#my measurements are more or less the same as what's given on the doll listing

[quilleth]

:( once more defeated by pattern drafting and math, my archnemesis

i found a different tutorial to try so i'm going to attempt that one to get the basic pattern and then will alter it for the silhouette i want, assuming it turns out ok. I like lomi playground's videos and tutorials, but the pants drafting one is a little hard to follow, and I definitely did something wrong, but have no idea what. which honestly just sums up me doing any flat pattern drafting ever. Except sleeves. somehow of all things, those are the only things that the flat pattern drafting made sense on in my classes xD Draping is much easier for me, but i can't exactly pin into resin, and since i already did the blushing on dollbei jun and am already having issues with it chipping in places, i don't want to try the tape method (I'm also not sure how to make that work for pants anyway).

[pawsnread]

The Making of Cubao Goes to Cannes

A lot of you may have seen the progress of Cubao’s suit on twitter, but I thought I would take a moment to note down my thoughts while progressing through the suit construction. So here’s a general summary of what I did, why I did it, and what I was thinking while making this tiny suit.

It all started, of course, after seeing Gong Jun walk the red carpet in that gorgeous Jason Wu creation. I was able to watch his walk live between work things; the whole thing only lasted maybe 2 minutes but it was the highlight of my day/week/month.

I was fixated on this suit for days afterwards, but it wasn’t until close to the end of May (probably a good 10 days later) that I decided to try and replicate this suit. It was partially motivated by the fact that my Cubao is the 15 cm version (the more common version is 20 cm) and it’s always so difficult to find doll clothes for that size (though it saves the wallet). Seeing as I have 13 years of cosplay experience, I was like “I’m used to frankensteining patterns to fit me, why not try in small scale? Less fabric, less stitching, how hard can it be?”

I was about to find out.

Having never made doll clothes before, I started by using stockpiled fabric to make mock ups while sourcing out fabric and other notions. First thing on my to-do list was pants. I had a pair of doll pants that were too small and short in the waist for Cubao’s rotund bum, so I deconstructed the pants and used it as a template for a mock up. I added about an inch to the top and about 1/4 of an inch to the bottom hem; after putting them on Cubao, I started pinning to the right height and length in order to determine where the hems and waist should be and the seam amounts. Last step was to add elastic and finish the seams.

This is the mock up in progress (left) and completed (right). It was a pretty simple process and moved pretty easily. Once I found fabric I liked (after purchased 4 other types that didn’t match the color - good thing about doll clothes is you don’t need a lot), I constructed the suit pants. I lined the suit pants since they were a bit translucent, and the extra fabric made them as little more snug than I anticipated, but it still turned out fine. The leg hems were finished by hand because I wanted and almost invisible stitching, and I always finish suit pants by hand. The pants fit well enough that I made two pairs of doll pants out of chambray fabric for my dolls to romp around in with other outfits.

Next was the shirt, and that was a process.

I started off with a pattern I found on Pinterest but original came from Xiaohongshu (I think, I can’t really make out the watermark). There were no measurements on the pattern so I had to undergo some trial and error sizing the pattern up on my printer. The sleeves seemed odd to me, so I initially reworked them to be raglan type sleeves thinking they would work better with Cubao’s mostly straight arms. Mock up #1 ended up fitting very poorly with the collar too low.

I sized up the pattern a smidgen, reprinted, and went back to the original sleeves. For mock up #2, I attempted to change the collar to mimic a more traditional shirt collar, which has two pieces - one neck piece and the actual collar. That turned out to be too much fabric for a little bao.

In the end, with mock up #3, I went back to the original shirt pattern and only omitting the extra fabric piece for the front closure, folding over instead. The collar opening ends up being a little wide, but not as much as my first attempt so I can live with the little gap.

Mock up #1 at the top, #2 on the left, and #3 on the right.

Overall the shirts were relatively easy, except for the sleeves. Sleeves have always been the bane of my cosplay/sewing existence; sewing sleeves on small scale was more difficult than I imagined given the tinier space to work with.

I actually made two suit shirts, one of a textured material and one of the same, slightly stretchy material used in mock ups #2 and #3. The textured material is more appropriate for shirts, but there was no stretch so getting it on Cubao was challenging.

Next came a little bowtie. I don’t have a lot to say about this process as it was pretty simple: sew two rectangles then attach them to an elastic band. Initially I wanted to mimic the double layer of Gong Jun’s bowtie, but that’s too much fabric for a tiny bao.

Last up but the most important part was the jacket. I started with the same shirt pattern but sized up again to ensure there was room to get both bao arms and sleeves in, also to accommodate the lack of stretch in the final fabric. The first mock up had no changes as it was done to see the fit and determine how the collar would be cut. After making the necessary trims, mock up #1 was deconstructed and the pieces were used as a templates to cut out mock up #2. In working with mock up #2, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to do a set in collar as I had hoped. The jacket collar is an important element to the suit so I didn’t want to not incorporate it. In the end, I decided to do stitching to mimic the lines of the collar.

Mock up #1 on the left with the front pinned down, and mock up #2 on the right with the collar stitch placement outlined in red.

Once the jacket was mostly sewn together, I laid it out on some pattern paper and traced around to get the general outline. I then used this outline to design the beading. There was little chance I would be able to replicate the beading exactly without seeing the suit in person, so I tried to incorporate some of the details that caught my eye (notably the swirl like patterns). Initially I had planned to do the beading on mesh fabric, cut it out, then sew it to the suit like actual bead work is done. After my initial attempts, I learned two things: that takes FOREVER on small scale, and the mesh fabric is very noticeable on a suit that small. My sketch was also way more detailed than feasibly possible on doll clothing. I ended up having to simplify the design and sew directly onto the suit jacket.

Initial sketch work on top, and beading process below. I tried to keep a loose tension during the beading so as not to cause any puckering of the jacket.

Miyuki Delica size 15/0 beads were used. Silver beads were the main design element with AB crystal beads as accents. The AB crystals came in two sizes; the larger ones were mostly used to give the design a little bit of dimension. Pearl colored beads were later used for the dangles. 15/0 are tiny beads to work with; most of the silver and AB beads were able to be threaded through a thin sewing needle, but the pearl beads required me to switch between sewing and beading needles to get them strung and sewn. For the dangles, I attempted to follow a similar pattern to the original, looping and hanging in the same places.

After the beading, the arms were sewn up and the sleeve hems, bottom hems, and inner collar were hand stitched down. Initially I had planned to line the jacket to make it a proper jacket. However, after constructing everything I found adding the lining increased the bulk and would make it impossible to get Cubao’s arms + shirt sleeves in.

Last was to add the hand made pipa knot closure in the front and the button knots on the sleeves. Both of these were made with 2.0 mm nylon macrame knotting cord and surprisingly very easy once you get the hang of it. The final touch was the brown shoes; these were purchased off Taobao using Superbuy as a proxy, and they arrived just yesterday, the day after I finished everything.

Overall, I am very pleased with the look. Construction was spaced out because of work and a bit of anxiety on my part. Concessions had to be made since bao clothing is on a much smaller scale. Naturally there was bits and pieces I’m not super pleased with, but overall I’m quite happy with the results. It was a feat, to say the least, replicating such an intricate design for a 15 cm doll. I’m glad I did it, but I’m also glad I don’t do this for a living. 😅

Hope you enjoyed this little insight into the process. If you have any questions, just pop in an ask and I’ll be happy to answer them. 😊

[apersonshapedcomputer]

(I have clawed my way through another semester to bring you part four of my hero x villain story! They now have names. There are new characters with actual speaking roles. There is ✨Fashion✨.

beginning, previous chapter)

Phase 3: Walk walk, fashion baby~

"You know, I kind of wish we were the same size right now, because this room calls to my inner child's need to play dress up."

Dawn was bouncing from mannequin to clothing rack, trying to take everything in at once. The nature of my work meant that I needed to have an extensive array of outfits to choose from. Some of these outfits were scattered across different safe houses I own, but most of them could be found in The Closet. I built The Closet to be a costumer's dream.

Three floors. Temperature controlled. Organized by color, style, and event. And of course, there was Deji.

Deji was a tall person, never seen without a fantastic outfit and meticulously decorated afro. The day's look appeared to be small lights, turning their hair into a glorious halo of stars, and a comfortable maxi dress in black and midnight blue. I took a moment to appreciate their artistry.

"Rhe, sweetness, you brought me a new doll to play with!" Deji exclaimed.

Dawn turned to us, concerned. "Uh, doll?"

It was too late for him. Deji pounced, measuring tape in hand. Their rich, low voice filled the room with questions like "Are there any fabrics or textures that you can't stand?" and "Do you know how to walk in heels?", as they gently poked Dawn into optimal measuring stances.

"Deji, this is Dawnstar, as I'm sure you already know. Dawn, this is Deji, expert tailor and fashionista." I sidled over to a lectern on one side of the room. It had a tablet built into it, allowing the user to view a catalogue of every item in The Closet, as well as a detailed archive of fashion history and trends. Directly in front of me was a short pedestal surrounded by mirrors, reminiscent of a high end dressing room in a bridal boutique. I began to scroll through color pallets and fabric types as Deji herded Dawn over to stand on the pedestal.

"What sweetness fails to mention is that I'm her *oldest* and *dearest* friend," Deji playfully intoned, "and I got to bear witness to *all* her awkward stages growing up." I shot them a frosty glower, to which they simply blew a raspberry at me.

How dare they bring up my dark past.

