#ella fitzgerald: just one of those things

[radiolilo]

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Uses they/them pronouns

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[ramp-it-up]

Trouble in Mind

Summary: Las Vegas, 1952. James Buchanan Barnes is the newest, and youngest, Capo in town. But amid the glitz and shadows of the Strip, he never expects to find you, the beautiful singer who vanished from his life six years ago without a trace. Bucky wants you back. And he wants answers. But you're only willing to give him one of those things.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Lounge Singer!Reader

A/N: This is an absolute fever dream inspired by #BuckyBarnesBirthdayBingo by @avengers-assemble-bingo. This fulfills the square: Mafia Bucky.

I went back to 50's Vegas because I need another world to get lost in. This is a little longer because this world is so fetch. I can't quite decide if he is going to be dark!Mafia! Bucky after this. Let me know what you think! Please reblog, comment, and like!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst. Lots of cigarette smoking, longing, forbidden romance, Steve and Sam (they are warnings!), Bucky is an ass, cocky Bucky, smooth talker Bucky, young love, heart break, a slap (which he deserves), rough sex, wall sex, 50's foundation garments, long time no sex, oral (f receiving) squirting praise kink, raw p in v, lies, deceit, and crime, along with 1950's race relations and allusions to Jim Crow. Whew.

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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Las Vegas, 1952

Vegas glittered at night.

Neon lights buzzed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and money. And tonight, a set of eyes was watching you that you thought you’d left far behind. 

You felt his gaze before you even saw him. It burned into you from the darkest corner of the club. The kind of stare that made your skin prickle, which was both a warning and a temptation.

Bucky.

You’d heard a new Capo was coming to take over the casino, an up and comer from the East Coast, one of the youngest Bosses ever. 

You never imagined it would be Bucky Barnes.

------ 

Brooklyn, 1946

Bucky saw you before you ever looked his way.

James Buchanan Barnes was fresh out of the war and already sinking into the life waiting for him back home.

The one his mother prayed he’d stay away from. 

The one he walked into anyway.

The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery down the block as Bucky leaned outside the corner store, trading laughs with his boys, cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching the world pass him by.

Then you walked past, on the way to your vocal lessons.

Your head was high, shoulders squared, exuding the kind of confidence that was ingrained. Your dress clung just right, swaying with each step, and Bucky swore he forgot how to breathe.

He knew your type, a daddy’s girl, from a family with expectations. A good girl from Bed-Stuy, the kind who kept her nose clean and didn’t look twice at trouble.

Trouble, like him.

Down on the corner, they could hear your voice carry over the city noise, rising like a bird above the clatter of the el train.

Lark. That’s what they called you when you weren’t listening. Never to your face.

They knew better than to get too close, and Bucky knew better than to look too long.

But he looked anyway.

And when you finally met his eyes, something in you flickered.

Your father had warned you about guys like Bucky Barnes. 

‘Young punks’, he called them, hanging outside that shop owned by the local boss. Nothing but dead ends and broken hearts. He told you to keep your head high and your eyes forward, and to remember who you were. 

And if that warning wasn’t clear enough, there was another, unspoken one layered beneath it: Girls like you don’t mix with boys like him. Not in this world.

But when Bucky looked at you with those blue eyes, you knew you were already ruined. 

He found ways to get close. 

Catching your eye when you passed by, a slow smirk when you looked away too fast. Holding the door open a second too long, letting his fingers brush yours when he handed over your change. Words, always words, low and teasing, dangerous for a girl with a mind like yours. 

Words were your weakness.

"You gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t see me, Doll?" he asked one evening, stepping into your path as you left the bakery. 

You could smell his cologne and feel his heat and why were you thinking that his lips were nice? What was the tingle in your lower back that you just knew would go away if he touched you there?

You shook your head, remembering you couldn’t entertain this.

"You gonna keep acting like it don’t matter?" you shot back, heart pounding. 

You continued on your way but that night you couldn’t sleep for thoughts of him. 

One day, he whistled as you walked by. And that day, you stopped.

"You want a problem, Barnes?"

He smirked, looking you over blatantly and licking his lips.

"A problem’s not what I want, Doll. Just enjoyin’ the view."

That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

You should’ve ignored him. Should’ve listened to your father. But you didn’t.

Because Bucky Barnes had a way of making himself impossible to ignore.

It was stolen glances at first, then hushed conversations on the stoop when the sun was setting. His voice curled around your name, making it sound like something precious. It was the thrill of his hand ghosting over yours, his fingers rough but careful, like he was afraid you’d pull away.

Except you never did.

You knew the risks. You knew people talked. In a world that kept its lines drawn thick and unyielding, Bucky chasing after you was a dangerous thing. 

But Bucky never cared about lines.

He didn't care when people whispered, when your father tightened the reins, when your friends warned you that even if he wasn’t afraid, the world wouldn’t be kind.

“You scared?” he asked one night, his voice soft but steady.

"Of what?"

"Of what happens if you let yourself want this as bad as I do.”

You should have been. But you weren’t.

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, just a bit of rebellion before you settled down and did what was expected of you. But curiosity turned into something more, something dangerous. 

Something like love.

Because when he kissed you for the first time, heat pressing against heat in the shadow of an alleyway, you didn’t care about the rules. Bucky tasted like smoke and sin and the promise of something reckless. And suddenly, all the warnings in the world didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter that Brooklyn had unspoken rules. Because Bucky knew what he wanted. And he knew you wanted him back. 

He savored those stolen nights in dark alleys, the way you melted under his touch, the way you let yourself need him, even if only when no one else could see.

And you knew that it wasn’t just about the thrill of sneaking around, or the way he could make your breath hitch with a single look. It was about him, the way he softened when it was just the two of you. The way his fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, memorizing you like you were something sacred.

The way he made you feel like you belonged to him.

Maybe you did. Because you gave him your innocence. 

But love like that didn’t come without consequences. 

What Bucky hadn’t expected, what he hadn’t planned for, was how deep he’d fall for you, how much he’d care.

You weren’t just a good time. You weren’t just a secret thrill. You were it.

The one thing that made the rest of the world fade away.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t see it coming.

One day you were there, warm and real beneath his hands. And the next, you were gone.

No warning. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished, into thin air.

And for six years, he told himself it didn’t matter. That if you wanted to leave, then fine. That he wasn’t the type to chase ghosts.

But then he saw you again, standing under the lights of a Vegas stage, your voice carving its way through the smoky haze.

And in that moment, Bucky Barnes knew one thing for certain.

This time, he wasn’t letting you run.

—-

Vegas, 1952

The man that you had to leave in the middle of the night was sitting in the lounge that you sang in. The man that you dreamed about at night as you sang love songs was right here in the room with you.

And you didn’t know how to act.

You should have run. But you didn’t.

He was seated in the VIP section, flanked by two other men in sharp suits, but he was the only one that mattered. The way he lounged, cigarette between his fingers, watching you like he never relinquished his ownership of you, made your head spin.

—--

Bucky leaned back in his seat, cigarette burning low between his fingers, letting the familiar hum of the casino settle into his bones: the money, the women, the men who thought they were untouchable.

Las Vegas glowed like sin, neon and greed dripping down its streets. It wasn’t Brooklyn, but it had its own kind of pull, its own kind of power. And now, it belonged to him.

It all revolved around him.

But none of it held his attention. Not like you did.

He saw you before you saw him, and for a moment, the world tilted as the air sucked straight out of the room.

Then you stepped onto that stage, looking like something spun from a dream, and for the first time in years, Bucky almost believed in fate.

He’d spent too long clawing his way up in this world to let anyone, or anything, decide his future for him. But seeing you again? It felt like something supernatural.

Because here you were.

In his city.

Singing like you owned the damn room.

You had changed. Not just older, not just more poised. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you commanded the stage with a presence that made every other woman in the world fade to nothing.

And your body. It was a marvel, showcased in shimmering fabric that clung to curves he remembered all too well.

Now you had fuller hips and softer edges; your body was made to be held. If he got his hands on you again, he knew there would be more of you to worship, to savor.

You weren’t that wide-eyed girl from Brooklyn anymore. And yet, you were still his Lark.

He saw the exact moment you felt his gaze, the subtle tension in your spine, the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around the mic. Even after all these years, you could still feel him.

Then your eyes found him in the dim glow of the club, and Bucky saw it, the sharp inhale, the slight part of your lips, as if you were about to say his name.

It was enough to make his chest ache.

—--

You should’ve kept walking.

You should’ve ignored the butterflies in your belly and that tingle in your back that only Bucky Barnes had been able to inspire.

But you didn’t.

Instead, after your set, you let your feet carry you straight to his table.

Bucky smirked, his fingers tapping lazily against the glass in front of him. 

Like he knew you would come to him.

Six years gone, and yet the moment your eyes locked with his, it was like no time had passed at all. But you weren’t that girl anymore. And Bucky wasn’t that boy.

He was something else now. Something more defined. The suit fit too well, the watch on his wrist cost too much, and the men flanking him sat too still, waiting for his command.

Still, when he looked at you, it wasn’t the infamous new Capo of Las Vegas James Buchanan Barnes staring back.

It was him. Your Bucky.

The boy who once kissed you breathless in the back of a borrowed car.

The boy who called you ‘Baby’ like the word belonged to him.

The boy you left behind in the dead of night, never looking back.

Until now.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, keeping your voice steady.

His smile was the same one that decimated you back in the day.

“Funny,” he said, tapping ash from his cigarette. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Your stomach flipped, but you didn’t let it show. 

Bucky had always been too good at reading you. Way too good. And then he did something dangerous. He nodded to the empty seat beside him.

“Sit with me, Doll.”

The way he said it, low and easy, like it was a foregone conclusion made your body obey like you had long ago. Your fingers twitched at your side. But instead of walking away, you lowered yourself into the seat beside him, your skin prickling with goosebumps under his gaze.

And when he smirked again, just a little, like he’d just won something, your breath hitched.

Because you both knew.

Six years apart hadn’t changed a gotdamn thing.

—--

The moment you sat down, you knew you’d already lost something. Maybe the upper hand, maybe your damn mind, but something shifted the second you met his eyes and made the choice to stay.

Bucky took another slow drag from his cigarette, like he was savoring this moment. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, peering at you through it with those blue eyes, then finally turned to the two men sitting beside him, as if he’d just remembered they were there.

“Fellas,” he drawled, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray, “this here is Trouble.”

Your lips parted slightly, a profane retort ready to go, but before you could snap back, he continued.

“Trouble, this is Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.”

Steve, the blonde with the sharp blue eyes, nodded at you, his expression unreadable. He was the kind of man who didn’t say much but noticed everything.

Sam, on the other hand, smiled a beautiful gap-toothed grin. 

“Trouble, huh?” 

He extended a hand, and you hesitated before taking it, but his grip was warm and firm.

“I gotta say, any woman that can put that look on Barnes’ face is someone I gotta know.”

You arched a brow, tilting your head. 

“And what look is that?”

Sam’s grin widened. 

“Like he just won the jackpot.”

Your stomach tightened, but you kept your face neutral. Instead, you turned back to Bucky, leveling him with a look. 

“Trouble?”

Bucky’s lips curled, and something wicked danced in his eyes. 

“You always were.”

You didn’t blink. 

“And you always loved it.”

There was a silence thick with sex between you, and again the other men were forgotten.

Then, Steve cleared his throat. 

“How do you two know each other?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, and leaned back in his seat.

“Let’s just say…” His eyes met yours, heat simmering beneath the surface.  “She used to belong to me.”

The words struck your chest like lightning. You’d learned enough curse words to set his head on fire since you’d known him last, but you didn’t lace the room with profanity. 

Your fingers curled into a fist in your lap, but you kept your expression steady. 

You weren’t the girl anymore who let Bucky Barnes own her with a smile and a whispered promise in the dark.

So you tilted your head, letting your lips curve.

“Used to,” you repeated, voice smooth as velvet. “Interesting choice of words.”

Bucky’s smile didn’t drop, but he clutched his glass tighter, and you saw the way his jaw ticked.

Sam let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the show. 

“Damn. She’s quick.”

Steve, ever the observer, just watched the exchange with a smirk.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make Bucky’s eyes flicker to your mouth and down to your cleavage before he dragged them back up. 

“If I remember right, I was the one who left.”

Bucky exhaled a slow breath through his nose, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray again, his voice a shade lower now. 

“That’s what you think?”

You raised a brow. 

“That’s what I know.”

He made a sound low in his throat before taking another sip of his drink. He gazed at you like he was trying to figure out what to do with you now that you were sitting right in front of him again.

Then his eyes narrowed just a fraction.

“So tell me, Trouble. If you walked away so easy, why are you sitting here now?”

That’s the question, you thought.

So instead of answering, you reached for his glass, plucked it from his fingers, and took a slow sip before setting it back down.

Then you met his eyes and smiled.

“Maybe I just wanted to remind you,” you said softly. “That you don’t own me anymore.”

Bucky stared at you, unreadable. That muscle in his jaw twitched again.

Then, slowly, that wicked smirk crept back onto his face and he tilted his head at you, those blue eyes sparkling.

“We’ll see about that, Lark.”

—----

Bucky watched as you set his glass back down, the ghost of your lipstick staining the rim, taunting him. Six years apart, and you still knew how to get under his skin with a single look, a single move. 

A single sentence.

Maybe I just wanted to remind you… that you don’t own me anymore.

You challenged him in ways no one else dared to. And Bucky fucking loved it.

Steve and Sam were watching, though they had the good sense to stay quiet. Sam was chuckling, and Steve’s face held a small crooked smile, one that appeared after Bucky said Lark.

Bucky didn’t give a damn about either of them right now.

His eyes stayed on you. You were trying to be tough, but you had to be feeling the same pull that he was. Bucky leaned forward, closing the space just enough to catch your scent and see your pupils blow wider. 

Gotcha.

“Never needed to own you, Doll.” 

His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. 

“That was never the game.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you caught yourself, chucking your chin up instead. 

“Then what was your game, James?”

He smiled again. He wasn’t about to hand you that answer.

Yet.

Instead, he sat back, dragging his gaze over you slowly, and licking his lips. 

You were still the most beautiful thing in the damn room, and you had to know it. That dress, those eyes; every man in this club was probably watching you, and wanting you.

But only one of them had ever had you.

And only one of them was going to again.

He tapped his fingers once against the table before rising smoothly to his feet. 

“C’mon.”

You blinked, “What?”

He nodded toward the back of the club, where the private booths were. Where you two could talk without an audience.

“Walk with me.”

A challenge. A test. A door you could still choose not to open.

Bucky saw you hesitate, for just a moment, but then you stood, smoothing out your dress and holding your head high like you hadn’t just made a decision that would change everything.

Bucky’s smirk widened.

That’s my girl.

—-

Bucky’s smirk deepened when you stood, like he’d known you would. That alone made something tighten in your chest, but you swallowed it down, lifting your chin as you followed him through the club.

The noise of the club, the conversations, the clinking of glasses, the jazz band, it all blurred as he led you toward the back, past the heavy velvet curtain that separated the VIP section from the private rooms. It infuriated you how easy it was to fall into step with him, how your body remembered before your mind could protest.

The moment you were away from prying eyes, he turned.

“You still listen like a Good Girl,” he murmured, voice smooth as smoke and just as dangerous.

You crossed your arms, shielding yourself from his stare as he leaned back against the small table between you, eyes skimming the curves of your dress like he had every right to.

“And you’re still a little asshole, Bucky.”

His smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. He pulled out a cigarette, tapping it against his lighter before the soft flicker of flame cast his face in gold. He inhaled slow, exhaled even slower.

“I think you know I’m not ‘little,’ Baby,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Bet you that cunt still curves to my dick.”

You didn’t think. Your palm met his cheek in a resounding slap before you could stop it.

Bucky only grinned.

“You must wanna see if it’s true,” he murmured, stepping closer, “because you know that turns me on.”

Your breath hitched, anger curling hot in your gut, and you turned to leave, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Sorry, Doll.”

You knew he was anything but.

Although he let you go the moment you glared at his hand, the heat of his touch lingered.

“Stay,” he said, quieter this time. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

You lifted a brow. “About?”

He studied you like he was searching for the right words.

“You left Brooklyn.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound, still fresh after six years.

You met his stare, steady. 

“I did.”

“Didn’t say a damn thing to me.”

You thought of the reason why, of the tiny heartbeat that changed your life forever, and you folded your arms tighter across your chest.

“Would it have mattered?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“That’s cute, Doll.”

His voice was rough.

“You really think I would’ve let you go?”

Your stomach clenched, but you didn’t flinch. 

“That might be why I didn’t tell you.”

His jaw ticked, frustration creeping into the lines of his face. He leaned in, forearms bracing against the table, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You ran. Fine.” 

His voice was softer now, laced with something you couldn’t name. 

“But tell me this. Was it worth it?”

The air left your lungs. You thought of why you ran. What was expected of you. What would’ve happened if you’d stayed.

Six years of building a life from scratch. Six years of trying to convince yourself you made the right choice. Six years of missing him. Six years of seeing his eyes every day both in your dreams and when you woke.

“Absolutely.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered, searching your face for something, doubt, regret, a lie. But he didn’t find it.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he said, “You were mine.”

You exhaled slowly. 

“I’m not sorry for what I did, Bucky. But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

You meant it. Every word.

But you belonged to someone else now. Someone more important than James Barnes.

