Okay I've had this project open for like. Way too long now and I've hit a brick wall with it but i still would like to share what I have so here's this idea I've been mulling around about the disco skills being court jesters. I only have the psyche skills done but hopefully soon I'll have the inspiration for the others and also fully color these. Enjoy

omg i’m so glad u have a tumblr!! ur literally my fav mgg fic author ❤️ i’m a hoe for that man can u do sleeping together for the first time with like an age gap or something spicy lmao

hi omg thank you 😊 that literally means the world to me! also thank you for requesting one of my fave things to write haha i love first-time-having-sex-together tropes. happy reading! 

summary: reader is an artist who needs some inspiration, preferably from her new boyfriend.

content warnings: unprotected penetrative sex, age gap, creampie, a little breeding kink, oral (male receiving), kind of Dom!Matthew vibes, dirty talk, praise kink with a hint of degradation as well (not super prominent). 

word count: 4.4k

relationship: Fem!Reader/Matthew

masterlist

I straighten up and bend backward a bit to relieve the pressure on my spine. my hair is falling out of the knot on my head and I push a stray piece behind my ear, placing the wooden paintbrush between my teeth. aside from the warm, mellifluous tones pouring from the speakers, the apartment is silent.

I've hit a creative wall, it seems. every time I've tried to paint this week, I find myself standing above a stretched canvas with nothing but a frown and crossed arms. even little details feel wrong to add; the empty space is taunting me. it doesn't help that my thoughts have been flooded with memories and fantasies of Matthew. we've been on a couple dates now, sweet outings that leave me fluttery inside. I remember the words he says, the shape of his smile and the curve of his jaw, like they've been been in my mind forever. he's elusive, however, and hasn't initiated anything sexual with me. I think he's afraid of coming on too strong. there's a considerable age gap between us, but I don't care. I want him all the time-- whenever I'm at work, or trying to paint, all I can think of is how good it would feel to have those strong, veined hands on me.

christ.

before I can lose my courage, I text him. if anything can inspire me, it's his presence. likely, he's at work and won't be able to respond or come over, but it's worth a shot.

I'm just sliding my phone into my back pocket when the response comes in. a smile spreads over my face; he'll be over in half an hour. in the meantime, I'll sweep the background with shades that remind me of him: rich, emerald greens, honeyed tones that reminisce of his eyes. he'll pop against any backdrop.

I'm bent furiously over my work when he tells me he's arrived, and my heart thuds in my chest. even after hanging out several times, the butterflies are as alive as ever. they flood my stomach while I buzz him into the building.

"hi." he greets me when I open the door, curls messy. he must have just come from work.

"hi, Matthew." I smile up at him. his gaze travels over my face, my body, taking in my appearance for a moment.

"you look lovely." he says it genuinely, despite the fact that I'm literally wearing a paint t-shirt under a pair of rummaged overalls. I forgot to fix my hair, too.

"thanks." I blush, about to turn away when he bends down and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. it's the first time he's said hello that way, and part of me flushes with the knowledge that he's attracted to me right now.

"now," he looks around my apartment as I step back to let him in. "what can I help you with?"

"I have a small favor to ask." I spin the paintbrush between my index and third fingers, reaching out to take his wrist and pull him towards the couch.

"anything," he replies, then sees my setup. "is this your studio?"

"slash living room." I chuckle. Matthew sits on the soft cushions before staring up at me. I don't miss his pupils dilating as they travel over the shape of my body. instead of allowing myself get distracted, I gesture to the wet paint on my canvas. "I need you to model for me."

"like, be your muse?" he beams at the notion, incredibly pleased with himself. I like this about Matthew; although he can be self-deprecating and doesn't take himself too seriously, he appreciates my admiration.

"oh, hush." I giggle. he laughs, reclining on the couch now that he knows why I invited him over.

"how do you want me to pose, Picasso?"

"well, let me re-orient myself." I hold up a hand, grab the abandoned easel, and try to get everything set up. he never takes his eyes off me.

"why were you painting on the floor?" he asks, slightly amused. I jerk my head toward him, narrow my eyes.

"it's my process."

"no judgement." he holds up his hands in surrender. I place the canvas carefully on the easel so that he can't see my work, then gather up my paints, palette, and brushes. there's a moment of pure silence when I frown as I glance between his face and the chasm of space awaiting its representation.

"you look tired." I observe. he lets out a sound that resembles a laugh.

"I am."

"how long did you sleep last night?" I ask as I start painting, focusing on the shape and planes of his face. if I don't get the composition exactly correct, I'll have to throw the whole thing out.

"three hours." he says this like it's normal. my eyebrows shoot up.

"three hours? why?"

"I had to work on lines." he shrugs.

"don't move." I order. he suppresses a grin.

"my sincerest apologies."

"uh huh," I dip my brush into a pale skin shade that I've mixed to match his pigment. "you need to get more sleep."

we continue on like this for a while, making light conversation while I get down the basics of my portrait. I can't handle anything that requires more than a fraction of my attention while doing this, and he seems to appreciate my concentration.

that said, it's beyond difficult to focus when he stares at me like every movement is magical, something he wants to memorize. I feel pliable under his watch, a little bit like a doll. he could bend me every which way, ask me to do anything, and I would give in. and who could blame me?

my thoughts slip into darkened territories, and the hue of my cheeks must do the same, because he gets this mischievous smile on his face that I can't ignore.

"what are you thinking about?" he asks softly.

"hm?" I turn to him. "oh, nothing."

"really?" his brows lift in that intimidating, delightfully entertained way that sets my skin on fire.

"I..." I trail off, wondering if I should give into the chaos in my mind. the thoughts that slash through my psyche whenever I see the width of his shoulders, the fit of his shirt. "I should have asked you to pose nude."

Matthew blushes-- actually blushes-- when I say this, his head dropping momentarily as a grin takes over his features. when he lifts his gaze to mine again, there's a different look in his eyes.

"yeah?"

"mhmm." no taking it back now. "I think that would be too distracting, though."

"how so?" the corner of his mouth tugs up.

"you know why." I avert my attention, only once flitting back to him. his tongue darts out over his lips and he holds contact.

"say it." he dares me. the tone of it, slightly dominant, makes my stomach flip. quietly, I swallow the lump in my throat.

"I have trouble keeping my hands to myself."

we stare at each other, words finding and dying on tongues in the silence.

at this point, my painting has been somewhat abandoned. brushstrokes sit unaccompanied by actual structure, except for the general godly shape of his face, and I'm clenching the utensil between my fingers as if to channel the sexual tension elsewhere.

"is that right?" he notes my absolute stillness and stands up, walking toward me in a relaxed, confident gait. all I can do is look up at him when he stands before me. the top button of his shirt is undone, and I can see the smooth skin beneath, each of the other buttons awaiting my fingertips.

"yes." the word is messy. he runs his index finger over the shell of my ear, bends down, whispers so low that the phrase almost gets lost in the air.

"me too."

he plants a gentle kiss on my jaw, hand reaching tentatively to rest on my waist. I can feel the caution in his actions, the worry he has about pressuring me. I'm cognizant of every breath he takes, especially the hitch when I give into myself and kiss him.

his mouth is warm and soft. the tension twists and knots between our bodies, roiling in the empty space as we resist the energy still. but I don't want to resist. I know that I want this, and he seems to want it just as much.

"Matthew." I pull away, his teeth tugging gently on my bottom lip.

"what is it?" his eyes, dark, search mine. my pulse quickens beneath my skin.

"I want to be with you."

"you are with me." he chuckles lightly, glancing at my features. the full circles of my eyes, the bloom of pink spreading over my cheekbones.

"no," I shake my head. "I mean... I want to be with you."

"you want to have sex?" he asks, clarifying. I nod eagerly, though he frowns a bit. "are you sure?"

"do you not want to?" I try to keep the disappointment out of my face. maybe I misread the situation. the most we've done is make out on his couch and once in an Uber on the way back from our first date. but there's a sweet, burning sensation whenever I see him, something I want to dive into. I want him; I've wanted him since the moment we met.

"of course I want to," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. relief loosens my chest. "I just don't want you to regret anything."

"I couldn't ever regret this." my eyes travel over his frame, over the little scar beneath his chin. he angles my face up to examine my features. there's a smirk on his face.

"then what are we waiting for?" his hands move to encircle my waist, tugging me to him like I'm something long-awaited, like he needs my weight against his. our lips meet again, my head tilting as we kiss deeply, my fingers twining in his soft hair. I'm standing on my tiptoes as I do it, and one of his hands reaches down to squeeze my ass. he grunts as my pelvis moves against the quickly-forming hard-on in his pants. I can feel it against my stomach as he ruts against me just slightly. I smirk.

"sit on the couch again." I whisper when I pull away. he's holding my face with one hand, staring into my eyes with the kind of dominance that tells me he knows exactly what to do. but I appreciate that he follows my request, pulling my hips toward him as he backs up and sinks onto the cushions. he sits, awaiting my next move. when I sink onto my knees and settle between his legs, he bites hard on his lip. I don't move at first, willing to draw out this beautiful moment when he's watching with undivided attention.

"what are you doing down there, sweetheart?" he feigns innocence when I give him my doe eyes. I run slender fingers over the erection in his pants, his quickened breath an indicator of just how needy he secretly is. I revel in it.

my free hand wraps around his upper thigh, digging my nails in slightly. he's so gorgeous, and the tension of his muscles beneath me is enough to break my resistance. I start to palm him through the fabric, torturing slowly while he runs fingers through my hair and tries not to buck up against my touch. I finally get around to undoing the button on his pants. he waits impatiently. I tug them down his legs, lingering on the waistband of his boxers. when they come down as well, another kind of knot forms in my tummy. he's perfect.

"oh my god." he throws his head back when his dick hits his stomach, the pleasure of releasing it its own sensation.

"hm?" I wonder aloud, wrapping my hand around the base and starting to slowly pump him. he raises his head to look at me.

"you're just... doing so well." he breathes. I grin at how easily I've got him; I was worried about being too shy or him being more experienced, but he's greedy for me. I love the power I have right now.

I surprise him by flattening my tongue against the underside of his cock, dragging it up over the throbbing vein and pausing at the top. I let him stare at me with my mouth hovering over him, the head resting on the tip of my tongue. he moans when I begin to kitten lick the precum that leaks out, grip tightening in my hair as it comes out of the ponytail I made earlier. the veins in his arm clench as I sink slowly onto him. my cheeks hollow. his jaw drops open, dewy skin catching the light, as I start to suck on him.

"fuck..." he trails off. I begin to bob up and down, doing tricks with my tongue and swirling around the head, savoring every single second. his desperate touch, the way he bucks his hips up involuntarily when I try to take him to the hilt, all of it causes me to moan. vibrations draw out sinful noises from him as well, those heavenly sounds that he litters with my name. my hands rest on his thighs at first, then move up to rest on the warm, taut skin of his abdomen. I crave every centimeter of his skin, his contact, especially when I can feel the rushed rise and fall of his panting. I give him full use of my throat, sliding over him and moaning with every tug of my hair. he mutters profanities, praises me, struggles to keep his eyes open just to see me peek up at him from beneath my lashes. his expression tells me he's got plans for me.

"if you don't stop, I'm gonna cum, baby." he groans, smoothly tugging me off of him. there's a slight popping sound and I settle onto my knees, staring up at him. the smile on my face is unmistakable. I love that I can do this to him. I grip his legs and pull myself up into his lap, drawing myself across him just before his erection, glancing down at it. his hands rub over the tops of my thighs, tracing over the curve of my hips and resting on my ass. I start to roll my body down, my lips finding his throat as I suck and bite. my tongue licks over his Adam's apple and he shudders, drawing me closer so that my stomach brushes his cock.

"stop teasing." he starts to undo the straps of my overalls, chuckling a bit to himself as they fall easily. I blush.

"pretty sexy." I joke. Matthew suddenly grabs my chin, holds me in place so that I look him dead in the eyes.

"you're perfect." he smiles admiringly, then toys with the hem of my t-shirt. I reach down, pull it off and toss it somewhere in the room. I'm not wearing a bra, and Matthew slides his hands up my waist, ribcage, pausing just below my tits. when I grab his fingers and place them over me, his dick twitches.

"excited?" I smirk. his fingertips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to toy with my nipples, the pad of his thumbs teasing me. I sigh, chest pushing out towards him desperately. he holds my body like he's worried I'll crumble, but also in a way that connotes a deep longing. something spilling over.

"can I take you to the bedroom?" he asks me breathlessly, one of his hands leaving my chest to stroke his own cock. the sight makes me groan helplessly while I grip his shoulders and grind against his lap. he picks up the pace for himself. "I can't wait any longer."

I nod eagerly, gasping when he stops touching himself to pull up his pants, hoist me up into his arms, and stand, carrying me with surprising ease down the hallway of my apartment. I point him to the correct room and he laughs when we get inside.

"you're messy." he laughs, although I'm not sure if he means the scattered papers around my bedroom or the whine that issues from my throat as I reach for his clothed dick while I'm pressed to him. it's sitting against my navel and I want to see his undone expressions.

I ignore the playful comment; he lays me down gingerly on the bed, straightening up to gaze at my figure before I push the rest of the overalls down my legs and cast them off. he lets out a giggle as I pout at the work I have to put into getting naked.

"stop laughing..." I blush, smiling. but I'm giggling too. he grazes the inside of my thigh, unable to keep from touching me while I discard my panties.

"I'm sorry." he laughs in a way that shows he isn't sorry at all, but the soft kiss he plants on my lips tells me it's all endearing to him. I wrinkle my nose slightly. for the first time being naked around him, I feel surprisingly comfortable. he watches me with a quiet adoration, like I've spun sugar and gold between my fingers. unable to contain myself anymore, I grab fistfuls of his shirt and undo the rest of the buttons. every second that his skin isn't against mine is a new kind of torture. it comes off easily and then the pants come off, too, until we're just staring at each other.

"do you still wanna do this?" he speaks carefully with me. I don't know where to look-- at his perfect chest, stomach, the purplish bruises already forming across his throat, or his enraptured face. it's almost overwhelming, and the waves of desire crash over me, hindering my words.

"yes," I nod. "yes, yes, yes." the word keeps falling from my lips even as he crawls on top of me, burying his nose into my collarbone and kissing feverishly. one hand supports his arm beside my head while the other reaches down to part my legs. I sigh at the cool air that's interrupted by his dick rubbing over my folds. he starts to grind down, drawing out every second of foreplay while I try to catch my breath. my eyes tilt to the ceiling, fluttering shut. I bask in every sensation. his warmth, his weight, all of it presses down.

"do we need a condom?" he asks softly, his cock throbbing against my center.

"birth control." I shake my head. he nods against my skin, allows me to tangle my fingers in his curls. "I'm clean."

"me too." I reply. he grabs my hip and yanks it towards him, pulling his chest away to straighten while he lines himself up at my entrance. he's concentrating on the place where our bodies meet, eyes full of lust when they peek up at mine.

"tell me if you need me to stop." he says softly.

"okay." I can't think of anything else. every cell of my existence is consumed with thoughts of impatience, and when he slides into me, my thighs tense and my mouth drops open.

"Matthew... oh my god." my voice is more like a mewl, in shock as my walls squeeze around him like they're trying to reject the sudden pressure between my legs. his jaw clenches, sinking into me until he reaches about halfway.

he lets out a surprising groan, leans down to kiss my shoulder as he finds a sweet spot. our chests are pressed together and, judging by the way he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts my torso to his, he likes the feeling.

we stay there a moment, him trying not to hurt me. but then I lift my pelvis up, trying to take more, and he inhales sharply.

"do something," I beg him quietly. "please."

I feel his lips curl into a smile and he pulls his face up to see my expressions. his hips push forward, my body sliding up the bed with the force. he watches my eyes roll back, my ribcage expand, my face overcome by pleasure. his gaze is unrelenting with lips slightly parted as he begins to thrust in and out of me.

I'm already a panting, moaning mess beneath him. he touches his nose to mine, swallowing each other's breaths while he moves.

"is this how you want it, baby?" he smirks, getting lost in his own lust. I nod and he gently turns my face to his. "tell me what you want."

"more." I sigh, hips again raising to meet the thrusts that are growing more forceful each time. my nails drag up his back, the nape of his neck, tangling in his hair and tugging at the ends. he sinks his teeth into my neck lightly and moans. I wrap my legs around his torso.

"such a pretty girl..." he growls in my ear. his grip on the sheets tightens when I clench myself around him, drawing him impossibly closer to my core. I can't help the helpless moans spilling out of me. I'm insatiable right now, scratching at his shoulders until I'm sure I'll leave red marks. he groans lasciviously at the clawing, ramming into me with an unrelenting voracity.

"oh my god," I yelp, back arching as he hits my g-spot. "right there, Matthew." my pleas fall on receptive ears: he holds me tighter to his chest and pounds into me.

"you like getting fucked by older men?" he whispers dirty things in my ear and I nod quickly, hardly able to speak through the ungodly sounds escaping my mouth. I cling to him and he lets me, treating every limb like it belongs to him.

"yes-- fuck, yes." I moan, almost sliding out of his grip from how hard he goes.

"you can take it," he breathes out, fingertips digging into my ribs while he holds me up. he's leaving marks that won't go away for a while, remnants of the full power of his desire. I want more, writhing and using my limited mobility to grind against him. he chuckles darkly over my skin. "look at you."

"Matthew, I'm gonna--" I gasp when he slams into me particularly hard. "I'm gonna cum."

"good." he shudders slightly, that attitude showing again. he reaches his hand up a moment to run through my hair. "cum on me, princess."

my lips part and I try to gulp down air, but it's impossible with the way he's holding my attention. the thing about Matthew is that he's so sweet and gentle that whenever he looks at me like I'm a plaything, it shocks my insides. they turn to jelly, eager to please and quick to satisfy. he switches so easily with me, and he doesn't even need to request my submission. I give it more than willingly.

"fuck me..." I pant out, feeling my pussy start to clench over and over around him. my orgasm fuzzies the edges of my vision, creeping up my spine until it's arched. "oh fuck-- Matthew!" I practically scream while my frame gives out. I'm shuddering, crying out at the absolute euphoria wracking my body.

"scream my name, baby." he groans, his own orgasms approaching quickly. the fluttering of my cunt around him is causing the vein in his forehead to throb. he rocks into me, the headboard knocking into the wall while he nears the edge. "such a good girl for me."

I nod and meet his thrusts with my hips while I ride out my orgasm, inadvertently finding myself wound up again. the pleasure of his fingers when they reach between our bodies to rub my clit causes me to buck into him, whining mercifully while he gets me off again.

"oh--" he sucks in a breath when I squeeze, keeping him here with me. "you feel so good."

he starts to lose control, hips juddering to get as deep as he can get.

"can I fill you up, baby?"

"yes." I reply immediately. he smiles a little, lifting me up more so that he can hold me under my ass while he pounds into me so deeply, I can feel his dick brushing my cervix.

"oh my god," he moans, the sound desperate as I feel him twitch and spill inside of me. he keeps pushing as though to keep his cum within me, panting over my skin. "such a tight little cunt."  

the circles on my clit, combined with the sinful things he continues to say, cause me to whimper and climax all over again. I moan his name, absorbed in the warmth of his seed in my stomach.

"you want more?" he slows his thrusts but pleasures me through my orgasm while I nod helplessly.

"I'll cum in you again tonight." he promises, taking my shaking, weak form as a sign to withdraw. both of us wince at the sensitivity until he lays me back down on the bed so gently, it makes me question if what we just did was real.

neither of us speaks for a moment, trying to regain our composure as he rolls down onto the mattress beside me. I stare up at the ceiling, feeling him drip between my thighs.

"that was..." he turns his head to gauge my reaction. I don't even bother to hide the satisfied grin on my face.

"amazing."

"yeah?" he rolls over onto his side and places one large hand on my stomach. his touch makes me bloom.

"mhmm." I hum. his face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, a beautiful sight that makes me want to kiss him all over again. I didn't know it was possible to feel this way for someone so quickly.

"can I get you anything?" he smiles. I don't say anything at first, only reach out to cup his face in my hands and pull him to me for a chaste peck.

"no, thank you." I rub my nose with his. "I'm gonna take a shower and make something to eat if you want to join me."

"definitely." he examines my features once more as if to assess damage. but there's only pure joy painted across my face. "are you sure I didn't go too hard on you?"

"you can go harder tonight." I tease.

"what about your painting?" he suddenly recalls the project lying in the living room.

"rain check." I shrug. he laughs, wraps an arm around my waist.

"alright, then."

shampoo bottles

a friends with benefits gone wrong. harry can’t bring himself to get rid of everything you’ve left at his place after things fall apart. beat up red cars, crumpled sweatshirts and of course, shampoo bottles.

based off the song “shampoo bottles” by peach pit.

pairing: harry x reader words: 6.9k rating: M

a/n: this is just a little something i had inspiration for ! like i said its based off the song “shampoo bottles” by peach pit (great song great band). its an OU but im not regarding tour dates or quarantine or wtv, i just have dates so its easier to follow since i go back and forth a lot ! its a bit of a different writing style than ive done before so hopefully everyone likes it ! would love to hear what you think, and enjoy !

                                                            ***

November 20th

The shampoo bottles taunted him.

The worst part was Harry wished they weren’t empty. He wished that there was still even a drop left in them so that he could rub it through his own hair. Although having milked them of their last contents weeks ago, they still sat in the corner of his shower.

The smell lingered on them. The sweet smell of some flower, maybe some orange blossom, he didn’t ever really know. All he knew is that he was addicted to the smell, and seeing the bottles sit in the corner as he showered made him feel like he could smell them, like he could smell you.

He remembered the day you brought the bottles over, claiming to be annoyed with the way his shampoo just wasn’t the same. The idea of you smelling like him brought a heat to his stomach, he liked the smell of your shampoo even better. And now the bottles sat there. Taunting him.

October 15th

“What’s with the bag?” Laughing as he pointed at the bag in your hand, he wondered what you could possibly be bringing with you to the washroom.

“Brought my own shampoo,” you pulled a bottle out of the canvas tote bag around you were holding, smile wide on your lips. “And some other things. Hope you don’t mind.”

He jutted his lips out in a mock pout. “What’s wrong with my things?”

“Don’t like your shampoo.” You hummed, disappearing behind the still open door frame that led to the washroom. “Don’t worry! I still like your nice moisturizer, does wonders for my skin.”

He scrambled up in his sheets at the sound of the shower turning on. Standing in the door frame of the washroom, he watched as you pulled off your underwear and dropped them aside. He knew that you could feel him watching you, and that you were pretending not to notice or care.

Stepping into the shower, shutting the glass door behind you as you let the water hit your back. He stayed where he was for a minute, until steam was beginning to fog the glass door that separated you two and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Let me do that,” humming as he stepped into the shower next to you, just as you were reaching for the shampoo bottle that you brought.

“Awfully nice of you,” moving aside slightly, you passed him the shampoo bottle. Moving around so that he stood directly in front of, you letting you stand under the stream of water. Squeezing some shampoo out onto his hand, he put the bottle down and rubbed his hand through your hair.

“Feels nice,” you shut your eyes, Harry watched water droplets fall down your forehead that end up getting caught in your eyelashes. He brough both hands to your head, massaging the shampoo in. Taking extra time to rub his fingertips into your scalp, enjoying the content smile on your lips as you leaned into his touch.

He knew you, he knew you well. In this moment he knew that you were doing it on purpose: the small moans in the back of your throat as he rubbed his hands against your head, the way you arched your back slightly, and the way you titled your head back in the same way you did when his head was between your thighs.

Tilting your head in his hands so that the stream of water hit your scalp, rinsing out the suds. The smell around him was only of the sweet orange blossom mixed with something else, he could never put his finger on it.

“All done,” he grinned, tapping your eyelid gently. He watched as you rubbed the water from your eyes, blinking them open to gaze into his.

He kept his hands around you, dropping to your shoulder as he pulled himself closer to you. Semi hard length pressing into your thigh, your eyes dropped down and were soon followed by your hands. Jolt sent through his abdomen as your warm hands wrapped around him, lightly tugging and pulling.

“’s nice,” he mumbled, feeling the blood leave his brain and relocate between his legs. Your grip tightened around him, thumb rubbing over his tip in a way that made his hips buck into your hand. His grip around you tightened when your eyes met his again, tongue darting out to lick water from your lips.

His legs nearly buckled when you dropped down to your knees, remaining under the shower stream. He didn’t mind being in the colder side of the shower, especially if you were going to be on your knees in front of him.

“Want to get me in your mouth?” His voice nearly surprised him at its hoarseness. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had you like this before, it was just that every time you had your hands on him it drove him completely crazy.

Watching your slow nod, Harry wrapped a hand over your head, tugging on the recently washed strands as he encouraged you. Not able to take his eyes off of you as you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, slowly easing him into your mouth until your lips met where your hand was still wrapped around him.

“Look so good like this.”

November 20th

His hand didn’t do you justice, but it was all he had. It was like the smell of your shampoo filled his senses every time he stepped foot in his shower, no every time he stepped foot in his washroom. Every time he saw those goddamn shampoo bottles sitting. Untouched.

He just couldn’t bring himself to throw them out.

Nothing could clear his mind. It had been weeks, and nothing he did could get his mind off of you. Maybe that was his own fault. He knew it was his own fault. His place was littered with traces of you.

Part of him probably got something out of his pain, but he didn’t care.

Not when he couldn’t bring himself to clean out his bathroom, because of the way your toothbrush sat so nicely next to his. Or the way you had brought him some organic soaps, claiming they smelt really good and were made out of all kind of nice essential oils.

He couldn’t even bring himself to use that bar of soap, knowing the more he used it the smaller it would get, and soon it’d be gone.

But his wallowing really hit an all time high when he found your sweatshirt.

He really thought you had taken all your clothes with you. You didn’t leave a lot of them at his place to begin with. Clothes being the one thing you claimed you didn’t need as you helped yourself freely to his closet.

But when he was going through said closet, he found a bunched up blue sweatshirt he had forgotten he kept.

September 2nd

It was an odd rainy night, and Harry didn’t feel like going out. He was no stranger to poor weather, but the rain seemed to be the last thing he needed to decided that he would rather stay in. Relieved when you had shared his opinion, agreeing to come over with a bottle of margarita mix. It was just the two of you, Harry just wanted a calm night in with his friend and maybe a couple drinks, ones they could make themselves.

Soon you were seated on his couch, leaning against the armrest with your feet pointed towards him. Cozy in your sweatshirt, gripping your drink tight between your fingers.  

“Would you let me draw one for you?”

You spluttered out a laugh at his request. “God no!” Your laugh deepened when you glanced up at him. “Nothing against you, Harry. Just want a professional to do it.”

The movie put in was long forgotten, now facing each other and talking about where you should get your first tattoo. You had told him what you wanted to get, you just had no idea where it should go.

“Fine,” he huffed, playfully of course. His head felt hazy, couple of drinks have come and gone and he was still nursing another strong cocktail in his hands. “So, where are you gonna get it?”

“That’s the problem,” you muttered, taking a big sip of your drink. “I don’t think I want it really visible, like not on my arms or anything.”

Harry nodded, knowing that you were nervous about regretting a tattoo. “You thinking maybe around your ribs?”

He watched as you lifted your sweatshirt a bit, finger tips brushing over your ribcage. “I don’t know – heard it hurts really bad there.”

“Not too much,” Harry thought over his own experience, although knowing you were a bit more uneasy with needles.

“I was thinking like,” you patted the spot where you hipbone was. “My hip. Kind of cute, no?”

He bit back a smile. “Very cute.” The alcohol spoke before he could. He thought it was much more than cute, he thought that a tattoo on your hip was the best idea you’d had in years.

“Plus it’s kind of,” you paused, licking your lips. “Intimate.”