"Rhetoric? Control queen, stone cold poker-face, no hair out of place *Rhetoric* had *awkward phases*? *Plural*?!" Dawnstar seemed to no longer be perturbed by Deji's maneuvering, too delighted at the concept of me having once been... cringe. "I know she can be dramatic, but even when she's going full ham it's in a weirdly graceful way?"

"I too, am human, and have thus have on occasion made questionable decisions. I have since trained myself out of my more... troublesome tendencies or overly emotional reactions." I knew that he was very aware of my levels of self control, having seen me once stare down a Strorix Game-Master during the Deathgame incident, without balking. The Game-Master looked away first.

I smoothly pulled out my phone and pull up the official wedding invitation he received, slaying that conversation before Deji could talk about my version of an emo phase.

"The noise from our confrontation has died down a bit, but there are still a few mentions of it here and there. This is perfect, given that we have only two-and-a-half weeks until the wedding. That should be plenty time for Deji to work their magic on our outfits."

Deji snorted, "*Plenty* she says. Plenty! Two whole outfits in less than two weeks, and for the event of the *year*!" They devolved into aggrieved ranting as they finishing taking measurements.

I began to read the wedding invitation aloud, to drown out their griping.

"Together with their families, Lady Rong Shih and The Rockin' Sorcha Darrow invite Dinari "Dawnstar" Seidu-Tinio, along with a guest, to share in their wedding celebration." A second page lists location, time, and preferred style of dress.

"They seem to be following the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy rather than any real dress code, which leaves us plenty of room for creativity."

I looked back at Dawn to find him staring at me, eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. "You... I don't think I've ever heard you say my actual name before."

Oh, that was interesting. I decided to see what happened when I pushed this particular button.

"Well *Dinari*, you've never used my given name either. I'm starting to wonder if you even know it."

He made an interesting choking sound as I practically purred his name, it was even better than when I used pet names with him.

"W-wha? I mean- of course I know your name! It just- I got so used to calling you Rhetoric, and then Rhe - though that was more to try and mess with you early on and it didn't really work - but I *do* know your name, *Ms. Rhea Rivera*."

That... Alright, maybe I understood his reaction to the use of his name now. It felt... intimate, hearing that from him. Unlike him however, *I* was able to keep from showing much of a reaction. It did take me a half second longer to respond than normal however.

"Good, it would be rather embarrassing if we were to show up to the wedding and you started fumbling when introducing me to your ex. Hmm, the nickname Dawn suits you though... Perhaps Din as another nickname? Darling Din?"

A whirring sound interrupted any response he might have made. While we had been bantering, Deji had been using their portable controller to get clothing and fabric samples delivered to the dressing room. A panel of the wall smoothly opened up to allow a clothing rack to slither its way in. With the bounty of cloth and accessories came an excited giggling sound.

Perched atop the front of the serpentine rack was a 4 year old child, who's appearance could be summed up as Glitter. Glittery beads in her hair, glittery shoes, a slightly less glittery jumpsuit, and a cape decorated with glittery stars and planets.

Inanna was Deji's daughter, and she had made The Closet her playground. With all the poise of a queen, she skillfully kept her balance on the rack-turned-steed as it finished encircling the room. She quickly slid off her mount, little legs kicking in the air briefly before plopping down onto the carpet. I widened my stance and braced for impact.

36 pounds of gleeful child barrelled into me. I used her momentum to spin us both as I lifted her up to rest on my hip.

"*Titi*, I picked my clothes today! Look look look! I'm sparkly! I match Mr. Sparkly. Hi Mr. Sparkly!" She eagerly informed me on the state of her dress before waving her arms at Din. Such a well spoken and *loquacious* child.

"I see sweetheart. You may be the sparkliest child I have *ever* seen." I shot Din a look, and flicked my gaze towards the excitable little disco ball in my arms. He seemed to get the hint, and I could practically see him activate a mental switch labeled Child Mode.

"Hi there! Loving the outfit, I *wish* I had your sense of style when I was your age."

Inanna preened at his complement. "You know," Din tapped his chin, "I think I might just be able to help you add a little more bling to this situation!" With a twist of his fingers some of the light in the room bent around Inanna. Disco ball was an apt assessment, I needed to squint a little as Din's powers caused her outfit to light up in a stunning, multicolored display. Her squeal was precious, and near deafening.

I set her down as she began to wriggle, and she happily began to spin around. Din's face as he watched her toddle about was... soft. How dare he look so sweet?

I turned back to the tablet and started pulling up my dossier on Din's ex, Ezekiel Gray. My dislike for the man predated his relationship with Din, as his nosiness had resulted in unwanted scruitny on a few of my earlier schemes.

"Deji, I'm going to need you to scrap any designs that include bright yellows, beige, or salmon."

They turned their head towards me, owl like, a look of disgust on their face. "I'm insulted that you think that I would ever put you in *beige*."

"Right, right, my apologies for the insinuation. What color pallet would you recommend, oh great sage of fashion?"

Din raised his hand. "I vote watermelon!"

Both Deji and I paused to consider this.

"That..." I squinted, pondering viability of a watermelon color combo.

"...could work." Deji completed the thought.

They immediately start digging through the rack of clothes, quickly gathering items in pinks and greens. "Rhe, be a dear and punch in the codes for black beads, small black buttons, and white shoes please?"

I dutifully typed in the codes before grabbing a pink sleeveless top that had caught my eye. It had a high collar, though with a teardrop cut-out below where the collar bone would be. The color wasn't quite right, but I was sure that was an easy fix.

I sauntered over to where Din watched in fascination as Inanna used her kiddie tablet, creating outfit sets for her stuffed animals. He looked down in curiosity when I held the shirt up against his chest.

"Ooh, that's soft!" He delightedly stroked the top.

"This, with black accessories around the waist. And looser pants to even things out." I didn't need to turn to know that Deji had heard me.

Din seemed amused by my instructions. "At least I know I'm in good hands when you pick my outfits. I'll look good, *and* be comfortable." He was making that soft face again, but at me this time. That odd, warm and gooey feeling appeared in my chest again.

He liked the clothes I pick out for him.

He felt *comfortable* in them, and thus around me when I was taking care of him. And I... I felt more relaxed around him as well...

I'd been silent for 2.73 seconds, it was time to redirect before he noticed the effect that his damned dimples were having on me.

"As if I would be caught dead with my date looking uncomfortable because some scratchy clothes." I sniffed in mock disdain, turning to hand off the shirt to Deji. "We must be the most photogenic and comfortable looking people at this wedding!"

Inanna's head snapped up at my words. "Wedding!?" She looked to be vibrating with sudden excitement, looking like a puppy who just heard the word "treat".

Deji chuckled, "Now you've done it." The child began to emit a sustained, high pitched squeal. It was rather impressive, and I distantly wondered what kind of effect it would have on people with enhanced hearing. Still squealing, she began to flick her gaze between Din and I.

Oh dear. "Not *my* wedding sweetheart. Those heroes, the ah, magic sword lady and rockstar lady are the ones getting married."

One would have thought I had set fire to her plushy collection from the look of devastation on her face. "B-but... Uncle Sparkly...?" Her lip was wobbling. Those were *tears* in my precious niece's eyes. I thought fast, knowing I had a window of mere seconds to prevent the calamity.

"It's not my wedding *this time*. But you know," I rested my cheek on one hand and gazed thoughtfully into the distance, "I *could* bring back pictures for you, so that you can get inspiration for planning a wedding for me one day."

Her eyes widened at the prospect of event planning. She either did not catch, or did not care, that I had not specified a timeline or spouse; the joyous glint was back in her eyes, and she snatched up her tablet once more. "I'ma start now! You gotta have the *best* wedding, and then give me a little cousin as a present so I can dress them up." With that reveal of her plans for my future she bounded off to get a snack.

I was both immensely proud and slightly leery. Proud, because she clearly knew what she wanted and had no qualms about arranging the lives of people around her to fit her vision. Leery, because she was now locked onto the goal of marrying me off and drafting my hypothetical offspring as her dress up dolls.

Ah well, at least she wasn't crying.

Deji cackled from beside me. "HA! You know she's never gonna let that go right?" Still snickering they turned to Din, who was once more sporting an impressive blush. "Sorry hon, looks like you're trapped! Don't worry though, Rhe comes with perks. I'll give you the -*snrk*- the family discount on designs."

Din somehow went even redder at the mention of "perks". How cute.

I smiled a bit as I began to corral Deji back into finalizing our outfit designs. I'd give Din a bit of time to breathe before using this as teasing material. Even as we spent the rest of the day comparing the merits of different fabrics, debating appropriate amounts of glitter, and discussing ideal positioning of hidden pockets, an idle daydream began to take form in my mind. Nothing quite solid yet. Just a faint vision of wedding cakes, quite evenings spent in pleasant companionship, and a sly child with a disarming pair of dimples...

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Playing With Fire ~ Part 1

Pairing: Michael Gray x Pregnant!Reader

Warnings: Smut 

Author’s Note: This is the first time in a long time I’ve written so please give me feedback so I know how to improve! Hope you enjoy! Also, this is a LONG ASS chapter (like 8 pages). Sorry about that. 

_____________________________________________________

Michael leaned against the brick wall of some miscellaneous Birmingham building, blowing an impressive puff of smoke from his cigarette, as he watched you as you walked back to your mother’s shop with arms full of bolts of various fabrics. He watched that sweet smile that you sent the poor homeless man that sat on the sidewalk and the way that you bent down to help the young child that lost his ball as it rolled towards you, tossing it back to him despite the obvious load in your arms. 