—---

Bucky’s eyes flashed, then he sat back in his seat, appraising you yet again. 

“It’s okay, Doll. I turned out okay. And here we are, together again.”

“We’re not together, Bucky.”

He took another drag of his smoke.

“Only a matter of time, Baby.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself, lifting your chin. 

“I have another set.”

Bucky smiled at you.

“I know.”

Of course, he knew. He ran this town and he always paid attention, always saw more than you wanted him to.

You stood, ready to walk away, to put some space between the past and the present before you lost yourself in it again. But before you could take a step, something small and cool slid against your palm.

You looked down.

A key.

Bucky’s fingers lingered over yours just long enough to make your pulse jump. He looked into your eyes and leaned down and it was like your lips were connected by magnets. 

He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and regrets as his tongue slid into your mouth, establishing ownership yet again. 

He pulled back and rested his forehead on yours.

“Royal Sierra Hotel. Top floor,” he gruffed.  “I’ll be waiting.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You should have dropped the key right back into his palm. Should have told him no, should have walked away, should have done a thousand things. 

But you did none of them. You just curled your fingers around the key, just for a second, then slipped it into your dress pocket like it meant nothing. 

Bucky didn’t call you on it. Didn’t press. He just smiled, slow and knowing, then stepped back.

“See you soon, Doll.”

Then he was gone, and you were left standing there, with a key in your pocket and a storm in your chest, knowing damn well you were about to make a mistake.

——

Your second set of the night flew by in a blur. Your voice soared through the rafters, full of emotion, carrying the weight of things you couldn’t say out loud. The memories all spilled into the songs, wrapped in melodies that weren’t yours but might as well have been. 

You poured your soul into every note, and the crowd felt it. They responded with enthusiastic applause and with generosity for the waitresses and bartenders. At the end of the night, the club manager pressed extra bills into your hand, murmuring something about record-breaking tips.

You barely heard him. 

Your mind was already made up.

You stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling as you raised your hand to hail a cab, but before you could, a smooth voice cut through the darkness.

“Need a ride?”

You turned, heels clicking against the pavement as you took in the sight before you.

Steve Rogers, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, leaned against a gleaming black Continental, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. 

Your brows lifted. 

“Didn’t peg you for a chauffeur.”

Steve chuckled.

“Just trying to be nice.” 

He nodded toward the passenger seat. 

“We’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

Your gaze shifted past him to Sam, watching you from inside the car, his smile just visible through the window.

“And if I need to go home?” you asked, testing.

Steve shrugged. 

“Then we’ll take the lady home. But if you’re looking for a little more excitement…”

“We know a place or two,” Sam finished, his voice tinged with amusement.

Despite yourself, you smiled. You liked them. Even if they were Bucky’s men, and even if they saw more than they let on.

“I’ll take you up on that,” you said, sighing as you stepped forward. 

“Standing on a stage in heels all night isn’t exactly easy on the legs.”

Steve’s gaze flickered down, tracing the slit in your dress, lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip.

“Those legs look just fine to me,” he murmured.

You arched a brow. Was Steve Rogers flirting with you? And was Sam giving you the same once over from the passenger seat?

And more importantly, what would Bucky do if he knew? 

You didn’t have time to wonder. Steve was already holding the door open, waiting. You slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seats, and shot him a tired, knowing smile as he shut the door behind you.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror, his eyes catching yours in the reflection. 

“Which way, Miss Y/L/N?”

You hesitated.

Bucky was making this hard.

You closed your eyes, reaching back, searching for the girl you were six years ago. The girl who ran. The girl who had every reason to. But she was gone, her memories worn thin, fragile as cigarette paper.

You could stand to make some new ones.

And they would have to last. Because this would only be one night.

“The Royal Sierra,” you said softly.

Steve’s lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You two do this often?” you asked as the car rumbled to life.

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance, the kind that spoke volumes.

“I’ve known Bucky for three years,” Sam said, voice lighter than his meaning. “And I’ve never seen him give a woman the time of daylight.”

You let out a soft laugh.

“It’s nighttime, Sam.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. 

“He’s never introduced me to a dame before. Plenty have tried to get to him through us, but he doesn’t let ‘em. He just shoos ‘em off like stray dogs.” 

Sam’s smirk deepened. 

“But you? You’re different.”

Something in your chest tightened. You turned toward the back of Steve’s head. 

“What about you, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve cleared his throat, his hands flexing on the wheel.

“I’ve known Buck since we were kids in Brooklyn,” he said after a pause.

“And he’s only ever talked about one woman to me.”

The weight of his words settled over you. He didn’t have to say it. You knew.

Steve’s voice was softer when he added, “But he stopped talking about her about five and a half years ago.”

Your heart clenched.

You didn’t ask any more questions after that. You just let the city lights blur past the window, let the neon colors bleed together as they carried you to the man waiting at the top of the Royal Sierra.

Waiting for you.

——-

The Royal Sierra was a loud kind of quiet. The kind that came from power. Bucky’s kind of place.

Steve pulled up to the entrance, stepping out with effortless authority, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged here. Like you belonged here. No one stopped you. No one asked questions.

His presence alone was a key. A shield.

Bucky Barnes’ reach extended farther than Mr. Crow’s.

Before you knew it, you were stepping into the elevator, watching the floors tick by, your pulse a slow, deliberate drum in your throat. And by the time you reached the penthouse, your body had made a decision your mind refused to acknowledge.

You lifted a gloved hand and slid the key into the lock.

The door opened instantly.

And then, there was Bucky.

His gaze collided with yours, stealing the air from your lungs. He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you, burning you into his memory like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

Then his hands were on you.

Your gasp was swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, desperate and deep, like he had something to prove, like he needed you to know that six years hadn’t dulled his hunger for you.

You melted, even though you knew better.

You knew this was dangerous. That this wasn’t just about lust, or longing, or the years between you. But none of it mattered as you wound your arms around him, tangling your fingers in the dark curls you missed too damn much.

Bucky groaned, dragging you flush against him. His hands roamed lower, exploring this new version of you, the one with fuller curves, wider hips, a body that had known things he hadn’t been there to witness.

He needed to erase it all.

He deepened the kiss, his breath ragged as he backed you against the wall, pinning you there, swallowing the soft sound you made.

God, that sound.

He had dreamed about it.

You pulled back. Your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, you were beautiful. But there was something else in your eyes.

A flicker of hesitation.

Bucky smirked.

He didn’t want to talk. Not tonight. He wanted to taste you, to relearn every inch of you. 

He brought your hand up to his mouth, taking the glove off your hand with his teeth, one finger at a time.

Your mind short circuited, forgetting what you wanted to say, the only thought that your panties would burst into flames, but the liquid at your center would surely put the fire out.

Bucky Barnes was still so goddamn hot.

“You staying?” 

His voice was hoarse with desire.

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you nodded. That was all he needed.

With deliberate slowness, he backed you toward the couch, his blue eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t know why you left.

Didn’t know why you were in Vegas.

Didn’t know how long he had.

And tonight, he wasn’t asking.

"Missed this," he murmured against your throat, his breath hot, his fingers digging into the roundness of your ass. His voice sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned you, fingers finding the zipper of your dress. You felt it slide down, the cool air kissing your bare skin as the rich fabric slipped from your shoulders, revealing the decadent silk and lace beneath.

Bucky let out a rough exhale.

The longline bra molded perfectly to your curves, the underwire and boning lifting your breasts high, the lace trim barely concealing your peaked nipples. The silk garter belt cinched your waist, accentuating the swell of your hips, its straps fastened to sheer stockings that clung to your legs like a whisper.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands ghosting over your sides, gripping, kneading. 

“Jesus, Doll… you always did know how to drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasped.

He trailed a finger along the edge of your bra, teasing you through the lace with his knuckles grazing the soft swell of your breast. 

“Look at you… all wrapped up like a goddamn present,” he muttered, voice thick with reverence.

His hands slid down, and his thumbs traced slow, reverent paths along the edge of your garter, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilted his head, lips curving against your jaw.

“Been dreamin’ about this,” he whispered, voice dripping with possession. 

“And now it’s real.”

You shivered beneath his touch, and Bucky smirked, satisfied. He trailed his fingers lower, slipping beneath the garter belt to palm your ass, squeezing greedily, pulling you flush against him.

“Missed these fuckin’ curves,” he groaned, rolling his hips against you, letting you feel just how hard he was, how much he needed you.

He was losing patience. Six years was too damn long.

His hands found the hooks of your bra, and he made quick work of them, peeling the garment from your body and tossing it over his shoulder. He pulled back for just a second, just long enough to admire the sight of you, bare, breathless, your eyes fully dilated.

“Damn, Doll” he whispered, voice almost reverent. 

Then his mouth was on you, trailing down your neck hotly, over your collarbone, lower, until his lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking, groaning when your fingers tangled in his hair, when your body arched into his mouth.

“Feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

His hands roamed lower, curling around your thighs, gripping hard as he lifted you effortlessly, walking you backward until your spine hit the cool surface of the wall.

Bucky looked up at you then, eyes burning, voice nothing but gravel.

“Hold on tight, Baby. I ain’t letting you go this time.

Bucky pressed a kiss into you, his hard length grinding against your soaked panties. The heat of him, the sheer size of him, had you trembling.

"Need inside you, Doll… so fucking hard for you," he groaned, his voice rough with need.

You gasped as he rocked into you, your damp panties and his boxers doing little to separate the friction between you. Your hips rolled in response, dragging a throaty grunt from his lips.

"Fuck!"

Bucky hooked a finger into your panties, yanking them to the side. The first brush of his bare cock against your slick folds sent a shudder through you. It was heaven. The aching kind. The kind you felt.

"Bucky, please!"

You needed to feel him again after so long.

His thick cock slid through your folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit with every slow stroke. You felt everything, the ridges, the veins, the swollen head nudging at your entrance.

At the same time, his mouth latched onto your nipple, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. His calloused fingers kneaded the roundness of your ass, pulling unashamed whimpers from your throat.

"Mine," Bucky growled.

Your breath hitched. But just as you prepared for that first, deep thrust, he pulled back.

You gasped in protest.

"Gonna fuck you proper, though. In a bed."

You let out a breathless laugh as Bucky scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to his bedroom. He laid you out, spreading your legs as he loomed over you, devouring the sight. His manicured nails dragged over your thighs in a slow, teasing stroke.

Your breath stuttered with anticipation.

"Be a good girl for me," he murmured, eyes dark with intent. "And grab my hair if you need to."

Confusion flickered in your eyes, until you felt your legs being thrown over his shoulders. Then, Bucky was between your thighs.

You scrambled up on your elbows, heat rushing to your face as he spread you open with two fingers, stroking the sensitive, slick folds hidden beneath. His gaze locked onto your glistening sex, mesmerized.

"So beautiful, Lark."

Your breath came in shallow gasps as he ran his fingers through your wetness, spreading it.

"So wet… dripping… coating my fingers, Baby."

The filthy words, the intensity of his stare, made fresh arousal seep from you. Your inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more.

"Pinch those nipples for me," Bucky rasped,

Your lips parted in shock, but his stare was unwavering. With a shaky breath, you obeyed.

The added sensation sent pleasure rippling through you, making your back arch, your ass pressing into the mattress as Bucky pumped his fingers nice and slow. The other hand fisted around his cock, stroking in time with the movement inside you.

Your gaze dropped to watch him touch himself as he touched you. Fuck.

A gush of slick spilled from you. Bucky cursed under his breath, scissoring his fingers, stretching you, preparing you.

"So fucking tight, Doll. Need to get you ready."

Then, his head dipped lower. Your gasp filled the room. Bucky smirked.

"Why so shocked?" he taunted. "You act like you haven’t had sex since I borrowed Johnny’s car—"

He stopped.

Your face must have given you away because his own softened instantly.

"Oh, shit."

His tone was different now, understanding. 

"It’s okay, Baby. I got you."

Determination flashed in his blue eyes as he leaned down again, brushing a featherlight kiss against your most sensitive place. It was intimate. Like he was kissing your mouth.

Then, he licked into you, slow and deliberate, and your world shattered. Lightning coursed through your veins as your thighs instinctively clamped around his head. Your fingers fisted in his curls, tugging mercilessly.

Bucky groaned in approval, his tongue swirling, sucking, worshiping. Every swipe, every firm drag, every deep flick had you writhing beneath him, riding his face, chasing oblivion.

When he pried your thighs apart and plunged two fingers back inside, curling them just right, you detonated. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, your body seizing, your walls fluttering around his fingers as a flood of wetness spilled into his mouth.

"Bucky!"

He pulled back, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"S’okay, Baby. It’s natural."

Then he leaned down again. And drank from you like a man dying of thirst.

You whimpered, overwhelmed, your body trembling as he held you down, refusing to let you escape. The overstimulation was brutal, unbearable.

Too much, too good.

"Really have been such a good girl for me…" he murmured against your sensitive skin.

Then, his voice dropped to something sinful.

"Gonna give you this cock you been waiting for."

When he finally kissed you, his lips slick with you, the last shred of restraint dissolved.

You moaned into his mouth as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, swollen head of his cock through your drenched folds. He parted your lips, teasing you with tiny, torturous strokes. Then, with a sharp slap, he tapped his cock against your clit, making you cry out.

"Shit, Doll…" 

Bucky’s voice was strained, his jaw tight as he fought for control. You rolled your hips, desperate, pleading.

"Inside, please!"

"You’re gonna feel… so… goodddd…"

He bit it out through clenched teeth as he pushed forward slow, steady, and stretching you inch by inch. You choked on a moan as he filled you. He was so big. You had forgotten how thick, how deep, how perfect he felt inside you.

"Ohhhhhh, Bucky!"

"Right here, Baby."

His eyes locked onto you, greedily drinking in your bouncing breasts, your trembling stomach, the way your body took him. The sight alone nearly ended him. His head dropped back, his grip on you tightening as he bottomed out, grinding his hips into yours, making you wail in pleasure.

"You feel amazing… so fucking good. Never felt anything like this, I swear, Lark."

Your walls clenched around him, and Bucky’s face twisted, his control slipping.

"I need you to cum all over my dick."

You gasped as his hand found your clit, circling it with the same practiced precision that always ruined you. His other hand pinched your nipple, sending another bolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"Cum for me, Doll."

You had no choice. Your body seized, pleasure obliterating you as you came, gushing around his cock, wave after wave of ecstasy rolling through you.

Bucky’s grip turned bruising as he drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His breath caught. 

"Mine!" he growled. 

And his release filled you, thick and hot, as his body shuddered violently against yours.

And in that moment, tangled together, sweat-slicked and sated, you both knew

You were his again.

—--

Bucky collapsed beside you, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling.

You did the same, but while he was basking in the afterglow, warmth spreading through his chest like hope, your stomach twisted into knots.

"Where you going, Lark?"

His voice was thick with exhaustion, but he still caught the way you shifted, the way your body tensed before you sat up.

"Bathroom," you murmured, already moving. "Need to clean up."

Something flickered in his eyes, something soft, something real. But the moment you slipped away, his hope dimmed just a little.

You disappeared into the harsh fluorescent glow of the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

—--

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed, watching as you slipped your shoes back on. You moved quickly, deliberately. Like you’d planned your exit before you ever walked through his door.

"You don’t have to run out like this," he said, voice rough.

You hesitated, just for a second, before fastening your coat.

"I have to get home."

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the sheets.

"Home."

He rolled the word over his tongue. He didn’t like the way it tasted.

Your gaze lifted, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered there, regret, and sorrow buried so deep he almost missed it.

Bucky nodded, jaw tight. He had questions. Too many. But he knew you wouldn’t answer them.

So he let you go.

But that didn’t mean he was letting this go.

—-----

Bucky sat in the back of the Continental, silent as Steve drove.

He hadn’t said a word since Steve muttered, “I’ll take you to where she lives.”

Vegas never slept, but the streets were quiet this early. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched.

He should’ve stopped you from leaving. Should’ve asked the damn questions instead of letting you walk out. But you were good at slipping away. You’d done it before.

Not this time.

Steve glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"You sure about this?"

Bucky’s eyes stayed on the road ahead.

"Just drive."

Steve sighed but didn’t argue. The car veered off the Strip, where the lights weren’t as bright, where the buildings weren’t as tall, where the money wasn’t as loud. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but it sure as hell wasn’t where Bucky expected you to be.

The car slowed.

A modest duplex came into view, its porch light flickering on.

Bucky barely registered anything beyond you were here. Until he saw the front door open.

You stepped out, wrapped in a housecoat, makeup gone, hair wrapped in a scarf. Then you walked to the neighboring unit. And knocked. The door cracked open.

And out ran a little boy.

Bucky sat up straighter, his breath hitching as the kid bolted toward you, dark messy hair bouncing, big blue eyes shining as he laughed, launching himself into your waiting arms.

You caught him effortlessly, hugging him close, whispering something into his ear.

Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Because you had.

The realization hit like a bullet to the ribs.

You had a son.

Bucky’s world tilted.

Then, the boy’s voice, small and sleepy, carried through the quiet street.

"Mama, you’re home."

His breath left him in a rush.

"Yes, Jamie, I’m home."

Steve tensed, hands gripping the wheel.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists.

"Buck—"

"Drive," he rasped. The word barely made it past his lips.

Steve hesitated.

"Now."

The car pulled away, but Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on you.

Six years.

Six years, and you had kept this from him.

—---

The moment Jamie crashed into your arms, the world melted away.

