#I still tremble when thinking of all those September fics

[miracleonice87]

a/n + disclaimer: first of all, she's BACK and she finished a fic! second, nobody show this to Barzy, okay? we don’t need his ego inflating as I compare him and his level of fame to that of Justin Bieber lolol. anyways, after listening to Hailey’s recent interview, I just thought this would be a fun one to write – something different! this is an interview from the perspective of the reader, who is married to Barzy.

please note: a few select parts of this were transcribed directly from Alex Cooper’s Call Her Daddy interview with Hailey Bieber from September 28, so I want to give that credit – those portions are in bold. all in all, this should not be read or regarded as the actual interview! I’m also not claiming it as my own – this is fanfiction based on a public interview. photos were pulled from public Instagram (specifically Mat’s and Hailey’s) and Pinterest accounts. also, be nice to people. like damn. if this interview taught anybody anything, I hope it’s that.

warnings: based on an episode of the Call Her Daddy podcast which I know a lot of people hate (I am certainly not a fan nor a regular listener but wanted to hear Hailey's perspective on this), swearing, alcohol, mention of depression / anxiety / dark thoughts – don’t read if any of these trigger you

word count: ~5,500

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“Think I’m just gonna take a drive, you know? If that’s okay,” Mathew said tentatively. “Listen to it on my own.” 

You nodded, your breaths shallow, and wondered if he could sense your unease. Then, as he grabbed his keys and set his gaze on you from across the room, you knew beyond a doubt that he could. Of course he could – he’d been your reflection, the balance on the other side of the scale of your life, for more than seven years now. 

Mathew came closer to where you sat on the sleek sofa and caged you in with one arm leaning against the back and the other resting on the arm of the couch. He studied you for a moment before speaking. 

“You gonna be okay here without me? I can stay if you w-“ 

You shook your head quickly, pulling the cuffs of your crewneck down to cover your trembling fingers. 

“I’ll be okay, Maty,” you interrupted, your voice soft but sure. “Promise. You do what you need to do.”

He nodded slowly, raised his hand to tenderly stroke his thumb along your jawline, and kissed you softly. 

“I love you,” he said, as quiet as he’d ever been, yet still at his most firm and convincing. “Nothing in the world is ever going to change that. Nothing. Just… just know that, okay?”

You nodded and brushed back the soft curls that had fallen onto his forehead.

“I know that,” you assured him. “I’ll see you when you get back.” 

— 

You couldn’t immediately open the YouTube app on your TV after Mathew left. It took you five minutes of pacing to simply press the button to power on the screen. After another five minutes of procrastinating by tidying up around the kitchen, you forced yourself to return to the couch and pull up the app. 

You had finally faced your fears last week and had sat down with an acquaintance, Zoe Rodriguez, to comment at last on a topic that you had never before discussed publicly – your personal life. 

But this was far more poignant than just a casual chat with a random friend. Zoe just so happened to be the host of one of the most popular, most-watched, most-listened-to pop culture podcasts in the world. The hour-long conversation took place at Zoe’s studio and consisted of details about your upbringing, your professional projects, and – the reason that probably something like 99% of listeners tuned in – your relationship with Mathew. 

And now, after agonizing over its release for days on end, it was time to face the music. Or, in this case, to face the video version of the podcast episode. Which was also being featured as a long-form article with exclusive photos on Zoe’s blog. (So 2022.) 

You closed your eyes for a moment and prayed silently, primarily, that Mathew wouldn’t be hurt by either the interview or any backlash from it, and secondly, that it might, indeed, deliver some semblance of the peace and freedom you had envisioned when you had agreed to the whole thing in the first place. Next, you curled into the arm of the couch, your toes tucked between the velvety cushions, the long stem of your glass of red wine secured between your two middle fingers. You took a generous gulp of your favorite merlot, set your lips in a firm line, and breathed in deeply. Then, you reached for the remote again, and this time, finally pressed play. Zoe’s familiar voice filled the air, and photos of you, of Mathew, and of the two of you together –  which you had also seen upon briefly scrolling through the corresponding blog post earlier today – flashed onscreen as she introduced the podcast. 

Zoe [playfully]: “Mrs. Barzal, thank you for meeting me today to do this.”

You [smiling]: “Of course. Thank you for having me!” 

Z: “I wanted to tell you, I know you always do the black, rounded nails with no sparkle, and so to channel my inner you, I did the same thing for this interview. You inspired me.”

Y [clapping]: “Ah, I love it! When people tell me I inspire them to do anything when it comes to like fashion, beauty, anything really, I always say that’s the biggest compliment, so thank you so much.”

Z: “So, let’s get into it. You are married to one of the most famous athletes in North America, and by far one of the most famous figures in the NHL, Mathew Barzal.”

Y: “Yes, I am.”

Z: “What are your favorite things about Mathew?” 

Y: “Oh, god, I could go on for so long and this could get really cringey and embarrassing, so I’ll try to keep this short and sweet [giggling]. I think the biggest thing I always tell people is that he’s literally my best friend in the entire world. Like, there is absolutely no one else I would rather spend my time with, even if we’re just snuggling on the couch doing absolutely nothing. And we’ve truly grown up together. We were friends for a long time before anything else, and like… [wistfully] I just love him… He understands me more than anybody ever has in my whole life, and I think that goes both ways. He’s just my guy. He’s the most amazing person with the sweetest soul, which probably not a lot of people know. He’s super romantic and thoughtful. And he’ll probably tease me to no end for saying this but he’s always had this quiet confidence which I find really, really sexy [wiggles eyebrows].”

Z: “I mean yeah, not to make moves on your man, but I would definitely have to agree with that! And I also love how the two of you are honestly just very down to earth for who you both are and the worlds that you come from.” 

Y “Thank you! I appreciate you saying that because, yeah, that is not always the perception of us. And it sounds obnoxious to even try and defend, to be like, ‘no, wait, I swear we seriously are normal and boring!’ But it’s true. Like we love just eating super greasy New York pizza and drinking beers in our living room doing puzzles and watching trash TV. That’s just who we are and that’ll never change.”

Z: “Okay, well now you have to divulge what trash TV you’re watching.”

Y: “Shit, he’s gonna be so pissed at me for blowing up his spot like this [laughing]. But I’m gonna do it anyway. We both love watching Love Island. That’s probably our number one most watched trash show together. Like we wait with bated breath for each episode! So lame. And we also love Real Housewives. That one’s harder to keep up with because there are so many of them now, but we always send each other the memes and stuff on Instagram [throws head back in laughter]. My favorite is Beverly Hills; he likes New York. So dumb but it’s just fun.”

Z: “No, I love it! We all need our mindless TV shows to binge. Now, were you into hockey before you met Mathew? Did you follow it?”

Y: “Honestly, no. I grew up in a family where the NFL was like our religion. My dad did watch the occasional Rangers game – which Mathew loves when I say, as you can imagine – especially on weeknights when we were just chilling after dinner. But no, I was not a big hockey gal. Didn’t know much about it, couldn’t name more than like, ten players in the league probably until Mat and I got together. Things will still happen, like penalties or plays where I’m like having our friends explain to me why that’s not allowed [chuckling]. Which, again, has been yet another misconception, with people thinking I was some kind of puck bunny, skate chaser, going after him because he’s an athlete, which was simply not the case. So yeah, another incorrect perception there. But I know we’ll get deeper into that later.” [smirking]

Z: “Yeah, speaking of which… Now, I have to change the subject-” 

Y: “Oh, god, here we go [readjusts in the chair].” 

Z: “No, no, I know how you feel about this. I know you don’t like talking about it, but we’re just gonna rip the bandaid off, okay? You can do it.”

Y: “Okay [deep breath]. Go. I’m ready.” 

Z: “So, since the very beginning of your relationship, you, in particular, have had a rough go of it from so-called ‘fans.’”

Y: “Mhm.”

Z: “Could you speak on that?” 

Y: “Yeah, it was not a fun thing to deal with as an eighteen-, nineteen-year-old, I will say that. Of course it’s not fun now either, but I have learned how to cope. But in the beginning it was just so intense, and I had no idea where it was coming from, or why. I remember first seeing shit on social media, which we all know is just a toxic vortex for the most part, and just being like, ‘wait, what? What did I do? Why don’t they like me?’ As a teenager, most people want other people to like them, and when that’s not the case, they obsess over it. It can really weigh on you, and you just wonder what you can do, or maybe even shouldn’t have done, so that people like you more. And that is certainly what was happening those first few years. Like all the ‘bunny blogs’ as people call them, and even some like legit media members were so horrible and nasty about us-”

Z: “About you, specifically. You can say it.”

Y: “Well, yeah. That’s true. Mathew got some of it too, though. And again, we’ve known each other for so long, and we were just kids in the beginning. Like, literally kids! And there was definitely some, like, cocky, asshole, entitled behavior going on on both of our parts which came across negatively to people. For him, he was just a little immature when he first came into the league, just like anybody in that position, and he was maybe acting out a bit because he was so young, with all this brand new money, and you couldn’t really tell him anything for a while. But he comes from a wonderful family and he is very grounded at the end of the day, so he quickly grew up and moved on from that. And for me, it was just being on my own in New York City, with a little distance from my family finally, trying to chart my own course and create my own name, and that certainly contributed to this ‘I’ll do whatever I want with whomever I want’ attitude for me which also came across poorly and didn’t necessarily speak to who I really was. But again, we were both just still growing up. We still are! So yeah, I think that contributed to some of that toxicity and negative energy about our relationship early on.”

Z: “And I also personally feel like, with Mathew being who he is – I mean, let’s face it, he was a heartthrob, and still is – and especially playing in a major market, there was probably at least a portion of his fanbase that felt some sense of entitlement, especially maybe among young women, when it came to him and who he dated.”

Y: “Yeah, I definitely think that’s the case. And I think from day one, there were people who supported us, but there were also a ton of people who were angry that he picked me. Like, ‘why do you get to be with him? Why do you get to marry him?’ And I’m like, ‘I don’t know! We fell in love.’ There was times where I can confidently say, like, I don’t think we knew it was gonna be each other. Several times. So like, I can’t say that at 18 years old, I knew 100% that that was my husband. I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know.”

Z: “No matter who he ended up with though, fans were never going to just be like, ‘oh, yeah, she seems cool! Go Mat!’”

Y: “Yeah, that’s true. Whether it was me, or some sweet, random girl who grew up two towns away from him in BC, or the most perfect celebrity or athlete in the world. No one, in the fans’ minds, would have ever been good enough, no. For whatever reason, the universe determined that we were going to find each other.”

Z: “Right. Like you didn’t ask for this. The two of you just happened to be living in the same city, you met each other, you fell for each other and, boom, little did you know you’d wind up together.” 

Y: “Yes, exactly.” 

Z: “And how has being married to Mathew, with him being who he is, like we’ve already discussed, affected you?”

Y: “[wincing] Yikes. That’s a tough one. Again, I don’t like to focus on the negative, as you can probably tell, because there are so many wonderful things about being with him, being married to him.  Like, I get to spend my life with the absolute best person I know, and I fucking love that. And we get a lot of amazing opportunities and exciting things that come our way because of who he is, who we are, where we live. But it is not always a walk in the park like people think. I have had some really dark days where I wondered if it would be better if I had never met him, or if I was never even here, which pains me to say now because that is no longer the way I feel at all. I’ve been open with him and with my inner circle about those dark, heavy feelings, and thank god, they just embraced me during that time with completely open arms and never shamed or guilted me for the way I was feeling. They encouraged me to just take a step back and not become so wrapped up in it that I couldn’t see my life for what it truly is. And lots, and lots of therapy – it works wonders, people! And don’t get me wrong, there are still times where I do wonder what it would be like if we both just worked normal jobs. Like if I ended up becoming a veterinarian like I always dreamed about and he was like, a salesman or a carpenter or something. I do think about that, what it would be like to not be under such scrutiny for things we say, things we do, places we go, or even just being us. Or what it would be like for people to just not care about us, you know? [chuckles] I sometimes think that that would be really nice. But I also always say, I never wonder what it would be like to be with somebody else. Like I know that he’s it for me, without a doubt. And I get it – we’re in the public eye, and people want to know what’s going on with us. It’s just something that I’ve had to learn to deal with, and to just decide how much of myself and my relationship that I do want to share.”

Z: “Speaking of which, could you tell me a little bit about how social media has impacted you? Maybe both as an individual and your relationship?”

Y: “Yeah, the thing I always say to my family and close friends is that it feels very foreign and bizarre for everyone and their brother to feel as though they have a say in my relationship. First of all, because they don’t. Let’s just make that very clear. Mathew and I do not take the public’s opinion of us into consideration at all when we think or talk about our relationship and what steps to take next, or what decisions to make moving forward. And it’s also weird because… why do people get so invested in a relationship which isn’t even theirs? That’s what has always been so strange to me. Just because we cherry-pick moments of our lives that we choose to share on social media or through the media, whether that’s magazines or interviews or whatever, doesn’t mean that people actually know us. Again, I understand people recognize us as public figures, but why do they go out of their way to go on social media and let us, and the entire world, know what they think of us? Like, to be quite frank, I don’t care that people were pissed when we got together at 18 and broke up at 20 and got back together at 21 and then almost immediately got engaged and married. Did I ever envision that happening? No, I absolutely didn’t. Can I understand that people were shocked or surprised? Yes, totally. I definitely get that. But why were you angry? That has always thrown both of us for a loop. Because who were the only two peoples’ lives who were actually impacted by that decision? His, and mine. That’s a choice we made together, without anyone else’s influence, and it’s one that we are super proud of. Because it might have seemed crazy to the outside world, but it felt right to us at the time, and it still does to this day. So, as much as is humanly possible, we’ve just refused to let other peoples’ negativity impact the way we view ourselves or one another or go about our relationship, as hard as people might try.”

Z: “And to that point, at the start of this relationship, people were even questioning your motives for wanting to be with Mathew. People were saying that you were only with him for the fame, or the money, or that you sought him out, sought this life out, purposefully, with these questionable motives at the front of your mind. Can you speak to that specific perception of the relationship and how that felt to you?”

Y: “You know, the funny thing about that one to me is, I came from a well-known family, and every single one of my family members will tell you that since I was a little girl I would say, ‘when I grow up, my husband is gonna be a nurse or a professor and I’m gonna be a stay-at-home mom, and we’re gonna live in the middle of nowhere and have a bunch of kids!’ Like, I never wanted this life. I never wanted people to know who I was or where I lived or anything about me, really. I was always jealous of my friends who did have that. So when I heard that narrative about Mathew and me, of course it wasn’t fun, because like I said, as an eighteen-year-old, you do care a lot about what people think of you and how you’re perceived. But eventually I was just able to laugh it off knowing that anybody who really, truly knows me, knows that that is so far from being the case. And it took plenty of therapy sessions and discussions with Mathew, but I realized that no one will ever know the way that this relationship came to be, because it was behind closed doors. And that’s okay. I actually came to love that fact. Because as much as people think they know, they really don’t. Again, the only people who know how it happened and what our intentions were are Mathew, me, and those closest to us who we’ve trusted with that information. And no one is ever going to be able to take that away from me, or from us – not that, nor anything else in my life. So now I realize that that’s a beautiful thing.” 

Z: “Tell me about how things have changed for you in these past couple of years since you’ve put in the work, and explain why you say things have gotten better for you.”

Y: “Yeah, I definitely think things have improved over the last couple of years, and part of that probably does have to do with the fact that I’ve spent a lot of time working on my healing and my inner peace. But overall, for the most part, people are nicer. As you know, there were several years there where I just didn’t share anything with anyone. Even my friends from high school or, like, my sister’s friends or parents’ friends would be like, ‘is she okay? I haven’t seen her post anything in forever. She, like, fell off the face of the earth.’ And that was a product of that scrutiny and that pressure being so intense for a while. I thought, well, if I don’t share anything, and if Mat doesn’t share anything about me, then they can’t hurt me. I didn’t want Mathew to post me on any social media outlet, at all. Not for my birthday, not for our anniversary, nothing. And whatever I did post was very guarded, very cryptic, and many times I would just take it down, like, hours later after overthinking it. And eventually I did realize that that was actually really hurting him in ways I couldn’t even comprehend at that time, until we both just opened up and got brutally honest about the way we were both feeling and how the other’s behaviors were hurting each other. And that was like a wake-up call. Like, ‘hey, this is not all about you, and this is something your partner wants to do to make you feel loved, so snap out of it.’ It took me a long time and a lot of work to get over it and let him show me off because he’s proud of me. And you know what? I’m damn proud of him too, and now I let people know it. I’m ashamed to say I used to be scared to post when he, like, hit a milestone or made the national roster or something. And now I’m like his professional hype woman, and when people have nasty things to say about it, we just tune out the noise, because at the end of the day, none of that matters. The only thing that does is how we feel about one another. And now I feel like I can be vulnerable and be my truest, most authentic self with my audience. And in 99 cases out of 100, they have been so incredible to me, and to Mat, too. Like, I have people who love the beauty line who have never watched a hockey game in their life before finding me, now they’re posting Mat on their story and tweeting to him like, ‘yes, king, you’re going to the playoffs, we’re so proud of you!’ And I just think that’s the sweetest thing ever. And I felt like actually taking the step to, even though at times it was really uncomfortable for me, being like, ‘I’m proud of who I am, and this is my personality.’ And like, this is gonna sound probably so corny, but to me, I’ve always felt like I was just a girl from fucking New York… [covers face] Oh my god, this is gonna sound so cringe! I grew up, to me, I felt like, very normal… I’m from a small town called Nyack which is outside New York. And I woke up every day and I was homeschooled and I did ballet! [giggling] And I feel like I’ve remained that same person. And of course life has changed drastically, but at the core, I feel like I’m proud of who I am. I know I’ve always been the same person, and I feel very rooted and very grounded. And I grew up very grounded and rooted. And of course I came from a famous family, that’s the reality of my life. Can’t change that either. And I just feel like people didn’t really know me or know my story or know the kind of person I was. People don’t know what kind of friend I am. People don’t know what kind of daughter I am. People don’t know what kind of sister I am. But I know.”

Z: “Speaking about your family, your friends: as we wrap up, tell me, who are the people in your circle who you lean on? Who do you trust no matter what? Who is there for you, other than Mat, when you’re having a bad day, having a tough time?”

Y: “First and foremost, my parents. I feel super fortunate that the two of them are truly some of my very best friends. They still live in the home I grew up in outside the city, so when I’m feeling overwhelmed in the city or even on the Island or I just need to get away, that’s where I go. It’s like my sanctuary. My mom and I love to cook and bake together, and my dad and I love taking the dogs for long walks in the woods by our house, and when it’s nice we go fishing. See, there’s another thing people probably don’t know about me! I can fish even with these claws. [chuckling as she holds up her fingers to display her signature black acrylic tips] And Mathew and I each have one sister. They’re both out on the West Coast so we don’t get to see them as often as we’d like, but we both talk to them pretty much every day. And when I need to vent or cry to somebody, my first call is to one of them. And I feel really lucky to still be best friends with a couple of girls from my hometown who I’ve literally known for like twenty years now. I won’t call them out here, but they’re on my socials from time to time. They’re my rock. And finally, some of the veteran wives on the team have become my very best friends, including Sydney [Esiason, daughter of New York Jets great Boomer, wife of Islanders enforcer Matthew] Martin, Kristy Cizikas [wife of Casey], Meg Bailey [wife of Josh], and even more. I’m really close with that group in particular because, one, Mathew is really close with all their spouses on the team and two, because for better or worse, they and I have gone through very similar things, so they’ve helped me through a lot. I know I can lean on them for support and come to them with anything because we’re all in the same boat, you know? Plus they all have the sweetest babies, so getting to go over to their houses and play with them and cuddle with them always lowers the blood pressure!” 

Z: “If you could say something to the public, which this is obviously giving you the opportunity to do, what would you say?” 

Y: “To all of my supporters, I think I’d just say thank you. Thank you to those of you who have always supported me and been lovely to me. Thank you for giving me a continued platform and a voice which allows me to, hopefully, do things that matter, things that can make a difference. And I’d also say, to those people who have not always been so nice or those who do not like me, first I’d say, that’s okay. I don’t need you to like me, truthfully [snickers]. Like, that’s okay and that’s your prerogative. Second, I’d say… I’m not going anywhere. [laughing hysterically] Just kidding… kind of! But in reality, I’d just say, don’t forget that there is a real person on the other side of that screen you’re staring at while you make these mean comments. A real person with emotions and problems and shit going on in their life that you have no idea about. I would just encourage people to keep that in mind next time they go to make a comment or post a nasty video. And overall, just be kind to each other. We don’t have enough kindness in this world, and it can be a really cold place to be. So be a light and just try to make the world around you a better place, even if it’s just your little corner of it. You’ll be happier – I promise.”  

— 

As Zoe wrapped up the interview onscreen, you held your breath, hand pressed to your chest, waiting for the anxiety, the dread

But you didn’t feel anxiety, though. No, not in this moment. You weren’t nervous or scared or wishing you could take it all back, like you fully anticipated you would feel.

Instead, you felt pride. And that feeling alone was enough to make you smile. 

Then, you did another thing that would have terrified you two years ago, especially after a public appearance: you opened your Twitter mentions and began to scroll. 

Of course, there was still the occasional troll who popped their ugly head in to spew hate throughout your mentions. But overwhelmingly, almost exclusively… it was love. And, even more importantly, respect.

nobody should receive hate for who they love. we love you, @/yourusername!

wow, I honestly had no clue @/yourusername went through all of this. what a strong person, but she shouldn’t have had to endure that. kudos, gf!

y’all just jealous you ain’t who barzy chose, and it’s time to get over it. shoutout @/yourusername for baring her heart!

I’m glad @/yourusername said things are better now, but damn.. people suck. keep being you, bestie!

we should all be so lucky to have @/yourusername grace us with her being.. @/barzal97 especially you, homeboy. we <;3 you guys!

The feeling of a smile spreading across your face while using social media felt foreign, but you embraced it – another reminder that things were, in fact, different now, better now. 

You stood up, stretched your arms to the ceiling, and let the smile grow on your lips and the gratitude bloom in your heart before you took your empty glass to the sink. You peered at the clock and wondered when Mathew might return and how he might be feeling at this very moment. 

By way of distraction from obsessing over his arrival, you sat at the kitchen counter on your laptop, attempting to begin sifting through the barrage of emails that had filtered in within just the last several hours since the interview went live. Just as you were wrapping up a response to your agent about one of the many requests for additional comment (never going to happen, you thought to yourself as you shook your head), you heard the familiar sound of the lock on the front door clicking open.

This is it. 

You steeled yourself, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath from your belly, and you waited. Against all your rationale, you waited for him to be upset, or offended, or angry, or, far worse than all of the above, disappointed. You could crawl out of your skin at the idea of disappointing him. 

His footsteps came nearer, and you couldn’t bear to turn around and face him, not yet. But he didn’t need you to. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, his chin settling on your shoulder. As you relaxed into his touch, you rested your hands against his forearm.

Neither of you made a move for a beat, and suddenly you heard soft sniffling in your ear. Concern washing over you, you reached back to sink your nails into his hair. He tucked his face into your neck, and it was only then that you felt a warm wetness on your skin. Your heart beat faster, panic coursing through your veins. 

“Bubs… are you okay?” you whispered.

You wriggled loose in his grasp just enough to turn on the barstool and meet his eyes. He immediately cupped your face in his long fingers, a newfound admiration in his teary gaze. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just so fucking proud of you,” he finally choked out. “To open up and be vulnerable the way you did… that takes so much strength and so much courage. I just, I admire you and I respect you so much, baby. I love you, you know that?” 

His eyebrows were knit together, desperate to make you understand how much he meant every single word. You knew he did — you felt it deep within your soul, could see it in his warm chestnut eyes. You pressed your hand against his and nodded. 