He was absolutely smitten by that sweet smile. He also knew not to cross it though, having seen the wrath you inflicted on some teenage boy who thought he could pin you against the wall and try to kiss you without your permission. Michael couldn’t blame the poor bloke. You were absolutely beautiful and given the chance, he would have taken the opportunity too (consensually, of course). 

You were oblivious to this affections. Sure, you knew of Michael Gray and the rest of the Shelbys (they were a hard lot to not know in Birmingham considering they ran the dang city) and had numerous interactions with them all on several occasions but you stuck to your family’s business most of the time, honestly not finding the time to go out often, and therefore didn’t run into Michael much unless he was coming in to get something hemmed or to pick something up for Polly. 

On this particular day, you did happen to notice Michael standing across the street, puffing at his cigarette. Blinder business, you assumed. There was always some sort of Blinder business. 

Arms full, you leaned back into the door, struggling to push it open with your back. The little bell above chimed and your mom’s attention snapped up, expecting to see a customer, but instead saw you struggling. She rushed up from the sewing machine to help you, grabbing half of the bolts from your arms and setting them on the dark wooden table. “Thank you! There’s no way we would have been able to finish Arthur’s suit without these.” 

Your mom grabbed the dark grey fabric that she needed to make his vest from, rolling it across the table and using the measuring tape that hung around her neck to help draw a pattern on it. “Did you need any help on it or should I start on another order?” You asked, walking across the room and behind the counter to where the list of orders were kept. 

“Actually,” Your mom started, “None of the orders need to be ready for at least a week. I was thinking maybe you’d want to go out with a friend tonight.” She looked at you with a smile, knowing that this wasn’t a very frequent opportunity. 

You looked at her strangely, “No it’s okay. I can just start an order tonight so you won’t be stressing yourself out last minute as always. Mrs. Monaghue’s dress shouldn’t take longer than a day!” Your mother was always working. You could never bring yourself to leave your mom with all that work. That’s all she ever did was work and with your father working in the factory, you were the only one to help. 

“Sweetie, it hurts me to see how much of your youth you’ve already given away to helping me in this old shop here. I can’t remember the last time I saw you have fun with people your own age. You can afford to go out for one night.” She insisted, a sweet caring smile on her face. 

You knew she was right but you were still hesitant, “I don’t even know where to go or who I’d go with.” You explained, picking up an order sheet and walking over to grab the fabric, considering the matter settled that you wouldn’t go if you didn’t really have a plan for a fun night. 

Your mom could see what you were doing and followed, hot on your heels, ripping the paper from your hands and pinning it to the desk with a smack of her hand on top of it, “I’m glad you mentioned that because I hear that Louisa - remember your best friend from back in primary school that moved? - I hear she’s back in town visiting her aunt. Her aunt told me she doesn’t get out much back home so we arranged for you to have a little night on the town together tonight.” 

“You already arranged it?!” You exclaimed, wondering when on earth this took place considering you were with your mom all the time. A smugly proud smile swept across her face and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, “You are ridiculous sometimes.” You teased with a laugh. 

Later that night, you found yourself walking alone down the dark streets of the city. Louisa was definitely a different girl than you knew back all those years ago but that didn’t come as much of a surprise to you. You were much different than you were when you were ten too. You just wouldn’t have abandoned your only friend in the city to go off with some snobby rich boy for the night. 

“You alright there?” A vaguely familiar voice stole your attention from your thoughts and you looked up. Michael stepped out of the shadowed stoop of a loud building and out onto the sidewalk. 

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.” You sent him a polite smile. 

His gaze lingered for a moment, “Y/N, right? Your mom’s the seamstress?” He asked. 

You were shocked that he remembered. You definitely remembered him. I mean, how could you not? He was ridiculously handsome and ran with the Shelbys, not a duo of characteristics that were easy to forget. You nodded, “Mr. Shelby, right?” 

“Close. I’m Michael Gray but might as well be a Shelby.” He laughed a little and you couldn’t help the smile that cracked on your face. “So what’s a beautiful woman like yourself doing out here at this hour?” 

Your eyes rolled just thinking back to Louisa leaving you, “Just making my way back home for the night.” The prospect of sitting alone drinking in a bar just didn’t sound all that appealing to you, so after you found yourself flying solo, you quickly decided to call it a night. 

Michael checked his pocket watch, “Already? You look like you got all dolled up for a night out.” He observed. You suddenly felt self conscious, not used to having your hair done nicely or the red lipstick that graced your lips or the nicer-than-usual dress that replaced your typical skirt. Michael noticed all of these things about you and more but thought they only enhanced the beauty that was there anyways. 

“Yeah…” You trailed off, “My friend was swept away by Prince Good-For-A-Night.” You joked, eyes going to the wet ground before finding his again. 

He stepped down from the small step and extended his arm to you, “Well, lucky for you, you’ve found yourself Prince Charming. I mean, if you feel like waiting a little longer to rush home. Let me buy you a drink so hopefully your night wasn’t complete rubbish.” 

Prince Charming indeed, you thought. 

Eyeing him up and down, you nodded, “Alright Michael. I suppose I’ll let you buy me a drink.” 

You found yourself walking into the bar arm-in-arm with Michael. This was the first time you were in the Garrison. Drinking had never really been your thing so you’d never had any business there but you could definitely go a drink or two. It was a night to let go after all, right? 

Once seated, Michael just wordlessly flashed two fingers to the bartender who quickly returned with two glasses of what you soon discovered was whiskey. “You come here often?” You asked, already knowing the answer if the bartender knew his order. 

“Tommy Shelby runs the place. You could say we’re here frequently. You?” He sipped his drink, and you found yourself watching the way his lips curved around the glass, mesmerized by his features. 

“Can’t say that I do. I’m usually too busy working.” You answered, taking a drink of whiskey and trying to pretend the fire in your throat didn’t burn as much as it did. 

He gestured with the glass in his hand, “What’s with that? I always see you at that shop of yours but never out and around town unless it’s on some errand.” 

You cocked an eyebrow, “Have you been watching me Mr. Gray?” You questioned. Your tone wasn’t accusatory though, more curious. What on Earth was there to be interested in? 

“Not necessarily watching you but it’s hard to miss such a beautiful lady in this town.” Of course he’s been watching you. He wasn’t stalking you by any means but when he saw you he found it impossible to move his gaze. And then you smiled. An adorable blushed smile spread on your face. 

Were your cheeks red? They definitely felt hot. Gosh, could he see it? Is this what positive attention from a boy felt like? You could definitely get used to it. “I could say the same thing about you.” You replied. 

Michael was surprised at your flirty comment and chuckled, “Ah, so I’m a beautiful lady?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, “The most beautiful one I’ve ever seen.” 

Michael couldn’t describe what he felt with you. You were so kind and innocent but witty and flirtatious. You were such an enigma that had him sucked in. Before he could stop himself, he had to ask, “Do you maybe want to go for a walk?” 

To be honest, you weren’t sure when you found yourself inside the Shelby’s betting shop and even less sure when or how you found yourself pressed up against the wall with Michael’s lips crashing into yours. His hands were all over you, one on your cheek and the other on your waist, pulling your body closer to him. 

His lips were surprisingly soft against yours and he tasted like whiskey. The alcohol may not have affected you much but you were definitely drunk off of his kiss. Michael’s hands slowly trailed down lower, gripping you by the thighs and lifting you up, never breaking the kiss. He carried you over to a desk and set you down on it, leaning forward over you until you were lying down, pulling his body close to yours. 

You were grateful nobody else was in the building. This was definitely out of character for you and despite the fact that you weren’t necessarily close to the Shelbys, you didn’t want people seeing this side of you. This wild, hormonal, dirty side. You barely let yourself see it. 

“Michael…” You breathed out as his lips made a hot trail down your neck, sucking dark marks here and there until he found that spot that made your toes curl. Mouth occupied with your neck, his hands began roaming down to your breasts, lightly raking over them with his fingertips over the fabric of your dress. The teasing was driving you insane but before long he was massaging them. You were in absolute heaven. 

Michael’s mouth returned to yours in a passionate, fiery kiss that had you lost. His arms slipped behind your back as he smoothly lifted your body to sit up, legs dangling over the edge of the desk with him standing between your knees. 

You were shaken from your daze though when you felt his fingers begin to unzip the back of your dress, “Wait!” You exclaimed, hand shooting out to his chest, ready to push him away but not doing it for some reason.

He stopped right away, “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” His blue eyes searched your face for any signs of distress. 

“Yeah… everything’s fine. It’s just that… I’ve never, you know,” You raised your eyebrows in inference, “before.” You couldn’t bring yourself to match his gaze and you were grateful that it was somewhat dark, hoping that it cast a shadow over your burning face. 

“Really?” He asked. He didn’t sound judgemental. He was genuinely dumbfounded that a woman like you could never have been with a man. 

You finally found the courage to look back at him, even if just for a second, “I know, I know. It sounds pathetic. I ju-” 

“It’s not pathetic at all.” He assured you, placing a gentle hand on your cheek, “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do.” 

His voice was so sincere and you felt like he genuinely cared. Was this really how you wanted to lose it though? On a desk in a dark old betting shop run by gangsters to a man that you only really knew in passing? As much as your logic told you that maybe this wasn’t how it should be, your heart screamed that it was. Michael was here in front of you, a beautiful specimen of a man who had never been anything but kind to you in any interaction you’d had since he’d moved to Birmingham, and nothing but concern for your wellbeing and comfort shone in his eyes. Yeah, you were sure. 

You nodded in assurance that this was what you wanted, reaching up to kiss him again before you could change your mind but Michael pulled away, forehead resting on yours, “I need you to say it, darling. Say that you want this.” 