"Mama, you’re home!"

You exhaled shakily, smoothing his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Miss Thea stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her housecoat, watching with quiet understanding. She didn’t ask questions. Never had. Just gave you a slow nod before retreating inside.

Jamie yawned, burrowing into your shoulder, his little arms tightening around your neck.

"You smell funny," he mumbled sleepily.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting him in your arms.

"Yeah? What do I smell like?"

Jamie blinked up at you, barely awake.

"Like trouble," he sighed.

Your breath caught.

A chill danced down your spine, one you always felt when Bucky was near. Slowly, your eyes lifted, scanning the street.

Nothing. No car. No sign of him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t been here.

You swallowed hard, clutching Jamie closer as you stepped inside, locking the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Bucky knew.

And no matter how much you wanted to believe you could keep him away….You knew better.

James Buchanan Barnes was coming for you.

For both of you.

——-

Read The Trouble With Love Is

[sunday-bug]

Speaking Through Dreams

Pairing: 40’s!Bucky x female reader

Word Count: <1k

Content: Reader & daughter believe Bucky is dead.

Synopsis: Reader and daughter discuss their dreams about Bucky.

“I’m James, but you can call me Bucky.” I smile and say his name.

———

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” I feel his breath on my skin and his hands everywhere.

———

“I don’t want to leave you here. I’ll write you every chance I get, doll. I promise. I love you.” Tears sting my eyes and my chest feels hollowed out.

———

I sit up with a start, clutching my chest, my entire body covered in a sheen of sweat. The bedroom is too warm, and the sheets feel itchy against my skin. Her small body shifts beside me and she stirs awake.

“Did you have a dream about my daddy again, Mama?” She croaks out, sleep invading her little voice.

“Yes, baby, I did.”

“Why are you crying, Mama?” She asks, pushing her dark curls out of her face.

I look at her with a tear-stained gaze and see those familiar steel blue eyes staring back at me under dark lashes - just like her daddy.

“I miss him, sweet girl. He would have loved you so much.”

“I have dreams about my daddy, too.”

My breath catches. “What do you mean? What kind of dreams?”

“He walks with me. He holds my hand, but his hand feels funny, like the lunch trays at school - it’s hard and cold.”

My brow furrows. “What else happens?”

“We just walk together and the dream always ends with him leaning down and telling me that he’ll find me someday.”

I choke back a sob. James never knew about his daughter. By the time I had written the letter telling him the news, we found out he was gone. I do my best to hold it together in front of my daughter by taking several deep breaths and holding one of her delicate hands in mine.

“He watches over you, sweet girl.” I assure her.

“He says one other thing, Mama.” She squeezes one of my fingers.

“What, baby? What does he say?”

“He says to tell my mommy to never stop looking for him.”

I close my eyes and swallow, doing my best not to fall apart in front of her.

“I see him in everything, love.”

“What do you mean, mommy?” She asks with quizzical look - another expression she inherited from him.

“When we walk to school together, I see him in the sunrise. When we play your favorite Ella Fitzgerald album, I hear him humming along. When we go to Coney Island, I smell him in the salty waves. When I hold your hand like this, I feel his hand there too. Does that make sense, sweet pea?”

“Yeah, Mama. That makes sense. It’s like you’re happy and sad at the same time, right?”

“Right, baby.” I assure her, rubbing my thumb across her porcelain cheek.

“It’s like when I laugh too hard and my nose crinkles. I think it makes Aunt Becca sad and happy like that.”

I swallow and nod. “Yeah, just like that.”

She lies back down in the bed and snuggles into me.

“Why don’t we visit Aunt Becca soon? We can spend an afternoon looking through pictures of him. Does that sound good?”

She nods softly and closes her eyes, nestling into the crook of my neck. I hold her and play with her hair, just like Bucky used to do to me.

-the end-

[blackleatherjacketz]

Shadow and Sin: Chapter 5

Elijah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson x Female Reader

Summary: Having just moved to New Orleans, you get intimately acquainted with both Mikaelson brothers, but don't find out who they are until it's too late.

This Chapter: You wrap things up with Elijah and reflect on your situation before Klaus invites you over for a private mentoring session.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only!, Kissing, Dancing, Painting, Brush Play, Groping, Nipple Play, Light Masochism, Praise Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Neck Kissing/Licking, Female Orgasm, Power Imbalance

Word Count: 2.8k+

Read the rest of the story HERE

You spent the next few hours with Elijah that night, allowing yourself to feel worthy enough to take his hand and follow him out onto the dance floor. He took you back in time to the sounds of Cab Calloway and Ella Fitzgerald as the rest of the world faded into a blurry whirl around you. His strong hands grasped at your waist and fingers with such ease as he drew you in closer, you got the feeling that you were always meant to be held by him as that delicate grin idly spread across his lips.

For the very first time in your life, you finally felt the way society had born and bred you to feel around a man, the butterflies in your stomach insisting on lifting you all the way up to the ceiling if he weren’t there to anchor you to the floor. You could hear trumpets in the background, barely audible over the loud thumping of your heart as his hand slithered up your lower back, pressing your heaving chest against his before tilting your torso down in a dramatic dip. Instinctively, your arm reached up and wrapped around his neck, holding on for dear life as the music sped up, his lips grazing over yours. Your halted breath nearly made you see stars, his teasing mouth driving you wild as it mapped its way across your chin and jawline, forcing you to turn your cheek toward his.

He’d quickly straightened your spine back to a standing position, keeping the distance, or lack thereof, between you as your body trembled against his. All thoughts of Klaus had been pushed to the back of your mind as his freshly shaven face brushed against yours, turning toward you until his lips finally tasted the flavor of your desire for him. The kiss was chaste at first, slowly deepening as he held you tighter, his fingers pressed snugly between your shoulder blades to keep you from depriving him of what he wanted all along, of what you both always knew you wanted from each other.

The night, however, had ended shortly after that, Elijah claiming that he was a gentleman who wanted to take his time getting to know you as those butterflies were slow to calm their wings. He had given you his number so he ‘didn’t have to stalk you anymore’ and called you an Uber to safely drive you home. You fell asleep that night secretly hoping that he wasn’t going to be the one to get bored of you before disappearing into thin air.

———————-

A text from Klaus wakes you from your slumber mid morning, telling you to meet him at his studio around eight o’clock tonight, and to be ready to paint. Shit, you’d nearly forgotten about Klaus! You sit up and run a hurried hand through your hair, squinting at your phone to make sure Elijah hadn’t texted you after you told him that you’d gotten home safe, but he hadn’t. This is all starting to get a bit more twisted than you’d anticipated, a small sense of guilt climbing its way into your chest before you take a deep breath and force it out of your system.

Wait a minute, how many men have dated multiple women at the same time until they were sure which one they wanted a relationship with? And even then, how many of them did they keep on the back burner ‘just in case’? How many of them had lied in the process, leading them on until it was too late, or let them believe that they were something more than what they actually were? In comparison to their tactics, you aren’t doing anything vile or deceitful, you’re just… keeping your options open until you know how you feel. You aren’t even exclusive with either one of them just yet.

With all that in mind, you get dressed and go about your day, eventually driving over to the address Klaus had sent you, hoping your session with him tonight could make things a little clearer. With a bag full of paint and brushes on your shoulder, you reluctantly knock on the door of the industrial looking building he’d claimed as his studio.

“I do hope my little protégé is well rested after her rounds at the hospital.” Klaus greets you in a black Henley, streaks of green paint slowly drying on his knuckles as he holds up a glass of wine for you to take. He must have been eagerly awaiting your arrival.

“Well, not all of us are lucky enough to benefit from generational wealth.” You defend yourself, taking the glass of wine from him and following him inside the open concept studio.

Its ceilings are rather high for it being on the first floor, the windows taking up most of the east side as it offers a beautifully vast view of the river and the glittering city skyline. Composed mostly of exposed brick and steel piping with chipped paint, this isn’t exactly what you had pictured for someone like him, but you can’t imagine what you would have dreamed up in its place. “Wow, this place is amazing. You live here?”

“Oh no, this is just a studio I rent to get away from the unceasingly tiresome dramatics of my family.” He walks you past a few paintings of his own, beautifully emotive pieces of different styles stacked on tables and chairs, even a few scattered across the floor. It seems that painting for him is a necessity, a constant itch that he has to scratch in order to keep himself from going mad.

“Your family?” Oh god, is he married? Are you the other woman? You quickly glance down at his ring finger, relieved to find it devoid of any jewelry.

“My siblings, love.” He looks back and winks at you, easing your mind as if he already knew where it was going. “The lot of us still manage to get under each other's skin while living under the same roof, so I’ve had to result to this… barbaric hideaway in order to get any peace and quiet for my work.”

You roll your eyes as he calls this expensive piece of real estate barbaric, secretly glad that you didn’t invite him over to your place to paint. You wonder what eloquent and deeply offensive adjectives he’d throw your way when he saw the tiny corner of your apartment that you painted in, or all of your hand-me-down furniture.

“Well, I like it.” You tell him before taking a sip of your wine.

“Imagine my relief.” He jokes, stopping in front of a blank canvas mounted on an easel as he grabs a half-full wine glass that had been warming on the table next to it. “Now tell me, what gets a woman like you in the mood to paint? What inspires my little Frida Kahlo to create the bold masterpieces I’ve seen? With all that anger brewing inside you, I imagine it doesn’t take much.” He downs his drink and sets it back down where he found it. “But you don’t look very angry now.”

“No?” You raise an eyebrow before taking another sip, wondering where he’s going with this.

“On the contrary, love, you look quite well.” He waltzes toward you, his features shifting from jovial to predatory in an instant. “I was thinking we could work with that, that we could start off with a sort of collaboration. Nothing too fancy, just a way to get those creative juices flowing.”

“Collaboration? I’ve never done anything like that before.” You admit, all of the sudden getting uneasy about your skill set. What if your nerves get the best of you while he’s around, and you can’t deliver? What if he regrets taking you on as his protégé?

“Have you ever tried abstract before?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns on some music, the open space allowing it to echo beautifully around you before he sets it down on the table.

“Abstract? No, not really.” You don’t hate the idea of abstract, but you’ve always just felt that it was sort of… too easy, somehow, a cheat that anyone could do. But you guess you’ll never really know until you try.

“No matter.” He walks around the table ladled with paints and jars full of different colored water, twisting the caps off a handful of colors before squeezing them into individual mason jars, carefully setting them in front of the canvas. His eyes glance up at you ever so often, watching you as if he fears that you’ll sprout wings and fly away if he loses sight of you for too long. “Are you willing to experiment with me?”

Jesus. What a loaded question.

He fills a glass of water and sets it down next to the rest of the paints, his darkened eyes back on you. “Are you ready to toss those inhibitions aside and create something truly spectacular?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” You shrug your shoulders as if he isn’t aware of the insanely magnetic pull he seems to have on you any time you’re near him. As if he can’t already feel the air between you charge with potential energy, each atom vibrating at an accelerated rate, begging to be pushed into motion by either one of you at any moment. As if he couldn’t see all of that written plain as day, across your face as your features soften for him.

“That wasn’t an answer.” He twirls a clean paint brush in between his fingers as he strides up to you, pointing it at your face before tracing it along your chin and neck, humming to himself as he awaits your reply. His full lips pout as he brings them closer to your face, a habit you’ll never quite get used to, but certainly won’t complain about as the bristles from the brush excite each and every strand of fine hair across your skin.

“I’m ready,” you whisper as your lips remain parted, the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tightening instinctively.

“Good girl. Then let’s start by painting the canvas a color that matches your mood.” He continues to drag the brush slowly down your neck and across your clavicle, his eyes following raptly as it forces your breath to still. “I wonder what you could be feeling right now?”

Goddamnit. He’s really got his claws in you now.

“Excitement,” you start, trying to slow and deepen your breath as it shallows in your heaving chest.

“Excitement? Is that all?” He takes your hand and firmly places the brush in your palm before stepping behind you, keeping contact with your skin the entire time. “I fell in love with your artwork because it was brutally honest about the gruesome horrors of this world, and all you have to give me is ‘excitement’?” He clicks his tongue. “No, you can do much better than that. Why don’t you tell me what feeling makes those pretty little cheeks flush such a deep crimson, what makes that bleeding heart of yours race inside your chest every time our eyes meet.” He feathers his palms over your shoulders and moves your hair away from your neck. “I want to hear you say it.”

You swallow hard as he pushes your buttons, his hands collecting your hair to one side before smoothing their way down your arms, eventually finding familiarity on both of your hips before you finally speak. “I feel aroused.”

God, you’re so bad at dirty talk.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He guides you toward the canvas step by step, his breath hot on your neck as his hands slink up under your shirt, smoothing their way up your belly until they slip beneath your bra. “Admitting how you feel?”

“No,” you whisper your lie softly, gasping as your nipples harden against his palms, putting any doubt of his intentions to rest. “It wasn’t.”

“Well don’t tell me about it, love, put it on the canvas.” He instructs coldly, squeezing your breasts as you shudder beneath his touch.

“Right.” You take the brush and try to keep it as steady as possible despite his seductive distraction, placing a large amount of red onto the palette before adding a hint of blue, mixing the two together into a deep, moody magenta. A twinge of pain shoots up into your spine as Klaus pinches both your nipples, forcing you to drag the brush across the canvas in a sporadic, diagonal pattern. “Klaus!”

“Don't mind me, just keep on painting.” He kisses his words into the delicate skin of your neck, twisting your sensitive tissue even harder as he draws out a tiny yelp from your lips and an arch from your back.

It takes every ounce of self control you have not to drop the brush and turn around to face him, but you continue to paint the base of the canvas the vibrant color of your desire. Through heavily hooded lids, you finally finish every corner, setting your brush down as Klaus takes the opportunity to pull your shirt off over your head before unclasping your bra.

“See how freeing it is to try something new?” He pushes the straps of your bra down your shoulders, tickling your skin even more until it falls onto the floor next to your shirt.

“Yes,” you whisper, the sudden exposure making you shiver in the air conditioning before the heat of his arms comforts you.

“Now,” he wraps his fingers around yours, guiding your hand to clean the brush in the water as his other hand makes quick work of unbuttoning your jeans. “Let’s really set you free.”

Like a puppet on a string, he has you dry the brush off before the two of you dip it into the black paint, letting it build and collect on the tip before lifting it back up. He takes his time before making you press it against the canvas, allowing it to drip down along its path, splattering onto your breasts and shoulders before leaving a trail of dots and streaks across the magenta background of your work. It’s almost enough to distract you from his fingers that now delve in between your folds, collecting your liquid warmth as if it were colorful paint itself and his fingers the brush, spreading a clear coat up and down your length before pulling up on your clit.

“Oh my god, Klaus” you whisper as he works his magic between your thighs, continuing to zigzag the black, tarry ooze across the canvas until the brush nearly runs dry.

“Look at that,” he nips at your ear, whispering his praise against it in a gravelly tone. “You’re a natural abstract artist after all.” He kisses the spot just behind your jaw, suckling your skin before licking the path of your pulse until he reaches the nape of your neck.

“You… you bit me last time.” You recall out loud, nearly getting lost in the lustful haze he’s so expertly created just for you.

“I did.” He smiles as he tastes more of your skin, thinking fondly of your last encounter as he rubs deep circles into your bud. “And you liked it.”

“I did.” Your breathless reply surprises you both, floating into the air a little too quickly as his fingers send more signals of hypnotic bliss up into your core, forcing you to drop the brush onto the floor.

“I knew it, I could see it in your eyes that night. You enjoy a bit of pain with your pleasure, is that it?” He lets go of your hand and grabs your chin, turning your face toward him.

“Yes.” His gorgeous face only adds to your building euphoria, alighting every neuron beneath his fingertips as he calls you out.

“Well, it turns out great minds think alike.” His blackened pupils expand with his growing arousal, their bluish green tint fading off into the recesses of his eyes. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”

You nod in response, barely able to utter a word as his fingers steal your breath completely, drawing a fuzzy curtain over your field of vision as odd patterns glow and fade over his skin and curls. You watch him grin as your visions intensify, changing colors, dimensions and brightness as he touches you in the perfect pattern to make your muscles clench and spasm in his arms, your toes curling from his deliciously expert precision.

“That’s it, love,” he whispers, turning your head to face the canvas as your orgasm rips its way through you. “See all those colors? All those patterns you couldn’t have even dreamed of before?”

“I see them,” you stammer, a stuttered breath in between each syllable as your heart threatens to break out of your ribcage. “Stars and pyramids…”

“Those are all for you.” He pushes his fingers inside your slick, wet walls, refusing to let your body come down from its chemical high just yet. “I want you to paint them for me.”

[prince-liest]

The thing with Alastor versus Modern Stuff for me specifically comes down to his relationship with music. Because a lot of the jazz and blues artists that WE consider to be among the greats came after his time?

Not even "would he like Frank Sinatra", I mean- Ella Fitzgerald started her career in 1934, just missing Alastor, and she's considered the Queen of Jazz; Al probably died associating that title with Bessie Smith. Did he listen to any songs Louis Armstrong put out post-1933?