He sucked in a breath. He didn’t like the idea of someone else finding your tattoo. A tattoo that he was helping you figure out. He didn’t like the idea of someone kissing it, of someone peeling off your pants and being delighted to see a little tattoo there, just for them.

It was selfish of him, and he knew it wasn’t right. The two of you had both been single for a while and he had gotten so used to having you around, he was getting jealous at the thought of someone taking you away from him.

“You’re out of it,” you giggled, after a moment too long in silence.

Harry broke himself out of his daze. “’m not drunk,” he muttered into his glass, although he was. And the alcohol was clouding his mind, and he didn’t know what to do about it. “Hip is a really good idea.”

Mentally wincing at how eager he sounded, he watched as you nodded, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “Think it’ll hurt a lot?”

He chuckled to himself. “It’s a tattoo darling, course it’ll hurt a bit. I can come wit’ you if you want, hold your hand and all.”

Smile broke out on your face, teeth no longer gnawing on your lip. “That’d be nice,” humming as you placed your drink on the table in front of you. “Did yours hurt a lot?”

“Couple of them were a bit more painful, yeah.” He nodded, honestly not really remembering. “Get used to it after a while. One’s on my chest were probably the worst.”

“I like your butterfly,” you moved a foot out, nudging his thigh with it. “I would be too scared to get something that big though.”

“You’ll see,” he laughed. “Once you get one you won’t be able to stop.” He mindlessly trailed his hand over his shirt, where his tattoo rested.

“Don’t know about that. I don’t know if I would want a too many,” you hummed into your cup. “I do like all of yours though.”

“Yeah?” He sat up straighter. “Which ones your favourite?”

You sit up straighter as well, shuffling towards him a bit on the couch. “Can’t choose just one.” He tried not to jolt when your fingertips met his forearm, gently trailing up and following the lines of his tattoos. “What about you?”

He was silent for another moment too long, watching your fingers move up his arm. Finally glancing up at you, meeting your eyes with a lazy smile. “Don’t know either.”

“You’re completely pissed,” you laughed at his slow response, his hand moved without thinking, and pinched your cheek.

“Maybe,” his mouth and hands were working without his mind. “Skin is burning hot darling.” Hand smoothing around your face, he moved away for a second to place his drink next to yours on the table before tapping your forehead with a cool fingertip.

“’s cold,” you laughed, eyes shutting in a slow blink. “I heard,” you paused for another moment, as Harry brought his hand away from your face. “Heard tattoos feel like a bunch of little scratches.”

“Something like that,” he hummed, not being able to recall any tattoos he’s ever gotten in this moment.

“It’s like,” he moved his hand to your waist, lightly pushing under your sweatshirt. If he weren’t so close to you, he would’ve missed the little gasp that left your lips. “Like this.”

His nails weren’t nearly long enough to properly scratch at your skin, but he slowly dragged them along your ribs. “But faster, and it’s a needle.”

“Doesn’t really sound like the same thing,” your laugh sounded nervous, nearly breathless.

“Not really no,” he laughed lightly. Shuffling even closer to you, leg pressing against your knee. The smell of your shampoo overwhelmed him, he had always loved it and in his intoxication, it was the most potent smell ever.

“What are you doing,” your voice dropped down to a whisper. Where his hand had earlier been on your cheek, he pressed a little kiss.

“I’m just,” Harry didn’t know what he was doing. He just wanted to feel your skin under his lips, he just wanted to be close to you. “Helping ya’ out with tattoo ideas.”

He pressed another series of kisses to your cheek, eliciting a sigh from your lips. You didn’t push him away, and his hand that had been scratching at your waist gripped onto your skin.

“’s just me,” he babbled. “Skin’s so warm, can’t help –” he breathed in deeply, hand on your waist moving to your knee. He gently pushed your leg aside as he settled himself in closer to you. His lips were by your jaw, and he wanted so badly to feel your own mouth under his. “– can’t help m’self.”

You didn’t move under him, except for a single hand coming up to grip the neckline of his shirt. “Le’ me,” he pleaded, voice low. “Please, let me.”

You tilted your head up a bit towards him, lips ever so lightly parted. “Go ahead.”

He took that as all the invitation he needed, mouth sliding from your chin to cover yours. He sighed into your mouth, knee coming up to the couch as he repositioned himself.

He kissed you deep, tasting you for the first time and not able to get enough of it. Your hand on his shirt slid around his neck, gripping tightly onto his skin as you pulled him closer. His hand gripped your leg, thumb rubbing small circles through the loose materials of your sweats.

“’s good, you’re so –” Harry couldn’t form one coherent sentence. He wanted to feel you everywhere, he wanted to cross this uncharted territory and feel your skin on his. A part of him, a tiny part of him in the back of his head was telling him this wasn’t right but he was pissed and he wanted you. Badly.

“Harry,” your voice was a dream. He had moved his mouth down your jaw again, this time biting and licking as he moved down your neck.

“Jus’ wanna kiss – want a taste.”

He lifted himself from you for a moment, helping you reposition yourself so that you could lay on your back, Harry hovering nearly awkwardly over you but he didn’t care. It was a flurry of lips on skin and quick moving hands. He pushed a hand under your sweatshirt, delighted in finding you not wearing a bra, while you shared lime flavoured kisses.

You were pushing your hips against his, rubbing against him in a way that made his breath catch in the back of his throat. He was hard and heavy in his sweatpants, drunk enough that he if he kept grinding against your hip in the way he was now, he wouldn’t last very long.

“Fuck,” you whimpered from under him, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipple under your sweatshirt while his mouth met yours again.

He snaked his hand down your tummy, only hesitating when he met the band of your sweatpants. “Want to,” he panted, “wanna feel you.”

“Yes.” The single word was a moan from your lips, as his hand pushed past your pants. Fingers snaking under your underwear, he nearly choked when he pushed through your folds.

“Fuck me,” he never wanted to leave you. “You always get this wet?”

You only whimpered from under him again, head pushing into the cushion of the couch as he circled your clit. He focused on the way you whined and pleaded under him; the way you jolted when he pushed a finger inside of you, and then two.

You were warm, he couldn’t get over how hot your skin was all over and how much it made him melt. His lips were gliding all over your skin, sucking sweetly on your neck and moving roughly over your mouth. Catching your moans into his open mouth as if he could keep them forever.

“I – Harry please don’t stop,” you were squirming underneath of him. Arching yourself off the couch, pushing yourself against him.

Rush through his body at how desperate you sounded, at the way his name was moaned from your lips. “Cum fo’ me darling,” he curled his fingers inside of you, pushing every spot that made you gasp.

He worked you over the edge, eyes narrowing on every move you made. And when you clenched around his fingers, thighs clamping together and back rising from the bed, he wished he could stay in this moment forever.

After a moment you peaked your eyes open, lazy smile on your lips as he pulled you in for a deep kiss. Wet fingers slipping out from under your sweats, gripping your skin.

“So gorgeous, you – fuck –” he bucked into your hand as he felt you palm over his bulge. Your lips pressed into this straining neck, your turn to lick and bite at his skin while you grabbed at his cock over his pants.

“That’s it,” he praises, hips bucking against your hand. Your fingers trickled under the band of his sweatpants, gripping him blindly. Your other hand was patting his shoulder, nudging him with a muffled voice. “Harry, move up a bit.”

He scrambled up to his knees, pulling you up with him until he sat with his back against the couch with you on his lap. You were pushing up his shirt, kissing at his neck while your hand gently jerked him off.

“Jesus you’re –” he fell into your touch, leaning against you. The whine that left his throat as your hand left his cock came from deep in his chest. Watching closely as you spat into your hand before shifting over him again.

He couldn’t help the way he gripped your thighs as you worked your hand over him, until he was bucking his hips into your hand. A whining mess, begging you over and over again to keep going, to not stop and to never leave him.

“You are – fuck,” he held you tight as he dropped is head in the crook of your neck, breathing uneven as he came on your hand. After a moment he pulled you in for a sloppy kiss, helping you off the couch with wobbly legs to get the both of you cleaned up.

November 20th

He remembers that day like it was yesterday. The way you whined and whimpered under him for the first time, the way he found himself intoxicated (and not just by the alcohol).

Shy smiles were shared as he offered you stay the night, too late and both still too intoxicated to drive. You had decided you were too hot in your sweatshirt and grabbed one of his shirts instead. He pulled you in close under his sheets, kissing over your exposed skin and wanting to melt in the warmth coming off your body.

And apparently, you had completely forgotten about your sweatshirt.

The next morning neither of you said anything. Nothing of the sorts was even brought up again until a week later when you guys were out for a drink and he suddenly ached to have you under him. He had kissed you outside the bar, pulling you home with him until you were sat on his thigh grinding and moaning against him.

It had continued that way for a couple more weeks, neither of you really making any mention of it except for slipping hands under clothing and stealing kisses after a couple drinks.

That was, until you had sex for the first time. He was barely drunk, only needing one drink as an excuse to call you. Bugging you nonstop from outside the bar, wanting you to be there with him. He had managed to get you to drive over and pick him up, in your sweats and his shirt because you had been just about to go to bed.

You had walked him into his place, making sure he drank two glasses of water before he pulled you into bed with him, saying that since you were already ready for bed you may as well just stay the night there with him.

Cuddling into you, he couldn’t help kissing his way down until soon he had you on your back with his head between your thighs. Telling you over and over again that it was a ‘thank you’ for coming to pick him up.

But it wasn’t enough for him to grind against the mattress, while he pulled an orgasm out of you. He was greedy, he wanted another one, he wanted to feel you everywhere.

He eased you up to your knees, bending you over on the mattress with your ass in the air while he fumbled with the condom. It was everything he could’ve dreamt of and more, so much more. He couldn’t get enough, and didn’t think he ever would.  Holding your close against him, chest pressed to your back as he praised you endlessly. You were just as warm around him as you were his fingers, and he had to grip you so tight to make sure it was real.

Both ending the night passed out side by side, he knew the next morning he needed to say something.

September 19th

“Bit sore,” you laughed, following him around the corner from the washroom. He was getting some breakfast ready, and the sight of you standing in his shirt and nothing else made him want to take you over the counter again.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled, mind worrying over what to say next. “I – last night was fun, yeah?”

Leaning against the counter next to him, grabbing a handful of grapes from the bowl in front of you. “It was,” you voice was quiet, nearly timid.

“I –,” he paused again, unable to form the sentences he wanted to. ‘I like fooling around with you’ or ‘I like fucking you’ didn’t sound nice rolling off the tongue. “I like doing… what we’re doing. And I want to keep doing what we’re doing. If you do too.” He bit his lips together, mentally cringing at how awkward he sounded.

“I do too,” you said, averting your eyes from his as you nodded. “Both single, and it’s been a while, and…” Harry was relieved to see you also didn’t seem to know how to voice your feelings. “We’re friends.”

He nodded slowly, watching your every move. “Then, we’re doing this? Don’t need to wait for an excuse to have you come over anymore?”

Laughing lightly, you finally met his eyes. “Yeah,” you voice was airy. “But if either of us meet someone or need to end it, we do. Right?”

“Right,” he nodded, almost too eagerly and the new agreement. “What do you want for breakfast?”

November 23rd

Apparently, he couldn’t escape you outside of his house either. Deciding that wallowing by himself wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he thought that maybe a run would help clear his mind. It worked, for a good ten minutes before he stopped dead in his tracks.

Blocks away from his place he saw a red car parked. The same make and model of your red car.

Was it you? Could it be you? What are you doing so close to his house? He hadn’t spoken to you in weeks, not since the fight that made you leave in such a rush that you left your shampoo bottles in his shower.

Tentatively walking towards the parked car, not seeing the pendant that you kept hanging off the review mirror. He decided it was too risky, that if it was your car, he wasn’t ready to see you, especially if he was snooping around your car.

But the car was still there the next day. Deciding fuck it, and walked towards it, hoping he didn’t look suspicious for whatever reason. As he got closer, he saw for a fact that there was no pendant hanging from the review mirror, and that those dents by the door were not there.

It wasn’t you.

He didn’t know if he was upset or relieved. He almost missed those dents on the door, always telling you to get it fixed. Stubborn as always, constantly telling him that “I don’t need to get it fixed if it doesn’t affect how it drives.”

That car was the last thing he saw before you left his house the last time he saw you.  

November 5th

“What are you feeling for dinner?”

You hummed, opening up his fridge to stare at the contents. “We can make…” you were mumbling to yourself, examining the contents. “Do you have rice? We can make a stir fry,” you squinted in the fridge.

“Sounds good,” reaching through his cupboards for a pan, as you grabbed a cutting board and a knife, always preferring to chop the vegetables. “How’s your week?”

“Fine,” mumbling from where you stood across from him in the kitchen. “Work was the same, not to stressful right now which is nice. I, uh –”

He looked up at the hesitation in your voice. “I had a date.”

He nearly let go of the pot in his hand. He felt his stomach dropping, happy to be occupied with turning on the stove as he didn’t have to face you. “Yeah?” trying to keep his face calm before turning around to you again. “With who?”

“A guy from work,” you were averting your eyes, twisting the ring around your middle finger. You were nervous, he realized.

“How’d it go?”

“Okay,” you shrugged, looking down at your hands as they worked chopping the onion on the board in front of you. “We um –”

Finally you looked up at him. “We didn’t do anything.”

He didn’t know what to say. “Didn’t do it for you?” He tried to joke, but based off your expression he realized that really wasn’t what he should’ve said.

“Just thought you should know,” you looked away from him again, voice quiet. “Since y’know, we’re…”

Condoms had been long forgotten between the two of you. It was a silent agreement, that one should tell the other if they were going to be having sex with someone else. But for some reason, Harry had never imagined that conversation happening.

“Are you,” he tried to not let his voice shake. “Are you telling me you want to sleep with him?”

“No,” you shrugged slightly, pushing the onion around with the knife. “Don’t think that’ll happen. Just thought you should know.”

He willed himself to seem unbothered. “Okay.”

Back towards you again, pouring some oil into the pan on the burner. He could feel you watching him. Spinning back around, he saw you with your lips pressed to a thin line.

“What if I did want to sleep with him though?”

“You said you didn’t.” He desperately needed to change the subject.

“But what if?” For the first time, he realized he couldn’t read what you were thinking.

“Are you saying you want to end this?” Avoiding the question once again, he hated himself for the way he did it.

You blinked quickly, as if physically affected by his words. “I mean no, but,” you paused, and he panicked over what the end of that sentence would be. “What we’re doing its not – I mean what are we doing?”

He hated the tone of your voice, he hated how anxious you sounded. But instead of wrapping you into his arms like he wanted – and should have – he tried to swallow back any feelings he thought he might have for you. “We – we’re both taking advantage of the situation, no? Both being single and all.”

Your eyes narrowed on him. “So that’s it then? Call me over when you’ve had a few drinks and your hand isn’t enough to get you off?”

Fuck. “Darling that’s not –”

“Don’t. I practically live here, Harry. It’s not just ‘taking advantage of the situation’.”

The oil popped on the pan behind him, burner getting too hot. Swearing under his breath, turning back around to shove the pan off the heat. “I have half my things here. Wasn’t like this when we were just friends.”

Facing you again, he breathed out a sigh trying to calm himself down. “You didn’t have to bring your things over.”

You snapped your head up at his words. “That’s a low fucking blow.”

Suddenly you were moving away from him, away from the kitchen. He swore to himself again, hating himself for the way he handled the conversation. He hated himself for the way he avoided where the conversation seemed to be heading, to having him admit he wanted more from your relationship.

Calling your name behind you, watching with wide eyes as you grabbed your bag form the table, throwing it over your shoulder. “What are you…?”

“’m leaving.” Muttering as you brushed past him, heading towards the door.

Fuck. “Wait no,” he reached for your shoulder, hating the way you shrugged him off although you still spun around to him. “I – I didn’t mean it like that. I just,” he needed to say something, anything to get you to stay. “What are you saying?”

You sighed, dipping down to tug on your shoes. “I don’t know what I’m saying Harry. Maybe,” you sighed, gazing up at him. You looked tired, and sad. He hated it. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe we should stop.”

All his blood left his body. No. “You want to stop?” This time he wasn’t able to hide the shake in his voice.

“I gotta go Harry.” You turned away from him, reaching for the doorknob.

“Wait,” he repeated your name over and over. “Don’t leave please –”

You refused to look at him, spinning away from him. He continued calling after you, pleading you to come back but soon you were backing out of his driveway and turning around the corner.

November 24th

In hindsight, he realized he should’ve just told you he wanted you all to himself. He didn’t handle it well; he knew that then and he knows it now.

What he didn’t know at the time, what he refused to let himself think was that he wanted more with you and probably always had.

Recalling the first-time boundaries were crossed when he kissed you; the jealousy he felt when he thought about someone else being able to see the tattoo on your hip.

He remembered when you had gotten that tattoo, the skin still sensitive and wrapped in protective plastic. He still kissed at it, pulling small whimpers from the back of your throat.

He supposes that boundaries were disappearing when you started bringing over and leaving your things at his place, including those goddamn shampoo bottles. You were right to question him over the nature of your relationship, but he was too stupid and stubborn in the moment that he chose to push you away instead of admitting his feelings.

Fiddling with his phone in his hand, opening and closing your contact in his texts. He had drafted countless unsent messages, but had ultimately left you in radio silence.

And how fucked was that?

He didn’t care if it had been three weeks, or two weeks and five days to be exact. He pressed his phone to his ear, holding his breath as the phone on the other end rang.

After the second ringer, he was sure you wouldn’t pick up. He was about to end the call altogether, not having the heart to face your voicemail when a quiet “hello” spoke through the line.

“Hi,” he couldn’t breath. “It’s me – it’s Harry.”

“I know,” your voice sent a jolt through his chest.

“Didn’t think you would pick up.” He laughed humourlessly, realizing in all the fake conversations he had with you in his head he never really was prepared.

“I can hang up if you wan –”

“No,” he spoke quickly. “Sorry I just…” I love you. “I just want to talk to you, need to talk to you.”

You remained silent on the other end. “Can we meet? I can come over are we can get coffee or anything, up to you, I just need to see you.”

You were silent again, and he needed to check his phone to make sure the call was still ongoing. “I can be at yours in 15.”

His heart flipped. “Yes, that’s perfect. I – yes, see you soon.”

It was probably the longest fifteen minutes of his life. He spent it pacing around his place, trying to tidy up but ultimately not getting anything done. By the ten minute mark he was sure you weren’t coming, but right on time you were pulling that beat up red car into his driveway.

The sight of you was making him flush. Seeing you in his space, in his company like nothing had ever changed.

“How are you?” He could hear the nerves in his own voice.

“Fine,” the word was muttered, as you tentatively sat down on his couch. The very spot he had first kissed you, he realized.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, Harry, I’m not here to chit chat.”

He nodded, knowing you were right and sat far across from you on the couch, watching as you hugged your knees to your chest.

“I know, I –” he looked down at his hands, fiddling with his rings. “I miss you. And I’m really sorry for everything, for the way I handled everything.”

You looked up at him at his words, fidgeting with your sleeves. “I miss you too.”

“I really… I really fucked up and losing you was the last thing I wanted.” He needed to look away from you. “You were right, about us. We shouldn’t – I shouldn’t have let things get to be the way they did.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice was small, calculated.

“I mean… I was being selfish. I – fuck I wanted more and I was being selfish with you.”

He tried to gage your reaction, but just like last time he wasn’t able to read your expression. “When you asked me what we were doing, when you said all that I panicked. Thought you might try and end things, I was too in my ass about my feelings I just… fucked up.”

“You wanted more?”

“I did – I do.”

You were quiet, too quiet. After a moment in silence, you suddenly stood. “I have to go to the washroom.”

He could only nod, standing as well as he watched you disappear behind the door. Grabbing himself a glass of water, having no idea what you were thinking in this moment. He was wrong before, when he thought that those fifteen minutes were the longest of his life. This moment right now seemed to last so much longer.

You finally reappeared a couple minutes later, joining him in the kitchen but still standing at a distance. He had no idea what to say, he wished for you to say something, anything.

“You kept all my things.”

“What?”

You pointed to the bathroom behind you. “All my things, my toothbrush my shampoo… figured you’d throw them out.”

He smiled a weak smile. “Would never. Can’t bring myself to. Plus, you know I love the smell of your shampoo.”

“I’m sorry I left that day.” You were fiddling with the sleeves of your shirt again.

“Don’t be, I was a dick. I didn’t know … I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings. Couldn’t get my shit together. I just didn’t want to lose you.”

As you nodded, he was relieved to see your expression start softening a bit.

“I need you in my life, in any capacity. If you need time I get it, but I just can’t… I need to know you’ll be in my life.”

You were worrying your lip, slowly nodding as you took in his words. “I shouldn’t have pushed you that day. I was trying to… it wasn’t fair of me.”

“Stop apologizing darling,” he liked the way the pet name rolled off his tongue again. The two of you stood in silence for a moment again.

“I wanted more too.” Nearly giving himself whiplash for how quickly he snapped his head towards you at your words. You weren’t looking at him, eyes dropped down to where your hands tapped nervously against the counter.

“I – you did?”

You only nodded, watching as you twirled your ring around your finger.

“Never said anything…”

Glancing up at him finally, crossing your arms over your chest. “Well…neither did you. Plus, I thought I was, I don’t know, making it obvious. Spending nearly every night here and all… I was sort of trying to bring it up that day we fought.”

“Truly fucked that up, didn’t I?” He rubbed his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair up. You only hummed, and his heart nearly soared when you saw the corner of your lips twitch in a smile.

He couldn’t help the smile starting to build on his lips either, trying to swallow down his anxiety before asking you what he wanted to. “Do you still?”

“Do I still what?” You were really making him say it.

“Do you still… want more. With me.” He watched you intently, watched your eyes flick away from his; to your hands to the counter and around the room, before meeting his own again.

“Well… came over, didn’t I?”

Heat rushed through his body as he processed your words. “Is that a yes?” His words were a rush of a breath. He found himself walking across the kitchen towards you until he was standing in front of you, keeping a gap but still being the closest he’d been to you all night.

“Yes.” Every nerve in his body urged to jump forward towards you at your whispered word, but he held himself back.

“Good,” his voice matched yours: quiet, breathless.

He wanted to pull you in his arms, to push you against the counter leaving no room between the two of you but he also didn’t want to assume you’d jump right into it; maybe you’d want a bit of time, maybe you were still mad –

Any second thought flew out of his mind when the light touch of your fingertips met his neck, pulling yourself closer to him. His own hand instinctively wrapped around your waist, other hand sliding to your cheek, fitting with you like nothing ever changed.

Mouth quickly met his, and it was like kissing you for the first time all over again. You were still just as warm against him, still smelt like the shampoo that you left in his shower.

Your lips were light against his at first, a ghost of a touch as you pressed yourself against him and bunched the collar of his shirt in a fist. His hand on your cheek moved to tilt your head up to him slightly, as he held you tight against him not wanting you to ever leave.

A small sigh left your lips as he took a step forward, pushing lightly back to trap you between the counter and himself. Kiss quickly deepening as you let him taste deeper into your mouth, wandering hands pushing up under your shirt.

You were tugging at his hair as he pulled small whines from the back of your throat, gripping your thigh tightly as he helped you sit up on the counter. Mouth leaving yours with a pant, he reveled in the way you hooked your legs around him to keep him against you.

“Missed you,” he kissed the corner of your mouth. ���So,” lips moved down your jaw. “Fucking much.”

He loved the sigh you made at his words; he loved every sound you made. Resting his forehead on yours for a moment, lips barely brushing. “You’re so warm darling. Missed kissing you, missed being with you.”

“Me too,” you whispered, pecking a small kiss to his mouth.

“I get to be with you, right?”

“Yes,” his heart soared at the single word. He was enamoured with the smile that took over your face. “Might still be a bit mad a you though.”

His smile matched yours, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Sounds like I have some making up to do.”

Dear Victor, Please Answer (Ernest study)

[click here to read on AO3]

Summary: On a cold winter night, as a snowstorm buffers at his windows, Ernest attempts to draft a letter to his late brother Victor Frankenstein.

Notes: CW // allusions to death, mention of incest (Victor and Elizabeth, but they don't have feelings for each other it's just their wedding), allusions to chronic illness.

