#'op where is the glaze' i am still trying to figure out what settings will look ok but the answer is probably none for cartoons lol

[bowenoke]

forgot how long it takes to boil characters, so some of them are a little undercooked

[softbiker]

A Familiar Place - Part 2

Warnings: a bad word or two, literally zero editing 

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: Not sure if I’m satisfied with this, but posting to celebrate hitting 200 followers!! Thanks for being here, I love you all! As always, let me know what you think :) 

This is not an “x Reader” or romance story.

“Okay, I’m 100% sure it’s not supposed to look like that.”

“Shut up, bird brain.”

“Will you two stop it I can’t hear the instructor.”

Three soldiers exchange glares behind their easels, brushes poised over canvas. Their stools are set in the back of the class, clustered close together so they can peek over each others shoulders. Other easels are arranged  in semi-circle rows towards the front of the classroom, with the instructor at the epicenter, walking back and forth and making comments to the students. To her credit, she tries to ignore the fussing commentary from the back of the room, only sparing them a glance every once in a while.

An oil painting class. Painting was never Steve’s strong suit - he prefers pencils and charcoal, quick messy sketches under his flurried fingers, captured on the spur of the moment. Bucky faintly remembers a smaller, softer Steve, the graphite on his hands, the smudges that covered his nose. Pencil fixed behind his ear, where Bucky would have placed a cigarette. But when they came here, settled into their place in Bed-Stuy, Steve decided to try out something new. And today he invited Sam and Bucky to join him.

Steve takes easily to new mediums, whatever his protests about not being a “natural” painter. Sam has no idea what he’s doing, but Bucky knows that has never stopped him from having a good time.

Bucky, though.

Bucky feels nervous each time he dips his brush, blends his paints. He feels somehow wasteful, putting his own brush to the canvas. Hand him a knife, a gun, hell - even one of Stark’s high-tech weapons, and he’s steady. A deadshot. But a paintbrush? He doubts every stroke and line. Without a talent like Steve’s, he thinks, this canvas would be better off with someone else.

But Steve is having a good time and he hates to ruin that, so Bucky quietly frowns at his canvas, tongue poking between his lips. Today’s class is a still life, their reference a pale blue vase of flowers on a table in the center of the room. Steve has rendered it beautifully, even captured the soft lighting from the windows on the west wall of the room. Sam’s attempt is passable, for someone with no training at all in studio art.

It isn’t that Bucky doesn’t have some skill, or proficiency, or artistic eye. He remembers sitting through a couple of figure drawing classes with Steve - he managed to learn a thing or two, when he wasn’t winking at the models. And his work isn’t bad, he knows that, but -

Well. He doesn’t think it’s worth making.

**********

He keeps coming to the class for a few weeks, when Steve’s schedule is free from missions and meetings, of course. They sit near the back of the room and Bucky makes good attempts but he’s not really sure if he’s making art.

“You know, I’m really not sure if oils are your medium.”

The class is over, and the instructor stands at Bucky’s elbow, looking at the row of paintings laid along the shelf to dry. Bucky had been comparing his work to his classmates, thinking pretty much the same thing.

“Not that you don’t have a hand for painting,” the instructor continues, hands slipping into the pockets of her overalls. “But I think you’re letting it intimidate you - you put too much pressure on yourself and then you hesitate. I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky shrugs. “I guess.” The instructor laughed a little, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of her nose.

“See? You hesitated to tell me that you hesitate.” She was shaking her head with a not unkind smile.

“Jeez - you have a side gig as a therapist?”

“Nope - just good at seeing people.”

Bucky shifted his feet, not used to the feeling of being closely observed - it definitely wasn’t something he liked. Seeming to sense this, the instructor took a step back, shrugging her shoulders and looking away from him.

“Look, you should keep coming,” she offered. “You have some talent, that’s for sure. But you can try other things. Doesn’t have to be oil paint and flowers. What do you want to make?”

