it, and only now was he finally listening to it. This business does that to you, he mused as he lowered the radio’s volume, but, then again, I really hate this job.

Mostly, though not completely, he felt like that because he had lost the coin-toss against one of the guys and was now stuck in a car, being lookout with Dimples, waiting for Sunny and Ace to pick up whatever goods needed to be moved from safe house to safe house. They could be there—parked rather suspiciously in front of an empty building—for hours. Kyungjae knew this was a possibility since he had been in this “shift” about six months back and remembered very vividly seeing morning bloom across the horizon after a night of driving around the city.

The job was easy. Being a lookout was self-explanatory yet he really hated it. Not because of Dimples—though he was a contributing factor—but because it was too damn easy and easy nearly always meant trouble. The Crew did easy, but too easy was something they avoided; it often had the stench of cops. Plus, knowing himself better than anyone, Kyungjae liked a challenge thus it stood to reason that just because something was easy, it didn’t mean it wasn’t boring or worth the risk.

For a moment, lost in his thoughts, he began to wonder how long it had been since he had a good night’s sleep. He took a lot of naps, but he couldn’t think of the last time he had slept more than a Christopher Nolan flick. This line of work demanded a lot of him—lack of privacy and loyalty being at the top of the list—and sleep was one of those things he had to reluctantly give up in order to continue being employed.

He grimaced at the notion of being so attached to his occupation. It wasn’t the first time a bemused and cringe-like expression crossed his face as that thought popped in his head. He certainly made a shit-ton of money so that was, perhaps, the one big reason to stick around. And while the perks were good, he knew he could be doing something far more worthwhile. A man could only take so much before deciding that dealing with contraband was a waste of his life.

“What’s the time?”

This from the passenger seat, where Dimples—who unconsciously adjusted his wool hat and sniffed loudly and groggily—looked beyond exhausted with dark shadows under his eyes. He had woken up from a nap, his eyes barely open (even less than usual) and his face somewhat pink rather than pale.

“It’s, uh, let me check . . .” Kyungjae checked his phone, gently touching the home button with his pinky. “Two thirty five in the AM.”

“Fuck!” Dimple pulled the beanie off his head, revealing a head of unkempt blond-dyed hair. He glanced despondently at his surroundings until his eyes fell upon the building to Kyungjae’s left. “Just how long is this going to take?”

Kyungjae shrugged. “Y’know how this works, Dee.”

“I fuckin’ hate this damn shift.”

Grinning ruefully, Kyungjae noticed how small his partner’s eyes became and how the pout he sported made him look like an oversized baby. Or a thin, freckled Buddha, he thought to himself. Dimples had always been baby-faced and his tantrums, often accompanied by colorful and intense language, had made him the butt of many jokes. He was certainly not an easy partner to work with but Dimples had shown time and time again, that he was more than reliable. It was just a matter of slapping some sense into him.

“Yeah.” Kyungjae nodded, hands gently gripping the wheel. “That makes two of us.”

“What are we doing here again? I thought the boss had crossed Queens off the map.”

Kyungjae scoffed, grinning. “You make him sound like a pirate.”

“Aish.” Annoyed, Dimples sucked air through his teeth. “Y’know what I meant, hyung.”

“Yeah.” The older of the two nodded again, smiling. “I know.”

They remained quiet for a few minutes, focusing on the radio. Dimples shifted in his seat, arms against his chest, his trademark baby-pout upon his lips while he looked between the building and the car’s dashboard. Kyungjae could tell he was trying to be patient but his body language betrayed him. Dimples looked more like he was holding a burp rather than practicing patience. It made Kyungjae stifle a chuckle and promptly shake his head as he looked on from his partner to the empty building.

Everything was too quiet. It had been nearly an hour since Sunny and Ace stepped out of the Range Rover, empty duffel bags in hand. Not much had happened since. With the building being empty and decrepit, no one would snoop around. If they did, they would be sorely disappointed. It was the gang’s best kept-secret and their preferred way of stashing money or making it disappear. It was not a good idea to have all the profits together thus it was an inconspicuous method to move it around, hiding it for a few days in an undisclosed location until it was safe to stash it in the boss’ vault.