“I want this, Michael.” You whispered, becoming desperate for his touch. His lips returned to yours, much softer and romantic than it was before. 

Slowly, his lips made their way down your neck, focusing on the places he’d learned you’d loved the most. He kissed up towards your ear before whispering, “If you want to stop at any time, just say so.” 

“Okay.” You breathed, finding his tenderness almost sexy. There was nothing more sexual and comforting than knowing that you were safe with somebody. 

Michael’s fingers resumed their previous quest of unzipping your dress, the fabric slowly loosening around your frame and beginning to hang off your shoulders. His hands slid up your back, gently brushing the material from your body and it pooled on the floor. You stood before him in nothing but your underwear and bra and felt extremely self-conscious being the only undressed one. 

You reached out for him, sliding his coat off his shoulders and he threw his cap off to the side as well. You tugged on his vest and looked up at him shyly, “C-could you maybe take these off?” 

Michael could tell how nervous you were and was more than happy to do whatever made you feel more comfortable, especially if it meant taking clothes off.

Soon, his vest, shirt, and suspenders were on the floor and his smooth chest was pressed against your breasts as you kissed. One of his hands snaked up your torso from your hip, finding a home on your breast, kneading them through your bra. You moaned against his lips, feeling an unfamiliar throbbing between your legs. 

“Can I take this off?” He asked, large hands running over your breasts through your bra. Without actually responding, you reached back, untying it yourself and discarding the supportive material. Before he could see anything, you quickly wrapped your arms around your breasts, shielding yourself from his view. He leaned in close, closing the gap between you and gently grabbing your wrists, pulling your arms down. “You’re absolutely beautiful.” You blushed, “And absolutely fucking adorable.” 

His hands gently massaged your breasts, the roughness of skin rubbing against your soft tissue in all the right ways. Your hands tangled in his sandy locks, pulling his mouth closer to yours, as if it were possible. 

Your hips shifted forward on the table into his clothed crotch and he groaned at the contact. “Oh darling…” His voice was hoarse. His fingers tugged lightly at your underwear, “Mind if we lose these?” 

Your heart nearly stopped. This was what you wanted but the prospect of standing completely naked in front of somebody was terrifying to you. It was one of the ultimate trusts to you and you just hoped you were trusting the right person. Carefully, you lifted your hips off the table as he drew the thin fabric down your legs, discarding it on the floor. 

Michael could sense how tense you were and he couldn’t deny that your innocence was alluring. He wanted to teach you so many things about yourself and the pleasure that you were capable of feeling and showing him, but the latter could wait. Tonight was about you. 

He used his knee to spread your legs wider, a hand going to rub between your folds. You gasped at the new sensation and gripped his shoulders tightly when his fingers found your clit, “Oh my God, Michael.” You breathed, your voice almost disappearing. 

“That feel good, darling?” He asked, nipping at your neck as you fell apart in his hands. Shocks of pleasure vibrated through you as he quickened his pace. He replaced his fingers with his thumb and brought his middle finger to your entrance, “You ever done this before?” He asked, still rubbing your clit. You shook your head nervously, reveling in the feeling of his thumb still. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “We’ll go slow.” 

Little by little, his finger entered you. It was definitely a new sensation that wasn’t exactly the most comfortable but the waves of pleasure you were experiencing helped distract you. His lips found yours again, trying to bring your attention away from the stretch as he slowly added a second finger. You winced, definitely feeling the stretch much more. “It’s okay. It’ll feel better.” He cooed. 

Once he was able to get both fingers in, he began thrusting gently. He curled his fingers upwards and hit a spot that made you jump, extreme pleasure coursing through you. Michael laughed a little at your reaction and continued to give that spot attention, “You like that?” He asked with a cocky smirk. 

“Please Michael…” You trailed off, lost in the pleasure that was building inside you. 

“Please what?” He questioned, loving the knowledge that he was making you fall apart for the first time. He couldn’t wait to see what you looked like when you finally came, images of your contorted face just making the bulge in his trousers harder. 

The tension in your stomach was too much, “I think I’m gonna- I’m gonna-” 

“Cum for me.” He demanded, mouth hot against you ear, as your body began to shake and quiver around him. Your walls clenched around his fingers and he almost came right then and there from just imagining what that would feel like around his cock. 

You were seeing stars and your entire body felt like it was pins and needles. Michael’s fingers worked you through your orgasm, slowing down when he felt you coming down from your high. “Holy shit.” You breathed out, almost a whimper. 

Michael removed his fingers from you and began to undo his pants, his erection springing free. Your eyes widened at his length and you wondered how he was supposed to fit considering you could barely fit two of his fingers. 

He could sense your hesitation, “We don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to.” He assured, voice sincere. 

You shook your head, “No, I want this. I’m just nervous I s’pose.” His hand stroked up and down his length and you looked at it, unsure of what exactly you were supposed to do. Michael couldn’t help but chuckle a little at your face. 

“Just lay back, I’ll do the rest. Let me know if you want to stop.” He explained, leaning you back on the table. His hands came under your hips, slowly pulling your bum to the edge and bringing your ankles to rest on his shoulders. He lined up with your entrance and leaned in to kiss you as he began to press into you, inch by inch, pulling out and thrusting back in, allowing you to adjust. 

It hurt. You weren’t going to lie. It stretched and it burned and you couldn’t help the whimper of pain that fell from your lips. Michael brought a hand to your cheek, stroking it gently, “I’m sorry, baby. It’ll feel better soon. You’re doing so well.” 

Finally, he filled you completely and it was the most interesting feeling being filled like that. It wasn’t comfortable but it felt right, like you were supposed to be full like this. “You can move.” You told him cautiously once you felt relatively adjusted to him. 

He moved his hips slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before going all the way back in. Slowly, the pain began to disapate. 

“God, Y/N, you’re so fucking tight.” It took everything in Michael’s power not to take you hard and fast. The way your walls squeezed around his cock was unbearable and he had a hard time concentrating. 

“Can you go faster?” You asked, finally beginning to feel pleasure. Gosh, he was hoping you’d say that. Michael began to pick up his pace, going faster but not completely drilling into you. 

When you opened your eyes, you looked up and saw Michael’s eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His right hand left your thigh and pulled your leg down to rest on his hip, your other still propped up on his shoulder. In this new position, he hit a spot deep inside you and make your walls clench and you moan out. 

“God, baby, do that again.” He begged, hitting that spot over and over. Your walls tightened around him uncontrollably as he aimed that particular area that drove you wild. 

Soon, that familiar coil began to tighten in your lower stomach and you knew you were close. Michael could sense how close you were from the way you writhed beneath him, “Hang on, darling. I’m almost there with you.” 

He thrust faster and you found it increasingly difficult to stave off your orgasm. Learning that he’d liked it, you began clenching around him on purpose. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, sure to leave bruises, “Fuck!” He reached down, fingers furiously rubbing your clit. 

“Oh my gosh. I can’t wait anymore, Michael!” You whined, biting into your hand to try and stay quiet. He reached down and moved your hand, pinning it to the bed. 

“I wanna hear you, love. Go ahead. Cum.” You lost all control at his words, eyes screwing shut as your mouth fell open in a silent scream. Pleasure completely overtook your body as you squeezed around Michael, triggering his own release. He slowed, milking both of your orgasms completely. 

When he finally stopped, he stayed in you, both of you panting loudly. He looked down at you and thought you were absolutely gorgeous with your hair a mess and your skin covered with a sheen of sweat. Your beautiful E/C eyes were large and lust blown and your breasts rose up and down with your slowing breasts. And then when he finally pulled out of you, he watched the remains of his release drip down your smooth thighs. He’d never seen something more erotic in his life. 

“Are you alright?” He asked gently, hands running comfortingly along your thighs. 

You laughed, “You could say that.” You sat up and pulled him in for one last kiss, “Thank you.” 

Michael looked at you strangely, “Did you just thank me for fucking you?” He asked with a snort.

You shrugged, suddenly feeling dumb for saying it, “Well, yes. But I mean, thank you for being so nice about it all.” 

Gosh, how could a person possibly be so adorable. Here you were, completely fucked out, his cum dripping from your body, and you were sitting there in front of him, blushing and thanking him for being nice. 

He couldn’t help the smile as he shook his head and leaned in for a soft, gentle kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed as he pulled you to him once more. “Well thank you too. You were quite nice as well.” He teased. 

You reached behind you, finding his hat and smacking him playfully on the chest with it. 

“What time are supposed to be home?” He asked, hands still running up and down your arms. 

“Eleven.” You answered. Michael glanced up at the clock on the wall, seeing it was 10:45. 

“We should probably be gettin’ you home soon then. You can’t go gettin’ in trouble if we’re gonna see each other again.” He reached down and handed you your bra. 

Your eyebrows raised, “We’re meeting again?” You asked, slightly worried that he meant you would become a booty call.

He smiled, dressing himself and passing you your clothes along the way, “I figure I should take you out on a proper date. Say Tuesday?” 

You bit your lip, looking at him skeptically, “I guess we’ll see about that.” You teased, buttoning the finishing buttons on your dress. 

“I’ll be there at eight.” He said, finishing the matter. 

[obsidiancreates]

A Needle and Some Yarn

(AYYYY finally writing the knitting fic!)

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

It took a month for restlessness to sink in.

Aziraphale was incredibly to be free to do as he pleased. He was ecstatic! Until he realized that his list of hobbies was rather limited, and there were many more hours in a day to fill when one didn’t have to go out preforming Heaven’s work. He loved growing his book collection, and having lunch and dinner with Crowley, but things were growing a tad... monotonous.