Word Count: 2499-2511 depending if you ask Google Docs or AO3

Story after the cut

~~~

Dear Victor,

Ernest’s hands paused, twirling his quill between his fingers as he contemplated that phrase. Some of the ink bled onto his fingertips.

Dear Victor. Two words with the world as their shadow. How many times had Elizabeth written them? Henry? How often had Ernest wished to dip a pen into the ink and hash out those letters?

Would this be the last of them?

Ernest looked up from the paper, ripping his mind from the ancient memories unlocked between the familiar strokes of his pen. The window before his desk glimmered with ice. The panes had frozen with intricate designs of frost, like someone had traced their finger over the mountain silhouetted by the setting sun in the distance.

Winter had fallen so quickly. Ernest hardly had enough time to dust off his thicker coats before the mornings had grown later and the daytime shorter. A storm strong enough to blanket the entire house in white was coming soon, he was sure of it.

Ernest could never properly enjoy winter. His father used to preach about how he was “too frail for the cold but too stubborn for the fire.”

While other kids of his class and age would go about their days with more layers, drenching themselves in snow, Ernest’s winter was often spent huddled under blankets or trying not to singe himself as he embraced the fireplace in the hall.

This year, he didn’t even have the comfort of a home.

He had a house, mind. A large house at that. A house full of so many rooms and so many ghosts that he should be dead before he salts it all.

But ghosts weren't much company anyway.

The thing about houses and ghosts is that they don't do much but sit there and rot. Just last week the roof had begun to creak in an alarming fashion, and Ernest was sure some rodents had found their way from outside into the walls.

These developments had not worried him in the autumn as the season passed by, like a cow trudging up a hill to snowy days and freezing nights. But as winter took hold of the land and grew colder, so did the rooms, and so did Ernest. Where he was lethargic and blissful in the summer, this winter reality struck him awake with icy winds.

Ernest stared at the window. It was closed, but a deep chill still lay deep in his chest, regardless of whether the wind pushed at the walls or not.

His eyes shifted downward to the floral patterns etched into the window frame. Perched atop the wood stood a small carving of a dove, its dusty body curving toward the heavens, beseeching its maker for unknowable desires with rounded eyes.

Ernest eyed it for a moment.

His mother had loved doves in the way that all compassionate people did, for their symbolism and their association with large, over-romanticized events. Her dresses, her accessories, and even her make up all held that same disposition as a dove about to take flight, an olive branch in its beak.

Caroline had believed in that branch—that simple twig carved from nature and hearts willing to change. Her dying wish rested on that simple twig.

It was a dying wish never to be: Her wish for her eldest children to marry.

Ernest sighed, eyes shifting back to his paper.

Caroline had put her everything into that poor, rotten, old twig. She did not notice the apathetic glances from Victor and Elizabeth nor the way they never spoke of it except at her prodding. And on her deathbed, her head stuffed with fever, Caroline had held out that wretched stick with such compassion. Such ignorance.

Up until her last breath, Caroline had held that branch tightly, hoping someone would take it.

If Ernest had been by her bedside as she fought for breath—if she had entrusted him with her woes—if any of them had only known of the cursed disease of fate running through his cursed family, Ernest would have taken it. He would have taken the branch before it could be snatched by the cold winds outside. He should have taken it.

His breath hitched, but his eyes did not water. Ernest clasped his hands around his pen to stop them shaking.

Victor should have taken it. He should have honestly taken that final offering, not picked it up like some wretched apple meant for the ground and smiled up at their mother, as if the twig hadn't stabbed him in the heart repeatedly since the day Caroline brought home his sister and expected all of them—him, Victor, Elizabeth, and Henry—to play nicely together like perfect little children.

If they had ever truly been kids to begin with, considering the mental anguish all of them had endured, ingrained into their very personalities and strong enough to drive all of them into madness—for regret, for ambition, for recognition, or for love.

Caroline thought Victor had accepted her offer, and this knowledge had brought her peace in her final moments. It kept her from this sickness of mortal minds.

She thought wrong.

Dear Victor, the paper taunted Ernest as he finally loosened his grip on the pen. Dear Victor.

Would things have changed if that branch had been anything but selfish? Passed from one soul-seeking hand to the next? Or was it converted, the moment it contorted along the family tree, to a broken bridge hanging between the romantic apathy of cousins?

Ernest finally moved his hand, and onto the paper the ink bled these words:

Dear Victor,

I never asked you, busy as you were in grief and study, just how Mother was in her final moments. Was she scared? Did she accept her illness with grace as I never could? Did she ever blame me for my absence? I do not expect an answer, but if you should find a way to give one, I will wait. If afterlife does truly exist I trust your first (and most likely final) apology for mortal affairs be to our mother instead of me.

Ernest lifted the tip of his pen and rested his elbow on the desk, rereading his words.

He remembered how that wish had ended, when Victor and Elizabeth had endeavored to go through with it. He had been present for the wedding ceremony of his brother and adopted sister, as well as the preparation and the tragedy thereafter.

William never saw such white as Ernest did that day. He never had the chance.

More ink bled onto his hand as the quill rolled between Ernest’s fingers. He pressed it deeper into the paper and carved the message:

Victor, Mother did not deserve all that we gave her. Nor did she deserve her death, just as our brother and sister did not deserve theirs.

Nevertheless, they are dead, and I can ask only the afterlife how they fare.

His hands shook and the nib of the pen bent oddly, threatening to break, as Ernest pressed it deeper into the paper.

A question. He could write a question, surely. Just one thing to ask his brother, and then he would know.

He hashed out the words:

Is William there with you now, or have you two been separated for your mortal paths? How about Elizabeth? Have you yet reunited with Henry?

Do you think I could see you all again some day?

At this final sentence, Ernest inhaled sharply. His hands lifted from the page like it had become the surface of a heated stove, and he grasped at the edge of the paper, fumbling with the corner. He glared at the ink-blotted message a moment longer, then ripped it from the wooden surface with an audible cut of air.

He crumpled the paper in his hand and yanked open a thin drawer which usually sunk deep into the desk’s rim. From the drawer he produced another piece of paper which he slid into the last one’s place.

It laid quietly on the desk, waiting.

Ernest pulled his quill where he had dropped it and dipped the tip into the inkwell once more.

The wind outside rose in volume as Ernest stared at the new canvas. The sound was a scream in the ghost-riddled yard of the house, and for just a moment, Ernest wondered to himself how many of his resting siblings had screamed that same scream in their final moments.

With a shiver, Ernest stared deeper into the grooves of the paper, urging himself to move the pen. When no such movement came, he sighed and slouched lower into the chair.

Is this how Henry felt, slaving at a desk covered in paperwork and a half-written poem hidden beneath it? Ernest remembered how Henry had often appeared in his room on summer days, driven in by the heat and a desire to get away from that horrid desk of work.

Henry spent most days in the Frankenstein house, in part for the company and in part to evade his father. When Victor and Elizabeth were unavailable to tempt him toward more exciting adventures, Henry would grab a paper and a pen, sit at the foot of Ernest’s bed, and write poetry. His voice was calming.

“I must not go bland,” Henry would say as he produced from his person a copy of Swift or some other poet's work (Ernest could never figure out where he stored them in a jacket so thin), “for my father thinks it best I abandon writing all together! Can you believe that, Ernest? Abandon poetry for whatever ‘business’ he wishes me to attend.” At this he made a displeased noise that held a few seconds too many, along with a pout up to the Heavens.

Ernest laughed at the theatrics. Until those laughs turned into wheezes. Then wheezes into gasps. And then he coughed until the mirth finally disappeared under the need for air.

As usual.

“He sets me up with lessons and work all day,” Henry continued when Ernest had finally caught his breath, glancing at him cautiously every now and again, “like I am some mule to carry his business for him.” Now he leaned closer, his tie of bright hair falling from the perch on his shoulder and mussing his bangs.

Ernest would pitch closer, too, so he could hear the words whispered to him.

“But I always manage to sneak a few plays in with me. The secret is to keep them under the jacket and say how cold it is every few minutes. Oh!” Pulling back, Henry reached for his paper and began to scribble. “That’s a good theme for something, don't you think?” He smiled at Ernest.

Even if given a thousand years, Ernest thought he could never forget Henry’s smile. Henry smiled with his whole body, like he had a candle stuck inside of him and transparent skin; he always smiled like he completely meant it. Ernest admired him for that.

Victor had, too. Sometimes Ernest suspected that Victor wished to be more like Henry.

But Henry and Victor would never be alike, for Henry would rather have his own blood spilled upon the ground again than be tarnished with what vile substance staining Victor's hands. If that substance had not been Henry’s blood in the first place.

In truth, Ernest knew what killed Henry had not been his brother. In that same vein, however, he knew Victor had a trail behind him. Sometime between Caroline’s sickness and William’s murder, Victor had walked along a path of red, blazing with a human desire to see the fundamentals of the world break.

Victor had always been ambitious like that. He always sought what he wanted, and very often received it—at least, in some sense.

Sometimes Ernest wished he had inherited such a trait as well.

He stared back down at the paper.

Ernest pondered at his desk for a moment, the winter storm making the walls whine around him.

His back straightened with resolve.

Maybe, he thought to himself, maybe I could try.

And so he began to write.

What Ernest realized in that moment was that he didn't want answers. He had never wanted an answer, even before Clerval disappeared, before the wedding, before Ernest and William’s game had led both his brother and his friend to their deaths, and even before Victor had left for that cursed school.

Ernest did not care why Victor had left them for a school so far away. He could live without knowing who had really framed Justine. He never even had to ask his mother just how it felt in her sickbed if fate forbade it.

No, Ernest didn't want answers. What good would an explanation do in this empty house in the middle of winter? No letter he could write would ever answer all—or even any—of his questions.

What Ernest really wanted—needed to do, before this storm caved the roof of his psyche and he descended into that madness rooted within his blood—was trust himself.

Trust himself enough not to make the same mistakes as his mother.

To be there when someone else meets their maker; to never again lose sight of anything of worth in his life.

To enjoy life and poetry as he never could as a child.

To hoist himself out of bed, not because he is sick, but because he has rested with a reason to go outside.

But Ernest could live without all those. They were meaningless sentiments for a grieving man. He did not need to fix all of his mistakes, nor did he have to prove to himself that his life could, indeed, go on.

The only thing Ernest needed in order to finally rest without fidgeting all night in his bed, or to stop those recordings of old conversations and faces from flashing in his mind, was to trust himself.

More specifically, trust himself to let go of misplaced sympathy.

With a long inhale, which made his eyes water as he released it, Ernest put the quill tip back to the paper. The lines were messier this time, margins less defined and letters spilling into each other.

But beyond that disorganization the paper read:

Dear Victor,

You were a brother and friend. I looked up to you. I looked up to your wit and your drive—that same wit and drive which drove you so mad that I still feel the bitterness of your delusions in my morning drink.

I hope your death was quick and fair to you, because I know that is all that you wanted upon your deathbed, unlike our mother who wished only for you and our sister to live on without her.

I wish I could ask for a final word to William, but I know you shall not see each other. Your egotism has surely damned you. So instead I ask one thing of you— Say hello to Zeus’ eagle for me.

Your brother and legacy,

Ernest

The snowstorm wailed.

so long lives this, and this gives life to thee

inspired by this post!

Act I: SCENE I: Holly. The main stage at the Michigan Renaissance Festival. Enter QUỲNH, wearing a long red velvet gown, her hair draped over her shoulders and braided with gold and strings of pearls. She is backlit by string lights on the stage that surround her like a halo.

QUỲNH:

This is a story of two men,

A thief and a knight,

Whose lives are inexorably entwined,

Wherever, and whenever they meet.

This is the story of a years-long fight,

The lost hope of one,

Amidst the search for the other.

This is the story of the power of a young girl,

And her empathy.

This is the story of a family,

And the ties that bind it, which will never break.

This is a story of a love, everlasting.

They might just need a push to get there.

~~~

Joe finishes belting his sword to his back and pushes his way out of the canvas costuming tent and onto the stage, where a crowd of families has already gathered. He smiles at them, waves, sits down at the table on the stage’s corner and pulls up the copy of yesterday’s newspaper that sits on it, studiously focusing on the photograph of Governor Whitmer that graces the front page.

Andy misses their cue by five minutes. Joe has to cough four times, stomp twice, and slam down the wooden tankard he’s been pretending to drink from before they tumble out of the costume tent, adjusting their silk doublet and the circlet twisted into their hair. He is going to kill Quỳnh.

“Yusuf! It has happened again!” they call, and he’s not entirely sure the frantic thread of their voice is an act. At least they remember their lines. “That scoundrel can’t keep getting away with this,” they growl, pacing the stage, pointedly ignoring the audience. They stop in front of his chair, folding their arms across their chest. “Another carriage has been raided, in the eastern wood. He made off with the whole load of silks and what gold the driver had.”

“And what do you wish from me? Years, this has been going on. He is like a shadow, melting away into the night, I cannot find him. I am lost,” Joe retorts, and stares forlornly into the empty mug in front of him. “That blackguard Nicolò di Genova is a thorn in my side that I cannot dig out.”

Andy straightens, then, and finally turns out to look at the audience. They notice the young girl in the first row and crouch down to look at her, smiling kindly when she ducks her head shyly. “Hello there, sweetheart,” they start, voice warm. “My name is Andromache, what’s yours?”

The girl looks up at her parents for a moment and waits for her mother to nod encouragingly before looking at Andy again. “I’m Aisha,” she says, barely loud enough for Joe to hear.

“Hello Aisha, I’m the queen of this realm, and I think that you,” they look up now, “all of you, might be able to help out my knight here. What do you think?”

Aisha’s eyes widen and she stares up at Andy. “Maybe,” she says, still quiet.

Not one to pressure audience participation, Andy stands and steps back, turning to look at Joe before addressing the crowd again. “I bet, if Sir Yusuf here shows you a picture of the man we are looking for, you would be able to tell us if you’ve seen him,” they say, giving Joe a sidelong glance.

He takes the charcoal sketch of Nicky he’d done the week before the festival started out of the pages of the newspaper and stands, walking to the edge of the stage. “This man,” he starts, jumping down in an area in front of the stage clear of any people and gesturing with the sketch, “is called Nicolò, and for many years he has evaded our capture while ambushing our trade routes.” Joe begins to walk up and down the length of the stage, holding the picture out all the while. “He has stolen many goods and deprived many tradesmen their hard-earned wages. We cannot let this stand, and I don’t believe any in our kingdom would think we should.” He stops, “There is a reward on his head, and should any of you be brave enough to join our scouting party, you will be well compensated.” They would get a $20 credit at a select few stalls. One per family. “Will anyone here join our cause?”

Aisha steps forward, a small step, accompanied by an encouraging smile from her mother. “I will,” she says, and the rest of the crowd breaks into a cheer of assent.

Joe grins and kneels down in front of her. “I think,” he starts, looking her in the eye, “that you would make a fantastic second-in-command,” he says, folding away the sketch of Nicky and tucking it between his chestplate and his shirt.

Right then, the stablehands bring out his and Andy’s horses and he stands, mounts the horse, and looks down at Aisha. “Would you like to ride with me, m’lady?” he asks, waiting as she looks to her parents for their agreement before nodding vigorously.

Her father lifts her into Joe’s waiting hands and he settles her in front of him on the horse before signaling to Andy that he’s ready to go when they are. They nod and lead their horse to the front of the crowd to address them, explaining that they and Joe would be leading the group through the fairgrounds in the search. They wait for everyone to situate themselves between the horses, then head out towards the costuming stalls. Joe waits for everyone to clear out before bringing up the rear, making sure to keep pace with Aisha’s parents.

~~~

About halfway through the “search”, Aisha asks to see the sketch again and Joe switches the reins to one hand, pulling the paper out and holding it in front of her. He notices now that he’d gotten Nicky’s nose wrong and he tells Aisha so with a fake-somber shake of his head. In truth, it is a little disappointing. Nicky had willingly sat for an hour for Joe to get the sketch done instead of just handing him a headshot like anyone else would have done. He’d wanted to get it right.

She pats his hand consolingly, stares at the picture for a moment, then asks, “What if he’s hungry?”

Joe is a little taken aback, but he can see her parents smiling next to them and would never try to discourage a child’s empathy, so he responds, “Well, then we would feed him. But, if he takes others’ wares, they’ll have nothing to sell, then they might go hungry.”

“Why couldn’t you feed them, too?”

“We could. We would. But it is difficult managing a kingdom, Aisha, we can’t know everyone who’s hungry all the time. We can only do our best to stop those who are taking advantage of other people, so that they have no reason to go hungry.”

“But when we find him, if he is hungry, you’ll feed him?”

Joe can’t help the smile that’s spreading across his face. “We will, sweetheart. Queen Andromache wants no one in this kingdom to suffer.”

~~~

When Andy finally leads them to the blacksmith’s stall, a little boy in the crowd is the first to spot Nicky where he’s half-hidden behind Booker, the smith, and the new girl, Nile, who are deep in a conversation about metalworking.

Joe hands Aisha back to her parents, then dismounts and draws his sword, handing the reins off to one of the stablehands and approaching the entrance to the shop. “Nicolò di Genova!” he calls, and Booker and Nile step out of the way as Nicky looks up from where he’d been pretending to browse the scabbards on one wall.

“And who are you?” Nicky spits out, shifting on his feet into a fighting stance.

“I,” Joe starts, and wastes no amount of grandeur as he looks out over the crowd amassed before them and continues his speech, “am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Mohammed al-Kaysani,” here he pauses and looks at Nile, standing next to him with genuine delight on her face, and winks at her, “called al-Tayyib,” he says, swiftly turning and bowing to her, taking her hand in his and pressing a gentle kiss to it. “And you,” he says, standing abruptly and swinging back around to confront Nicky, pointing his sword at him accusatorily, “Nicolò di Genova, are a thief.”

“And by whose authority do you make this claim?” Nicky asks, quirking an eyebrow. “I am but a traveling merchant, here with the sunrise and gone with its set,” he says with a saccharine smile. A taunt.

“Peddler of stolen wares,” Joe bites back, advancing as Nicky steps backward, eyes widening in apprehension in an expression that is almost comically exaggerated to anyone who knows him.

Joe remembers the countless lunch breaks that had been spent rehearsing after Nicky had come to him after their first week of shows together and asked for help making his performance more believable.

He can’t help but be a little proud of himself for the result.

“You have not answered me,” Nicky says, buying time as he makes his way further into the smithy and towards the rack of swords on the far wall. “By whose authority are you making this claim?”

“I am making this arrest under the authority of the Nomad Queen.”

At this, Nicky turns to look at Andy, sitting horseback behind the crowd, drawing their attention to them. They straighten their back, their delicate gold circlet glinting in the sun, and stare down their nose at Nicky.

Nicky takes this moment of distraction to lunge at the rack of swords, grab his blunted prop one they’d planted there that morning, and deftly pull it free. “It is not an arrest you will make without a fight,” he snarls, once again settling into a fighting stance.

“I did not imagine it would be,” Joe counters, coiling his own muscles like a spring.

It’s Nicky who attacks first this time, lunging at Joe as he swings his blade at him in a sweeping downward arc. Joe quickly checks that Nile and Booker have cleared the crowd to a safe distance away before allowing himself to fall back, his own sword raised over his head to protect himself from the blow. He forces Nicky’s sword to the side, inadvertently pushing the two of them chest to chest, and makes to draw the dagger at his hip before his arm is twisted back and Nicky ducks away from him. He growls and advances again, Nicky blocks his first blow but stumbles over a divot in the ground at the second one and falls, dropping his sword to fling out his hand and break his fall. Joe’s hand darts out to grab the fallen blade and he throws it in the direction of the smithy before standing over Nicky, settling the point of his sword under his chin.

“Do you yield?” he asks, panting slightly.

He’s suddenly acutely aware of the way Nicky’s Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

For a moment, Nicky’s eyes darken into an emotion that isn’t there quite long enough for Joe to recognize it, before hardening into steel once more. “Never,” he spits, then reaches up and, in one swift motion, twists Joe’s sword out of his hand and rolls to his feet. And then, Joe finds himself with his own blade to his neck, staring down it to that same dark look in Nicky’s eyes.