“I do know. And I love you so much.” 

— 

later that night…

[harleychick91]

I wrote an alternate ending of my Adjudicator/SuperCorp fic from September because the ending of The Continental irked me so much. If you'd like to check out the entire story, it's on AO3 and FFN. Since it could be a stand alone, here’s the alternate ending.

The Adjudicator’s POV

It had been eight months since Kara was stranded in my dimension. She kept her word and became my bodyguard but wasn’t much for the violence. She still longed for her home but the look in her eyes had changed. They were tender now when she looked at me.

After giving me her word that she would always be there if I needed her, I felt comfortable enough to let Kara get her own job. I will admit, she makes a damn good reporter. If anything devious came up about The Continental, she brought it to my attention. I would handle it so she could keep her integrity.

Now, though, as I stared down the barrel of a gun, all I thought about was her. “I’m sorry, Kara,” I murmured. I will miss you the most. As the gun discharged, I waited for a pain that never came.

“Who the hell are you?”

What? Opening my eyes, I saw blonde locks. “Kara?”

“Bad idea,” Kara growled. Punching Winston in the nose, he fell back onto the steps.

“H-How….”

Turning her attention to Kirk, Kara asked. “Can you take care of him? I think I know where the coin press is but I want to get her to safety.”

“Of course,” he nodded.

Opening the backseat door, Kara smiled softly. “I have a lot of explaining to do. Would you like to go to the restaurant early or somewhere else?”

“We can talk in the car. It won’t take Kirk long to have someone come get Winston.” Sliding into the backseat, I studied the blonde as she did the same.

“It’s best that we speak alone anyway.” Kara glanced behind her. “The Adjudicator is safe with me. I wouldn’t hurt her.”

“She’s safe,” I reassured Kirk. He’s always been such a loyal henchman. As Kara closed the door, I waited. Fidgeting with her nails, she bit the inside of her cheek. “How did you get across town so quickly? I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“I always listen for your heart beat now,” Kara bit her lip. “When I heard it spike, I came. I told you I’d be here if you ever needed me.”

Something in her voice has changed also. “But that doesn’t explain how you heard me across town or stopped a bullet. No human can do those things.” When she wouldn’t answer, I placed my hand on hers. “Kara, I already know you’re not from my dimension. I can handle a lot of things most can’t.”

“I’m not from Earth either,” she murmured.

“What?” Knowing we were out of sight, I took my mask off.

“I’m from a different planet. When my world was destroyed, I was sent to my Earth. I was raised by a human family. They taught me everything about what it was to be human and put me through school.”

“Tell me about your people.”

“Krypton is where I’m from. On this planet, the yellow sun gives me powers. On my Earth, I was a hero. I protected the city from crime the local police couldn’t handle.”

A few things make sense now. “So you have, what, super speed and strength?”

“All of my senses and abilities are heightened.” Kara began to tremble. “I never told you because I was scared.”

“I’m not going to force you to kill or do anything you don’t want to do,” I spoke softly. Tucking hair behind the woman’s ear, I smiled. “You’re still safe with me.”

Meeting my gaze, Kara studied me. “You’re okay with this?”

“I’m a very open minded woman. One far before my time.”

“You are in every dimension,” she laughed.

“I know I’m not your Lena but I’m glad to have you with me,” I whispered.

“I’m glad I have you too.” Glancing to my lips, Kara closed the gap between us. Tangling a hand in blonde locks, I deepened the kiss causing her to moan. We both jumped as the driver’s door opened.

“Onwards to dinner, Ma’am? Kirk asked.

“Yes. I believe they’ll work us in a bit early.” Taking my hand in hers, Kara kissed my knuckles. Meeting the woman’s gaze, I smiled. “Dinner with my girl is just what I need after this afternoon’s events.”

Full story is on AO3 and FFN

[shadow-gate-to-love]

Suggestion: since you obviously worked hard on previous birthday bashes for all the girls you should link back to them on their bdays so people can enjoy your previous hard work

Ngl that might be all I do cuz keeping up with these birthdays is mad stressful lmao

[axwalker]

CREEP: I’m a creep

HIGH SCHOOL AU 

Pairing: Drake Walker and Lexie O’Brien -- Book TRR 

A/N 1 This came up to me after I got an ask from @nestledonthaveone

I was listening to my iPod on my way home from work yesterday & Radiohead's Creep came on. One of my favorite songs, and I think the lyrics are great for an angsty Drake fic. It reminds me of him. Could you please write an angsty fic inspired by the song? I love how you write angst!!

I used to hear this song when I was a teenager, so when I read this ask, I immediately wanted to write something angsty but situated in high school.

This is part one of two. 

I hope you enjoy it @nestledonthaveone 💕

A/N 2: Because they’re younger than usual, I decided to change my  FC --just for this fic. I’m still picturing Michiel and Valerie when they’ll be older though. 

A/N3: I’m participating in @wackydrabbles Prompt #105   It's definitely ... interesting.”

Thank you ladies! 

WARNINGS: Parental abuse. Eventually some lemons.  ALL MY FICS ARE 18+ 

Tags in the comments. 

LEXIE 

I’ve always loved sunsets. The entire sky is painted orange and pink, streaking with white light and many other colors; I can’t take my eyes away from it. Sunsets remind us that no matter what is happening in our lives, the sun will be out again tomorrow. It’s raw, beautiful, and comforts me—the thought of the sun watching over me. I sit on my porch, my knees against my chest. I’m wearing a white tank top and jean shorts to fight the intense heat that invades Cordonia in early September.  I fix my eyes on the sky, wishing a miracle. Something that takes me away from my father and his new wife. Away from the pain of losing mom.

“What are you doing?” The voice is so resonant, deep, and rasping. Slowly, I sit up and look around, pushing my long, brown hair out of my eyes. I raise my head, and I see him. Drake Walker. 

 My breath catches, and I cross my arms over my breasts, knowing the thin material of my shirt isn’t keeping me remotely modest. What is he doing here? At this time, no less. I go to school with Drake. We’re both sophomores at Valtoria High School. He’s six foot two, with strong shoulders, and has a knowledge of life in his eyes that boys our age simply don’t possess. We have five classes together, and he sits through them like a statue, his chocolate eyes unreadable. Tall, dark, and angry. Handsome in a hard way that makes the other girls nervous when he walks down the hallways. Not me, though. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stared at him from behind my locker door, breath trapped in my lungs, wondering what he’s thinking of behind his brooding eyes. 

“I asked, what are you doing? This isn’t a safe place to be alone at night. You should get inside.” 

“Inside is no safer.” Why would I say that? My first time talking with this boy, and I tell him my deepest secret? His eyes narrow at me.“I mean, there’s not a lot of crime in this part of Portavira.” That loosens the tension in his broad shoulders. “I’m looking at the sunset. I love it. It’s so beautiful and wild.” I bit my bottom lip noticing his eyes dip to catch the action. 

“It’s definitely ... interesting,” he says, noncommittally. “There are things I like more.” 

“Like what?” I ask. 

He shrugs but looks back down at me, wrestling with something. He lifts a hand, brushing the very tip of his fingers down my cheekbone. “You,” he rasps.

Drake’s deep brown eyes look at me with something I’m only on the cusp of understanding. Is it…lust? His fingers move down my jaw, traveling slowly over the hollow of my throat to tease one of my tank top’s straps. “I like you. I can’t seem to stop…wanting. Wanting you to look at me. Wanting you…period. It’s why I sit behind you in all your classes, O’Brien. You don’t know that?” My knees start to tremble. I’ve always wondered how we end up in the same classes every single semester. He’s arranged for it to happen? He…likes me? That much? Say something, dork. Don’t act like it’s not mutual. 

 As if I haven’t lain my bed after school, when no one is at home and touched myself while thinking of Drake Walker. I must be doing a terrible job of keeping that secret to myself because Drake’s breath begins to grow shallow. “O’Brien.” He drops his forehead to mine, the pads of his thumb rubbing the soft skin of my neck. “Have you ever been kissed?”

I can’t talk, so I shake my head. 

“Please,” he groans. “Let me.” 

My head is spinning. “Let you what?” 

“Kiss you. Finally.” His hands move to cradle my head, making me feel delicate, like something special. His minty breath is close to my ear, setting off an ache low in my belly. “I need to kiss you, O’Brien. I need it.” He leans down and kisses the corner of my lips in the most torturous, exquisite way. My heart is beating wildly in my chest when he puts his soft lips on mine for the first time. My first kiss is an amazing one. He bends his head, and his mouth finds mine with soft pressure. I thought he would be rough or impatient may be clumsy, but I didn’t expect the gentle way his lips caress mine. The way he coaxes my own lips apart before I’m even aware of it. My knees buckle, but he holds me firmly against him. He kisses me as if this wasn’t our first time but our last. It’s the most erotic moment of my life, but all too son Drake leaves my lips. I only feel urgency. Want so deep that it burns inside of me.  It has existed between us all along, hasn’t it? Not one-sided. A yearning pull between two people, orbiting each other in the earthly, incongruous setting of school. 

Drake opens his mouth to say something, but my name is shouted in the distance. From inside the house. With glittering eyes, Drake drops his hands to his side, though it obviously pains him to do so. He gives me a chaste kiss on my cheek. One second later, the back door of my house opens, revealing my father, his imposing frame backlit by the interior. 

“Alexis!” I start to tremble; I try to speak, but I can’t. ““What are you doing out here this late?” There’s a tight smile in his voice. “Did you come out here to retrieve the handyman?” I do a double-take, noticing the strain forming around the corners of Drake’s mouth. 

“Handyman?” 

“Yes.” My father chuckles, coming forward to clap a hand down on Drake’s tense shoulder. “He’s here to repair a leak in the attic. Liam called you by the way.” Drake can’t look at me now, his gaze cast over my shoulder. Empty. A minute ago, we were equals. But my father’s words have called into focus one very important thing. I’m rich, and he’s very poor. It just didn’t matter. To me, it still doesn’t. But the economic divide between us is deepening by the second. 

“Why don’t you get to it?” My father suggests to Drake, his tone hard. “Alexis has to study. She is going places.”

 I down my gaze to the ground, humiliation burning up my throat. My father is an expert at belittling people, and he’s just done it to Drake. I want to say something to make it better, to defend Drake, but I know I’ll only be making it worse. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to offer Drake an apology. At school. I’ll talk to him then. 

“Yes, sir,” Drake responds stiffly, turning on his boots and stalking toward the house. Behind his back, my father reaches over and digs his thumb into my bicep until I double over, releasing a silent scream. He lets go a moment before Drake glances back over his shoulder, eyes hooded, and my expression is serene. Because I know better than to let anyone see the pain. My father has never been physically abusive, but his temper is getting worse. He hated mom and he’s taking it out on me. As soon as we’re in the house, I run up the stairs to my room and lock the door, leaning back against it. Listening to Drake’s boots walk back and forth in the attic. More than anything, I want to go up there. Feel his hands on me again. Cherishing hands, instead of hateful ones. I ache for that. For him. But an hour later, Drake leaves, and that’s when I face the consequences. My father knocks on my door. When I open it, the look on his eyes let me know it’s going to be worse than usual. 

“If I ever see you talking to that boy again, so help me God, I’ll kick you out of this house.” His face is contorted with rage. “Then, I’ll ruin him, too. I’ll make his life even harder in this town. You know I can do it. I can have him cast off that filthy land and no one will ever hire him again. Is that what you want?” 

“No,” I whisper. 

“No,” he sneers, mocking me. “Never look at him again. Do you hear me? My daughter does not associate with penniless dirt. The only boy you’re allow to date is Liam Rys. No one else.” 

“I won’t. I promise.” 

“See that you keep that promise. Or you’ll both pay the price.” And I pay a good deal of it that night when dad slaps me for the first time. The next day at school, I don’t look at Drake in the hallway. I don’t pause in the doorway of our classes, absorbing the sight of him waiting at the desk behind me. I simply keep my head down and try not to show the bruise on my cheek. On my body and my heart. I could never have predicted he would hate me for it.

 Drake

 Two years later 

I walk past O’Brien in the hallway and slam my fist against the locker to her left, making her jump. Shame, frustration, and resentment have been like a poison inside me, rotting my bones every second of the last two years, ever since that night in her garden when she tricked me into thinking she felt the same. Maybe she did. Until her father reminded her that I’m nothing but a poor handyman. Yeah, she remembered pretty quickly that she’s better than me. Good enough to date a rich quarterback like Rys but definitely not a low life like me. Rich, stuck-up brat. What’s worse is that she fucking ruined me with those lips. She brought me to my knees. Made me reveal myself in ways I’ve never done with anyone. And now? Now she’s left me lonely and fuck-starved for two years. Obsessed with her, unable to let her go and hating her guts for it. Because she won’t even look at me anymore. I’m nothing but the dirt beneath her spotless sneakers. Two years ago, I decided that if she was going to make my life hell by ignoring me after what we shared, then I could return the favor. So I do. By tormenting her. That’s the only term for it. I torture her, and I hate that—I fucking hate it—but so be it. My jaw is close to shattering as I watch O’Brien calmly collect the books from her locker and hurry toward our next class. On top of being a bully, I’m also a masochist because I still trick the school into having the same five classes every year. My aunt Leona works in the front office, and she feels bad for me because of my dad dying and my mom abandoning me when I was still in middle school, leaving me in the trailer alone. Not bad enough to invite me to live with her family, but bad enough that she slips me O’Brien’s schedule every semester so I can match it to mine. Before I follow her, I stop at her locker, sliding something in it, and continue on my way. When I walk into class behind her a moment later, I slow to a stop in the doorway at the sight of Rys kneeling to speak with O’Brien where she sits at her desk—cajoling a smile out of her. She refused to date him two years ago, but fucking Liam didn’t get the memo. No one has as much money as his father in this town. If  Rys is asking her out again, she’d probably say yes. If I let it get that far, which I won’t. I never do. She’s mine. Only mine. 

[otp-holic]

The one place (where something happened) (A03)

“In your life there are a few places, or maybe only the one place, where something happened, and then there are all the other places.” Alice Munro. (or the one where they receive a letter from a familiar name and we go into 4Ks of fluff around a lost afternoon in France)

4K. Lamely explicit at one point. Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Trigger for FLUFF as the main plot. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3)

This was supposed to be a manip with 200 words of bantering and it's now 4Ks of fluff with a few pictures. I've decided to leave them inside the cut because I feel they work better with its context there. I'm sorry for the hassle, but I really hope you give this a chance... unless you have cavities, only like fics with amazing plots or are allergic to shameless fluff.

Please do not repost the pictures, I know this is futile, but… I try :)

DAGUERROTYPE, France 1944 Private Collection.

Steve is cooling down from his very early run, enjoying the feeling of the pink sunrise looming over the awakening Brooklyn streets as he walks the last couple of blocks on the way home, when his phone beeps.

“Check your actual mailbox, we dropped something for you there. I think you should appreciate us making it old-fashioned just for you, grandpas!”

Steve smiles at Sam’s text and as soon as he arrives at their building he snaps a picture of the very common and flat envelope with “Barnes&Rogers” scribbled on top of a Stark Logo, to send along his response.

“Nice try, but this is inaccurate. A letter would have never made its way to us without an address or stamp. We’ll send you a proper thank you card to show you how it’s done.”

He can’t help but chuckle at his own joke rereading the text while he opens the door, and when he looks up from his phone and into the kitchen, he is received by a sleepy Bucky looking at the coffee machine like he looks at Steve during their most soft and embarrassingly cheesy moments.

“You love that thing more than you love me, confess it.”

“In the mornings? Yes. I don’t even like you in the mornings most of the time,” he answers matter of factly. “Want some?”

Steve playfully wiggles an eyebrow.

“No way. Your sweaty self is tempting, but coffee smells better. I might join you in the shower later.” Bucky offers him one of the two cups he has poured and he notices the envelope Steve is holding. “What is that?”

“We’ve got mail!” He hands it to Bucky. “I have no idea what's on it, but Sam texted me to say they had something delivered to our mailbox and there it was. Open it.”

Bucky leaves the cup on the counter, face sparked with a curiosity that makes him look twenty-one (and Steve weak on the knees), and goes for it.

The content is a bit underwhelming at first glance: Another envelope, white, no Stark logo, but topped with a bright green post-it with a note on Pepper’s script.

“This got to me via PR. We analyzed it and checked with the source (no peeking, I swear) and it seems legit. With that return address, it’s likely to arouse your interest. Love, P.”

Bucky tears off the post-it and the letter is revealed to be addressed to Steve Rogers at the Stark Tower, but it is when they turn it around when everything goes still for a second.

The return address is some street in Marseille, but what has Steve’s mouth dry and Bucky’s hand trembling just a bit is the combination of the place and the name written on top: Emmanuelle Jaques Dernier.

“Boom?”, Bucky says, trying to cut through their heavy hearts and taking Steve’s hand. It’s a terrible terrible joke, but Dernier would have loved it and he grins.

“That’s a terrible terrible joke,” Steve verbalizes, “but I think at least we’ve reached the same conclusion.”

“Elementary, my dear Steve,” Bucky answers as he opens the second envelope, only to reveal a folded letter and yet another envelope. “It’s a fucking vault of paper!”

Steve takes the letter from him, unfolds it, and quickly scans it (normal office paper, printed, hand-signed) before he starts reading it out loud to Bucky’s undivided attention.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

My name is Emmanuelle Dernier and I am the great-grandson of Jaques Dernier of the Howling Commandos.

First, let me tell you that we all in our family grew up with amazing stories and praise for you, Sergeant Barnes, and the rest of the team. I never got to meet my great-grandfather or any of them (you), but I’ve always felt like I did.

In fact, that’s the ultimate reason behind this letter: I ached to honor him and I’ve been putting in order all his remaining letters, pictures, and memories so they don’t get lost forever, and there are many things I’m discovering through this journey. So many pictures and tiny details… and amongst them, you and the rest of the Commandos appear at the most random and memorable moments. Nothing that’s going to make it into history books, more like the stories my grandpa used to share with us over and over again, those important tidbits that make him more human.

Anyway, I was going through the pictures he kept when I came across some war photos that didn’t seem to match the 40s timeframe. Typical daguerreotypes from the 20s in a very bad state, probably taken with a camera from the era in 1944 and developed on a later date by somebody who clearly didn’t master the technique.

They were in a very bad state and hidden inside an envelope that said “Terribly drunk soldiers in France making idiots of ourselves in unique and creative ways. Fun evening, horrible hangover. About 20 miles west of the Maginot Line. Autumn ‘44”. I’m attaching a photocopy of that, I hope you can understand my decision to keep the original.

After restoring the daguerreotypes with some experts, all I got were five very bad pictures with silhouettes of people apparently having fun…. but there was one that got a lot better in the cleaning process that feels important somehow. I’m sending the original, as well as the restored version I got.

I, of course, don’t have the whole context, but I hope it brings back a good memory. My great-grandpa might be in the picture, but I don’t think this one belongs to my family or to a museum.

Thank you for your service, I really hope this letter finds its way to you.

E.Dernier.”

“I can’t believe… Steve, most days I’m convinced that day and that place are a figment of my imagination,” Bucky smiles, remembering. “When I think of a moment of pure joy during the war, I think about that afternoon in France, and it always feels unreal. A bubble of air and laughter while we were so surrounded by death.”

Steve nods, reminiscing about that warm and humid September morning when they arrived at yet another abandoned and destroyed little village, this one about twenty miles west of the Maginot Line. They had orders to lie low and wait for twenty-four hours before they started the maneuver to wipe another Hydra base off the map, and that little town was perfect for that.

Among bomb debris and fallen walls, they found one small building miraculously standing next to the remains of the church, so they decided to set camp under a roof for a change since the weather was being a little flickery with the rain, and they had the rare luxury of time.

The inside of the tiny house was as unusual as the outside: nothing was destroyed beyond being dusty and worn by time, and everything they found (furniture, kitchenware, and even fabrics) belonged more to Steve and Bucky’s early childhoods than to 1944, a living museum frozen in time.

Only it was not a museum, but the parish house left untouched and non-raided: old-fashioned clothes, outdated church books, yellowing clergy collars, and, of course, the wine cellar. Oh, that wine cellar… the havoc it unleashed.

“I remember the absolute excitement when Falsworth found all those bottles of old unscathed mass wine from the parish,” Steve brings his memory to words, looking at Bucky, “I’m still a little convinced that we are going to hell for drinking them.”

“Not for that, probably, but it was a wonder nobody died on the spot of wine poisoning, it tasted like sweet vinegar, ugh.”

“But it did his part, right? Took our minds off things; got us drunk, bold and silly.” Steve answers.

“Apparently not all of us,” Bucky says very seriously, looking at Steve.

“Technicalities… I got drunk by proxy. Seeing you all so happy made me giddy and tipsy, too.”

“I came and went… I remember being a little surprised at the clarity of my thoughts at some moments there when some of the guys were basically drooling on the floor. Now I understand, of course.”

Steve squeezes his hand, not much to be said there.

They were already way too drunk by the early afternoon, drinking to the sound of a sudden rainstorm pouring outside. All of them scattered across the small dusty living room and its adjoining kitchen while they went through all the bottles of wine they had been able to find. Cheering for the foregone priest every time somebody raised a glass, and laughing as if there were no ruins or war on the other side; just silly men (boys, really) laughing their hearts out.

“Earth to Steve… I don’t know about you, but I’m dying to see what the hell that envelope is hiding. Especially now that we know about its time stamp.”

“I’m sorry, me too! Gabe drunkenly handling that old camera and those glass plaques the way he did? I’m honestly impressed that he was able to take any pictures at all,” he muses. “Shit, is it weird that I’m nervous?”

“I’m gonna save us the bantering because I’m nervous, too,” Bucky answers in all sincerity. “Truth is, Steve, I remember everything about that day.”

It’s a new admission, a newly opened door for them because for some reason, they have never talked about that peaceful surreal afternoon, and Steve nods in recognition as he silently goes for the envelope one-handed, not wanting to let go of Bucky’s hand because his surface is way cooler than his wrenching insides. Maybe the picture is an overexposed french wall but maybe…

The photo he extracts from the envelope is clearly the original and damaged one Emmanuelle specified in his letter. Anybody else looking at it would see nothing beyond Dernier’s blurry profile, but since Steve and Bucky were there when this was taken, they know exactly what moment Steve is holding in his hand.

“Buck,…” is all Steve can say, struck by the blurry keepsake.

Later in the afternoon when they had already consumed most of the wine and there was not a single coherent thought left in the room, one of the guys took the parish books and besottedly announced that there was a wedding set for today… thirty years ago. Alcohol fueled a goofy idea that escalated at the speed of light, with Morita saying they were going to a wedding because they deserved a celebration, Dernier confessing that he had once considered becoming a priest, and Dum-dum bringing out all the old fashioned clothes from the wardrobe and deciding they were getting nice and clean for the festivities.

“That’s clearly Dernier in the picture killing it in his priest role, right?” Bucky says, half smiling and interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “You know, I went all-in with that fake wedding party. I was laughing to tears when I saw you put on that ridiculously long and ill-fitting jacket from the 10s, feeling weightless and silly for the first time since sailing off, and God knows we all deserved that. And it was all safe and light-hearted until fucking Morita decided you had to be the groom, and...”

“Were you jealous because I won the dashing groom competition?”

Steve’s attempt at a joke is weak, but there’s truth behind it: Morita chose Steve as the groom (“Cap, you are the most dashing and the least drunk”) to a chorus of excited voices cheering for him. Somebody else, most likely Dum-Dum, chose the rest of the roles (Sarge, best man duty; Jones, camera; Morita, keep the wine flowing; the rest of you, misbehave!) and in the blink of an eye, they were all going outside laughing under a light rain, and about to celebrate Steve’s fictional wedding to nobody.

