#i hope my brain will shift to steven soon so that i can provide as much content like this.....

[aqqleshiqqing-archive]

i swear this is the only type of art you'll see for a few months and i won't be able to apologize for it

its his turn to mwamwa uhhh again uh

[foreverinadais]

Hi could you please please do a HC or a fic or something where the reader has really bad nightmares from trauma and the boys comfort her? Any of the boys or all of them. I just get a lot of really bad nightmares after the things that happened to me and would love someone to calm down when I have them

hello!! thank you so much for requesting, i really hope this provides some comfort and solace ❤️ i tried to do a different approach to each moon boy so there are different levels of comfort, but i hope this helps my love :)

STEVEN:

He wakes up before you most nights

or sometimes he doesn't sleep at all

because he can sense you next to him, the storm brewing inside your dreams; nightmares

he would take them from you in an instant if he could, would let himself endure the pain to release it from you

you knew this

it was happening again

a nightmare.

you were flinching in your sleep, tossing over, sweating

but as soon as you wake, Steven is there

he is always there to pull you out of it slowly, softly, lovingly

"shhh, oh darling, my love, I'm here, 's okay."

and the images are there, plastered in your mind, but so are his whispers, comforting affirmations that cloud your senses with love

he would definitely stroke your face, your head, take you into his arms and rock you in a way which soothed the screaming in your brain

"I'm here, darling, always here, hmm?"

and he would wipe any tears from your eyes

or simply kiss them away

and you would finally come out of the post-nightmare haze

and he wouldn't ask you what the dream was

would just ask if you wanted to talk, and if you said yes, he would listen for hours on end, gaze never faltering

but if you said no, he would offer to talk

and you would nod

and listen as he draws patterns on your back with his hand

telling you stories of anything and everything

making you laugh softly

until you find yourself distracted

"Do you want to try and sleep again, angel? Or we can stay up, and watch that documentary. Or you can choose, anything you want, eh?"

"You must really love me if you're giving me control of the remote."

and he sounds almost offended when he says, "Of course I really love you. Really, truly, with everything I am."

and you smile, a genuine smile

and you would stay there all night, wrapped in each other

watching whatever you want on TV

and relishing in each other's comfort that both of you bring each other

MARC:

so, Marc has been through a lot of trauma episode 5 owes me therapy bills still

sooo I think he would have nightmares, too

he wakes up in a hot sweat, eyes cloudy, scream hitched in his throat

and instantly looks for you in the mess that is the sheets

all it takes is seeing your sleeping frame for him to calm

because seeing you there is the only comfort he needs.

anyway, one night, he’s turning in his sleep, not wanting to drift off in fear

when suddenly, you start shifting

and he notices the change instantly

absolute worry draining through him 

he sits up, turning on the lamp beside the bed

about to wake you from your writhing state

when you suddenly shoot up, gasping for air

a thin layer of sweat covering your skin, eyes glassy remembering the residue of you nightmare

Marc reaches out a hand to touch your shoulder, in hopes to offer some comfort

but you flinch, still not out of the subconscious aftermath of the dream

it's haunting.

“Baby?” Marc says, hoping the pet-name will help bring you down from the state your in

and, it does

“Baby, i-it’s Marc, I’m right here.”

you follow his words until your back, back in the place you feel safest 

and Marc physically breathes a sigh of relief when your eyes find his, and he see’s your back

“Hey, hey, baby, i’m here.”

“Marc...” 

when his hand finds you this time, you melt into him, trying to hold back the emotion as he strokes your back in the perfect way

“Do you want to talk about it?”

he’s almost scared asking, in fear you’ll get more uncomfortable, reject him

but he feels you nod against his shoulder

and his heart breaks when he hears your soft cries

but then, your talking

telling him about the nightmare, what happened and why it happened

and he listens

and then he’s opening up to you

and both of you are crying, completely comfortable in each other to share your past’s.

it’s emotional but beautiful and freeing

i love the idea that you would somehow end up on the floor, sat together below the window

and then, your talking about everything

laughing at past memories- like when they broke Jake’s radio in the limo and blamed it on Steven knowing Jake wouldn’t be mad at Steven

and talking about the future

like getting a pet, moving into a bigger house, what your kids would be called

and you sit like this

until the reflection of the moonlight on the floor morphs into the pink and orange glow of the sunrise

a new day. 

and suddenly, neither of you are scared to sleep anymore

because you have each other

your safe.

JAKE:

it’s your first night sharing a bed with him.

there was a lot you were nervous about:

what if he thinks I look weird when I sleep?

what if i kick him?

what if my breath smells weird?

but one what if scared you more than the others

what if I have the nightmare?

night time rolled around quickly

and Jake was already in bed when you come out the bathroom

“Hi.” you mutter softly, as if you hadn’t shared a bed with his alters before, and this was your first time meeting him

to which Jake would offer you a strange look

you don’t go to the bed straight away- the bookshelf is suddenly really interesting

Jake notices, smirks slightly

“Aren’t you gonna come to bed, mi amor?”

oops.

“I’m just...” you falter, sighing, “Nervous.”

“C'mere.” and he pats the space beside him

you do instantly, because his tone is commanding in the perfect way

and as soon as your in reach, he practically pulls you into his arms

a gasp leaving your lips as he playfully squeezes your waist

“You avoiding me?” 

you laugh- “no.”

“Good. Now, sleep, amor.”

You smile, nerves easing away as he kisses your lips lovingly, then your forehead as you melt into his warmth

it was going well

too well.

you must’ve scared him with the velocity of the reaction from the nightmare

because he was shaking you awake

you could hear your name being called in the haze of your sleep, but you were trapped there, trapped in the corners of your mind, your memory, your trauma

when you came too, he was in front of you, stroking your face with his hand

“Estoy aqui amor, I’m here, love.” 

you are almost embarrassed by your breathing and how much of a mess you must look

then you realise you woke him, meaning you must’ve done something to alert him

“I’m sorry I woke you, did I kick you? Oh my, I’m so sorry, Jake, I’m okay, you can just-”

“Do you want to go on a drive?”

the question takes you off guard

still feeling slightly scared and slightly embarrassed

but, you nod, because Jake looks so serious

you watch as he puts on his shoes, handing you one of his jackets to put on over your night clothes

and he sits you down, putting your shoes on your feet, the action tender and soft

it’s silence as he interlocks your fingers, gently guiding you out of the flat, down the stairs, and to his vehicle

and you stare out the window, looking at the stars and the moon and the darkness, avoiding eye contact in fear he’s mad at you

“So...” his voice breaks the silence

“What happened, angel?”

you sigh because it wasn’t supposed to go like this

“You can talk to me if you want. Or, we can drive in silence until you feel tired enough to try again- if that’s what you want.”