The boss was a fan of misdirection. Buildings like these helped him practice it.

After what felt like an eternity, Kyungjae sighed and checked his phone. Another twenty minutes had passed and they were still there: parked, silent, perfect for infraganti pictures the cops could use against him. The thought alone made him shudder.

“What’s taking so long?”

Dimples shrugged, eyes nearly closed. “Do I look like I know?”

Kyungjae raised an eyebrow, relented from rolling his eyes, and then turned to his phone. He unlocked it, looked up his contacts, gently jabbed the screen once, and waited for the call to be answered. Four rings into his waiting, someone picked up, promptly replying without hesitation.

“Almost done,” said Ace.

“What’s that in minutes and seconds?”

Ace made a sound, a guttural but faint little sound that resembled an exasperated groan.

“Five minutes, tops.”

“Five minutes. Got it.” Kyungjae hung up, checked the time, then put on a five minute countdown on his phone’s timer. He wasn’t punctual but he appreciated the concept. “Be ready,” he said to Dimples. “We’re almost there.”

“Thank God,” Dimples muttered, his voice low and groggy.

          [2]

ACE wasn’t fond of being called in the middle of work.

Especially if and when he was collecting money for the boss. It annoyed him to no end. The others knew it—Kyungjae, of all people, knew it—and yet they still had the audacity to call him, demanding that he hurry up. The balls on this fucker, he thought, counting a pack of hundred dollar bills. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, fifteen thousand. All good. Into the bag it went, neatly placed among other stacks of money.

He said five minutes, but only a minute and a half had passed. As he took the last four stacks of money, moving to count them one by one, Sunny entered the room, what once had been a landlord’s office, and dropped two duffel bags unto the door. Full of cash, they fell with a dull thud that momentarily startled Ace. Pale and stoic, with a perpetual resting bitch-face, Sunny Min looked around and sniffed, flipping over a milk crate to sit on it.

“What’s up your ass now?” he asked, slurring his words.

“Nothing.”

“Something’s up.”

Ace clicked his tongue and lazily gestured over his head. “The ceiling.”

“Ah . . .” Sunny threw his head back, nodding. “Who was it, then?”

“Take a guess.”

Sunny shook his head, grimacing as he stuffed his arms in his jacket.

“I’ve never understood that phrase,” he muttered, looking bored.

“It means you gotta guess—wait—why am I explaining this to you?”

“You can guess something, y’know? I don’t have a problem with that.” Sunny shrugged. “But to take a guess, as if it were something tangible? That’s just ridiculous.”

Ace stopped counting and turned to his associate, a blank expression framing his face. If this had been an attempt at humor, it had been a rather mediocre one. If it had been an honest thought, an opinion Sunny seldom imparted to anyone but himself when no one was around, a shower thought as some called it, then it was a strange one. While Ace found that there was some truth to what Sunny had said, it was simply an innocuous and stupid thing to say.

“Yeah.” Ace mumbled, nodding slowly. “Right.”

Sunny shrugged then cleared his throat. “How long is this going to take?”

“Don’t.” Ace huffed, narrowed eyes directed at his friend. He shook his head and mumbled, bills being swiftly accounted for. It was only when he finished counting the money stack he had that he addressed Sunny again. “Not while I’m taking inventory.”

“What about now?”

Placing the money on the bag, he rubbed his forehead with his thumb. “This’ll take as long as it needs to take, Sun.”

“You’re starting to sound like him, y’know?”

Ace grimaced. “It’s moments like these where I understand why he’s so easily irritated.”

“You should relax.” Sunny scratched the back of his neck. “Usually right-hand men don’t do well when stricken with anxiety.”

“After everything that has been happening, a little anxiety is the norm.”