To be perfectly honest, I still hold with my original opinion that Alastor isn't actually, like, inherently against modernity. Every time we see him portrayed as such, it's in the context of Vox. He definitely doesn't like television and video, and actively derides those things, but when it comes to other modern advancements... like, yeah, he's not shown owning a cell phone, but at no point is he derisive (or really shown to care at all) of anybody using one. He doesn't even denigrate Angel Dust's "show and tell" of his adult films. We do see Vox calling Alastor outdated and old, but how much of that is an accurate representation of Alastor's genuine perspective on modernity, and how much of it is Vox being a salty bitch that Alastor doesn't like his specific brand of "modernity" and seeing himself as equivalent to progress?

Overall, Alastor strikes me as a guy with some nostalgia for his own era and the classics (which I think is true for most of the characters in hell: I mean, Sir Pentious is still out here flying fucking blimps, and then there's all of Cannibal Town), but not someone who actively eschews modern technology and media. I think he just really fucking doesn't like Vox, who has painted himself as the face of modern tech development in the pentagram and has a monopolistic stranglehold on modern media.

So I think he probably listens to and enjoys a lot of the tunes that came after his death!

[moralesmilesanhour]

teamwork (makes the dream work...?) pt. 4

Summary:

wc: 1k+

A/N: um hii sorry for updating a lil late 😅 but I got really into writing this esp at the end. We're almost done! As always feel free to comment your thoughts and reactions, or send them to my inbox! Thanks for reading :)

prev. next

Song: It's Only a Paper Moon - Ella Fitzgerald (totally optional to listen while you read, if you like that sort of thing)

The small plastic bag carrying your lunch swung from your wrist as you pushed the door to the counselor’s office open.

"Thanks again for helping me organize around here," said the woman standing beside you.

"No problem, Ms. Keene!"

By the time you stepped inside, Miles was already sitting at the round table in the middle of the room.

The boy spoke first as soon as your eyes met.

"Hey," he greeted you flatly. His stare wasn't too far off from the look of curiosity you get from a stray cat that isn't certain whether you're trying to give it food or not; neither malicious nor particularly excited.

You tilted your head in surprise.

"Hey, you in trouble or something?"

Miles shook his head.

"Ms. Keene lets me have lunch in here."

"You two know each other?" The tall, dark-skinned woman asked. Though she had asked you both, she beamed at Miles as she spoke. He glanced back and forth between you and the woman.

"Kinda."

She clasped her manicured hands together. 

"I'm glad you're starting to make friends again. That's progress. Enjoy your lunch," Ms. Keene said as she spun on her heel to leave, her short bob cut bouncing along with her.

"And put on those glasses!"

Miles rolled his eyes as the door shut with a click.

"Everybody's on your case about these glasses, dude. Just put 'em on," you said as you sat down next to him.

"Don't need 'em."

"Okay," you pointed to the analog clock hanging directly across from him, "tell me what time it is without using your phone."

He scoffed.

"Easy, it's…"

The boy stood, and squinted so hard that his nose scrunched. He heard you laughing through your nose behind him after a minute and soon dropped back down to his seat, hands raised in resignation.

"Alright, you got me. But who's looking at the damn clock all day?"

"Sitting in the back of the classroom with no glasses on is nuts, Miles. What's so bad about them?”

Miles pouted in indignation, "They make me look like Steve Urkel.”

“They can’t be that bad,” you said, grabbing the case from next to him and prying it open. “Lemme see.”

“Nope.”

“Just this once!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Please?”

The boy sighed, then took the glasses from you with a wary expression. He looked at them like they were a moldy piece of bread before finally putting them on.

“Happy?”

Neon green color aside, the glasses were truly not that bad. The thick lenses framed his face and made him look younger. The boy blinked, awaiting your verdict.

“Awww, you look like a little nerd!”

“Don't start with that,” Miles shook his head, a grin spreading across his face in spite of himself. He swiped them off of his face and took the case from you.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you said over a bite of your sandwich, “you look cute in them.”

He froze, a hand instinctively flying up to scratch the nape of his neck before turning his gaze in the other direction. You could still see the impression of his dimples peeking out from the side.

“Don’t get a big head over it, now,” you elbowed him gently. He quickly changed the subject.

“I’m finna tell Ms. Keene that you’re distracting me.”

Miles was now hunched over his notebook again. He had his homework sheet covering one page, but you could tell he was sketching. When you tried to look over his shoulder, he frantically shut it closed.

“Can you not be nosy for five minutes?”

“My fault, bro, damn.”

Miles continued to draw quietly for almost the entirety of calculus, never once allowing you to peek at it. He didn’t pause until you lightly tapped his arm.

The boy flinched at the sudden contact, but you had his attention.

“I’m stuck on this problem you wrote, just this one. Help me out?”

He tapped his pen lightly on the desk in consideration. Finally, he shrugged, closing the notebook and sliding it to the side.

“Sure.”

You placed the worksheet between you and Miles, where your desks met.

“It’s this one. I’m not getting the solution you got,” you explained, placing a finger on the offending equation. 

Miles peered closely at it. His braids nearly brushed the desk as his head moved.

“You gettin’ it wrong because you forgot to distribute here,” he pointed. “Everything has to distribute.”

You nodded as the gears in your head got to turning again. “Thanks.”

-

“Ma!” Miles whined as he took his plate of yellow rice and peas from the table.

“I’m just saying! La chica es muy linda, sigues mirándola. Don’t do anything crazy up there, understand?”

You were far from fluent, but the first bit of the brown woman’s sentence made a shy smile grace your features.

“This looks so good, thanks Mrs. Morales.” you said as you grabbed your own plate, carefully carrying it with both hands. 

“No problem, baby,” the woman replied, gently smacking the back of her son’s head before sending you both upstairs. “Same time as usual.”

“Your mom’s nice,” you remarked once you entered Miles’ room.

“You just sayin’ that ‘cuz she gassed your head up,” Miles laughed.

“Whatever. I’m ‘bout to fuck this plate up!”

“Not on my bed, I hope.”

The boy gave you a warning glance.

“Relax, you see me sitting?” 

You blew on a spoonful of rice before trying it, and the flavor nearly made your eyes pop out of your skull.

“Your momma went crazy in that kitchen.”

“M-hm,” was all Miles could reply as he shoveled the rice into his mouth, already halfway through the plate.

Soon both of your plates had been scraped clean, and you started working after taking the dirty dishes downstairs to wash. All three calculus problems had been completed, but a small squabble broke out over the appearance of the slideshow that Miles had put together.

“It looks so boring,” you complained. “At least make the background a different color–”

“Uh-unh, you gon’ make it hard as fuck to read. I say we keep it simple,” the boy swatted your hand away from the keyboard.

“Make the title dark magenta, and you got a deal.”

He sighed, ���Fine. It’s legible, I guess.”

It was still only 7:30 by the time the project was finished, and you didn’t feel like leaving behind the warmth of Miles’ home just yet.

“Can you play some music?” 

Miles spun around in his swivel chair.

“What kind?”

“I dunno, whatever you listen to,” you tilted your head at him quizzically. “What do you listen to?”

“Um,” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small Bluetooth speaker, setting it on his desk. “Just…whatever I feel like. Lots of stuff.”

He carefully laid down on his bed next to you, making sure to maintain at least a few inches of distance.

Old jazz music began to float through the air.

“You like Ella?”

“Yeah,” he said at a near-whisper. “...I do now. Forgot what this song was called.”

“‘It’s Only A Paper Moon,’” you answered. “From ‘The War Years’. Beautiful record.”

Miles snuck a glance at the side of your face while you stared up at the ceiling. He liked the dreamy, far-off way you’d said the title.

“You sound old as fuck right now,” he commented. “Record…”

This made you burst into laughter, and Miles decided that he didn’t mind that sound, either.

“My momma always calls ‘em ‘records’, so I picked up the habit.”

“I like how you talk.”

You finally turned your head and met the boy’s eyes. The small grin playing on his face wasn’t a teasing one.

“‘How I talk?’”

“When you’re not grilling me with questions like a cop? Yeah, it’s nice.”

Not sure what to do with this new information, you turn your gaze back up to the ceiling.

“You’re a strange one, Miles,” was all you could say.

There was a brief pause before you asked,“What did you mean by ‘now’?”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “What’d I say about complete sentences?”

“Sorry,” you rolled your eyes. “You said you liked this song now, you didn’t like it before?”

He was silent for a good, long, ten seconds before answering.

“I used to not be super into jazz. Dad used to play that shit on the radio, driving me to school. I hated having to hear it the entire ride,” he laughed. “I know he’s somewhere making fun of my ass now.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, wondering if you should offer comforting words, or your condolences. Knowing Miles – at least a little – you decided against it.

“I used to listen to Ella songs when the house got too loud, or while I was eating lunch.”

“They let you listen to music down there?”

“Nah, I was eating upstairs with the English teacher after she saw me sitting by myself.”

“You still sit by yourself?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “I usually sit with Tianna, she’s usually my calc partner. This week’s kind of an exception.”

“So if it wasn’t for her, I woulda finished this shit three days ago,” he joked.

You placed your hand over your heart and gasped dramatically. “You mean you don’t enjoy being graced by my presence?”

“Hm,” Miles conceded, “I enjoy it a little.”

“Is this your way of saying we besties now?”

“Whoah, never mind. You killed the moment.”

“That was a moment?”

“Nope, forget everything I just said.”

-

Fun trivia since we're almost at the end: what book do you think Miles and the MC are reading in English class? There's no prize for answering but i'll be really excited about it. Thanks again for reading!

Taglist:

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@sizeablysized

@itsnotino

@asteria33

@kissmxcheek

@urmotherswhor3

@mrs-morales

@sukisprettyface

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[strawberryfairi]

TR Guys + Their Types | HCS

Ran, Baji, Rindou, Hanma 💖 pt 1

⚜️Content: Black Girl Edition🤎 What I could see the guys' types being

RAN

~ I feel like he loves a fashionable girl, specifically that like rich girl style (loves to wear heels, dresses, sun hats, etc). ~ Loves a confident, self-assured woman (I could see him loving a woman that gives off Jessica Rabbit vibes, both style and attitude).

~Definitely loves the hard to get type (not PLAYING hard to get but she just literally is hard to get).

~She'll love luxurious things (vacations, restaurants, etc) and will never say no when he offers her one of those types of experiences. ~She'd also be very kind, maybe even mellow personality wise. Like she's very poised, calm, and well-spoken for sure.

~He'd love a talented woman too! I feel like he'd be shook at a vocalist! That speakeasy, jazz standard vocalist type vibe. A smooth, sultry voice (I imagine her singing Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered by Ella Fitzgerald and Ran's just watching like omg...I'm sat🧎🏻).

~Likes a girl that really likes to nap, and do homey activities! Spending quality time together being inside the house is a must or him! For example: Going out to dinner together somewhere beautiful and expensive then come home and just chill and cuddle together with a movie on until y'all fall asleep!

~I could see him absolutely LOVING and OBSESSING over a big afro! Like imagine this look: A gorgeous yellow sundress, white heels, and that gorgeous afro she created out of a braid out, picked out to perfection and framing her face elegantly. Again...he's sat🧎🏻

BAJI

~I could kind of see two different types of girls for Baji so Imma split this one:

TYPE 1:

~ PATIENT...as a mf! Like, she is not out here getting pissed about every little thing. It takes her a lot of pushing before she'd ever get as mad as Baji does about certain things.

~ She's soft spoken (not necessarily like a meek voice but just calm) yet confident, and has no problem correcting or telling anyone off, she's just not going about it like Baji.

~Very compassionate and values family (this goes for type 2 as well). Baji cares DEEPLY for his mom so naturally I feel like he'd gravitate towards a family girl.

~Definitely loves animals for sure. Like just any animal she's cool with, and they're cool with her. (Them adventurous type girls that'll ride elephants and like...idk touch a shark lol. That ain't me chile)

~I could lowkey see that like chill sense of style for her too. Like not nothing fancy with Ran but more everyday/cute casual wear.

~I think Baji would like (in either type) a locs goddess type of girl. Like something about a girl with locs for my boy Keisuke....he's sat 🧎🏻.

TYPE 2:

~ ZERO PATIENCE....like none. If she's set off all hell is breakin' lose chile. It's every natural disaster happening at the same time if someone makes them BOTH mad (just run...).

~Values family for sure.

~Loud, animated personality! The type of girl where you hear her before you see her coming.

~Does not like animals like that, but is willing to let him show her and maybe warm her up to different kinds of animals.

~I think he'd like the streetwear kinda style. The kind where she can dress it up or down depending on the day or outing, like maybe she'll add in some heels to jazz up the fit, you feel me?

RINDOU

~Like Ran, I think he'd love a talented woman! Art, music, etc, he'd really like that kind of thing!

~I could see Rin liking a cutesy girl for him! Like pink, skirts, just the stereotypical girly things.

~I think he'd love natural hair so much! Like he'd love to just sit and learn how she does it. She'd be the type to do her hair herself.

~He'd like a girl he can share memes and music playlists with!

~Will love a girl that likes to go out, and be taken out to dinners, clubs, etc. Just texts/calls her outta nowhere like "Get dressed nice babe, I'm taking you out"

~Likes a girl with a warm, velvety, low voice. That deep tone that comes across naturally sensual for no reason.

~I think he'd also like the kind of girl that acts a bit bratty just so he can put her in her place (if you know what I'm sayin' sksksksk)

~Since he's all flexible and whatnot, on his elastigirl type beat, he'd definitely like a girl that would be open to learning about stretches and workouts and things! Would for sure like a lil workout buddy.

~He'd like a girl that's good at communicating and being perceptive of other people.

HANMA

~I feel like Shuji likes a girl that acts like she doesn't like his corny jokes, slight chaos, and flirting but really does

~He'll like a funny girl for sure! Not necessarily cracking jokes 24/7, but she has a sense of humor!

~I think he'd like a girl that' loves adventures too. Hanma likes spontaneity so he'd probably gravitate towards a girl that loves doing random things out of the blue!

~Likes an "angelic" kind of girl. Super sweet, kind of innocent, super kind, and just not violent and crazy like him. Definitely can see him with a girl that'll reign that craziness on in (Like, "We can have fun but we ain't bouta be on all dat...")

~I feel like he'd like though, a bad biddie type of girl too. Like she intimidates guys that see her because she looks so beautiful. Comes across scary gorgeous but she's really not like that at all if they get the chance to know her.

~When it comes to her hair, I could see her being a versatile baddie. She'll be natural, wear wigs, get braids/locs, you just never know! She gon' eat whatever style she feels like at any given time!

~I feel like this will also play into her style too. Like she's the kinda girl that will be giving classy baddy one time, casual one day and streetwear another but she absolutely slays each and every aesthetic like it's her main one!

[take-everything-you-can]

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

A/N: This Fandom has given me the most inspiration I've had in years and this is a thank you to every single one of you. This idea spurred from one too many drinks and unhinged DMs and I'm so excited to share it with you guys. So here goes nothing lol. A special thanks to my lady loves @lesservillain , @ghost-proofbaby , @bettyfrommars , and @bimbobaggins69 for beta reading and letting me fill your inboxes with all my little thots for our little gremlin man !

P.S : BEFORE I GET INTO ANYTHING THIS STORY IS 18+ MINORS NEED TO GTFO PLEASE AND THANK YOU !!!!! Also please remember to like and reblog from your creators It keeps the fandom alive !!! ( honestly don't know what I would do without ya'll )

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female Reader ( Pumpkin )

Summary: A 1950's daydream of malt shop kisses and doo wop singles far behind closed doors. Dreamboat Eddie Munson picks up more than just an extra route. A love that makes you weak in the knees... but how long can you go on loving a man that isn't the one your married to.

TW: Angst- mentions of an affair (adultery), verbal abuse mentions, mentions of weight ( mentions of food within the story throughout), disordered eating, feeling unloved, self deprecation slightly, staying with toxic partner Fluff- pet names, domestic bliss, mutual pining Smut- fingering, soft touches, overstimulation slightly very slight, unprotected PIV, cream pie, spanking,..... tbh i can't think of anymore but if you see any please let me know ... Thank you all so much. ( every chapter will get updated tw)

WC: 4.1K

Flour covers the countertop in your kitchen, and a rolling pin is set to the side while you knead the soft pastry ingredients together. Apples sit freshly peeled in a separate dish. Sliced and added to sugar and cinnamon. Picking up the rolling pin, you do your best to flatten the dough to a thin sheet and mold it to the glass dish before you. 

“Well, this dough is much better than the first,” you say aloud to yourself. Your husband once told you that speaking out loud to yourself was a sign of a weak mind, you never put much stock in that. But here you were doing exactly that as your days consist of waiting for your husband to return home from work. 

You splash a bit of vanilla into the apple mixture to complete your pie filling. Once it is all tucked neatly beneath the fluffy dough, you take a knife and leave four little holes within the surface and crimp the edges together, sealing the flavors within. A touch of sugar is added to the top along with an egg wash before placing the pie on a rack in the oven. A timer is set for twenty minutes, a reminder to lower the temperature and to add your special ingredient.

Soft music plays throughout the house, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald keep you company on these long lonely days. Lonely but only for such a short time. Your husband works for the state doing something he thinks you're too dumb to understand so why talk about it? If anyone ever asks you simply say ‘Oh please you think a woman wants to know such things’. That usually earns you a laugh at cocktail parties and a warm smile from your man. If you could even call him that. 

Yes, he is your man in the sense that your last names are the same and you had shared the same bed. Where is the love though? It isn’t tangible and hasn’t been for quite some time now. Your day begins and ends with a few words apart from an I love you. You served him still, acted to the prying eyes, as a doting Wife. Four years and Everyone still thought you had a perfect life. 