“How could I be jealous?” Bucky cuts in. “Do you remember all you said to me that afternoon? During World War II and in front of a battalion of men?”

“I was drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Bucky disentangles his hand from Steve’s to use both of them to hold Steve’s face and kiss him with violence. “Tell me. Do you remember what you said?”

As if he could ever forget. He can recall every step he took from the house to the makeshift wedding spot amidst the trees where his best man (looking dapper even in that ludicrous jacket) was laughing along Dernier. He can still smell the petrichor, can still sense the blush coloring his cheeks while hoping nobody noticed and can still hear the beating of his heart when Bucky handed him a battered umbrella (“You don’t deserve to get rained on your wedding day, punk”) and a fucking ring made out his shoelaces (“You’ll have to buy something a little more permanent.”). And then…

“Dernier started the ceremony and he wanted to know if I had somebody in mind and I said ‘of course’.” He replays, his voice barely a whisper. “I said I’d had my eyes on a brown-haired Brooklynite since before I could remember. I said that I was pretty sure those blue eyes were set on mine too and that hopefully those eyes would be set enough to want to marry me even if I had never dared to ask.”

He’s been holding Bucky’s gaze the whole time, and he’s far from over yet, but he needs to fucking breathe before he goes on. Neither of them has moved a muscle for the past minute.

“Then he asked me to repeat the wedding vows after him and…”

“And you said Buck, right?”, Bucky interrupts, voice winded. “You fucking whispered I take you, Buck, as my lawful wedded husband till the end of the line. I heard, Steve. Even if the rest of the world didn’t, I did. But you never said anything, so I always deemed it impossible, a product of the corniest nook of my mind trying to outweigh all those bad things, because not even you could be as bold, reckless, and mushy as to do that,…it’s my fucking fault, I should have known better!”

“Not completely reckless, pal. I was scared shitless as I said those words, but what else could I do? You were right by my side about to put a ring on my finger as my “best man”, everyone, including you, supposedly drunk past recollection, and everybody else too far away to hear my whispers. It was such an easy choice in the end because truth should always win over fear. And those vows were. The truth.”

“You have always been too honest for your own good, Rogers,” Bucky is breathless and exasperated and goes for his mouth again, bringing in all he (they) couldn’t in 1944. “You destroyed me, Steve. My knees were as weak as a teenager’s in front of his first crush. I wanted to kiss you so badly when I heard you say all that there in the open… and I couldn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I know. And for what it's worth, I really thought you didn’t remember.”

It is too much. Is it normal to feel this much? Steve would blame it on the serum enhancements, but he was already overwhelmed at 16, so that’s clearly not the answer.

He craves, no, he needs touching, grounding, closer. Bucky. There’s too much space between them even if they are back to kissing like they would have that day in 44, and at any other time if their own lives wouldn’t have stolen those moments from them.

“It happened.” Bucky whimpers, biting on Steve’s lip who abandons his own stool to straddle him, both of them gasping in sync at the feeling of their cocks, hard against each other’s through their soft pants.

Bucky soon ups the stakes by carding his metal hand through Steve’s hair pulling his head backwards to help himself into that spot on his neck.

“Same two moles as when you were tiny, as when we were at that war... Your cute vampire bite. Favorite spot.” He licks on them with the tip of his tongue. Steve growls on cue and Bucky giggles. “Favorite chain reaction.”

“Buck, you cheater, you know what that does to me!” Steve cries out followed by Bucky’s evil chuckle.”Bed, couch, countertop,…I don’t care, but naked. Now. Stained pants due to heavy petting are too much of a trip down memory lane for me. Let me keep a bit of my dignity.”

Steve stands up liberating Bucky from his grip but aching at the loss of contact.

They are naked and making out in the middle of the kitchen in no time; Bucky steadily pushing him against the refrigerator while fiercely grinding against his crotch.

“Hey, ‘teve,” Bucky pants. “The way this is going, it’s my dignity now that's at risk. I don’t think I can make it further than the floor before I come.”

Steve groans into his mouth just at the thought and they start sliding to the floor the best they can until he’s a human blanket moving over Bucky. With no lube at hand, and no time, that’s their best option.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, his hands not leaving Bucky’s sweaty hair. Bucky’s hands on his ass, forcing their groins closer with one while he (almost absently) plays around his hole with the other, driving Steve crazy in the process. Dicks left to do their own thing through pressure and friction. Everything is working. And fast.

“Oh, fuck!” Bucky exclaims “Can you promise me all this stuff with the letter was real and not a long-con plan to assure your fragile masculinity that I love you more than I love that espresso machine?”

That. That silly unfunny excuse of a joke that screams Bucky all over is what pushes Steve all the way over the edge. He fucking laughs as he comes making absolutely embarrassing sounds, pressing their foreheads and noses together until it hurts, and shaking from head to toe without stoping his pressure on the stupid and smug man under him. His lover. His partner. His unofficial husband. His best friend.

His Buck.

“There’s still too much blood in your brain if you can play that dirty,” Steve states, placing one hand between them grabbing Bucky’s hard cock. “Let’s see if I can do anything about it.”

“Your hand, usually so helpful, but I was already following you after that sound you make when you come and laugh at the same time, shit, it always goes straight to my dick, I’m,…” he keeps talking with difficulty between breaths and moans until he leaves his speech unfinished coming all over Steve’s fist.

They kiss on the lips breathing into each other before Steve rolls over. They are sticky and panting in silence, spread on their kitchen’s floor, Steve’s shoulders crushed between Bucky’s and the dishwasher. Domestic bliss at its most literal.

One lavish fuck and two showers later they reemerge into the kitchen in search of something to eat: Bucky is in charge of the food today, while Steve cleans the mess they left a couple of hours ago.

He’s decluttering the counter when their damaged picture laying there puts a smile on his face but also reminds him of the restored version presumably still waiting inside the disregarded letter, so he grabs the envelope to retrieve its contents: one photocopy (from Dernier’s original writing), and the promised photo.

And it is restored. Everything is clear where it was blurry before: Dernier (so deep into his priest impersonation that he’s not even looking at them), the trees, the battered umbrella, the ridiculous jackets… and them.

“You had the nerve to call me reckless and mushy, Buck?” Steve laughs as he stares at the picture where a very young Bucky is about to put a ring on his finger with the least subtle lovestruck expression he’s ever seen (“and it’s for you”, his brain proudly reminds him) “Wow, you might as well be kissing me there, anything would be more subtle than this!”

“Don’t shame me, you punk, especially not when you were the one responsible for breaking my brain back then!” Bucky answers coming from behind and stealing the picture from his hands to scrutinize it. Goofy grin and raging blush quickly taking over his face. “But you’re one to talk, Cap. You are gazing at that shoelace’s ring as if I were handing you a diamond tiara!”

Steve laughs softly at that and moves his right hand to his pocket, feeling the weight of the little compass he had retrieved earlier from one of his drawers. He used to carry it with him everywhere for comfort, but he has a better option now.

“Didn't you know that shoelaces are forever?” He asks, taking the compass out of his pocket and holding it in both hands as he opens it, nudging Bucky with his elbow to get his attention.

Bucky is confused for an instant while he looks at his young face staring at them from inside the little box. Of course he knew that (he made fun of Steve for days and days) but Steve detects the change in his expression when he notices the other thing.

“Wow, you gigantic sap,” Bucky says, taking the compass out of his hands to double-check he is seeing what he thinks he’s seeing. “You saved my shoelace.”

He had. While they were all celebrating his wedding under the rain dancing to no music, he quietly slipped the little string off his finger and tied it to the most secure place he had back then.

“It’s not a shoelace, you jerk, it’s a symbol. A declaration.” He laughs, stealing the compass back to safely pocket it again.

“You are delusional,” Bucky snorts, kissing the top of his head. But he’s widely smiling and lost in thought as he goes back to their sandwiches.

Steve stays on the spot enjoying the peace in their silent companionship, his focus on the latest news showing up on his phone, the text he’s writing to Sam and the comforting sounds of Bucky moving around the kitchen.

“You might have married me, but I never actually married you.” Bucky blurts out of the blue a bit later, sitting by his side as he hands him a plate with a sandwich and some grilled greens on it. “Do you want mayo with that?”

“Uh?” Steve forgets all about the news and the text and looks at Bucky in confusion.

“Mayo, do you want some?” Bucky repeats nonchalantly.

“No mayo, thank you; but I was actually more interested in the other part, you know, that thing about marriage?”

Bucky looks him in the eye: earnest, blushing and with the same look of smug adoration he had on the picture.

“Oh, that part.” He jokes. “You apparently married me in 1944, but I never married you back. And I would like to.”

“Marry me?” Steve asks and Bucky visibly nods.

“I’m sorry for throwing the idea at you like this, books tell me I'm supposed to have candles, music, and a ring, but you showed me that restored picture and I couldn't stop thinking about it, about proof,” Bucky speaks uncharacteristically slow and very softly, voice trembling here and there while he claps his hand with Steve’s finger by finger for reassurance and as a distraction. “A single photo had the power to transform a moment that existed just as a made-up happy place inside my mind into something tangible and real. Something that would be tangible and real for anybody getting a hold on it and looking at our stupid faces.”

“So stealthy,” Steve says, and they both laugh together.

“Proof, Steve. I was slicing tomatoes and thinking how there’s so much evidence, thousands of files! out there proving that all the stuff that fuels my nightmares were real, but nothing solid about this. Us.” Bucky stops for a moment collecting his thoughts, still smiling even with the heavy subject he just dropped into the mix. “Sorry, I believe I put more time into these sandwiches than into thinking this all the way through so I’m…”

“Take your time, we’ve gone from mayo to marriage to nightmares in five minutes so don’t worry, you have me hooked here.”

Steve makes Bucky laugh again as he intended, and he feels their calloused laced fingers immediately squeezing closer.

“It’s stupid because it doesn’t change anything for us but,.. I don’t fucking know, Steve, I think that picture has messed up with my mind! I instantly found comfort in the idea of people finding facts beyond the nightmares now or in the future. An easy to understand, universal and oversimplified proof of how much I loved you and how much I was loved in return.” Bucky takes a breath and stares at him sporting a million-watt smile. “Marrying you,… I would really love that. And for real this time.”

“Ok, Buck.” Steve instantly replies, eagerness winning over thoughtful and heartfelt declarations. He tightens the grip on their joined hands to drive them to his lips and seals the easiest answer he’s ever had to give.

And it's done!Sorry for the cavities, for going on with the fic when it should have ended and for ending it where it might have had to keep going. It was painful and fun. I'm free!

[ad1thi]

2020 fic recs!! [Part 2]

part 2 of my 2020 fic recs!! as before, ive limited this to five fics per month; and fics are ordered by the month they were published. This spans fandoms and ships, and hopefully you find something you like!! credit for the idea goes to @iam93percentstardust

***

July

this is the start: @capnwinghead

Clark and Bruce continue raising the Wayne children and encounter a number of challenges along the way.

great minds (love alike): @starklysteve

Steve’s eyes flicks down to Tony’s knees on the floor.

“Are you – are you proposing to me with my ring for you?” Steve asks incredulously, eyes wide and confused.

---

Or, Steve finds Tony’s ring for him, Tony finds Steve’s ring for him. Panic happens.

Marvels Unsolved: @iam93percentstardust

Marvels Unsolved was never supposed to be this popular. It started off as a novelty web-series about Tony trying to convince Bucky about the existence of the supernatural—he firmly believed that if science could turn Uncle Steve from an actual shrimp to the god of muscles, then magic had to be out there—and then they’d started talking about an unsolved crime from the early 20th century after filming an episode one day, forgetting that the camera was still rolling, and had ended up with enough footage to make a second episode about real crimes. They had stayed pretty unknown throughout that first season but then true crime podcasts had exploded in popularity and Unsolved along with them.

it’s a small world after all: @maguna-stxrk

“Great speech.”

Smiling at the compliment, Tony turns around. “Thank y—”

And nearly drops his champagne flute.

His world comes to a stop.

They had only spent a night together, but Tony would recognize those baby blues anywhere.

It’s Steve.

Steve from Tony’s London business trip. Or, as Rhodey has become accustomed to calling him—The Soulmate That Got Away.

you’re in my blood, you’re in my veins: @nethandrake

Tony always figured that if they ever were to break up, it would be like a blaze. Scorching and hot and all-too blinding. Intense like the two of them have always been.

Instead, they break up on a Tuesday, with the rain pelting the windowpane and the midnight silence stifling.

August

Five Times Danny said he’d marry Steve (plus one): @five-wow

Danny humphs. “Look, all I’m saying is, I think I’d probably have married you by now.”

“I’d marry you, too,” Steve says.

Or: An experiment in how many times you can say something before you have to put your money where your mouth is.

Family (You’ve Always Had It): @/SunnyQueen

A black Camaro and a scowling blond was not what Junior had been expecting.

“Hi, sir. You didn’t have to pick me up.”

The blond looked up from the screen on his phone and groaned, completely ignoring Junior's statement. “You are right, I didn't have to."

Ode To Yoga Pants: @riotfalling

OR the continued terrible mating dance of Bucky and Tony, AKA when betting on your friends stops being fun

Through The Years: @hawkbucks

Tony brings home Natasha one day, proclaiming her to be his new sister.

Natasha takes this all in stride.

The broken road that led me home to you: @just-fandomthings

A documented list of conversations between Steve and Danny via text and phone call following the events of 10x22 "Aloha." (Where, even thousands of miles apart, Steve and Danny can't go without talking to each other.)

September

someday, we’ll pass it on to you: @starklysteve

Steve smiles.

Reaching up, he flattens his hand against his son’s far smaller one, curling gently around it. “You wanna be like him?”

“Da!” Peter agrees again.

One year old, and you already know who’s the best of us, Steve pauses to reflect, all his fears chased away by a fierce pride. “Your Dad’s coming home real soon,” he promises, “you should tell him that.”

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

Or, five times Peter did the repulsor pose as a toddler

+ one time he used the repulsors as an adult

Classic Sci Fi: @notdoingsohot

Bucky wakes up to Steve telling him he's lost his memory, but not to panic, it'll only last a few days. Easier said than done when the last thing Bucky remembers is fighting Hydra with the Howlies in WWII.

He tries to make the most of it however, and there's this guy... Tony Stark. It's pretty clear the guy hates Bucky's guts, which is unfortunate because god damn is he a sight.

He tries to figure out what he did to wrong Stark, but everyone just tells him he doesn't want to know.

They were right.

Blooms in Frost: @/Diomedes

Tony coughs up his first petal on the sixth of July. He has been married to the love of his life for two years.

Bury a Hanahaki corpse in earth and it will beget the most beautiful garden. All that love, it is said, must go somewhere.

Hanahaki AU: Established relationship

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

A Single Thread of Gold: @lovelyirony

Rhodey doesn't believe in love at first sight or any of that cheesy shit. He just wants someone who is nice, dependable, and safe.

Tony Stark is Housing Service's little problem for the school year, and now he's stuck in Rhodey's room because he's exploded the last two dorm rooms he's been in and won't live off-campus.

high roller, place your bet: @machi-kun

“Would you kiss Stark for a hundred bucks?”

“I would pay a hundred bucks to kiss him.”

October

press my luck: @omg-just-peachy

But... Steve is almost ten years his junior, and he could be with just about anyone, looking and acting like he does. And then there’s the not so small fact of Tony’s name and net worth and the fact that, okay, Tony had paid for Steve’s grad school tuition, and now he’s worried Steve feels obligated to stay. Or something.

Or, Tony is a billionaire, Steve is a grad student, and they learn to let themselves be taken care of.

see it with the lights out: @starklysteve

Tony goes on a business trip, and he does not - not at all - get jealous of Dodger hogging his husband's chest, a territory otherwise known as Tony's pillow.

(or, Steve goes on an Instagram spree and Tony misses home)

adulthood is looking both ways before you cross the street and getting hit by an airplane: @starkslovemail

It was a perfect plan, if Peter did say so himself.

The Buy In: @dracusfyre

For the ImagineTonyandBucky prompt: Mafia AU with Tony as the Boss (except he's a really good one, making the streets safe, keeping drugs away from kids etc) and Bucky as the detective sent to go undercover to catch him out but ends up realizing he's actually doing more good than harm and they end up falling in love

trinkets of your affection: @starklysteve

Kissed him once for every year I loved him, Steve had written.

By that count, Steve owes him five more kisses now.

Tony traces the words, hands trembling, and tips back a shot of Howard's ancient whiskey. None of it burns anymore.

One day, he'll have lived more days without Steve than there are words in the diary.

For the first time since he'd woken with shrapnel in his chest, Tony fears the future.

----------

Or, five things Tony keeps to remember Steve by, and one thing Steve gives him to remember.

November

“Hey Tony”: @riotfalling

Steve points out that Bucky never calls Tony by his actual name. Bucky doesn’t believe him, until he does.

Remembering You is Hard to Do: @lovelyirony

“The future’s crazy, honey-bear.”

Jim looks up.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Honey-bear. It’s weird.”

“Inside joke we have,” Tony says, chest tightening. “We thought those couples that have the lovey-dovey nicknames were ridiculous.”

overheard your heartbeat (calling me yours): @starklysteve

"Tony - "

"I wish I could promise to come home this time," he feels the armor crawl back down his arm, continuing unnoticed over Steve's red gloves, then up the blue uniform as Tony fights to keep Steve's gaze firmly fixed on him.

The last eyes Tony might get to see, and he wants to be lost in them.

In the end, his entire life boils down a few simple things: "JARVIS, take care of him for me."

----------

Or, Tony overhears a phonecall where Steve proposes, a battle happens, and a paper ring settles some misunderstandings.

i (really, really, really, really, really, really) like you.: @nethandrake

For as long as Steve can remember, he's been crushing on Tony Stark. The thing is, he's pretty sure Tony doesn't know Steve exists. And how could he? Steve's scrawny and little. He's a nobody compared to Tony who's Mr Popular and the son of a billionaire.

Or at least he thought so until Tony swings by the bakery Steve's mother happens to own to enlist Steve's help in finding the perfect Valentine's Day card.

The perfect Valentine's Day card for someone who isn't Steve.

One Song (My Heart Keeps Singing): @iam93percentstardust

When Thor is old enough to understand what a Heartsong is, he goes to his mother to ask her why he can’t understand the language his is in. He listens as she tells him about the first soulmates who couldn't understand their Heartsong until the day they meet, excited by the thought of a grand adventure, one that will take him across the cosmos in search of his One.

He’ll search all the Nine Realms if he has to.

December

Swiping Right: @s-horne

“Ouch. Definitely a hard pass for that one?”

Steve startled at the sudden comment from the row of chairs behind him and turned around. He’d been passing the time in the airport lounge by swiping through Tinder and had gotten lost in his own world. It was almost jarring to be pulled away from the screen of hot men and back into reality where the PA was screeching and there was noise everywhere.

Adjusting to the difference, Steve frowned. Wait, he knew that face. Oh, shit… he knew that face.

“No, no, it’s fine,” the man said before Steve could get out anything other than an embarrassed sort of yelp. Waving his hand through the air, the stranger smiled ruefully. “I get it. It’s the beard, isn’t it? True be told, it was a weird winter choice that year and I knew it would come back to hurt me.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew it must have shown on his face and could feel himself flushing, panicked and embarrassed all at once. What were the odds of swiping left on someone literally sat behind him?

set your flight path home (to me): @starklysteve 

Tony puts down his welding torch. “I’m building you a plane.”

Stepping carefully over the gears and tools scattered about, Rhodey slowly makes his way to him.

“And when did you become an expert on how to build a plane?”

“Last night,” Tony grins.

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

Tony builds a plane, and Rhodey teaches Tony how to fly it. Or he would be teaching Tony, if Tony didn't distract him so much.

I Want A Man With A Slow Hand: @thefourofswords

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked on their way to a crime scene, because no time like the present, and Danny believed in ripping off band-aids.

“Why not?” Steve replied, eyes on the road. “You’re gonna even if I say no.”

“What do you like in bed?”

*

Danny undertakes a very important mission to get Steve laid. For his health. Ahem.

same time next year: @omg-just-peachy

“I forgot to ask. When’s your flight home?” Steve asks, draping his arm over Tony’s shoulder and settling in against him.

Tony ignores the knot that forms in his chest at the idea of it, leaving Steve again for his own impersonal apartment, his piles of books and projects and the nights without sleep.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Steve huffs a little sigh, then brings his lips to Tony’s neck. “Well, we’ll have to make the most of it, won’t we?”

Or, four (4) Christmases with two (2) idiots who can't admit they're in love.

rearrange my heart (to fit your smile): @starklysteve

"You dare," Howard's chair makes an ugly noise as it scrapes against the stone floors, the chatter of the room shifting into hushed whispers and stolen glances. "I am your father and your King!"

"My King is my husband," Tony tips his chin up, defiant. "And I refuse to hear you suggest that my husband has been anything other than good to me."

Next to him, he feels Steve's shoulders stiffen in surprise.

Howard's fist slams loud on the table. "Your husband does not even love you!"

Tony jerks back, burned. He knows that. Knows that Steve did not marry him for love – does not need any reminder of the cold truth, of what he desperately yearns for and can't even hope to have – but the harshness of Howard's words was scalding, and Tony can't afford for this to go any further.

----------

Or, King Steven marries Prince Tony, Tony is pretty sure he shouldn't panic when he falls in love with his own husband, and Steve tries his very best not to cause diplomatic crises.

Keyword: try

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//kiss kiss fall in love. oikawa tooru//

Request: Oh my GOD kiss kiss fall in love I WANT TO SEE AN ACTUAL FIC but even the summary was SO GOOD HFUAEILWfdbj

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.6K

Notes: all the consensual kisses in this are v sexc bye

September 13, 2006.

Age 12.

“Did you hear that Kaori and Iwaizumi kissed?”

Your head snapped away from the court below to look at the boy next to you on the bleachers.  He sounded so nonchalant about the whole thing as if he hadn’t just shared some incredibly hot middle school news.

“Really?” You ask.

He nods quickly, wide brown eyes following the ball as the high school students from Aoba Johsai squared off against a lesser opponent in this round of the tournament.  

First kisses had been the talk of the grade lately.  Who was having their first kiss with who?  What was it like?  Are they dating now?  But as all of your other friends finally took that plunge, washing away any childishness as they indulged in their first big kid activity, you and Tooru had been left in the dust.  Your other classmates would be sharing the stories of how it happened and who it was with and when asked about yours, all you could do was look towards your feet and shake your head, telling them that you hadn’t had your first kiss yet.  They would all get a sad look in their eyes, but they would pat you on the back, repeating that phrase that you had heard ever since this all had started.  “It’ll happen eventually.” 

There was an unwavering pressure being placed on you from your classmates and Tooru had felt it bearing down on his shoulders too.  Out of your group of friends, you two were the only ones who hadn’t had their first kiss, but there just wasn’t anyone that you wanted to share that important rite of passage with.  Even still, you just wanted to get it out of the way.  You just wanted to be able to say that you had finally had your first kiss.  

“You know, I don’t understand why everyone is so obsessed with this first kiss thing,” Oikawa says.  “It's just a kiss.  It’s not that big of a deal.  Older people do it all of the time, so it’s obviously not super important.”

You just shrug in your seat next to him.  “I think it’s because it’s the first one, you know?  Like, the first time you got to play in a game was a big deal, because it was the first time.  It’s something that you remember.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”  He was trying to play it cool, act like it wasn’t bothering him, but the slowly quickening bounce to his leg was telling you otherwise.  He had long since stuffed his hands in the pockets of his Kitagawa training jacket and he was awkwardly biting the inside of his cheek.  As much as Tooru hated to admit that he cared about something as silly as a kiss, he couldn’t help but feel left out as now even his best friend had left him behind in the dust. 