Steve is waiting outside the classroom, reading the bulletin board in the hallway. Fluorescent-colored flyers litter the board, interspersed with lost pet ads, ride shares, roommate offers, and piano lessons. Steve fingers one, tears off the number for an Asian cooking class, and tucks the slip of paper in his jacket pocket. He turns when he hears Bucky’s footsteps, that classic smile curling up his mouth.

“You, ready?”

“Yep.”

They take the subway back, dutifully ignoring the raised eyebrows and cell phones that turn their way. It’s New York - sooner or later people get over it. Bucky’s metal hand is wrapped loosely around a pole that Steve leans against, supersoldier strength and balance making him barely shift as the train speeds and slows.

“Sam is supposed to get back from that recon op this afternoon,” Steve says, his voice low enough keep their conversation private. “He’ll probably want takeout for dinner.”

Bucky nods. “He always does, after a mission. Milks it for all he’s worth, so we have to get his favorite - I bet he’ll want fried rice from that Thai place, and we better make sure there’s cold beer in the fridge.”

Steve just smiles, glances down at his sneakers, shifts his feet a little. He’ll never say a word, a single goddamn word, about how much Bucky and Sam pay attention to each other. About Bucky remembering Sam’s takeout order from every single one of their usual places; about Sam bringing home new exotic fruits from the health food market so Bucky could try things that weren’t available back in the day. He will never breathe a single word about how Bucky took Sam’s laundry and scrubbed the blood out after that mission in Denver went bad, or Sam driving back and forth to Bucky’s therapy appointments, in spite of the distance.

Loose lips, Rogers. Nope. His are sealed.

**********

“If I didn’t know any better, I would honest to God think that Stark didn’t respect me,” Sam shakes his head, shovelling rounded lumps of rice into his mouth with his chopsticks. His cheeks are comically full, but he continues to talk. “I mean, the guy really asked if I needed air support. Me? Baby, I am air support.”

Steve makes a noise of assent around a mouthful of noodles that he continues to slurp into his mouth. Bucky says nothing, but smiles into his egg roll. The coffee table in front of them is littered with takeout boxes, some still full, some already emptied. Steve and Bucky have already finished 2 beers each - Sam is drinking at a slower pace so he can continue to talk.

“I fucking invented air support. Pssh.” Sam rolls his eyes, settling back against the cushions of the couch and pulling his standard blanket over his lap.

The TV is set to a sports channel, a college basketball game they’re not too invested in carrying on in the background. Sam talks and talks, the other two barely getting a word in, but that’s alright - he always needs this, after a mission. Sam has to get it all out, decompress, debrief, de-everything in that post-victory rush of adrenaline he’s still high on when he comes home. They let him - they sit around in their sweatpants and half-watch a ballgame and shoot the shit over beers and Thai, and let Sam come back to himself.

“So,” Sam sighs, sipping his beer. “What’d you old farts get up to while I was gone, huh?”

“Mm, not much.” Steve’s reply is muffled as he continues to inhale his noodles. “Art class. Running.”

“Getting some goddamn peace and quiet,” Bucky pipes up, crumpling up the now empty egg roll bag and reaching for a full styrofoam container of steaming fried rice.

“Ha ha.” Sam doesn’t even look up from his food. “Y’all know it’s boring as hell around here without me. And who else is gonna help you two to meet some females? Hm? You think people are lining up to wingman for your hundred-year-old asses? No way!”

“What would we do without you, Sam?” Steve asks, that ironic twist to his mouth that Bucky has known all his life.

“You’d be star-spangled roadkill, I can tell you that much.”

They laugh and settle, eyes passing over the ballgame as one of the teams lines up for a free throw. It’s just the three of them in their little place, but it feels full. It’s enough. It’s home.

**********

Over the next few weeks, Bucky takes the painting instructor’s advice.