He’s about to say something when Booker calls to Joe and hefts Nicky’s sword his way and they’re in the thick of the stage fight again until Nicky yields.

~~~

“Why did that little girl remind you to feed me?” Nicky asks when they’re back in the costuming tent, and Joe huffs a laugh.

“Aisha,” he responds, “She was very worried that the scoundrel we were looking for might have turned to crime because he was hungry.”

Nicky smiles at this, one of those barely-there smiles of his that Joe first read as a reluctance to tolerate his presence but now sees a kind of beauty in. “Good for her,” he says as he makes his way through the tent to his cubby, undoing the clasps of his leather jerkin as he goes.

Joe goes to his own cubby and sheds his heavy leather armor before tucking it away. He grabs his phone and wallet and is about to leave to grab them lunch when he hears Nicky let out a curse and call for him, and turns to see him tugging helplessly at the last clasp on his jerkin. “Need help with that?”

“Please? I think it caught on the undershirt and I don’t want to tear it if I don’t have to.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll see what I can do,” Joe says, walking over.

He takes the stubborn clasp in his hands and Nicky lets his own hands fall to rest on the wooden chest behind him as Joe messes with the fabric of his shirt, trying to figure out where it’s caught.

“Sorry,” he says, still holding the fabric taut as he kneels to put his phone and wallet on the dirt floor at Nicky’s feet to free up his hand, “I think I see where it’s caught, but-” he looks up from the ground and cuts himself off when he realizes just exactly what position he’s gotten himself in.

Nicky looks down at the same moment Joe looks up at him and barely gets out a ‘what?’ before his eyes widen ever so slightly and he clamps his mouth shut, the tips of his ears turning pink. Joe clears his throat and Nicky’s jaw tightens and he tips his head back, staring steadfastly at the ceiling as Joe goes back to twisting the fabric of his shirt out of the clasp of his jerkin.

“All good!” Joe says when he finishes, forcing cheer into his voice and pulling down the shirt. He very nearly pats it smooth before he catches himself.

“Thanks,” Nicky says, almost clipped, and Joe hazards a look up at him as he blindly reaches out for his phone and wallet.

“Well, I’m not going to ask what you two were doing in here, but I will remind you that this is a tent and does not lock, and I am going to ask if either of you know where my wife is because I believe she owes me $50 now,” Andy says from behind them, and Joe whips around to look so fast that his neck hurts. They wave, phone in hand, then duck out of the tent.

“It’s not what it looks like!” he tries to call after them, raising himself up on one knee towards the tent entrance in some half-assed, desperate attempt to stop his reputation from being ruined.

A hand lands on his shoulder, then, and he feels Nicky’s hair brush at the side of his neck, a sensation that probably shouldn’t send a shiver through him but does anyways. “I think,” he says, voice low in Joe’s ear, “I would very much like it if it was.”

Joe stands so quickly he slams his head into Nicky’s chin, and the other man lets out what Joe assumes is a truly impressive string of curses in Italian, although his semester abroad in Rome didn’t quite teach him whatever it was Nicky had just said about a pig.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, fuck, Nicky, are you okay?” he gets out in one breath, turning to see Nicky with a hand pressed to his mouth and a wild look in his eyes.

“That,” he says pointedly, tightly, muffled by his fingers, “was not the outcome I was hoping for,” he finishes, taking his hand away from his mouth and revealing his lips, smeared with blood.

Joe’s heart plummets and he jerks forward, grabbing for the box of tissues he knows is on top of the cubbies and tearing one out. He crumples it in one hand and holds it to Nicky’s bleeding lip before he realizes what he’s doing.

“Sorry,” he says again, not quite sure if he should keep holding the tissue to the cut.

Nicky makes the decision for him, bringing his own hand to take hold of the bloodied tissue and shaking his head. “I should be the one apologizing,” he says, eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was unprofessional and,” he stops, frustration flooding his features, as though the words he wants to say are evading him. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he finally says and looks up at Joe. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Joe says, shaking his head. “It’s not a big deal-”

Nicky cuts him off at this, “I’ll just take this as a ‘no’ and leave you alone,” he says, and the tone in his voice twists Joe’s gut.

“Wait, Nicky, no. Don’t,” he protests, reaching out for Nicky’s wrist. “Take it as a ‘I don’t have any dinner plans tonight, and I did make a promise to feed you’?” he offers, hoping he sounds as sincere as he is.

The tension melts from Nicky’s face, the worried lines at the corners of his pursed lips turning up in a smile. “You’re a terrible cook,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Joe laughs, and it feels like letting go. “I am,” he agrees. He’s perfected three dishes that aren’t sandwiches or cold cereal, and even with those, they’re half-burned half the time. “But I’m really good at picking good restaurants because of it,” he says, and Nicky snorts.

“I like the sound of that,” he says, and warmth blooms in Joe’s chest.

“6 sound good?” he asks, a time that should give them both an hour or so after their shift ends to get cleaned up. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds great,” Nicky says, just as Joe hears his cue line for his next performance coming from the stage.

“Who knows where the night might go, huh?” he says, looking Nicky up and down and winking before turning and running for the stage.

The Depths of The Lake

Chapter 1 of ?

AO3 link found here!

Word Count- 1374

Pairings- Platonic Logicality

Warnings- None

Summary: It’s quiet. In this little place he made for himself, all those countless years ago. Tranquil, even. But there comes a time to leave, to attend to something beyond the quaint stone enclosing the cave. Those things, though fleeting, always return, if for a moment, to taunt those that they so choose to fall upon. All in so many words to say that Logan was bored.

Isolation is something hard to deal with, especially when your only contact to the world around you comes by infrequently. With the changing seasons and times, will Logan be able to keep himself and his home safe?

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

It’s quiet. In this little place he made for himself, all those countless years ago. Tranquil, even. But there comes a time to leave, to attend to something beyond the quaint stone enclosing the cave. Those things, though fleeting, always return, if for a moment, to taunt those that they so choose to fall upon. 

All in so many words to say that Logan was bored. All he had was the bioluminescent algae clinging to the walls and ceiling of the cave and the chill of the water deep in the lake, the latter being far less than pleasant. 

Pushing himself up from his position on the floor, the merman leaves himself suspended in the water for a few seconds, then begins to swim to the cave mouth. A small school of koi swam out with him, staying firmly at his sides, away from both his mouth and tail, a fairly common courtesy among them. It’s an important part of the mutualistic relationship that they both share. 

Reaching his destination, Logan reaches out to rest his hand on the border between his home and the stretch of the water beyond the cave. The wisp of a plant brushes against his knuckles, soft and delicate. A beam of sunlight pushes its way through the murky water, highlighting his dark hair. Pushing off from the rock, he propels himself upwards, at an angle, eyes narrowing as the sunlight that scrapes at his amber eyes increases. 

Breaching the water, the merman gazes at the surrounding area, everything blurred both near and far, but he could easily distinguish the waving figure sitting at the aged dock. He had overshot by a good few dozen feet, but that was a quick fix. With a duck under water and a few strong splashes of his tail, he was just at the dock, where the hand of his companion reached into the water to help him up. 

Water tumbled off of his face and made his thick hair feel heavier then boulders. The humid heat of the air above attacked his face and arms and he let go from the other man’s grasp. “Hey, Logan!” the bubbly man exclaimed, his smile beaming, “How have you been? It feels like it’s been forever!”

“I’ve been adequate, Patton. Yourself?” he responds, hoisting himself onto the dock. The rotting wood tore into his arms.

“Everything's been fine with me! Sorry I couldn’t make it last week, though, one of my friends had a bit of a last minute emergency-” Grabbing at something on the inside of his backpack, he turns to the merman, who was leaning against one of the posts on the dock, “-but I came with gifts! Some for you and some for the other fish.” Out came a small satchel, one that has a strap that spans from the shoulder to the waist, that Patton quickly unclasped. “I had a bit of a tricky time figuring out how to get you some of this stuff in a way that would keep in the water, but I think I worked it out well!”

One by one, Patton pulled a variety of objects from the bag, including a trio of polished gemstones, a small canvas bag, and a folded sheet-looking object. “What is all of this?” the merman questioned, a hand inching to the items. 

Pointing at each object, the human explained, “These stones were enchanted by a friend of mine to hold a book each for you to read while I’m away. I can’t even start to think about how lonely it must get down there.” Tapping a flat side of the stone twice, Patton created a magic image of a book cover that hovered just above the rock. Swiping that turned the pages. “It works just like a phone! Remember when I showed you that?” 

Nodding, the merman tries out the book, “Yes, of course. This is very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!” he smiles, watching Logan tap the same one twice again, closing it. “Each stone has its own book on it, so that should be nice. Two are murder mysteries, and the other one is a sci-fi novel! I really think you’ll like them!” Placing those back in the bag, the human then points to the other small bag, “This is more of a gift to the koi, I suppose, but I thought that they might like some more food.” Unzipping the bag, Patton reveals the koi food inside, a mixture of seeds, rice, lettuce, and peas.

“They will love that, especially once the lake freezes over,” Logan says as Patton zips that canvas back up and puts it into the satchel, “We don’t have long before the frozen wind comes in to begin with. It seems to come sooner and sooner each year.”

“Yeah, it always gets so cold in the winter here. It must be awful.” Logan hums in agreement, tail swirling in the shallows. Even with the heat of the air, the water just kept getting colder, and there was a  certain chill seeping into the air already. Patton examines the merman while his eyes are cast down, a slight frown on his face. 

“Well, maybe this next thing can help you a bit with that,” Patton says, grabbing the third object and unfolding it. The fabric was some sort of plastic, much like the top that the human had worn when it was raining, but thicker and sturdier. It looks as if it was built to last, and the dark pigmentation would help to trap in whatever heat it could get. “I thought that navy blue would look nice on you! One of my friends uses this same type of jacket if he wants something lighter to wear when it gets cold. He loves how well insulated they are, and because it has a synthetic coating it won’t absorb water, so you should be able to wear it wherever!”

Handing the jacket over, Patton watches Logan’s expression brighten, the corners of his lips turning up. Looking at his friend, the merman smiles, his sharp teeth glistening, “Thank you, Patton, so much. How can I return the favor?”

Shaking his head, the human hands over the satchel, “Trust me, just you being my friend is far more than enough, and these really are things you need. I can’t believe I didn't think about it sooner!”

“This is all so thoughtful. I feel as if I need to do something at the very least. There are some nice objects at the bed of the lake, could I get you something from there?”

Giggling, Patton waves him off, “If you really want to do that i won’t stop you, of course, but you don’t have to.”

“I will. It feels deserved.” Handing off the jacket, Patton watches as Logan examines it, turning it over in his hands and stroking the navy fabric. He then pulls it on, the inside a slight bit softer and more comfortable than the outer layer. It certainly helps against the chill of the wind.

“So, what have you been doing these past two weeks?” the human questions, helping Logan with the zipper, “Are the other fish doing okay?”

“They are all fine. It’s good that the hunting season is coming to a close soon. Every year there seems to be fewer and fewer left in the lake.” The merman sighs, turning to face the body of water, “I’ve mostly been cutting them free from strings or removing hooks from their mouths. For now we’re surviving as best we can.”

“I’m sorry to hear that things are hard. It must be awful.” Resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, the human continues, “Is there anything I can do to help? I might not be able to do much but if I can do anything-”

“You’ve already done enough, Patton. You really have-” Logan says, shaking his head, “-but I think I do need to get going. Thank you, again.”

“Yeah, of course! I’m always happy to help! I’ll see you again next week?”

“Of course. Goodbye until then.” The human smiles to his friend as he pushes off into the water, satchel slung over his shoulder. Next week seems so far away.

just a liability 

prompt: actually wait I WANT to read scary [its a suprise] go ahead lol- bear (bc it's her idea)

Today was awful.

Most days were.

But today sucked substantially more.

Its the first day back at school since my art show. The praise and congratulations from my teachers should feel nice. 

But its all a bitter reminder of the painting I threw at my newest ex-best friend.

My mom was not too happy when I came home with a first-place ribbon and no canvas but that's not the point.

I sighed, stepping onto the tiny platform. Damian wouldn't be done with theater for another twenty minutes but I can't sit in the stuffy tiny halls anymore. 

The hallways were practically empty, as usual for after school hours.

Notice how I said practically.

"So what are we doing this weekend, Cady?" Gretchen asked as they walked down the hall.

Its a question shes directed to Regina so many times. I almost felt sick looking over, looking at the girl who used to be my friend.

Now cold, hard, plastic. 

You made me like this-

I did. Didn't I. 

I was hurt by middle school actions. I just wanted to see Regina's downfall. And I guess I did. 

But at the cost of my friend.

"I'm not sure yet," Cady said thoughtfully. "It's only Monday."

"But if we want to throw another party we should spread the word now."

"Another party?" Cady stops short in shock. Right in front of the tiny pick up zone. 

I turn to my sketchbook, hoping they won't notice me. 

"But we just threw one last week." The concern in her voice sounded just like the old Cady. The nice Cady. My friend, Cady.

"Last week was so- well, last week!" Gretchen says. "I dunno guys." Cady says slowly.

I concentrate on the delicate lines in my sketchbook. Nice, light, thin. Happy lines if you will. 

Ignore the pain of losing your friend. The only girl you've trusted since eight grade. Ignore the pain of your identity being weaponized. Nice, light, thin, happy lines.

"Janis?"

Fuck.

I look up to see Cady glancing at me. "You've been ignoring my calls."

The cold edge in her voice was exactly why. She's shiny, hard, and plastic. 

"Cady, you can't be seen near the space dyke." Gretchen quickly reminds her.

"Gretchen," Cady snaps. "I can be seen with whoever I want. Regina is gone, I make the rules."

That wasn't what you were saying when you didn't invite Damian and I to your party.

It wasn't even the fact that she didn't invite us to her party. It was the fact that she threw a party. That she could have been honest and say she'd rather throw a banger then go to my art show, but she lied. She said she was in Maddison. She sure as hell wasn't.

"But that's space dy-"

"I know who it is, Gretchen." Cady snapped. I jumped back in surprise at the vicious tone of her voice. She sounded like a clone of Regina.

I almost felt sorry for Gretchen. No matter what happened, no matter who was 'in charge' she always seemed to get the short end of the stick. 

Cady reaches out, lifting me up without asking.

"Hey!" My sketchbook and pencil fall down onto the platform as I'm lifted in the air.

Cady turns me over in her hand like she's never seen me before. 

"Put me down!"

"Why'd you ignore my calls, Janis?"

"Cady-"

Her hand closes around me, holding me in a fist. It's not tight, unlike others who have picked me up without asking in the past. But a fist is a fucking fist.

"Cady please, this isn't like you."

"Plastic?" Cady's voice has an unfamiliar edge. "But- I thought you wanted me to be plastic? To help get rid of Regina. Isn't this what you wanted, Janis?"

No! I didn't want anything like this. At all.

"I actually wanted to thank you. For showing me how to be plastic. Because now I've met people I actually want to hang out with."

I tried to convince myself that she didn't mean it. It was all a show for Karen and Gretchen. Cady was just trying to prove herself to be plastic. There was no way she meant all these things. There was no way she-

Her fist tightened. 

"You didn't think I liked hanging out with you, right?"

Yes. I did.

"You're so needy. I need this, take me there, everything just needs to be about Janis, huh?"

My arms were pinned at my sides. There was nothing I could do. 

“Poor Damian has to deal with you and your bullshit."

I freeze. Yeah, insulting my sexuality was a low blow. But it wasn't the lowest blow. Cady knew that. She knew what the lowest possible insult was. And she fucking used it.

"The poor guy," A sick smile forms on Cady's face when she sees how I've reacted. Gretchen and Karen laugh from behind her, prompting Cady to continue. "Even if you weren't a tiny. You still have all those issues. Right, girls?"

She sounds just like Regina. Just bigger and with more potential to physically harm me.

Fuck.

"So many issues." Gretchen says, repeating what Cady said back to her, like a parrot. Karen just nods.

“I don’t know why I ever hung out with you.” Cady admits, releasing me from a fist and letting me fall into her hands. 

"W- what?" I never stutter, but I guess I'm doing it now.

"Mhmm," Cady said, holding my arm between her two fingers, tugging at it. "You were always so weak and fragile. I didn't want the responsibility of that. You tinies can be such a liability."

"Cady. Stop, that hurts." I try tugging my arm back, only for Cady to just pinch harder.

“I could care less about how you feel, Janis.”

I'm starting to feel like this may not just be a show to prove herself to the other plastics.

I mean, what's there to prove.

Cady already rules the school.

Cady already won.

"Put me down. Please."

"And why should I?" Cady asked. Everything about her, her tone, her posture, her outfit- it reeked of plastic. I swallow, trying to push down the anxiety in my stomach.

My belief that Cady wouldn't hurt me was quickly crumbling.

"Yknow." Cady's thumb pushed me backward, pinning me down. "I'm surprised it didn't come to this sooner, Jains."

Her thumb pushed down hard, right on my chest, hurting my ribs. It probably wasn't much effort on Cady's end but it hurt like a bitch for me. My mind thinks back to all the times Damian did the same thing, more cautiously. 

For him, it was a way to make sure I didn't fall off his hand or do anything reckless.

For Cady, it felt like a murder technique. 

Was it that easy for Damian to just kill me this whole time? Was I so much more fragile then I realized?

I mean, Cady sure seemed to be doing it effortlessly now.

I tried to push her thumb away but it was fruitless. I could barely push off Damian's when he did it- and he pushed down a lot softer.

"I can't bre- Cady. Wait- please."

"What?" Cady grinned, lifting her thumb. "Too much for poor little Janis?"

"Space Dyke cant handle it." Gretchen smirked.

"No, she can't." Cady agreed.

The familiar sparkle in her eye was gone. The naive smile she had her first day at Northshore was gone. Her braids that ran through her hair was gone. Her socks with sandals- as horrific a fashion choice they may be- were gone. 

All that was left was cold, hard, shiny, plastic. 

Cady was gone.

"Hey, where's your friend?" Gretchen asked. "The gay one."

She sure as hell knows Damian's name. That was just a cruel dig.

"Oh yeah?" Cady's eyes lit up. Not in the way they used to. Now they shown in a dark taunting way. "If Damian cares about you so much, where is he now?"

Theater. He's at theater. He cares. He just doesn't know what's happening.

My mind screamed these answers but I couldn't bring myself to verbalize them. Cady's fingers curled dauntingly over me and she grinned a little wider every time I shook. 

“Damian doesn’t want you around," Cady continued. "I can tell. Everyone can tell.”

"Everyone," Gretchen said. 

“Stop wasting his time. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” Cady dropped me back onto the pickup zone. “Damian’s gonna get sick of you eventually. Where's poor space dyke gonna go then?"

I froze. Cady never called me space dyke. Through the years I've grown numb to the insult. After eighth grade, it became unoriginal and repetitive. But when Cady said it?

Cady leaned over the tiny pick up zone, getting uncomfortably close. "Awww, did that hurt your feelings?"

I step backward but can't bring myself to respond.

Cady laughs, bringing her pointer finger up to knock me down. "Get over it."

She smiles to Gretchen and Karen, who beam back at her like this was just another normal occurrence before the trio walks away, already picking up their original topic of weekend plans. 

For a long while, I just stay sitting on the tile floor where I was knocked over. My heart was racing and my breath was heavy, something I didn't notice before. Now that I was in no immediate danger I noticed these things. Like the bruises probably forming on my torso from Cady's thumb. 

All her words caught up to me.

Did Damian really find her annoying? Was it that easy to tell? I guess I did have a habit of blocking certain things out- like Cady slowly becoming cold hard plastic until it was too late. I mean, I'd be annoyed taking care of a tiny me as well.  

Even if you weren't a tiny. You still have all those issues.

I get up and walk into the tiny halls. No. It wasn't true. Right?

Damian had to care, at least a little bit.

Stop wasting his time. Stop wasting everyone’s time.

I pull myself into the bathroom, not even bothering to enter a stall. It's after school. Who cares. 

There are tears on my face when I look in the mirror. When did I start crying?

I hastily wipe them away, ignoring how my mascara smudges. 

Why did I let her words get to me?

I didn't let Regina get to me this much?

She said the same things Regina said.

Maybe its because I trusted Cady. She was a friend.

Was.

But plastic is plastic. I should have known better. 

My phone buzzes as I jump away from the mirror in surprise. It's a text from Damian.

"Hey, Jan. Where are you, I'm at the pick-up zone." I read allowed, despite nobody else being here.

My stomach twists at the thought of seeing Damian. Of making him go out of his way to get me home.

I really did need everyone to do everything for me. 

The realization feels like a punch in the gut.

I quickly texted back, saying I left school early, feeling sick, sorry for not telling him. 

Yeah, I felt bad for lying. I'll just take the tiny bus home. Damian shouldn't have to go out of his was to worry about me. He doesn't deserve that.

I slump down against the wall, drawing my knees close. If I'm taking the tiny bus I'm not leaving for another half hour. There's no rush.

Damian texts me telling me to get better. I know he didn't buy it. I was fine earlier. But maybe he did think I actually went home. 

I felt bad for lying, but I'd feel worse being a liability. 

Because that's all I was. 

Space Dyke. The annoyance. The liability. The girl with issues. The one who wastes everyone's time.

I'm crying again. I can feel the wet tears sliding down my face, no doubt taking more mascara with them. 

I don't bother to wipe them away.

whoops, lol- bear 2020 I WOULD LIKE TO DEFEND MYSELF AND SAY YALL ARE QUICK TO CALL CADY SOFT AND INNOCENT LIKE ACT TWO CADY HERON DOESN'T EXIST? anyway really sorry mainly to soy and alex lmao @realmisspolarbear @smallsoysauce @musicallygt

Bittersweet meeting 10

“Now that hit the spot, Yeah?”

With a satisfied stretch, Lapis walked out of Fish Stew Pizza, with Steven following behind her.

“Fish stew always do.”

“Guess you would know, huh?” She gave him a smirk from over her shoulder.

“Ey,” he shrugs, “it’s why I got pull here.”

“Oh I forgot, you’re the ‘biggest dog’ in the parlor, right?” She turned around fully walking backward with a grin.

“Damn right,” he chuckled, shaking his hand as he pressed his thumb and middle finger together. His voice taking on a mock version of Vito Corleone “You just had a solo supper with the capo of crust, the don of the sauce, the pizza kingpin of the tri-state. Show the proper patronage and respect.”

“Excuse me, capo.” She took a knee and took his hand in hers,  “Allow me to kiss the ring in reverence.“  Playing along giving him an air kiss on his ring finger, getting a satisfied grunt.

"You're a good egg, Lazuli. I will remember to show you favor, when the time comes."

"Gracias Capo."

A second pass before, The two teens broke character and dissolved into snickers. Steven pulled the bluenette up to her feet close to him, giving her a grin; unaware of her heated and shy smile. He attempted to take his hand back only to find Lapis's grip slightly strengthened, keeping it in hers as she stood beside him.

"Hmm, what’s this about?" Steven arched his left brow with a curious smirk.

"You said you'll show me favor, I'm cashing in." She said in low as she took hold of his arm.

Steven chuckled, hiding his slight discomfort. "Naw, I won't penalize you for this lappy. Besides it's supposed to be a 'date' right? It's no problem." He put his hands in his pocket as they began to walk, unaware of Lapis's slight frown at the teasing tone of the word date .

"So, I still got a favor then."

"That's the long and short of it." Steven jest not minding the slight leaning upon his arm.

"Then can you be totally honest with me, until you drop me off?"

Steven looked down at the blue haired swimmer in inquisition. "Yeah, sure laps. Not that I haven't been."

"You ducked and dodged a bit." She retorted. "Hey, you know Budwick park is on the way. Let's stop there for a bit."

"Trying to get me alone, scandalous."

"Well. If it does turn to a scandal, it'll be worth it." Lapis looked at him with a slight adoring smile, before turning the western corner and making a left into the park's shadowy entrance.

Despite it being November, there was still some greenery to be held from the pine trees arching over the path of gravel beneath their feet. A bit of flora was still present as well along with some dead park lights. It wasn't long before they got to Lapis's destination.

A starless moonlight pond surrounded by  dim circular street lights that sat on poles of emerald colored marble and an azure ceramic fence serving as a barrier. Its four layer ivory tower spilled water into the water body below from each floor. The flashing glows of fireflies gave the area a tone of private serenity, and aura of romanticism.

"Come on, there's a free bench."  

Steven allowed himself to be pulled by the freckled girl to a green bench a few feet away. She sat down first in a slouch before stretching a bit with a grunt.

“ugh..Are you gonna join me, or are you gonna let me freeze by myself?” She patted the spot next to her, looking at him with slight anticipation.

“Freeze? It’s not that cold of a night.” He sat down with a smirk leaning back. “Then again, i’m not wearing…” he looked down and his eyes widened in shock.

“Ah! You noticed.” She taunted with a smile at his face, as she wiggled her toes.

“How the hell didn’t I realize you changed shoes!?” He yelped as he at the aqua boot flats on her feet instead of the sandals he saw her in earlier

“Cause you don’t pay attention when something else is on your mind.” She knocked his shoulder lightly, before sitting back. “Willing to bet another favor you don't even realize I'm shorter than I was in my sandals.”

Steven looked her up and down before rubbing his eyes in embarrassment. “Oh fuck, you are.” He groaned in defeat.

“Hah. Another favor!” Lapis chuckled as she sat back on the bench with a smug look.

“How the hell didn’t I notice? You’re literally three inches more compact.”He rubbed his temple in annoyance.

“Three inches more compact…” she spoke the words testing them and grimaced a bit. “You have a strange way of saying shorter, Universe.”

“Oh quiet, I’ll have you know, people think my terms are charming.” he retorted his nose  up in the air.

“Your family don’t count.” Lapis countered.

“Tsch! I see you taking pop shots.”Steven nodded as he clicked his tongue, his right hand on his left wrist as both forearms rested on his lap “Girls think it’s cute..

“Girls, huh? I guess I gotta set them straight. Obliviously, they need help.” Lapis giggled as she relaxed into her seat. She lowered her eyelids, glancing at Steven from behind them. Feeling her heart skip as his relaxed slouched form. She looked at his calm collected face as he stared forward to the pond, a pleased smirk on his face.  

‘ He really is so cool.’ she thought as she observed him rotate his shoulders before glancing towards her with from his right peripheral

“This was a fun night.” He admitted as he sat back. “ Thanks Laps.”

“It’s no problem.” her voice got a little lower as she continued. “ I’ve been wanting to do this with you for awhile.”

“What hangout? He breathed out a snort. “ We always hang together.”

“First, you haven't been hangin’ with any of us out of school for a few weeks,” She raised her hand to stop his explanation, “second, we always hangout within a group.”  She placed her hand down. “Sure, we have small one on ones when the group’s around, but we haven’t hung solo in a while, buddy.”

Steven rubbed his chin in thought. “I think you’re right.”  he scratched his head “Sorry Lappie, Oh man… When was the last time we had a time like this?”

“Think it was a few months ago, when you had that art project in Mr. Sam class.”

“Yeah!” Steven pointed at the swimmer with a look of realization on his face. “ I remember that. I had to come up with an original piece…” He shook his head, a tired smile on his face “that was a long night."

"So much wasted canvas and watercolor paint. The art room was a mess." She shook her head with a laugh. "Still can't believe you were considering body art to submit."

Steven scoffed. "Would have been an easy A, if I had a willing model."

She laughed at the accusatory tone. "Only professional or at least A+ students get to paint on this." She signaled to herself.

"Hmph,He teased, turning up his nose in a playful pout. " I did get an A+"

"That's true." Lapis tapped her index finger on her cheek while holding her head to the side. "Guess you made criteria make me splash art."

"The others would have agreed to it, criteria free.."  

"I'm sure they would have." She poked his cheek in jest. "It would give them time alone with you."

"Is my time really that precious?" He joked

"You're the only boy in a group of girls, so it's a status thing."

"Wow, that doesn't sound harem-like at all." Steven laughed as she rolled her eyes.

"Pbbt! Don't flatter yourself. " She smirked before leaning back on the bench…"But honestly, I could be projecting a bit."

Steven took notice at how sincere and steady her tone was. "Hmm?" He could feel that weight on his heart again. That uncomfortable, time bomb.

"About spending time alone with you." Lapis grace an embarrassed smile. "I do find it...Nice, not to share you for the time being." She turned away "To have your attention squarely on me and not on her." She spoke in a low, slightly bitter voice. It kind of surprised her.

"Lapis?"

"Ah..Don't mind me." Lapis reassured, his concerned voice throwing her for a loop. She breathed out and folded her hands together on her lap as the two fell into silence.

"We could do this again, right?"

Steven looked at her, quizzically  for a moment " Why would you ask that?" He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. " The answer's obviously yes, Laps."

Lapis looked at him with a slightly flushed face. "You're not just saying that. You mean it, right?"

"Well now, I'm a bit insulted."Steven arched a joking brow. "I meant it when I said it was a fun night. Not to mention I have to be honest with you til' you get home. Don's favor and all."

She smiled hopefully at him and his words. "Right…So this can definitely happen again. These solo hangouts."

"Yeah?" Steven snickered as he watched her excitement. "You're definitely jazzed about the idea.. It's not like it was impossible before this."

"Yes..it was. At least it looked that way to me."

'Oh..no.' Steven thought as she looked at him, her blue eyes determined, her lips in a line as her thumbs twirled around each other. All giving him the feeling of something he would regret.

"What'd you mean, Lappie? I was always  open to hangout...Last couple of weeks notwithstanding." He said in a strained voice.

"Sure you were...With Connie."

Steven stiffened on reflex at the accusatory pitch. "Hey now..What do N-

"Remember your favor."

Steven was silenced at her statement.

"Remember, complete honesty." She reminded him.

'Looks like we're getting to the heart of the matter.' Steven thought as he gave her a light-hearted smirk. "So, you're gonna grill me, Lappie. That's why you got me all alone."

"Partially." She gave him a scared grin " Truthfully, I just wanted more of your time and attention to myself...Like I said it's a nice feeling not having to share it." Her voice took on a slightly darker tone. "I bet Connie feels the same way."

"I thought Connie was a banned subject for the night."

"Never said that, not that it mattered." she sighed. "She's been in your head all night. Probably sitting pretty on your brain as we speak, right?"

Steven rubbed his nape and looked away. "Not...All night...I was focus on our hang-"

"Date."

Steven looked towards Lapis, who glared slightly at him.

"Date..This is a date."

Steven gulped at the finality of her voice." Granted..a platonic one."

"Does it have to be?"

The amount of hope in that one sentence  crushed his heart. He felt bile run through him as he looked at one of his dearest friends.  'Oh Lapis..I'm sorry ..'

"it's..selfish of me to ask you that," she looked down at her hands. "but in a way..So was this whole night."

"Lapis.."

"Please." Lapis interrupted. "Let me get this out." She smiled gently when he nodded. " So remember when I said there was a third reason why I never approached you? Well I thought you were already with Connie then. Or at least you had feelings for her. So I let those feelings go, once we got to high school." She rubbed the back of her head. "I mean, it was just a matter of time til' you two started dating, right? The way you carried on and such. It seemed like it was the best thing to do," she sighed.."or at least I tried to, but It's hard when your crush is one of your best friends and someone you look up to as well, you know."