Sunny slightly pouted in a ‘touché’ sort of way, head tilted to the left. He could understand that, especially since Ace had a point. With Frank Castle’s little crusade against everyone, the so-called Defenders targeting the Hand, and that enigmatic stranger that for the past five months had been targeting several operations linked to the Crew and the Dragon Lords, things had been exceedingly hectic. The boss had been handling the situation as best he could, but both Ace and Sunny could tell he was just one bad day away from putting a bounty on that asshole’s head.

The stranger, whom the Crew had begun to refer to as the Golden Shadow,  was part of an already growing and bloated community of good-doers, enhanced and otherwise. The presence of vigilantes meant that New York’s organized crime had escalated from clandestine to openly acknowledged, often with a good amount of dread. This Shadow had a proclivity for leaving a trail of bodies, none dead yet broken bones abounded plenty.

So, yes, anxiety, as of late, was the norm.

“The night’s awfully quiet,” said Sunny, his tone solemn. “Foreboding, isn’t it?”

“I’d rather not think about that.” Ace shook his head gently then his partner a pack of bills. “Here, count this.”

“As you wish,” said Sunny, his resting bitch-face becoming even bitchier.

          [3]

AS he had said, Ace was out of the building five minutes later. He and Sunny walked out, their pace calm, duffel bags full and heavy. Without being told what to do, knowing that they were done and had been there long enough, Kyungjae took the wheel and drove off into the night.

They didn’t speak, barely paying attention to the song faintly playing on the radio, and instead focused on looking over their shoulders every so often. Cops could’ve been close by. Them or whatever poor bastard that thought it wise to steal from the Daegu Crew. And because they rarely ever used guns—the boss wasn’t keen on them and they were only to be used only if and when the situation called for it—looking over their shoulder had become second nature.

Tonight, like every other night, they were unharmed. No guns. Just their wits, Ace’s black-belt, and Sunny’s snark since Kyungjae hadn’t held a knife since his initiation and Dimples preferred to do business without making a ruckus. Diplomacy, for the most part, was their greatest weapon and their first resort. That was the way the boss preferred it.

After twenty minutes of moving aimlessly through the city to throw off anyone that might have been on their trail, they headed straight for the rendezvous point. They met the boss wherever he told them to. Safe houses often changed and so did the rendezvous whenever a withdrawal operation was done. The boss had sent an address in Chinatown, some building he had his eye on for the future expansion of their business. He had asked that they were discreet.

So far, so good, Ace thought as Kyungjae parked in a narrow alley behind a creme-and-brown building.

As the others hopped out of the vehicle, duffel bags divided between each other, Ace took in his surroundings: the alley was mostly empty with two commercial trash-containers against a wall to his left and nothing else was in sight. It reeked of rotten food and something else that was morbidly familiar to him. While empty and not as dirty as most of the city’s alleyways Ace had seen or walked past, the place was not lived in. It was as though someone had cleaned its surface and made it sure no one would make camp there. The look of the place was certainly suspicious but it didn’t raise any big alarms in Ace’s mind.

He sniffed the rancid air, shook his head, then rushed to join the others as they opened a back door, making their way inward. Ace paused, checked, over his shoulder, then disappeared as the door behind him.

[a-splash-of-stucky]

A Messed Up Place | Five

Pairings: Bucky x Reader || Steve x Reader

Summary: Bucky tries to take his mind off you. Things don’t go as planned.

Warnings: Borderline smut (basically just some intense making out). Language, as usual.  I think that’s it....?

Notes: For @hellomissmabel’s challenge. I spent two hours or so writing this, instead of writing up my notes. Can you tell that I’ve got my priorities in check?

Also -- we’re a third of the way through the series, more or less! 

AMUP Masterlist

Bucky Barnes is very much conscious of the fact that his grave has already been dug. He’s now playing a waiting game, just hanging around, holding onto his will to live by the thinnest of threads. He’ll stick around until the final nail in his coffin is hammered into place and then—well. Then his worries will be gone, won’t they?