He rolls out huge canvases on the floor and slings paint in random patterns, layers of splatter until he feels like his eyes have crossed. The freedom, the lack of pressure, the fun of throwing paint around like a child - all of that he likes, but still.

“Still not sure if it’s my thing,” he tells Steve, as they look at his finished piece propped up against the wall. Steve nods, lips pursed.

“Well, we could hang it up at the compound. Tony keeps talking about needing more art around that place.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes.

“I’m not five, Steve. You don’t have to hang my scribbles on the fridge.”

He goes back to the studio and slings pots - pots and vases and key bowls and jewelry dishes and mugs. They’re passable, usable, functional - these are the words he thinks of when he glazes them in soft blue and yellow shades. Bucky likes the feel of it under his fingers, the wet firmness of the clay that yields to his hands. He’s gotten little bits of dried clay between the metal plates of his arm, but he doesn’t mind - he’s learned they’re easy enough to dislodge with a toothbrush. He gives away or takes home all of his little projects, happy to see them used.

Sam gifts him with a polaroid camera he found going through some of his parents things, and Bucky fiddles with it until he’s quite good at taking pictures. Whenever they go out he has his camera slung around his neck, an extra packet of film and a flashbar in his backpack. He has dozens of photos now - photos of Steve sipping coffee and flipping off the camera. Photos of Sam and Rhodey laughing, in full gear, when the team had drinks at the compound last month. A few photos of Natasha and Wanda, who come over to the brownstone sometimes - Natasha’s legs are folded over the end of the couch, while Wanda gets a piggyback ride from Steve. He tacks the pictures up, covering nearly half of the wall of his bedroom, not caring about the holes he leaves in the drywall.

It’s Wanda who introduces him to knitting, one weekend when both Steve and Sam get called out on a potential terror situation in London. There’s a rule - unspoken, unwritten - among Steve’s friends that someone comes to check on Bucky whenever they have to leave him alone. He doesn’t protest, knowing that they do it out of kindness and loyalty to Steve; he knows all about being loyal to Steve.

Wanda sits cross-legged on the couch, her fingers working the knitting needles at a hypnotic pace. He likes Wanda; she’s quiet and sensitive, all soft smiles and knowing eyes. A room always feels calmer with her in it. She had used his hands earlier to loop the yarn, and now he watches her over the top of his book, which he has all but abandoned.

When he asks her about the knitting, if she can show him, she looks up. Soft smiles and knowing eyes.

Bucky has always been good with his hands, so no one is surprised that he’s good at knitting. Eventually, they all have something he’s made: a beanie for Sam, a scarf for Steve, fingerless gloves for Wanda, and blankets galore for their too-cold brownstone.

**********

It fills up his time, somehow.

Bucky makes drawings, and paintings, and little origami birds out of grocery receipts. He makes bowls he can give to his friends and pictures that he can keep and blankets that he can share. He scours google and breaks a few (literal) eggs and makes banana bread that fills the brownstone with a smell that he could float on. He makes pancakes and poems and -

Bucky makes.

On the subway with Steve - a figure drawing class tonight - Bucky is staring at his hands. Ungloved metal and soft scarred flesh. His hands are tools, they’re instruments. They can be molds or looms or brushes or chisels.

“Weapons” doesn’t even enter his mind at all.

Tags:

@vacant-writings

@bitsandbobsandstuff

[thedistantstorm]

Come Together 07

Fandom: Destiny

Pairing: Devrim Kay/Marc

Warnings: angst, homophobia, domestic violence (mentioned), wasted tea 

Notes: If you haven’t figured it out yet, for the purposes of this story, Marc is bisexual, and Devrim is homosexual. Bungie doesn’t tell us much besides that they are partners, so this is purely my interpretation.

“A young city planner set his eyes on an older militiaman. He was unkempt and terribly forward. The militiaman had class. He wasn’t interested.”

“Clearly,” Marc tells their friends. “That’s why they decided to get married.”