He never got many patrons in his bookshop. he made sure of that. But one day a young woman had come in, and as he prepared to... persuade her that perhaps the shop didn’t have what she was looking for, her scarf moved and revealed itself to be a snake. A snake wearing a tiny woolen hat.

He couldn’t help but gasp in delight. “Wherever did you find a hat fit for a snake?”

She had grinned excitedly. “I make them myself! This little guy gets cold really easy. Plus, Instagram seems to love picture of him wearing them.”

Aziraphale had no clue what Instagram was, but the rest of the information enthralled him. “You make them yourself?”

“Yeah! Why, do you want one? I’ve only got snake-sized ones, I’m afraid. And I’d need a while to make one.”

“Oh, I’m afraid not. But, is there any way I could learn to make them?”

“Anyone can learn to knit,” she had said. She left the bookshop with a lovely old book on making your own yarn, which had not been in the store before her conversation with Aziraphale. But the conversation had given him an idea, and so he had preformed a small miracle as a sort of thank you.

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

Knitting was... a bit more difficult to learn then the angel had expected. He frowned at the yarn as it refused to cooperate, and after an epic struggle consisting of muttered alternative curses* and a lot of fingers tangled in wool, he threw the needle down into his lap with a huff. 

He read over his how-to guide again. Not once, in six thousand years, had he attempted knitting. He loved knit clothing, how cozy and soft it could be. But when trying to do it himself, he felt sure that it had to have been created by the forces of evil.

He looked down at his project. He was trying to knit a hat for Crowley. Red, like his collar, and a golden yellow, like his eyes. It was a basic enough pattern, yet it still escaped the angel’s grasp.

He sighed and stood up. He needed a cup of cocoa, and perhaps a sip of something stronger while he was at it.

*He saved proper cursing for truly awful situations, like that time Crowley had spilled wine all over an antique copy of Romeo and Juliet, a gift from Shakespeare himself. “Consider it a thank you, for the inspiration. I hope you and your friend enjoy.” Aziraphale had never been quite sure what the playwright meant. Be it out of willful ignorance or genuine thick-headedness, none can be sure.

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

Well, it wasn’t perfect, but he had done it. It took quite a bit of practice, given that Aziraphale wanted to learn the art and not simply miracle it into being given to him. But he had been persistent, and was rewarded with a rather decent knitted cap.

He’d Changed the original plan. He made it yellow and black, with a red pom on the top. No, it wasn’t Crowley’s usual style. No, the demon would probably never wear it. But Aziraphale felt a lovely swell of pride when he’d finished it, and he was sure that Crowley would at least feign some slight enthusiasm over the gift.

He brought it with him to St. James’ Park, where he and Crowley had planned to meet up that day. He kept it in a wrapped box, with tartan pattered wrapping paper. 

“Hello Angel,” Crowley greeted with a small smile. Aziraphale could barely contain his excitement as he said hello back.

“I brought you something!” he exclaimed. He held the gift out for Crowley to take.

Crowley ripped the paper off, quickly and messily. He opened the lid of the box and stared. “A hat?”

“I made it myself! Properly, humanly, with no miracles involved!” Aziraphale beamed.

Crowley took it out with great care. “Really? And you- you made it for me?”

“Yes, well, I was given the idea when a young woman came into my shop, and with her she had a pet snake wearing a hat! I thought of you immediately!”

Aziraphale had expected a thanks, maybe for Crowley to tuck it into his jacket. He hadn’t expected the demon to put it on, right then and there, and leave it on. “Thanks, Angel.”

He kept it on for the rest of the outing. It was summer, so he got a few funny looks, but he didn’t seem to care. However, the hat couldn’t possibly have made Crowley any warmer then how warm Aziraphale felt with quiet, yet nearly uncontainable, joy.

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

When winter did roll around, Crowley wore the hat often. He didn’t need it, really. If he wanted he could just miracle the cold away. But... it gave him a nice feeling. It was a little piece of his angel, made just for him. 

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

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had taken up a new project.

The thought snake with the hat had stuck with him, and he had a mission. He would make a nice little hat for his own wily serpent, in wily serpent form. 

He chose to make this one back and red, with little yellow accents weaved in. It was far more difficult then just solid stripes of color, but he had determination and an angelic lack of a need for sleep. He could do it.

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

It was mid-January when Crowley walked into Aziraphale’s bookshop, knitted cap on his head even when he got inside. Seeing him wearing it made Aziraphale happy, he knew, and he did love making Aziraphale happy. Even if sometimes he pretended he didn’t love it quite as much as he actually did.

“Angel, I’m here!”

“One moment!” Aziraphale called from the depths of the shop. There was a bit of rustling, the sound of footsteps, and then the angel emerged from the many rows of dusty shelves. “Were shall we go today?”

“A little bakery has just opened up near my flat,” Crowley said. “I think they may have Paris beat with their crepes.”

“Well, we shall certainly see about that,” Aziraphale said, eyes shining with excitement. “But first, I have something for you.”

“Two gifts in the same decade? You’re spoiling me, Angel.”

“To be quite honest, I think you deserve it my dear.” Aziraphale handed him a box, similar to the one from before, wrapped in the very same wrapping paper. Crowley opened it with the same disregard for the integrity of the wrapping as before. “I made both of them myself!”

Inside sat two more hats. One was quite small, almost doll-sized. The other was a bit larger, about the size of a hat for a very young child. “I think you may have gotten the measurements wrong.”

“I didn’t!” It was less of a correction, and more of an excited insistence. “I made them for your snake forms, both small and large. I wanted every version of you to have one.”

Crowley had cried twice in his long life. Once when he fell, once when he thought he’d lost Aziraphale forever the day of the Apocalypse that never happened. Apparently, Aziraphale was determined to get the number up to three.

Well, he wouldn’t let that happen. He had his pride, after all. But he did take his glasses off to look Aziraphale in the eye. “That’s disgustingly sweet, Angel.”

Aziraphale was fluent in Crowley, and heard the tender gratefulness behind the words. He smiled. “I’m glad you like them.”

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

The young  woman from before returned to the shop a few weeks later, in late February. She once again brought her snake, and once more he was wearing a little hat. When she walked in and the shopkeeper came to greet her, she was the one to let out a delighted gasp.

“I didn’t realize you have a snake of your own!”

A very large snake was wrapped around the shopkeeper’s shoulders. It’s scales were pitch black, it’s belly a bright red. It opened it’s eyes, golden yellow and gorgeous, and blinked at her. She felt like it was examining her, judging her. But her attention was drawn to the hat resting on it’s head, made in the same colors as the snake itself.

“He’s my very best friend,” Mr. Fell said. The snake tightened around him ever so slightly, as though confirming the statement by claiming him. “He’s rather tetchy around strangers, but he really is quite lovely once you get to know him.”

If a snake could look affectionately exasperated, that snake accomplished it. 

The young woman and Mr. Fell chatted for a few minutes more, and Mr. Fell thanked her for giving him the idea to take up knitting. She had smiled, told him that the hat looked marvelous and that he clearly had a lot of talent. 

Her snake, a much smaller one whose whole body was banana yellow, never looked away from Mr. Fell’s. The two just stared at each other, as though having some kind of silent conversation. In fact, she could have sworn she heard a faint hiss that sounded rather like someone saying, “My hat is better then yours, earth snake.”

But that was ridiculous, of course. Snakes couldn’t talk, and they certainly couldn’t argue over who had the better hat.

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

“Really, my dear, you didn’t have to argue with her pet that way.”

“He insulted my hat, Angel. I couldn’t let a common pet snake like him think he was better then me.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

“It is.”

“Nothing to do with defending my work?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re quite a rubbish liar for a demon. You were were kind for defending my work like that.”

“... Shut up.”

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

@victory-cookies @a-humble-narcissus

[officialjameelajamil]

I weigh

Today is my 32nd birthday.

This is the best birthday I’ve ever had because I’ve woken up to thousands of women sending me pictures and messages about the things they love about their lives, and the things they have done that they are most proud of. This has been going on for days now.

I was scrolling through “explore” on Instagram (always a certified mine field for one’s self esteem) and came across this disastrously damaging picture.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A group shot of grown women with their respective weights posted across each of their bodies, and the post asking what we think of their weights and then asking its followers, “What do you weigh?”

WHO CARES? What kind of crazed toxic nonsense is this? What is this post trying to achieve other than to induce anxiety into young women about something so entirely irrelevant? What are we teaching women about our value? Can it be measured using a metric system? Why do so many posts like this exist on social media? How is anyone supposed to get through the fucking day happy with themselves when we are given such unreasonable and shallow goals to achieve, falling short of which, no matter who we are, what we do, how many lives we save, how many children we raise, how many people’s lives we touch, we are not worth anything.

I snapped. I am just done. I’m so done with seeing this and letting it pass me by. It’s so dangerous and disgusting. It’s so belittling and abusive. We are subliminally bullied all day by the magazines, the side bar of shame, social media, and by each other. The onslaught is so aggressive that we are going to have to retaliate with 10 times the strength to undo all of the damage to the global psyche of women. So I posted this:

A small ode to the brilliant life that I am so lucky to live, that I built by myself from scratch, to the friends I am so lucky to have and to my self worth. This is how I measure myself. What I did, how I made people feel and how much I have enjoyed myself. It has taken me 10 years to get to the realisation that I am worth more than the digits on a measuring tape. And more importantly, the push back against body shaming shouldn’t just be about how much we love our flaws, it should be about something that isn’t really about the body at all. Self acceptance is important. But we deserve more than acceptance. Let’s step as far away from the conversation about our bodies as possible and make acclaim, integrity, achievement, contribution to society and kindness: Values worth shouting about again.