The nail-biting suspense consumes his every moment, hovering in the back of his mind like a pesky fly. No matter how hard he tries to shove the fear away, it always comes swirling back, stronger than ever. It’s all he can do to wait.

So he waits.

And waits.

And — goddammit when is Steve going to come and talk to him?!

It’s been nearly two weeks since Bucky decided to drink himself stupid in his bathtub and pour his heart out to Steve Rogers, aka the world’s most clueless best friend. Although a tiny part of Bucky is clinging to the hope — hah, hope. What a far-fetched concept — that Steve did not pay attention to Bucky’s drunken ramblings and has no idea who Bucky was talking about, a significantly larger part of him knows Steve. In fact, Bucky knows Steve better than Steve knows himself, sometimes. And if Bucky knows anything about Steve, it is that the man is smarter than appearances would imply. It’s tough to pull a fast one on him.

Which means that Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve knows that he was talking about you. Oh, who is he kidding? He wasn’t just talking about you, he was fucking professing his love for you. Bucky was essentially laying bare his heart and soul, spilling them all over the bathroom floor in vivid shades of love-struck red.

Bucky remembers the paralysing terror that gripped his muscles when he woke up the next morning and recalled the events of the night before. His memory of those couple of hours are fuzzy at best, tinged with the warm glow of alcohol-induced haziness, but he remembers the general gist of what was said and knows that it’s as convicting a piece of evidence as any. There’s no two ways about it; Bucky was referring to you.

Steve knows that Bucky has feelings for his girl.

What Bucky doesn’t know is why on earth Steve hasn’t approached him about it. It’s been over two weeks since the bathroom incident. In that time, Steve has carried on as normal, acting like nothing’s wrong between them. He’s behaving as if nothing’s changed, like everything’s right in the world. Then again, maybe Bucky’s just reading too much into the situation.

But because Steve has been going on with business-as-usual, he’s been dragging Bucky to the gym and out on runs at any given opportunity, trying to spend time together. Of course, Bucky wants to do anything but spend time with Steve — because really, why would he put himself through the torment of scrutinising every second, wondering when Steve will finally confront him — but he knows that avoiding Steve would come across as overly suspicious. Hence, although Bucky would much prefer hiding out in his room or some other, equally private and Steve-free place, he forces himself to plaster on fake smile after fake smile, laughing and swaggering around the place like nothing’s fucked up about him.

He’s terrified of what might happen if he were to stop pretending.

Maybe Steve wants Bucky to broach the topic. Or maybe, Steve is okay with sweeping the issue under the rug, pretending that it never happened, attributing it all to the looseness of tongue that comes from drinking a tad too much Asgardian mead. Bucky wouldn’t put that past him; in fact, pretending like it never happened in order to preserve Bucky’s pride sounds exactly like the kind of self-sacrificing thing that Steve Rogers would do.

Ah crap. He’s overthinking again.

Bucky is fully aware that he could put himself out of his misery if he just plucked up the courage and actually just talked to Steve, but therein lies the issue. Bucky doesn’t have courage. No matter what people say about him — he’s a coward at heart. Too afraid to tell you that he loved you and now, too afraid to come clean with Steve and potentially lose the trust of the only person who understands him in this strange new world.

Bucky wonders about a lot of things, but a thought that keeps on popping up is how Steve would react. Would he end his relationship with you so that Bucky could take his place? The two of you are pretty serious, so it’s a highly unlikely scenario, but still.

He’d like to think that there’s a chance.

He doesn’t deserve you, but Bucky wants you all the same. He doesn’t deserve you, but he wants to deserve you, wants to work his ass off to show you how much he cares. It’s conflicting, it’s confusing and it’s maddening enough that sometimes, all Bucky wants to do is ram his head against a wall. Several times. At full, no-holding-back, super-strength force. He’d bang his head several times, knock the thoughts of his head — or, y’know, knock himself out. Whichever came first.

It’s these kinds of thoughts that keep him up at night.