You weren’t sure what shocked you more about the moment to come.  Was it his words?  Or was it the fact that Oikawa Tooru actually looked away from a volleyball game?  

“We could kiss.”

You were taken aback, eyes wide as you stared at him.  “What?”

“If we kissed, we could just get it over with.”

“Won’t that be kind of weird?  I mean, Tooru, we’re friends!”

He simply shrugged his shoulders again.  “Then let’s not make it weird.”

You take a shaky breath and nod.  “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.  Okay.  Let’s kiss.”

Tooru nodded as he scooted closer to you.  He could feel his face burning with the heat of embarrassment and the way his heart pounded in his chest was surely loud enough for you to notice.  “So, do I just-?” He placed his hands on your cheeks abruptly, making the moment significantly less romantic than you ever thought it would be as your skin stung from the not-so-delicate contact.  He started to lean in, but he stopped right before he was close enough to place his lips against yours.  “You’re sure about this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

And without any more need for reassurance, it happened.  Oikawa Tooru stole your first kiss and you took his.  You didn’t expect his lips to be as warm as they were, nor did you expect to like the way his hands felt against your face.

But as soon as it began, it was over and Tooru awkwardly slid away from you, his eyes immediately returning to the volleyball game at hand.  If it weren’t for the intense redness that was creeping up his cheeks, you’d be convinced that it was all just in your imagination.  

“That was nice,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers brushed over your lips, feeling the place that he had been just moments ago.  Your voice was as small as his as you let out a simple, “Yeah.”

March 24, 2011.

Age 17.

It was supposed to be fun.

They told you that this would be fun

This was not fun.

Being surrounded by your classmates, faces full of make-up and hair still expertly done from your time at the school dance, was the last thing that you wanted to do.  You just wanted to get a cheeseburger and go home, but no.  That would’ve been too easy.  That would’ve been no fun.  Tooru didn’t have to beg too much to get you to cave.  After years of friendship, he knew you better than he knew himself.  He knew how to make you melt, how to get you wrapped around his finger to do what he wanted.  His secret weapon was never used for more than asking you to buy his lunch when he forgot his wallet or asking you to stop by his house on your way to school to grab some homework he forgot, that is- 

Until now.  

You had been roped into the teenage favorite: truth or dare.  Tooru had shown you those puppy eyes, pleading with you to play.  “Just one round.  Come on.  It’ll be fun.”

And that was all it took for you to take a spot on the floor next to your childhood friend, cups of an undisclosed beverage in your hands.  His free hand found a comforting spot on your knee, a small attempt to help calm your nerves, but to no avail.  Even his soothing, “You’ll be okay” wasn’t enough.  

The turns bounced from person to person.  Tooru had to try to do a backflip.  Mattsun was left singing Disney love songs to Hanamaki.  Iwaizumi, who knew better than to pick dare, had to share his most embarrassing story about himself.  Some girl had to share the last time she cried (it had been earlier that day as she got ready for the dance).  But, when she pointed at you and asked that fateful question, you stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Y/N, truth or dare?”

You knew better.  You swear you did.  But, the “dare” just passed from your lips too easily and there was no going back.  You had signed away your fate and would ever remember whatever social torture they were going to put you through.  

“I dare you to make out with someone in the circle.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little much?” Oikawa pipes up.  

“If Y/N doesn’t want to do the dare, then that drink needs to be finished,” the girl states simply, pointing towards your cup.

“Tooru, it’s not that big of a deal.  It’s just a kiss,” you say, trying your best to hide the nervous shake in your voice.  

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he whispers, but when you just shake your head, nudging your knee against his, his stern expression shifts into one that’s more shocked at what you seem to be insinuating.  “Are you sure?”

“If you’re okay with it, yeah.”

It would be easy.  It’s not like you haven’t kissed him before.  Sure, that was five years ago, but the two of you were able to kiss then without anything becoming awkward, surely you could manage it again.

But, his hand felt so warm as it slid to the back of your neck, his other hand resting on your knee to brace himself.  His eyes flitted down towards your lips and you could see him swallow hard before closing the gap between you.  He let your hands settle on his chest, feeling the muscles that had formed from so many years of rigorous volleyball training under the thin material of his shirt.  It was weird to feel his tongue slipping past your lips to further deepen the kiss, but for some reason, you found yourself not minding having his lips pressed firmly to yours.  If anything, it felt natural, like that’s exactly where they belonged.  

And then, Tooru slowly pulled back from you, wiping the small string of spit from his chin.  Just as soon as you were starting to enjoy kissing him, it was all over and you were both left to just sit back awkwardly in your spots as if you weren’t riddled with embarrassment that an entire room of people just watched you make out with Oikawa Tooru. 

March 28, 2011.

Age 17.

The kiss wasn’t meant to change anything.  You should’ve been able to walk into school that following week and go about your usual business, laughing and chatting along with the others in your friend group.  But, as soon as you took your seat at the lunch table, Tooru started packing up his things, telling everyone that he had to go finish a test during lunch.  You should’ve been able to hold a conversation with Oikawa that lasted more than thirty seconds because he said that he had somewhere else that he needed to be.  And maybe he did have to be at all of the places he said he did, but his unwillingness to be anywhere near you had started to gnaw away at your mind.  Had the kiss really been that bad?  Why did he seem so embarrassed to even be around you?

You held his jacket tightly in your arms.  He had loaned it to you after the party as the night air had grown chilly and as you stepped into the gymnasium after school every pair of eyes were on you.  All except one.  

Tooru’s head was trained forward, focusing on the ball in his hand as he warmed up.  It was as if he didn’t even notice you were there and if he did, he sure didn’t seem to care all that much.  At least, not until Iwaizumi landed a swift kick to his backside, eliciting a tiny yelp from the setter as his brows furrowed tightly.  With the ace pointing a firm finger in your direction, Tooru raised his hand up in greeting as he walked towards you.

As cool as he tried to look, he was sure that you could notice the slight tremble in his hands or even the soft pink that tinged the tips of his ears.  His radiant smile stretched across his face as he took his jacket out of your arms.  “Thank you.  I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N,” he stated plainly, trying to turn around before you could say anything further to him, but your fingers gripping the tail of his shirt brought him to a quick halt.  

“Tooru.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

He tilted his head, a bemused look on his face.  “Why would I do something like that?”

“You tell me.  This is the longest conversation we’ve had since Saturday,” you say.

“I’ve just been busy, Y/N.”

“So this isn’t about-”

You’re cut off by his bright laughter tinkling in your ears.  “About the kiss?  No, Y/N.  You said it yourself.  It’s just a kiss.”  He smiled softly, giving a gentle pat to the top of your head before turning fully away to return to his teammates.  

Maybe it was just your imagination, but there was a hint of sadness in his final words that matched the almost pained smile that was burned into your memory.  But, there was nothing further that you could do.  He had walked away from you without another word of explanation and your only option was to turn and walk away yourself.  

March 30, 2011.

Age 17.

can we talk?

That’s all it had said.  There was no note as to what was needed to be discussed, just a simple question that bore the weight of the world in three short words. It had all of the anxieties bubbling in your chest as you stared down at the notification that was attached to his name.  Was this it?  Was Oikawa Tooru finally going to tell you that things had just gotten too awkward after that kiss and that it would just be better for the two of you to stop being friends?  

Yeah

Your fingers reluctantly tapped at the letters on your phone, watching as the little bubble showed up on your screen with the three dots to show that he was typing out his response.  

i’ll be over in 5

You wanted to object.  You wanted to ask if he could just text you or if this could be settled over a phone call.  The moonlight filtering through your window gave you a decent enough indicator that it was much too late for you to be slipping out of the house to have a secret rendezvous with Tooru just so he could friend-break up with you.  But, after all of these years, you knew that it would be hopeless to say anything in an attempt to convince him otherwise.  His mind was made up and you were almost certain that he was already leaving his house before you even had the chance to answer his initial text.  

But it was out in the inky blackness where the stars sparkled like infinite fairies dancing in the sky, Tooru stood waiting, his arms huddled tightly against his form in an attempt to find warmth in the chilly March night.  Yet, when he saw you approaching him, it was like every bit of cold jumped from his body as happiness warmed his body, a smile stretching over his lips.  

There was something about the solitude of the night that had sprung a new confidence into him.  Here, in the silence, with only the moon as a witness, there was almost nothing holding him back.  Even the unamusement that was etched over your features wasn’t enough to shake him. 

You tweaked an eyebrow at him, a sigh leaving your lips as you just stared at him.  “So?”

Oikawa Tooru’s lips had been against yours three times now.  Each one before had been nothing in comparison to the emotion that he poured into this one.  His hands had found their place on your cheeks, the warmth of your own clinging onto his wrists as if to ground yourself to reality.  It was a kiss that said everything that he had been wanting to tell you, but was too nervous to put into words.  A wordless “I love you”  had melted so seamlessly into the slow movements of his mouth, washing away all of the worries that had been plaguing your mind.  

You could still feel his warm breath against you as he pulled away slightly, eyes slightly lidded as a content expression fell over him.  

“Maybe it wasn’t so much something that I wanted to tell you, but rather something that I wanted to do.”

{Taglist: @moncymonce​ @nicka-nell​ @celosiiaa​ - bonus points to alex for being my beta 😭}

[andawaywego]

Would you mind writing a fic or ficlet about dani x jamie wedding? Your recent atonement au was brilliant✌🏾👏🏾

don’t mind if i do! thank you so much, as well. i really, really hope you like this. it should be noted that it takes place in an AU where everything is the same, save for Dani’s sacrifice.

..

It’s a Tuesday when the news breaks. Dani is going through their mail in the back office, flipping through the junk mail and weekly savings coupons, and she pauses when she gets to the newspaper. Unfolds it carefully on the desk in front of the desktop. Blinks down at it thoughtfully.

“Huh,” she breathes, reading over the headline—bold, black letters saying words she’d never actually thought she would read.

It’s not that she hadn’t known—or even been a part—of the fight against the laws and the courts keeping so many people apart from one another. People like her and Jamie, like some of their friends, like everyone in the pulsing crowd parading across Burlington every June. There’s a ring on her finger, yes. One that’s been there for the last seventeen years, and a bundle of documents tucked in their safe at home declaring their civil union but…

Huh.

In a sort of dreamy daze, Dani gets to her feet, tucking the newspaper under her arm, and goes out into the shop. Jamie is sitting in the chair by the window, a book open on her lap. They’ve only been open for an hour and, with all their orders filled for the week, there’s precious little to do but sit around and enjoy the sunny September day. 

There’s no reason to be nervous, not really, but the sight of Jamie has never failed to make Dani’s heart sing in tone and pitch too fevered to make her feel anything less than woefully in love. Even twenty-three years later. 

Dani bites her lip and drifts over, closer, toying with her necklace—diamond, in the shape of an infinity symbol, the bottom shaped with the same hands, crown, and heart that adorn the ring on her left finger. A ten-year anniversary present that she’s worn every day for the last thirteen years.

Jamie looks up as she gets nearer, her smile as dazzling as the light shimmering on her graying hair, pulled away from her face for the day. She looks a little confused, and Dani knows it’s because they know one another far too well. There isn’t any way that Jamie can’t read her body language or read what is likely a very anxious expression on her face.

“Hey,” Dani greets, trying to sound collected. “Um…”

Jamie closes her book and frowns. “You alright?” she asks, always so concerned. So ready to jump to Dani’s defense.

Dani nods. “Yes. Perfect, actually, I just wanted to…” She trails off. Thinks it over. Finally, she says, “I know I’ve already...done this, but…” and then she gently lowers herself to one knee, setting the newspaper down on the ground so she can grab Jamie’s hands in her own.

“Dani, what are you—?” Jamie begins, but Dani cuts her off.

Says, “Jay, will you marry me?”

A sputtered laugh is the first response she gets. Then a, “We’re already—”

But Dani shakes her head. “No, I mean...I know we are, but...Would you want to...do it legally?”

“Legally?” Jamie asks, dumfounded.

Dani pulls one of her hands away from Jamie’s and picks up the newspaper, handing it over. She watches as Jamie opens it and looks it over, silent for what seems like forever. And then she looks up, all watery eyes and tearful smile and nods, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth crinkling in that beautiful way they do.

In an instant, she’s out of her chair and kneeling on the floor, too. She wraps her arms around Dani’s neck, trembling in her arms as she tucks her face into Dani’s shoulder. She can feel the warmth of Jamie’s tears as they land on her neck and slip down her skin and into the fabric of her blouse. 

“Is that a yes or…?” she jokes and Jamie pulls away, clutching her close the way she did all those years ago with that first proposal, standing there in the kitchen as the world shifted beneath their feet.

“It’s a yes,” Jamie says. “Of course it’s a yes.” She leans in and presses a quick kiss to Dani’s mouth. “That good enough for you?”

Dani gives a breathy laugh, cupping Jamie’s face and brushing away some of her tears. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s enough for me.”

They stay there together, kneeling on the floor, for a long while—hugging and kissing and marveling at the distance they’ve crossed together over the years. The life they’ve built. 

_________

There’s an inn in Warren, just an hour away, that they decide on and Henry flies in from California. Owen flies in from Paris. Flora, expecting her second child, sends her congratulations via her uncle and Miles calls them both from Los Angeles. Their most important friends make the drive, but the only real thing that matters is this:

Their fourteen-year-old daughter, Jack, serving as Maid of Honor to them both. 

She insists on wearing an old dress of Dani’s, the one—she’s told—her mother wore that afternoon three years before she was born when she proposed. When her other mother said yes. It’s a little big on her, still growing and just as scrawny as Jamie, but she doesn’t stop grinning the whole time. Doesn’t stop sweeping in to hug her parents, squeeze them tightly and happily.

There are some traditions they allow for. Others that they break. They refuse to spend the night before apart, because they’ve been married, really, for so long already. There’s hardly a point to willful separation. The ceremony is just that: a ceremony. A chance to do things they hadn’t had the option to do almost two decades before. And, importantly, it’s for the legal document they’ll sign at the end, that they’ll file and keep a copy of and have for the rest of their lives.

Dani buys an actual wedding dress for the occasion, wanting to take advantage of the opportunity to have the real wedding they’ve been denied so far. And even though Jamie had been there when she’d picked it out, tried it on, and bought it, the sight of Dani wearing it as she comes down the aisle on Jack’s arm is almost too much for her to take.

When they’re standing there in front of the white arch covered with flowers they’d both picked out together—in front of the officiant and their daughter and their friends—Dani smiles, trying not to cry and says, “I love you.”

The ceremony hasn’t even really started yet, but already Owen is dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, Henry is giving them a proud, beaming smile, and their daughter—

And Jack is sitting in the front row crying and smiling and holding Owen’s hands, watching her mothers as they are finally, finally given this simple, monumental privilege.

The cool, October breeze whispers through Jamie’s graying hair and she’s still the most beautiful thing Dani has ever seen. 

“I love you, too,” she says. “Now shut up and marry me already, will ya’?”

..

[fangirlyah]

✦ just an arrangement - Draco Malfoy x Reader (part 1)

summary: the return to the school year with the dark mark is hard enough, but now they must fulfill a more intimate request or they expect a happily ever after with an old death eater.

warnings: none

word count: 1,950

a/n: i’m pretty excited about this so i hope u like it. if u wanna be part of my (still non-existent) tag list for this fic, just tell me :)

a starry night full of light illuminated the sky.  very different from the humor y/n was holding. 

she saw herself in the mirror, immersed in constant pain, both physical and emotional. her arm, freshly marked by the dark lord, felt almost on fire, stitches and burns that were almost impossible to hold. thanks to her childhood surrounded by darkness due to the alliances of her families, she herself already knew how to create her own healing potions that sootheed her wounds for at least a while.  

she was only sixteen, but had a higher weight on her back than any teenager. she was not the only one, her classmate, draco malfoy, had and was suffering a life very similar to hers.  but he wasn't very good at hiding it, his thinner body and marked dark circles revealed his stress. but y/n was always a better actress, no one had ever seen the bruises on her arms, nor had she been seen decaying. on the contrary she was known for being one of the sweetest and most positive people with every hogwarts student. thing that put his hair on end, ‘how could she be so calm with everything that was going on?’ she knew a war was coming but he always saw her smiling sweetly at every person who crossed her path. how many times had he smiled that sixth year of hogwarts? maybe not one. 

but as he noticed her big white smiles, she noticed the lack of his. she knew what he was going through, his task was very complicated and terrifying, y/n had been lucky enough to be out of the instant murder of her own headmaster, but she had to be in charge of repairing the vanishing cabinet. 

they were not friends or anything close to the word, they were acquaintanced despite the number of encounters they had during the months, due to the similar connection of their parents. both only children, completely alone on their way to giving their full life to who-must-not-be-named. y/n did not want to be alone, since she was a child, she had tried to approach the blonde and become his friend, but he did not acknowledge receipt. 

"hello, draco! my house elf made pumpkin pie, would you like a piece?" a small y/n took small leaps in her freshly ironed dark blue dress.

"I'd rather die than try something of yours," an eleven-year-old draco disgustingly expressed to the girl who was just looking for his sympathy. 

a sympathy that, despite the passage of the years, she had never found. y/n had stopped trying, had stopped fraternizing with draco in the fourth year, when she had slightly begun to develop a crush on him. and she was, and is, smart enough to know that if her hormonal heart kept hearing his wretched words, she would have an almost irreparable broken heart. but it didn't work, because even though he ignored her, she couldn't get him out of her mind. and seeing him at least twice a month at her home, dressed in his pristine suit and his fine hair combed did not help. 

"y/n since when is your roasted chicken more important than good gossip?" millicent spoke with her mouth full of crushed potatoes, spitting slightly. 

"since always, millie" y/n was not at a time in her life where an adolescent gossip filled all her senses. 

"you're very boring... so, it turns out ginevra weasley is in love with potter!" 

"I'm not at all surprised, weirdos like weirdos" pansy parkinson, despite the years that elapsed, did not seem to forget her hatred of gryffindor and everything related to it, especially the golden trio and its own close ones. 

it was a Friday night and despite the icy weather and sun falling much earlier, the great hall was full of students enjoying their dinners. at the slytherin table there were most students, but there wasn't any sign of draco malfoy... but she spoke very quickly. 

"get up" a big, cold hand, adorned with silver rings and emeralds that stood out on his pale skin, grabbed y/n by the arm and pulled her with intent to lift her out of the seat. 

"sorry?" she looked up to see the blonde with a serious countenance, staring at her. 

"hey, we're talking you can't take her that way!" spoke one of her friends but it was too late, y/n was already standing on draco’s side, who kept holding her arm tightly. 

"shut your mouth, bulstrode" and with that, draco began to walk quickly without looking back, which she thanked as he would not see her in a hurry and almost stepping on her own feet. 

arriving on the seventh floor, finally, a large door suddenly appeared on a white wall, capturing the complete attention of y/n. draco did not hesitate and submerged them both inside the unknown room which turned out to be too small for its immense door. 

'the room of requirement' thought y/n immediately, but why did it appear before them? she wondered. 

it was the first time y/n and draco had crossed word for at least five months, since the first time they both attended a death eaters meeting as official members. she still remembers how her body trembled and as his did too, but the firm hand of lucius on his back almost held him in his place. she also recalls that their seats were facing each other, and that she saw him swallow heavily when, after the meeting, he saw the girl accidentally shed a salty tear. 

"may I ask you what we are doing here?" y/n’s voice sounded shy and calm despite having draco in front of her swinging from one place to the other, regardless of the small space. he did not speak and it had been more than five minutes that they were inside the room and the idea of leaving had crossed y/n’s thoughts, but she knew what he was going through, so she decided to wait. 

"you're my girlfriend now..." draco's body stood violently in front of her, leaving a reasonable distance. he didn't look her in the eye, but she knew he was serious.

"what the-... what?" 

"we have to be together, the dark lord wants it so" 

"since when?..." the confusion took over her body, even though her heart was screaming, 'your crush is telling you to be together, shut up and accept!' but it wasn't that simple. 

"in less than six months we will both be seventeen, your parents and mine were married at that age, and they were all already death eaters..."

"it's our turn" y/n thought out loud.

"we must not marry, just... be together...as a couple or we'll be paired with other death eater who's at least fifteen years older and I think we both know that's not a reasonable choice"

"I understand..." it was something they should do sooner or later, then they could split up and submit to some other arranged marriage. but at the moment they were both the best choice of the other. "let's do it" 

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

the idea of pretending to be a couple began to really settle in y/n’s head a week of the event, when draco rested his hands on her shoulders unexpectedly on a sunday for breakfast time. she wanted to bewitch herself when she felt the butterflies she hated so much flowering. those butterflies provoked by him, which she had sworn to bury years ago and which she had clearly failed to achieve. 

her friends’ faces were transformed to the sudden change in the attitude of the prince of slytherin. they all noticed that they both slipped away from classes and most social situations over the weeks. but, they would never have assumed they were going away to be together, they were right. they used to escape because of the tasks indicated by who-must-not-be-named or because the terror and darkness had suddenly consumed them. 

then the weeks passed and their interactions increased, because they had to increase if they wanted to make it believable. 

the arrangement had begun in august and by that month, their only contact was some rubbing of hands in potions or small glances in the great hall, which however minuscule they were, they both knew that they should be noticed. 

"you're doing it wrong!-emm...I think you're putting more ingredients than the necessary, y/n" sometimes she wanted her fake boyfriend to be a better actor, his voice changes were notorious, but at least that day they were lucky to be sitting with crabbe and goyle so none of them noticed his weird voice changes, and if they did, they wouldn't have the braveness to ask. 

"I've made this potion multiple times, draco. to make it perfect a few drops of agrippa are never too much" the blonde’s ears were still surprised to hear his name, his actual name and not malfoy, come out of y/n’s mouth. despite his attitude towards her, which had not changed since the age of eleven, she continued to treat him delicately. 

"you've done this multiple times? this is the first time we are learning potions to close wounds" the last thing he wanted was to make the cute girl uncomfortable, it wouldn't show a good image for their relationship.

"I'm only curious when it comes to potions" but y/n answered with immediate discomfort, much to the chagrin of draco. 

by september, their hands were already united from class to class and their bodies were sitting together in the great hall for almost every meal, all of this causing a lot of whispers.

"your hand is sweaty" whispered draco in his ear, as they traversed long meadows to hagrid’s hut.

"sorry... is that everyone is looking at us and it's making me nervous" she wasn't used to being the center of attention, unlike him. 

"just... focus on me" draco gave a squeeze to her hand, making y/n think that, finally, the boy had given in to acting cordial in their false relationship. but his phrase wasn't over, "you must do well, I won't let you ruin this."

with that said, y/n focused her thoughts on draco. how he was holding her hand, how she had imagined this so many times and how he seemed unbothered by it. but he wasn't feeling like that.

it was only in october that they first had a meeting alone, only the two of them, with no audience present. 

y/n was on a sofa, very close to a large window pointing to the big forests surrounding hogwarts, in the common room. it was the early hours of the morning so the sun was orange painting the sky as if it were its own canvas, lighting everything around it, including y/n. her hard-covered book was on her lap and she moved it so gently that it seemed that her fingers floated. for draco's eyes it was something new. with semi-swollen eyes, a morning voice but perfectly clothed, he watched her from the other side of the place. he didn't think she was a morning person, so when he received the letter and decided to be the first to come down for breakfast as he couldn't fall asleep again, the last thing he thought was he was going to find her there. with her legs contracted towards her and her bright hair braided in a shedding way, was the first thing draco saw that morning. and for a moment, he thanked merlin for waking up so early. 

"it's time to go" was the only thing the blonde seemed to say, when he approached the couch where she was. y/n just turned around to see him. she knew exactly what he meant. 