I posted it on twitter, and within an hour women started sending me their own ones. There were too many to keep track of. It happened so fast. The pictures were amazing. None of them were posed and filtered, nobody was contoured to within an inch of their life, or sucking anything in. It was women living their lives, writing down all of the things they were grateful for and proud of. All of the degrees they have, the babies they made, the cancer they beat or are fighting, their families they love, the disabilities they live with or help with, the relationships they have built, the companies they started. Just women waking up and remembering that they are valuable, and they do important, difficult, incredible things. Things that are more than just achieving the perfect lip liner, losing baby weight quickly or being able to EAT PIZZA WHILST AT A LINGERIE PHOTOSHOOT!!! (WOWWEE!)

Here are some of my favourites:

Women of every size and shape and age and background sent me their declarations of self love and clapped back at the shame they have been drenched in their whole lives. We are attacked by this beast our WHOLE DAMN LIVES. Bemused parents are writing to me that social media has their 8 year olds talking about diets and what they dislike about their tiny growing bodies. We are facing an epidemic of self hatred. Instagram while sometimes an amazing way for us to share, is in many ways, hurtling us at light speed towards the demise of what the suffragettes were building.

We lack focus because we are concentrating on the wrong things. Most of the women I know wake up much earlier than men to get ready, and spend much of their time and money on complete nonsense like manicures and pedicures, hair treatments, and waxing. Women bleach their bumholes. THEY BLEACH THEIR BUMHOLES. This is how far we have gone with our pursuit of perfection, that we are no longer satisfied with the natural colour of an area almost nobody in the world will ever see. We have to be thin, but with big breasts and bottoms, gravity free, spotless, hairless, ageless, light skinned but always with a year round sun kissed glow; we must be fun and eat pizza and drink beer but also completely cellulite free and we must all have tiny noses and enormous eyes and lips but with skinny faces, but our skinny faces must never look gaunt and old.

And after all this, and after all the work we do, that we do as much of as men, ON SUBSTANTIALLY fewer calories than we probably need, we get judged more and paid less anyway.

NO. I’m sorry but at some point something has to give. We have to object. We have to do it together. Rather than just complaining about it, lets fill the void of sense with some perspective and some regard for the lives we are so lucky to live. An education is a luxury and a beautiful thing, not afforded to millions of women in the world. Bringing children into the world and raising them to be happy and healthy and kind is a great achievement, that literally builds the world. Surviving illness and war and trials of mental health makes a warrior out of you. Fighting for the rights of those who have no voice is heroic and important. Reading and writing and filling yourself with knowledge makes you so much more fun to spend the day with. Travelling and being independent and supporting yourself is the sign of a woman in control of her life.

We spend our lives in pursuit of the approval of others when we don’t yet even really approve of ourselves. My opinion of me is now (and only very recently) the one that matters.

I remember being 15, miserable and so relentlessly disappointed in myself, thinking it didn’t matter that I had a full academic scholarship and that I had a job and good grades, a Grade 8 in piano and I was a good kid, because my hip bones didn’t jut out, I had a round face and my thighs were forever touching. I was taught nothing else mattered. And that my fat covered up my achievements. I am so, so aware of the damage the media does to a vulnerable mind, it ruined the first 20 years of my life.

I found this really sad old drawing I did of myself when I 16, with what I felt I had to look like in order to be accepted by girls at school, and society in general.

I can’t sit by and read the messages of self hatred that teenage girls send me, about how they hate themselves for not looking like Victoria’s Secret models. I can’t watch what happened to me, happen to them.

I hereby call out every newspaper run by a man that shames women about their appearance.

I hereby call out journalists who write passive-aggressive shaming articles about weight gain and congratulatory ones about women who lose weight.

I hereby MASSIVELY call out celebrities who don’t document what it takes for them to look the way they do. If you have had surgery, say something. If you have a strict diet and workout regime, say something. It is UNFEMINIST to push an image that was created in the fantasy lab of the patriarchy, essentially that of a sex doll, to other women, and pretend that it comes naturally to you, and that junk food and lying down in expensive hotel suites is what keeps you beautiful. You have a platform and have to use it responsibly.

I hereby call out the fashion industry for STILL after 10 years of being called out, perpetuating the idea that expensive clothing only looks good on stick thin, barely pubescent girls. (None of whom can afford your bloody clothes)

I hereby call out the women who troll other women online about their appearances.

I hereby call out the trolls that live in our own heads and eradicate all of our achievements and shower us in self-doubt and loathing.

In this uprising of female power we must realise we are being set absurd extra goals, thick and fast. The further we come as a gender, the more ridiculous the ideals we have to fulfil become. We are being distracted and exhausted and our eyes are being taken off the ball. Every minute you spend thinking about how thin or gorgeous you aren't, is a minute you aren’t spending on growing your business or your life.

I’m not saying it’s not important to watch out for your health. I’m not saying your BMI isn’t something to pay attention to. I do think it’s important to try to be active and put good food into your engine. But I also think the shame and feeling of failure is what drives us to the unhealthy eating habits we acquire to “comfort” us when we feel inferior and depressed. It’s a catch 22.

And by all means take pride in your appearance. Enjoy your looks, and your clothes and your sex appeal, but don’t make it your number one concern and selling point. It can be in your top ten, but it should never, ever define you. It isn’t important. We aren’t supposed to all look the same. And nothing good ever comes of self hatred. It will never further you. It will always hold you back.

Please think of the things in your life that you are proud of, that fulfil you, that make you happy and write them down somewhere, and look at that list every time you feel that you are failing, or that your jeans are tight, or you have a chubby arm in a group photo of a night out, or when you watch a video of a Hadid eating pasta.

Please remember you have every right to be here, and your life is important and it is precious, and on your death bed you aren’t going to be thinking about your love handles.

I love women and we deserve so much more than this. We can do better. We have to.

We can win the revolution against shame.

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

My Eyes - Part 16

Pairing: Bucky; Steve x Fem/Reader

Word Count: 5,071

Story Description: Steve is a good man, America’s golden boy, a hero. He’s Captain America for christ’s sake! So it’s normal to want what he has… right? Bucky knows he doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t even deserve the second chance at life he’s been given. But Bucky can never let him know. Steve can never find out that his friend is in love with his best girl.

Story takes place post “CA: CW” and all tension has been resolved.

Previously On...

3 MONTHS LATER

Bucky was at the V.A. speaking in front of a small group of veterans. Y/N snuck in from the side so he hadn’t noticed her standing in the doorway. She decided to bring him some food. He’d woken up late and only had time to make Jimmy his packed lunch, ignoring his own needs.

Y/N was starting to feel bad for the poor man. With her in the middle of her 2nd trimester, she could barely find a comfortable position to sleep at night. It resulted in her tossing and turning all evening. Bucky, trained to wake up if a needle dropped, suffered just as much as her.

Y/N was able to take naps throughout the day to make up for her sleep deprivation. But Bucky was too busy taking care of her and Jimmy to have the same luxury.

The V.A. meeting parted and now people were moving into tinier groups, small talking amongst each other. Bucky was in a conversation with a girl that couldn’t be older than 21. Her eyes were blood shot and there were shadows underneath. Bucky’s entire demeanor softened as he spoke with her. Clearly she had just returned to civilian life and wasn’t doing very well.

“He doesn’t realize how much they all look up to him.” Sam had walked up behind her.

Y/N had a sad smile, as she didn’t break her observation of Bucky.

“What’re doing here? You okay?” Sam asked.

She finally looked away from her boyfriend to Sam. “This morning was a little crazy. I picked up some lunch for him…and you.” She gave him a little wink.

“My flower fairy, always looking out for me.” Sam teased and grabbed the big paper bag from her arms.

Bucky was still talking to the same girl and did a double take when he noticed Y/N talking to Sam. A warm smile immediately spread across his face. He excused himself and quickly walked to Y/N.

He kissed her in greeting. “Hey, doll. What brings you here?”

“She brought lunch for your dumb ass.” Sam said as he searched through the bag for his own food.

Bucky’s eyes warmed at the gesture.

Y/N shrugged. “I’m not the only one that needs to be taken care of, you know.”

Bucky kissed her cheek for good measure. But before he could verbally thank Y/N, her cellphone started ringing.

She took a few steps into the hallway to answer it.

Bucky eavesdropped and immediately knew who had called: Jimmy’s high school.

Y/N nodded, but her expression was utterly frustrated. “Yes, I understand. I’ll be there as soon as possible.” When she ended the call, her hand rubbed over her face in irritation.

“Again?” Bucky asked knowingly.

“This is the 6th time this month.” Y/N retorted.

Jimmy had been getting into fights left and right. Y/N knew he got teased and was an outcast. But it was only Bucky who knew that physical altercations were nothing new for the kid. It started off with just one or two. Now it felt like Y/N was getting phone calls from the school once a week.

“I got to go.” Y/N sighed, mostly telling Sam.

“I’ll come with you this time.” Bucky offered. Usually he stayed away from Jimmy’s school. He already got unwanted attention for being Steve’s son. Having the Winter Soldier as a stand-in father would only make things worse.

Y/N ignored his offer. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Buck.”

Bucky closed the distance between them. He was never one for public displays of affection, but she was distressed. He grasped her face gently. “I’ll go with. I think Jimmy needs a talking to from…” He wanted to say father figure, but it was more than just that. “Maybe he’ll listen to me… I don’t know.” He quietly finished.

She just nodded. “Worth a shot. Obviously whatever I’m saying isn’t helping.”