(A story told in bits and pieces.)

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

-/

"I'm sorry," Marc says. "For lying. And hurting you. There isn't anyone else."

The roughness of his voice makes Devrim flinch. He's standing there, beside his squadmate's tiny loveseat, and has never felt more out of his depth.

"I'm sorry-"

"None of this is your fault," Marc interrupts. "I did this."

He crouches down beside Marc, well aware that his heart is jackhammering in his chest. "I should have talked to you," Dev prattles on anyway. "Letting it simmer and taking an op certainly didn't help."

"It's fine." 

"Look at me."

Marc shakes his head, his mussed, wavy hair hanging down like curtains to shield his face from his partner's view. Devrim sighs and stands in front of him, dropping back down, taking a knee this time. "It didn't help."

"I could have avoided upsetting you if I just told you, but I didn't, and-"

"We're going to get through this, you and I."

His head rockets up, those sad hazel eyes locking on him and Devrim doesn't know if he wants to pull Marc into his arms and never let him go, fight all of his battles for him, or maybe shed a couple tears himself. It's an unusual reaction for him to have. 

But this relationship is certainly unusual, Devrim thinks. They're not sick of each other - Marc, the charming flirt who never seems to stay in one place for long, and himself - the gentleman who's all about romance until the threat of permanence becomes a noose around his throat.

"Alright?" He gives in to the impulse and encircles Marc with his arms. "Please," He asks, aware of the tremor in his voice. "Let me hold you."

It's not comfortable, Devrim half sitting on Zara's coffee table, leaning over Marc who has curled in on himself. None of this was. It was new and heartbreaking and so terribly raw. Devrim felt horrible for his younger partner, and utterly useless. All he can do is hold onto him, shushing and rocking him as he cries. And he commits himself to it thoroughly.

When his sobs subside heavy, ragged breaths, Devrim smooths back his hair, handing him a handkerchief from his back pocket. "Zara said she took you to get some clothes?"

He nods. 

"Good. When you're ready, we'll go back to my place and figure this all out, alright?"

"Okay," He agrees softly, but his grip on Devrim gets tighter and the militiaman takes it as a step in the right direction.

-/

Marc won't sleep. Won't eat. Devrim gets him home and the other man just stares off at nothing, his eyes red and glazed. The occasional tremors he sees suggests Marc would still be crying, assuming he had any tears left to cry.

He'd hoped that Marc might want to lie down, let Devrim coax him into sleep. But he refused, sitting at a stool in the kitchen, watching the tea Devrim had made them both go cold in his hands. Wouldn't come to the couch, at least get comfortable.

Now, Devrim has a sneaking suspicion why, but he doesn't like it. "Marc, you should sleep, before we have this discussion," He says.

He makes a sad little smile into his tea. "All the chamomile in the world couldn't relax me enough," He admits, with an off-kilter laugh that seems more like a sob. "Dev, I won't sleep. I'll just lay awake."

"If you're sure." He sets about fixing a different kind of tea. Not chamomile. When he pries the mug from Marc's fingers, he lingers, his fingers resting over Marc's.

There is no response, no movement from the younger man until another mug of tea - piping hot chai - is placed in front of him.

"It's not espresso, but it'll have to do."

"It's fine," He answers dully.

Silence reigns as Devrim also takes a seat at the kitchen island on a perpendicular stool. Marc inhales, looking down into the dark liquid.

"I lied to my mother. And you," He begins, not looking up.

Devrim nods.

Marc sighs. "Before, I only ever brought home women I was seeing," He begins. "Not like I made it a point to see them often, or like I enjoyed seeing them." He taps the mug, brows pulling together as he thinks. "I created this 'Margaret' person, to keep them from asking questions. I went with a girl named Margaret once. We went to school together. She lives on the other side of the City now. No one ever had to know."