Steven nodded, his mind going back to his past crush on Stevonnie.

"So. I just chose to watch from afar, wait into the inevitable like everyone else..and then let these feelings go."  She chuckled. "Little did I know I would fall even more the longer, I waited. The more I watched you and her."

"Why'd you never say anything before, Lapis?"

"Why..I?..." She released a broken chuckle. "How could I?..When the more I watched and fell for you..I witnessed you falling for her." She chuckled darkly " And why wouldn't you? Hard working, friendly, super smart, beautiful, modest...She's the jackpot, and it looked like it was mutual attraction."  Lapis sighed " How was I supposed to compete with that?"

"You're a jackpot yourself, Lapis'' He answered with a smile before sighing, "Besides you turned out to be wrong." He answered a bit bitterly. "She's got a boyfriend."

Lapis glanced at him with a smirk growing on her features. "True enough..It's part of the reason why I asked you out tonight." Lapis' face gained a bit of heat as she looked at him."Seeing how you downtrodden you looked at the party.. Wanted to make you smile, but also I saw it as a chance to show you how much I love you." She paused looking at his blushing face. A bit worried at his answer.

"..Steven..Answer me honestly, have you ever thought of me as a possible partner?"

"I …Honestly." He breathed in. "Yes. I have." His voice was steeled by truth. " You're smart, creative, humorously snarky, loyal, fun, and crazily attractive. I feel I can easily talk to you about anything. "

"You can Steven!"  She held his hands as her face glowed in excitement. " Talk or do anything, at all."

His heart broke completely at the hidden desperation in her tone. "Lapis. I love you. There's no denying that."  He looked down, unable to look her in those blue eyes. The feel on her trembling hands were more than enough.

"Why are you saying it like that? Please don't say it like that."

Her broken voice killed him. "I'm sorry Lapp-

"No...No nicknames or pet-names," She sniffed, "Not when you're rejecting me. "

"Sorry Lapis...You're right." He looked up   at her. "Lapis.. I love you..but it's not romantic"

"Is it because I'm not as good as her?". The desperation was at the forefront this time, accompanied by tears. "Not as good as Connie?"

"Damn it Lapis, you're better than that." He growled "You got so much to offer, don't lower yourself like that."

"It's true though, isn't it."  Lapis countered

"No! Lapis it has nothing to do with Connie.. She's not all that great, anyway Steven offered. "She drools and at times, snore when she sleeps..Which she needs to be put on schedule for that. She cheats at fighting games. She's one of the worst people to have to wake up-"

"Don't patronize me, Steven...Everyone can see how you feel about her." Lapis spit out. "Even now, you're bragging about her.

"She..she's my best friend Lapis..I see her as my best friend"

"Just best friends…" She ball her hands into fist. " You're lying...You promised not to lie until we part."

"I..It's the truth. " He snarled. "She's just my best friend. No matter what. No matter how I feel."

"And how do you feel?"

Steven glared.." Truthfully, betrayed.  Like it should've been me with her tonight but I missed my chance.. "

"That's not the feeling one has for just a best friend."

"Doesn't matter at the moment."

"Then why not give me a chance." She moved to sit on his lap facing him. Placing his hands on her waist before her arms around his shoulders.Her blue eyes meeting his browns, her hopeful gaze meeting his hurt and longing one.

"Lapis...I."

"It hurts." She whispered, “To be in love with someone that you deem so amazing and yet you can't have...Especially when you know they care for you so much but in a different way." She kissed his right cheek gently. "I know, I've gone through it, but you don't have to…"  She kissed the left just as gently. "Even if it's just a little while. Even if to ease off the heartbreak. Give me the chance to love you, like you love her."

He could've moved her off him easily, lifted her up without fail, but he didn't. He was aching for affection, the thought of Connie at her party, Lapis's revelations and  Steven's own bubbling feelings for the former had him in a spell of neediness.

He closed his eyes and parted his lips. He felt her cold palms on his cheeks, and felt her breath on his lips as she got closer..It was heart pounding…He could feel Lapis getting closer and he tightened in preparation.

'Just a bit of ease from this heartbreak..it's not like anyone would know.. Not like I'm hurting someone.' He thought..

Before the image of Connie in his jacket, dancing on the street listening to music on the player he got for her through the biscuit and  strawberry earbuds. The vision turned around and gave him the smile he been missing for the last weeks

'Steven..’

It was a reflex, like being burned by a heated stove..The way he moved from Lapis’s lips.

“R-really?”

Steven bit his lip in shame before looking at her. The face of dejection and pain on her beautiful features...The tears that began to run freely staining her face..He hated it. Hated that he put her through this. “I love you laps...I love you so much… “

“No,you don’t.. “ She sobbed and shook her head.. “You love her..not me..” .

He held her close, protectively “ I do..I love you both..You’re both irreplaceable to me.”

“But she has your heart, right? Why….She hurt you..”  She trembled as she latched on to his clothes desperate for any of his affection.

“She..She didn’t.” It was a hard truth for him. Connie having a partner that wasn’t him. It was a hard weight. “She didn’t hurt me..I did that, my heartbreak was caused by me and not realizing what I want, until it’s too late.”

“I can be her for you.” She muffled into his tear stained clothes.”

“Lapis.” He gave her a gentle kiss on her head,a familiar one. “I would never want that. I love you as you.”

“But you want to be with her. You chose her over me.”

It hurt him to hear the urgency in her voice. He held her closer. As a few of his own tears fell. “I”m sorry, Lapis, I can’t give you what you want.”

“Please..as my second favor..” she pleaded into his chest balling her fist into his sweater  “Please choose me and not her!”. Even for a moment. Even as a lie….Please.“

“I love you Lapis, always will...But I don’t love you in the same way I love Connie.”

She broke down again as her breathing became haggard, her sobs slightly choking as she began shivering in his arms, her head completely down, her tears raining into his lap.

“I hate you. I hate Connie..I hate me.. I hate this. ..I hate us.”  

Steven could only hold the heartbroken bluenette as she cried. Repeating how much she hated the three of them and this situation, begging for her forgiveness.

Jack of All Trade, in This Masquerade (Ch2)

Fandom: Pandora Hearts 

Fic Summary: Jack's stream of consciousness describes how society is like a masquerade, while his dreams show his own hypocrisy

I'll put the link to ch1 in a reblog, as well as do a reblog-version of this chapter that includes both chapters!

Notes: 

Nope, I didn't forget about this fic, haha! Actually this fic has been sitting on my computer taunting me for WAY too long. This is probably the fic I open and try to work on, and then close again, unable to work on it, more than any other...

Lately I've been going through old fics that I left unfinished on my computer and trying to post them by whatever means necessary. For a number of them, those means are simply cutting it earlier than I planned to. I desperately wanted this fic to be included in the mix. First I only wanted this fic to be one chapter, then I wanted it to be two...now it's gonna be three or more XD I've just been super unsure about how to write the next part for a very long time, but I have had this part done for too long...and the dissonance between the two made it hard to go anywhere with it. I hope posting this will help me be able to figure out the next part, haha!

Another reason I was hoping to write the next part too is because I wanted to use the second chapter of this for the "Lock" prompt of Phmonth19... but this chapter doesn't really work for it. So just know that was my goal, haha!

I mentioned this in the other chapter, but the song "Masks" by Aviators is absolutely perfect for this fic, and I highly recommend listening to it during or after you read it, haha!

If you enjoyed this, I'd really really appreciate if you could leave me a comment to let me know!! They truly do motivate me to continue, and make my week!! If you want to read more of this fic, I can assure you I'll be faster at writing the next chapter, if I know people are actually going to read it!!

Chapter 2: The Color of Tragedy

The scene shifted, paint on a canvas smearing, and Glen became a black satin stain beneath layers of paint, the crimson and commanding presence disappearing as the world rearranged itself.

The many Jacks faded into the background too, until he couldn’t tell if they remained mirrors—(mirrors hidden within the many halls and rooms, built within the walls of his heart)—or if they were strangers and friends again; other people, not himself.

The pillars to the ballroom slowly dissolved, as if in water, changing into a courtyard green sprouting up all around.

The music had always been an unfamiliar tune he was expected to inherently know the moves to. And no matter how much he listened to it, it never became innate. Now, after all this time, it morphed into something familiar. But familiar did not mean un-painful or un-maddening.

The soft tune of a pocket watch tiptoed on his brain, each footfall a syringe in his thoughts, dripping cold beautiful insanity slowly into his soul, one drop at a time, infecting it until it blocked out every other melody, and his feet forgot the moves he had so ruthlessly sewn in.

When he turned, the source was behind him; a man standing in the courtyard. All black now; black hair, black cloak. No crimson. Like he never spilt her blood. Like she never existed in the first place. All black…except for the eyes. Gaze fluctuating between daggers…and some emotion he was struggling to keep from escaping; the leader, and the broken boy, crying on the ground. Soot with sparks buried within; glints of violet, glints of gold. Glitches of empathy in the perfect program. His eyes focused on the pocket watch—(a glint in the dark itself)—until they flicked to him, and Jack felt those eyes as a sword at his throat.

At the shift in his gaze, the scene itself turned over again, wind blowing by him, a single spark of violet glowing in the blurred tapestry, and ever, ever that melody, slowly corroding him.

Glen sat in the grass on a sunny day, those violet blades sheathed as he bathed in the afternoon sunlight.

The first respite from the dance in all these years. A rest in the measure.

Glen, sitting in the sunlight. Glen, playing the piano—always that single, haunting melody, laced with a name, filling up Jack’s mind with the harmony until he was drowning in its sound, and could think no other word.

That melody, that word, and her voice—(A memory of her voice, soon given to him by a bloodstained black rabbit)—pulling him through the blurred universe to a balcony, drawn there like he was ink on a canvas, subject to the whims of the artist.

Brown hair, like hers.

Violet eyes, like his.

White dress.

Black dress.

Her existence was not tied down. As if it was a part of the smear itself, and not the concrete picture beneath it. She was a part of all these mistakes the artist tried to smudge out.

Jack pulled a white rose from his pocket.

He offered her a red rose.

“Would you care to dance, Alice?”

******

A little girl held the keys to those chains—held them, held by them all the same; that is to say her world would fall into the dark too, if the bounds were to break. A little girl chose the music, the steps. A little girl ruled the world.

Is that why they call it insanity?

Her daughter.

Gods may be fixed in the sky, watching all our misdeeds, and we believe in them, not they us, but children can be made to believe anything. Such as: men who come down the chimney do so to give them presents, that putting their teeth beneath pillows is anything more than gross. One can make them believe the world isn’t made of malice. You can make them believe you haven’t sewn your mask—and the things you stole to get those jewels, things like lives—into the skin. You can make them think you’re a hero coming to save them, make them more than a blur, a mistake, a prisoner of their own creation, but a part of something real and concrete, when you’re just using them, like everyone else will. Naiveté is powerful and dangerous in that way.

I heard her voice one day. Lacie’s. Not just in my memories. This was real, one piece of her reaching out to me from the black.

She had this toy rabbit. A toy, yes, but to a god, a toy can be a thinking, living, breathing, thing, with nothing more than a thought to animate it. Dolls and figures can be princesses and princes, and their knights and soldiers. Children dream. And lonely children dream the most. And a lonely god is a dangerous thing indeed. Especially a child god, surrounded by lifeless toys. Dangerous, because of the stories they tell themselves in the silence can become real indeed.

It was this toy that brought her voice to me, like a gift, physical thing. Packaged up a memory and sent it off to me.

So it was back to the dance. But this time it was different. Because even if there were other melodies out there somewhere, other moves to know, my ears only heard one twinkling pocket watch, my feet would only obey one conductor.

And this melody was not bound by little girls, and lonely gods, and broken, blood struck leaders. This one I could make up my own moves to, intertwine them with the motions and melodies of the rest of the world, so no one would know I was dancing to my own song.

This rabbit, the one who brought her voice to me had a name. Oz—(like Oswald…but not like him at all)—was to be my chain. A chain different from the rest. A chain that was not friendship, or love, or hate, or malice. A chain that was not sanity or insanity. A chain that was not keeping the world upright. A chain to break all other chains. Bringing her to me. Tying me to her. My chain, to destroy all the chains keeping me from hearing her voice again, and her from the world she loved.

A god who creates something that can destroy their world is dangerous indeed.

Little girls and their dolls, toy rabbits and puppet kings, a tear or two, and some spilled blood couldn’t stop me now.

******

The world blurred in black and white, gold and red, violet and green.

Which color was real?

Was it the black and white; just the game of chess?

Was it the endless violet in the king’s eyes?

The gold of shimmering lights, and the eyes of scared little boys just trying to help?

Was it the green, the vibrant, envious green of his clothes, his eyes?

Or was it all the red they spilled?

And there was. So much red. One could have painted with it. He did. The floors. The walls. The roses he once promised she’d see. The world.

But even within those colors… nothing was quite solid, quite sure.

Because the gold didn’t shimmer anymore. Those golden eyes were full of fear, determination. They didn’t gleam with false riches, but with real poverty; a poverty that comes not from losing your money, but losing your friends, or your sanity.

Because that green wasn’t the vibrant bloom of a garden. It was not envy or eternity or ephemerality and it—he—too was dyed with red.

Because when Oswald truly put a sword to Jack’s throat his eyes held no sting. Those violet blades held nothing more than infinite sorrow. He called him his friend. But he saw him at the end of a sword, at the end of themselves, at the end of the world.

Or at least, that was Jack’s goal.

But the king made sure the only world that ended was their own, cutting off the hand for the sake of the rest of the body. Gouging out the eye for the sake of the face.

And there was another Jack trapped within the reflection on the sword—(mask or real?)—looking like a broken thing determined to hold itself together. And when something gets to that point, is broken enough…it doesn’t care. About much of anything. Not itself. Not the friend on the other end. Just whatever it is holding itself together.

The king’s head is lying on the board.

“Glen?”

Jack is calling his name, cradling his red-stained head in his hands, tears smearing the green of his eyes.

How did he die? Who killed him? How can he make them pay?

But his hands are covered in blood.

What’s the mask? The blood? Or the tears?

And now everything, once too blurred, once just a smear on a canvas, a move in the midst of a dance, is too real, too concrete, too irreversible.

Checkmate. But he doesn’t feel like he’s won the game.

And as he cries, as he screams and demands why, the masks peer out of the corners of the board, stare his way, snickering at him from the hidden passageways deep inside him.

The closer he got to his goal, the more those chains fell apart, finally creating his own moves to the dance…the less he he noticed something wrapping around his arms, his legs.

He rushed to the tower where the god-girl will grant his wishes at last—the bottle for the genie—where he will be free.

And she would have granted him all, if only he would have freed her from her bottle.

She wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy the world for him.

Were it not for her other half, the rabbit’s tears, and a pair of scissors.

At last the machine remembers the wrench; the one that tried to change the patterns, the melody, long ago, all for a single distortion in the system that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The one whom its gears once kicked to the bottom, the one who clawed his way back up. And it knows kicking him back down there again won’t be enough.

Fine. If he wanted to change the system, the dance, the melody, then the system would exclude him, treat him as an error. The dance will leave him with everything he wanted, everything he was, everything he created.

He opens his eyes.

There is no ballroom. No dance. No dancers. …Maybe there never was.

A cell. Or at least, he thinks it is, but he doesn’t see any walls or floors, just navy darkness, and a crack in the dimension above, like a slit in the prison door, letting in the tiniest bit of light.

He takes a step.

There’s a sloshing noise.

So there’s water in the bottom of this cell. Is the prison’s being flooded? He ought to tell the guards.

One more step.

Something cuts the air. A terrible sound; like somebody took a beautiful thing and melted it down, and melded it into something it was never meant to be.

Laughter. Twisted, reckless, mirthless, soulless laughter. As if he stepped on a malfunctioning Jack-in-the-box, with no need for the song.

There’s no music anymore. And the the absence of it threatens to suffocate him.

Another step, another laugh, different, but no less jagged.

He doesn’t want to look down. Doesn’t want to see. To face it. He knows. He knows what he’ll find there.

But he does it anyways.

Beside his foot is a mask. A fine porcelain one, like from a theater, that would cover the whole face. The slit-eyes are curved down, the mouth curved up, to signify happiness.

It’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen.

But he knows, if he were to put it on, it would fit his handsome face perfectly.

He puts a hand over his mouth to barricade the sick, to cloister his silver tongue, and takes a step back.

But when he does, another warped sound wrenches open the air. This time it’s crying.

He spins around. His heel is on another mask.

But, as he looks upon it, his eyes are pulled upward as if on strings. There is something far worse behind him. It’s like a snowy mountain.

Masks, endless, empty, lifeless masks. This place is surely built upon them.

All the masks he ever wore.

Does he even have a face anymore?

Make Me A Masterpiece  (1/?)

In her final year of college, Rapunzel is struggling to create her final art project. That is until she runs into the beautiful stranger who’s hiding out in the library. 

or the one where art student Rapunzel asks literature nerd Eugene to be her model (modern-day au) 

ao3

Staring disappointedly at the freshly painted canvas, Rapunzel keeps on coming back to one conclusion. 

Everything is wrong.

There are colours in the wrong place and gaps where there shouldn't be and shapes that don't match and it's all just so wrong.

She has been at this for hours now and somehow this attempt looks even worse than those that came before - the ones that are now lying on the wooden floor around her abandoned. In this attempt, a different brush was used with the intention of improving the flow of the strokes, making them softer, a little more delicate. But it’s quite clear now, as she stares at the result, that that little detail did absolutely nothing. 

She has been told a countless number of times in class that art gets better with time and that first attempts are always disasters and yet, in this case, things actually seem to be depleting. Almost as if with every fresh canvas she begins, she loses another fundamental art skill. This time around: the ability to hold a paintbrush apparently.

The quickly growing shadow on the canvas lets her know that the sun is starting to disappear for the day and that is a good indication as any to Rapunzel that she's been agonizing over this painting for far too long. The campus outside has now thinned out to only a few lonely stragglers, the professors have all retired for the day and a sharp cramp in her left wrist has quite dramatically taken shape. All signs screaming at her to call it quits.

That is except from the four blank canvases in the middle of the room staring her down, haunting her more like, ridiculing her even. And as the quiet moment's pass, she swears she can actually hear them whispering.

Give up Rapunzel.

You've already failed Rapunzel. 

You have nothing left to give Rapunzel.

And when you have three inanimate objects literally talking to you, there is only one option left at this point and that is to believe them.

So she does. She fully accepts that only three weeks into her final year of college she's already failed miserably.

But the thing that is most frustrating about all of this is that Rapunzel is usually pretty good at coming up with ideas, in fact, most of the time she doesn’t even need to think about what it is she’s going to create. It just happens. One minute she is sat with a clean paintbrush in hand and the next she finds the walls themselves coated in colours and patterns she didn’t even know she was creating. Art just flows out of her. 

So why was this project giving her so much damn trouble?  

Aggravation swarming her, she throws out her free hand, swiping it across the canvas and sends uncomplete work number 13 crashing down to where it belongs - on the dirty floor with the other disasters.

“Lashing out like that isn’t going to get it done any quicker.”

She’s startled slightly at the voice coming from behind her, so lost in her own frustration that she had completely forgotten for a second that she wasn’t alone. 

Stupid canvases and their stupid distracting taunts.

Letting out a muffled curse under her breath, she flings her too clean brush onto the floor and spins quickly to face her judgemental roommate, finger pointing at her accusingly. 

“That is not helping Cass”.

Sitting crossed legged on top of one of the paint-stained tables, Cassandra lifts up her last reaming orange slice and pops it into her mouth seemingly unphased by her friend's struggles. If anything, Rapunzel is a little surprised that she’s still here. 

“You never asked for my help Raps. You said you wanted company.” Her hand waves dramatically in a circle around herself. "I'm the company." It's said so smugly that Rapunzel has every intention of giving her the same treatment she just gave to uncomplete work number 13.

"Yes, company, not a judgemental commentary." Rapunzel snaps back, picking up the closest wet rag on the floor and launching it in her friend's direction.

The squelching sound it makes when it collides with the side of Cassandra's face is priceless. 

Her facial expression, however, is not and Rapunzel would pay any amount of money right now to avoid the truly pissed off glare she’s receiving. The glare that grows even more furious as Cass slaps the cloth onto the table and snatches up the plastic cup beside her, shaking it vigorously in Rapunzel’s direction. 

"If you insist on limiting me to one coffee during this company thing I suggest you don't try that again."

Rapunzel rolls her eyes at that, bounces towards the table and grips Cass firmly by the chin, swinging her head back and forth lightly. When she speaks her voice is oozing complete and utter sweetness. "Did grumpy Cass not get what she wanted". She throws a pout in there just for fun. 

Right on cue, her cooing hands are promptly smacked away by Cassandra’s fighting ones and she fully knows she’s going to feel the sting later on. But right now she is far too amused with how disgusted her friend looks. 

"Did you not just hear my warning?". 

Oh, she did, loud and clear, but she's not worried at all.

It’s one of the things she loves most about Cassandra, something she discovered pretty early on in their roommate journey. She comes across all vicious and guarded to anyone on the outside, but when it comes to Rapunzel she's nothing but a big softie. Sure there are moments where she squirms and bites and even hisses - quite literally - yet she is undoubtedly the best friend that Rapunzel has ever had. The list may have already started off quite limited but even if there were hundreds of names on that list, this girl would still soar right to the top.

Smile still wide on her face, she reaches out to snatch up the coffee cup and is not surprised in the slightest when Cass lets her, despite only seconds earlier complaining about how little she has had today. 

"I'm just trying to avoid another sparring incident” she utters calmy taking a few sips of the far too bitter coffee. 

Cass’ eyes narrow but a smirk is finally starting to take shape on her lips. "That was an accident and you know it". 

"You broke off the leg of an easel and threw it across the room like a javelin."

“Hey!” she calls and Rapunzel swears she can hear a hint of laughter in her voice “I knocked over that statue you hated didn’t I? So don’t say I never do anything for you.” 

She’s right about that. The wooden spear she sent flying crashed into the centuries-old statue that stood in the corner of the workshop and caused it to shatter into a million pieces. It was beyond hideous and for weeks the whole class kept giving their thanks to Rapunzel for its destruction, but she will never let Cass know that. 

Another sigh escapes her lips, it’s more defeated this time than anything else and she can’t help but smile sadly when she feels Cass’ hands land on her shoulders. The much needed calming sensation attracts all her focus that she barely registers her body being turned back around to face the abandoned easels.

In the few minutes of space she’s had from the painting it appears to have become even worse. 

“Rapunzel” Cassandra begins keeping her voice as quiet as the world around them “do you know what I see when I look at these paintings?” 

Honestly, she doesn’t know if Cass is actually expecting an answer or is just saying it rhetorically, but she gives a slight shrug of her shoulders just for good measure. She’s too defeated to answer verbally anyway. 

“I see a work in progress. You’ve been at this for hours now Raps and I refuse to accept you giving up after all that effort.” There’s a slight falter in her voice when she jumps up from the table and soon enough is striding past Rapunzel to gather up her materials. 

All Rapunzel can do is watch dumbfounded as her friend zooms around the room collecting all the discarded pens and sketchbooks and everything else she threw across the room in her frustration. Most of them landed on the far end of the studio and it shows in Cassandra's face as she returns with two new red splotches on her cheeks. Or maybe its how she’s expressing her own frustration because the way she thrusts the supplies into Rapunzel’s arms lets her know she’s done with the friendly speeches. 

“Get off your ass, stop feeling sorry for yourself and go find some inspiration. You are not trapped in here, Rapunzel.” 

She takes a pause only to move Rapunzel once again, this time pointing her towards the door, and gives her a hearty nudge in the direction of the exit. “You’re always telling me that art is a way to express life so get out there and live it. Who knows what you will find.”

Seriously, the best friend she’s ever had. 

Turning her head slightly to peer in Cass’ direction, she gives her the widest smile she can muster. “Careful there Cass, you’re soft side is showing.” 

A solid glare and a warning are what she gets in return as she makes her way out the door. “One coffee Raps, one coffee.”

                                                  ☀         ☀        ☀

It takes her exactly four seconds before she realises that she made a huge mistake. 

No matter how quiet she had assumed the campus was earlier on, her conclusion of everyone going home was largely misguided. The very first thing she notices when she walks into the library, the only one on this side of the campus, are the large numbers of people. 

There are people everywhere. 

People crammed onto tables, people squashed into the rows of books, people quite literally jumping on others to snatch up any newly available computer. She can’t help but laugh to herself a little as she passes a poster on her way to the back of the library, bold black letters yelling about a campus party tonight. The thought of an empty frat house due to everyone cramming in their last-minute essays is actually quite amusing. 

Despite her footfalls being heavy and a little on the clumsy side due to the load Cassandra dumped on her earlier, no one really pays her any attention. Not even the blonde girl she nearly squashes as one of her sketchbooks lets itself loose from her pile and lands directly in the girl's lap. She seems far too interested in the French book she has open on the floor to notice she was almost just murdered. Rapunzel offers up a shy smile anyway and a quick apology before rushing off and disappearing from sight. 

She continues to make her way through each section, managing to weave her way past students and delving deeper into the depths of dusty books. Thankfully though, the loud noises of all the fussing seem to fade away the closer she gets to the section that is all things art.

It’s no secret that the creative programmes are the least popular at this college, but at times like this, she really isn’t complaining. Especially not when she turns into the fine art aisle and finds that there is nothing down here but her and the books. 

Well, not completely nothing, because it seems someone else had the same idea as her. 

Tucked away at the far end of the row is a brown-haired boy, delving deeply into a worn out book, chewing on his thumbnail as his eyes flicker over the page frantically. 

Oh and he’s built himself a book fort. A literal fort. 

It’s about eight books high and six wide, encasing the boy almost entirely and leaving him only exposed from the chest up. It's almost as if he was so afraid of the real world interfering with his story that he just decided to make himself a shield. She can't lie and say that that's not just a little impressive. 

By now, all of her attention is on the boy and there's nothing else she can do but simply stand there and study him. It may be the weirdest observation she has ever had, but the first thing she notices about him is his jawline. 

Of course, she is very much aware that it’s a crazy thing to notice about a person you literally just saw for the first time, but there's something about it that she can't stop staring at. It's shaped in an oddly specific way, slightly crooked to the left side but done with absolute precision that everything else lines up perfectly. All the angles connecting together yet getting there in their own unique way. 

Helplessly her eyes drag down his skin slowly and across the rounded bump of his chin and all of sudden she’s seeing colours. Blues to be exact. Turquoise, teal, sapphire, navy and just about every other shade that comes in between. They’re swiping up his jaw and swirling on his chin and dotting down his neck, filling every gap and blooming into patterns she’s never even thought of. It’s almost overwhelming - all this imagery hitting her all at once. 

And the moment her eyes meet his she feels like she drowning. She’s lost in swirls of brown and occupied with counting all the individual flecks she can see reflecting off the light hanging above him. Almost too lost it seems, because when the eyes she’s so shamelessly ogling grow wide she registers it just a second too late. 

The boy no longer looks comfortable and serene as he was just a minute ago, slamming his book closed instantly and jumping, quite vigorously, up from his spot on the floor. The fort loses a couple of books off the top and Rapunzel feels a little guilty for being the cause of the destruction of his hard work. He doesn’t seem to mind too much though as his hand flies to the back of his neck, scratching awkwardly, and he becomes far too occupied with being embarrassed. 

It’s actually sort of cute. 

His mouth opens and closes several times without any words escaping and damn it she��s looking at his jaw again. The fight she has to have with her eyes to stop them from focusing there again must have looked comical to anyone on the outside. 

But since she is the cause of this whole mess, it’s now her responsibility to fix it in any way that she can. 

A smile lifts on her lips and she’s trying the very best she can to focus her brain anywhere but on the boy himself. So she lowers her eyes back onto the floor and points towards the spot by his feet. “Is that a fort?” 

If her voice comes out a little too high to be casual he doesn’t mention it. 

Whatever she was intending to do with that question fails miserably anyway as his eyes fly open wider when he turns to look at the now crumbling fort and she can’t really tell if he’s upset by the fort destruction or flustered by the awkward situation. Maybe it’s both.  

He keeps his hand up in his hair as he speaks. “Um...yeah.” 

A brief pause.

 A question asked in return.

“Is that a sketchbook?” 

Another answer. 

“Yes”. 

And then complete silence.  

Right now she wishes that she was back in the hustle of the main room of the library, giving her plenty of people to escape into and judging by the look now haunting the boy in front of her, she would guess he is thinking the same thing. Once again his mouth is opening and closing but he’s fighting a losing battle as still no words seem to make an appearance. 

That is until all of a sudden he starts moving, fumbling more like it, to pick up as many books as he can manage without any turning into murder weapons like hers did earlier. When he’s sure that the pile is safe, he’s snatching up his brown bag resting against one of the shelves and swings it over his shoulder as he rushes up to Rapunzel, stopping abruptly by her side. 

That may have been a big mistake on his part because all her attention his right back on his eyes. Eyes that are this time staring right back at her. 

“I’m sorry” he mumbles into the quiet stalls keeping his eyes searching hers as his shoulders pull up into a small shrug “about the fort.” 