---

Y/N walked into the guidance office to see Jimmy sitting in a chair with his head hung low. Even with the defeated posture, he still looked giant. There was dried blood under his nose and his lip was split. There was an ice pack in his hand that Bucky was sure one of the nurses forced onto him. But Jimmy just held it uselessly.

Everyone in the office did a double take at Bucky, immediately recognizing the Winter Soldier. Some eyes widened in fear. Others looked at Jimmy with sympathy.

Y/N kneeled in front of her son. “Are you okay?” With all the times she had to come to school, she’d never seen him covered in blood before.

Jimmy could easily protect himself from an attack with his abilities. His body mass could be strengthened to stop a bullet. Therefore, he could easily break someone’s hand from hardening his form.

This meant that Jimmy purposely didn’t do that. He took the hits instead of harming his bullies.

“I’m fine, mom. I promise.” Jimmy sighed. He didn’t want to cause his mom stress. His intentions were never to get caught by administrators. But he just brought too much attention.

“Miss Y/L/N, could we have a word?” The principal asked from the doorway of her office. There was a dean standing beside her. They both eyed Bucky, not sure how to address him.

Bucky shared a look with Jimmy before walking into the office behind Y/N.

“Miss Y/L/N, it’s unfortunate that these visits are becoming more and more frequent.” The principal stated as she sat behind her desk. “But I just want to be clear: the only reason we haven’t suspended or expelled Jimmy yet is due to the fact he has only initiated these fights to defend someone else.”

Bucky crossed his arms and listened carefully.

“Many of these incidents have been caused from Luke, who I know you are more than familiar with. School hasn’t been easy for Luke. But I’m glad he’s found a good friend in Jimmy.” The principal then looked down at the record in front of her. “Last week it was a fight with a young man who inappropriately touched a young woman. That man was expelled.”

Y/N nodded and looked at the ground.

The principal went on to list other small incidents. All of them had something in common: Jimmy protecting someone who couldn’t protect themselves.

“Miss Y/L/N, anyone can see that Jimmy is a very smart boy. He has potential and a good heart. I shouldn’t say this, but I continue to be impressed with his high morals. However… savior complex or not, I cannot keep tolerating these fights.” She sighed. “This was the one conflict Jimmy refused to talk about. He won’t tell us what started it or what was said. I think it’s best you take him home for the rest of the day.”

Y/N nodded. “I appreciate your patience and leniency. I’ve tried talking to him. But Jimmy is his father’s son. There’s only so much I can do.”

The principal nodded. “Jimmy’s academics are beyond even college graduates. I know his home life is responsible for his advanced education. Perhaps it’s time to consider homeschooling. Just a thought, Miss Y/L/N.”

With that, Y/N and Bucky were dismissed.

She stormed past Jimmy without even looking at him. “Get in the car.” Her voice was low and threatening.

Jimmy shot up from the chair. “Mom…I can-“ But Bucky’s grip on his shoulder stopped him from finishing.

“Best it waits until we get home.” Bucky was about to play peacekeeper.

Y/N was already yards ahead of them.

“Jimmy, what happened?” Bucky asked quietly.

The teenager sighed and his jaw tightened. As he remembered the words that caused the altercation, he started to get mad all over again.

“I was talking to this girl…I-I…it doesn’t matter. Anyways, this guy wasn’t too happy with it and started saying things, trying to pick a fight. I ignored him. But then he said things about mom and that was it.”

Bucky sighed and stopped their walking. It was times like these that stopped him from being able to punish Jimmy. In high school, him and Steve got in trouble for less. Jimmy really was his father’s son. He couldn’t look away when something wrong was happening right in front of him.

“Can you tell me what they said?” Bucky pushed.

Jimmy shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “Called her names I won’t repeat …said Captain America slept around and she was just lucky she was one of them.  He said dad kept her a secret because he was embarrassed by her.”

Bucky’s hand went through his hair. “Well…I can’t exactly yelled at your for what you did. I would’ve done the same thing…your dad too.”

Then they both spotted Y/N in the car, waiting with a scowl.

“She’s real mad, isn’t she?” Jimmy breathed.

Bucky just nodded and gestured for him to follow him to the car.

---

“You are grounded, do you hear me?” Y/N stated harshly. “That means no going to the Avengers’ compound for the next two weeks.”

“What? Mom! That is completely ridiculous!” Jimmy yelled.

“Do you want to make it a month? Maybe taking a break will lower that hero complex you seem to have adopted from them.” Y/N said.

“It’s not even that big of a deal! They didn’t expel me! They didn’t even suspend me!”

“Jimmy, when are you going to learn that you can’t save everyone?” Y/N’s statement silenced the room. Bucky’s eyes widened at her. “You are not a hero! You are a teenager! If you keep this up, you’re going to hurt, do you understand me?”

“The only reason I got hurt is because I let them!” Jimmy argued. “We all know I could’ve easily protected myself. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s not the point!” Y/N yelled.

Bucky had to stop from rushing forward when he saw the tears start to form in her eyes. He’d never seen her argue with Jimmy like this before.

“You are grounded. In fact, maybe you should stop going to the compound altogether.” Y/N said it through her quiet crying. “I’m going for a drive.” She whispered. The shift in her emotions threw everyone for a loop.

Bucky reached out for her.

“Bucky, do not start with me.” She hissed in warning, knowing he was about to stop her from driving in her emotional sate.

Jimmy jumped at the sound of her slamming the front door behind her.

“I don’t get why she’s so upset.” He finally confessed.

Bucky looked at the ground for a moment. “She doesn’t want to lose you like she lost Steve, Jimmy.”

The teenager’s jaw dropped at the statement. It had never occurred to him. She’d done so much to protect him. Jimmy always assumed it was to give him a normal life. But he never thought she was also trying to save him from himself.

“Steve died because he didn’t know when to stop saving the world.” Bucky added quietly, slowing raising his head to look at Jimmy. “He was a self-sacrificing punk…too worried about everyone else.”

“But getting into fights at school…it’s-it’s not even close to being the same thing.” Jimmy defended.

“It still scares her. Today it’s fights at school; in a few years, it’s you trying to join the Avengers.”

Jimmy tensed at the prediction. Of course Bucky knew that it was his dream to follow in his father’s footsteps. But no one had acknowledged or spoken of it before.

“I’m sorry.” The boy finally sighed. There was nothing else to say.

“Do me a favor? Just… try to not get into trouble for the next few months, at least until the baby’s born. Your mom shouldn’t be under any more stress than she already is, okay?”

Jimmy nodded, feeling even guiltier.

---

The two boys sat in the living room watching a hockey game. Bucky caught Jimmy consistently looking in the direction of the front door.

“She’ll be back soon, Jimmy.” Bucky tried to assure him.

“Has she done this before?” Jimmy asked quietly.

Bucky smirked, but it was sad. “Your mom used to have a habit of running from things. But she always took you with her.”

“What was mom like, before I was born?” Jimmy asked curiously.

Bucky sighed and his brow creased. “Well… that was also when your dad was alive. She wasn’t all that different, Jimmy. Maybe more carefree… Nothing had been taken from her yet. The world seemed like a safer place to her than it was.”

Jimmy was about to ask more questions.

But an alarm started ringing throughout the house. Bucky and Jimmy looked down at their phones to see that they were both flashing red.

It was Y/N’s panic button on her phone.

It alerted Jimmy and Bucky. There was even a system built into the house that sounded an alarm that now made it impossible for both men to think.

Bucky grabbed his phone and instantly started pressing buttons and was given the exact coordinates where the alarm was set off.

“Is it the baby?” Jimmy breathed.

But Bucky shook his head. “No, it’s too early. She would’ve called. Get in the car.”

Minutes later, the two of them were racing through the streets.

“Nat, something’s wrong. She’s not picking up her phone. There hasn’t been a single time when she’s pressed that button.” Bucky was talking to her on speaker as his foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

“I’m trying to find nearby surveillance as we speak, Buck. Agent Hill has already sent a squad to the area. She’ll meet you there.” The woman tried to calm him.

In the next 30 seconds they were at the scene of the crime.

Jimmy started forward but Bucky held out his arm and just stared at the sight in front of him. The teenager realized what he was doing: observing the setting. Bucky’s mind was taking in detail after detail and adding it up.

Y/N’s car was running still with its flashers on. The driver’s door was left open. However there were no signs of distress. Bucky felt an odd relief when he didn’t spot any blood.

Then a van was pulling up with SHIELD agents. At least what was left of the division after the fall.

Agent Hill walked to their side.

“It was them.” Bucky growled.

“That’s impossible. Hydra has been disbanded. They haven’t so much as let out a whisper in almost a decade.” Maria argued.

“Who else could it be?” Jimmy asked in distress.

“It doesn’t add up…” Maria muttered as she stared at the crime scene and crossed her arms.

“They want their revenge. I disobeyed them and I spent years destroying the organization after I escaped. They know how to hide, Hill. They’ve just been waiting in the shadows for the right time to strike.”

“My identity leaking… they must’ve figured everything out.” Jimmy gasped. Then he started pacing. “Bucky…Bucky it’s my fault.” He put his hands on his head as he tried to remain calm.

Bucky quickly pulled the boy to the side and gripped his shoulders. “Hey, hey, hey. Calm down. I’m going to get her back.”

But Jimmy was shaking his head before Bucky even finished. “No, we are going to get her back.” His blue eyes seemed to darken as he said it.

Before Bucky could argue, Hill was interrupting them. “I just got off the phone with Romanoff. She’s got a lock on Y/N’s location. Let’s get back to the compound. She’s already pulled a team and jet together.” Without waiting, she got her team back to the van.