“I just... sometimes, I have these dreams. These, these nightmares.”

and you tell him as he drives around the quiet London streets

opening up to him about everything, finishing by apologising for waking him up

at this, he suddenly pulls over into an empty street

finally turning to face you

“You have nothing to be sorry about, eh? I love you for all that you are, including your scars. And I’ll spend the rest of my time helping you through this in anyway I can, okay, Cariño?”

“Okay.” your voice is small as he reaches over the gearbox to rest his hand on your knee

“Hmm?” he asks teasingly, and you roll your eyes, but feel your heart glow

“Okay.” you say dramatically louder, before adding a serious, “Thank you, Jake, I really love you.” 

and he grins, kissing you all over your face, relishing in your smiles, happy to see you happy again

“So, where to next? Anywhere you want, amor, whatever you need.”

[grognaksdonahue]

her ghost, it haunts me still

an unfinished and unedited trognak troy introspection blurb taking place during the last stream grognak was a part of :(

It’s been a week since Troy woke up with five broken ribs, two lung punctures, and a head devoid of answers. He remembers being in a plane; he remembers waking up in Pillbox. All details between the two events refuse to resurface, so a gap of black sits there, mocking him.

For a while, he’s able to quiet it and throw himself into work, even distract himself with another unique character in Los Santos, but when the following Tuesday arrives, Troy finds himself sinking back into the allure of the mystery. Tuesday is the day Grognak normally appears around town, gravitating towards Burgershot, which increases the chances that the two will meet; then, Troy finds himself whisked up in whatever adventure awaits them. A day with Grognak is never dull, and Troy has never felt so alive since she walked into his life.

But with this last encounter, he’s never been so close to death, and he doesn’t even remember how he got there.

He discovers a half put-together Posy while on shift, confined to crutches, and she’s exasperated to learn that she’s the only one who remembers anything before hitting the ground. Steven is useless — as he always is — in providing information, fervently denying any involvement in the plane situation at all. It didn’t sit right with Troy, convinced his friend was repressing the memories of it. He doesn’t budge, and the issue flatlines for the time being.

He soon messages Grognak with the thread-thin hope that she remembers what happened, but with her condition, there’s no guarantee she’ll even remember the plane either. Although Posy was the first of the crew to be tossed out of the plane, she seemed to harbor more answers than anyone.

“She’s married!” Posy suddenly exclaims while the two are searching bushes outside of Burgershot — in pursuit of Grognak’s gamer glasses.

A small etching of his memory returns, but its sole purpose seems to ignite the pain through his bones. He remembers plummeting towards the ground, arms outstretched and legs flailing. He feels like a starfish out of water — which explains why he feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t know why he’s falling or when he’ll feel the agony of real life again. There are tears from his eyes joining the night sky as stars; Troy floats in limbo. But he's not floating, he's simply in the middle of cutting a hole in his memories. It frustrates him, it hurts him even now, but at this moment, it’s not what his mind pays attention to.

She’s married.

Those words wedge into the memory like some fucked up word association game, they sink in right when he smashes to the pavement. His body takes the brunt of the impact, but his head still suffers in the aftershocks. He feels the bones in his chest crumble and curl into his lungs, puncturing in two places. He unintentionally inhales on impact, which causes his lungs to expand and meet the protruding bone halfway. The rogue ribs tear through the tissue and tendrils of nerves, and if Troy could think straight, he might fear his lung might deflate. It burns everywhere. Not even the blood gurgling in his throat or out of the blooming wounds can extinguish it. The black patches in his vision linger like they're never going to go away. They never do; they only sink into his brain and blot out the entire experience. He could die right now if he really tried. His whole body is practically begging him to.

But none of it, none of the bones shattering or flesh-ripping, none of the fear of falling out of a plane or the dread of finally landing, lives up the utter devastation of finding out the love of his life belongs to someone else now.

The funniest part (in the most tragic way) is that Grognak was probably the reason Troy fought to stay alive as hard as he did. And it was hard.

“I feel like I’ve just been stabbed in the gut,” Troy downplays. “I think I need a milkshake.”

I need hard liquor. I need a cigarette. I need to get this goddamn knife out of my back. Those are more accurate mantras orbiting his dented skull.

Posy shouts something out of earshot, made incoherent by a nearby vehicle’s sputtering, chugging to stay in motion it seems. Troy turns around to see Grognak barreling towards the Burgershot in a rusted camper van, hand firmly on the horn. As much as this entire situation weighs on Troy’s shoulders, slowly crushing him into a shell of what he once was, something always flutters and bursts in him when he sees her. Momentarily, he’s alive in her glow as she struts towards him.

Troy often wonders how she does it, walks into someone’s heart and claims it as her own. Makes the serious type in this city soft. Makes the crazy crazier. Makes him someone he doesn’t recognize. Before her, he was content in his ambitions: start a farm, have a family, live the ideal life -- a conventional one. He had some friends and a kind demeanor, but nothing anchoring him to his own feelings. How much he could feel. For one person, especially. What he would do in order to just be in the presence of that person. No matter the occasion, from scaling the tallest crane (twice), to having the worst day of his life and not having anything to show for it but fractured ribs and a broken memory, he didn't know he had it in him to love this hard, and love this tragically.

-

Not me writing this after calling out the Trognak writers for this exact angst adhajdfdhsj

once again, this is an unedited stream of consciousness type fic that I exclusively write at 4 am. might finish this, but I write so slow and I am so behind on Whale streams that I feel like the moment has passed. Probably will write something new soon once I catch up. I like writing Troy and will probably do it more.

[lovelybuccky]

Three Things That Are Certain (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your mother once taught you that when you feel afraid, you should look at your surroundings and find at least three things that are certain, just three things that you know to be true. However, a collection of photos are found from different points in history, and you are in every single one. Questions are being raised, and you are finding it more and more difficult to name those three things. But he is there to remind you of what they are.

Warnings: Violence, profanity, graphic violence and descriptions of pain in later chapters.

A/N: Woohoo it’s back! I made this part a little longer just because I felt the others were too short...hope this is better! (Also I scheduled to post this at 3am UK time because apparently that’s the best time to post for other timezones??? I don’t know haha we’ll see if it works)

Previous Chapter

(^^ gif from here)

Previously...