That dream of white picket fences and shared milkshakes. That love of never-ending kisses and satisfying sex. Everyone around you wanted all that you had. Would they still want your life if they could see past those closed doors and shut curtains? 

Would they want to spend their mornings hiding the bags under their eyes from nights of restless sleep? Would they want to have a constant monologue of the flaws seen in the mirror? Ones that your oh-so-loving husband pointed out to you time and time again. Would they want to cook and clean knowing they would never receive a thank you? No, you knew they wouldn’t. All the small things that build and grow until it becomes a monotonous routine. Walking through days as if the next would be the exact same and then doing it all again and again, Until one day something changed. 

Two months prior A knock on the door, one that started to come once a week. The company of CC & Drums Dairy was paid to bring you a gallon of milk, A necessity your husband called it. A man with long dark locks that flowed over his shoulder and curls that dipped across his forehead under his cap. Deep Brown eyes that sparkled with flecks of amber as the sun hit him just right. Dressed in white overalls to comply with his company uniform and sleek black shoes that shine just as brightly as his smile. His name tag reads Eddie in a sweet embroidered cursive. Eddie, a name that would soon become something you would never forget. 

Your timer goes off as you check the pie, squeezing a lemon over the crust for that citrus tang. Slipping the dessert back into the oven, for another half hour or so, a knock sounds through the house, sending the butterflies in your stomach in a tizzy. Eddie had arrived.

A quick task of undoing the strings to your apron and a fast fix of hair in the mirror you had hung in the hall. A hand to your abdomen as you intake a breath and let it stagger out between your lips, hesitating to open the door. The second you see him you can feel the way the tops of your cheeks heat and plump with a smile. One that matches his.

 You take a second and wonder if he knows how handsome he is. The way the small lines beside his eyes crinkle with years of use. You wonder if he knows that the instant you see him, your heart stops beating. But most of all you wonder if you're the only one those soft eyes and long lashes catch in his gaze. 

“Afternoon darling, I must say this heat wave has got to be breaking records. Ought not keep these out here too long.” as he lifts the small crate of glass bottles holding the product out.

 You knew better than to take it from him, even if every bone in your body screamed too. The last time you tried you nearly flipped the whole crate, underestimating the weight. From that day on you always stood to the side as you let Eddie into your home to set the dairy in your kitchen. It was another thing you wondered about him. Did he do this for everyone else too?

“ Well let's not keep them then sir.” standing to the side he slides past you brushing a hand across the elbow you held to the door. His way of saying hello. Small touches here and there as he could never keep his hands to himself for too long in your presence.

“ Something smells awful delicious in her ma’am.”

“An Apple pie is in the oven, maybe you’ll stay and have a slice. For your troubles of course.” 

“Mhmm, my troubles.” Eddie sat the crate on the counter next to the ice box and turned his body towards you and enveloped you in his stronghold. An intoxicating embrace as he pulled you flush to his body. 

“ I missed you, you know that pretty girl?” soft tone, almost a whisper. A small smile he couldn't see but could feel made its way to your face. 

“I bet you say that to all the girls on your route.” he lets out a small chuckle.

“Only the breathtaking ones.” a falter to your features as your mind reeled with all the possibilities.

 Does he miss Mrs.Cunningham the way he misses you? Does he miss Ms.Buckley the same? That sick green monster finds its way under your skin as you think of all the girls he must have at his beck and call. But today that monster wasn’t going to ruin the few fleeting moments you could spend with him. You needed Eddie in the most carnal of ways.

“Do you want to know what I missed? “ Your fingers trail their way from the small of his back and up over his shoulder, landing on his neck just below his ear. Cupping his face you bring it down and catch his lips as they meet yours. 

“Oh yeah? you missed me too Pumpkin?” a second crash of your lips to his, makes him hum from the back of his throat. His nose nudges yours to the left so his teeth can catch your bottom lip, pulling back slightly to hear the small whine you emit.

“I always miss you, Eddie.”  His hands travel down over your figure as he starts to ruffle the hem of your dress up. Thankful for its length to hide how wet you had become just from him being in the home you share with your spouse. A topic you and Eddie tried to steer clear of, but the wrongness of the act just felt so right. 

Over a year your husband hadn’t touched you, barely talked to you and some days you were even sure he hadn't even looked in your direction. Eddie though, In the last two months, Eddie had made you feel seen. He made you feel heard, and most of all he made you feel desired.  

As his hand finds the thin cotton that covers your cunt he glides his digits over the wet patch that had grown by just the thought of him. A deep hum and a small huff of breath from Eddie against your neck as he kissed his way to your shoulder. 

“So wet for me and I've barely even touched you. Are you that starved for affection?” The words forming in that sweet small surrender to him were all but cut off as he slid a finger through your folds and teased your entrance. A gasp was the response he got, one he loved to hear in protest every time he had you. 

“C’mon honey tell me what you want.” how could you respond to him with words if you couldn't even think of them? The man before you had spent the last few months discovering just how to make you melt in his arms.

 He knew that the spot behind your knee was his best friend for when he had you on your back. He knew the way your hips stutter when you're close to your peak, and he knew that if your eyes found that they couldn't stay open that you were in utter bliss.

 His favorite thing he had learned throughout your time together though was that even when he knew you had your doubts, you still trusted him in every sense of the word. 

After only two months Eddie knew you better than you know yourself. Better than your husband had ever cared to know you.

“ Please, Eddie.” He smiled down at you 

“ Please What Honey?” 

“ Dip in Eddie, Fuck me please.”  He could feel the slackening of your legs as his assault on your clit had made you a bit sensitive, in his focus on making you feel as good as he possibly could, in what little time he had with you. He slid two of his thick fingers into your dripping heat as his thumb stayed in a rhythm that matched his wrist as he curled in and let the sounds of his efforts echo off the small kitchen walls. 

Moaning into Eddie's ear as his finger worked in and out of you making that heat inside of you grow higher and higher. Clutching the strap of his overalls, a small pull leaning back, as the pleasure he was giving you kept climbing. 

“ Come on now baby, let go.” A final intake of air, hold on to the breath that led you to your walls squeezing eddies fingers tight. That coil snapped as you let your body fall slack against him a loud moan from the farthest depths within you found its way out of your lungs. 

When your eyes land on Eddie after your come down all you can see is that smile. The dimple-creasing smile that kept haunting your dreams at night. 

“I need more.” You didn’t know how but his smile grew even wider and more sinister as his tone began to deepen. A kiss is pressed to your lips, not urgent, understanding. 

“ You need more? Well, it's a damn good thing that what you're asking for is in stock then Pumpkin.” He turned you around to face the small table that sat in your kitchen, knowing what he wanted from you. He wasn’t the only one taking notes from your time together. 

You braced yourself against the worn wood and clutched the sides of it as you heard the familiar clinks of metal as his rings fumbled with the buckle of his belt.  

The wait, though it is small, is brutal. Anticipation makes your stomach flip and cunt flutter. A shuffle out of his overalls gives Eddie a moment to just admire the way you listen so well. These small moments have him thanking every bad decision that got him here. To this small town, with this small job, on this small route. A route he picked up as a last resort. Yeah, he doesn't know who he's praying to but whoever is listening, he's singing grace. 

A grip in the slight pudge of your hips to keep himself steady, Eddie is gentle as he slips his cock through your folds gathering your slick over his length and breaching your desire. A deep moan and a few choice words fall from Eddie as he fills you and meets the small wavering gasp you let out, a breath you didn't know you had been holding.  A whine of impatience, his sign to move. 

A soft speed turns ravenous as his dick uses your walls to curve his hooks into you deeper and deeper. A sigh of his name and you can feel the stutter in his thrust. He slows his pace if only to keep himself from having to leave your presence all too soon.  

"Fuck darling, so good to me, taking me so well like this pussy was made for me."  You mewl from beneath him, dropping your forehead to the wood that is holding you up. You fear that if it had not been here your legs would have given up the second he started talking. "Isn't that right pumpkin? Made just for me? " A sharp thrust and you know he wants an answer in the way his grip turns bruising. A trip through your mind as you try and collect the words from thin air. 

"YES! God yes, I was made just for you." 

"Such a good girl for me baby. That's right, isn't it? You're all mine aren't you?"  Another squeeze to your hip and a smack that lands hard on your ass. Eddie's palm kneads the sting as you answer him. 

" All yours, all yours, no one else, just you baby." A grunt hum from the back of his throat as he grips your shoulder and leans so his body is flush with yours. His breath is on your neck as he leans to your ear. 

"Not even your husband, just you and me baby?" 

"Just you and me Ed's" Your eyes tunnel and you see white as your orgasm rushes through you, Eddie's own a thrust away as he moans deep against your skin. His body weight and yours against the kitchen table as you both find your way down from the clouds. 

Small kisses he leaves to your spine and the back of your neck. You turn your head and he places another small one to the upturned corner of your mouth. A bell chimes and you sit for a few seconds letting Eddie gather his own bearings. A small pat to the curve of your pussy as Eddie pulls the cotton back in place. A shock to your sensitivity.

"Keep that in there baby, that way you have a part of me while I'm gone." A heat to your cheeks as the thought of Eddie's cum dripping out of you while your husband sat across from you and read the paper over dinner. A sly smirk from the man you just let defile the small space, one you would let do ungodly things to you. 

You put on oven mitts as Eddie finds a few glasses in the cabinet. You slice into the flakey crust and slip through the filling as you place the large piece on a plate for you to share. Eddie pours milk as you find some silverware, he places the bottles in your fridge so they keep.

Turning with a smile, he is the definition of adoration. In your eyes he is everything. 

Why is it that when his time with you is coming to an end you almost wish it would end as soon as possible? Almost as if you would wish he would part with some harsh words to make you not want him in the most beautiful ways. You have to make yourself believe these things before he leaves because if you don’t, it would just shatter you. So you take a different route, you don’t shatter yourself, instead, you splinter and crack all the things that hold you until you see him again. The times where he glues those little shards back in place if only for you to break them off again and again. A scared thought and a small shake of your head trying to rid yourself of it. A married woman. What would he possibly want from you other than a good lay? 

He sees that doubt within your mind as if reading it. He takes your hand in his as he laces your fingers together. 

“ Penny for your thoughts Pumpkin?” You glance finally meeting his eyes as you clear your throat. 

“ Nothing important hun.” You slide a fork to his side of the table as your eyes dart to the clock.  He squeezes your hand once more, lowering his eyes in search of yours again. 

“It is important if it bothers you.” Your heart stops. The breath you were going to take gets caught in your throat and you turn on that winning smile you had trained yourself to hold in uncomfortable circumstances. One you wish he couldn't see through.

“ It’s nothing Eds, really.” 

“Do you promise?” you take a hand and cup his cheek.

 How do you tell him that he is your first thought in the morning and the last thought before falling asleep? How instead of counting sheep you try and count the freckles on his face by sheer memory?  How could you tell him you wish you were his one and only? That you have never felt about another human soul the way you feel about his. Instead, you stuff it down, apple pie soon to follow. 

“I Promise.”  

You know he doesn’t believe you but he would rather set out to sea and die of starvation as the sharks feed from him than to make the last moments he has with you tainted with fights and tears. God when you cry it absolutely destroys him. 

The first time you had ever let him take you in his arms you had just gotten off the phone with your husband. He had heard hushed words while he waited for you to grab the weekly tip your husband left for him. Your husband had informed you that he would not be coming home, as the fight from the night before had lingered into the morning and would now follow you well into the night. The first time you had opened the door Eddie studied the angelic features of your face, and they had plagued his dreams for such a long time at this point.

When you rounded the corner with a smudge of mascara beneath your eyes, he instantly without thinking took you in, pushing your face to his chest as his hand rested on the back of your head. Slight comfort made the tears begin again as he wiped the remainder of the smudge and irritation from your face. No man had ever done something as small as comforting you before.  In the two months since he had started this route, he knew he had instantly fallen head over heels in love with you.

You had taken two bites from the plate that sat in front of you and Eddie had finished the slice. He even went as far as to slide a finger in the crumbs on the plate and lick them off in an attempt to show you how much he had enjoyed it. His time with you. 

A gathering of glasses you brought to the sink as he brought the other dishes and sat them in the deep well while wrapping his arms around your waist and you stood eyes closed relishing in the last little bit of affection he could offer to you. 

A kiss to your shoulder as you turn your head resting it on his.

“I’ll be by in a week Pumpkin.” A nod to the fact you already knew. “ Seven days.” Another nod, not risking the crumble in your voice. “ Not long at all.”  Another small kiss to your cheek as you turned into his chest and rested your forehead on his. 

“Seven days?” 

“ Seven days Pumpkin. Do you think you can wait for me? Just seven days? “

“I think I could wait a lifetime for you Eddie.” 

“I’ll see you in a week, Mrs.Carver.”

“ A week Mr.Munson.” 

A kiss to your lips and a parting gift of his very own pie before he snuck out through the back door, so as to not raise suspicion. A slow walk from the kitchen to the door and to turn a lock, on your mind. On your hope. You could do this. You could wait seven days.

Your husband comes through the door late as he had been doing for the last year or so. You had expected it from him at this point. You had started to make his dinner later and later knowing that if you had made it too early he would tell you all the ways he couldn't eat it. If it had gone too cold he would refuse and the hard work would go directly into the trash. 

He walked in as you took his dinner off the stove and placed it on a dish for him.

“Right on time doll.”

“ I don’t know how on time it is, It’s Nearly eight in the evening, Jason!”     

“ I’m not doing this with you tonight.”  

He always did this. He would come home and you would ask him where he had been, and he’d always end the conversation before it could even begin. You sat his plate in front of him as you sat across the table from him. Times where you could really take him in and see that the feelings you had once long ago were snuffed out like a flame to a candle.

“ Are you not eating dear?” 

“ I ate a bit earlier in the day.”

“Thanks for waiting .”  He rolled his eyes and you returned the gesture. 

“ I wouldn’t have had to wait if you had just picked up the phone and told me when you were going to be on your way home. I’m not waiting until we hit a new day to eat Jason I’m not going hungry just so you-”

“ Wouldn’t harm you any though would it.” 

You left the table. Your weight had started to become a key focus as he knew it bothered you more than anything else. You had gained some weight and your mother and friends had commented on it from time to time. For your husband to tho, it made you furious. You ate when you were unhappy, it was something you had done since you were a child. The only person who thought you could stand to eat a little more had been Eddie. 

It happened slowly, you would make him food now and then, and the majority of the time He would offer you a bit. It started with a bite and progressed into cutting his sandwiches in half just so you could have something to eat. Unlike your husband, Eddie had a suspicion that you weren’t eating enough. Like you weren’t giving your body what it needed to survive so he would constantly ask for you to eat with him. At least then he would know you had something of substance within your day.  

You had gone to your bedroom and gotten out of your daily’s slowly separating them into their hampers waiting to hear the stomping footsteps of Jason as he made his way to the spare bedroom. He had taken residency there about a month before Eddie came into your life and you were thankful for the times that Eddie left you yearning for more. To call out another man's name while with your significant other no matter how insignificant they were would still bring you shame like no other.

Slipping into your nightgown as Jason shuts the door to his room you wait a few minutes to take the walk back down the stairs to stand in front of the sink. Looking up at the sky through the window above the stars seem to shine brightly. You attempt to find the little dipper and look for its companion not far from where it lays, the version of a larger size. Constellations begin to blur as you let the silent tears fall. Hoping that somewhere out there in this little old town, Eddie too is looking up at the moon and wishing you were by his side as you wished upon all the stars in the sky. What a long time seven days would be.

[sjsmith56]

Night Music

Summary: While wandering around Brooklyn on a hot summer’s night Bucky is drawn to the sounds of a woman singing a blues song.

Length: 4.9 K

Characters: Bucky, OMC, OFC (not described other than mixed heritage), 2 minor OFC.

Warnings: Some talk about mortality, race laws in the past, and mixed marriages, brief mentions of cannabis use, bitchy caregiver.

Author notes: A conversation over the comments section on AO3 with user Dornish_Jedi inspired this story. Thank you. Songs referenced include a live recording of Blues in the Night, sung by Ella Fitzgerald (music written by Harold Arlen, lyrics by Johnny Mercer), Alright, Okay, You Win, sung by Peggy Lee (music written by Sid Wyche, lyrics by Mayme Watts), As Time Goes By, sung by Dooley Wilson (written by Herman Hupfeld), I’ll Never Smile Again, sung by Frank Sinatra and the Pied Pipers, music performed by Tommy Dorsey and His Orchestra (written by Ruth Lowe). All are available to listen on Spotify.

🎺 🎶 🎺 🎶

It was uncomfortably hot inside his flat so Bucky put his lightest jacket on, slipped on some cloth gloves and headed out into the night. Still not comfortable displaying his left arm in public, he found little difference between being in his flat versus out on the street. Aimlessly, he walked along the avenue, threading his way through the other poor souls without air conditioning trying to avoid sweltering in their apartments. The sidewalk cafes and outdoor seating areas for the small bistros were bustling with people fanning themselves with menus, hands and whatever other flat objects they could use. The really busy places were those with air conditioning, or with large fans connected to misting nozzles. The latter, sending out a cool spray every 60 seconds or so would attract everyone eager to stand directly in the path of the fine droplets which evaporated within seconds upon contact with their overheated skin. The sounds of their relief combined with the disparate music coming out of each place along the avenue created a morass of sound that eventually became overwhelming for the super soldier.