Her mouth is opening before she has time to even register what she’s saying. “I thought it was impressive.” 

As the boy brightens up into widest smile she’s ever seen, she knows that that was exactly the right thing to say. He nods a few times, one to Rapunzel and twice to himself, before rushing off and stopping once more to pivot in her direction. His hand flies up in the air almost as if it was his body itself reminding him he there was something he forgot to do. 

“I’m Eugene.” He says it a little out of breath and eagerly as if he really needs to be somewhere else right now. 

“Rapunzel” she calls back quickly before he’s giving her another shy smile and disappearing completely around the corner. 

She stares at the now empty space expecting him to return and when he doesn’t she takes a second to wrap her head around what just happened, what it was exactly she had just experienced. 

It doesn’t hit her when she flipping through art books sitting in the remainder of the boy's fort. It doesn’t come when she returns home and tells Cass all about the interaction in the library. Nothing happens when she’s mindlessly scrolling through social media to see if she can come across any hint of him. 

It hits her almost a week later when after, yet another, long session in the art studio she finds her sketchbooks and canvases filled with sharp jaws and brown eyes. 

Her inspiration isn’t art books and scenery and life as Cassandra had put it. 

It’s him. 

Angel of Death Chp 16

Pairing: Veteran!Bucky x medic!reader

Summary: How many times can you save a life?

Warnings: Depression, PTSD, flashbacks, suicidal attempt.

Masterlist

“The land that has been a ping pong ball between conquerors and imperial states,” she sighed, as she stared at the expansive desert beyond the wall.

“You shouldn’t be this close to the wall,” he warned.

“Yeah, yeah. A sniper could put a bullet in my head, I know,” she waved off. Her eyes never left the sandy view before her.

“What happened?”

She turned towards her companion. He was freshly washed and in a clean set of PT gear. She was still in a dirty flight suit that hadn’t been cleaned in 24 hours. She looked tired, so did he. The war took its toll on both of them.

“21-year-old male, expecting father, died on the gurney as we ran him into the hospital.” She turned away from him and back to the wall. “It reminded me of my dad’s story of how a medic saved his life when I was 9 and my sister was due. And now I’m the medic who took her father away.”

His hand went to her shoulders turning her towards him. “Listen to me, doll. I know you. I know you gave it your all to save his life. You can’t blame yourself for every loss or it will eat you alive.”

After visiting Rhodey, she walked to Sam’s headstone. She stared at it, arms crossed. Her heart was in a million pieces in her chest. Clint had texted her after the deposition, relayed that the gang had watched it all including Bucky. He didn’t go into any other detail, didn’t get into Bucky’s emotional state since finding out who she truly was.

“He knows, Sam,” she whispered. She pushed the tears from her cheeks. “God, he’s going to hate me. You two…. You two were inseparable. And I took you away from him.”

She sobbed. Her knees buckled and she collapsed. “It’s all my fault that you aren’t here and he’s going to know that. Why is it all happening at once? Why? Stark? This? Who hates me up there so much? Or is this karma?”

Bucky stared at the easel in the corner. It had been there for months even after he broke the canvas, taunting him. ‘Y/n suggest that…’ It’s what Steve had said. She knew. She had knew about the dream of owning a tattoo shop with Sam and Steve. She had fucking known and that’s why she had given him the canvas.

She had saved him, again. He still didn’t understand that part. She did it once, but why would she do it twice? ‘she loves you,’ Nat had said. Did she still love him? Is that why she was so scared? Had she been hiding from three years from him right under his nose? ‘You didn’t remember her.’ That part was true. She had always been a blur. But now, the dreams had her in focus, the puzzle was complete. Memories of them being in the desert happened more frequently since they started running and even more after they started hanging out.

“You are staring really hard there, punk,” Steve commented, bringing Bucky out of his daydream.

“She knew,” he murmured.

“Of course, she knew.”

There was silence until Steve turned in a page in his book. “Why didn’t she say anything?” Bucky voiced.

He heard the book close and Steve move on the leather couch. “Buck, the girl is scared. Clint explained it to you. She doesn’t interact with people she saves. Too scared of their reactions, good and bad. It’s understandable. But she pushed it aside for you. Pushed it aside for me. I have to commend her for that. Though she thought that we wouldn’t put the pieces together. Or at least, that’s what she hoped.”

“But.. I promised.”

“Promised?” Steve asked, looking quizzically at his friend.

“Before the incident, I promised her a date.”

“And she blamed herself for letting Sam die, she wasn’t going to cash in on the date. She’s been so scared of you harboring hate and guilt against her for Sam. And while you do, you never blamed her. You blamed yourself.”

“I was his NCO, of course it was my fault.”

“Did you ever express that to her?”

“Fuck.”

“HOW COULD YOU?!”

She tried not to cower. She felt the tears that brimmed her eyelashes and saw his strong, bulky figure in front of him.

“YOU TOOK AWAY MY BEST FRIEND! YOU TOOK AWAY A PIECE OF ME!”

“I didn’t ….” she choked out.

“YOU ARE A KILLER, YOU KNOW THAT! YOU LEFT HIM TO DIE!”

“I tried to….”

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOU IN THAT BUILDING DYING LIKE YOU LET SAM DO! YOU TRUELY ARE AN ANGEL OF DEATH!”

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” she screamed as well she jolted up in bed.

Sweat dripped from her brow. Her shirt stuck to her skin, her breath was ragged. She stared at the wall in front of her. It was just a nightmare, just a vivid nightmare of Bucky, yelling how much he hated her. She sighed.

Two days back in NYC and the nightmares jarred her awake since she ran into Stark. It either had Bucky hating her or having him die in her arms. She pushed the sheets off her legs and threw off the shirt. She glance at her clock, 4 a.m.

She gathered her running clothes and went to change. A run. She needed a run.

Her office door had been closed Wednesday and Thursday. She hadn’t popped into classes like she normally did. Bucky hadn’t expected her full withdrawl. It wasn’t like her to completely withdraw from activities. He had seen her on previous bad days and she still stepped in and forced a smile.

He waited after class on Thursday night to talk to Nat. She was packing her bag when he asked, “How is she?”

Nat looked up from her task and to him. “She’s not answering calls.” Concern broke through him. “She texted when she got back but that’s it. She took some sick time. I know that but she’s not ….”

He watched her hesitate. He knew Y/n didn’t like her business plastered everywhere. She was reserved and closed off despite what she pushed patrons to do. “Look, if she’s in the same place she was after the hospital, she won’t answer anyone. She reverts back into herself. Her depression and PTSD will be back full force. But knowing her, she won’t seek out help. Won’t seek me or Clint out.”

He watched tears fill her eyes. His heart clenched because it was obvious how much y/n was loved. He stepped towards her, placing his hand on her arm. She patted in, knowing he wasn’t used to comforting others. “She survived the military hearings. I don’t know if she’ll survive this.”

She opened the door to her office. It was stuffy after the week away. She sighed. She had so much to catch up, plus interview requests to ignore. She walked in placing her bag and purse near her couch. She pushed open the curtains, opening the window. Her fingers went through her shorter hair, a decision she made after too many sleepless nights. She needed change.

Her eyes flitted around her office, recalling her last conversation in it. The one that revealed that she was indeed Bucky’s medic on that fateful day. She sighed. She hadn’t talked to him. Though he hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t talked to Nat, Clint or Wanda either. She had cut off all communicate since returning to the City.

Nightmares plagued her about Bucky’s reaction. Her morning runs were often at 3 a.m. now. It allowed her a few hours of sleep afterwards before the autumn sun rose in the sky. Her eyes refocused on her desk, noticing a small box. It was white. She hadn’t left it there. Her hand went to pick it up, noticing her call sign scribled on the box. No note, just the word Mercy. She lifted the lid to reveal a leathter and silver bracelet with a wing on the end.

She looked back at the writing on the lid. It was neat, but all caps. She knew the handwriting, she knew … Bucky.

She slipped her hat into her flight suit as she walked the hall to the DFAC. She tried not to yawn. It was too early or too late depending on how one saw it. The dining facility was practically empty. Night shift had already eaten, but the hall was open for stragglers like her. She pulled a tray with her as she collected some eggs and toast, then an apple. She went to a far table and slowly started eating, as she stared into space.

It was minutes later, when a tray was placed across from her that she pulled out of her daze. Her eyes focused and then refocused on the man before her - tall, muscley, too die for eyes, Barnes.

He smiled softly at her before murmuring a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey there, Sarge. You are up late,” she replied, biting off a piece of bacon.

“Night shift.” She hummed. “Mind if I sit?”

She shook her head. It was the first conversation they had alone. She recalled Sam, telling her Barnes thought she was a hero. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “So… enjoying the war?” He choked on the orange juice, he had sipped. She chuckled. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Who enjoys war, doll?”

“Those who get paid the big bucks. The ones making the guns and the bullets. Certainly not us.”

“That’s an interesting view.”

She shrugged, taking another bite. They sat in silence for a few minutes. She sipped on her juice, before conversing again. “Sorry, I just got done with a long shift.”

His blue eyes met hers in understanding. “I get it, doll. Life of a medic isn’t easy. Especially a medic like you.”

“A medic like me?” she asked innocently, as his cheeks turned crimson.

“Well … you know….”

“I don’t really.” She arched her eyebrow at him and she watched him squirm a little.

“You just have the best record.”

She nodded slightly. “So I’m told.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I just do my job. Just like you do yours. I’m not in it for the accolades or the trophies.”

He smiled at her. “What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

@scuzmunkie  @cari105 @soldierplum @muggleluna @valkyrieofsmut @coal000 @xxashy999xx @wishingforahome @lokissoul @infinitycaprogers @randomfandompenguin @verygraphicink @givemethatgold @marvelausmylife @keldachick @slender--spirit @chook007 @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes @jessieray98 @purely-imagines-and-fantasies @catsandbooksinafarawayplace @existingovertherainbow @calwitch @flashfanfics @creepshowzombae @everythingisoverrated @marvelausmylife @ex-bookjunky @winchesterswantmypie @ven9eance6661 @crownofmanga @38leticia @dracris33 @ladylovelyfan @mypage-myfandoms @everything-is-awesomesauce @jamiedr

Murphy’s Law 01

Summary: 

Miracle? I was no miracle.

I was a mistake in the making with no way out of this mess.

When you die, you expect that to be the end.

No restart.

No continue.

Just… The End.

Realistically speaking, there is no magic or ritual or some fantastical reason to give one person out of the hundreds and thousands of people who desperately desire that second chance that slim possibility.

God?

Why would any heavenly (or demonic) being bother with an average joe?

A continue button?

Life is not a game so no such thing.

Some cosmic change in the universe?

It’s possible but what are the chances. Way too astronomical to be true.

So when her life ended oh so abruptly, Saki thought that was it.

But like almost every cliche come to life, she woke up again in a new world with that ‘amazing’ second chance.

Normally, one would expect that reincarnated person to rejoice. They got another go at life, what was there to complain about? To do so would mean that they are a spoiled brat who did not understand what god given opportunity they were given.

But Saki understood something very intimately. It was that she was happy, content and fulfilled in her past life. She did not need to have all that ripped away from her and told to restart in this new reality.

Her stern but loving family?

They were now just whips in smoke that she could no longer grasp in her hand.

Her many hours put into her hard earned degree?

Falling through her fingers like sand as her memories began to blur.

Her culture and identity?

It was gone in the abyss and now she had been blanked out like a white canvas for others to fulfill.

Safe to say, Saki hated her new beginning with a vengeance that she did not think she had the capacity for.

For many weeks, her new parents blustered around and worried frantically as their newborn child constantly screamed and wailed as she rejected her new reality. Unknown to them that their child mourned for the loss of an entire world she would never return to.

But the world never wants for the sake of one person, so life moved on. Saki quietly let go of her fading past and with trembling chubby fingers grasped on to her new world.

Saki upon reconciling with her new life, reflected upon her actions the past few weeks and had flushed red upon realizing how troubled her new parents were with her constant wailing and had resolved herself to be a good child for them. Partly out of guilt, the chestnut haired child mused, as her new mother combed through her slowly growing locks.

I stole the life of the child you should have had. Its the least I should do.

So the girl tried to love and fell to love. She adored her kind and comforting new family and life slowly fell into place for the old soul. Saki adapted and watched as three seasons passed.

It was on a bright spring day that Life decided to kick the girl into the curb again.

Sitting in front of the television and absentmindedly watching the children’s anime playing across the scene, Saki squished the soft plush bunny between her fingers as she tried to practice her finger’s coordination. Listening to the anime, the girl scrunched her nose as she tried to make sense of the Kanji being used.

The broken sound of ceramic and yelp of pain broke the child out of her musing.

“Mama?!”

Scrambling to her feet, the toddler stumbled over her two feet to reach the source of the noise and when she reached the kitchen her jaw dropped. The floor was littered with jagged porcelain and her mothers fingers cut and bleeding profusely.

“Ara? Saki if you come closer you will get hurt.” Saki’s mom had a serene smile as she clutched her fingers close to her chest. At the time, Saki faced pinched at how air-headed her mother had to be to wave off what obviously had to be a painful injury.

“But!”

“No buts! besides this is nothing.”

The older woman had gently admonished the child but as she her cild’s distress she giggled before she held out her hands and to the toddler’s astonishment the wounds slowly but surely closed up on their own.

… I’m pretty sure wounds don’t heal that quickly.

Saki’s head tilted to the side and she mimed a fish as she tried to make sense of the phenomenon that she just witnessed. Long enough for her father who had come down from the second floor to see what had caused the ruckus and chuckle at his child’s reaction.

“What’s shocked you so much my little blossom?” Saki’s father had a wry grin on his lips as he bundled her up in his warm arms.

“I was showing her my Quirk. I think this is the first time she has ever seen it Dear.”

A sense of foreboding, a jogged memory from her fogged past.

“That’s because there hasn’t been a need for her to see your Quirk Honey.”

Recognition from a past long gone. Children in a school gifted with the supernatural.

“True, minor regeneration isn’t something I can show so easily. But anyway, Dear could you please?”

A forest ablaze in blue flames. Children collapsed on the floor as a pink gas embraced their forms. Their peers bleeding as they braced themselves against the darkness.

“Of course Honey!”

The porcelain pieces started to float and was lifted gently before displaced into the trash. The child paling as the pieces in her memory clicked into place. She vaguely remembered her Mom giggling as she poked my cheek to snap me out of my shock.

Two boys anxiously watching the large Television screen. The Symbol of Peace, weary and injured but standing tall. Fulfilled in his duty and pointing to the camera.

“You’re next.”

The evidence was standing in from of her and yet the child could only remember her dropping stomach as she pieced together where she was reborn into. A world only thought to be fiction but was now her reality.

Oh god i’m in a world where the supernatural is the absolute normal.

Unknown to her parents, Saki panicked at the revelation but her denial at where she was dropped into abated after she considered the facts for a while.

Her parents had very minor quirks, her mother had a minor regeneration quirk while her father had a minor telekinesis quirk. Given that, it was likely that I would manifest a minor version of either of their quirks or a minor combined version of their quirk.

Which meant that Saki would not be pressured to become a Hero.

At that, Saki sighed in relief.

She did not want society to force her to risk her life for others when she did not have the mental or physical strength to do so. The vague reminder of her death made Saki shiver uncontrollably and she was glad she did not have to face that again for as long as possible.

The tiny girl was content to be the norm in the world of the extraordinary.

But Life does not cater to the whims of a single person, and once again threw her to the wolves.

Come her fourth birthday, and Saki was slow to show any signs of a quirk. When she fell and bruised her arms, they healed at a normal rate. When Saki focused on an object, it did not levitate.

Nothing out of the ordinary changed.

As expected, despite how lighthearted her parents usually are, they were quite worried to realize how late their child’s quirk was coming in. So hand in hand, Saki was taken to the hospital for a check up.

Saki learned two things that day.

She did not have double joint, so she did have a quirk.

Just… not quite a visible one.

At first, the doctors considered that she might have a dormant quirk that required certain stimulation to activate. So she went through testing and physical activities to try to activate the quirk.

However, the tests came out negative so it was assumed that Saki did not have a dormant quirk but instead an invisible quirk.

An invisible quirk was as its name implied, a passive quirk that is constantly active but is so minor that it basically doesn’t seem to be visible.

So after the results were presented and her parents reassured, her parents brought her back home. Saki was still loved and cared for the same as before. Her home life remained the warm heaven that it was.

But of course, things never go that smoothly outside her haven.

Returning to kindergarten with no quirk to show off quickly made the tiny girl the class pariah. The kids assumed if she could not show a quirk meant that she was quirkless and suddenly she was not ‘good enough’ to the everyone. Saki had not changed, and in a world where you had to show off some ability and have nothing to show for, you were punished for it in the form of isolation and bullying.

Children were innocent. They had no concept of what was right and what was wrong. They only acted according to what other said was ‘right’. The product of a society molding them to their image.

It was childlike. It was pure. It was cruel.

The Manga did not elaborate on how bad this quirk obsessed society could be to the quirkless. Often, Saki was tugged in two extremes, either bullied for being ‘useless’ or treated with the kid gloves for being too ‘fragile’.

In the quiet night and hidden underneath the covers, Saki had considered how amazing Midoriya was. To endure when society deemed his dream just a dream. To still reach for what was considered the impossible.

Midoriya had determination in spades. And Saki had none in contrast.

However, life was not ‘bad’. While Saki could not escape the stigma that was being considered ‘quirkless’ she could avoid some of the problems that came her way.

She never responded to taunts-the sharp barbs thrown her way to bring her down for the short enjoyment of the few-and bullies eventually considered a worthless ‘target’ and soon left her alone. Her belongings safe from the grubby hands of children who did not understand enough.

No one bothered her after a while, but at the same time she had no one outside her family.

Her family worried, her kind parents fretting in the night under the darkness. They whispered their fear of their sole child left with no companions. All the while the old soul hid behind the door and her gaze was trained to the floor before slowly walking back to her room.

Saki dealt with things the best way she could. It helped that as an introvert she became tired of social interaction quickly and retired to herself. In a sense, Saki was free of responsibility and pressure. Free of society who judged for Quirk and not the person behind it.

Free to choose whatever path may walk.

Looking at the bright side, Saki was glad she was reborn in this world. If she had been reborn in Naruto or One Piece, her uselessness was a dead end in the making. So she dealt with life and moved on.

She ignored the pitiful looks of their neighbors. The awful whispers of condolences to her parents for bearing a ‘Quirkless’ child. Her parents tight smiles and clenched fists.

She ignored the malicious giggles in her school halls. The teachers glancing at her once before looking away. The obvious boundary between her and everyone else.

She welcomed the warm hugs, the cheerful laughter, the kind words inside her home. She was safe and sound inside and that was enough.

Then in the beginning of her third year of middle school, Life threw a curveball on her way.

In the early morning of a cheerful spring day, where the sakura petals floated down gently, Saki had picked up a glass of milk and sipped on it as she turned on the news.

What greeted her was the amazing video of a blonde being strangled by sludge and a green haired boy running to save him.

She immediately choked and spat out her milk.

Saki was aware of what era she was in. While she was unclear of where in the timeline she stood she knew she was in the era before All Might’s retirement. She still saw All Might on the news after all. She had hoped that she was a decade before the plot started. Unfortunately, she was not that lucky and with the news showcasing the Protagonist and his Rival she was given a clear indication of when exactly she was in the Timeline.

So it was with vengeance that she decidedly tried to avoid any interaction of the plot.

She immediately threw out any high school application that had hero courses and settled for an average school that was within walking distance of her home. She vigilantly followed the news and avoided areas where hero and villain fights occurred with more effort than before.

Cowardly? Perhaps. But Saki was well aware of her position in this society. She had no ability, no backing and was not prepared mentally or physically to face any sort of danger and deal with the consequences.

People’s lives were at stake, this was a reality she lived in for more than a decade now. This was no fantasy to play Hero and become a Mary Sue and save the day. One wrong step and the whole structure would crumble like a stack of cards.

So she refused to be involved and destroy the carefully scripted events that is Fate and started High school in an average non-hero school that had no relation to U.A. at all.

That did not mean that she would completely ignore the turn of events. The petite girl obsessively kept up with the news and took stock of the report of the USJ incident. It was the first time she saw Class A outside of pen and paper but that brief debut of heroes in training came and went.

She properly saw the class during the airing of the UA Sports festival and watching the event on the news made Saki breath heavily.

They are so young. So young and the world is going to throw them the gauntlet.

They don’t deserve any of that.

The revelation made Saki’s stomach turn and she had to resist the urge to grab the remote and close the tv. She refused to hide under her sheets as she stood riveted to the screen.

Her nails dug into the palm of her hands as she took it in.

Shinsou’s slouched posture straightening as he took his first step to his dream. Uraraka, her body littered with bruises, burning determination in her gaze as she took her stand against Bakugo. Midoriya, as he broke finger after finger to save Todoroki.

At the end of it all Saki was trembling. Her mother, her kind and gentle mother glanced at her state and that night she was handed her favorite food to chew on.

That night as Saki laid under the covers, fingers clutching the fabric of her old and worn plushy, she contemplated the future. She was in the same year as the kids who would one day bear the future of Japan on their shoulders and she trembled.

But Life does not wait for one person and the world moves on.

Time moved on, she views the Hero Killer on the news and huffed in amusement at the white lie provided of the incident. The disgruntled look of the Pro Hero Endeavor as he reported the incident on the news was something she would remember for a while. She also contemplated the viral video that was floating on the web for a while. The blurry but unmistakable figure of Stain who declared his intent against the UA kids and heroes.

The clock was ticking and Saki was so very aware of the impending end of an era. The end of All Might’s days as a hero.

Soon enough, the chirping of the crickets announced the arrival of summer and alongside the heat waves was the rising dread of what is to come.

It was with those emotions that Life decided to stop giving Saki the illusion that she had a choice anymore and threw her head first into the chaos.

On a night like any other, where the streets were filled with buzz and life, Saki had been given an errand from her parents and was walking on the crowded streets. Opening the news on her phone, she froze as she saw the iconic news conference being aired.

Murphy’s Law: When things can go wrong, it will go wrong.

There was no warning.

A loud sound, the cacophony of screams.

The concrete building, large enough to dwarf her overshadowed her form.

nononoNONONONONONONO!

Idon’twANTTODIEAGA-

…

…

…

When a pebble is dropped, it needs not to take any action. Just being dropped into the water will cause ripples to roll.

HERE IS THE REDONE CHAPTER OF THE PILOT CHAPTER I DID. I WASTED MY BREAK OVER THIS FOR SOME REASON. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK XDDD

Dad Letter, 123018

30 December, 2018

Dear Dad--

Happy almost New Year! I hope you had a good Christmas. Mine was excellent! And for some reason, I’m proud of the presents I got! This is mostly due to the fact that I’m asking for better shit than I did as a young adult. As an example, there’s a book I put on my wish list by a Soviet-era Russian named Stanislaw Lem. The book is called ‘Solaris,’ which is a science fiction book about a planet that humans visit, and the planet does...well, let’s just say it communicates in a very weird way with the human explorers. I expect this book to be tough to read! It’s complicated. It has a pretty complex central concept. It was written in the U.S.S.R. and it’s been made into a movie twice. I’m proud to have received this book!

Books are special possessions, obviously. Another thing on my wish list that I received for Christmas was a book stand. In case it isn’t obvious, it’s a big square of wood, with a 2” lip at the bottom to rest a book on. And it has a little adjustable metal finger on each side, with a soft rubber tip, to gently hold the book open. It’s like a lectern, or music stand, but it just sits on a table and holds a book open in an artful fashion. It looks great, and has increased the gravitas of my living room by an astonishing 14%! (If I put my nice Bible on there, that’ll add another 8% just on its own.) Then someone comes into the apartment, sees my open Bible displayed on my new book stand, and automatically they know I’m a good person, and they won’t steal my shit. Ha-ha!

Since I just finished being in that temporary period of not being poor, I was able to take care of a few things I needed, like getting new shoes for my special orthotic inserts, and new prescription sunglasses. I found an outfit online that will make prescription glasses for as little as $25, and I needed some, so I got some prescription shades. Makes me feel quite the big shot. “Yes, these are sunglasses. And yes, I can actually read road signs while I have them on. Now go away, serf, or I shall taunt you a second time.” I’ll include a pic of me with the new specs.

Not too many other bits of news, except a few things I may have mentioned in the past. I have a nasty toothache, so I’m going to get an appointment Monday to see the dentist. Until then, I’m surviving on ibuprofin, goosed occasionally with Vicodins I had left over from the gallbladder removal surgery. I had a funny reaction to the pain pills one day last week. I tried contacting my dentist about it last week, but I suppose they were closed for the week, and I never heard back. About Thursday of last week, the toothache had been particularly unpleasant upon waking up, so breakfast that day was coffee and Vicodin. Then, when I got to work, I felt really high. (Perhaps the opioids knocked loose a chunk of THC that had been stuck in my brain somewhere.) I don’t normally feel high after taking pain pills; I just feel less pain. (I’m grateful for both of those things. I don’t want to start taking them for fun, I just want my stupid tooth to stop hurting.) But on this particular morning, I just felt really stoned. Good news is, I didn’t have to take phone calls that day, and my work productivity was good, because I wasn’t distracted by a whole Viet Nam in my mouth because of this stupid bad tooth. I’ll be happy when it’s fixed.

Zach is well. Samuel L. Jackson, Cat is well. Stacy had a decent Christmas, as far as I know, except that she was sick with something that might have been strep throat. That had to be unpleasant. Oh! I was able to give her the three art things I had made for her. First was a small canvas showing the solar system, then a thing like a snow globe with glitter, but applied to a canvas, like it had been exploded. (You’ll have to take my word for it that this was an attempt at “art.) And one last canvas that was a grid with samples of all the materials used to make the other gifts. Last year’s painting was the one I made of her cats and her snakes. We Weidmanns do love our pets.

It’s cold here today, so we have a fire going in our little fireplace. I have to admit, it feels a bit foolish paying money for wood that I’m going to burn, but I found some cheap firewood at Lowe’s, of all places. I get regular wood and then I get a box of these things called Enviro-Logs, which are made out of recycled waxed cardboard, which is used in things like cake boxes. They’re Duraflame logs for liberals, I suppose. I’m trying to convince my kitty that it’s nice and warm in front of the fireplace, and he’s just not having it. He flees from the fireplace like it’s the vacuum cleaner. Sam can be a dumbass.

So, for the coming week, I have work tomorrow, which will be dead, because it’s New Year’s Eve, so therefore nice, because it’s easy money. We have no plans for New Year’s Eve, other than attempting to stay up till midnight. Even if one doesn’t have a party to attend, it’s still fun to be awake when it turns the new year, because everyone in town starts setting off fireworks illegally. (If you’re asleep when this happens, you might wake up in the process of hurling yourself to the floor to avoid what sounds like gunshots.) Then, once the fireworks get going, all the dogs get barking. Then the sirens come, looking for the miscreants who set off the fireworks, and hopefully no one’s apartment burns down.

If my apartment burns down, I’m covered. I assume my renter’s insurance through State Farm will then swoop in to write me a big check, so as long as me, Zach, and the cat make it out of the fire, we get rewarded with all new stuff! It’s the little dreams that sustain one over time.

Trying a new dinner tonight; a variation of pot roast. You stick the hunk of meat in the slow cooker, pour a Coke over it, then toss in a packet of onion soup mix. Part of me thinks it’s going to be tasty, and looks forward to trying it. Part of me thinks we’re making nothing more than a giant meat lollipop, and is therefore ambivalent. If it turns out to be delicious in a life-altering way, I’ll be sure to let you know!

I’ll Meet You At The Bottom (Part 15)

So a little good news and a little bad news. Good news; today I contacted a publisher. I might be getting an original short story published. The bad news: this means I might not be able to update this fic as regularly. I’m definitely going to try, but I’m going to be putting more work into polishing my short story.

Azula pulled herself up, sore all over. She threw her belongings into her pack with such an alarmingly unnecessary fury. She’d stayed the night to prove that she wasn’t afraid, but she no longer desired their company. She didn’t desire any company at all. She supposed that deep down, she’d always felt as though she belonged alone.

 “Here.” Chan made off to dab at her head with a wet cloth.

 She slapped his hand away, “don’t touch me.”

 “I should have stepped in.”

 “I didn’t want your help.” She frowned and continued to fold her sleeping bag. With a sharp hiss, she clutched her ribcage.

 “Let me see it.” Chan reached out again.

 “I said don’t touch me.” This time her holler was loud enough to get a rouse from Taeyul and Wire. Even as she did so, she lifted her shirt some. She cringed at the sight of her sides, they were bruised and swollen all the way up, making it hard to move at all. She wouldn’t abandon her task though.  She would get an extra pouch of Ruby Tears from Chan and be on her way. She tightened her bag shut.

 “You really gonna leave us, pretty lady?” Minho asked.

 “You won’t miss me.”

 “That ain’t true.”

 “Ain’t it?” Azula mocked, she tugged up her shirt. “This is your fault. You and Yoona.” He flinched at the display. “Oh, I know what this is about. You just want more of this.” She hitched her shirt up an inch or two more, something she’d been all too good at lately. “That’s all you wanted, wasn’t it?” Two days late, the regret was setting in. Loneliness and desperation had made her easy. She recalled how he’d first leered at her, how could she have been so foolish? Azula tossed the pouch between her hands. Maybe Kohza was right, maybe she was just a ruby whore. She dropped herself back down. “Well, you got what you wanted, don’t think you’ll get it again.”

 “That weren’t all I wanted.” She thought she heard Minho say. “It were at first, maybe.”