“I woke up in the 1941, completely in control. I guess after all their tries they still couldn’t find a method strong enough. I wondered around, decided that there were worse places to end up. So I settled down and tried to make a life for myself, expecting to die of old age before Hydra could find me again. But I suppose the Stone doesn’t just effect the time around me, but also my internal clock, since I haven’t really aged since I woke up in Brooklyn in 1941. I’ve been on the run since, knowing Hydra would look for me eventually, since I never completed my mission.”

“Which was?”

You look at the ground, shame oozing out of you. You were dreading this moment. This is where everything shifts. You avoid all their curious gazes, holding off the inevitable.

“Y/N,” Steve’s voice spoke gently, but strongly too, “what was your mission?”

Your eyes flicker back to Bucky to find him already watching you, confusion etching his features. You fear his reaction the most, and you know that there is no chance that he could ever trust you, not anymore. There’s still so much you haven’t told him, so much that you both weren’t ready for him to know. But this is where things get complicated. You hold eye contact with him for as long as possible - until the very last second.

“I…was sent to kill Steve Rogers.”

***

You wake up shivering on the city ground, a crick in your neck and a splitting headache. Every bone in your body, even ones you didn’t realise you had in the first place, ache and click as you hoist yourself up off the cold concrete. You fall back against the stone wall, a small yelp escapes you as you wait for your head to stop spinning and for the black blotches in your vision to fade away. Panic washes over you as you take in your surroundings.

You’re standing in an ordinary alley amongst garbage, alone - but something feels off. You can’t put your finger on it, but you feel like your way out of your depth, like you were picked up and thrown into a world that you don’t understand and that doesn’t understand you. You try to think about what it could be, but concentrating only makes your headache spike. Deciding to scope out the area, and with one hand against the wall for stability, you hobble out of the alley and onto the street.

As soon as you are out in the open, you instantly notice that you don’t recognise anything. The brand of cars, the design of clothes, the shops - nothing is familiar, nothing like the New York you know. You carry on walking along the street, head up high, ignoring the pain that shoots through head as you do so. It’s quiet, almost tranquil - until you hear a crash.

Your hand reflexively darts for the gun in your holster, the holster that you don't even remember owning, and you inch past the movie theatre and towards the alley, leading you to the source of the sound.

But before you can look round the corner, a man with blood oozing out of his nose comes stumbling out onto the street, and you almost shoot him on sight out of pure shock. He doesn’t even notice you as he bolts from whatever or whoever gave him a bloody nose.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Wait, you knew that voice.

You peer round the corner, and the sight makes bile creep up your throat.

James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers.

Without thinking, you instantly aim your gun between the latter’s eyes. You have no idea why you did, it was like your body overtook your mind and started working on its own accord. Sweat trickles down your face and you start to shake uncontrollably, messing up your aim.

You stay like that, watching them. Half of your brain is saying “shoot”, and the other half is shouting “don’t you dare”. It hurts in a way that you’ve never hurt before, this mental game of tug of war.

“You know, it’s illegal to lie on your enlistment form.”

Enlistment form. Soldiers. War. World War? There were two…World War II? 1940s? America versus….wait, America? Sergeant…no, Captain…Captain America…

And that’s when it comes flooding back.

The years locked in a cell, the training, the green liquid - and your mission. The reason why you’re here. Whatever they used to control you wasn’t strong enough and has worn off - and that means you have a choice.

You lower the gun, and you run; heart pounding in your chest and legs burning with every slam of your foot against concrete. You have no destination, the only plan is run until you feel safe.

You never stop running.

***

Once again, to nobody’s surprise, Bucky Barnes can’t sleep. Despite his heavy eyelids and his even heavier muscles, his mind is racing at a million miles a minute, replaying scenes of the night before.

After a small disagreement and a few words of reassurance from Steve, Tony had finally agreed to allow you to stay at the compound until it was certain that you were safe, and that you had provided them with as much information as possible.Tony wasn't entirely convinced, and you didn't seem to be either, to be honest, but Steve insisted on it. “Innocent until proven guilty”, he said.

“Seems pretty damn guilty to me.” Tony snapped back, “She literally just said her mission was to assassinate you, doesn’t that seem a little guilty to you, Rogers?”

“Am I dead?” Steve said calmly. Silence. “Exactly. If she was guilty, then I wouldn’t be standing here in front of you right now and we wouldn’t be having this argument in the first place. Give the kid a break, she’s had a hard enough time as it is.”

And now he’s here, hours later and honestly? He’s torn.

This is a risky bet. Steve’s life is literally on the line. If it was anyone else, he would have kicked them out of there the second “to kill Steve Rogers” passed their lips. He had beaten up punks who had threatened his best friend before, and he could do it again. But this is different, Steve is now more than capable of defending himself, and she is different. He couldn’t hurt her, not even if he wanted to. She knew him when he was the Winter Soldier, she knows a part of him that nobody else even saw, and he knew her too, apparently. That connected them, he can feel it; even if he can't remember her because his brain is too damn broken, he can feel that they are somehow intertwined - and that, for now, was enough for him. But that still didn’t stop alarm bells ringing in his mind.

He closes his eyes and lies there for a little longer.

…Fuck it.

He gives in, forcing himself out of the warm embrace of his bed and throws on his gym clothes. Sure, it was 3am, but he found that an hour or so of hitting a punch bag usually helps him let to let off steam. Or at least focus his mind on something else until his body is forced to sleep.

He makes his way to the compound gym, not thinking about being quiet. Years of stealth training made sneaking around like second nature to him, and besides, he had the floor to himself.

Well, nearly to himself.

He had requested it actually, not because he wanted more privacy - though that was an added bonus - but because he didn't want to keep the others awake when his nightmares inevitably cut through the silence. It only isolates him more from the others, but they deserve to rest well, and they can’t do that unless he is out of the way.

But that means that there are spare rooms (the only spare rooms) on his floor - the top floor. So now he is sharing it, and he is sharing it with you.

He stops by your door, listening in to make sure he hadn't woken you.Yes, his trust in you was debatable, but he wasn’t going to be a jerk about it. When he hears nothing but silence from behind the closed door, he carries on on his way.

It’s all a bit silly though, isn’t it. First they rescue a girl from an organisation that they thought they had destroyed years ago, then they find out she can time travel, and then they discover that she was actually meant to assassinate America’s golden boy and Bucky’s right-hand man. It sounds like something he would read in a book. A fictional book.

He hates that he doesn’t trust her, and he hates that there’s nothing he can do about it.