Bucky sighs heavily as he rolls onto his side and checks the clock he keeps on his bedside table. Seven minutes past five in the morning is an acceptable time to get up, no?  To be fair, he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before — three hours, at a stretch — but then again, when does he ever get more than four hours of sleep a night, anyway? Nowadays, thoughts of you, thoughts of Steve and worries about his life in general are enough fodder for his brain to chew over, keeping him tossing and turning well into the quiet hours of the morning.

He needs a distraction.

A distraction of a particular kind. Bucky knows that it’d only be a temporary fix, will only take his mind off the hell that his life has become — take his mind off you — for a couple of hours if he’s lucky, but fuck. He needs it. He needs a break from the raucous cacophony that is the inside of his head.

With a weary sigh, Bucky heaves himself out of bed, pulls on a pair of sweatpants and yesterday’s t-shirt, then trudges out to the into the common area in search of her. If he’s lucky, she’ll be here.

Natasha never was one for sleep.

Sure enough, when Bucky enters the spacious living room that functions as the compound’s main lounge area, he finds Natasha curled up on the plush armchair in the corner, mug of coffee in one hand, legs tucked underneath her body and a book propped up on the armrest of her chair. She’s dressed in slim-fit black jeans and a striped grey hoodie, with a splash of red on her lips to match the fiery redness of her hair. It’s not uncommon for him to find her like this most mornings. The two of them hardly ever sleep through the night — in fact, Bucky’s fairly certain that she sustains herself entirely on power naps throughout the day — so they’ve developed a kind of amiable, if rather silent, morning routine around each other.

Bucky knows that she’s heard him come in, so that fact that she’s chosen to not acknowledge him is entirely on purpose. He flops into the the two-seater sofa directly opposite her and clears his throat.

“Natasha?”

Her gaze flicks up sharply, coming to rest on him. Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as she studies him for all of two seconds, makes some sort of judgement in her mind and decides that Bucky is worth her attention. She lifts her mug to her cherry-red lips, poised to take a sip. Before she does, though, she arches an eyebrow inquisitively, as if to say go on, I’m listening.

Bucky licks his lips. “I need a favour,” he admits.

She makes a thoughtful humming noise, sips her coffee, then sets her mug and book down on the decorative side table to her left.

“Tell me more,” she replies.

———————

Amy is nice, by most people’s standards. More then nice, even. She’s got bleached-blonde hair that brushes her shoulders, a charming but not overtly-memorable face and a killer body, highlighted by the skin-tight blue velvet dress she’s wearing. Amy is kind enough to chuckle at Bucky’s half-hearted attempts at humour and is interesting enough to keep the conversation flowing easily.

He doesn’t know much about her background, only the barest details that Natasha thought would be useful to him. Bucky knows that she’s ex-SHIELD, went with Natasha on a couple of missions whilst the two were based in DC. Her skill-set meant that she got snatched up by a private security firm the moment SHIELD ceased to exist and now works as a bodyguard for high-level female clients. To be honest, Bucky doesn’t give a flying fuck about her background. All he cares about is the fact that she’s pretty, she’s sweet and she’s almost enough to take his mind off you.

Almost.

The waiter comes by at that moment, bottle of fancy red wine in one hand. He tops up their glasses and asks if everything’s alright.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Amy says, flashing him a polite smile.

She’s got nice teeth, Bucky notices absentmindedly. Takes care of her oral hygiene, he supposes. Good to know, given the fact that he’s probably going to get up-close-and-personal with her teeth in under an hour.

Sure, a part of him — the last remnants of James Buchanan Barnes, ladies-man of the 1930s — does feel a twinge of guilt at the thought of what tonight means. He’d been explicit with Natasha. He’d told her that he wanted a girl with a nice enough personality that he could stand having dinner with, and a nice enough body for him to fuck his way through his grief. It’s terrible of him, he knows this, but goddammit, how else is he supposed to give himself a break from thoughts of you?