[ariannjs]

HER HANDS | A GiyuShino FanFic (One Shot)

Hey guys! Here’s my very first Kimetsu No Yaiba (specifically GiyuShino) fic. I’m still not so familiar with their characterization the way I am with Naruto characters (specifically SasuSaku) so I hope this is okay somehow. I really loved Giyuu and Shinobu's characters so I hope I'll get to write more about them soon! Let me know your thoughts! :D

Warning: Manga spoiler.

Disclaimer: I do not own KNY.

o - o - o

Her hands were soft, gentle. Giyuu could attest to this not because he has held them, but because they held him. 

Shinobu’s hands carefully caressed his wounded cheek, arms, and then his torso, leaving traces of healing on them as he lay half-asleep inside a room at the Butterfly Estate. He barely remembered what transpired in his battle with one of the kizuki. The only thing that ran inside his mind after being badly injured was the need to see Shinobu so she could heal him with her hands.

And that’s what she did.

Her hands were powerful, magical. And it wasn’t some sugar-coated descriptions to his fellow Hashira for he has personally witnessed what else these hands could do.

Giyuu found himself standing in front of the Butterfly Estate one Saturday evening. Unsure if he would be welcomed by his teammate, he casually went inside like every single time he has visited whenever he had minor and major injuries. That’s when he found Shinobu in her office, with a vial in her gloved hands and lots of bottles with colorful liquids in front of her.

“Good evening, Tomioka-san. Is there anything I can help you with?”

The Water Hashira froze, astonished to be caught even without making his presence known. He cleared his throat before speaking, thinking quickly about what he should say in the same way he strategized in battles. “I...wanted to spar.” 

He then heard a gasp and saw some drops of liquid spilling on the table as Shinobu turned to him with widened eyes. 

“You...with me? Are you serious, Tomioka-san?”

He looked away. “I’m not a joker, Kocho.”

Shinobu tilted her head to one side before giggling all of a sudden, the sound melodic to Giyuu’s ears. “I know. That’s why no one likes you.”

Giyuu simply stared at her blankly, causing another cackle to escape Shinobu’s lips.

“Anyway, I would love to spar with you. But I have something to finish first if that’s okay with you. Do you mind, Tomioka-san?”

“No.” It was true. Yet his curiosity got the best of him despite not wanting to intrude. “What are you doing?” He approached the Insect Hashira as she returned to her work. And up close, he was able to see the labels of the concoctions in front of them. “You made all these?”

Shinobu smiled. “Yes!” And then she slightly turned towards him to show him how she was concocting a poison. “This...is what I put on my sword. It instantly kills, Tomioka-san. But I’m trying to upgrade it. Hmm...I wanted something that would kill a demon even with just the scent of this liquid.”

That’s when Giyuu knew, that even though Shinobu wasn’t a one of a kind swordsman like him, she was just as powerful, probably even more. And it was all because of what her hands could create.

Her hands were tiny, cute. Giyuu wanted to brush off the thoughts but he couldn’t help it as he stared at her hand while she pointed to the sky.

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it, Tomioka-san?”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true! Look at that.”

He glanced at her face and then back at her little hand. He didn’t really have any idea about the descriptions she was saying regarding the celestial object, but his mind suddenly played various scenarios wherein her hand was in his. His eyes widened before he looked away. He swallowed hard, trying to compose himself once again as his thoughts continued to flood him with glimpses of a future he knew he would never deserve.

And then he felt something warm on top of his hand. Hers.

“Tomioka-san. Is something wrong?”

Giyuu sighed, shutting his eyes while shaking his head. And then, he slowly formed a small smile that surprised the Insect Hashira. Nothing’s wrong when you’re here, with your hand atop mine.

His hands were trembling, uncontrollably moving. His feet continued running to his destination even after hearing the crow.

“Kaaaw! Deceased! Shinobu Kocho is dead!”

Yet his hands shook. His eyes widened. And his heart cracked into finer pieces as if it hadn’t been broken the first time when his sister died.

He reminisced about those times that he trained with her in their estate, with her winning on the spars that he didn’t expect to lose. He recalled those times he had missions alongside her, with her teasing him on the road and laughing at him whenever he reacted. And he remembered those times she tended to him, with her healing every bit of his physical wounds, and eventually, even his emotional ones. He couldn’t believe that those were merely part of the past now as he glanced at his trembling hands. 

Nonetheless, he was thankful for the fact that he didn’t see her in her last moments because he was sure that he would be doing one thing – he would’ve held her hand.

...her hands that were now cold, dull.

o - o - o

September 2020 © AriannJS

[pikapeppa]

Solavellan modern AU smut: Yes, Professor

It is what it sounds like: Professor Solas and Nare Lavellan finally give in to their forbidden desires. Needless to say, CW/TW: dubcon due to professor/student relationship, and TW for frank discussions about chronic pain during sex. Please pass go if these elements are not to your taste. ❤

This is from Chapter 23 of Inadvisable, the modern AU professor Solas fic I am lovingly working on with the incredibly talented @elbenherzart​! 

>13k words, so only an excerpt is here. Please check it out on AO3 for the whole chapter, including BEAUTIFUL and VERY explicit art. 😏

********************************

Nare Sat Sept 26 8:21 a.m. I’m on my way! Should be there just before 9!

Solas 8:21 a.m. Excellent. I’ll put on some coffee for you.

Nare 8:21 a.m. No tea?

Solas 8:21 a.m. Impertinent.

Nare 8:21 a.m. Just setting the tone for the day 😉

Solas 8:21 a.m. You are inviting considerable discipline, Nare.

Nare 8:21 a.m. Yes I am professor!

Nare grinned giddily and tucked her phone into her coat pocket as she hurried to the university. Once she got to the school, she’d call for a cab to take her to Solas’s apartment, which was about a twenty-minute drive from campus. She had told Tamaris and Athera last night that she’d be spending the day at the school’s art studio, since that was where Solas had started giving her oil painting lessons — never mind that those one-on-one lessons hadn’t started yet. 

Neither Tamaris nor Athera had questioned her, not that she expected them to; they had no reason to not believe her, and the fact that they’d believed her so easily made her feel a tiny pang of discomfort in her gut, almost like a kind of loneliness. It was strange not telling Tamaris and Athera about Solas, especially since he was consuming so much of her thoughts these days, but she was convinced that he was worth the secrecy and the trouble. 

She just hoped he would think she was worth the trouble too, once she told him about her pain problem. 

Her gut twisted with nerves and she walked a little faster, almost as though she could escape the nervousness if she walked fast enough. She occupied herself instead with thoughts of Solas: thoughts about his slow and sexy pacing, the way he rubbed his chin when he was thinking, the way his voice dropped to a bone-melting intimate purr when he was telling her about his dreams… 

The way he kissed her against the door in his office, pressing his knee between her legs and bringing his lips to hers so slowly, so fucking slowly until she felt like her heart was going to bang its way out of her rib cage.

A ripple of heat bloomed in her abdomen and made its way up to her cheeks. She wanted him to kiss her again like that so badly. She had never been kissed like that in her entire life. The way Solas had taken his time, hovering his lips so carefully over hers before actually kissing her… 

Fuck, she was getting wet just thinking about it. She couldn’t wait to see him again. 

A few minutes later, she was settled in a cab on her way to his apartment, but the enforced stillness of sitting in a car seemed to give her nerves the opportunity they needed to sneak back in and haunt her. For all her outrageous flirting with Solas and the way she’d begged him so shamelessly to fuck her, the fact still remained that Nare hadn’t had sex in years, all because it had been so painful and pleasureless that she couldn’t be bothered. 

She’d tried so many things to fix the problem: going to the doctor (who ran tests and found nothing wrong), trying prescription creams (which didn’t work), and seeing a sex therapist for a couple of sessions. But some of the therapist’s suggestions were ones that Nare couldn’t really try without a partner — and Nare had never been able to trust any partner with this terrible truth, so that hadn’t worked out either.

Then there was her sleeping-around phase, where she’d seduced and slept with a handful of guys in quick succession in the hopes that one of them would help her find the desire she wanted so badly to feel but that always seemed to elude her. Unfortunately, the sleeping-around phase had backfired. The pain remained with every guy she had sex with, which made her less horny with every attempt at sex, and her anticipation of the pain just made everything worse. The last time she’d tried to have sex with someone, she hadn’t even been able to grit her teeth and bear it. She’d left his place in humiliation and cried on her way home, and that was the last time she had bothered trying to have sex with anyone. 

That was the legacy of difficulty that she was bringing to Solas today. 

Her stomach felt snarled with nerves. She wrapped her arms around her middle and tried to focus on everything about Solas that was good — his voice, his patience, the warmth of his smile, the sweet words that he texted to her — but it was no good: her anxiety had taken residence in her gut, and all she could think about now was disappointing him. How would he react when she told him she had pain during sex? Would he think she’d been misleading him with her flirting and her begging? What if it hurt when he tried to fuck her? Would he give up on her? 

How horrible would it be if she was this horny for Solas, this turned on by him, but still wasn’t able to have sex with the only person she had ever really wanted?

The endless minutes of the drive ticked by, and Nare sat silently in the back seat stewing in a sickening mixture of anxiety and anticipation. By the time she was standing in the foyer of Solas’s building and pressing his number into the keypad, she was literally trembling. 

The buzzing-in system rang once. Then there was a click. “Hello?”

Solas. His calm, smooth voice seemed to sink straight through her skin, helping her to breathe more easily. “It’s me,” she said. 

“Please, come in,” he said, and the door clicked as he unlocked it remotely. 

Nare let herself in and hurried to the elevator. She pushed the button for the 11th floor and tried to breathe slowly as the elevator made its smooth ascent. By the time she was making her way down the hall to Solas’s apartment, she was fairly confident that she looked calm, even if she still felt jittery.

She nervously smoothed a hand over her hair, then knocked on his door. A second later, the door opened, and her heart thumped in her throat.

He was smiling, and he was beautiful. He was dressed very casually: loose drawstring linen pants, a soft fitted v-neck t-shirt, and bare feet. For some reason, his bare feet especially made her smile.

“Good morning, Nare,” he said, and he stood back to let her in. “Come in.”

Creators, his voice was so warm and welcoming, like sinking into a hot bath. She beamed at him as she stepped inside. “Good morning, professor,” she said playfully. “I like your feet.”

His eyebrows rose. “My feet?”

She let out a little laugh. “I’ve never seen your bare feet before. They’re nice feet.” She patted her cheeks, feeling both stupid and elated. Now that she was here with him, she was still feeling nervous, but a good kind of nervous — a surreal kind of nervous, like she was living in a fantasy. 

His lips curled at the corners with humour. “That’s a compliment I have never had before, but thank you. Please, make yourself comfortable — I’ll take your coat.” He quirked an eyebrow as he helped her with her coat. “Feel free to let your feet be free as well.”

She laughed again, feeling more relaxed already as she took off her ankle boots. “That’s okay, I think I’ll keep my socks on. They’re the only thing keeping my legs warm.”

He finished hanging her coat in the hall closet, then turned back to face her. “I imagine that’s the case,” he said, and his eyes dropped to her legs — legs that were partly bare, thanks to the gap between her skirt and her above-the-knee socks. 

His gaze lingered on the bare skin of her thighs, and something warm throbbed to life between her legs. When his eyes returned to her face, his lips were quirked with a hint of mischief. “Were you not cold on the way?” he asked.

She grinned, giddy with humour and heat. “No, actually. It’s pretty warm out for a late September day.”

“That’s fortunate,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” she said.

His smile widened slightly, but he didn’t speak, and Nare stared at him with a rising restlessness. There was something about the way he was looking at her, the confident angle of his head and the way he was standing there so casually in his tight t-shirt and his comfortable bare feet, that made her want to strip right here on the spot. 

Before she could find her tongue to say anything else — a plea, a cheeky remark, anything — he stepped back and gestured for her to follow him. “Come. Let me show you around,” he said. “The kitchen is straight through here; you should help yourself to whatever you like while you’re here. The living room is through there…”

He led her through the main rooms of his apartment: a narrow kitchen that opened at both ends into the main area and at the back onto a tidy little balcony, a huge open-plan living area that was informally sectioned into a dining space and a living room-slash-office space, and a separate smaller room off of the living area that was outfitted with blackout curtains, a couch and a flat-screen TV. The east-facing end of the living area boasted floor-to-ceiling windows across the entire wall, lighting the whole apartment with a lovely wash of morning light and showing off Solas’s simple but elegant decor: comfortable but un-fussy couches and armchairs in dark neutral colours, dark wood furniture and shelving, cozy area rugs scattered strategically on the hardwood floors, and lamps instead of overhead lights. It was a lovely mirroring of his office decor, actually, and Nare felt herself relaxing even further at the familiarity. 

He finished the small tour near the TV room. “There is a bathroom back near the front door, and another down the hall that leads to the bedroom.”

Her tummy flipped at the mention of his bedroom. She shot him a coy look. “Are you going to show me your bedroom next?”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll take you there when I think you are ready.”

A thump of lust pulsed between her legs. I’m ready now, she thought eagerly, but he was padding away to the kitchen. “I will bring you some coffee,” he called over his shoulder. “You drink it black, correct?”

“Yep,” she said. She wandered curiously through his living area, looking at his heavily-laden bookshelves and admiring his selection of knick-knacks. It looked like he collected small vases from different cultures and casts of animal skulls, and Nare enjoyed the private little peeks into his life that his trinkets afforded. 

By the time he returned with a mug of coffee for her, she had made her way over to the western end of the living room, where the wall boasted three paintings: two rich abstract landscapes that Nare recognized as being Solas’s work, which flanked a third painting in a lush realistic style by a different artist. 

He offered her the mug, and she took it with a smile. “Who’s the artist who did this piece?” she asked. 

“This is by Felassan,” Solas said. 

Nare’s eyes widened. “Felassan did this?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “It is one of six that he did for the final project of his fine arts degree. It shows wisdom and pride.”

“Wisdom and pride?” Nare said. She looked at the piece again, and she instantly saw what he meant. The painting showed two figures: a beautiful androgynous elf who was kneeling at the base of an enormous pile of books and poring through a tome, and a bizarre twisted figure who was standing at the top of the pile. The figure at the top appeared to be lecturing the elf at the bottom, but the pile of books was tottering perilously beneath the figure’s feet, making it seem as though the lecturer would fall to their demise at any moment.

She admired the work for a moment, then let out a little laugh. “It’s a bit of an attack, isn’t it? On people who think they know everything?”

“You see that clearly, do you?” he said wryly. “The panel who judged Felassan’s final project were not very pleased about the inherent commentary.” 

“That’s why you like it, isn’t it?” she teased. 

Solas chuckled. “Perhaps. Felassan and I don’t share the same opinions on everything, but we do agree that many of our artistic colleagues could stand to be shaken from the towers of their own prideful preconceptions.” He folded his arms and thoughtfully studied the piece. “It is a good reminder of the value of humility. That even the wisest person can be struck low by their own foolishness.”

Nare studied his profile with a pang. His expression was calm and not at all sad, but she couldn't help but remember the texted conversation they’d had last night, about keeping this a secret from the people that mattered most to them both.

“Do you think you’re being foolish?” she asked.

He looked her in the eye. “I know I am,” he said. “And you know that you are being foolish, too.”

Her belly jolted with anxiety. “But you still… You still want me to be here, right?”

His expression softened. Then, to her surprise, he reached out and trailed his knuckles along the angle of her jaw. “I can think of nothing I want more than to have you here right now,” he said softly.

Nare stared at him with her heart in her mouth. The touch of his hand on her jaw was infinitely gentle, but the flood of sensation it triggered in her body was so intense that it stopped her breath. 

His thumb brushed over her chin, just a whisper away from her lower lip, and Nare dragged in a tremulous breath. Then Solas’s gaze dropped to the floor just behind her.

A smile lit his face, and he lowered his hand from her jaw. “Turn around,” he said quietly. “Someone would like to meet you.”

She swallowed hard, then dumbly turned around. Peering warily around the corner of the kitchen doorway was a beautiful tawny-coloured cat with a black face and ears, black paws, and sky-blue eyes. 

Nare smiled despite her thwarted lust. “Is this Fenor?” she said. 

“This is Fenor,” he confirmed. 

“Oh, she’s so pretty,” Nare enthused. She handed Solas her cup of coffee, then kneeled on the floor and made a kissing noise. “Hi Fenor,” she crooned. “Come here.” 

The cat stared at her, and Nare smiled and held out one hand. “Come here, baby,” she said softly. “It’s okay.” 

Fenor eyed her stonily for a moment longer, then eventually came out of the kitchen with her tail held low, and Nare sat very still as Fenor approached her. The cat cautiously sniffed her fingers, and when she finally rubbed her face against Nare’s fingers, Nare gently scratched Fenor’s chin. 

Fenor leaned her head into the scratch, and Nare smiled. “Oh good,” she said to Solas. “If your cat didn’t like me, I think I’d have to leave.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad you understand the pecking order in this apartment. She is the real ruler here, not I.”

Nare grinned and continued to scratch Fenor’s chin and neck until Fenor wandered away with her tail held high. She looked up at Solas with a smile, and her heart banged in her chest as she realized the position she was in: kneeling on the floor by Solas’s feet — a close approximation of one of her fondest fantasies. If she just turned around on her knees so she was facing him, so his cock was at her eye level… 

Then Solas reached down and ran his palm gently over her hair. 

She froze. A flood of icy warmth trickled down her spine, and once again, she found herself speechless, stunned by his gesture and by the intensity of her body’s own reaction to it. His gentle hand on her head, smoothing over her hair in a tender gesture: there was nothing inherently dominant about what he’d just done, but with Nare on her knees like this, she was seized with the sudden urge to beg. To do whatever he told her to do, to say ‘yes, professor’ until he gave her everything she had never been able to admit before that she wanted… 

“Come, Nare,” he said softly, and he held out his hand. “I’ll show you my studio.”

She didn’t want to see his studio. She wanted him to bend her over one of the nice couches in his living room and push up her skirt with his beautiful artist’s hands.

Mind muddled and slowed by lust, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She followed him wordlessly past the kitchen toward a hallway that led to the western end of the apartment, and her heart thumped again. The hall ended in a room with a slightly-ajar door that had to be Solas’s bedroom. Was he… maybe he was taking her to his bedroom instead?

Her stomach flipped with hope — and, admittedly, a bit of nerves — but Solas didn’t lead her to the end of the hall. Instead, he led her into the first room on the left.

His studio was not as large as she’d expected, but it was professionally lit and comfortable-looking. The room boasted one open easel with two others folded at the side, a drawing table that was covered with a dropcloth, a long table covered in painting supplies and equipment, and a few bookshelves. 

Solas pointed at one such shelf. “There is the infamous pile of my sketches,” he said drolly.

She looked where he was pointing, and a hint of amusement pierced through her distracting desire. She padded over to the bookshelf, which was strewn not just with cardstock sketches, but with old journals and magazines and a smattering of art supplies. 

She pulled out a sketch at random, and her eyebrows rose in genuine appreciation. It was a sketch of one of his murals — the only one that he had ever done here in Orlais. “Wow,” she breathed, and she looked up at him. “Solas, you should really file these. This is worth hundreds of dollars.”

He huffed and ran a hand over his scalp. “I would not sell such works. They’re for my records only.”

“Well, you’re not keeping your records very well,” she scolded.

He chuckled. “I can just imagine Athera nodding along with you.”

Nare barked out a little laugh. “Not even. She would seriously have a heart attack if she saw this shelf.” She turned back to the shelf and began picking carefully through his sketches, and with every sketch she saw, she felt more and more like her heart was swelling with affection and admiration both. Mural studies, landscape studies, sketches of Fenor with a special focus on the texture of her fur, studies of skeletons both animal and humanoid, quick and messy sketches of fantastical creatures and odd twisted figures …

She brushed her fingers lovingly over a sketch of a surreal landscape of floating stairways and arches, interspersed with stylized trees. “Is this a dreamscape?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. “It is also a study I drew in preparation for a mural.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes. “You made this into a mural? Where is it?”

He smiled faintly. “In my bedroom.”

His bedroom. His bedroom which had to be that room at the end of the hall, just a few steps away… 

“Can I see it?” she blurted. “The mural in your bedroom?” She didn’t care anymore how desperate or impatient she sounded; she wanted him, his lips and his hands and his cock that she could see as a tempting bulge in his soft linen pants, and she’d had enough of waiting. 

“Not yet,” he said, to her dismay. “You need to be patient.”

“But I’ve been patient,” she complained. “I waited for two whole days and I didn’t ask to see your bedroom right away when I got here.”

A broad smile lit his face. “You think it is patience to wait for ten minutes before asking me to see my bedroom?”

“It’s been more than ten minutes,” she said defensively. “It’s been like twenty.”

He gave her an arch look. “You are being very mouthy, Nare.”

Yes, she thought excitedly; he was starting to sound a little stern now. She widened her eyes coyly. “What are you going to do about it?” she asked.

He tilted his head chidingly. “I will have to discipline you, unfortunately.”

She swallowed hard, riled anew by his enticing threat. “How are you going to do that?” she asked breathily.

“By teaching you patience, among other things,” he said. “I’ll do that by making you wait. To that end, you won’t be seeing my bedroom anytime soon.”

Among other things? she thought with a fresh wrench of want. What kinds of ‘other things’ was he going to do to discipline her? “But…” 

He tilted his head chidingly, and her belly hopped with lust. What was the best way to make him kiss her? Should she defer to him, or should she provoke him?

She decided on provocation. “What if making me wait isn’t discipline enough?” she asked.

He studied her in silence for a moment, then clasped his hands behind his back. “Nare,” he said quietly.

He was starting to sound really stern now. “Yes?” she said.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and she deferentially dropped her gaze. “Yes, professor?”

“Come closer,” he said.

Oh gods, when he sounded so bossy like this… Her groin pulsed with heat, and she hastened over to stand in front him. Once she was standing in front of him, he lifted his chin and slowly inspected her body.

She shifted restlessly under his assessing gaze. She was fully dressed, but the way his eyes were sliding over her in this slow and lingering way made her feel as though she was naked. By the time his eyes returned to her face, her heart was throbbing between her legs, and Solas was smirking.

“Why are you laughing at me?” she complained. 

His smile widened slightly. “Because I am fairly certain that making you wait will be punishment enough,” he told her. Then, finally, he lifted his hand cradled her cheek in his palm. 

She closed her eyes and turned her face toward his hand. He brushed his thumb over her lips, then suddenly gripped her chin. 

She gasped. “Please,” she blurted.

He lifted her chin. “Please what?” he said quietly. 

“Please, professor,” she begged. “Please kiss me.”

He studied her for another torturous moment until she was practically vibrating with impatience. When he released her chin to slid his fingers around the nape of her neck, her lips parted on a tiny gasp. 

“Solas, please,” she whimpered.

“Patience,” he murmured. He lowered his face to hers, brushing his nose gently over her cheekbone and hovering his lips over hers in a torturously careful way. Right when Nare was about to beg him again, he finally kissed her.

Read the rest of the chapter on AO3!

[spnregencybb]

THE BETROTHAL BARGAIN || A DEANCAS REGENCY FIC Posting Saturday, September 5th 2020

SUMMARY: Though they both move in the highest circles of London society, the Duke of Milton and Viscount Winchester have never met-- until the day of their best friends’ wedding. The spark of attraction between them is evident, but both are determined bachelors. When a second encounter places them in a compromising situation, there is only one solution: they must pretend to be betrothed in order to avoid scandal, then quietly break the engagement once some new piece of gossip arises. 

In the meantime, they’ll have to play the part convincingly enough to fool all of London into believing in their romance. But somewhere along the way, the line between act and actuality becomes blurred, leaving them both wondering if this was the worst idea they’ve ever had-- or the best. 

READ A SNEAK PREVIEW BELOW THE CUT!