As he reaches the entrance to the gym, he hears muffled thuds and grunts coming from inside. Peering through the glass door, his eyebrows shoot to the roof at the sight before him.

It’s you, in some spare gym clothes and drenched in sweat. A few wisps of hair stick to your face, and your eyes are fixed on the punch bag in front of you. One foot forward, turned slightly inward; one foot back, turned slightly outward. You're on the balls of your feet, bouncing lightly and soaring from position to position. One fist stays in front as one guards your face, though they switch roles with every punch you throw. The perfect stance.

Bucky wonders how you learnt to fight, and his heart aches when we realises you probably had to teach yourself. Probably from trial and error.

You’re striking the punching bag like your life depends on it, and if he looks hard enough, he can see faint purple circles under you eyes - you’re obviously were having a similar night to him. But he is mesmerised by your concentration, it’s like you’re dancing. Your eyes are trained on the bag, but there’s a softness in them, an innocence in the way they glisten. Sixteen. You were sixteen years old when you were forced to defend your life, and that makes Bucky’s blood boil.

Normally, he would turn away and wait until the gym was empty. He doesn’t want to be a dick and avoid people, he actually wants to become closer with his teammates (to get to a point where he called them friends rather than teammates), but he just doesn’t feel like he can. Solitude was the easiest and safest option.

However, this time he stays. Maybe it’s the way your eyebrow are furrowed, or how your arms are shaking from probably hours of punching, but something tells him that you shouldn’t be alone; that you could benefit from some company. It’s a thought that surprises him, but doesn’t stop him.

As soon as he pushes the door open, your focus snaps to him. He puts his arms up in surrender, an attempt to calm your shock. There’s a beat, then he clears his throat. “May I?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the punching bag next to you.

You square up, in an attempt to compose yourself after how embarrassingly obvious it was that his mere presence alarmed you. “Be my guest.”

He moves past you to the punching bag and gets to work. You watch him for a moment, admiring the force with which he can hit, and not failing to notice the way the muscles on his back move under his slightly too tight t-shirt. You feel your cheeks start to burn at the thought, and immediately turn back to your punching bag.

You both carry on like that in silence, only the sound of flesh meeting leather filling the room. After what you said last night, you don’t know where you stand with Bucky, but it feels nice that he’s there and you aren’t alone.

Not entirely, anyway.

***

1945

You curse under your breath as you search for your house key on your keychain. Why do you have so many damn keys? You’re a factory worker, not a fucking locksmith. Finally finding the right key, you jam it in and voila, you’re inside. Once you close the door behind you, you proceed to re-lock it - one key lock; three bolts, one for the top, middle and bottom of the door; 2 night latches; and one chain lock for good measure. It was a little excessive, but better safe than sorry. You throw your bag onto the kitchen table and shake your heels off, hanging your coat up on the brass hook by the door.

The walls of your house are covered with framed photographs, newspaper clippings and postcards; anything to make it feel more homely. It’s small, only two rooms, a bathroom and a tiny deck at the front of the house - which provides the perfect spot for reading. It isn’t much, but it’s enough for you.

You practically slide over to your turntable and select your favourite album. Your mood is instantly lifted when jazz fills the room, and you sway your hips to the beat as you dance towards the kitchen. It’s been a long time since someone has taken you dancing, you think to yourself.

You laugh at yourself as you bump into the counter, itching to make yourself a cup of coffee. The day had dragged at work, but a trip to your favourite bookshop and a quick conversation with the sweet old lady next door had cleared your mind.

So much so, in fact, that you forgot the date.

You continue to skid and slide across the wooden floor as the music plays, your own laughter filling the air of the otherwise empty house. You had somewhat gotten used to your new life. It had only been a couple of years and yes, it still hurt like a bitch, but you were finding yourself in more moments like this - laughing, dancing, adjusting. Your life depends on you being a chameleon, you are just lucky that you used to adore studying the 1940s in history class. After a few minutes you finally settle down and sip on your coffee, looking out onto the street.

There are two little girls playing hopscotch, pigtails bouncing with every jump. There’s another little girl, offering her chocolate bar to a boy who had scraped his knee, and one young mother - sat on the steps of her house, clutching her baby as silent tears escape her eyes.

That last one isn’t an uncommon sight. Everyday, some poor woman receives a telegram, and it is rarely good news. Your heart clenches and you grip your cup a little tighter. That kind of pain is unbearable, not only losing someone whom you have given a huge portion of your heart to, but to lose them in the way she has, and leaving behind a future they could only dream of. You imagine that’s how your parents felt when you disappeared with no goodbye, no final “I love you”.

Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat, you make a mental note to visit the woman sometime next week. Maybe just this one time you can come out of hiding to help someone.

The longer you watch, the more you realise that everyone in the world has someone by their side. One little girl has the other to re-braid her when when it comes loose, the little boy has the girl to watch over him and lift him up when he falls, and the mother and child have each other - to love each other when they know he isn't coming back.

But you were in this on your own, like a lone wolf in a forest full of packs. That’s how it has to be, you can't afford to have someone else around. You don't know if or when Hydra will find you and snatch you away from the life you've built. You can’t do that to another human being, have them rely on you and then leave them in the dust, a thousand promises broken.

You feel loneliness start to creep in again with open arms, but you know that if you went to it, it would never return your embrace, but laugh at you for thinking it would.

Distraction. You need a distraction. A thought pops to mind: you haven't read the newspaper yet. Granted, it wasn’t the best distraction you could think of, since it was rarely happy news that inked the page. But it kept you in the know, and that was enough to give you a sense of control, and therefore, a sense of security.

You grab the newspaper and make your way to the sofa, but you stop in your tracks as you read the headline.

‘HOWLING COMMANDO JAMES B. BARNES KILLED IN FREIGHT CAR ACCIDENT’

Something in your gut sinks and tears prickle your eyes as you read and re-read the headline over and over, refusing to submit to reality.

The words scream at you, begging for your attention and acknowledgment, like an alarm clock or a screaming child. Your vision lags and your legs buckle, bringing you to the floor. You hunch over the paper, sobs racking through your body.

This is where it begins. You know what he’s going to go through, what they’re going to do to him. Your nails dig into your palm as tears stream down your face. You wish it was you instead.

Loneliness watches on from the doorway.

***

Bucky saunters into the kitchen, everyone is starting to wake up but it’s only been a few hours since he was with you in the gym. You left not long after he arrived, claiming that you needed to sleep before the further tests and questionings that would take place later that day. He assumes that’s where you are now.

The only other person in the kitchen is Steve, who’s pouring himself a glass of orange juice after his morning run, “Rough night?”