To his credit, Bucky knows that Amy is under no illusions about what this evening is about. They’re going through the notions of dinner at a respectable restaurant just to make Bucky feel a little less terrible about himself; an attempt to pretend that chivalry is still alive and thriving. In reality, he and Amy know exactly where this night is headed: to her apartment. Possibly her bed, although Bucky’s not picky about where they do it. This is a fuck-date, through and through.

Bucky shifts in his seat and readjusts the rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt. Amy catches him fidgeting and raises one perfectly-manicured eyebrow.

“D’you wanna stay for dessert, or would you rather have something at my place?” she asks, batting her eyelashes suggestively.

Bucky chuckles, decides to play along with her game. “What kinda dessert are you offering, ma’am?”

Amy laughs softly as she pushes around the remains of her pasta with her fork. “Well…I was thinking…something sweet?”

“I like sweet,” Bucky murmurs, spooning the last of his mushroom risotto into his mouth.

“Mmm, maybe we could even have dessert in bed,”.

“Now you’re talking my language,” Bucky chuckles, waggling his eyebrows knowingly. The corner of her lips crooks up into a half-smile. It’s settled, then. Bucky signals to the waiter, pays for the bill, then leads Amy out of the restaurant with a hand resting on the small of her back.

The cab ride to her apartment is blissfully short, no more than ten minutes. Amy drapes her body against Bucky’s side; a pleasant source of warmth. She keeps her hand on his thigh, idly stroking up and down the inner seam of his dark skinny jeans, starting from the inside on his knee and stopping just a fraction short of where his dick is. He knows she’s doing it on purpose, trying to rile him up and boy does it work.

Bucky exits the cab with his leather jacket folded over one arm and strategically held in front of his body, to hide the semi he’s got going on. He catches Amy’s eyes flickering over him, the tiny smirk on her lips; she’s clearly aware of the effect she’s having on him.

She knows what she’s doing when she exists the elevator first, walking a few steps of Bucky so that he can admire the sinuous curve of her back and the gentle swish in her hips as she walks down the corridor to her place. Bucky knows that she knows that he’s watching, knows that she’s probably exaggerating the sway of her hips for his benefit, but damn, she looks good in those heels. His dick presses up a little bit harder against the fly of his jeans.

Her apartment is neat and nondescript, largely devoid of any kind of personalised touches. It’s the home of someone who’s hardly ever home, lacking the decor and finishing touches that give a place a lived-in feel. Bucky kicks the door shut behind him and allows himself to be pressed to the wall. Amy leans in close, but pauses a hair’s breadth away from his lips, giving him one last chance for him to back out.

The room stills. Tension is fraught in the air. She’s close enough that Bucky can feel her hair tickling his stubbled cheek, can feel the warmth of her breath against his lips every time she exhales.

Tonight is not about backing out.

Bucky surges forward, cupping the back of her neck with his flesh hand as he crushes their lips together. Amy responds in kind, immediately catching onto the fact that tonight is not the night for gentle touches and tender caresses. Bucky wants it rough, wants it tinted with the red-hot filter of pain. He nips at her bottom lip and, when she moans heatedly, slips his tongue into her mouth, flicking it around teasingly. Amy huffs in frustration and fists her hands into the front of his shirt, using her grip to bodily yank him over to her sofa.

She pushes Bucky into the cushions and stands between his spread thighs. Bucky runs his hands up the backs of her legs, slipping them underneath her skirt and letting them rest just below the swell of her ass. Her hair is fluffy and slightly disheveled, eyes heavy-lidded and pupils blown with desire. She kicks her heels off then climbs into Bucky’s lap, shins bracketing the outsides of his thighs.

Amy’s close enough that Bucky can feel the heat radiating off her like a furnace. He leans into her touch as she trails her fingers down his cheek, humming in approval as she scratches her nails against the skin behind his ear. Amy licks her bottom lip coquettishly, cocks her head to the side and comes in close, brushing her lips against Bucky’s own.

Bucky feels like he’s been starved of touch as of late, so he lets his hands roam wherever they may go; kneading her ass, smoothing over her hips and trailing up her back. Amy’s nimble fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt as she presses her lips to his more insistently, deepening the kiss. Bucky closes his eyes and lets her tongue into his mouth, tries to lose himself in the moment, attempts to make the dissonant racket inside his head quieten down to ambient white noise.