 Azula ignored him. She would sit for a moment more and be on her way, whether Chan wanted to help her home or not. A drawn-out puff from her kiseru helped relax her frayed nerves and seemed to take the edge off of her physical pains. She looked in the direction of the palace, in the direction of home. How many people would be waiting for her? Waiting to drag her back to that loathsome institution. Azula laughed to herself, she’d like to see them try.

  The heavy sound of footsteps indicated Bo-Rem lurking before the girl announced herself. Dropping a token made from a rusty, beaten scrap of metal into Azula’s lap, she said, “You’re leaving? And here we were gonna let you join our gang.”

 The princess had no appetite for sarcasm today. She turned the shard of scrap metal over in her hand regardless. It was cut in an almost perfect circle with only a few sharp edges and bore the double-edged dagger of the Nyūkirā.  She flipped it over again, the back had two engraved letters an ‘P’ and an ‘L’.  In certain light, the metal chunk had a red sheen to it.

 “Boryuk didn’t know what to engrave in the metal for the initials.” Bo-Rem stated.  “So he just went with Minho’s nickname for you.”

 Azula furrowed her brows, thinking back to Mama Mozi. Of her many questions, she didn’t know which to ask first, so she asked the simplest? “Boryuk can metalbend?”

 “A little.” Boryuk shrugged, as if it wasn’t an accomplishment at all.

 Azula came out with the more pressing question.  “What is with you lowlifes and pretending like nothing happened.”

 “That kinda how it be here, pretty lady.” Minho replied.

 “We fight all the time, get it out, then it’s over.” Khoza shrugged. “‘Stead of dragging it out like they do in high-class politics.”

 “You just let it out all at once and get over it.” Wire added.

 “We also had to make sure you could handle us before letting you in.” Bo-Rem replied.

 “That how it work ‘round here.” Yoko declared.

 Azula spared the palace another glance and then turned her eyes to the trinket in her palm. An initiation process, she mused to herself. She supposed any group worth while had some type of hazing to go with it, Agni knew she wouldn’t have let just anyone join her posse. She slipped the token into her pocket.

 “So is you leavin’ or stayin’, pretty lady?” Minho asked.

 Her clothes were dirty beyond all compare, she longed for a nice hot shower, and a meal worth eating. Azula looked longingly at the palace. It would be another impulse decision that she would come to regret, but for now the Nyūkirā felt like real friends. They were rough and unstable, fickle and unpredictable but she was just as so.

 Chan tossed her a bottle of cactus juice. “So how about a trip to the industrial park? We could have a few drinks, make a little noise…”

 .oOo.

 She’s been gone for a little under a week and not one person has seen her. Or maybe they have but just didn’t realize it. Sokka wondered if her haircut had made her look that different. It couldn’t have, Azula had changed a lot but she was still Azula. He could see it on her, he didn’t even have to look, she had a certain aura about her. Sokka ran his fingers through his hair, how could this have happened? Why did he care so much for her? She’d never given him a reason to feel this much distress over her disappearance.  She needed someone, but why did it have to be him? Because, he decided, I was crazy enough to give her a try. Despite it all he had a bit of a weakness for caring for those who were usually looked down upon. And after his brush with his darkest nature, he had a weakness for seeing the humanity in the least sympathetic of people.  

 Yes, at her core, Sokka decided, Azula was in pain. Lost and in pain, and confused. Perhaps afraid even. None of those traits looked well on her and none of them seemed characteristic of her. That may have been particularly why he found himself overcome with stress and worry.

 As Sokka swept his brush over the canvas, he couldn’t help but recall her as he’d last seen her. She was so delicate, as close to death as she could very well get without falling through the thin veil. His brush glided faster as his mind raced. He was almost finished painting on her robe. It was lacking some in texture, but that only seemed right as his life in general seemed to be lacking texture lately.  

 Images infiltrated Sokka’s brain; he saw the princess laying broken and naked in some dirty back alley, she turned to him and asked why he had left her. This image flickered away, only to be replaced by Suki underwater with her arm outstretched, she was asking him where the hell he was. The images seemed to blur together and their questions intertwining.  He put down the brush, his hand trembling too much to pain right.

 He tore down the stairs, knowing that he had to find Azula. He had to find her right then.

If he didn’t he would find her dead.

Just like Yue. Like his mother. Like Suki.

 .oOo.

 The industrial park was the husk of an old war age factory. Like most of the wartime relics, the defeat of the Fire Nation put it out of use. It’s various smoke stacks were barren of their usual puffs and much of its coal had been coughed up and scattered around the dead grass and dirt. Azula knew this factory by its logo, it was the very same one that had pumped out the drill she had overseen a long time off. Spare pipes, cogs, and sheets of scrap metal unutilized were discarded in careless heaps around the park. Azula found herself sitting on the massive rail tracks, once used to transport the drill safely from one end of the park to the next. It was a jarring sight to look down, the hole beneath the track was big enough to swallow her whole. She spied the rusting corpses of war machines deemed unfit to fight for the purpose they were designed. Great machines that weren’t grand enough, discharged before they had a honor of joining the battle. She almost wished that, that could have been her. She leapt down and wandered over to one that may have been a prototype for her tank. It was beaten and unmovable now, but it still looked like it could shatter the terrain it trekked. She wondered what happened to her old tank, one day she would have to drive it again. But for the time being she accepted Chan’s cactus juice.

 One bottle had Azula’s strides a little clumsy. Two made every stupid remark made by Yoko, absolutely hilarious. Two and a half, and Yoona’s speech suddenly made complete sense. Three had her giggling hysterically when Chan tried leaping from a pile of stone blocks onto a pile of rusty beams, he missed by a bit and took a hit right to his manhood. Four bottles had her trying it herself, with more success but just as little grace.

She had to admit that she was having the time of her life. They had taken her on a great many adventures throughout the day; they had taunted a wild kimodo bull, leapt through a broken window to steal a dented kettle just to see if they could, stomped across Mama Mozi’s lawn after she’d turned her back, and tested their parkour when she’d chased them down.  Azula would argue that the kind of leaps and turns they preformed were worthy of high praise, but apparently the owners of the homes used in their show were more concerned with the unwanted intrusion than the impressive display. Their show was cut short when Azula got a first hand demonstration of the reasoning behind Wire’s name. They were doing splendidly, with a new burst of energy courts of the cactus juice, Azula had leapt from one roof to the rickety balcony of the house below. It sent jarring vibrations through her bruised and swollen ribs, but she didn’t notice through her buzzed daze. From there she used the rails to fling herself upon the scaffolding of a house never finished, leaping from one crossbeam to the next. It would seem that the building was privy to invaders for it was rigged all over. Azula had taken the care to dance over and weave through each. Chan and Taeyul not far behind. A loud “ah fuck,” and a decent thud caught her attention. She looked down to see Wire hanging precariously by his feet a story below. Between the ten of them, Wire was free, but his ankles were torn pretty horribly. Thus their rooftop adventure was cut short, all was well though, they had lost Mozi blocks back. And so they came to arrive at the industrial park earlier than planned where Azula had just finished one upping Chan. She finished with a bow that sent her into sudden vertigo. She stumbled forward and toppled over, rolling on to her back laughing. A few feet away Khoza started a round of slow claps—she couldn’t be sure if they were for Chan’s stellar landing or for her elegant bow.  

 “Ey, pretty lady” Minho called from his place atop a pile of discarded pipes and poles.  you wanna have some real fun?” Minho offered. At first she thought that it was another attempt to beg for the sex she promised him he would never get. He held up a satchel of Ruby Tears. Interest captured, Azula sauntered over. It has been a while since she’d had a really good fix. “If you add a bit of dandelion powder, the trips are much better.” Minho explained. “It smells better too.” He added as he dumped a fine dusting of dandelion powder over the Ruby Tears.

  With a fresh waft of Dragon’s Breath clouding her judgment, Azula she found herself lighting various things on fire at first just to see them explode. She and Minho made a game of it; whoever found the most flammable object won. Whoever didn’t, had to kiss Boryuk. A game that had her completely forgetting to hide the color of her flame. Azula scoped the area for something worth lighting. As Minho scoured the trash heap, she shoved her way into the factory. She rummaged through crates both open and sealed, most of them contained broken screws, nails, and bolts. A few had some perfectly intact hammers and wrenches. But they were of no use to her. She could set the mountain of coal on fire, but even at her highest she could still deduce that doing so would draw far too much attention. Coupled with the thought that she would be too drunk to keep a fire of that size in check, she put the idea out of her mind. Perhaps that was the smartest decision she had made all week. At last she came upon what she was looking for. A few sticks of dynamite and a small pile of gun powder. It was only slightly less foolish.

 “Found yours Minho?” She asked.

 “I find mine ‘while ago, pretty lady. Were waiting on you.”

 “Ell urry ip n lye it ip.” Yoona hollered. “Us wan see some sploshions.”

 “After you.” Azula slurred, motioning for Minho to start, after all the best was to be saved for last.

 “A’righty then. Time to bring out the classics.” Minho stabbed a large stick into the ground, nature’s finest firewood. Around it he spread a cluster of leaves. He set it aflame and tossed a lump of coal or two into the mix. She had to admit, his use of the bare minimum created quite a respectable blaze. But it wouldn’t come close to the inferno she was about to create.

 “Alright, Minho, prepare to meet your doom.” She smirked. She put his fire out and set her dynamite and powder in its place. She lit it up and quickly scuttled back. The blast popped and with the assistance of the gunpowder shot quite a distance, right into a sheet of steel where it ricocheted. The burnt of it had died away but the shower of heat that contacted her calf had her nearly on her ass. With a swiftness to match her own, Chan broke her fall.

She counted her blessings that the stick was a dud and that the hit only left a harsh stinging and an angry red mark on her leg.

 “I thinks you wons, pretty lady.” Minho declared backing away from the fire that still burned where the powder had trailed.

 “Whoops.” Azula muttered, but at the same time she relished in her victory. It was the first one she’s had since the eclipse. “Y-you must feelprettybad rightnow.” She laughed, well aware that her slur was growing more apparent. “Because my victory was so explosive, it will be ringing inyourears f-for, for a week.”

 “That pun will be ringing in my ear for weeks to come.” Khoza muttered, obviously not drunk enough for that brand of humor.

 Azula laughed harder, it was more like a cackled at that point. Her fire seemed to laugh with her as it crackled. Leaning up against Chan, she fixed her ear on it. Indeed her fire was talking, speaking to her like it was proud of her. “You’ve finally used me well.” It’s voice died off with a pop. She crawled closer to the fire as it praised her for her mastery of it. A burst of sparks took to the air and showered down on her in the form of compliments. She came closer still and reached her hand out, only to have Chan yank it back.

 “But the fire the fire it wanted me t-to come to it.”

 “It’s a fire, of course it did.” Chan smiled, running a hand over her hair. “I would like you to come to me.”

 Azula peered up at him with innocent eyes, as innocent as her eyes could be anyhow. “Would you?”

 “Absolutely.” He replied, coaxing her away from the hazard she was making of the fire behind her. He bent down enough to find himself level with her.  He brushed her hair out of her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek. Holding her close he mumbled in her ear, “you’re still unbelievably hot.” His hand slid over her thigh.

 She looked at her hands. They were on fire. She was fire. The flames were blue, she was her fire. “I know I am.” She replied, effectively ruining the mood. “I am fire.” She whispered to herself, truly and completely mesmerized by the flames she thought she had become.

 Chan rolled his eyes, but if that made her happy he would go with the moment. “You are fire, huh?” He asked.

 “That’s right.” She smirked, putting a hand on his cheek. Her flame-fingers seemed to lick and dance over his skin. “Do you know what fire likes to do, Chan?”

 “What does fire like to do, princess?” He asked stroking her back.

 “It likes to consume things.” She winked, pushing him to the ground. She needed to take advantage of the moment, it wasn’t every day that her entire body became flame, it never happened at all before then. There was so much raw power that came with being fire, she dared anyone to try to wield her. She would let Chan give it a shot.

 As a fire would, she leapt upon him.

 .oOo.

 As the princess became fire, Sokka snuffed out. He couldn’t find her, he tried so hard, but he couldn’t find her. And if he couldn’t find her, that must mean she’s dead. No one is gone for a week without a trace or a word and comes back alive, especially not a person hooked on drugs and so full of scars. He killed her in some way, shape, or form. He re-entered the palace all fury with a faint feeling that he should have asked for help.

 “Sokka, are you alright?”  

 “I can’t do anything Katara!” He hollered. He didn’t mean to yell at her but he needed to scream. He needed to hit something. “You healed her.”

 “Healed who?”

 “Aang was breathing for her.”

 “Azula? Are you talking about Azula?”

 “Zuko kept the guards on task and the guards brought her to the infirmary. You know what I did Katara?” She made off to answer be he was shouting again. “Nothing! I did nothing.” He was pacing frantically about the room, he did nothing just like when Zhao killed the moon spirt. Just like when Suki’s ship went down.

 “Sokka, that’s not true.” Her arm was on his shoulder.

 He came to an abrupt stop, shoulders slumping. “You’re right, Katara.” The relief in her eyes was short lived. “I did do something. I was the one who put her in that situation. Aren’t I just a great help.” A coffee table was on the floor before, clattering a few decorative platters along with it. He didn’t remember pushing it over, but he was sure that he did. He clasped his hands on his head. It was happening again. And after he swore to himself that he would never lose control again. The fear in Katara’s eyes was unmistakable and he couldn’t blame her for backing away. As compassionate as she was, she wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t reckless like him, she knew when to back away from someone so far out of it that they couldn’t come back in on their own.

 For the first time he considered that he had never truly healed at all, that he’d been bottling it in the whole time, pretending that everything was okay. It wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

 He kicked the wall once, maybe twice, maybe thrice—he’d lost count after the first.

 “Sokka please.” Katara called. “You have to calm down.”

 He didn’t mean to but he chucked at that. “Okay, sure thing Katara, let me just flick my rage switch off. He watched her cringe against the wall, just like she did when the first time. He had hit her, not because he was mad at her, but because he was mad and she was there. This time he hit himself, it drove away the urge and was better than hurting her again. He wouldn’t be able to take it if he hurt his own sister again, just like he couldn’t take it that he had pushed Azula over the edge.

 Strangely enough, he found himself hating Suki. For leaving him, for doing this to him.  

 To his surprise Katara approached him. “No, no you have to go. I’m going to hurt you again.”

 “You won’t.” Katara insisted hugging him as close as she could, bringing a halt to his self-beating. “I won’t let you.”

 “I’m sorry Katara.” He whispered, his rage subsiding to make room for tears. “I’m so sorry.” He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the present or for the strife he caused her in the past. He needed to get a grip. He needed someone to help him find one. “You’re not going to blame her are you, it’s not her fault.”

 “Will it make you feel better if I don’t.” Katara asked.

 Sokka nodded.

 “Then I won’t. On one condition.”

 He waited.

 “Let me help you. I know you haven’t been yourself.”

 “Then why didn’t you say something?” He asked. “You’re afraid of me aren’t you.”

 “No, Sokka! You know that’s not true. I didn’t want to push you.”

 “Help me help Azula.” He quickly added, “you don’t even have to talk to her, just give me some support.”

 Katara sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”

 Sokka tried to smile, he thought that it almost worked. Maybe this time around, he would heal for real. Maybe they both could. If only the princess would come home.

 .oOo.

 In the week to follow, they had a lot of questions for Azula, having seen her fire for what it really was. She cringed, waiting for the backlash. It came in the form of an unrelenting rain of questions. What was it like to live in the palace? Is it true that you have your own personal guards? Is there a hot spring in palace, I heard there were three. And from Yoona, though jumbled as usual, Azula made out, “can you hook me up with your brother.” She came to conclude that Yoona was the most merciless of gang. Khoza was the only one who had no questions to ask. He was content to give commentary, “that explains a lot” among other thing.

Truth be told, Azula had expected repercussion and another beating, but they seemed to treat her no differently. Not better nor worse. They still treated her with all of the roughness of the days prior, they still expected her to accompany them on all of their ventures no matter how much class they lacked.

 That week had been the best week of her life. Save for the bottle and the dust, she was free. Truly free.

 In that week, she had grown fond of Minho. More so than she’d like to admit. He told her about his family. About his little brother Hi-Yung, who still had the cloth rabbaroo he’d sewn for the kid. Of his mother, crippled by a carriage accident—the one that killed his father. He told her of his dreams and asked her if she could help him. “I know I aren’t the brightest ‘round. But I have a idea. I has lots a ideas. I want to tell stories. I want folks to read ‘em.” So she let him tell her stories of the made up sort and of real adventures he’d been on.  And he was good at it, several nights in a row he lulled her to sleep with his wild tales. So did something she seldom ever did. She made him a promise. That when she got back to the palace and sorted things out, she would find him again and teach him to read and write. He was a brilliant man, she had come to conclude, a brilliant man who had never gotten a chance. She found out more than she ever wanted to know about him. He was rather comforting and made her feel less alone in her addiction. And when the others were fast asleep, she exchanged a story of her own. And he reminded her that she was strong, useful, worthwhile. He made her feel as though she wasn’t alone. He told her that he wanted to stop taking Ruby Tears and that they could do it together.

 Perhaps that’s why his death hit so hard.

Art Therapy

Request: I was wondering if you would write something were the reader and Bucky fell in love, but Natasha was really horrible and told the reader to stay away from Bucky, Bucky doesn't understand why

@melconnor2007

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader [Enhanced]

Word Count: 6,658

Bucky lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep most nights. The rare times when he could, his mind was plagued with nightmares. The doctors in Wakanda had assured him that it was perfectly normal. His psychiatrist at the Avengers compound told him that the therapy would help with it. He even had a prescription for sleeping pills after he mentioned his insomnia. But Bucky didn’t like taking them, the feeling of something making his mind hazy was too close to how he used to be while under Hydra’s control.

Despite all the different professional medical guarantees, a part of Bucky believed he’d always have these symptoms. 

He sighed, sick of staring at the white ceiling, and ripped his covers off. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and no shirt. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well do something productive with his time. He could go to the gym or find a book to read. Unlike Steve, Bucky enjoyed catching up on the past through its literature. Meanwhile, Steve enjoyed taking the film and music suggestions from the Avengers and various friends. 

Bucky stared at his tennis shoes and decided he’d go for a run or head to the gym. Steve always said to wake him up on nights like these. But Bucky didn’t want to be a burden on his best friend more than he already was. 

Bucky threw on a t-shirt that was a little too snug. Steve’s clothes must have gotten mixed into his again. It’s like the punk still thought he was the tiny, sickly thing from the 30s.  

He walked through the compound and headed toward the kitchen to grab a bottle of water to take to the gym. His footsteps were silent. It was so ingrained in him from Hydra’s training that his feet couldn’t make a sound even if he wanted. 

When he closed the refrigerator, he heard muffled music coming from one of the rooms right by the living room. It wasn’t a bedroom; those were on the opposite wing of the compound. 

Bucky decided to feed his curiosity. After all, it was 3 o’clock in the morning and he wondered who else would be up at this time.

Now that he was closer, he could hear music that he surprisingly recognized. It was classical, but cleaner than the records he used to listen to. The door was slightly ajar, just giving him enough room to peek inside the room subtly. 

Y/N sat in the room, denim shirt rolled up at the sleeves and hair in a messy bun. She was staring down at something with a paintbrush being held in her mouth.  Bucky couldn’t help but smirk. Her concentrated yet utterly relaxed expression reminded Bucky of Steve when he sketched. 

He’d been introduced to each other upon his arrival. But they’d never had a conversation. Steve mentioned that she was at the compound temporarily. Y/N was a friend of Sam’s. They met in the Air Force. Bucky wasn’t told much else and he didn’t think to ask any more. 

There was a weird breeze coming from the window in the studio being open. It caused the door to swing ajar more. When it creaked, Y/N automatically glanced over at it and happened to catch Bucky right before he took a step back. 

“You’re welcome to come in.” She said softly. There was nothing accusatory or annoyed in her voice. 

“I don’t want to bother you.” Bucky muttered, refusing to move past the doorway. 

“You’re not bothering me.” She said as a matter of fact and with a smirk.   

“I was just about to head to the gym when I heard your music playing.” Bucky gestured in the direction of the gym as if it would give him more of a chance to escape there. 

“Oh! I’m sorry. Did it wake you up?” Without waiting for a response, she flew up and turned the volume lower. 

“No, it’s…it’s fine…I-I was just surprised that someone else was up.” Bucky was getting increasingly awkward as the conversation continued. He mostly talked to Steve. And sometimes Sam… but those were mostly one-sided, with Sam just taunting or making fun of Bucky. He pretended to be irritated with it, but secretly Bucky appreciated that Sam was the only one that didn’t treat him like a porcelain doll that had recently been glued together. 

“You should try and have at least one conversation with someone every day… and someone that isn’t Steve.” His therapist had advised. Bucky knew he was right, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult. 

“For a second, I thought you were Steve. He comes in here sometimes when he can’t sleep.” Y/N giggled as she continued painting. 

“I-I didn’t know you could paint.” Bucky stated evenly. 

That made Y/N smile up at him. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to… especially since we’ve never really even spoken to one another.”

Her smile warmed Bucky’s heart and her entire air mesmerized him enough that he hadn’t fled. 

“Do you wanna join?” She asked softly. 

“I can’t paint…Steve once tried to teach me to draw and it didn’t go too well.” Bucky found himself wanting to stay with her, but he’d rather not embarrass himself with the lack of painting skills. 

“Define can.” Y/N challenged. 

“Ugh…there’s probably kids who can paint better than me.” Bucky chuckled darkly and shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

Y/N put her paintbrush in a mason jar that was filled with water. She moved around the room, picking up different materials. 

“The best thing about art,” she began, “is that there is never a right or wrong. Nothing is a mistake.” When she was done with her little speech, she had a blank canvas placed opposite of her own on the big table, a handful of brushes, a mason jar filled with water, and a palette of paint. She gestured to Bucky with one of the warmest smiles he’d seen in decades. “Come on. I won’t judge…promise.”

Maybe it was the kindheartedness she exuded or the weird hypnotism a white canvas had to the human eye. But Bucky found himself taking the invitation. 

He stared at the blank canvas. Y/N was already sitting back in her spot and continuing her own painting. “I don’t know what to paint.” He said. 

Y/N looked at him with a flicker of sadness that Bucky managed to catch. “Maybe think about the things that stop you from sleeping.” It wasn’t a condemnatory claim but an honest observation. 

Y/N didn’t disturb him any further. She painted quietly and only spoke to Bucky when he asked her how to mix certain colors. Before both of them knew it, the sun was rising and the birds began to chirp outside. Bucky had been glad when Steve brought him to the compound in upstate New York instead of the tower in the city. The urban noise that once made him feel at home now caused him anxiety and sensory overload. The calmness of the compound was much more soothing now. 

Bucky put all his brushes in the water and leaned back in his chair, sighing. It grabbed Y/N’s attention whose eyes look even more tired than his. “How’d it go?” She asked sweetly. 

Bucky just leaned his canvas in her direction. 

“Well, I don’t know about you… but I love it.” Y/N glowed. 

A smirk was barely visible on Bucky’s lips. 

Then she let out the most adorable yawn. “I didn’t realize how early it got. I should probably go to bed and try to get at least an hour or so of sleep before Sam comes barging into my room.”

With that, a part of Bucky was deflated. He knew that Sam was the reason for Y/N being here. But he had never considered that they were a couple.

Y/N was halfway out the door when she paused and turned to him. “Bucky, you’re more than welcome to use anything in the studio…Even if I’m not here.” 

Bucky stared down at his painting again. The colors were dark: shades of red and grey covered every inch. The brush strokes were violent and short. He realized this is what his nightmares felt like: shadowy and dangerous, violence without really thinking about how or why. But it felt like some of it had been transferred from his heart and mind onto the canvas. Maybe it would stay there. 

-----

To Y/N’s surprise, Bucky returned to her little studio a week and a half later. His visits became more and more frequent. Y/N never brought this to his attention, nor did she allow even herself to dwell on it. It took some time for him to feel comfortable breaking the silence of the studio. What Y/N didn’t realize was that Bucky mostly didn’t want to invade her space and silence. He saw the studio as her oasis, a space to get away from the bustling of the compound. He felt terrible knowing he could possibly be taking that away from her. But Y/N never ever seemed annoyed by him. When he slowly started talking, she seemed so pleased with it that Bucky couldn’t help himself. If that was the reaction he got from her, he would talk her ear off. He managed to control himself. 

It wasn’t until two months later that Bucky decided to ask Sam a few questions. They were working out with Steve, with the gym to themselves. Either people were out on a mission or they were resting. 

“Sam, how exactly do you know Y/N?” Bucky asked with mild boredom. He didn’t want to come off too interested. He could only imagine the verbal berating. 

“Thought you knew… we trained together in the Air Force.” Sam shrugged. Luckily for Bucky, the question didn’t give him away. 

“But why is she here?” Bucky pushed. He glanced at Steve, wondering if this was some sort of invasion of privacy. 

Sam glared at Bucky. “She’s going through something.” There was instantly a protective tone in Sam’s voice. A button had been pushed. Bucky had been suspicious of Sam and Y/N dating, so the reaction validated his guess. 

Steve seemed to be able to read his friend’s mind. “She’s enhanced, Buck. Sam brought her here so we could help.” Steve was the only one aware of Bucky’s late night visits to the Y/N’s studio. But the only reason was because he had fallen across the pair when he couldn’t sleep as well. He slipped away before either of them noticed his intrusion.

“How did I know not this?” Bucky’s brow furrowed. 

“Yeah…it’s so shocking that the recluse doesn’t stay up to date on the daily occurrences of this compound.” Sam jabbed with a smirk. “Listen, I ain’t got that super soldier serum. If I keep this training up, you’ll have to pick up my unconscious body and take it to the medical wing.”

“I don’t want to deal with Y/N or Natasha’s wrath. So please call it a day.” Steve answered with a sideways grin. 

With that, Sam practically limped out of the gym. 

“You know they’re not dating right?” Steve muttered to Bucky as he grabbed his boxing gloves for his cool down. 

“Huh?” 

Steve chuckled to himself as he began punching the bag. “Y/N and Sam…they’re not dating.”

“I didn’t ask.” Bucky answered glumly and jumped into the air to grab the bar on the salmon ladder. 

Steve paused and glanced over. “I know you didn’t, but I’m not an idiot.” Bucky ignored the comment and started swinging his body up the ladder, letting out a few grunts. “They’re comrades, not a couple.” Steve added. 

“Whatever you say, punk.” Bucky murmured as if he were annoyed. But then another question needed to be answered. Maybe it was the new hope that ignited now that he knew Sam wasn’t Y/N’s boyfriend. He had to ask. “You said she was enhanced… what can she do?” He immediately thought of Wanda and all the crazy things she could do with her mind. Bucky couldn’t help but be shocked at the thought of Y/N having such power and keeping it under wraps this whole time. 

Steve continued to punch the bag until he inevitable broke it apart and it slammed to the ground. Breathing heavily, he shrugged at Bucky. The two of them had a chalkboard in the gym keeping track of how many times each of them ruined a punching bag. Tony insisted on the silly stab after his annoyance became anger from constantly having to buy new ones. 

“That’s not my story to tell. You should just ask her.” Then he gave Bucky a look that said ‘I know you basically see her every night.’

----

Bucky couldn’t bring himself to paint anything tonight. He was just sitting there with the paintbrush in hand. He was so nervous about asking Y/N something personal that his body refused to move until he did. 

“Hey Y/N?” He asked softly. 

“Hmm?” She hummed without taking her eyes off her canvas. 

“Why are you here?”

That caught her attention. Her eyes shot up to meet his, reading them. She instantly realized there was more to the question. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked me that sooner.” She chuckled, wiping the paint off her hands with a rag. Bucky didn’t say anything. Y/N leaned forward across the table, smiling at him. “I’ll make you a deal. I tell you why I’m here if you tell me why you’re here.” She read his expression. “Deal?” Bucky hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded his head, seeing that it was only fair. 

“I used to be in the Air Force. I only really knew Sam from training, but we made sure to keep in touch through the years. I used to pilot an F-22 Raptor. Carol Danvers trained me herself.”

Bucky’s eyes slightly widened. He was impressed. “So you really are a flyboy…” He muttered in awe. 

“Says the doghead…” Y/N returned, cocking her eyebrow. 

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh. 

Y/N looked utterly taken aback. 

“What?” Bucky asked, worried that he had somehow offended you. 

Y/N instantly shook her head. “Nothing…I-I’ve just never heard you actually laugh before.” She eyed him for a moment. 

Bucky broke the tension. “So what happened?”

“Right.” Y/N found her place again. “Um… my fireteam…” She took a breath. “We were on a mission. There’s always a risk, no matter what. But we were so naïve. It seemed simple enough. Until your friend flying in front of you gets shot down before you can even blink. We started dropping like flies; I remember all of us yelling to each other in panic. Then it got quieter and quieter on the comms…until it was just me left in the air. They shot me down too.” Her eyes glazed over as if she was reliving the memory. “I only remember the heat. There was no pain. I just saw red and orange…and-and felt warm. I thought I had already died and I was on my way to some afterlife.”

The playlist that had been playing in the studio ended just then. Filling the room with a disturbing silence. Bucky didn’t fill it. He waited. 

“A civilian found my body on the ground not too far from the attack. I was unclothed, my skin only covered in soot and smoke.”

Bucky looked confused. 

“What I know now is that I have an ability. It was just waiting to reveal itself. The trauma, the explosion, the flames… Banner and Stark think it awoke my enhancement. It saved me.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked softly. 

Y/N slowly held out her palm and a flame ignited, covering all of her hand. “I can control fire. I still don’t really understand how…but it saved me. It-it just came with a cost…one that feels too high most of the time.”

Y/N then snapped her palm into a fist and the flame disappeared. “And here I am.” 

“Sam brought you here?” Bucky asked. 

“I was at the V.A. and ran into Sam. I had a few incidents. I didn’t know how to control it…I still don’t. But back then, the smallest burst of emotion sparked a flame. Sam knew something was going on, but I refused to talk about it with anyone. It wasn’t until I had a nightmare and woke up to my entire bedroom engulfed in flames that I knew I needed help.”