Bucky usually joins Steve on his morning runs, unless he doesn’t sleep well the night before. Which, to be honest, was quite often these days. Bucky nods before plonking himself onto a breakfast stool, and starts to twirl a pen that he found on the counter in his hands.

Steve sets down his drink and leans against the counter, face-to-face with Bucky, “What’s going on, Buck?”

He shakes his head dismissively, but he can feel Steve watching him like a hawk. There’s no way Bucky can lie to him, so he gives in, “I just don’t understand.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow. Bucky continues, “I don’t understand how you’re so calm in a situation like this. She was sent to kill you, Steve. I know we can’t just throw her out or get rid of her, but don’t you think we should be more cautious? How do you have so much trust in her after what she told us?”

Steve merely laughs and shakes his head, amused by his obliviousness, “Because of what she told us,” he replied smoothly.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, still not getting it. Steve moved round the counter and placed himself on the stool next to Bucky, leaning his elbows on the marble surface, “A young and helpless person captured by Hydra, brainwashed and tortured into becoming a murder machine. Now where have I heard that before?”

Bucky sets the pen back down on the counter and finally looks at Steve, “This is different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“No, it’s not,” Steve says sternly yet affectionately, “Buck, you gotta have more faith. You can’t keep living on ‘what ifs’ and tip-toeing around everything. Here is someone who understands what you went through, and who you understand. That connects you, why do you feel the need to cut the rope?” He pauses, “Are you sure you’re wary of her just because of what her mission was?”

Bucky hesitates, before fixing his attention back on the pen, “She said she knew me when I was…him.”

“Then you also share a past, and that’s something only you two have. She’s the only one who was there when you went through that. Not me, not anyone else - just her. You have a choice, you’re allowed to have connections with people, you know. You don’t have to be alone.”

“I have you.”

“Yeah, but you could have more.”

Bucky remains silent, he can feel Steve’s eyes on him but refuses to admit that he is right.

Steve finally gets up and heads towards the door, turning around at the last moment, “Just talk to her, punk. If not for your sake, for hers. You may have me in this world, but she doesn't appear to have anybody.”

And then he’s gone, and Bucky is on his own again. He knows Steve is right, of course he is.

Bucky grabs his keys and heads towards your room.

***

Next Chapter // Masterlist

A/N: Any feedback is greatly appreciated <3

Tags:

@letsthedogpackandthecats

[sher-soc-the-famder]

Date Night

Summary: Virgil loved Patton, desperately, with all his heart. The only problem was when they weren’t exactally open with their relationship

Word Count: 3042

Pairings: Moxiety, Background Logince 

Notes: The flip side to the Office AU of Step 3: Profit because this AU has suddenly gained a life of it’s own .....expect more of it

Tag list: @literaturegays @bloodropsblog @justanotherpurplebutterfly  @dragonangel-funandfire

It was Friday night, which also meant it was Steven universe night. Aka Date night. And the two of them had a very specific tradition to help unwind from the work week. Virgil queued up the episode that they had finished on last week, listening fondly to Patton putter around in the kitchen.

He fluffed the pillows on the couch to perfection, dug out the soft, worn blanket that they had picked out together, and sat down. Patton let out the same squeal that he always did and plopped down between his legs, two mugs balanced carefully in his hands. Virgil swept the blanket over both of their laps, and accepted the mug.

He wound his arms around Patton’s shoulders hooking his chin over his boyfriend’s head and starting the episode up.

Feeling his boyfriend’s warmth against his chest, Virgil let the stress bleed off of his shoulders, watching Patton as much as he did the cartoon. He had seen it all before- they both had- and they watched it more for the atmosphere than anything else.

Patton curled an ankle around his calf and Virgil felt a small smile creep up his lips. He buried his head into his boyfriend’s hair, pressing a soft kiss to the scalp. This right here is where he wanted to stay for the rest of eternity. No upset clients, no pressure filled projects, no manager pining after his best friend.

“Idiots,” he murmured under his breath.

“Who?” Patton asked, shifting so he could look up at Virgil.

“Who do you think?” he muttered back.

Patton giggled, reaching up to poke at his cheek. “You think everyone is an idiot, almost as much as Logan does. Morons is what you normally save for friends though.”

Virgil’s chest tightened at those words, at how well this man knew him, and he tightened his grip around Patton’s shoulders. “Logan and Roman need to get their shit together. Or they’re going to end up old and alone and somehow living together forever pinning as they waste away with a dozen cats each-”

“Logan doesn’t like cats,” Patton said, leaning back into Virgil’s hold even more.

“Then Roman will have two dozen to make up for it,” Virgil said, “And to make it even worse the two will still be trying to set us up.”

Patton grinned, “Oh, but I’d hoped that we’d be married at that point. I was planning on Logan being my best man.”

Virgil choked, feeling his face heat from his flush as Patton cackled, twining his fingers through Virgil’s. God, did he love this man.

~~

Virgil blinked as Logan approached him, shoving his chair away from his desk.

“Yo Lo,” he greeted, “What’s up?”

“Salutations,” Logan greeted, “I require some assistance that I think you can provide. One of the closet doors seems to be stuck and I would like you to attempt to open it before I contact maintenance.”

Virgil blinked, and shrugged, getting to is feet and shoving his hands into his pockets as he trailed after his manager. He opened his mouth to ask Logan why he hadn’t asked Roman first, seeing as the marketer had the better built body. Virgil snapped his mouth shut as he caught a glimpse of shoving Patton into the closet as they turned the corner and sighed.

Idiots.

Raising his voice he asked, “You’re absolutely certain that you can’t get it open?”

Logan waved at the door, and Virgil shrugged. Another hair brained scheme to get them together meant more time with Patton after all. He tugged the door open and stumbled as Roman’s foot caught his own. Patton’s arms were open and ready for him.

“Whoops!” Roman’s voice echoed through the closet, “Don’t worry guys we’ll get someone from maintenance to get you out of there!”

Even expecting something like that, Virgil couldn’t help the vicious curse that slipped from his lips. “I have a project, you moron!” he shouted back, ignoring the way that Patton giggled next to him.

“One of these days we’re all going to get fired,” Virgil complained, leaning into the arm that Patton wrapped around his waist.

“Oh come on Virge, there’s no way that Logan would let that happen.” Patton grinned, “We’re a staple of his office life now.”

Virgil smothered a laugh, hands coming up to cover his smile. Patton’s hands tugged them gently from their position, and his lips quirking up. “You don’t have to hide,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the palm of Virgil’s hand. “I love your laugh. It’s beautiful.”