As is to be expected, he fails.

Kissing Amy, drinking in her taste, feeling her up is all well and good but it’s not…it’s not you. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong, doing this. Bucky is conflicted. Her smell is wrong. It’s too flowery, too sweet, a far cry from the fresh, crisp scent of your skin. Perhaps that’s a good thing, he tells himself. But as much as Bucky tries to convince his mind that this is what he needs, he knows that in reality, he’s just lying to himself.

He doesn’t need Amy.

It’s not Amy’s laugh that makes his heart thrum a little bit faster. It’s not Amy’s touch that makes Bucky feel complete. It’s not Amy’s eyes that calm the storm that rages inside him.

He doesn’t need Amy. He needs you.

There’s a sinking feeling settling into the pit of his stomach, like someone’s dropped an anchor and is bringing tonight’s events to their premature end. With much reluctance and a heaving sigh, Bucky pushes hard against Amy’s shoulders and forces her to sit back in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” she asks breathlessly, raking her fingers through her hair to push it out of her face.

Bucky sighs again, smiles apologetically and scratches at his chin. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t do…this,” he mutters, using one hand to gesture in vague circles between them. “It’s not you…it’s me,” he says immediately, “Sorry. I—you’ve been great, but I just…can’t. M’sorry,”.

He braces himself internally for the slap. The rejection, disdain and disappointment. He is surprised when it does not come.

“There’s someone else, huh?” Amy murmurs, cocking her head to one side as her understanding dawns on her expression.

Bucky winces. “Um..kind of? I—yeah. It’s…it’s real complicated,”.

Amy exhales a breath of air in a rapid whoosh, nodding her head as she makes a disappointed clucking sound with her tongue. “Well. I kinda knew. I was expecting this, if I’m honest,”.

Bucky’s gaze snaps towards her. “You what?”

Amy shrugs. “Kinda had an inkling the moment I sat down at that table, Barnes. You weren’t in the right headspace for a hookup. Been reading the bad vibes off you this entire night — s’ kinda what I’m paid to do,” she says.

“Damn it,” Bucky grumbles, “I really was making an effort,”.

“Really?” Amy asks, the teasing lilt returning to her voice. “You call that makin’ an effort? You were a terrible kisser,”.

“Hey!” Bucky protests.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Amy chuckles, petting his cheek. “No, it’s fine, I was prepared for this to happen, so I’m not that disappointed, really,”

“Sorry,” Bucky says again; quieter, more sincerely this time.

She smiles gently, rests her hand against the side of his neck. “Don’t be sorry. I get it. I hope things work out for you, Bucky,”.

The right side of his lips twitches in a wan attempt at a smile. “Me too,” he breathes. Amy appraises him for a moment longer, then swings her legs off him and throws herself onto her couch, sprawling ungracefully across the empty space.

She lifts her head up slightly to look at him. “D’you wanna stay, or…?”

Bucky shakes his head ruefully as he does up the top buttons on his shirt and looks around for where his jacket’s been discarded. “I…think I’ll be heading back now, if it’s all the same to you,” he tells her.

Amy waves her hand dismissively, “Eh, the new season of Stranger Things is out, and I need to catch up on that anyway. It’s no big deal, for me,”. Bucky mentally thanks Amy for being so cool with all this. He needs to tell Nat to send her a thank-you present of some sort. Bucky stands up and retrieves his jacket from where it’s been dropped on the floor. He bunches it up in both hands as he chews on his lip and stands awkwardly in her entrance hallway.

“Something wrong?” Amy calls.

“This was…it was nice, Amy,” Bucky says, shooting her a half-smile, “I had fun, I really did. I’m sorry I…yeah. this was fun,”.

“It was,” she agrees, “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough to take your mind off whoever this was. Must be one hell of a crush you got there, Barnes; most men find me irresistible when I’m grinding in their laps,”.