Bucky wasn’t only amazed by her story, but how calmly she shared it with him. He never went to a therapy session without breaking into a sweat, unable to make eye contact, and mumbling all over the place. Y/N had the pain in her eyes, but her voice was strong and brave. 

“You…you have nightmares?” He whispered. 

She just nodded. 

“How’d you make them stop?” It felt like she had a secret. 

“I haven’t yet.” She admitted, to Bucky’s disappointment. “Talking about things helps. You’d be surprised how much weaker bad memories and fear become when you get it out of your head and share it with someone. Painting… well, painting helps most of all.”

Bucky glanced down at his canvas. He realized then that his nightmares had been getting better. He was sleeping better too, but Bucky just assumed it was because he was so exhausted from the staying up painting the night before. “Is that why you learned?” He pushed. 

Y/N smiled and shook her head lightly. “I used to paint every once in awhile before I even joined the Air Force. Then I read somewhere that it helps with trauma. I haven’t stopped since.” The sun was beginning to rise now. Bucky always lost track of time. Y/N let out a yawn. 

“You should get some sleep.” He commented. Y/N was about to argue. “I’ll tell Sam not to wake you. You need a day to catch up on your rest.” Y/N smirked at his command; it showed that he actually cared for her. 

Y/N started cleaning up, but was stopped by Bucky gently gripping her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean everything up. Just go to bed.”

“Thanks, Buck.” She muttered and then was betrayed by yet another yawn. When she slowly made her way to her bedroom, she missed Natasha hiding in the shadows. 

She had been listening in on Y/N and Bucky’s whole conversation. Natasha couldn’t help it, she was a spy and that just never went away. Her curiosity took over when she overheard their voices on her way to make a cup of a tea. 

Natasha had become close friends with Y/N since her arrival. There was always an urge in the ex-assassin to protect the other women at the compound. She didn’t want their lives to face the hardships she had. Now that it was obvious that something was going on between Y/N and Bucky, she wanted to protect Y/N from being hurt. Natasha knew Bucky when he was still under Hydra. She’d fallen in love with him a bit. For the Winter Soldier, it was just a release. Natasha was basically a child: naïve and irresponsible. She tried to save Bucky But there was no saving Bucky. He could only save himself. But Natasha knew Y/N would die trying to help him. Now Natasha cared more about Y/N’s safety than his. Bucky would always have Steve. But Y/N still needed to be protected.

----

Y/N awoke much later than usual. Bucky really must have given Sam an earful. Almost nothing stopped that man from waking her up for an early run or training. She made a mental note to thank Bucky when she saw him. 

Breakfast had occurred long ago and it was almost lunchtime. Thankfully there was still enough coffee in the pot for Y/N to have a cup. 

“Someone’s having a late start…” Natasha walked into the kitchen covered in sweats. She must have just finished sparring. 

“Hmm.” Y/N practically groaned like a zombie. 

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with you and Bucky’s late night painting sessions, would it?” Natasha smirked knowingly as she grabbed a bottle of water. 

Y/N stopped drinking her coffee mid-sip. 

“He’s not good for you, Y/N.” Natasha urged. 

“He’s recovering, Nat.” Y/N countered. 

“I tried saving him once… you can’t help him.” Natasha’s voice was slow and sultry. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to say these things to Y/N and break her heart. But it would be less painful this way than if she let Bucky make a mess of everything. 

“You…what?” Y/N gasped. 

“The Winter Solider trained me in the Red Room.” She said it in a way that made it clear there was more to it than just that. 

“You and Bucky were…were…”

“Together, yes.” Natasha finalized. “That was a long time ago though.” Silence filled the room. It was obvious this information was overwhelming Y/N. It had completely blindsided her. “It’s good that he’s been talking to people though. I know that his therapist gave it to him as a weekly assignment.”

Y/N’s eyes shot up at that. “Assignment?” All this time, she’d convinced herself that Bucky actually enjoyed spending time with her. But he was just fulfilling a therapeutic exercise forced upon him by a medical professional? 

“I’m gonna go for a run. I’ll see you later, Nat.” There was no hostility towards Natasha. The ex-spy was good at her job and assured she wouldn’t get any backlash from protecting Y/N from Bucky. 

“It’s for your own good, Y/N.” Natasha sighed sadly to herself when Y/N was long gone.

-----

That night Bucky went to the studio. He stopped abruptly after he opened the door to find the room completely dark. There was no music, no paint, no warm lights. But the most tragic: no Y/N. 

Bucky had actually been excited to paint. On his walk down, he wondered what decade playlist Y/N would play on the stereo. He exhaled in disappointment. He hoped she was okay. There had never been a time when Y/N wasn’t in her studio. 

Exiting the room, he made his way to the gym. If he couldn’t ease his mind with Y/N, he would ease it with anger and a punching bag. 

But that was just the beginning of it. Night after night, Y/N wasn’t in her studio. Bucky was starting to worry. Was she okay? Maybe that night of her opening up relapsed her or put her back into a dark place? What if she hurt herself trying to control her powers?

After a couple of weeks of not seeing Y/N, Bucky’s stress and worry managed to give him the courage to reach out to Sam.

“Do you know where Y/N’s been?” Bucky asked bluntly when he finally caught Sam alone in the kitchen. 

“Good morning to you too.” Sam jabbed. 

“Is she okay? Did something happen?” He was unable to hide the anxiety and fear in his tone. 

That made Sam smirk. “The girl’s fine. Why do you ask?”

Then Bucky realized that nobody knew about Y/N and his little painting sessions. So he shrugged, “I just haven’t seen her around…” Instantly Bucky became more frustrated than before. He was relieved that nothing bad seemed to have happened to Y/N. But the only explanation he could come to now was that Y/N was avoiding him. 

Bucky stormed out of the kitchen just as Steve was entering. He practically shoved past his best friend. Steve looked at Sam for an explanation. But Sam just shrugged. It didn’t take a lot for Steve to realize it had something to do with Y/N.

-----

Y/N had to change around her painting schedule to keep herself from running into Bucky. Guilt was pitted in her gut. She knew he was healing. She knew Bucky hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just trying to get better and he had seen her as an opportunity to do so. But Natasha was right, Y/N had to look out for herself. And she would be lying if she didn’t recognize that she’d fallen for Bucky. That’s why she was so heartbroken after her conversation with Natasha. Y/N was so naïve thinking that Bucky could possibly feel the same way. 

“It’s weird seeing you painting when the sun is still out.” A voice said from the entryway of her studio. 

Y/N’s gaze snapped up to see Steve leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He had a small smirk on his lips. Ever since her arrival, Steve found it nice to have another creative at the compound. They became fast friends having so much in common. 

“Yeah…” Y/N managed a fake chuckle from his comment. “I’m trying to get my sleeping habits back to normal. I was becoming an insomniac.”

Steve smirked at that. “Mind if I join you?”

“Have I ever?” 

Without wasting a second, Steve bustled about the room grabbing a clean sheet of a paper and all his pencils. Despite Y/N’s efforts to convert him to painting, Steve enjoyed sketching much more. 

It was an hour or so before Steve had the nerve to break their comfortable silence. “Y/N?” He interrupted softly.

“Hmm?” She didn’t even look up from her canvas. 

“This new painting schedule wouldn’t have anything to do with Bucky, would it?” His words were slow and careful. He watched Y/N’s body tense, but she continued painting. 

“It doesn’t really matter.” She mumbled. 

Suddenly Steve was done with playing coy. He dropped his pencil on the table loudly and crossed his arms. “Did he do something wrong? Say something that upset you?”

Y/N glared at him and copied his aggressive posture, practically throwing her paintbrush in the mason jar. “What the fuck is your problem, coming in here like this and interrogating me? As if it’s any of your business!” But she knew that was a lie. Bucky was Steve’s business. They were family, practically brothers. Anything that happened to one of them was basically happening to the other as well. 

Steve wasn’t looking her in the eyes anymore. He was staring at her hands. “Y/N… calm down!” His tone was urgent, but remained calm. She looked down to see that her hands were engulfed in flames. She gasped and stood up so quickly that her chair flew off its legs and clattered to the ground. 

“Remember what we worked on…” Steve advised softly. “You can do this.”

Y/N nodded, but her heart was still racing. She closed her eyes and tried to even her breathing. Think of something calming, something peaceful, Steve and Banner had repeatedly told her in training. Without even realizing it, Bucky’s face popped into her head. Her heartbeat gently slowed, no longer feeling like it was about to burst out of her chest. Then the feeling in her hands went back to normal. Her eyes flickered open to find that the flames had disappeared. 

Y/N let out a huge sigh and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand to find she’d been sweating profusely. 

“St-Steve…I’m so sorry.” Tears instantly welled up into her eyes. 

“Y/N, you have nothing to be sorry for. You did great! I shouldn’t have come in here like that.” Steve shut down any further chance for her to apologize. 

“Ugh…I think you should ask Natasha…” Y/N mumbled under her breath before rushing out of the room. 

But she was shocked to find Bucky passing by the studio just as she was leaving. He immediately stopped walking when he spotted her and then flustered when he saw the tears in her eyes. “Y/N?” He questioned. 

She ignored him and practically sprinted to her room. 

Bucky went inside the studio to find a guilty looking Steve. “What the hell did you do to her?” He almost growled. 

“Nothing. She’s fine. She-she just blazed up for a second and got scared.”

Before Bucky could question his friend further, Natasha walked into the room. “What’s wrong with Y/N? I just saw her practically sprint into her bedroom. She looked like she was about to start crying.”

“What did you say to her?” Steve’s gaze darkened. 

Now Bucky was even more confused. 

Natasha feigned innocence. 

“Natasha…what did you do?” Steve pressed, saying every word slowly. Silence filled the room. But the tension rose. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Bucky finally snapped. 

“Nat said something to Y/N. And I assume that something is the reason she’s been avoiding you.” Steve clarified, not breaking his glare on Nat. 

Instead of matching his anger, Bucky looked heartbroken. So Y/N was avoiding him, he wasn’t just imagining it. 

“I was just looking out for her.” Natasha finally answered darkly. Then she broke her staring contest with Steve to glare at Bucky. “I know personally what the Winter Soldier can do to a naïve heart.” Without an ounce of guilt, Natasha exited the room. She stood by her decision to break apart whatever was growing between Y/N and Bucky. 

All sparks of anger vanished from Steve as he processed his best friend’s sad eyes. 

“Can…Can you just go check on her?” Bucky whispered. 

“Maybe you should do that, Bucky.”

He instantly shook his head. “No, clearly whatever Romanoff said to her has made her scared of me. I get it. I just want to make sure she’s okay. So can you just do what I asked?”

Steve gave in and just nodded.

----

Y/N roughly wiped away any tears with the back of her hand as soon as she heard the knock. “Who is it?” Her voice rasped. Fuck, it was so obvious she had been crying. 

“Can I come in?”

She immediately recognized Steve’s voice. 

“Fine.” She mumbled, hoping it was so quiet that he would miss it and possibly just go away. But that damn super soldier hearing betrayed her. 

“You okay?” He asked softly, closing the door behind him and sitting on the edge of her bed beside her. 

“I could’ve just killed you…you realize that, right?” Y/N sniffed. “I could have burnt this whole compound down in minutes.”

“But you didn’t.” He encouraged. “You controlled it.”

“It shouldn’t have started in the first place.” She quickly retorted. “It’s like I haven’t made any progress. I haven’t learned a damn thing, Steve!”

“One of these days, I’m gonna have you sit down with the entire team and they can share all their awful excursions to control. You’d be surprised by the embarrassing stories Tony has.” It was Steve’s attempt at a joke. He was never good at being funny on demand. Nevertheless he couldn’t help but try with Y/N’s sad face. 

She gave him a sympathy giggle. 

“Can I ask you something, Steve?”

He nodded quickly. 

“Was Bucky just using me for therapy?”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Is that what Nat told you?”

Y/N shook her head. “Not exactly. She…she just told me about her and Bucky’s past. She was worried about me. Said I shouldn’t try helping someone who can’t be saved. She thinks I’ll get hurt or some bullshit.” Then she sighed and looked down at her fidgeting hands. “I got it in my head that I was just fulfilling some sort of assignment.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Steve swiftly clarified. “He likes you.”

This finally made Y/N’s eyes flicker up to meet his. “What?” She whispered. 

“It’s not my place to tell you anything. But just know that Natasha steered you wrong. I believe her intentions came from a good place, but she shouldn’t have said those things to you. She thought she was protecting you. But Bucky would never hurt you, that I know.” Y/N was lost in thought, probably trying to figure out if there a real truth in what Steve was telling her. He sighed and patted her shoulder. “You should talk to him.”

Y/N didn’t give him any indication that she would do what he advised.

----

Later that night, Steve made his way to Bucky’s room. Ever since he stopped his painting with Y/N, he barely left his room. Steve made a mental note to teach Natasha a lesson next time they sparred. 

Steve found Bucky lounging on the couch in his bedroom, a book in his grip. “What are you reading?”

Bucky immediately closed it and shrugged. “It’s the first book from that Harry Potter series. Y/N says she grew up with them and they’re one of the big things we missed.”

Then the wall the bedroom door caught Steve’s attention. He hadn’t been in here for months. But the blank wall was now covered in paintings. Without being able to stop himself, Steve walked over to the wall to observe all of the individual pieces. 

“Buck…” He whispered. “These are beautiful.”

“Oh come on, Steve. You’re being ridiculous.”

Steve looked over his shoulder at him and shook his head. “You must have had a pretty good teacher… Because my attempts at teaching you sketching definitely did not turn out this way.”

“Painting…it…it relaxes me.” Bucky admitted sheepishly. 

“You sure it’s not the teacher that does that?” Steve teased. 

But before Bucky could give a rude retort or a playful punch in the arm, FRIDAY set off an alarm. 

“INTRUDERS! Perimeter and entrance defenses have been compromised.” 

Steve and Bucky had already jumped at attention. Bucky was opening a hidden compartment in his room that had weapons, grabbing two guns and placing half a dozen knives in discreet pockets of his clothes. Steve had already run across the hall to his room to grab his shield and returned.

FRIDAY continued, “My radars count 20 operatives: 7 in the common room, 8 in the training facility, and 5 are almost in the far north end of the residence wing.” Bucky and Steve froze, they’re eyes snapping to one another.

“Y/N!” Bucky gasped before sprinting out of the room. 

Her bedroom was tucked away in the north corner of the residence wing. Since she was a technically a guest, her bedroom allowed her more privacy despite being smaller than the all the Avengers’ quarters. 

Steve was only a few steps behind Bucky as they sprinted down the hallway. The two men heard the shout and knew it had come from Y/N. They must have broken into the first bedroom in the hallway, which was unfortunately Y/N’s. 

Gunshots were being fired and Bucky had never run faster in his life. He saw a man lingering outside the door, making sure to stop anyone from entering. His mistake was having his back to Bucky and Steve. The gunshots and his tactical gear made it impossible for him to hear their approach. Bucky instantly took him out with a knife to the jugular. It would keep the element of surprise when him and Steve entered the room. 

But to both men’s surprise, another man was thrown out of the doorway by a rupture of fire before they even entered. The other three men were yelling out commands to each other as they hurriedly backed out, guns raised at the ready. Bucky didn’t hesitate to tackle one of them and Steve tossed his shield at another. Bucky was in a wrestling match, trying to disarm the man without him misfiring at Steve. He managed without too much effort and punched the man dead with his metal arm. He was frozen in place when he saw Y/N slowly emerge from her bedroom, engulfed in flames. 

She was staring down the only intruder left beside the one Steve was fighting. He raised his gun. 

“They want them alive!” The one fighting Steve managed to yell out. 

“Ain’t worth my life.” The man muttered before he pulled the trigger. Y/N’s flames wouldn’t stop a bullet. Bucky dove in front of her, holding up his metal arm to block the bullet. Somehow in the same movement, he twisted his body and shot the man in the straight in the chest with three bullets. 

Steve managed to punch out the 5th man at the same time. 

Bucky turned to Y/N. “Are you okay?” Her eyes were no longer y/e/c that he grew addicted to. Now they were scorching red. He wanted to embrace her, check her body for injuries or bullets that she hadn’t avoided. 

But she quickly took a step back. “I’m fine!” She sputtered in fear. “Keep your distance.” Bucky held his hands up in surrender to show he would do what she asked. 

Steve stepped next to them. “FRIDAY, how many more-”

A grenade rolling toward the three of them cut off his question. The seven men from the common room had made their way to them. 

Y/N picked up the grenade, tossing it away as she yelled, “Steve, your shield!” 

Despite the throw, they were still in danger from the explosion. Without realizing what she was doing, Y/N’s flames went from a fiery red and orange to a soft blue. Steve jammed himself between a doorframe, with his shield raised. 

However Y/N all but tackled Bucky to the corner of the wall and shielded him with her own body. He expected to feel his skin burning from the contact. But he just felt warmth from the newly blue flames. Her fire was not only protecting Y/N from the explosion but had wrapped itself around Bucky as well. 

As soon as the detonation was over, Y/N turned around and lifted her arms, sending an upsurge of inferno to the men who had survived their own grenade. Their bodies were scorched in seconds. 

Y/N breathed heavily at the release of power. She heard more people rounding the corner and readied herself for another attack. To her relief, it was the rest of the team. Tony held up his hands, “Down, pyromaniac! We come in peace.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow as she glared at him. “Your security system sucks, Stark.” Her flames evaporated like candle being blown out. 

Sam was right over his shoulder, he and Y/N shared a look that asked if the other was okay. They both gave a slight nod to assure each other. 

Y/N whipped around and was swiftly walking back to Bucky. She glanced at Steve who was lowering his shield. “You good?” He nodded, his face covered in soot. 

Bucky was slowly getting up from his crouching position. Y/N gently placed her hands on his face, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Her eyes were racing across every inch of exposed skin, terrified to find 3rd degree burns all over his body. His hands covered hers. “Y/N…I’m fine. I promise.” He gave her a small and kind smile in hopes that it would ease her further. “You saved my life.” He whispered. 

She chuckled darkly at that. “I wouldn’t have been able to if you hadn’t saved mine first...”

“Guess we’re even.” Bucky smirked. 

Tony cleared his throat from behind them. Y/N and Bucky snapped out of their daze, realizing there was no space between their bodies. They didn’t turn around though. They just heard Steve and Sam muttering things to the group about leaving the two of them alone. 

“I’ve never done that before.” Y/N whispered, remembering how the flames had turned blue and saved Bucky’s life. “I didn’t even know I could do that.” In truth, her body saw someone she cared for, maybe even loved, and reacted. It gave her proof that her powers weren’t just built for destruction, they could protect. 

“Y/N…” Bucky’s voice was nervous. “Can I paint with you again?”

The question was so sweet and innocent that Y/N didn’t even have to bring up her distrusts and fears that Natasha had planted. It was in Bucky’s voice and tone that proved those late nights meant just as much to him as they did to her. 

“Yes, of course you can!” She gasped, realizing that maybe Bucky had been hurting more during their separation than she had. “Buck… you know that you don’t have to wait until the middle of the night to see me, right?” 

Bucky beamed at this. “Well… in that case, how about dinner some time?” Y/N giggled. “Dinner sounds great.”

She who was made of dreams.. Mishty.. She was sweet as honey,much like her name ,although she was never much fond it.her name was one of her serious concerns in life. She didn't like the sound of it and moreover it didn't match the profile of the kind of author she wished to become one day or a journalist even. An avid book lover she was. In her words - " birds have wings But humans have books!" She had long bushy black hair that she was never much fond of,for it reminded her of her mother and boy it was anything but a pleasant reminder. She had a habit of sitting through the night drinking coffee,penning down her thoughts.she didn't mind the company of her insomnia (although it was quite responsible her dark circles). It allowed her to be in her own company when the whole world was fast asleep..without any hustle. Her mind always had so much going on.it was always so noisy and all over the place in contrast to her personality (or the one she lets others to see). And autumn was her favourite. The season comforted her in unspeakable ways. For her - autumn was more the season of the soul than of nature....🍁 He who was all grey Abir.. A photographer. A painter. An occasional guitar player.. Bearer of  perhaps the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes.. The one who was difficult to get hold of, for he travelled so vigorously. No strings attached with anyone. He wasn't much of a speaker but he had his way with words. Poetry especially. Life had dealt him some heavy blows that he was  barely bearing alright. But then he was a fighter,whatever come may. His heart craved for a home but he was all too stubborn to admit it. He's made himself an intense and challenging man with a guarded heart.. Autumn was his favourite. It reminded him that broken and sad things still had a beauty about them,they were still capable of spreading some warmth in others heart. Perhaps not for long but they did. It was the season that filled him with hopes of distant dreams . Moreover, it was the season that brought him to her...🍂 Writer : Marsisn'tfar ch-1 "somewhere far from home.." " I want to swim in it sometimes This feeling of all engulfing Melancholy; And though it feels like it drowns me at times I know I can float and  drift away..." ------------------------------------------ It was autumn. Fog was the spirit of the season,making the familiar unfamiliar,muting sounds and softening colours. The leaves are just beginning to turn and the air was staring to bite. It was drizzling that morning. Filling the weather with cold breezes. Abir didn't mind the cold that much. He liked how the world seems to slow down with the cold settling in. He was in his basement, standing in front of a huge canvas ,debating about the colours that he was going to blend that day. Trying to find the arc that was going to define his theme for the day. Finally after a lot of internal arguments he decided to go with blue. It matched with the weather. Besides he really enjoyed the blueish morning haze. So blue it is. He took a deep breath,soaking in the afterglow of a stormy night and letting his imagination run wild. He picked up a brush- a thin one- and open a tube of persian blue. He dabbed his brush on the paint and started to paint. With every stroke of the brush,he would feel more at ease. It was a therapeutic experience for him. he barely notices how time slips by when he's painting. painting lets him discover the parts of himself that he never could've otherwise. It was his safe haven. It was well past noon when he finally came out of his studio. He felt rather hungry so he made himself a cup of coffee. A strong one. With it he toasted two loafs of bread. He wasn't much of a cook but he enjoyed making his meals. he poured some milk for his cats - rose and Casper , whom he found abandoned down the street a few weeks back. He decided it wouldn't be bad to have some company. with his breakfast he came to sit beside the window,it was still raining outside.  While eating he started to write down the errands that needed his attention that day- he needed to buy some milk and some groceries. That's it. He was glad. He grabbed his coat and his camera and set out of the house. He took his favourite woodland way. Alone in the eerie calm of the trees,he made his way to the store. He loved every bit of his life in this old town. He loved these drowsy lonely days ,the pouring rain and the city drowning in the foggy grey.  It was a different life.much different from the one that he lead when he was with his family. And for that, he was glad . really glad.  On most days he would sit in coffee shops and watch men and women cross roads.see the sun sink below the horizon and finally disappear. He would write at times and in other times he would mindlessly roam around the city with his camera,capturing random moments. Abir found a note ,that evening ,on his door when he returned from his grocery shoping which read- "your help will be much appreciated.cooperate with me. Stop smiling!this is serious matter. Am i even your friend ??coz remember - friend in need is a friend indeed !?! JUST TAKE THE JOB dammit P.s - please .." Abir could not stop laughing at his friend's foolish attempts to make him accept the job. This was heights now. For the entire past week Abir had received all sorts of things from bouqets of flowers,free concert tickets to serious threatening letters from sameer. His best friend. Well the situation was that ,sameer was the marketing head for his publishing company and the company's Editor in chief resigned without any prior notice and hence they were in dire need of an editor. And sameer was hellbent on making Abir take the position. Atleast for a short period of time. hence the desperate attempts. But Abir's relation with desk jobs was quite a complicated affair. He despised it. He did feel a little guilty for not wanting to do the job when he knew sameer was in need of help . and he was even thinking of reconsidering his decision about it.Just when he was lost in those thoughts a voice whispered from behind " hello, Mr Abir stubborn-Rajvansh". Abir jumped in surprise. It was sameer. "How did you even get in?" "Door was open my friend or should I say ex-friend?" He knew Abir hated taunts. " Sameer Trivedi! Relax. I have been thinking about this. I know you need my help. And i know you wouldn't have asked if it weren't for an emergency. I am accepting your job bu.." Before Abir could continue any further sameer jumped onto abir to give him a tight hug "now that's like my good boy" he said like a proud dad." I've raised you well." " but I'll be doing this for just three months. Until you find a suitable editor.just three months. Then i quit." "Done.done.but join from tomorrow. There's already a huge pile of work lined up. I demand no more delays" sameer said with this smug grin on his face. "Okay then, it's a deal." Abir sighed in defeat. realising how worthless it was to argue with his dramatic friend.so tomorrow it is. I can't believe he talked me into this. Abir hissed under his breath after sameer bid adieu. So , Editor in chief Abir Rajvansh, good luck with the job. What harm could a three month job do anyway. Maybe a little less time to paint ,less wandering in the streets .more stress.dreadful deadlines. He hated deadlines. It wont be too bad .He thought to himself completely oblivious to what awaited ahead of him. His life was going to take a complete about turn. ch-2 " coffee stains don't go that easy" "you get lost out of a desire to get lost but in the place called lost  strange and beautiful things are found..." ___________________________________________ It was vaguely two in the afternoon, mishty was standing on top of the caverly hills looking over the obscured perspective of the city. it looked so tiny with its houses and tall clocks that reminded people of the time that was passing by. mishty was feeling the rush of exploring a foreign city on her own for the first time in her twenty three years of existence. It wasn't easy convincing her family to let her venture on her own but after a whole lot of arguments, fights and crying they agreed upon her proposal- a year long internship at a publishing firm. On her own! she wanted to breathe it all in.  Her new found freedom. she wanted to discover about herself and find a place for herself in the world. An identity of her own. she was up for all the good as well as the bad that this journey was gonna bring.she was ready to embrace it all in and experience life on her own. at least for a little while. on her way back to her apartment she bought a vase full of flowers,some blue hydrangeas,purple brassicas,some asiatic lilies,some peach roses and some carnations. She loved having flowers around her,she liked the connotations of grace and elegance they brought with them along with calmness and poetic romance with a symbolism of gratitude. gardens were her safe haven,they have always been. she'd spend hours sitting in the garden back home, sometimes writing,stirring up various plots struggling to organize them into a systematic tale, the other times she'd just lay in the grass to stare at the clear blue of the sky that always comforted her,made her feel a sense of belonging . as much as she loved the garden she never was much good with plants. It was her bade papa who'd handle that department of the garden. she'd watch him treat the plants with so much care and delicacy. the site always moved her. his ability to love unconditionally always moved her. It has just been a week since she moved into her new apartment. she's trying her best to make it as homely as she could and after a whole week of hustle bustle she was quite happy with the outcome. she loved setting up her new home except for the bits that involved moving furnitures.that part  was a nightmare. Next day was going to be the first day of her internship. she was feeling a mixture of emotions. she was happy. she was nervous.she was excited and she was petrified of what lied ahead. she was going to intern under the editor in chief himself. she knew it was going to be challenging and there will be a lot to learn. she fought hard to get this position for a year and hence intended to give it the best of her abilities. Mishty made herself some tomato and zuccini soup for dinner and decided to go to sleep early though she knew she was barely gonna sleep that night. after dinner and doing her dishes she lay in bed saying some prayers. it was a ritual of hers.  " tomorrow is a big day for your life Mish and you'll make sure to give it your best." she thought to herself and imagining all sorts of scenerios she dozed off for a peaceful slumber. the smell of the new fallen rain caressed the window pane and from time to time Mishty could hear the pitter-patter of the raindrops,the next morning. she rustled around to the other side and noticed the candles still burning. the room was a waltz of scents, from the natural autumn smell to the heirloom pumpkin smells from he candles. It was so cozy that morning. her eyes scrolling across the room fell on the alarm clock that lay beside her bed- 8.13 am it read. mishty jumped up with a jolt. no, no, no, no, no. this can't be. she cannot be late on her first day.oh god this was a terrible start. she marathoned her way to the bathroom to take a quick shower and put on the outfit she chose the previous day. she put some light makeup and quickly ran out of the house. 8.35 am it was.she ran to the metro station and managed to catch the train that would drop her just in front of her office. she could skip her breakfast but she knew she NEEDED her coffee in the morning. she'd otherwise be yawning through the day,which she figured wouldn't leave  a good impression and thus she decided she'd quickly grab a cup of coffee from the office canteen. the train dropped her in the block of her office . it was 8.55 am. 'not too bad' she thought.'i should be able to grab my coffee and not be more than 5 minutes late.' she ordered a cup of black coffee and owing to the long line it was already 9.05. which was a bad news for her.the office was on the 38th floor which meant even if she goes by lift she'd be atleast 10 minutes late.  just as she arrived at the lobby an almost empty lift was about to leave and for some reason mishty felt it'll be  wise of her to run across the lobby to catch that lift. well, that wise decision of hers resulted in a disastrous collision. spilling, if not all,most of her coffee into her dress and the stranger's clothes. mishty felt like crying out loud.this day was an absolute disaster.  tears started to roll down her eyes.she wasn't much of a crier but for some reason she couldn't stop her tears. through her tears she finally noticed the light hazel brown eyes staring down at her. the owner of those was the stranger whose white shirt was ruined perfectly by her coffee.she wanted to apologise for the nuisance but her words were stuck somewhere down  her throat. she noticed his eyes scanning her.his face held an expression that she couldn't quite make out.thanks to her teary filled eyes. he didn't seem angry ,that she was certain. before she could formulate any sentence, he said with his deep voice- "coffee stains don't go that easy ,you know..they are real definition of stubborn. " and made his way through the stairs.  Mishty released the breath she didn't notice she was holding. whether she liked it or not -those eyes made her heart skip a beat. "damn those eyes" she scoffed to herself. " I have way too many things to worry about right now like- how to enter the office without being the joke of the day? those eyes should be the last thing i should be thinking about".+ 'this is going to be one hell of a ride considering the start.'she thought to herself....

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