Just as Bucky decided the hot but quiet confines of his flat were preferable to the hectic bustle of the street, he heard it; the rich voice of a woman singing Blues in the Night to a recording of it. The music came from an alleyway that led away from the street.

My mama done tol' me

When I was in pigtails

My mama done tol' me

A man's gonna sweet-talk and give you the big eyes

But when the sweet-talking's done

A man is a two-face, a worrisome thing

Who'll leave you to sing the blues in the night

She wasn't just singing it, she was belting it out as if she were Ella Fitzgerald herself. He recognized the legendary singer's voice on the recording that the unknown woman was singing along with. Following the sound, as if it were a siren calling just to him, Bucky kept walking down the poorly lit alley until he looked up to where a rooftop space was lit up. Whoever was singing was up there, at least six stories up. He could have gone around to the front of the building trying to find a way up by elevator but by then the song would be over. Noticing the fire escape ladder of a nearby building on this side of the alley, he jumped up, grabbing a metal rung and pulling himself up to the first landing. Following the stairs up he eventually got to a point where he could see across to the other rooftop.

It was a patio but a private one, with only two people out there, a woman who was just finishing the song, and an old man in one of those mobility scooters. When she finished, he clapped his hands.

"Darlin', you sound just like Miss Ella," wheezed the old man. "You should have seen her live. That woman could sing the pants off of any man I knew."

"You were so lucky to have played for those singers, Grandpa," smiled the younger woman, her face full of affection for the older man.

"You're just as good as any of them," he said. "How does the auditioning go?"

She sat on a nearby chair. "I keep trying to figure out what they want to hear but they say my voice isn't what they want. They say they're looking for something more contemporary sounding. No one wants to hear the old songs, unless it's Lady Gaga, or Michael Bublé singing it."

"I'd listen to you all night long," whispered Bucky.

"You keep plugging away, my darling," said the old man. "Someone will hear you and realize you got the goods. Now, what's another one you can sing for me?"

She grinned and pulled up her phone, finding another song. Her face lit up as she sang the opening verse along with the singer on the recording.

Well alright, okay, you win

I'm in love with you

Well alright, okay, you win

Baby, what can I do?

The old man beamed as she sang it enthusiastically. During an instrumental break, she took her grandfather's hand, pulling him up into a standing position from the scooter, laughing. Bucky found himself smiling along with the pair as the old man shuffled his feet a little before waving her off and sitting back onto the scooter. It was obvious they had a special bond formed over the sharing of music the older man knew well. She sang several more songs for him, until she checked the time and begged off, telling him that she was going to her regular open mic night.

"When are you going to find a boyfriend that will make sure you get home okay?"

"Oh, Grandpa, they don't make them like you anymore. The good ones are already snapped up. I'll be fine."

Kissing him gently on the cheek, she picked up her phone and purse, leaving the patio. For a moment, Bucky thought of following her but by the time he could make it to the front of the building she would be gone. Instead, he sat there for a while, thinking about how much he enjoyed that impromptu concert.

The old man, still in the scooter, suddenly maneuvered over to the edge of the patio and looked directly at where Bucky was perched.

"Well, what did you think?" Bucky leaned back into the shadows. "Yeah, I'm talking to you there on the fire escape. Is my youngest granddaughter talented enough to make it in the music business?" The old man grinned. "I saw you sneaking up there. You're that Barnes fellow, aren't you?" Bucky stood up from where he sat on the fire escape ladder, coming into the light that spilled across the alley. "Yeah, it's you. Why don't you come on over? I've got some good bourbon, some Cuban cigars, and we can share stories about the good old days. I got air conditioning as well."

He gave Bucky the building address and apartment number then moved the scooter, disappearing into the apartment through a set of open doors. Indecision made the super soldier pause, as he considered the old man's offer. He could have jumped across to the patio but that could attract attention that he really didn't want. Instead, he went down the fire escape, jumping down from the bottom landing. It only took a couple of minutes to get to the entrance of the apartment building. He entered the apartment number on the intercom button, then heard the buzz of the door being unlocked and opened it. Taking the elevator, he went up to the sixth floor, turning towards the apartment, and hearing 1940s music playing through the door that had been left open.

Knocking as he opened it, he heard the old man's voice. "Come on in. Close the door behind you before the neighbours say I'm playing my music too loud."

Standing in the entryway he fidgeted a little until the sound of the mobility scooter brought the old man into view. He stopped, looked at Bucky from head to toe, then offered his hand.

"Sid Goldstein," he said. "I'm 103 years old, so I figure you and I might have something in common."

"Bucky," said the super soldier, shaking the old man's hand. "But I guess you know that already."

"You can take the gloves off," said Sid, "and the jacket. Wouldn't mind a peek at your fancy arm there but I knew enough veterans who were amputees that didn't like people staring."

Bucky removed his jacket and gloves, finding the cool air conditioning refreshing. Sid pointed to a glass of bourbon already poured for Bucky, then moved his scooter over to a humidor, opening it up and taking two cigars out.

"I bought a few cases of these in 1951. Saw the writing on the wall for Cuba, and figured if I wanted the best cigars I better secure my own supply. I'm down to the last dozen as I saved them for special occasions. Smoked Dominican cigars for everyday. Figure I can die after finishing the last Cuban one."

He offered one to Bucky, showing him how to cut the end, then watching and nodding as he did it. Flicking a Zippo lighter on, he inhaled several times before the tobacco caught on his, then offered the lighter to Bucky. As he blew out the smoke from his cigar he sighed, then positioned his scooter next to an armchair, gesturing to the super soldier to sit there. For several long minutes the two men puffed on their cigars and drank some bourbon.

"You're not from Brooklyn," said Bucky. "If you were in the music business in the 40s I might have seen you in the clubs."

"Queen's," replied Sid. "They wouldn't let me in the clubs until I was 21 which I reached in September of 1943. I was 4F, because I had a heart murmur." He smirked. "Yet here I am, 103 years old. I tried, damned if I didn't go to a bunch of recruiting offices but they wouldn't take me."

Bucky smiled. "Sounds like Steve Rogers. I know he tried at least 5 times. Don't know how many times I didn't find out about." He took another drag of the cigar. "Then he volunteered for that stupid super soldier experiment."

"Sure did the trick for him," smiled Sid. "You boys made a difference ... well, mostly."

They were quiet again.

"So, you played for Ella Fitzgerald?"

"Yup, trumpet. Played for Lena Horne, Billie Holiday, Doris Day, then Peggy Lee and several others in the 1950s and 60s. Loved playing for the women. Classy ladies, all of them."

"Your granddaughter has a good voice," said Bucky. "Sounded just like Ella Fitzgerald."

"Lia always loved listening to the records I was part of. Started singing along to them when she was a little girl. Been trying to get a recording contract or a part on Broadway. She's been at it since she graduated from Juilliard ten years ago." He shook his head. "I might be biased but I can't understand how the music industry can ignore her talent and yet promote some person who needs that auto tune to make their voices sound good. What do I know? I'm an old Jewish musician who disappointed his parents when I started playing jazz and disappointed them even more when I married a black woman." He glanced at Bucky. "She was my only wife. Minerva West. She could have been a great singer but once we got married in 1952 she couldn't travel with me and the band because of the race laws against mixed marriages in other states. So, she stayed home here to raise our family. She died some time ago. Love of my life."

"I'm sorry," said Bucky. "You were married a long time."

Sid nodded, taking a drag on his cigar, and sipping his bourbon thoughtfully.

"You ever marry?"

"No. Was too busy playing the field before the war, then ... I died." He shrugged. "Now, it's hard to find anything in common with most women."

"That's too bad. A good woman at your side is a blessing." Sid drank some of his bourbon. "Lia's single."

That remark lingered for some time, as both men continued smoking their cigars and drinking from their glasses.

"She mentioned something about an open mic night," said Bucky, finally.

"Yeah, there's a bar in DUMBO, Barney's," replied Sid. "They have late open mic night on Friday nights. She got some Juilliard friends to make her some instrumental tracks and sings to those. One of these nights the right person will be in the audience and her dream will come true."

They heard the sound of the door opening and a voice that was a little too sharp.

"Mr. Goldstein!"

He practically jumped out of his scooter.

"Shit, it's my nurse. Quick, take the cigars and the bourbon out to the patio. Save the cigars for another time."

Bucky grabbed the glasses with one hand, putting his cigar in his mouth, and Sid's cigar in his left hand. Heading out to the patio he drank his bourbon, then looked at Sid's, drinking it as well. Using his left hand, he pinched off the lit end of Sid's cigar, then his own. As he did so, he could hear the nurse speaking to Sid.

"Have you been smoking cigars?" she asked, her voice full of suspicion.

"No, I have a guest over but he was having one on the patio. Some of the smoke must have drifted inside."

"Mr. Goldstein, you know what the doctor said about the cigars."

"I know, one a week and I had one yesterday. Give me a break, Irene. I'm 103 years old."

"Well, I'm just making sure you stay as healthy as you can. I'm going to get your medications ready then help you into your pyjamas."

Bucky peeked through the window until she left then came in with the glasses and cigars.

"I figured I should finish your bourbon as well," he said, lifting up the empty glasses.

"Good thinking," answered Sid. "Just put them in the dishwasher."

"They're crystal."

The old man shrugged. "Irene will wash them. She always checks the dishwasher as I have a habit of putting the good crystal in it." He wheezed slightly as he chuckled. "Put my cigar in the other humidor. I'll have it tomorrow after the day nurse gets here. Keep yours for another time."

"So, she's here to put you to bed, huh?" asked Bucky, looking in the direction the nurse went.

"Pffft," muttered Sid. "It's not like I get to sleep before 3 am. Old habits. Out late, sleep in, except when the kids were little. Had to adjust for that. Couldn't let Minnie do it all on her own." He gestured to Bucky. "What I told you about the cigars and dying? Don't say anything to Lia about that." His mouth straightened into a grim line. "She doesn't like it when I talk about dying. It makes her sad. I just hope to live long enough to know she realized her dreams."

"Oh, this is your friend, Mr. Goldstein?" The nurse stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips, glaring at Bucky, especially when she noticed his left arm and hand. "You know the cigar smoke isn't good for his lungs."

Bucky glanced at the old man, who had a smug smile on his face.

"I do now, ma'am," he replied. "Although, if you ask me, a 103 year old man should be able to smoke whatever he wants, whenever he wants."

"Are you the one who brings him cannabis?" She shook her head disapprovingly, not waiting for Bucky's answer, then came forward. "Say goodnight, Mr. Goldstein. It's bedtime."

Sid's smile was still on his face when he offered his hand.

"It was good spending time with you, Bucky. Come see me again. We'll talk more about the old days."

"I'd like that," said Bucky, shaking the old man's hand. "I'll check out that bar you told me about."

The nurse, Irene, glared at him, until he waved at Sid, gathered his jacket and gloves, and went to the door. He could hear her complaining all the way to the elevator.

After the air conditioned comfort of Sid's apartment, the heat outside felt like hitting a wall. Looking up the address of Barney's, Bucky headed in that direction, getting there 15 minutes later. He could hear someone singing, poorly, as he approached, but with it being open mic night even the bad singers got a turn at the microphone. Stepping into the dark confines, he found a spot at the bar, ordered a double scotch neat and turned towards the space, looking for Lia. He saw her, sitting with another woman near the stage, both of them sipping drinks with lots of ice. She was generous in her manner, listening to the bad singer, and when that woman was done, she stood up clapping her hands, then offered an encouraging word to her. It made her seem even more beautiful than he thought she already was.

After two more average singers, Lia's turn came up. A buzz of anticipation became audible when she was announced indicating that she was a favourite of the bar regulars. As she stood, waiting for her music cue to start, she looked around smiling at everyone, making eye contact with those closest to her. Then the music to As Time Goes By started and Bucky found himself transported back in time. Not to when he first heard it sung on the radio by Rudy Vallée in the early 1930s but how it was when he saw Casablanca and it was sung by Dooley Wilson. She literally had the audience in the palm of her hand and when she finished, there was a heartbeat of silence before the place erupted in applause and whistles.

"Sing another!" yelled someone in the bar, and the sound technician started the introduction to Blues in the Night.

It was one thing watching her sing along with Ella Fitzgerald's rendition to her grandfather on the patio. It was another thing entirely seeing her sing it to an audience. She commanded it, and made it her own, as the music went out through the doors and into the night, bringing in others to see the woman that belonged to this incredible voice. There were calls of "more" and "bravo" and she was given time for one more song. Lia waited for everyone to settle down.

"If you don't already know, my grandfather, Sid Goldstein, was a big band trumpet player from the 1940s to the 1960s. He played for some incredible women singers, like Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Doris Day, and Peggy Lee just to name a few. My love for these older songs came from him. My grandmother, Minerva West, could have been famous like them but being a black woman married to a Jewish man didn't go over too well in some parts of the country during the 1950s and 1960s. They could have been arrested. So when, my oldest uncle was born, she made the decision to leave the music business, stay in New York and raise their kids. They managed, until she died of an aneurysm in 1968. Grandpa, being the good man that he was and still is, quit playing then, went into his family's business, and got busy raising the four kids they had together. He never remarried. This next song is for him."

Bucky felt his face go hot. Sid said Minerva died some time ago. He assumed it was just in the last few years and commented about them having a long marriage. Sid didn't contradict him. Then the music for I'll Never Smile Again, a Frank Sinatra tune, when he was with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, began. Bucky found himself torn between hating a Sinatra song (because the guy was a real punk back when only the Bobby-soxers loved him) and allowing himself to feel the pain and the heartbreak that this song represented for Sid. His own heart almost broke at how Lia sang it, reinforcing just how close that old man and his granddaughter were. The standing ovation that she deserved lasted some time.

She stayed to watch two more singers then made the decision to leave. Bucky paid his tab and followed her, keeping her in his sights as he made sure she got home okay. His old self would have caught up to her, making some suave comment that would have swayed most women. But times were different, women were more suspicious of how guys approached them, with good reason. If he wanted to meet her, it was going to be with Sid's help.

The next morning he showed up at Sid's apartment, with a bag of bagels, cream cheese, lox, red onions and capers from a deli he liked. He waited until Irene left and before the day nurse arrived. Sid let him in right away, then watched with anticipation as Bucky unpacked the paper bag, taking the small containers with the fixings out and putting them on the table.

"Now, that's breakfast," said Sid, appreciatively. "Plates are in the cupboard nearest the sink and cutlery right below it. Irene started some coffee up. It's decaf but drinkable."

Bucky looked at the oatmeal and cut up fruit that were on the counter. "What about the breakfast she made for you already?"

"Keep the fruit, throw out the oatmeal," growled Sid. "Now get in here."

Smiling at the grumpy old man, Bucky returned with some plates and cutlery, then returned to the kitchen, coming back with coffee. He had to go back once more for sugar and milk for Sid, then finally the two men got down to business.

"I went to see Lia perform," said the super soldier. "She's good. The crowd loved her. People even came in from outside when they heard her voice."

"That's my girl," answered Sid, as he lathered on a thick layer of cream cheese, topped it with lox and the other fixings. He took a huge bite out of it, obviously enjoying it, as he spoke before he finished eating. "Can't get enough of this."

"Close your mouth, old man. You're getting crumbs on my food."

"Who you calling an old man? You're older than me, right?"

"Then listen to your elders."

Both men chuckled like little boys. It was like being young in Brooklyn again for Bucky, as the two men traded insults that would have been seen as endearments in their childhood and youth. They were each into their second bagel when they heard the door opening and a woman appeared. Although she didn't seem as irritated as Irene was the night before, she looked every bit the disapproving mother she probably was.

"Morning Cheryl!" exclaimed Sid. "This is my friend, Bucky. He brought me breakfast."

"You're going to get me in trouble, Sid," she sighed as she approached the pair. "But it does look good."

He beamed at Bucky. "Cheryl here is a real peach. You want to join us?"

"I already ate," she answered bluntly, then sighed again. "Just take the garbage with you so I don't get reported. I'm guessing you want a cigar after."

"Well, I do have a partially smoked one I could finish so it won't be a full one," he said, winking at her. "Irene was early last night."

She looked at Bucky. "How did you get involved with this senior delinquent?"

"I heard his granddaughter singing on the patio and kind of climbed a building to listen. He invited me in after. We have similar tastes in music."

"Uh huh, just what I need. Two senior citizens up to no good. He can finish his cigar but no more after that. At least you're not the "friend" that brings him weed." She shook her head, then looked at her watch. "I'm going to change your sheets and do your laundry, Sid. You got anything to add to it?"

"Nope, it's all in there." He bit into the bagel, rolling his eyes at the taste, then looked at Bucky. "So, why are you really here? We've only known each other for hours and you bring me a good Jewish breakfast." He waggled his finger. "You want something."

"I want to meet Lia, properly," said Bucky. "I want you to introduce us."

Sid looked intently at the super soldier. "What, you can't meet girls on your own?"

"I'm not that guy anymore," he replied, then he returned the old man's serious gaze. "You're the one who told me she's single. Did you have a reason to tell me that?"

The old man looked at Bucky for some time then backed up his scooter, and went over to a bookcase, pulling a photo album out, then bringing it to the table. Flipping it open, he searched for the right picture then showed it to Bucky. It showed Sid and a beautiful black woman on what he assumed was their wedding day, as they fed each other a piece of cake. Other pictures from the luncheon showed a who's who of singers and musicians that Bucky recognized.