So lost were they both, neither noticed the crunch of gravel under approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until they heard the startled gasp, the low oath, that Castiel wrenched his lips away from Winchester’s and met the eyes of Mr. Banes and an unknown gentleman.

“Oh, I say,” the nameless gentleman blustered, “I do believe this spot is occupied, Max.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Banes replied. He was looking at Castiel, not with dismay, but with something rather like admiration. “Carry on, gentlemen. We’ll find ourselves another secluded alcove.”

Castiel closed his eyes tightly as their footsteps faded. Still wrapped in his arms, Winchester had the audacity to laugh quietly to himself. “This amuses you, does it?”

“Being interrupted by a pair seeking to do exactly what we are?” Winchester grinned at him. “Yes, I dare say it does.”

Grumbling to himself, Castiel had to admit it could have been much worse. He doubted either Mr. Banes or his companion would mention the incident, and it was probably for the best that they were interrupted before either he or Winchester brought them down to the hard ground for something rather more involved than a kiss.

“Oh, come now.” Winchester placed his palms on either side of Castiel’s face and pulled him in for another kiss. “An amusing memory, we said. We’ve succeeded quite well, don’t you think?”

Sighing, Castiel surrendered to his kisses and his good humour. He would be returning to the country soon, where there were few opportunities for this sort of diversion, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Soon enough they were rocking together just as intensely as they had been prior to being interrupted, Winchester’s lips on Castiel’s throat and his hands nimbly working on the buttons of his waistcoat. Castiel’s own hands were discovering just how firm and rounded Winchester’s backside was under those breeches, his eyes closed in ecstasy--

Until they flew open at the sound of an outraged shout.

Lord Talbot, in all likelihood, did not intend to be so loud. But his exclamation of surprise drew others, and there was only so much adjusting of clothing and hands Castiel and Winchester had time to accomplish.

They were well and truly caught this time, and from the looks and the whispers passing through the small crowd, their discretion could not be relied upon.

Any gentleman knew the rules for such situations. Along with the arts of dancing and conversation, Castiel had learned them early. Feeling the weight of his title more than ever, he slid a decorous arm around Winchester’s waist and said, voice only trembling slightly, “Lord Winchester has just agreed to be my husband. We would be delighted to accept your congratulations.”

[capsized-heart]

Lady Liberty and The Captain / Part One

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader (1940′s Brooklyn AU)

Summary: You are a rising young star and the newest breakout actress in Hollywood’s Golden Age! When war finally descends on the west, your reputation as America’s Sweetheart finds you cast in a promotional picture alongside Captain America himself.

Yet, he looks eerily familiar, like your Stevie from childhood…

Word count: 4.7k+

Warnings: fluff!!

A/N: hello, everyone!!!! I hope you’re staying home, warm, and safe during these crazy times. I’ve been snuggling with my doggie and continuing with my university’s online classes in my final semester..absolutely crazy how things are rn. I hope this new story can help brighten up your day just a little bit.

First of all, I just want to say thank you💖💛for all the love that old and new readers alike have shown this blog recently. I’ve been writing on this platform for a little less than a year and I never thought l’incendie would blow up as much as it has. You guys are amazing. I’m really excited and eager to share new pieces and hope you enjoy the content I have coming! Please don’t hesitate to pop in and say hi, or shoot me a message. I’ve really enjoyed connecting with readers and would love to know your thoughts on my fics, or just to talk about fandom stuff! Timmy included! PAHAHA

So, this chapter is gonna be a part of a mini-series for a 1940′s writing challenge and I’m using the prompt of wartime romance! This will probably be split into two or three parts and I will tag the host as soon as the last chapter goes up, I’ll most likely make a masterlist in the end as well. Reader has a name in this fic, but hopefully the choice of name will make sense later on :D

As always, feel free to drop a ask/message if you’d like a tag in the next update.

ENJOY!

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Film: ‘Apple of Discord’, Lola Swanson’s Dazzling Debut! 

By NICHOLAS WATTS                                                                                                                      September 1, 1943

----------

The film drama from the original screenplay written and directed by Andrew Campbell opened to a roar of applause and acclaim at the Radio City Music Hall yesterday evening. Apple of Discord is a reimagining of the myth and Plato’s allegory, focusing on the tumultuous, profoundly elegant life of a young noblewoman during the Trojan wars.  

The film’s frontrunner and leading lady is Hollywood newcomer, young and fresh-faced Lola Swanson. Swanson’s performance is so thoughtful, so unfaltering, so intelligent and controlled that it is hard to believe this is little Lola’s long awaited motion picture debut. And what a debut this is! 

Starring opposite Hollywood veterans Sean Schultz, Kash Dennis, and Gracie Smith, this star-studded cast packs punches and sizzling chemistry and yet, Swanson does not fizzle out but confidently holds her own, demanding your attention in every scene, and rightfully so. Watching Swanson in this picture is watching a major actress in the making. 

Born and raised in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen before moving to Brooklyn to pursue acting, some may recognize Lola from her daytime television roles in Insanity and Passion, It’s a Date! and as Jessica in Jessica Davis Returns.

Now we know these roles were preparing Swanson for the debut of the decade.   

“APPLE OF DISCORD” is now showing at the Radio City Music Hall and Cinema 2. Tickets at 25 cents. Running time: 139 minutes.

★★★★☆

——

APPLE OF DISCORD, written and directed by Andrew Campbell; director of photography, Laszlo Kovacs; edited by John Wright; music by John Barry; released by Universal Pictures.

----------

The newspaper trembles hard between your fingers, threatening to tear its edges. Pulse pounding, ears ringing. You can’t stop smiling. You feel like crying. 

You reread the words again and again, the words written by legendary film critic Nicholas Watts, the man you’ve only dreamed of making an impression on, that he’d someday see you in a picture. And here he’s written a glowing review of your major motion picture debut. 

You erupt in a fit of giggles and screams, twirling around the small space of your apartment in a swirl of nightgown, pinned curls. A neighbor, Mr. Krisinski, you think, pounds on your wall to shut you up. 

It’s still early morning and you had gone downstairs at first light to buy a paper from a newsboy. Outside your window, the streets of New York already yawn and bustle with morning commute. The movement of people, gleaming automobiles against the red brick buildings and muted gray of Manhattan. Warm sun washes over it all, your heart brimming and full, mirroring the glow of golden dawn. 

You feel on top of the world. Maybe you’ll finally make it here.

Your phone rings. You rush over to the mint blue rotary telephone on your bedside table, snatch up the receiver before Mr. Krisinski can break down your door with all the racket you’re making.

“Hello?” You say into the mouthpiece, cradling it between your hands. You feel breathless, high strung and buzzing, like you’d just downed a whole case of Coca-Cola, whirring with the taste of sugar and success, bubbling with starpower. Maybe it’s Kash or Gracie calling to congratulate you. Hell, maybe even President Roosevelt.

“Lola! It’s me. Have you read the paper?” The cool voice of Peggy asks you through the receiver. You quietly laugh at your own fantastical expectations. Of course it’s Peggy. Punctual, collected Peggy. 

Peggy Carter is your talent agent and manager at MGM. Peggy had snatched you up while you had been working as a background actress on Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca, so hopeful and beholden just to be in the presence of such respected artists, willing to stay the extra hours even after the other girls had gone home when realizing they wouldn’t be seen in the shot. It hadn’t been your first time on a hot set, you were used to the itchy costumes, long hours of endless waiting, and the empty stomachs, but no way you were going to miss a chance to see Ingrid Bergman and Madeleine LeBeau up close. 

Back then, only a few years ago yet a lifetime away it seems, Peggy had been a casting assistant, seeing your dedication and marching right up to you between takes to hand you her card. On the back, written in smooth blue ink, a time the next morning for an audition at MGM Studios in downtown New York. Eight o'clock sharp. 

You didn’t sleep at all that night after you wrapped.

She’s worked at getting you into audition rooms and meetings for years, pushing you onto writers, production assistants, riggers, directors. She had secured you an audition with Andrew Campbell after “accidentally” leaving your headshot in his mailroom and later calling his assistant with threats of stolen property. MGM’s new fresh face had been penciled in for a side read the following week. 

Fierce, ingenious, and your own bright star, you’ve risen through the ranks and fought your way up with Peggy at your side. 

“Yeah, Peg. I have it here in front of me. This is...absolutely nuts.” 

“Not really, you were brilliant in the picture, darling. But it’s a comfort to know Watts has finally replaced that cotton in his brain with some sense.”

Another laugh from you, twirling the telephone cord around your finger.

“Let me have this one, Peg.”

“If you insist.” 

You hear the rustling of newspaper from the other end. You can practically see Peggy sitting at her desk, perusing the paper over a morning cup of coffee, her hair curled, makeup and nails all scarlet red and perfect. The golden placard glittering on the frosted glass of the door. 

Margaret Carter, Casting Director.

“I’m calling to tell you about an offer we received this morning from Paramount. I think you should take it.” 

That rush of giddiness burns bright again in your veins, pulse skyrocketing. 

“Paramount? Geez, what did they say?”

“They want you for a promotional picture that’s being produced by Senator Brandt. Brandt is hoping to boost the homefront’s war bond sales with a little starpower from you and from Captain America. You’ve seen his posters, haven’t you? That costumed bloke?”

You have. Plastered everywhere and looking like an absolute buffoon. Nice physique, though. 

The disappointment that settles in your stomach is ugly and cold, like a fruitless pit, hard, rough, a sour taste in your mouth. It’s stupidly childish, yet your own expectations for your first movie, first box office hit, for that very first taste of the promised fame and fortune of success, begin to blink out. Expectations you’ve held on to since you were a little girl, since you realized this is the type of work you want to do for the rest of your life.

You’ve managed to impress Nicholas Watts, the most cynical film critic in all of Hollywood, and this is your big break? A Paramount picture featuring you and a tights-wearing mascot?

Peggy is practically asking you to star alongside Mickey Mouse.

“Is that all they offered?” You respond. You wince at the demanding, ungrateful tone. Afterall, showbiz has hardened you to go after what you want, to take and take because this lifestyle does not guarantee anything. You’re told no more than you are yes, the constant rejection having molded you into a diamond tough girl, glitzy and solid, unbreakable, beautiful. 

But how many girls would kill to be in your place?

“The only sensible deal. They also offered you the role of Violet for It’s a Wonderful Life, and Ruthie in The Grapes of Wrath.”

“What?! Peggy, contract me for those instead!” 

“Well, I’m not going to. And you listen well as to why.”

You twist your lips together. Peggy’s voice filters clipped and disapproving through the phone line, the way she always gets before she offers you damned good advice. 

“Not just Watts is impressed with your work, Lola. You’re finally turning heads and for all good reasons. Anyone can get in front of a camera if they have the right look. But you’ve shown them that you have the look and the raw talent. Critics are saying you’re rivaling Judy Garland, darling. And you’re telling me you want the part of a lousy love interest? A secondary daughter? All because the pictures have big names behind them and people may go see it?

“No,” you mumble.

“No is right. You know better than anyone that people expect young stars to burn out fast so they can take their place. It’s all business. If I put you in for those roles, we’d be playing right into their hand. We’d use up all your potential in one summer. The public would get sick of seeing your face in every big picture. We have to earn their affection, darling. It’s slow and tame and not always glamorous, but this deal is smart.”

You listen, silently.

“Morale is low. War is when people turn to familiar pastimes and simple pleasures. To treat themselves, to take their minds off all the grizzly headlines. Captain America embodies all of that and more. If we take this, I promise you, Lola, that people will remember you as the girl who got them through the darkest times. This will do wonders for your career years down the line. And then, if you still want to play Violet, I’ll phone Frank Capra myself.” 

You close your eyes and draw in a breath, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

“Well, it looks like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Wonderful. I’ll phone Paramount now. We’ll be in touch.” 

--

Growing up with poor Irish immigrants for parents, the rare moments you could afford to splurge on luxuries, you spent them at local cinemas and theaters with your brother. Any day was a good one when you and Samuel bought tickets for a noon screening, the cheapest showing of the day, scraping together pocket change to split a popcorn if you were feeling extra special.

And reclining in a nearly empty theater with refreshments and goodies between the two of you, you’d watch the silver screen with hope in your mouth and stars in your eyes. In here, it no longer mattered how little money you had, or the discrimination your family faced, or the war in Europe, or the meager apartment you’d go home to, lucky if the electricity and heating had been paid for. In here, nothing else mattered but the visual stories. 

And you realized that you wanted to help tell them. You wanted to be in front of the cameras, to embody characters and personas and let audiences worldwide empathize and identify with your performances. 

You’ve loved playing make-believe since you were a little girl, having never really grown out of it. You could do it, you think. Dangerous dreams, perhaps, but what child doesn’t hold this wish within them? To see their name in lights and to be admired and commended, but most of all, to provide for their family?

 How hard could it be?

**

At sixteen, you land your first speaking role. It’s pathetic. You’re working on set as background, per usual, only this time, the director picks you out from the crowd and gives you the line of, “Good morning, sir.” You’re to look off camera as the actor playing Kent entered the scene and you would then say your line. 

You’re stupidly excited. Three simple words. You’ll be uncredited, of course, but your face would finally be seen! With butterflies fluttering in your stomach, the scene resets, Kent takes his mark, the cameras roll, and you deliver.

The scene is cut from the final reel. 

**

You pound the pavement. You scour newspapers and flyers for casting calls, you phone agencies and playhouses, you save up to get your picture taken on glossy photo paper. You keep looking. You keep working in background until you can land a steady role. 

Then, you finally get one. A miniscule part of a friendly neighborhood girl on a TV drama for CBS. You only have mere minutes of screen time, but the checks that arrive in the mail from Columbia Broadcasting System after your first few episodes air say otherwise. 

You open a savings account. You plant your paychecks and watch them grow into a comfortable sum of money. You land another guest starring role for a daytime soap, the secretary of the title character. Combined with your parents’ salaries from your mother’s sewing and your father’s work on the railroads, you become the main breadwinner.  

You move your family out of Hell’s Kitchen, out of your cramped, dark apartment. You sign a new lease under your new stage name and move to Brooklyn together. 

**

Brooklyn is slightly cleaner, but the familiar hustle and bustle, the noise of shopkeepers and dialects and children and cars is comforting, grounds you in your roots. When your CBS drama wraps months later with your last check in the mail and you’re looking for your next gig, your brother works odd jobs to help shoulder the burden. Brick laying, chimney sweeping, milk and mail delivering, Samuel becomes no stranger to any and all work, so long as it pays. You become a typist on the side as you wait for auditions and callbacks. 

Samuel tells you his aspirations to be a poet, a writer. He hasn’t said a word to your parents, but he shows you the small bound notebook he carries with him, leafing through pages of prose and verse. You encourage him to submit his work to newspapers, publishers. He gives you a shy smile, says he’ll consider it as soon as you get your motion picture debut. You shake on it. Together, your already close bond of brother and sister grows stronger as you each work to support your art.

**

You’re waiting for Samuel to finish his shift so you can catch a late showing of His Girl Friday, a warm September day when you first meet Bucky Barnes down at the wharfs. He’s tall, lean, and glistening with sweat when he rounds out of the warehouse with an armful of crates and nearly knocks you off the pier.

“Hey, watch it!” he snaps. His eyes flash like the water around you, blue and cold and dangerous. Brown locks curl with perspiration against his forehead, the sleeves of his workshirt rolled up over his shoulders, the exposed skin of his throat and arms flushed and tan. 

Embarrassed, you try to steady him, to which he growls in annoyance and spins out of your reach. He makes a great show of bearing the weight himself, grumbling as he sets down his load. You don’t miss the way the muscles in his back flex and dip. It isn’t until he slowly stands back up, wiping his palms on his khakis, that you get a good look at each other.

The hostility in his eyes softens ever so slightly, simmering into a look that cinches your chest tight when his gaze travels shamelessly up from your kitten heels to the curves of your lips and cheek. His breathing is still labored as he surveys you and you can feel heat and color blooming against your skin. When his eyes finally settle on your face, you can’t decide whether you want to slap or kiss him. 

“You lost or something, honey?” He asks with a whisper of a smile. He strolls in a lazy half-circle in front of you and moves to go back up the ramp to the warehouse. Then, he pauses and turns back to you.

“Have we met before? I swear I recognize you from somewhere.”

This delights you deliciously, that a handsome young man you’ve met by chance has seen your work. Not glamorous, acclaimed roles by any means, but recognition nonetheless. You bite the inside of your lip to suppress your smile and give him a coy, bashful flutter of your eyelashes.

“If that were the case, I’m sure I’d remember you.” 

He grins wolfishly, pleased, and takes a step closer. “Yeah? Think you’ll let me take you out for dinner tonight?”

“She’s got plans with me, Buck.” Samuel’s voice carries across the water. Your brother emerges with wooden boxes and sets them between you and Bucky in a huff, as if he’s implementing a physical barrier, both childish and endearing. Bucky glances at you and Samuel.

“Are you two..?”

“Steady? No. She’s my sister.”

Bucky snorts and his eyes find you again, glittering in the evening light. “You never told me you had a sister, Sammy. And such a looker too..”

“Makes you wonder why I never brought her up,” retorts Samuel and gives him a playful shove, traps him briefly in a headlock. “At least Steve wouldn’t ogle.”

“Stevie would get a nose bleed and pass out.” You hear Bucky grunt back. Samuel moves as if to dump him into the drink and Bucky pinwheels, scrambling. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

Satisfied, Samuel releases him and socks him in the shoulder for good measure. Bucky stumbles, looking boyish and smooth despite his shirt and hair all disheveled. 

You’ve seen his type in casting offices all across New York; bold, alluring, and charismatic. It’s a look and type you’ve longed to act opposite of someday, as all young starlets dream of, but a look that simultaneously sparks the feminine temptation that shivers between your breasts. You wonder if Bucky would look the same in a dark bedroom, with him on top of you and your fingers running over his back…

Bucky grins toothily when he catches you staring and shoots you a wink. None of those movie star hopefuls hold a candle now to his rugged, spirited charm.

Samuel guides you back up the pier so he can punch out his time card and the two of you can be on your way. And as you’re about to set foot on solid ground, you hear Bucky call out to you.

“What’s your name, honey?” 

Samuel sighs and shakes his head. “Cripes.” He mutters to himself. Before Samuel can stop you, you laugh and turn back to the water with a fresh and girlish aire, warmth and excitement whispering through your veins, young and naive and sixteen.  

“Dolores!” You give him your full name, your real name. For once, you don’t want to be Lola Sparks. You want to be your natural, honest self, the girl who deserves young love and joy and an untroubled adolescence. The sound of your voice rings clear and strong, the diva that you are, and Bucky’s mouth curves upwards.

“See you ‘round, Dot.” 

**

Much to Samuel’s displeasure, you tail your big brother around the docks like a lost pup whenever you have time. And being a C-list actress and a part-time typist, you have plenty of it. You loiter with the excuse of bringing sack lunches, waiting on Samuel and Bucky at the edge of the warehouses. It’s lonesome and bores you to no end being all by yourself, until one afternoon when someone is already waiting at your spot by the pier.

Small, skinny as his own shadow with a fringe of blonde hair, he leans hunkered and folded within himself, timid and seemingly conscious of how he occupies space. His jacket droops over his shoulders, eyes downcast even as you approach. He has a sketchbook in his hands, concentrated as the pencil moves across the page in fast, gentle strokes. You see an impressive likeness of the piers and Bucky’s distant figure in charcoaled lines.

“That’s really something.” You say.

He jolts so hard the paper tears and he crumples it into his fist in a single motion. “Huh?” he answers. When he looks to you, you realize his eyes are a pretty shade of teal. He flushes, petrified, the tips of his ears coloring pink. You feel horrible when he goes to pocket the ball of paper.

“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” you breathe. Gently, you offer your palm to him. “If you’re not keeping it, do you mind if I have it?” You ask softly. A few seconds pass and he shakes his head before placing it in your hand. You unfurl the paper, carefully smooth it out as he watches you from the corner of his eye. 

Shyness is a barrier of art you’ve known all too well, from your own experiences in audition rooms to your brother’s reluctance to find a publisher, you understand that sting of insecurity better than anyone. So, you let him watch you as you admire his work, let him know of his talent and let your actions speak for you. You smile and slip the drawing into your purse. 

Then, his stomach grumbles audibly, almost comically loud. He folds his arms around his stomach, so tight you’re afraid he’ll snap in half. You quickly reach into one of your paper bags and hand him a sandwich wrapped in cellophane and a can of lemonade. 

“Here, let’s trade.” 

“That’s awfully kind of you, but I can’t accept..” he starts. The timbre of his voice is surprisingly gallant and sure, pleasant, sweet. You have a gut feeling that the world has been taking advantage of that kindness his whole life, scaring him away from genuine compassion, that everything must have a catch. It makes you press harder.

“I insist. Please. It’s the least I can do for sneaking up on you.” He eyes you warily and again that feeling of regret washes over you. “Consider it payment.” You smile. 

Finally, he takes Samuel’s lunch from you and unwraps the sandwich. He eats quickly and quietly, draining the lemonade only minutes later. Perhaps it’s his bony statue, but you feel happy to see this stranger eat.

When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth and turns to you. His lips, pretty, pink, part as if about to speak, yet no words leave him. Instead, he stands frozen with that transfixing blue-green gaze keeping you still, lingering. 

That is until a stream of brilliant scarlet red dribbles down his chin and splatters onto his dress shirt. He pinches his nose, doubling forward and his flustered complexion matching the blood spilling from his nostrils.

“You must be Steve,” You laugh lightly and quickly hand him your handkerchief of cream yellow lace and embroidered flowers. You help steady him as he keeps his head tilted down. “Bucky’s told me all about you.”

Steve groans and presses the handkerchief to his face, blushing all the way down to his neck. 

**

Steve returns your handkerchief days later with an embarrassed hush, carefully cleaned and laundered. It smells of lavender and clean linen and the image of him working the fabric between his thin fingers with soap and suds warms your heart. 

You tell him it’s his. He blooms and keeps it neatly folded in his breast pocket. 

You and Steve quickly grow close in the hours you spend together waiting on Bucky and Samuel. You pack extra lunches for him and sit by the piers chatting, skipping stones as Steve sketches the Brooklyn skyline day in and day out.

“Draw me!” you tease. “Isn’t that the request that all artists want to hear?”

But surprisingly, he does. He always draws you and Bucky and Samuel with striking, intimate familiarity. His sketchbook gradually fills with portraits and pictures of you, sketches that could put your very headshot to shame.

**

After their usual shifts, the four of you head to the drugstore for your ritual of sodas and sundaes. Two pairs, brother and sister and brothers by blood enjoying a rare wartime treat. With the rations on sugar, it’s a special and memorable circumstance just to be together and sharing something sweet.

It’s there, at your corner booth in Wolfe’s Pharmacy over ice cream, that Bucky opens up a paper for that night’s television network schedule and sees your name. 

His eyebrows shoot up. “Dot,” he says. “What do others call you?”

Defeated, you twist your lips, hesitant to break the short spell of normalcy you’ve had with your new friends. Samuel sips at his Coke with a silent grin. 

Time for the truth to come out.

“Well, ‘doll’, by Stevie,” you giggle and toe Steve’s foot under the table. Steve shyly shrinks back into his seat. “But CBS calls me Lola.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. 

“Get out of here. You’re pulling my leg..”

“I absolutely am not.”

“Sammy, tell me she’s pulling my leg.”

“She’s not.”

Two pairs of brilliant blue eyes dart between you and your brother. Bucky’s face breaks into an open smile, laughing. Steve lurches forward. 

“Have you ever met anyone famous?” Steve prods with a hint of that honest, innocent charm.  

You wrinkle your nose sheepishly. “Mason Cook?”