There's a moment of tentative silence before Devrim reaches for his hands - a hand, something - but Marc shakes his head. Dev withdraws, clenching his fists.

"I always thought that I'd fall for a woman, and then I could just keep it to myself."

"That's not the way, Marc. You shouldn't have to-"

"No," He agrees. "I shouldn't. But it is what it is. It wasn't worth upsetting my parents." He lets go of the mug of tea, looking up into his partner's blue gaze. "I could handle it, y'know?"

"Marc…"

"Let me finish," He begs. "I never meant to hurt you. I was just trying to get through the conversation. I was going to explain it the second we'd gotten through the interaction, I swear."

"I know."

"You didn't at the time," Marc presses. "You looked at me like I'd stolen the sun from the sky, Devrim. Like I'd punched you in the gut."

"You're right," He agrees, lips thinning. He takes a sip of his tea to steady himself. "That is… close, to what it felt like."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I forgive you." Devrim answers immediately. "I just needed to cool off. I - your body language bothered me, but it - I'm not normally so irrational," He finally admits. "Never, to be honest. Normally I'd see right through it, and yet all I could think about was that there was someone else. I'm not - those things happen, Marc. Normally, it's no hard feelings, rejection stings, sure, but it doesn't waylay me." He exhales. "I'm terrible at keeping suitors around when I care for them. It's never them, I just.” The truth is heavy on his tongue. “Permanence leaves a lot of room for error, you understand."

There is a sort of hope that grips Marc then, like a small spot of sun in a rainstorm. Devrim reaches for his hands again, and this time they link together in a messy pile.

"I want to be with you, if you will have me," Devrim says, and Marc nods, his overused tear ducts managing to find themselves functional again. "Don't cry, darling. I'm liable to as well." They both manage watery smiles, not lasting long at all, but the warmth seems to find its way back into the room. "Now tell me what happened. Zara said-"

He squeezes Devrim's hands and withdraws. "They disowned me," He admits softly, detached. "I knew it was coming. I think," He takes a pull from his mug, flinching at the taste, "I think I always knew."

Devrim crosses his arms. "That isn't right."

"I mean, it didn't really bother me. I called, told my ma you were my partner. She didn't get it. She got it when I used the word boyfriend. You'd have thought I told her I was a serial killer. Asked me when I 'turned,'" He quotes. "If you turned me."

He sets the mug down. "She never knew. Raised me, pushed me from her womb and neither her or my dad had a single clue." He gestures to his chest. "Nobody turned me. This has always been who I am."

"I get it."

"I hung up on her when she started with the slurs. She doesn't understand. She's never understood." He bangs his hand on the counter top. "She and my dad came over, after. Started carrying on in the hall when I didn't let them in. So I did. Let them in." He looks to Devrim. "I-I didn't want the neighbors to phone in a domestic. And I paid for it."

"The apartment is bad," Marc continues, strained. "I don't think I want to live there anymore." 

"We'll figure it out," Devrim presses. "You need to sleep on it."

Marc shakes his head, having already made up his mind. "I don't want them to know where I live." He puffs out his cheeks, then pushes the air from them slowly. "They can say what they want about me. They made me. I guess they have the right-"

"That isn't how it works at a-"

"But then they started calling you a faggot and I lost it. You didn't do anything. My mother thought you were wonderful right up until she knew you were interested in me romantically. I'm not-if it was just me, that'd be okay. But when I got in her face, told her she'd overstayed her welcome, my father threw his drink at me. Broke the glass on the kitchen floor."

"He didn't-"

"No."

"Good."

"I realize I look like hell, and now's probably not the best time to convince anyone otherwise, but I'm not broken, Dev. I know I'm not."

Devrim rises, coming around behind his emotionally battered man, hugging him fiercely. "No. You're not broken, Marc. Shame on them for insinuating otherwise."

"My father wondered if it was something curable. I like women, too, so no one would have to know, if I just kept to seeing women. It got," He swallows. "I told them to fuck off. And then when he really started throwing things, I knew it wasn't going to work. Not like this."