Virgil felt a quiet surge of guilt. It had been his idea to hide their relationship; he had wanted something to be just his, even if Patton would have been ready to take a bullhorn to the rooftops if that was what convinced Virgil of his love. He leaned forward, crowding Patton up against the wall and drowning those thoughts out with the feeling of Patton’s lips on his.

He’d make it up to his boyfriend later.

~~

Virgil ran a hand through his hair, wondering if coming out to Logan for advice would help his situation. Patton wanted to get the two together, and while Virgil was all for ending the pining, he couldn’t help but worry. Because he was starting to think that maybe Patton was it for him, that he’d never love anyone as much as the man he had now and-

And he was insisting on keeping the whole thing a secret. As funny as getting married without telling Roman would be, Virgil thought they’d have to come to an agreement first, or maybe Patton had been serious with all his joking about getting married lately-

“Hey! Dark and Dank!” Virgil let out a breath as Roman slung an arm around his shoulder, bringing a welcome relief from his thoughts.

“Come to get me locked in another closet?” Virgil asked dryly, fighting against the urge to rub his neck. It would ruin his concealer.

“That was an accident,” Roman protested, “I would never lock you up somewhere horrible like that!”

Virgil let out a disbelieve hum, if only because Roman had a thing for the classics and locking a couple up into a closet was one of those. He’d have more complaints about it if it weren’t for the fact that Patton seemed to agree with him and adored the time they got to spend together because of it.

Patton waved at him, and Virgil felt his lips twitch up into a small soft smile. And seeing Patton light up at the sight of him chased away the lingering shadows from his earlier thoughts. They all seemed so stupid when Patton adore every moment, adored him, as unbelievable as it still seemed on bad days.

“Salutations,” Logan greeted, and Virgil blinked as he realized what they were planning this time. He fought back a sigh and braced himself as Roman’s foot tangled with his own. Dragging Roman down with him was sweet, sweet revenge.

Patton’s arms were ready and waiting for him, the shorter man nuzzling his hair as he gripped him tight. Virgil could feel a flush creep up his face as Patton took the opportunity to peck his check before pulling away and Virgil couldn’t help but scratch the spot self consciously.

Patton giggled, and Virgil forgot about the other two as his world narrowed down to Patton as he felt his panic rise. Because he knew he had already made his decision.

Roman was going to kill him for getting engaged without letting him know.

~~

Virgil personally thought that the two were getting more ridiculous the longer that it went on. Logan hadn’t even bothered to hide himself, though Virgil gave him props for at least changing out of his work uniform. Roman on the other hand….

(Virgil tried hard not to picture Patton in a sundress and failed.)

He mentally added that to his pro column about getting married. They wouldn’t have to put up with the two moron’s attempts at setting them up. Another would be that the money he had already spent on the ring wouldn’t go to waste, though he had made sure that he could return it. Just in case.

Maybe he should wait until April Fool’s. Just in case.

He slipped his hand into the pocket with the small box as he leaned forwards and whispered, “How much you willing to bet that they won’t notice if we slip off?”

Patton laughed, throwing his head back and Virgil leaned forward to grin at him.

“No deal,” Patton said, “Logan’s already lost.”

Virgil bit down on the words that he was already lost as well. That he had wandered off the path of life he thought he’d go down because Patton’s light had drawn him in. That he hadn’t realized that he was in a field of flower until he had finally managed to draw his eyes away from the beauty before him. That Patton made every day a shade better, an inch more bearable as long as he was in it.

“Let’s get ice cream,” he blurted instead, and wanted to die.

Patton’s eyes lit up, and he reached out to drag Virgil along behind in as they fled from the small restaurant. Virgil twisted his wrist so he could thread his fingers into Patton’s and wondered if ice cream would ever stop meaning a time for just the two of them.

He hoped not.

His other hand fingered the small box and took a deep breath. It was Patton. It would be fine.

...as soon as he’d gotten revenge for his boyfriend shoving his ice cream into his face.

~~

Virgil knew he was more skittish about this than he probably should have been, but haunted houses had never been his favorite. Patton took Logan with him whenever he really needed to itch his need for horror outside of movies. Because Virgil could bury his head in Patton’s chest if movies got too bad, but he couldn’t here.

And yet, Virgil had agreed to this. To help Patton lead Logan and Roman on with their new epic romance as Patton put it, but also because Virgil was rapidly drawing a blank on how to propose. He wanted it to be something worthy of Patton, something that was fitting for their relationship.

A haunted house wasn’t it but Virgil was starting to panic about how long it was taking and about Patton finding the ring before he was ready and what if Patton changed his mind before and-

Patton wound an arm around his waist, and Virgil couldn’t help but lean against the touch. He knew that Patton could feel him shaking, and the grip tightened as Patton launched into some ramble about the pros and cons of furless cats. Virgil let the words wash over him in a calming wave, closing his eyes and letting Patton guide them.

Someone screamed behind them and he flinched, slamming his shoulder against the wall as Patton cackled about something. Virgil tried to take a deep breath as footsteps rushed by them, and felt his panic rise as he found himself unable to. He pressed his hand to his chest, sliding down the wall and away from Patton’s hold.

The pressure on his chest increased and Virgil grit his teeth in frustration that was quickly drowned out by his panic. Of course this would happen- Was that movement over there- Where was Patton-

Familiar hands wrapped around his fingers, carefully untaggeling them from his hair (and when had he done that) before Patton’s soft voice cut through his thoughts.

“In for four dear,” he whispered, and Virgil’s chest heaved at the command. He’d been giving into Patton since they met, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

“Beautiful job,” Patton praised, “Now hold for seven- and out for eight. There we go. You’re doing amazing Virgil, keep that up.”

Patton squeezed his hand, and Virgil wondered if his boyfriend was going to end up bruised with how tight he gripped it. He toppled forward, burying his head into Patton’s chest as the other man reached up and ran his free hand through his hair. Patton’s heartbeat was a steady comfort as he focused on calming down.

And cursing the fact that he still hadn’t proposed.

~~

Everything had to be perfect. Virgil paced his apartment, chewing on the bed of his thumb. Patton was due in for their regular date night at any moment and Virgil wanted to vibrate out of his skin. This was a stupid idea. It was a horrible idea, Patton was going to hate it, it was too simple, why did he ever think of-

The door creaked open, and Virgil felt his spine snap straight up. “Virgil!” Patton called out, skipping into the apartment, “You ready?”