“I will admit, you almost had me, at one point,” Bucky laughs, as he shrugs on his jacket.

“Damn. I’m losing my touch,” she mutters.

Bucky chuckles as he turns the handle of her door. “Bye, Amy. Thanks for—everything,”.

“It was a pleasure. Have a good night, Bucky,”.

———————

It’s a clear night, so Bucky decides to get off the train a few stops early and walk the rest of the way to the compound. His rationale is that the crisp, slightly chilly night air will help to clear his mind.

He’ll take anything that has even the slightest chance of clearing his mind, at this stage.

Bucky can’t stop thinking about you. He’s in love and he’s suffering as a result. Every thought he has of you is bittersweet; you are his pleasure and his sole source of pain, his light and the very reason for the darkness threatening to consume him.

Bucky’s mind is a mess of emotions right now. His pissed off with himself, envious of Steve, frustrated with the universe and generally fed-up with how shit his life has become. He knows that the two of you aren’t together — you were never together in the first place — so he has no right to feel like this. Why should he feel protective and jealous and angered in a way that has his hands clenching into tightly-balled fists? Bucky has no right to feel this way, especially not when he factors Steve into the equation, but none of that — none of the rationalising of what is right and wrong and should and shouldn’t be — changes the fact that he does feel.

He feels too much.

Tonight was a bust. Bucky knows that he’s fully entitled to sleep with another woman. There’s no way you could’ve held that against him, what with you being in a committed relationship with Steve, and all. Even so, Bucky can’t help but feel that by sleeping with Amy, he would’ve been cheating on you, in some way. It’s utterly irrational, but fucking Amy would’ve felt dirty and sinful in all the wrong ways, like he’d be betraying your trust, somehow. He knows that that thought is complete nonsense, but it’s one that he can’t ignore.

That seems to be the recurring theme, Bucky notes. He knows. He knows this, he knows that, but the fact is, he knows. And yet, no matter what the logical part of his brain is telling him to do, Bucky never seems to be able to listen to it. It seems that his body is hard-wired to follow the instincts of his love-stricken heart, and look where that’s taken him.

In a way, he’s glad of the way the night’s turned out. Amy doesn’t deserve to be used that way, as if she were a means to an end. She’s more than just a temporary patch-up for a problem that has no solution. Bucky has fucked up a lot in recent weeks; he doesn’t need to go out of his way to make yet another mistake.

His feet have carried him to the gates of the compound without him even realising where he was going. Bucky taps his access code into the panel, lets FRIDAY scan his thumbprint and then makes his way up the gravel drive once the gate lets him through.

It’s just after midnight when he slips through the front door, so Bucky’s pretty surprised when he sees that the hallway light is still on. Most of the lights in the compound are operated via sensors, with FRIDAY automatically turning them off when no one’s in the room. Bucky catches the low thud of footsteps and—

—his breath catches in his throat.

“Heya, Bucky,” you chirp. You’re dressed in a pair of loose flannel pyjama pants and one of Steve’s t-shirts. A glass of water is in your hand.

“Hey,” Bucky croaks. God. How do you manage to make fucking pyjamas look sexy?

“Nat told me you went out tonight. Had fun?” you ask, eyes quickly taking in his outfit.

“Umm…yeah, it was okay, I guess,” Bucky murmurs distractedly, “Not the best night of my life,”.

“Hmm, well…” you let your voice trail off as you glance down the corridor, “I—um..I better…Steve’s waiting, I think,”.

Bucky’s eyes widen a fraction before he catches himself. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, sorry—didn’t mean to keep you,”.

“No, it’s fine!” you assure him, as you shuffle down the corridor, towards your room. “G’night, Bucky,”.

“Night,” Bucky replies.

Bucky doesn’t bother to add the ‘good’ because there’s nothing good about tonight. Not for him, at least.

————————- Tags are open (permanent and for AMUP), but I’m only accepting tag requests from asks or PMs. Replies/comments will be ignored.