"I understand," Devrim says, swaying gently in their embrace. "I'm sorry you're going through this. Perhaps they'll come around."

"I'm not holding my breath," Marc replies, mumbling.

"Do you regret it?" Devrim asks.

Marc rises slowly, tired and unbalanced. "I'm sad. Angry. Hurt." His lips tremble, but he gives Devrim his best attempt at a smile. "But it's kind of nice not to hold it in anymore. Even if it didn't come up often, I don't want to pretend."

"Nor should you have to," Devrim agrees.

"Do you mind if I take the couch until I sort things out?"

 Devrim sweeps him up in a romantic carry. "We'll talk terms in the morning. There is a perfectly good bed we can share, so long as you are willing."

[adriennescomingbacktolife]

(VIII½ )

   In the stillness of the night, Adrienne was restless. Her mind was running at a million miles per hour thinking about the possibilities. Career perspectives, her friends, her situation, whatever - it flittered all over the place with no rhyme or reason. For every happy thought towards her first every championship opportunity, her mind wandered into how Zane King tore into Matthew Knox after everything should have been over. How Silvio was able to stop it. How the match should have never happened in the first place.    Her eyes glazed over as she hopped from Wiki to Wiki on various topics. From dead rockstars to the origins of Jello, the recent birthday girl consumed it all with a casual interest while bundled up in a blanket on her friend’s couch.    Kohaku’s couch didn’t smell like cat urine. Or have a spring that poked her in the back. It was all rather nice. He was rather nice. They all have been. Adrienne struggled mightily with the concept that she was rather pathetic. The choice had been made and there was no going back. Not that she wanted to.    The phone buzzed and a text notification from Discord popped up. GlitterBombGold Hey. :waves: Been a minute but remembered it was your birthday.    Strange.    Adrienne clicked on the window and the chat filled the screen. She didn’t make a habit of speculating on about the whereabouts of casual internet acquaintances. “GlitterBombGold” had been someone she had chatted with heavily through the empty spaces of the day. Starting as mutual members of a server that primarily discussed wrestling, they progressed to talking about Disney or their respective cats.    Oh, poor Jimmy.    And then around May, right around the time Adrienne had bottomed out, GlitterBombGold had left every group they were both a part of and had just disappeared. Adrienne had just explained what she’d been training for the last year and before she could mention that at that time no one was really interested - GlitterBombGold had stopped replying. Had seemingly signed off for good.    That happened all the time on the internet. LemonAde It has been. And yeah, yesterday. GlitterBombGold Happy belated b-day, hope it was fun.  Yeah, sorry I ghosted like that. I should have at least told you I was going, it's just... been a thing. LemonAde You said you were in the hospital end of January for a while. I dunno. You were gone a while then, too so I figured it may have been something like that. I haven't been on much myself. Chats just got toxic without you in there. GlitterBombGold I'm sorry LemonAde its ok. just wondered what happened is all. I thought I made you mad tbh. GlitterBombGold No no nonononoooooo. Not at all. I... mmph. I can tell you what happened if you want. I kinda owe you that much after vanishing without a word. LemonAde up to you. GlitterBombGold The truth is... okay I didn't lie, I've been a wrestling fan since approximately age fetus, but... I guess what I didn't tell you is that I was a wrestler myself. LemonAde you're saying "was". GlitterBombGold Yeah.  A few months ago I hurt my leg real bad during a match and the dr. said I couldn't do it anymore. It was all I ever wanted to do and i couldn't do it anymore. And without that i couldn't afford my apartment, had to move back home, and now i'm a secretary and i hate it. ...sorry to dump all that on you.    