He couldn’t work past the lump in his throat, swallowing hard as he nodded. Patton paused, eyes racking over his form and Virgil felt his panic skyrocket at the look.

“Hey,” Patton asked softly, stepping towards him instead of the kitchen and Virgil wanted to scream. “Everything alright?”

Virgil swallowed, and managed to croak out, “Yeah.”

Patton gripped his hand for a long moment, eyes searching his before nodding. Virgil felt rooted to the spot as Patton strode determinedly towards the kitchen, and he tried to will himself to follow after him. He knew that Patton was thinking that he’d get them settled and talk about it once Virgil had calmed down.

Virgil knew that wasn’t going to happen.

It was a choked sob that finally got Virgil moving. He rushed to the kitchen, apology ready on his lips but it died at the look on Patton’s face. His boyfriend pressed both hands to his face, and tears streaming down his face. But above his white knuckled hands, Patton’s eyes shone with untold joy.

Virgil really didn’t think the small bouquet of roses tucking into their usual mugs was worth that much excitement. Even with the incriminating small box tucked underneath it.

“You mean it?” Patton whispered, whirling to face him, and Virgil dropped to one knee in response. Patton sobbed again at the action and Virgil reached out, taking the hand Patton offered him into both of his hands.

“I do,” he whispered, “You’re- you’re- I can’t- can’t picture my life without- without you.”  He likced his lips willing himself to speak better, to give the sort of speech he knew that Roman could pull from the top of his head. “You- you are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met Patton. Inside- inside and out. And I want the whole world-” He swallowed hard, “I want the whole world to know that you’re mine.”

Virgil blinked as he was suddenly facing the ceiling, a heavyweight wrapping itself around his chest. It wasn’t panic for once and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, burying his face into Patton’s hair. His boyfr- fiance sobbed against his chest, saying the same frantic thing over and over again.

“Yes! Yesyesyesyesyes-”

Virgil felt like he could fly to the moon, Patton at his side the whole time. He snickered, tugging lighty on Patton’s shirt. “Are you going to get off me so I can give you your ring?”

Patton nuzzled into his chest and hummed thoughtfully.

“No.”

Virgil snickered again, “But then what about the ring?”

“I’m fine as long as I’m a-round you,” Patton giggled in reply and Virgil couldn’t help the laugh that came from his lips. He couldn’t help a lot of things around Patton he realized.

“Come on,” he nudged Patton, “I want to know if you like it.”

“I love it-!”

“You haven’t seen it yet Pat,” Virgil pointed out as he finally heaved the two of them back to a sitting position.

“But you picked it out, so I’m sure I’ll love it!” Virgil flushed at the words, ducking his head to hide behind his bangs. Patton giggled, and grasped his face, drawing him in for a soft kiss, a simple press of lips on lips. “Because I love you!”

Virgil grinned, reaching out for the box.

Then, because Virgil was sure that the universe was determined to hate him, as he slid the ring onto Patton’s finger-

“Yo nerds!” Roman slammed the door to their apartment open. “You never showed to our carefully planned outing how dare- WAIT IS THAT A RING?”

Logan peered out from behind Roman and blinked. “Ah, congratulations.”

“LOGAN THEY SKIPPED OVER DATING WHAT SORT OF ROMANTIC-”

Virgil groaned, but it twitched into a grin as he felt Patton giggle against his chest.

Life was...decent at least.

~~

Logan loved the sound of blades on ice, the simple crack as a body moved in precise movements. His boyfriend not so much.

He held his arms out carefully as Roman wobbled again, hands tightening around Logan’s forearms. “Excellent, now lean back to help shift your center of gravity, yes just like that very good Roman.”

Roman grinned at him, until he stumbled, practically falling into Logan’s arms which would have been a pleasant experience if the others hadn’t skated by at the same moment. Virgil whistled in time with Patton’s giggles.

“Looks like the matchmaker fell in love himself,” Virgil taunted and Logan clenched his teeth at the pun while Roman sputtered.

“You got together!” Roman protested, “I think that makes me the perfect match maker!”

“Whatever you say Ro!” Virgil called over his shoulder and Roman glared at his back.

“The moment I figure this out-”

Logan felt a smirk climb up his face. The night was young, and Roman’s face was a gorgeous red. “Shall I avenge your honor?” he deadpanned, and Roman’s face flushed an ever deeper red.

“L-Logan-!”

“I’m going to take that as a confirmation.” Logan pressed a swift kiss to Roman’s check, delighting in the way that it flustered the PR rep even now, and kicked off the ice. Patton glanced over his shoulder and squealed, grasping Virgil’s hand and dragging him in an attempt to escape.

Roman’s shouts carried over the wind, mixing with Virgil’s cackles and Logan grinned, fierce and bright.

And even in the moonlight, the two rings Patton and Virgil wore glinted on their fingers.

[katef-m]

California, month six | that great strong land of love

Apartment twenty, early January 2017. C arrives in a rainstorm, late the first evening, and we brew tea immediately. The new place is a mess: floorboards awash with scattered q-tips and dustballs and broken clothes hangers, strange objects huddled in corners (a china monkey money box, an elephant-shaped watering can, a half eaten bag of cough drops, a dented can of chopped green beans), the rooms heavy with the cloying odour of a four-week full bin. All day I'd cleaned and unpacked. I wiped, dusted, sprayed, filled bag after bag with rubbish, and swept the floors with a plastic orange brush I bought at the Japanese dollar store. When I'd arrived that morning, shoulders burning after carrying my bags up to the second floor, it took all my willpower not to sink into the bottom bunk's bare rubber mattress and sob. Everything was so dirty, and I was adrift in unfamiliarity again. But instead I put on some music, rolled up my sleeves, and got to it. By the time C's at the door, the rooms are a little more habitable, and when I hear her moving about in the living room, putting the kettle on, it already feels like home. Peace and sun, those first few days. Golden hour is ridiculous from the window of our new room. Last semester I could see the Sather Tower and used its hourly peals to structure my day; now I can watch the hills behind campus, the way they reflect the sun at dawn and dusk, the way the small houses at the top wink in the dark. Day trips to the city. Waiting for the bus with 7-Eleven coffee and donuts. Loafing at the top of Bancroft with thermos flasks as the sun dips. It's warm enough to sit outside, though you'll need a scarf. It doesn't feel like any January I know. Getting tangled in freeways on the first few half-marathon training runs. Saturday afternoon at the farmers' market. Everybody outside in warm blue. Herb bundles in bicycle baskets, a girl in dungarees with fruit under her arm, that sort of thing. Fresh bread and sunshine. So far, January in California feels like April in England, and I am very much ok with that.