"Other than the music we had nothin' in common. I was a Jewish boy from Queens that didn't want the life that my parents had, with a marriage arranged by a matchmaker. It was a good marriage but there was no passion in it. It was a duty, marry, continue in the family business, have a family, make sure they did better in life. My parents were concerned because I wanted to be a jazz musician, and almost disowned me when I married Minnie. She was something else. She was from Savannah, Georgia. Her voice could melt butter and she made me feel like I was the best man in the world. We knew it would be difficult being married but I couldn't stand the thought of her with any other man and she felt the same way about me and any other woman."

He went silent as he gently touched the part of the picture that had her in it.

"Lia sang I'll Never Smile Again," said Bucky. "She said her grandmother died in 1968."

Sid nodded his head slightly. "One minute we were laughing and talking about the tour I had been on and the next minute she was gone. Just like that. 16 years of marriage and I had been home for maybe half of it because I was on the road so much. I quit the business, my father gave me a job and I raised our kids myself. They're good kids and they all went to college, found the right one to marry and had their own families. But none of them were interested in music and I thought the music wouldn't ever come back into my life. Then Lia was born." A fond smile appeared on his face. "She heard me listening to a record that I performed on with Ella Fitzgerald. Who is that Grandpa? She sings real good. Then she started singin' along with it, perfect pitch in a 7 year old. It was like listening to Minnie sing." His eyes refocused as he came back from his little trip down memory lane. "I want her to meet a good man who won't hold her back."

"You know my background," murmured Bucky. "You know what I did."

"I know you went through a hell that no man should have ever gone through." He put his hand on Bucky's left hand. "But you came through it and instead of folding, you played with the hand you were dealt, and you're still in the game. She needs a good man to keep her safe and to be her anchor. I think you're that man."

"How do you I know I'll treat her right?" asked the super soldier. "You and I have only known each other for a few hours."

"Even in the short time we've known each other, I've found a friend who remembers what it was like back in the day. You grew up when blacks and whites didn't mix, yet the history books talk about you going to the clubs in Harlem for the music, and your unit, those Howling Commandos, had a black man in it. You were integrated before Truman ever made the decision. They all say that Sam Wilson is your best friend."

"Gabe Jones was a good man and I just liked the music no matter where I found it." Bucky grinned mischievously. "As for Sam, well, the man can't even buy a friend."

Sid chuckled, then picked up his bagel, finishing it off. When he finished eating he looked at Bucky with fondness.

"So, I'll introduce you and then you're on your own. She's got a mind of her own, just like her grandmother. But she's worth it, if you're willing to work for it."

"I'll remember that, Sid."

When they were finished breakfast, Bucky cleaned up the breakfast dishes, even though Cheryl came out to say she could do it. He put the few leftovers back in the paper bag, planning to take them home with him, so that Sid and Cheryl didn't get in trouble with Irene. Then he joined the old man on the patio, under the large umbrella as it was too sunny otherwise. Sid had his cell phone with him and peered at the music app, bringing up a jazz playlist featuring trumpeters. As it played, he lit his cigar, then offered the lighter to Bucky who pulled his half-finished cigar out of his pocket.

The two men were still there talking when Lia arrived for lunch, recognizing Bucky as soon as she saw him. She was impressed with the handsome man when he stood up as her grandfather introduced him. She was even more impressed when he gave her his seat and brought another over for himself, then told her how the sound of her night music drew him to climb the fire escape on the building opposite so he could put a face to the voice that called to him. It was probably the most original pickup line she had ever heard. When Sid winked, she knew then that her grandfather had no objection, and she asked Bucky if he liked to dance. His incredible smile told her everything she needed to know.

One Shots Masterlist

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[epilogue-and-prologue]

Blue Moon

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (movies) Ship/Pairing: Eomer x Reader (one mention of reader wearing a dress) Trope: Noble x Humble worker Note: IT’S SOTWK’s FAULT. We talked about Eomer’s hands and here we are. The title « Blue Moon » is a reference to the song « Blue Moon », my favourite rendition being sung by Ella Fitzgerald. Warnings: Horses? Word count: 1 595 Tag-list: @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @middleearthpixie @glassgulls @evenstaredits @fizzyxcustard @sotwk

There was something hypnotising about his hands.

The way his palm moved along the planes of the horse’s back. They were delicate. Deliberate in their care for the animal. Several times today, you had caught your gaze lingering a little too long on his slender fingers and their dexterity. Several times you had wondered what they’d feel like against your skin, in your hair weaving braids during a quiet evening. Those were fairy tales. You did not dwell on them, even when it kept you up at night; heat clinging to your skin, the chilly wind doing nothing to help your wandering mind.

It seemed to appease his uneasy nature to come here. He would go in the early hours of the day, only to come back in the middle of the morning. To the outside world, he was a leader. Someone they could trust and follow into depths unknown. Here, he was only Eomer. You considered yourself lucky to have witnessed both.

Others were concerned by his willingness to spend so much more time with you instead of them. You had dismissed them easily enough, but the thought had lingered. Why was he only asking you to help him? A bucket, water, hay, a brush for the horse’s mane. You were not willing to fathom an answer, especially if it was the wrong one. Seeing him like this it made you happy enough. You were content with this, whatever this was.

From time to time, he would ask about your day and you would always answer the same things. Fine and good. Excellent, perfect or grand. Never would you have said what you wanted to say. That it was him who made those days fine, and good and excellent and perfect and grand. Until meeting him, working with horses had been your life’s dream, and you were fulfilled by it. When he was there, you weren’t so sure anymore. It felt as if all of him was completing what you had and did not know you were missing.

“What are you thinking about?”

Barely above a whisper, his question lingered in the air between the two of you, almost as if he had not meant to ask it aloud. He was still working his fingers through the hair, looking beyond the horse’s back, away from you. If he had looked at you, you could have traced a lingering hint of a pinkish hue on his cheeks.

A chilly breeze rose, and you had to tighten the cloth around your shoulder, crossing your arms close to your chest.

“Nothing important, Sire.”

A laugh echoed through the wooden box around you.

“Then why are you boring a hole in my skull with your staring?”

Your cheek felt warmer than they had been moments ago.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, sire. If you need me to go, I… — No. Stay.”

Eomer had not meant for his voice to grow this loud. Nor to turn around so abruptly. The nerves in him, electrified by your eyes, led him to act so.

It had grown almost suddenly, this affection he had for you. First, you were something to behold. Once he discovered your face, your features, the way you moved and talked, he only ever wanted you to be near him when the mask fell off. When he could be himself and not who he was supposed to be. Second, you never pressured him into talking, going silent for hours on end, just being there with him and Lia. She was not his usual horse. He preferred not to overexert Firefoot, especially after the events he had seen on the battlefields. You were the one to care for her when he could not, even before he started mounting her. The mare had a gentler temper, dark robe and larger body. She adored you and if instincts served him right, animals were always the true tellers of someone’s nature. Thirdly, and lastly, your presence calmed him like no one else could. Except when you were threatening to leave. Or when you were looking at him, behind his back. He never wanted you to stop looking at him like that. When your eyes were observing and kind on him, his weary body and his weary mind, he felt that he could take on another thousand wars just to find you here again, safe and sound, watching him. He only hoped you could say the same about him.

“As you wish, Sire.”

The goosebumps on your arms and the way you protected yourself from the cold struck him then. With the winds of winter approaching, the weather had gone incredibly cold, and you were only wearing a thin linen above your usual dress and robes. He stepped out of the box, coming closer to you as he’d ever been. He grabbed for a cover lying around. Those were used for the horses but they’d have to do. He wrapped it around you, as tight as he could. It smelled of the stables and hay. A hint of pink shattered across his cheekbones in the morning lights. Your breaths were leaving your lips in hot clouds between you. The way he settled his palms on your shoulders, securing the cloth around you, drove a whole different kind of shiver down your spine. You could feel his fingers over the fabric, his overexerted hands catching some threads, before he took them off you, gently. You could not help the sharp inhale you took when he did.

“Would not want you freezing to death on my account.”

His smile did not reach his eyes, but you felt the warmth it procured you down to your toes. At a loss for words, you smiled in return, trying to hide your face. Your arms were still secured against your chest but your heart was not as protected as you had hoped it would be.

In a thoughtless step, Eomer leaned down and brought his lips to your cheek. He could feel the burn of them under his skin. The way you looked up at him, bewildered and hopeful, brows knitted together in confusion, only made his mouth ache for more. Still, he would not do it unless you said so. He had already overstepped and behaved un-gallantly enough. Hence his surprise when he found your hands gripping at his lapel, obviously not willing to let him go. A soft curve graced his mouth, a pleasant feeling growing in him.

“Can I…?”

Your vigorous nodding let him know exactly what he wanted. Only then did he pull you closer, his hands drawing you in, the warmth you felt from his lips and the tenderness with which his fingers nestled against your jaw below your ears, enough to make you forget about the world around. Delicately, his mouth danced with yours, eager to please and swift to do so. Soon, his wide hand drew you in, pulling you at the waist. Your fingers met his heart through cloth and flesh and bones, beating in a rhythm only known to you both.

“I…”

You bit your lip while you could see him observing you through hooded eyes, his fingertips sending shivers down your arms. He was tracing the hollow of your cheek with his knuckles, leaving you breathless once more. He looked as if he had seen the most marvellous creature in the entire world. You could not believe it was you on the other end of that fantasy.

“I… do not know what to say… I… — Then you don’t need to say anything.”

His fingers found their way down the length of your throat. He looked positively charmed, yet you pulled back, hesitant. What if this had been… just a fling? Just something he could do, just because he wanted to. No other reason. No feelings involved. What if he was playing with you?

“I will. — What?”

He chuckled at your incredulous expression.

“I will say something. — Oh.”

He brought you back to him again, kissing your cheek.

“I…” He kissed your nose. “…will never…” your other cheek. “…ever…” Your fingertips now. “…let you…” This was getting on your nerves and he knew it, smirking behind your hand. “…be seen by anyone else but me, in this state.”

The last words murmured against your cheek, to the shell of your ear, elicited a burning anticipation deep in your bones.

“My King, I would never ever let anyone but me see you in this state. — I don’t think anyone had ever really seen me before you.”

His candid answer surprised you. In a tender caress, he stroked your back through the fabrics of your clothes, not thick enough to keep his touch at bay. A thumb ventured below your breast, too close to be accidental. You inhaled sharply.

“And I will never let anyone else see me like this. If you’ll have me, of course.”

His declaration hit your heart at an arrow’s speed.

“You really mean that? I’m not just a… — You’re not just anything. You are the world and beyond. You are everything. I hope to be everything to…”

Before he could finish, you pulled him down for another kiss. This one arousing and passionate; desires trapped, finally meeting in the middle.

“I will. I absolutely will.”

A heartbeat passed in his arms, trying to keep your hands to yourselves.

“You were asking me to… — … court and eventually marry you? Yes. And you said yes, you cannot take it back now.”

Your laughter rang through him as it rang through the stables, enlightening the new day ahead.

[henrysglock]

The Resemblance Is Uncanny

As I'm sure you all are aware, back in September I posted this massive masterdoc discussing The First Shadow—specifically Henry, Patty, and Brenner, as well as their roles in relation to each other and the rest of the cast. Y'know, a real breakdown of parallels and references and what those parallels and references tell us in terms of characterization and underlying truths.

In that masterdoc, I asserted that I don't think Patty Newby is real. Whether there was a real Patty Newby at some point in Henry's life is immaterial. This Patty—the one we see in TFS—is not, in my opinion, a real person. In fact, I don't think any of it is technically real. That much is not unique to Patty. We also see this kind of storytelling cropping up in NINA and in Henry's interactions with the Mindflayer in the VR game. "It's not real..." etc. and all that jazz. You guys know the drill.

What is unique to Patty, within the bounds of TFS, is her wealth of Shadow subtext—specifically in the way of references to offspring of the Shadow, à la D'art and the piece of the Shadow that inhabited both Will and Billy. Now...when I say wealth, I mean it. Holy shit, girl. I'm not going to rehash all that in here, though. If you want to read about it, feel free to click the link up top. The masterdoc is on ao3 in chapter format.

(And before anyone comes into my inbox with misogyny or racism allegations: All of this would still stand if Patty were a white boy named Patrick. It's about the content, not the demographic. Capiche?)

Anyway. All that was very lengthy and very complex to map out, hence why it took like 5 months to do so. All of it's clear, too, if you're willing to look directly at it, but it's not always blatant. There are some blatant bits, but at the end of the day there's nothing super cut-and-dried/fact without room for interpretation. And while I think that's really cool, and I enjoy the room for discussion that's been left by Kate...you all know I'm a hard facts guy at my core. I love things I can point to on my screen. I love having a steadfast "right" interpretation (which is not to say that I'm certain I'm correct, just that I love things that have a correct answer—like an equation, or a chemical reaction).

However, because I tend to get so caught up in exploring nested and/or subtle evidence, I sometimes miss the extremely obvious evidence. Something something:

Regardless...Without further ado, this is the "how did I miss it the first time around" evidence I posted about earlier:

Patty herself even sings DALDOM (while in a Vegas Showgirl setting, much like her mother's setting when we see her later), and—as we all know—DALDOM is Vecna's leitmotif in filmed canon.

Vecna/001, who's in deep with the Shadow and has a weird amount of woman/female/mother-coding...(001 who, if you ask me, is an extension of the Shadow when we see him in NINA...but that's a slightly different conversation!)

So, to recap: Patty's claims her mother is Ella Fitzgerald, and her mother comes through the radio when Henry's channeling his powers, and then said mother warps into a monster via the Shadow. Then, Ella Fitzgerald is the artist chosen to come through the radio when Henry kills his family while possessed by the Shadow.

We've got a clear through-line from Ella Fitzgerald/DALDOM to Shadow.

So...if Ella Fitzgerald and DALDOM are direct links to the Shadow, and Patty claims Ella Fitzgerald is her mother, sings DALDOM while in a Vegas Showgirl setting as a pre-emptive reference to her mother (while also having numerous other references to offspring of the Shadow/being offspring of the Shadow), then the logical conclusion about Patty and her mother is..?

I'll let you guys fill in that blank.

And for those of you who are itching to come into my inbox like "Patty was lying about her mother being Ella Fitzgerald because she's self-conscious about not knowing who her mother is, so your argument is void", consider the following:

I know. That's not what I'm saying.

I'm not saying Patty actually thinks her mother is Ella Fitzgerald, or that her mother actually is Ella Fitzgerald. I'm saying that Ella Fitzgerald and DALDOM are used as cue words to trigger us to think about Vecna and the Shadow. On the surface, Patty may be lying and covering up her insecurities using Ella. But the writers chose Ella Fitzgerald to represent Patty's idealized mother.

They could have chosen Dinah "Queen of the Blues" Washington, LaVern Baker, or even Billie Holiday. Hell, Dinah Washington was a famous pianist alongside being a singer, which would tie in perfectly with Lucas theorizing that playing a specific chord on the Creels' piano would open a secret passage to Vecna's lair! Dinah even looks just like Ella/the original Patty:

But they didn't choose Dinah. They chose Ella Fitzgerald and DALDOM. They chose the artist and song that are directly associated with the Shadow to represent Patty and her mother. And then, just to nail it down, they added "Is that my mother? Is that her voice?" about the voice coming through radio just moment before a Shadow episode to connect back to DALDOM coming through the radio when the Creel murders happen.

The writers want us thinking about the Shadow when we think about Patty's parentage.

(Also, how is anyone going to say "the gay in 'I like the gay ones best' just means happy" and then turn around and go "okay but you can't take the Ella Fitzgerald stuff literally". Like brother, pick a side! Are you taking the show literally or not?)

Tangentially (but in the same vein) I want to bring up this use of color—or lack thereof—in certain scenes.

Patty's good-dream vision features red, specifically in the Vegas-style fans. Patty's mother, however, is surrounded by dancers with white feathers/fans. Henry's episodes wherein "normal" Patty is present feature the color red, too. Ones like the bathroom scene, however, are lit in white. The two different manifestations of the Shadow also come in red and B&W. The promo poster featuring the killer fog is done in red. Hell, even the drawing of the Shadow, the one where the spotlight casts it back on Patty, is done in red. Patty wears red lipstick, she and Henry meet in front of red lockers, the bathroom scene features red lockers (the placement of which is blatantly contrived, given that lockers don't make any sense in a bathroom) right up until Henry realizes Vision Patty isn't Patty/the stage goes B&W for the fight between Henry and Vision-Patty, and the red lockers reappear immediately thereafter, conveniently when the "real" Patty shows up.

Even Patty's promo is done solely in red and black:

And this bit is like...okay, sure. We can say that the red is just a Shadow/Mindflayer thing rather than a Patty thing, seeing as it's also used in ST2 with the Mindflayer in the distance, ST3 in the "source" (read: also Mindflayer), and in ST4 in Vecna's mindscape (guess what that one's about, lol). Regardless, we then have to ask why Patty seems to be caught up in the color in ways Henry and Brenner are not, especially when—if we're playing hardball—there's supposedly a version of the play wherein Henry references the Scarlet Spider. It would make more sense for Henry and the Mindflayer to be the ones constantly tied to red, then, right? So then...why is it Patty and the Mindflayer? <- Top ten questions experts can't answer, or whatever.

Anyway. To quote Em: Lots to think about.