“Who?” Bucky asks around a mouthful of sundae.

“Exactly.” Samuel snorts.

“Well, I’m sure he’s very talented.” Says Steve.

You swipe his maraschino cherry and let the stem dangle between your lips. “At least Stevie believes in me.” 

“Dot, honey. I saw your pilot episode. If anyone’s a fan, it’s me.” Bucky feigns hurt, hand to his chest. 

You stick out your bottom lip before sucking in the stem, working it into a tight knot in your mouth. “Are you still gonna be when your girl is signing autographs with John Wayne?”

You place the knotted stem on your napkin. Bucky nearly chokes. 

“I better be.”

Samuel coughs. Steve giggles. 

**

You thank your stars that your secret doesn’t change anything between Steve and Bucky. They treat you just the same; as Samuel’s baby sister who tags along with the boys. The teasing, the fleeting looks all unchanging. 

Girls, you’ve unfortunately realized, are catty and mean. You’re competing for roles, after all. But with Bucky and Steve, your first taste of homecoming since moving to Brooklyn, you don’t have to worry about silly competition, or fame, or being the best in the room. They keep you level-headed, reminding you of your girlhood and life’s simple pleasures.

Bucky drives you and Steve around town in the company truck on weekends. Hopscotch and jacks on brick roads and warm nights, watching sunsets until the sky blushes peach and mango yellow at Coney Island. 

A Saturday afternoon on Rockaway Beach, a vacation for you all after a draining week of work and auditions when Bucky promises to win you a stuffed bear when he sees you eyeing the one on careful display. 

“Buck..Bucky, give it a rest, we can try the next one.” Steve chides.

Another plastic ring pings off the neck of a glass bottle. Bucky curses, rings his hands together and slaps another dollar onto the counter.

You and Steve trade looks. Bucky’s been at it for ten minutes. At this rate, you know you’ll be walking on the train tracks home tonight.

So, you and Steve huddle close and cheer him on. Do it for our doll! says Steve. Finish it so you’ll stop wasting money, you dolt! you cry. Hell, even the vendor finds it humorous and joins in.

And when Bucky wins that grand prize and you’re handed a teddy bear as big as Stevie, you hoist it on your back, careful to not let it touch gravel or dust as the three of you walk in line with the train tracks later that evening.

Paradise, a sheltered haven from the broken landscapes and realities that the European newsreels broadcast home in grim black and white. 

**

True to Bucky’s word, they become your biggest supporters, helping you run lines and monologues and accompanying you to auditions. Bucky’s not bad for a scene partner, and Steve’s awareness of emotion and character motivation is impressive.

The attention you receive from casting directors and auditionees doesn’t hurt your chances either, lanky Steve and smoldering Bucky wishing you luck before stepping into the green room.

You book a drama. Then, a short film. Then another. You call them your lucky charms. 

And when your humble little short film “premiers” at the corner cinema, squeezed in between an empty noon showing of a cartoon rerun, Steve and Bucky whoop and holler when your character is shown on screen. They throw popcorn and gumdrops, jostle you by the shoulders. Bucky even runs down the aisle and mimes kissing the projector screen.

“That’s our girl! That’s our Dot!”

The usher threatens to throw you out. Steve tells him you’ve paid good money for your tickets and you’ll stay and watch as long as you please.

The following week, you’re scouted by Peggy Carter. 

Your world, your career will never be the same.

[brokenjardaantech]

captain allen appreciation week 2020 day 1 + 7: vacation + acceptance

notes:

i combined day 1 & 7 as they happen to be the theme of the same story. it's also a prequel to a fic that i haven't written a word yet.

a little bit background since i think things can be confusing:

allen's full name is Louis White Allen. his dad's french and his mom american, though he's raised in alaska. his sister, anna allen, is a commissioned officer in the air force. the siblings speaks both english and french fluently.

sara ryder replaces elijah kamski as the inventor of androids.

this fic is set in september 2038, about a month after connor was first deployed at the phillips' hostage situation.

tags: griefing, family issues, brief mentions of childhood neglect and parentification

ao3 link if that’s what you prefer

-----

To this day, Lou's heart hammers when he sees a call from the military. Last time he received one was ten years ago, and he ended up with more questions than answers, answers that he knows he and his father very likely will not get in their lifetime. Staring at his phone vibrating on the coffee table, Lou debates whether to induce his cats' wrath - one sleeping on his lap and the other he hasn't stopped petting since they finished dinner - by standing up and interrupting their naps. It's not like he's at his full mobility anyways; his cybernetics still needs about half an hour to sync with his nervous system properly and to download the newest software. Whoever the fuck is in charge of calling the family of a soldier who went AWOL in Göttingen can wait.

It seems that the universe has other plans, as the air suddenly becomes charged with static and the phone launches itself towards Lou's chest. The tip of his fingers are numb, a common occurrence after his and his sister's unexplainable outbursts, but he manages to catch the phone before it hits his chest or, heaven forbids, his cat, who is startled awake and promptly returns to sleep after her favourite bed has no intention to move.

He accepts the call. 'Allen speaking. I don't think I have family members in the military anymore.'

'I don't know how many of yours are with us,' the voice from the other end lacks the robotic quality of an android's, so it seems the military is still using humans to contact family members, 'but this concerns your mother, Commander Deborah White. You're the only next of kin we can reach, Mister Allen.'

Lou does sigh. Just as he thinks he can leave her behind after all these years... 'What about her?' Not that he feels strongly that she was gone, as she wasn't quite there for her family to begin with, but something about a Commander going missing on the flagship of a fleet always sits wrong with him; as poor of a mother Deborah White was, a woman with her service record didn't deserve to simply vanish. 'I thought she went MIA more than twenty years ago.'

'She was until a few hours ago. I wish I can break it to you more gently but... we found her. Her remains, at least.'

The beat of his heart suddenly becomes too overwhelming. The air swells with the familiar buzz of static, and it takes all of Lou's self-control to not break everything in the living room with a shattering hazard. There is also the urge to hang up, to pretend that this is just one of those weird dreams he never can remember the details of, because he doesn't need to be burdened with a closure; he wasn't close enough to her to want that, he tells himself. Knowing that she's gone is enough. However, 'How?' is what he says in the end. He closes his eyes, free hand buried in his cat's fur, trying to convince himself that he is doing this for his father.

'Your mother's bones were found in a sealed compartment in the USS Blue Ridge when we were scrapping her. She must've been sitting there for years. Her skull indicates that -'

'Thanks, but I don't think I need to know that,' Lou swallows, willing himself to not think of the implication of an intact skull. It would've been a horrible way to die, sitting in cold seawater for days, feeling her skin rot away before dying of starvation; he'd rather her snap her neck upon impact and go painlessly. 'Anything more?'

'Yes. How would you like to deal with the body?'

Something tickles Lou's chin. When he opens his eyes, he finds the third cat trying to squeeze himself onto his already-occupied lap and purring as if having sensed the human's distress and wanting to soothe him. He recalls how his mother joked that she would probably die at sea and his father's reluctant acceptance of the entire affair; Papa's resignation after he received the news, saying, 'At least she got what she wanted.'

'She spent most of her life at sea,' he replies. No need to rub salt on his father's wounds. 'Let her rest there as well.'

'Very well. If you wish to, a memorial will be held in two months' time. Families of other deceased will attend. You may find support there.'

Support my ass, Lou thinks. It's been twenty-something fucking years. Yet, for some reason, he still promises that he'll consider going before hanging up. His finger hovers over his father's contact afterwards, but remembering that it's midnight in France and that he has a month worth of leave accumulated, he opens his browser instead and starts searching for plane tickets.

----

A month later, Lou finds himself in the commune of Gâvres with a large backpack on his shoulder and missing his cats very dearly. They aren't even his cats, technically; his neighbours keep them as outdoor cats, and Lou, unable to stand the thought of them suffering out in the winter cold of Detroit, took them in, and now they spend more time at his than at their original owners'. Having dropped them off at Hank's - that man takes better care of his pet (now pets) than himself - Lou isn't worried - he doubts his neighbours will even notice that their cats are gone. Emotions are terrible things, however, and the purpose of this trip alone makes it different from all the time he has visited his father before. At least he hasn't just recovered from nearly dying from implant rejection this time.

'Louis?'

Lou turns when he hears his father's voice and the awkward weight reminds him that he hasn't taken off his backpack yet and has been standing in the living room of his father's house staring at nothing for the past few minutes. Not waiting for his son to take it off, Papa Allen crosses the room and embraces Lou, sweat and all. 'How are you?' he asks in French, and when Lou answers truthfully in the same language, 'I missed you,' somehow everything in the world goes right again. Fuck the deviant crisis, fuck the android-infested America that makes his nerves buzz every single waking moment, fuck absent mothers still managing to make a comeback years after she died. He's just Louis Allen, absolutely not a SWAT captain, not the only survivor of the Blast, not the pioneer/guinea pig of CyberLife's groundbreaking cybernetics technology.

He has to let go of his father. 'I hope it's okay. What I did with Mom.'

Papa sighs. 'How about you take off that thing first,' indicating the backpack, 'and settle down for now.'

So Lou walks up the stairs and deposits his backpack in the room designated as his, and, catching sight of the other bed in the room, his legs suddenly feel weak, and he lowers himself, trembling, onto his mattress. Smart, fearless Anna, whose brain always runs - ran - a lot faster than the rest of the world.

Who graduated top of her class and as the Valedictorian of the academy, and subsequently disappeared without a trace.

His left leg twitches. The feeling of something foreign using his body returns, and when he leans forward - with a difficulty that wasn't there before - to take off his sock, it reveals white and grey chassis. A stark reminder that he owes her his life two times over despite her being the younger sibling.

‘How come I’m still alive?’ was the first question he asked after he regained his voice. ‘Ryder threw a fucking building on me.’

‘I dug you out, Lulu,’ replied Anna. ‘Freaky glowy telekinesis finally has its use. I was hungry for hours afterwards.’

At that moment, Lou made the mistake of looking down and seeing his pure white leg. ‘What the hell happened to my leg?’

‘CyberLife’s newest tech.’ As if to demonstrate how he should use his new leg, she gave his feet a poke, and Lou nearly screamed from the sensation. He did not expect to feel anything at all, but apart from the looks, the leg felt...real. ‘Fucking building crushed half your pelvis, your entire left leg and a rib. It’s already minced when I uncovered you, so they need to rebuild everything from scratch. I asked them to add something that can help you control the telekinesis better as well, so we’ll need to test it out later. No more randomly exploding shit. And before you ask, yes, your junk’s unharmed.’

Lou’s coma-addled brain struggled to process the influx of information, and all he got was, ‘I should’ve died.’

Anna hit the break to what seemed to be the beginning of a technical jargon-filled rant. ‘Well yes,’ she gestured just like the meme, ‘but you lived.’

‘No one survives after being crushed by a building, Anna,’ he said, voice rising. Then he asked in French since English felt too raw, ‘Exactly how much tech is in me right now? And how long was I out for? Why did CyberLife choose me?’

She looked away.

‘Anna?’

‘I don’t fucking know, okay?’ she replied in the same language. ‘You were on the brink of death when I dug you out, and there Ryder was, offering to save your life for no cost. You were in a medically-induced coma for one month and was out for reconstruction for another. It took your body two weeks to get used to the cybernetics and...here you are.’

‘Ryder offered,’ Lou said slowly, ‘to save me? As in Sara Ryder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anna, she was the one who threw the building on me!’

‘I know. One more reason to let her save you.’

‘But you did it anyway.’

‘I did.’

‘Even though you know it’ll probably come back to bite our asses.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You know the answer, Lulu.’

And Lou has stopped denying that he does a few years ago. Anna joined the Air Force to fly, to be closer to the sky, but he knows that it wasn’t enough; from the way she turned her eyes towards the aurora when they were young, the attention she paid towards all news related to space observation and exploration, to the talks about leaving the wasteland that is known as earth behind and finding a new home in the cosmos - Anna belongs to the abyss of space. The military was simply a stepping stone towards something greater, a greatness that she must be working towards somewhere on this god-forsaken piece of rock.

The place where Lou’s flesh meets his implants aches in anticipation of the storm that will no doubt force them to remain indoors for days. Grinding his teeth in the numbing pain, he uses his hands to put his non-functional left leg onto the bed and lies down sideways with his back towards his sister’s bed, his phone buzzing in his pocket to notify him of an unexpected software error that may take hours to fix. Switching on do-not-disturb, he shoves the offending piece of technology underneath his pillow and loses his fight against jet lag and pain.

----

Lou wakes up cold and hungry. He is covered by a blanket that wasn't there when he fell asleep, so his father must have checked on him when he realized that his son was doing more than putting down his luggage, and the dark sky outside the window almost brings him back again before it flashes.

Then the booming thunder reminds him that it isn't dusk at all.

He successfully rolls over on his other side, which means that his cybernetics are functional once more. Kicking the blanket away, he sits up and grimaces at the taste of his mouth.

He feels better after his regular morning rituals, though the lack of three furry friends harassing him and brushing against his feet is something that he'll need to get used to, and his father is cooking lunch when he reaches the kitchen.

'Morning, Louis,' Papa says as he hands the pan over to his son. 'What did they drag you through to have you sleep for so long?'

Lou is glad that he can use concentrating on not burning his food as an excuse to buy himself a minute. Should he tell his father the truth, or should he avoid talking about work just like many people do during their vacation? 'Things are getting bad in Detroit,' he decides in the end as going on a vacation at one's father's house isn't exactly normal either. 'Androids are breaking their programming and starts having their own thoughts. CyberLife's trying to cover it up, but I've dealt with enough violent deviants - that's what they're calling those androids - to know it's gonna be a problem real soon if they don't solve it now.' A pause to think of how to continue. 'I'm glad you're not in America anymore.'

'It must be exhausting,' is his father's reply, and that's all Lou needs to realize that his father has no idea what he's talking about. Then again, the man moved back to France before androids were a thing, and although they kept in frequent contact, Lou never talked much about his work; the police getting reformed means that SWAT is deployed only when peace is not the option - that means seeing people get hurt or die constantly. Androids aren't really a thing in Europe, so his father never experienced the 'androids taking over everything and making everyone lose their jobs' shit. He won't understand.

'That's why I'm here.'

They lapse into silence as Lou finishes cooking and empties the content of the pan onto two plates. Never one for formality, Papa brings them to the living room, sitting at the corner of a couch while Lou retrieves his plate and fork and curls onto the window sill. At this proximity, he can feel the raindrops hitting the glass as if he is standing in the rain.

Papa clears his throat. 'About your mother, Louis.'

Lou tears his eyes away from the raindrop he's betting on to win. He hastily shoved some eggs into his mouth to buy himself some time to mentally prepare for the conversation. 'What now?'

What he actually says isn't what Lou expected. 'I'm glad about what you did with your mother's body.'

'Her skeleton, you mean,' he replies. 'What's left of it anyways. I don't think they found the whole set.'

'Still,' Papa isn't looking at him. 'That's what she would've wanted. And by I'm glad - I'm not opposed to it.'

'That's it?' Lou turns back towards the rain. 'That wasn't your reaction when they told you that she was MIA.'

'I was young - younger - back then,' a sigh. 'It wasn't fair to you. Or to Anna. Especially to Anna. I'm sorry.'

No it wasn't, Lou wants to say, but - 'I've made peace with it a long time ago. Mom, me and Anna, Alaska; that was all you knew. I... I don't blame you for it.'

He has to close his eyes and press his forehead against the glass. He considers switching to German to further detach his emotions, but then he realizes that nearly everything has fled his mind from disuse. Why does he think spending his vacation with his father right after they discovered that his mother might have died painfully a good idea?

'That's what I thought I'd react when you called me, you know?' Papa says. 'I thought I'd break down. Then I realized that I've moved on and... that's it. Hard not to after more than twenty years.' Even with his vision gone, Lou can still feel his father's gaze on him. 'You've done that for your mother. Have you, for Anna? It's been ten years.'

'Have you, Papa?' Lou asks instead of answering even though he knows his answer. 'Can you stand the thought of your daughter gone as well?'

'After your mother?' the father feeds himself a mouthful of food and swallows. 'Kind of have to.'

'Of course you did. I raised her, not you.'

That is the last thing he says to his father before the storm goes away.

----

Emotionally exhausted, Lou goes to sleep early despite waking up not ten hours ago.

He knows he’s dreaming as soon as he opens the door and discovers his childhood living room behind it. The room is dark, so the lights must have been switched off, and even though it feels like he has smacked his hand all over the wall it’s on, he still can’t find the switch. It does bring him closer to the window, outside where a storm is going on at full force and paints everything white, and although he knows that what he is seeing isn’t real, he dreads the upcoming and necessary shovelling.

The world is suddenly lit up from behind him, followed by the voice of Neil deGrasse Tyson and the clicks of a keyboard. When Lou turns, Anna is there sitting in front of the couch, her brother's homework scattered in a semi-circle around her, and an old, bulky laptop snug between her crossed legs. It should have been a normal day in their house in Anchorage had Anna been a child but not an adult, which is the form Dream Anna is appearing in - she is younger than him by nearly eight years.

‘Where’s the light switch?’ Lou asks, looking around for good measure. ‘As much as you enjoy Cosmos, a documentary about space isn’t sufficient lighting.’

‘Relax,’ says Anna. ‘Eye problems aren’t in our genes.’ Then, waving at the papers around her, ‘Everything’s done. Your teachers didn’t suspect a thing,’ she gets younger and younger following each syllable until her age makes sense, ‘but you asked me to do it on a separate piece of paper, so I did. Feel free to copy directly if you wish.’

That is when Lou realizes that she’s playing games on the notebook, something that looks like a simplified version of Temple Run but set in space. ‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I’d like to keep the creases on my brain.’ Then he notices that his sister didn’t really answer his question, so he asks again, ‘How am I supposed to switch on the lights?’

‘With your phone,’ is the matter-of-fact reply. ‘Don’t tell me you uninstalled the fucking app for cat pictures.’

‘For one last time, Anna, I don’t download cat pictures.’ And it hits him. ‘Wait, phone? The house isn’t automated when you’re at this age.’

‘Is it?’

Anna stands up and stalks closer to her brother, and she grows and grows and grows until they’re off the same height and she looks... older, how she should look like if she’s alive she’s still here. She is now Major Anna White Allen of the United States Air Force, dressed smartly in her dress uniform except for her cap, which she holds in her right hand. Their surroundings have also changed to that of the Phillips' penthouse terrace, harsh wind whipping around them.

'You aren't real,' Lou breathes, feeling light-headed. ‘You - you’re gone. Just like Mom.’

‘Open your eyes, then. End this early if you want to. Forget that this ever happened. I don’t mind.’

It is followed by a terrifying moment of wakefulness, the images blurring and then regaining clarity as he stays asleep. ‘And Papa wants me to let you go,’ he says with a sad chuckle.

‘Why?’

‘We found what’s left Mom. How long do we need to wait to find what’s left of you?’

‘Why are you talking like I’m dead?’

‘Cause you probably are, like Mom?’

‘I know you think we’re alike,’ an eye roll, ‘but we’re different.’

‘Say you’re not dead. Where the hell are you?’

‘Does it matter?’

A blink. They’re floating in space, Anna dressed in some form of armor, and Lou in normal clothes. He attempts to draw a breath and wakes up choking and crying, the dream completely forgotten save for the faint image of Anna falling towards earth and getting burnt to crisps.

----

A few days later, Lou finds himself walking on the beach with his father. The sky is cloudy and the wind is strong, so it is cool even though it’s September and Lou grew up in Alaska. They started throwing questions back and forth ten minutes into their walk, some of them silly and simple and give them a good laugh, but the others -

‘Answer me honestly, Louis. Do you think Anna’s dead?’

It is easy. ‘No.’

‘Where do you think she is, then?’

Lou’s face suddenly becomes too hot to bear. ‘Does it matter?’

‘If it affects you, yes.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. She wouldn’t want us to speculate.’

‘But she’s not here, is she? Maybe you’ll feel better after you say it out loud.’

Lou sighs, oh how the turntables… ‘In space, probably.’

‘You’d think we’ll hear about that.’

‘Secret space programs exist, Papa.’

‘Not in America.’

‘I never said it’s an American program,’ Lou says as he kicks a rock away. ‘Do you know what they said when I received the first call from the Air Force? They asked me if Anna has ties with other space agencies even though she’s never been in NASA; she just talked about other countries’ space programs so much that they suspected her having ties with them.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘You know you won’t see her again, right?’

Lou halts his steps. Anna? Gone forever? ‘Does it matter?’

Papa sighs. ‘You’re in denial, Louis. You didn’t do this with your mother.’

How dare he - ‘Of course I didn’t, she was barely there!’ he has to put a few steps between them. ‘I raised Anna! How do you think that’s even comparable?’

‘I simply don’t want you to live in uncertainty for the rest of your life.’

‘You just don’t know your daughter,’ he counters. ‘She told me she’ll come back.’

‘You know -’

‘You don’t know shit!’

He runs. His lungs and legs are strained when he gets home, his father’s home, but he doesn't stop at that. He packs his stuff (not that there’s much to put back into his backpack), jumps into his rental car, and is back in Brest before he knows what he’s doing. His return flight is next week, so he has a lot of time to kill.

In the end, he takes a trip around the country alone, going to places he both never had time for and, if he’s been there before, misses dearly. He may have forgotten what they’ve talked about, but he remembers Anna visiting him often. The images flee his mind whenever he tries to recall them, but he doesn’t think they’re talking on earth, and he always wishes that he at least remembers some of it.

A few months later, he’ll learn that his speculations are closer to the truth than he thinks. A few months later, Louis Allen will prove his father wrong.

But he doesn’t know that yet. Therefore, after collecting the cats from Hank and unpacking his luggage, he takes all of Anna’s things and puts them into a box, telling himself that it is the first step towards admitting that maybe, it’s a big fucking maybe, he will never see his sister again.

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: Graham Norton (Keanu x F!Reader)

Summary:  based off Keanu’s first appearance in Graham Norton and the ‘I never’ bit.

Pairing: Keanu x F!Reader

Author’s Notes: So this has been sitting on my laptop for a while. I’m not all that happy with it and Keanu went so ooc in this, but that the hell! I’m gonna let you guys be the judge of it! Thank you @caryled​ for being my beta on this.

Wordcount: 2485

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol, but otherwise pretty safe.

You’ve spent months saving money for this trip because it was your dream. You didn’t even remember when you started wishing you’d spend one of your birthdays in London, but it was finally happening now, on your twentieth-first. You thought it was fitting - such a momentous occasion marked by the trip of your life.

You and your best friend Sadie arrived a couple of days before New Year’s Eve of 2011 and would spend ten days in London, including your birthday. You planned to do so much on that trip that when you shared your ideas with Sadie, she nearly asked for a refund on her ticket.

The two of you began with all the regular tourist stuff, but there were also a few things that would be so special to you, like visiting some of the Doctor Who locations and doing the Jack the Ripper Walking Tour in Whitechapel, because you were a true-crime enthusiastic.

Along with all the sightseeing and other attractions, you and Sadie went barhopping every night, or better saying, pub hopping. Not only you because Sadie wanted to enjoy being able to legally drink since she wasn’t turning twenty-one until September, but you also wanted the best London experience you could get.

And to make sure that happened, the two of you made a pack in the airport of your hometown to assure neither of you would miss a unique opportunity by being embarrassed or afraid.

Whenever one of you said I dare you, the other had to do it or face the consequences, which would probably be an even more embarrassing or terrifying prank so the one being challenged might as well just suck it up and do the first dare already. So far, neither of you had backed down from a dare and you had all the pictures to prove it. As well as the hangovers.

On the morning of your birthday and Sadie woke you up at the crack of dawn, jumping on your bed and scaring the shit out of you. She had a higher alcohol tolerance than you, so even though both of you drank around the same amount, you had a pounding headache, while she looked fresh and wide awake.