When Trump's sworn in nobody wants to look. I'm at work, anyway, and I have to make smoothies for a bunch of Trump supporters. The peanut butter scoop shakes in my hand. Later we race down Telegraph towards Oakland to catch the tail end of the inauguration day protest. Police in riot gear wait along Oakland's peripheries as the protestors head towards the city centre, yet all is peaceful: downtown we're met with free pumpkin pie, not tear gas or stun guns. The air isn't charged the way it was on election night, not raw with pain, yet the voices are louder, more defiant. The following morning we make signs from cardboard boxes raided from the recycling bins. NASTY WOMEN UNITE. VIVA LA VULVA. GRAB 'EM BY THE PATRIARCHY. The San Francisco bus is full of students: it almost feels like a school trip: there's not much traffic on the bridge: a parade of children forced on a pro-life march drift past the bus windows and we all get angry: and then we're in a one-hundred-thousand strong crowd at Civic Center, a damp fierce knot of umbrellas and battered signs and fists. It's International Women's Day. In the dusky rain we march and sing, and are filled with hope. 'I refuse to call him president,' says the elderly lady sitting next to me at Caffe Strada a few days later. Solace, as ever, is sought in the words of my favourite poets. Thousands of miles away in Australia, Bruce Springsteen speaks out against Trump's Muslim Ban. 'America is a nation of immigrants,' he says, 'and we find this anti-democratic and fundamentally un-American'. And then there's Langston Hughes:

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed -- Let it be that great strong land of love

Alternative coping mechanisms are also available: homemade cocktails (White Russians and hibiscus gin), playing every song that ever existed, dancing on chairs into the wee hours. Federer winning the Australian Open, his eighteenth slam at the age of thirty-five. Saturday evening at the marina with friends, sitting on the rocks by the water to witness a sunset too beautiful to hold on to. Faces and hair lucent with golden light.

Most of all though, a visit from my mum. Spring semester is relentless. The workload is final-level-Tetris heavy. 'I don't know what I'm writing,' I complain to C one night. 'I'm two letters into a word and I don't know what it's going to be yet.' Classes almost doubled, I take the early morning shifts at work. The alarm's set for that pre-7am no man's land, but as a night owl, sleep is unavoidably sacrificed. I learn to survive on five or six hours, but this hallmark of adulthood won't stay with me long: as soon as school ends and life slows down in June, my nine hour nightly dosage resumes. For now, though, daily life has changed hugely. Yet the change itself occurred unnoticed, giant and silent in the corner of some room I might've walked through once. I no longer have time to burrow deep into the frivolous recesses of my brain; every scene passes by too fast, like trying to take a picture from the window of a speeding train. I think I like it this way, though. It's true: the busier you are, the more you do, and the more you do, the more you want to do. Mum arrives the night of the Milo Y riots. As I open belated Christmas presents in her Airbnb apartment we hear the rumble of helicopters over Telegraph. My social media feeds erupt with footage of fires and bangs. 'Berkeley's not always like this,' I feel compelled to point out more than once. The streets are scattered with debris and people smoke against makeshift wire fences, eyes bright, bodies still charged. Walking to work the next morning, the physical effects of the riots are clear in the cold eye of dawn. Anti-Trump graffiti embellishes the walls of the bank, a building made 'riot-proof' in the sixties. On campus, trees are singed black at the tips, the Amazon locker room windows smashed in, and the hulking jumble of burned tech equipment sits sooty in the middle of Sproul Plaza like some kind of contemporary art sculpture. Mum's staying in the 'Purple House', a wood-walled ground-floor apartment in Elmwood. I love staying there with her, love the non-student perspective on Berkeley life it provides. We shop in Whole Foods and cook together, finish morning runs with coffee. I show her the campus, the streets, the city across the bay. I introduce her to my friends and my favourite bus routes. She keeps me company on coffee shop study dates and buys me the enormous slice of apple pie I've been eyeing all year. It is a special twelve days.

After days of rain, the sun returns and Mum finally sees the California I've been raving about, the clear blue skies, the dazzle at the ends of streets and hilltops. We spend her final weekend in San Francisco. Resistance posters have appeared in windows both sides of the bay, and in the Mission District, Four Barrel's coffee cups come stamped with the words 'Resist Fear, Assist Love' in rainbow ink. Catch the bus to Haight-Ashbury. Get coffee at Stanza, or Flywheel, which sits at edge of the neighbourhood where Golden Gate Park looms dark. The Goodwill store is messy, and 80% junk, but if you hunt hard you'll find things at a tenth of the price of other Haight thrift stores. There's a real good bookstore somewhere along the street: you'll find it. Buena Vista is all steps, but catch another bus a little south, as the roads start to climb. It'll only take you halfway up; when you alight, follow Twin Peaks Boulevard as it snakes uphill, and eventually you'll reach the carpark and viewpoint at the top. Most people drive up to Twin Peaks but it's better to watch the view unfold gradually, angles and gradients shifting, until the rusted tips of the Golden Gate Bridge poke out above buildings and cloud to your left, and the entire city arranges itself around you, better than any virtual map could. You'll finally understand the confusing geography of San Francisco, how the multiple grid systems shuffle against each other, the dance of streets and hills. You'll note the physical relief of the landscape, from the smooth natural contours of the earth to the tall stubbed cluster of the financial district. The white buildings shine pristine in afternoon light, so that the entire city looks celestial. And all of it held by the water beyond. From the peaks of the city, move to its edges: ride the Muni all the way through Sunset out to Ocean Beach, and watch the sun sink softly into the water. Everybody will stand motionless on the sand to watch, as if it's a drive-in movie. Colours will drift about and alter the look of the water, sand, and air. Deep sky blue, viridian, turquoise, champagne pink, peach, apricot, tiffany, pale indigo. To heighten the liminal magic, you have the beach's routine haze and majestic scale: the height of the waves, the sand's expanse, how the scene looks both stretched out and zoomed in, like so much of the American landscape.

* * * Songs: month six Fluorescent Adolescent  /  Arctic Monkeys Get Lucky  /  Daft Punk Wild World  /  Cat Stevens Christmas in February  /  Lou Reed Pacific Theme  /  Broken Social Scene Stolen Dance  /  Milky Chance Mother & Child Reunion  /  Paul Simon * * *

California so far:

California, month one | in and out of the game

California, month two | the dust settles

California, month three | your lows will have their complement of highs California, month four | throw comfort out