[sciderman]

What was it like coming up with Anita’s design versus Olive’s design?

god! feels like so long ago now, i don't know if i can cement all my thought process - sometimes you just see something and it clicks into place - with anita, i needed something with a heart motif - something classy, and something fantastical. something that almost couldn't exist in reality. something made of dreams and rainbows. anita is a fantasy - the ultimate, divine diva who came from the heavens. the embodiment of truth and love.

the rainbow motif kind of came from anita being kind of a filter - she was born out of necessity for wade to be able to filter his emotions - i was in writers block with a truth anon and i needed anita to be that filter to get wade to express himself. so she's a prism of light. (it's also why i sneak in that pink floyd shirt constantly. hehahoheo...)

i think somewhere in a hunt for visual inspo i peeped this monstrosity. and i riffed on it.

this dress... dear god it's impossible. and kind of hideous. but there's something there. there's something there. it's as gaudy and loud and fantastical as anita has to be. added a garter (because she's playful, and i kind of just - love the garter symbolism attached to wade, and the traditions that are attached to it – all being tied to marriage and good luck all-the-while also being tongue-in-cheek) added evening gloves (she's a lady) and – vitally, the mask. because all in all, she's still putting on a show.

olive - olive's first ever look was inspired by a beautiful brighton queen - she had a kind of asymmetry motif to her outfit that i kind of really loved for peter - if peter would have a motif - it had to be asymmetry. two sided boy. one side slutty, one side conservative.

duality of olive... and oliver... early on i kind of wanted there to be a distinction between olive and oliver - olive me is this sweet, romantic creature. who's ready to give all of himself - and oliver me is...

bossy. slutty. whorish. demanding. they kind of melded into one - i think they kind of had to. but it's a conceit in olive's playlist too - two warring genres - the soft, hopelessly romancey tones of ella fitzgerald vs the sluttiest era of britney. peter's both of those things. a romantic idiot, but an absolute freak. i thought about having a half-mask sort of situation, like the classic way the comics drew his spider-sense -

i think i'll still do it at some point - a la one of those fun half-man half-woman vaudeville acts - i think it could be hilarious.

i'll do it one day. i'll do it one day.

it's kind of important that olive doesn't wear the mask, though, i think - so the funny little britney-esque microphone became my compromise.

the aerial silks were vital. vital. in fact, it's how i became obsessed with spider-man - i saw a spider-man themed aerial silk performer at a circus, and i could Not stop drawing spider-man since.

peter getting to be that sort of lithe, strong, athletic sort of queen vs wade's very classically feminine sort of queen.

the silks are important - i sort of have it living in my head, no matter how impractical it is, that peter spun those all himself. his entire costume came from him. hence all the pink glitter which, apparently, flows through his veins.

pink's kind of the colour of love, in the 9319 universe. literally.

peter's kind of a bottomless reservoir of love. which is great, because wade needs a lot of it.

i always think about how pink is kind of a softened red. peter's so full of passion, and rage, and red is so intrinsic to him - it's something he's scared of, actually. all the red that courses through his veins.

but when you soften him, he's all pink. all that passion and anger comes from love - it's kind of his lifeblood. it's the thing that consistently pulls him through, in every iteration of him. it's literally what pulls him from the brink of death.

sorry. wow. i'm going through all of these gymnastics to tell you why olive wears pink. why is my brain like this.

[pascaloverx]

Rewrite The Stars

Chapter Sixteen — Season Two

Summary: One photo changes your whole life, when you accidentally bump into a celebrity and the world starts to believe that you are a couple.

Notes:

In this chapter, we have an extra character called Enzo, whom I'd like you to imagine as the actor Enzo Vogrincic. And for those who enjoy the fanfic, I appreciate if you reblog or like. To the readers who supported a new season of this fanfic, my heartfelt thanks. I will be writing more chapters like this one or even shorter, as long as you continue to engage and enjoy what I'm writing. Let me know what you think of the new chapter, and happy reading to all of you ❤

chapter fifteen chapter seventeen

Sleeping next to Pedro has been one of the best things in the world. It's even hard for you to go to work every day since Pascal returned from filming. You’re actually savoring your last moments with Pascal, as in a few hours, he’ll be heading to another state to film a guest appearance on a TV series.

"And if we just stay like this for the rest of the week…" Pascal murmurs with his eyes still closed, and you smile. For you, a lifetime like this would be heaven on earth.

"Your suggestion forgets that we both have important professional commitments. But the thought of spending more time with you is tempting. How about dinner tonight?" you say as you try to muster the strength to get up.

"If you finally let me do the cooking. I swear I've been practicing a lot for my role in that culinary show. You'll see, I'll be the best cook on that show," Pascal says as he gets up to go to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. You start getting things ready for breakfast.

"You know they're not actually going to force you to cook, right? But I totally support you making our food. In fact, I'm all for you cooking here," you say loudly enough for Pascal to hear. You can hear his laughter from the kitchen as you finish making pancakes for the two of you to enjoy.

"Of course I know they're not going to make me cook, but I want to know what I'll be doing even if it's for the cameras," he says while still in the shower. The sound of the running water makes it difficult for you to hear him clearly.

You prepare the entire breakfast while waiting for Pedro to finish his shower, playing the song "Cheek to Cheek" and swaying gently to the music. You don't even notice when Pedro approaches, taking you by the waist and dancing with you. You lean your face against Pascal's, and in silence, you both dance while the breakfast cools on the table.

"I want this every day," Pedro whispers near your ear, making you shiver as you hear his voice so close and feel his beard lightly brushing against your neck.

"I thought we had already made it clear that we can't abandon our professional lives to live in a bubble of love, Mr. Pascal," you say, looking him in the eyes, and then he gives you a kiss on the lips. A sweet and passionate kiss.

"I'm actually talking about making our life as a couple something more official. You know, like in a marriage proposal, for example," Pascal catches you off guard, causing you to stop dancing and stare at him until you figure out if he's serious.

"Would that be your indirect way of asking me to marry you?" You ask, feeling a bit embarrassed. It would be crazy to believe that he would want to marry you, right?

"I'm asking you to become an official part of my life. Maybe that involves a church and a priest or a simple ceremony. But yes, indirectly, I'm asking if you would like to marry me." He asks so casually that it startles you. He even laughs a little at your reaction. But you can't believe what's happening.

"Are you aware that our wedding means dealing with the media going crazy because of you and my mother freaking out because of me, right? Just letting you know it's not going to be easy." You say, finding it even funny how he doesn't seem worried at all.

"I'm fully aware of what our marriage would entail, but have you ever stopped to think that we would be husband and wife? That officially, every day we're not working, we'll be coming home to each other? To me, it sounds like a win-win situation." Pedro says, kissing the corner of your mouth and smiling. His positivity is enviable.

"Don't you think it would be rushing things? We've only been in a real relationship for a few months…" You try to think of other reasons why this might be a bad idea, but nothing else comes to mind.

"So now that you're done being pessimistic, do you want to tell me if you're going to marry me or not?" Pedro asks in a playful tone, and you look at him with half-closed eyes, but then laugh and kiss him.

"I'll marry you. But on the condition that you're the one who tells my mom," you say between kisses, and Pascal smiles. You can't believe you're going to become Mrs. Pascal.

tag: @wanniiieeee , @hungrhay and @leilanixx

[shellsinadune]

Harvey x Farmer playlist

I'm right because I said so. you may notice that a lot of these have sky themes, I love my not-pilot so much.

Things That Look Like Mistakes (Bears in Trees) - this is the song that led me to make this post. I imagine that Harvey has one of those 'always on' brains that just keep going, and the farmer can calm that down a bit. it's about not worrying for a second, despite the passage of time and getting closer to death.

Fly Me to the Moon (Frank Sinatra) - I'm so surprised people don't talk about this more. to me, this is The Harvey Song. it's jazz, it's about flying, it's a sweet love song. he likes this song, it's all but canon. there are probably more apt jazz songs for him, but I'm not that into jazz so if you have any recs...

Harvey (Pillow Queens) - I actually found this song through this post by shreddies-scribbles, and she's so correct. no explanation necessary.

Hey Lover (the Daughters of Eve) - Harvey thinks he's boring, and this song is about not caring about that. he's so sweet I'm losing my mind. 'true love and understanding for the rest of my days' is exactly what he'd give the farmer.

All You Get is Confetti (Bears in Trees) - this is actually more about the farmer, either pre-moving to the valley or early on when it's really tight financially. there's this exhaustion with life but the knowledge that they'll one day 'be everything to someone'. also 'I'm gonna die before you, it's the first race that I'll win' something something dying in the mines repeatedly.

Pierre and Natasha / the Great Comet of 1812 (Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812) - Pierre and Natasha reminds me of that Shane cutscene, and the Great Comet of 1812 is just a really beautiful image of someone looking at the sky while happy to be alive. something about the line 'I throw my fur coat on my shoulders, unable to find the sleeves' is so Harvey when it's performed live.

Honey, Honey (ABBA) - had a mental image of Harvey dancing around to ABBA. that's all.

Security (the Young Veins) - very similar to Hey Lover, with an added mention of not needing to have money. Harvey seems like someone who's always trying to prove that he deserves love, but the thing is he already does. he's stable and will love the farmer forever.

Heart of Mine (the Young Veins) - 'you should take this heart of mine, you'll always have that heart of mine'

I'm Just a Sidekick (Joey Richter / Starkid) - a song about saving someone you love's life after encountering something you wouldn't be able to fight yourself. I've already mentioned Harvey's low self esteem but this is literally so him. I mean he is strong and smart and all the things the song says he's not but I don't think he sees himself that way. 'I'm just a sidekick but I love being at your side' is such a malewife line, and we all know Harvey is the king of malewives.

Heaven Sent is a Coffee Cup (Bears in Trees) - something about the first few lines is so him. I can't fully articulate why I put this in here but I know I'm right. finding magic in the little things maybe?

Too Sweet (Hozier) - listen. I know. but I think this is another one of those songs where it's actually the farmer singing it. Harvey really is the sweetest person, and I think he does fit this song, just not in the way everyone says he does. That man is not a whiskey drinker, he's a port guy.

the Milkman of Human Kindness (Billy Bragg) - omg my favourite artist in a playlist I made. groundbreaking. but seriously Harvey just gives and gives to people, he cares so much for his community and the farmer. idk, this song just kind of has vibes of just now coming to a realisation about love.

I've Got a Crush on You (Ella Fitzgerald) - I started listening to jazz just for this playlist. the idea of choosing one specific person (who doesn't consider themself anything special) out of lots of options got to me, okay? the line 'it's not that you're attractive' made me laugh though.

[the-radio-demon-blog]

Hello, Mr....

He looked in his notebook.

Mr. Alastor.

He returned his gaze back to eyes of interviewed demon.

It's nice to meet you in person. My name is Faust Gotsman, I am a correspondent for the radio station "Hell Today". If you don't mind, could you answer a couple of questions, wrote by me, my colleagues, and sent to us by our dear listeners?

He opened his notebook once again.

I will now read out all the questions, and you can answer them in any order convenient for you. Well, let's begin.

"Mr. Alastor, will you have an interview with the Ruler of Hell, His Highness Lucifer, on your radio station?"

" What is your favourite dish?"

" Mr. Alastor, could you tell me what helps you always keep your smile on your face?"

"Do you play sports? If yes, what kind? If not, what sport do you like best?"

And also, so to speak, a blitz part of our interview.

Apples or pears?

Favourite author?

Favourite movie?

Favourite song?

He looked up at Alastor with pen in his hand, waiting for answers. This chance should not be missed!

What a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gotsman! Quite a pleasure! Shakes the gentleman's hand. My, Hell's Today sounds like quite a radio station! Well, I usually don't cater to other stations but for now, I'll make an exception.

Hmm...you want to set up an interview between the Ruler of Hell and I? Well he is my floor mate, after all! It shouldn't be too hard!

My favorite dish? Ah, well, I have quite a nostalgic feeling about Jambalaya. However, venison is my favorite. Processed food is quite uncultured.

Tell you about what keeps a smile on my face? Ah, what an interesting question! I believe I've only shared that advice with our dear princess! I suppose its to keep my enemies guessing and to encourage my allies. And most importantly...it ensures that you are the one in control.

Well, I used to play sports when I was younger. Much, much, younger when I was a boy. Baseball was at its height in New Orleans however it required so many pieces to play. I found that I prefer soccer much more. I usually stray away from sports with a lot of contact but soccer is an exception. Soccer can be played with simply a large space and a ball. And it is quite an elegant sport if I say so myself.

I do have to say with the humans competition such as the EUROS and COPA happening, the hotel was been abuzz with excitement! As much as I detest those stupid picture boxes, they do have one advantage...to tune into the living world. Charlie isn't much of a fan but the free beer and the spacious living space allow new sinners to enjoy these competitions!

Apples or pears? Hmmm...I would say Apples. I would say they are more striking in color and it is a symbol of sin! Quite fitting, hm?

My favorite author? I would say F. Scott Fitzgerald. I did quite enjoy his book The Great Gatsby along with his other marvelous novels!

Ah, favorite movie. That's quite a question. Well, before Vox ruined technology. I would say even though I detest television I can admire Alfred Hitchcock's work! Picking just one would be troublesome for me but I shall give you three? How about that? Rear Window, Rebecca, and Strangers on a Train. All of them were quite thrilling and clever! I do enjoy Arsenic and Old Lace as well. Quite a classic!

Favorite song? Ah yes, my favorite subject! I would say for now...it does change...All the Things You Are sung by the wonderful Ella Fitzgerald!

I suppose that's the end of your little interview then! I appreciate your interest! Until next time, Mr. Gotsman! It is always a pleasure to see another radio station thriving in these trying times.

[sgiandubh]

Such unsmiling people

The comment that moved me the most after posting that August 10 diatribe came from a very special blogger, @myrthil23. I promised her a longer, thoughtful answer, so here it is.

I share with her way more than meets the eye and with a bit of deductive skills, you could easily place us very specifically on an European map. To be honest, I was surprised (and then absolutely thrilled, of course) to find someone like her hanging on in here. But this is not the only reason prompting a response - her comment made me think a lot about a couple of relevant things.

For those who loathe foraging for reblogs, here goes:

In the colorful Shipper family, the Eastern Europeans are (supposedly) the unsmiling ones. This is one of the stubborn clichés that informed the Western gaze, especially in Communist times. Unsmiling, foreboding and unfathomable people: I am not smiling, I am laughing while writing it, because if anything, Myrthil, @zeya-zg, a couple of others and I do share a superb ability to use bullshit-o-meters, an unsinkable sense of humor and a hefty dose of sarcasm. All of these are basic, compulsory street smarts if you want to survive, God knows how, a nuclear winter of sorts.

Imagine you grow up in a world with empty supermarket shelves but permanently sold-out concert halls, where trivial details such as cotton swabs, potato chips (crisps, heh), political parties or The Last Tango in Paris are virtually unknown. Imagine your family is either cautiously aligned to some public idiocy they loathe everyday at home, teaching you at the same time to never talk to strangers. Or even worse, a political pariah, for reasons that have everything to do with the way you sip your tea, as Ella Fitzgerald would say. The latter situation (mine) was something very much akin to a civil death. And you just knew you could never be, for imbecile but firm reasons, an architect, a lawyer or even an epidemiologist: jobs way too sensitive to entrust the enemies of the people (and their spawn) with.

What is left for you, then, when the view from your window, in 1982, is something not very different from this photograph:

(side note: these people are staying in line to buy 1 kilogram of sugar for each person, which was the monthly allowance fixed by law in my country, from 1980 to 1989; you could only buy those with Government-issued tickets, not unlike what happened in the UK during WWII or what you can see in series like The Handmaid's Tale)

When all is seemingly lost, you will still have, in no particular order: books. Music (including piano lessons). Sports. Each other (although that was overall more complicated than it seemed). Going to the opera and never taking off your winter coat inside, but enjoying every second of it. Impromptu dinners by candlelight during power outages ("wir machen ein bisschen Stimmung"/let's make a bit of atmosphere, grinned my aunt). Foreign languages (a must). Fits and giggles and jokes galore. And the ability to adapt to just about anything, anywhere.

When change finally reached us, many had the almost surreal opportunity to go West. Some came back, others didn't, simply because they chose to continue elsewhere their pursuit of happiness. And yes, Myrthil is right, that fabled West was always something to behold and measure up to. In my case, it was almost too easy, but then I consider myself really lucky: going to live in Paris, at 18, felt both as homecoming and being left alone (and with unlimited credit) in a candy store.

So, here we are. We may have discovered Sylvia Plath a bit late, but I think we are decently knowledgeable about Chaucer. We sometimes may sound Edwardian and if we do, you should probably blame C.E. Eckersley's Essential English (this is how that life-long affair started, for me). And if anything, we bring another, perhaps even more inquisitive, angle to these strange things we are dealing with daily, in here.

But for the love of Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, don't you ever dare tell us what to think and with whom to talk. Don't call us stupid. Don't call us liars. Historical reasons prompted a durable allergy to sanctimonious speech and yes (I can only speak for myself) I will always, always react. Because we do not deserve the arrogance of people who have no idea of how it really was to grow up somewhere in Eastern Europe during the Eighties. Oh, and something else, lest I forget: being pariahs never bothered us - we can cope.

Other than that, we should go along just fine. :)

PS: @claraisabelcampohermoso, you probably don't know how your gif made me smile. Nadia will always be Nadia: a humble, warm person with a terribly heartbreaking story.