Adrienne’s breath caught as she read the reply. Considering what the last week had been like, it sent shivers down her spine. With this having her full attention, Adrienne sat up with the phone held tightly with both hands. LemonAde its okay, so bad timing on my part. i'm sorry this happened to you. GlitterBombGold Thanks. But yeah that's why I left, i didn't feel like I'd be the most cheerful person to talk with and I didn't feel like talking much anyway. I might come back to the Disney chat and stuff soon but... I don't think I could come back to the wrestling chat. Too painful. LemonAde thats up to you. so you told me about you a little. unless you'd rather not i could trade you. it could help... GlitterBombGold Oh, I'd like that. I mean i've talked about myself way too much. :oP LemonAde so uh, i mean i guess i'm doing what you did. im not trying to brag or anything but i mean, I've been in the industry so to speak since I was 19. never got a chance to do >that< until was 32 tho. GlitterBombGold Oh! Were you a manager or something? LemonAde kind of. valet was the "official" term. but i handled all of the behind the scenes stuff. GlitterBombGold Is it okay if I ask who you were working with? You don't have to tell me if you don't want, I'm just being nosey. LemonAde just with my ex husband in Clearwater. we weren't ever on TV or anything like that. We were in San Jose for a hiccup but didn't work out. GlitterBombGold Aw, I'm sorry. LemonAde its ok. i'm glad for that. GlitterBombGold I guess actually getting to play is a lot more rewarding than sitting on the sidelines. I... I worked for the big guys, but for their indie division. I wasn't there a whole ton of time. Long enough to make friends, least I thought so. LemonAde funny how that sort of thing works out. look gimmie a second but I wanna get this all out here. it might be a stretch so ..i mean cut me off if its too much. GlitterBombGold No, I wordbarfed on you already, by all means return the favor :0P LemonAde so we are both in the brotherhood... or whatever. was or is, you always are. GlitterBombGold Or sisterhood :oP Sorry, continue LemonAde oh, me too. so i got hired to this place in Baltimore. they get some play on local channels and i'm pretty sure fans record the shows and put them on youtube. they're the only place that didn't laugh at my audition tape. the trainer left in the part where I tripping trying to do a dropkick. GlitterBombGold Oooh owch >.o But I'm glad someone listened.    Adrienne had been talking to well, her and a few others as a recommendation. Not that particular but it was said that she should make friends. There were no friends in Clearwater. Everyone knew her for her previous association and she was certainly guilty for it.        There was this comfortable barrier here. She could GlitterBombGold at arm’s length. Something she couldn’t do with the myriad of issues confronting her about Knox. Or Ko. Or Silvio. Despite their warm attitudes - there were things that she couldn’t even share. So she reached out. LemonAde not many do. so this is going to sound weird. so i should like introduce myself like for real. I'm Adrienne. and if you would like, i have one comp ticket to a show my company is putting on October 12th. Carnage Wrestling. So if you'd like to sit in the crowd for a night. You'd have to arrange your own travel and stuff but you can use my discounts...or something. i don't know who i was going to give this to. probably just give it back so ... i mean if this is just weird or out of place, forget it. GlitterBombGold ...wow... I... O////O I've been trying to avoid wrestling since the accident. Like I put all my toys and posters and stuff into a box and the box is in the attic. I haven't watched anything and this is the first I've really talked about it at length. But... ...yeah. My name is Silvie and I think I'd really like to come. LemonAde Silvie, its like 3 am here so I need to get some sleep but lets do a video call tomorrow..or later today, if thats ok? Share some info. Make sure we're both cool, you know what I mean? GlitterBombGold Sounds super duper. I'm pretty beat myself. But I'm really glad we talked LemonAde i am too. maybe we can watch Tangled if you'd like. its been forever since we watched that. or ... chatted while watching...you know what I mean. GlitterBombGold I'D LOVE THAT OwO LemonAde cool. night, Silvie.    Setting down the phone, Adrienne then laid her head back down on the pillow squished against the arm of the couch. Doing her best to clear her my mind of all pressing matters, she closed her eyes...