“Rise and shine my dear! It’s your birthday! You’re officially legal! How does it feel?” She asked, bouncing on your bed.

“I hate you!” you groaned, feeling your stomach queasy. Your mouth tasted like something had crawled inside and died. “It’s six in the morning!”

“I know! I could barely sleep! I wanted to give you your present!” She announced, voice high-pitched with excitement as she shoved an envelope in your hands. “Open it!”

Grumbling in annoyance, you sat up and rubbed your eyes, trying to force yourself into consciousness. Fortunately, Sadie took pity on you and brought over some water and a bottle of aspirin.

You popped two pills before finally opening the envelope under Sadie's giddy gaze. You found two tickets to something called The Graham Norton Show that would happen that night.

“Thanks, Sadie,” you said, trying to force a happy smile. You could tell that she was obviously excited about this.

“Turn it around,” she asked, still smiling and unfazed by your less than enthusiastic response.

You obeyed and when your brain registered the name of one of the guests, your eyes went wide with shock.

“OH MY GOD!” You screamed looking at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!” She grinned. “Happy birthday, bitch!”

You looked back at the tickets, still in disbelief. Your favorite actor, Keanu Reeves would be a guest at the Graham Norton show tonight. You were going to share a room with Keanu, breathe the same air, maybe you’d get to ask a question? Was Graham Norton the kind of show with audience interaction?

To be honest, you didn’t really care. You were just happy to see him in person. That would be a dream come true. A photo and an autograph would be just a cherry on top, but not an actual need.

“You’re the best friend ever!” You told Sadie, pulling her into a bearhug, hungover completely forgotten.

You spent the rest of the day beaming with excitement, unable to focus on anything other than counting down the hours and minutes until you finally got to see Keanu. And maybe that was a little geeky of you, but you put on your The Matrix T-shirt for the night. Not only it was your favorite tee, but also such a special occasion deserved it.

You and Sadie arrived early at the studio, but there was still a line to get in. The two of you got good seats, middle section. Of course, you wanted to be closer, but you could only imagine how much those tickets would cost.

You could barely contain your excitement when he finally came on stage, dressed in an all-black suit, his long hair touching the collar of his shirt; beard a little unkempt, but it still suited him perfectly. As you watched him, your heart hammered against your ribs and your chest felt tight, like you were struggling to breathe. You just couldn’t sit still.

So, you took a moment to force yourself to relax and control your breathing. It wouldn’t do you any good having an anxiety attack right now. You’d miss the entire show and your chance of fangirling over Keanu.

It was a good interview and you couldn’t believe you’ve never heard of this talk show before. The host was pretty funny and had great chemistry with all the guests. He gave Keanu quite a lot of attention and the comedian, Marcus, was making a lot of comments on what was said.

You found it really sweet how Keanu tried to get Emilia involved in the conversation since she was quiet for a while, something that should’ve been the host’s job. You enjoyed the easy banter the four of them seemed to share and all the new tidbits of information about Keanu you were learning that day.

When it came time for the ‘I never’ section, something that Graham had explained before the show started and invited the audience to think on really common stuff that they had never done, but everyone else might have.

As Norton walked between the rolls of seats, talking to the audience, Sadie tugged your arm, catching your attention.

“I dare you to say I never kissed Keanu Reeves,” she whispered to you with a wicked grin and you stared at her wide-eyed.

“You’re crazy! I’m not doin’ it!” You hissed, feeling your cheeks hot at the mere thought of it.

“Do you really wanna face the consequences?” she asked with an arched eyebrow and from the way she was smirking, you could tell she was planning a terrible prank if you kept saying no.

So, against your better judgment, you put your hand up, praying that Norton wouldn’t pick you. There were many other people whose hands were raised as well.

He walked right past you to talk to the girl who had never seen The Matrix and you gasped in shock. You could sort of forgive someone not having read or seen Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, but The Matrix?

Then Norton teased the guy that never ironed a shirt and for a moment you almost sighed in relief thinking you’d be free from the embarrassment.

“How about you?” he asked, gesturing at you and you froze, nearly dropping the mic when he gave it to you. “Where are you from, dear?”

“I came here for my birthday,” you replied, voice trembling.

“Oh! Happy birthday,” Norton said with a smile. “So, what’s your I never?”

You glanced at Sadie, pleading with your eyes, but her smirk only grew, and she shook her head. So, taking a deep breath and avoiding looking over the stage, you said:

“I-uh never kissed Keanu Reeves.”

People around you were chuckling and clapping and you just wanted to hide and pretend you didn’t just say that aloud.

Against your better judgment, you glanced at the stage and your gaze briefly locked with Keanu’s warm brown eyes. You could tell he was a little flustered in embarrassment, but there was a soft, amused smile playing on his lips.

“Good try,” Norton declared, laughing. “But you never will.”

Keanu finally looked away from you when Norton returned to the stage and the show resumed with the interviews. You found it hard to keep your gaze on the guests, still too mortified and confused. You even ignored Sadie, because she was mean and you hated her a little, even if she was your best friend.

When the show was finally over, you couldn’t wait to get out, put as much distance between yourself and what happened tonight, but the isles between the seats were narrow so you had to wait for everyone else in front of you to move before you could step out.

“Excuse me, miss?” a male voice called, and you turned to see a man in all black and with a headset on standing behind you. He looked like he worked for production. “Can you come with me, please?”

You shared a quick look with Sadie, but she just shrugged, promising to wait for you outside, before you followed the production assistant.

He took you through a maze of hallways behind the main stage until he paused at a door and knocked once before opening it for you. When you stepped inside, you froze in shock at seeing Keanu Reeves up close.

“Hi there,” he smiled and offered you a hand.

You stared at it for a moment, your brain too overwhelmed to actually process what was going on. He actually giggled, ducking his head and that was what finally shook you from your stunned silence.

“Hi!” you managed to stutter your name and take his hand and you were shaking. “I’m so sorry about what I said. It was a stupid dare from a friend.”

“It’s fine, I thought it was funny,” Keanu actually patted your hand in a comforting manner, and you managed a small, relieved smile. “Cool shirt.”

You looked down at yourself and chuckled, feeling your cheeks hot.

“Thanks. It’s one of my favorite movies,” you started. “I love your movies.”

You forced yourself to stop there even if you wanted to say more. Even if you wanted to tell him how much you appreciated his work and how his movies meant to you, but you didn’t want to sound too eager and weird.

“Thank you,” he replied with a smile, looking a half pleased, half self-conscious. “Listen, I just want to make sure you were alright. You looked really embarrassed afterward and like I said, I really didn’t mind.”

That was really sweet of him to worry, especially when you embarrassed both of you in front of a huge audience and on live TV. And just remembering it made you cringe.

“Hey, come on. It’s your birthday,” Keanu said in a comforting tone, correctly deducing why you were making that face. “You should enjoy it. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you managed a smile because he looked a little awkward himself as he tried to console you and that was cute. “Can I have a picture and an autograph?”

“Of course.”

You grabbed your phone from your pocket and positioned yourself next to him, snapping a couple of pictures. You checked them quickly, making sure they were good, before pocketing your phone again.

“Do you have a piece of paper?” Keanu asked, picking up a sharpie pen.

For a moment you hesitated. You did have your Graham Norton ticket with you, but there wasn’t where you wanted the autograph.

“Can you do it on my shirt?”

“Sure.”

Beaming, you shrugged off your jacket and turned his arm at him, and Keanu signed your sleeve. You glanced over and grinned when you realized that he also wrote Welcome to the desert of the real, a line from the movie.

“Thank you so much!”

He just chuckled, pocketing the sharpie. He opened the door for you, stepping out of the dressing room along with you and leading the way to a maze of hallways.

 “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a majoring in English,” you replied, hands in your pocket as you walked side by side. “I’ve got one term left so I should probably start figuring out what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life.”

You had no idea why you just said that to Keanu, a complete stranger. You weren’t one to blurt out your private dilemmas. Not even to your own friends.

“Well, what do you want to do?” he asked, sounding actually curious.

“Am I being realistic or a dreamer?”

“Realistic,” Keanu replied, glancing at you.

“I want to teach,” you said with a fair amount of confidence. You already had a few internships and you knew that was something you liked doing it.

“And what’s your dream?”

The two of you had stopped in front of an emergency back exit. Keanu probably didn’t want to be mobbed by fans by going through the main entrance of the studio. 

Keanu watched you as you thought about his question. It wasn’t as if you didn’t know the answer. It was just that you had never said aloud before. Not even to yourself, but you wanted to say it to him. He had been your inspiration after all. If it hadn’t been for his movies, you would have never realized how much you loved to create your own stories; how much you loved to write.

“I want to be a writer,” you confessed, and his smile shifted into something soft and understanding and it took your breath away.

“Can I offer some advice?” he said, and you nodded. “Life’s too short to get stuck doing something you don’t really love. Follow your dreams.”

You felt your heart swell with emotion at the simple encouragement because it was so full of meaning. You couldn’t even begin to tell him how much it meant to you.

You met his gaze again in the half-light of the hallway and there was something in them that you couldn’t quite name, but it held you still, rooted to your spot, heart thundering in your chest, a lump of emotion closing of your throat.

Keanu leaned forward, his lips brushing softly against yours, beard tickling your skin. It was a barely-there touch, but it felt branded on you.

“Now you can have some fun in your next I never game,” he said with a small smirk and you grinned. “It was very nice to meet you.”

He stepped back and held the door open for you.

“You too, Keanu.”

You stepped outside a huge grin on your lips. This had certainly been the best birthday ever.

xxx

Taglist (give me a shout if you want to added.)

@poisonedjoinery @ringa-starr @curly-minnie @i-cant-remember-my-old-login

@caryled @beyond-antares @kathorax @krazycags01 @meetmeinthematinee

@red-pill-blue-pill @baphometwolf666

[thepartyresponsible]

happy whumptober! here’s a short winterhawk fic about struggling to survive in the zombie apocalypse.

warnings for general misery and apocalypse perils. also for an shocking lack of actual zombies.

The canned food ran out two days ago. Ever since, they’ve been working through what Natasha calls the perpetual stew, an ever-simmering pot of whatever-the-hell. Mushrooms and rabbit, the carrots they weren’t supposed to pull up until spring.

The pot’s never meant to go empty. That’s what makes it perpetual. Natasha explained it in the fall, back when they were still pulling what felt like an endless array of vegetables out of the dirt. But she took the pot off the fire last night, made the kids wait until it was cool before she let them run their fingers over the metal, scrape out the very last of whatever food they could find.

The canned food is gone. The old stuff from before the world ended, and the new stuff they made themselves. The stew pot’s empty.

It’s midwinter, so everything smart is hibernating or hidden. Clint goes out every morning, but the most he’s come back with is a couple of winter-weight rabbits. It’s not enough.

Thor and Sam left a week ago, headed for the skeletal, picked-over remains of any town they could find. Clint doesn’t expect they’ll be back. And if they make it back, he doesn’t have much hope of them bringing anything with them.

He dreams about grocery stores. Deli counters and free samples and endless aisles of potato chips and Oreo’s. All kinds of things he’ll never have again.

He wakes up later and later. When you can’t eat, you sleep. The body only runs on credit for so long.

The morning after the stew runs out, he digs the tiny bag of instant coffee out of the back of his backpack. He was saving it for spring. He doesn’t see much reason to save anything now.

Natasha catches him at it, drinking hot coffee in the weak daylight, face lifted toward the sun, eyes closed. She’s always known him better than he ever knew himself. She leans into him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and she doesn’t ask, but he shares the coffee with her anyway.

“You should stay,” she tells him. Her cheekbones are sharp like they used to be, back when she was barely nineteen and it seemed like the whole world was taking turns taking bites out of her. She softened over the years, but she’s re-honed now. She picked up her old edges like any high quality blade will, when needed.

She’s the one who insisted on rations. She’s the only one who knew this was coming, could see this even back in September, when it seemed like they’d have food forever. It wasn’t enough. She let them take too much, and now there’s nothing.

He doesn’t blame her for that. He hopes she doesn’t blame herself.

“Saw some tracks yesterday,” he tells her. “Elk, I think.”

And God knows what the hell he’d do with an elk if he got one. He couldn’t lift a Golden Retriever right now. Hell, a Corgi might be a struggle. He hasn’t been this skinny since the circus. He hasn’t been this hungry since he lived with his parents. And maybe not even then.

Maybe this, right here, is the worst he’s ever felt.

But Natasha tips her head against his shoulder, presses the coffee back into his hands. He breathes in. It sounds stupid, but he missed the smell. A whole world to miss, the whole Goddamn functioning society they lost when the dead started eating the living, and he misses coffee.

Well, he misses central heating, too. And pizza. He misses indoor plumbing and late night TV and firefighters and cops and paramedics. He misses having someone, anyone, to call for help. He misses cities and streetlights and a guaranteed future.

He takes another long sip of coffee. He breathes in the smell. It’s not so bad, really. Could be worse. He has Natasha, and Tony, and Pepper, and Morgan, and Harley, and Peter. And Sam and Thor, if they ever make it back. He has some kind of family. Took the whole world ending, but he found a family anyway.

He’s not going to lose them. And if he does, it won’t be his fault.

He hands the coffee back to Natasha. There’s a sip and a half left. He wants her to have it. He’d give her any wonderful thing he had. He’d give all of them anything he had.

“I’ll be back,” he tells her. “With dinner.”

He doesn’t believe it, but he says it anyway.

Natasha curls her hands around the coffee mug. Her eyes aren’t sad when they look at him, but he can’t really describe what he sees in them. The smile she gives him could break his heart, but the whole inside of him is frozen up. There’s nothing beating warm enough to break.

“Just come back,” she says.

He nods. He doesn’t say anything. When he leaves, he allows himself the small mercy of not looking back.

  There aren’t many people left. Clint wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how many survived. The sickness was viciously viral, airborne and mean. The walking dead got all the fanfare, but the pandemic itself killed something like a third of the people it infected, and only about a quarter of those reanimated later. If you lived through the sickness, you couldn’t get it again. Even a bite wouldn’t kill you.

But if you got bit first, you always died. And you always came back.

The last Clint heard, the worldwide death toll was estimated at something like 500 million. He can’t even hold that number in his head. And that was before the news stopped, before the governments fell, before the cities turned to slaughterhouses.

He has no idea what the final death toll was. Mostly, he’s been trying not to add to it.

That first year, everything was a mess. Everyone who lived was desperate. The winter killed a lot of them, and those that survived learned to be wary of strangers. Clint hasn’t seen anyone outside of his small adopted family for something like six months.  

They haven’t seen any zombies in that time frame either. Bodies decay. There’s probably a few left in more temperate climes, but, up in the mountains, they’ve been safe enough.

Clint’s not even looking for people. That’s his mistake.

He’s tracking elk, dragging himself toward the north slope, hoping to find them bedded down against the chill. It’s a sunless day, overcast and cold. They have more sense than he does. Well, they’re a lot less desperate, too.

It takes him hours to find them. And when he does, he has to sneak up close. They’re smart, and they’re fast, and he only has one chance.

He doesn’t think about it. About what the hell he’s going to do if he manages it. About how he barely dragged himself here. About how he doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting this meat back to the others.

He presses on anyway. There’s no other option. It doesn’t matter that he can’t. He has to.

But when he goes to take the shot, his hands are shaking. He’s cold, and he’s weak, and he can’t shoot his fucking bow.

He closes his eyes. He takes a breath. He thinks, as hard as he can, about how small Morgan is, about how she cried last night because she was hungry. He thinks about Nat, so skinny he can count the individual vertebrae of her spine through her shirt. He thinks about Tony, who stopped eating days ago, keeps sneaking his food to Harley and Morgan and Peter.

He can’t, but he has to. He got all the way here.

His hands are shaking. His fingertips are numb. He should’ve worn more layers; he should’ve brought better gloves. But he wasn’t sure he was going to make it back, and he didn’t want to take too much when he didn’t know if he’d be able to return it.

He’s too cold, and he’s too hungry. He kept skipping meals to keep them all fed, and now he can’t feed them at all.

They need him. He has to.

He breathes out. He clenches his jaw so tight his teeth creak. He thinks of summer days and beaches and bonfires. He pulls the string back, and his fingers fumble, too numb to grip. The bow string twaps loud and empty against nothing, and the elk snort, leaping to their feet.

No, he thinks. Frantic, and panicked. He scrambles for the arrow, lurches to his feet. The elk are faster. Warmer, and better fed. He tries to pull the arrow back, but the shaking has spread to his arms now. He can’t do a Goddamn thing.

There’s the echoing crack of a gunshot, and one of the elk groans, low and pained, and tips over into the snow, legs kicking. The rest of the herd bolt down the slope.

Clint stares at the dying elk and can’t even comprehend what’s happening until a man emerges from the trees. The elk’s barely moving, too close to death to fight, and the man cuts its throat while Clint watches.

The stranger moves with an easy efficiency, kneeling in the snow while he pulls tools out of his bag. He’s dark-haired and scruffy, looks feral in a way that Clint can’t quite articulate. He doesn’t know why it makes him so nervous. Nobody looks particularly civilized these days.

Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t seen a strange face in so long.

It’s too bad, really, that the first stranger he meets is stealing a kill Clint couldn’t take himself but also can’t afford to lose. He puts his bow away and draws his knife. He’ll have to get close to use it, but it feels steadier in his hands than the bow.

By the time he leaves cover, the man’s already staking out the elk, tying its legs to tent spikes he jams into the frozen ground. If Clint waits long enough, maybe he’ll field dress the whole damn thing.

“You gonna help?” the man asks, when Clint gets maybe fifteen yards away. He looks up suddenly, looks right at him. His eyes fall on the knife, but he doesn’t look concerned so much as he looks irritated. “You gonna help?” he asks, again. “Or are you gonna cause problems?”

Clint hesitates. His hands are still shaking. It feels like every part of him is trembling. He had the coffee this morning and a quarter of a can of peaches two days back, and that’s been it. He hasn’t been full since Christmas.

When the man stands up, he’s too Goddamn big for the end of the world. He’s muscular like Thor was muscular back in the fall, when they had the food to feed all that bulk. But the look in his eyes is meaner than Thor, who’s always been so sweet-natured and friendly. The look in his eyes is cold and assessing, not friendly at all.

“I need that,” Clint says. He points at the elk. “I’ve got people to feed.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together. It’s a weird thing to notice, but it catches Clint’s attention. Under the sweep of all that dark hair, under the threat of that scowl, he has beautiful eyes. Bright and sky-blue. Intelligent.

There’s a weird moment, stretching out between them. The man shifts his weight. He runs his tongue over his teeth. It’s an anxious tell, more uncertain than angry.

“I know you need it,” the man says, finally. “Followed you for two miles. Figured there’s no way in hell you’d be out here if you didn’t have to be.”

Clint’s five miles out from their small grouping of cabins, but two miles is still too Goddamn close to the others. He’s lost the knack for hiding. There hasn’t been anything to hide from. He’s sure he left tracks leading straight home.

He’s tired. He’s so damn tired. It’s overwhelming, suddenly. He wants to lay down and sleep until none of this is his problem anymore. Until he doesn’t have problems anymore.

But last night, Morgan cried. She’s just a kid. She deserves better.

“There’s kids,” Clint says. He doesn’t know that it’ll do any good. Sometimes you have to bank on mercy. Anyway, if this guy wants to hurt them, he’ll have to get past Natasha. And Natasha, even at bantamweight, is a wolverine in human skin. “There’s kids, and they’re hungry. I have to get this back to them.”

The man just stares at him. He has a knife in his hand, bloodied up from the elk, and a look on his face like he can’t figure out what the hell Clint is saying to him. Finally, he clears his throat.

“I’m trying to help you, asshole,” he says.

Oh, Clint thinks. It jars in his head so hard that all the other thoughts run right into the back of it, like a trainwreck in his mind. He doesn’t think anything for what has to be almost a full minute.

“Listen,” the man says. He reaches up, hooks his long hair back out of his face. It leaves a streak of red across the pale skin of his cheek. He shrugs his backpack off, tosses it so it lands halfway between them. “You look really shaky. Maybe you should eat something.”

Clint stares at him, waiting for the trap. But the man just shrugs, seems to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He turns his back on Clint and goes back to the elk.

There’s blood on the snow. Clint can smell it from here. Some ancient part of him, something brainstem-level and bent on survival, kicks awake at that smell, and his stomach twists up, so fierce and insistent that it aches like it’s going to leave bruises on his heart.

He crouches down, keeps the knife in one hand, and carefully opens the backpack.

There’s a treasure trove in there. Packaged food from pre-collapse, and plastic bags of what looks like jerky. Bottles of what’s probably water. Campbell’s chicken soup in a pull-top can.

Clint thinks, ludicrously, that he’s going to cry.

He takes the soup, instead. Drops the knife in the snow. He rips off the top and drinks it, knocking back the broth. The salt makes his brain hum, lights up all the taste buds on his tongue. He slumps, eyes closed.

“Jesus,” the man says.

When Clint opens his eyes, those blue eyes are narrowed. His frown is serious, and troubled. Disgusted, maybe.

Clint had honestly forgotten what embarrassment feels like. He wants to rub at his mouth, but he licks the soup off his lips and chin instead. In that moment, there isn’t enough shame in the world to make him waste good broth on manners.

“Maybe slow down,” the man advises.

“Sorry,” Clint says. He isn’t. He isn’t anything except relieved. He feels like he’s floating, like his toes and feet are miles away from his head.

His hands are still shaking, but the tremors feel less pressing now.

“Hey,” the man says. He kneels up in the snow. The concern on his face soften his features. He’s beautiful, Clint thinks, although the more reasonable part of him knows he’d fall in love with anybody who fed him right now. “You said there’s more of you? Kids?”

Cint nods. He should be careful. He shouldn’t give up any more information. But there’s a half-empty can of soup in his hands, and he can’t for the life of him doubt the intentions of anyone saintly enough to share food in the winter after the end of the world.

“Yeah,” he says. “Ran out of food yesterday. We’re all—there’s nothing left.”

The man looks like something out of the wild, like he was born and plans to die in the mountains, alone and unbothered by other people. But there’s worry on his face, in the intensity of his stare and the gentle downturn of his mouth. Clint shouldn’t trust him. Doesn’t trust him, maybe. But.

There’s a can of soup in Clint’s hands, and a rifle across this man’s back. If he planned to killed Clint, he could’ve done it already, before wasting supplies on a dead man walking. And if he plans to follow Clint back and hurt the people at home, he’s going to find out that feeding Clint first was a hell of a mistake.

“Okay,” the man says. “Look. My friend and I, we can help you. With the meat, I mean. Getting it back. You don’t have to—if you want, we’ll just bring it halfway, and then you can go get the others.”

Clint tips the can back up against his mouth, chews through a mouthful of noodles. He forgot what chicken tasted like. He forgot about all of it.

“Your friend,” he repeats, tracking the threat, focusing on the idea of there being more people like him. Well-fed and well-muscled. Armed.

“Yeah,” the man says. “Steve. And I’m Bucky.”

“Clint,” he says, mumbling it through more food. The bag’s still open at his side, and Bucky hasn’t said a damn thing about it, so Clint carefully swipes a bit of jerky, just to see what happens.

“Okay,” Bucky says. His eyes drop to the jerky in Clint’s hand, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, like it’s fine. Like sharing doesn’t cost him anything. Like he wants Clint to have it. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Clint laughs. He couldn’t say why, really. The giddiness of relief, probably. The unsteadiness of a brain flooded with dopamine after weeks of worry and hunger and weakness.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says. There’s salt on his tongue, and food in his hands, and a weight slowly lifting off his shoulders. When he looks down, the can holds steady. His hands aren’t shaking anymore.