“I know what you’re going to say, Bucky. But I’m going. I’ll hijack a jet and get there myself if I have to.” Jimmy sounded so much like Steve that it was uncanny.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew better than to argue with a stubborn Rogers. But he also knew that Jimmy was more than prepared to fight. He’d trained him since he was a little boy. The rest of the team taught Jimmy everything they knew. (Behind Y/N’s back, of course.) She thought they helped him with innocent studies… And they did. But there was also the superhuman side of things too.

“You stay by my side the entire time.” Bucky pointed at him firmly. “And you listen to all my orders. If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to leave me behind, you do it. Okay?”

Jimmy hesitated at the last part. But he knew he had to agree.

---

“I got a location locked for the aircraft they were transporting her on.” Nat spoke to the team as she pulled up a holographic map. “We can’t face them in the air. It’s too risky. With Y/N’s condition and the uncertainty of their motive… we should wait until they’ve landed and remain stationary.”

Jimmy looked at Bucky. They shared an unspoken conversation. Jimmy wanted to leave as soon as possible. But Bucky tried to tell him to listen to Romanoff. She knew what she was doing.

A few agents asked specifics and Natasha answered them all with great detail and aptitude.

“Jimmy, get over here.” Tony grabbed the teenagers attention.

When he walked over, Tony threw a bag at him. Jimmy caught it and looked up at him questioningly. “It’s a suit.” Tony clarified.

Jimmy unfolded the bag to find a black stealth suit similar to those of the SHIELD agents surrounding him.

“It’s not red, white, and blue. But it’s yours.” Tony shrugged and walked away.

Jimmy stared down at the suit in silence.

“Better go put it on.” Bucky had walked up behind him and pat his back.

When Jimmy didn’t move, Bucky looked him over. “James?” He said softly. But he didn’t look up from the uniform. “James, you don’t have to go.”

Jimmy quickly shook his head. “What if we’re too late? What if they already did something to her?” His voice shook as he asked the questions.

“Y/N’s stronger than you think, Jimmy. We’re going to bring her home okay? Go suit up.” Bucky squeezed his shoulder and forced him to look up at him.

A few minutes later, Jimmy rejoined the group in his uniform. All conversations stopped as he entered the room.

“I’ll never get over it.” Natasha muttered at Bucky’s side so only he could hear her. “What?” He asked without taking his eyes away from his proxy son.

“How much he’s like Steve.” Nat clarified.

---

Jimmy passed through the metal gates with his powers and then turned his body to obstinate, breaking the lock that kept everyone else out.

“Nicely done.” Nat complimented.

Everyone else walked past him. But Bucky looked the boy in the eyes. “You good?” Jimmy nodded. Nat swore under her breath.

“What is it?” Tony asked, his metal mask flipping up.

“They know we’re here. The tracking device somehow split the signal from Y/N’s phone and put them in five different corners of the building.” She explained.

“They want to split us up.” Jimmy noted.

“Not an option. We stay together. They know they don’t have the numbers.” Tony advised.

“By the time we reach one location, they could evacuate and take Y/N with them.” Bucky argued.

“We have to split up.” Sam confirmed.

“Bucky, you and Jimmy come with me. Tony, you have your own tracking device, take Sam with you…” Nat started naming off three other groups. “We meet back here. Let’s head out.”

As they started walking, Bucky noticed Jimmy’s hand hovering readily over one of the guns at his waist. “Use your knife, James.” He commanded quietly. “We’re going to be outnumbered and we need the element of surprise.”

Jimmy simply nodded and kept his eyes forward as he walked with stealth down the hallways behind Natasha.

“This is Falcon.” Sam spoke in the comms, breathing heavily. “Stark and I just took out five Hydra agents. Y/N’s not here. But we…we found another hostage.”

Bucky put his finger to his ear, pushing the comm tighter. “What is it?”

“She’s pregnant too.” Sam stated with the confusion and disgust clear in his voice.

“We’re going to bypass the regrouping at the start point. We have to get this woman back to the jet. She’s been drugged with something…can’t even stand on her own.” Stark chimed in.

“Roger that.” Bucky stated quietly.

But it wasn’t quiet enough, because the next second Hydra agents came out of the shadows and attacked the three of them. Nat was the first to react, quickly dodging one of their lunges towards her by ducking just enough to flip them over her shoulder.

Jimmy stepped in front of Bucky right as another man shot three sounds at him. Their face turned to horror when the bullets flattened against Jimmy’s chest and did nothing to hurt him.

Another took this as his chance to charge him from the side. Jimmy made his body intangible. The man passed through him and hit the wall so hard that he rendered himself unconscious.

Bucky fired round after round at Hydra operatives. The element of surprise was obviously gone.

The three of them had already taken out a dozen people when Bucky glanced up to see Nat electrocuting a woman before she could stab Jimmy in the back. The teenager was too busy punching out another guy to defend the attack.

There was a pause in battle. The three of them shared a look. They were all okay, but they didn’t relax yet. More people could arrive at any moment.

“That was almost three times the amount of people that attacked Wilson and Stark.” Jimmy pointed out.

Bucky glanced at the door the agents seemed to be guarding.

“Jimmy…” He called out and nodded toward the door.

The boy phased through the entry and expected to find a cell of some sort. But what he saw was much more disturbing. It was a bedroom that seemed straight out of the 70s. There were even fake windows with artificial sunlight being manipulated. Yellow, shag carpet covered the entire floor. But Jimmy felt sick when he saw his mother laying comatose in the center of the bed at the other end of the room.

Jimmy was frozen in place.

A moment later, Nat had broken the code to open the door. Her and Bucky rushed in. She copied Jimmy and froze when she saw the Y/’s state. The tension in Bucky’s entire body released at the sight of her.

He and Jimmy finally rushed forward. Nat stood in place, looking around for any indicators that there could be another attack from somewhere.

Jimmy knelt at her side. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me?”

Her chest was rising and falling intensely. But she stirred at someone calling her voice.

“What the fuck did they give her?” Bucky growled as he tried to find a bottle of pills or syringe nearby that would give him a clue.

Y/N groaned softly and turned towards the direction of Jimmy’s voice.

“Mom?” He repeated.

Her eyes finally flickered open and she stared at him for a moment through hooded lids. Then tears started filling her eyes and a heartbroken expression spread across her face.

“Steve? Steve…you’re alive. It’s impossible.” Y/N practically whimpered. But then her eyes closed again as if those few words had exhausted her.

Jimmy quickly glanced at Bucky to find the man holding an even more shattered face.

“No, mom. It’s me. It’s Jimmy.” He tried to push.

“We should go.” Nat interrupted.

Bucky carefully moved past Jimmy and scooped Y/N into his arms. The movement seemed to slightly jar her awake once again. But she didn’t open her eyes, just nestled her face into Bucky’s neck.

Y/N sighed as her body somehow recognized his scent. “Bucky…” She sniveled. Her grip tightened around his neck as much as she could while being worryingly drugged.

“Shh, doll. I’m here. I got you.” Bucky whispered into her ear.

“Jimmy take the front. I’ll take the rear.” Nat instructed. It put Bucky and Y/N in a less vulnerable position, bordered between the two.

Bucky got too relaxed now that he had Y/N in his arms. He didn’t sense that they weren’t safe quite yet. They were about to walk through a wide entryway when it happened.

Jimmy was pushed forward so hard that he was knocked off his feet. Nat was ripped backwards like the Hulk had punched her. There must have been a telekinetic nearby to do such damage.

Before either of them could get off their feet, two metal doors slammed down like a futuristic spaceship. They blocked his path in front and behind Bucky. He whipped around to see that he’d been trapped.

His arms tightened around Y/N protectively. But she was so drugged out and had no idea that they were in danger.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” A female voice said from above him. He hadn’t noticed that there was a ladder against the wall that led up to a hatch.

Bucky only glared up at her. “She has no part in this.” He growled.

“Oh, but you made her a part of it.” The woman said with an evil grin. She was wearing a white lab coat, but it was obvious this woman was more than a scientist.

Bucky didn’t recognize her from his time as a Hydra captive.

“You want your revenge, take it from me. She’s innocent.” Bucky was essentially buying his time until Jimmy could phase through the door. Bucky couldn’t pick a fight and insure that Y/N wouldn’t get hurt in the process.

“We don’t want you. We haven’t for awhile.” The scientist teased darkly. “You’re damaged goods, Winter Soldier. Your brainwashing was eradicated, what use are you to us?”

Bucky’s brow creased.

“We want your unborn child.” The woman simplified.

Bucky’s grip tightened on Y/N even more as he looked down at her.

“See we struggled with replicating that serum of yours. But we realized that we could do it when it was naturally made through genetics. Your child holds the key.”

Bucky felt sick and shifted his weight. “The other women you’re holding… What did you plan on doing with them?”

She smiled evilly. “They are all enhanced. The children will be born after yours. Once we isolate the super-soldier gene, we can inject it easier. The process will no longer be deadly. Why brainwash a grown man when we can create an army of stolen children? The making of the Winter Soldiers wasted resources. It was so time consuming to break a matured adult down to comply. But children...children can be trained to know nothing else.” She was climbing down the ladder now.

Bucky was nervous that their conversation hadn’t been interrupted. Had they completely underestimated how many Hydra operatives would be waiting for them? Was the rest of the team under a hostile attack?

“Take me.” Bucky stated, backing away slowly. He wanted to put as much distance between Y/N and this mad woman.

The scientist narrowed her gaze.

“Take me and let Y/N go.” Bucky confirmed.

“I just told you: we don’t want you anymore. You’re useless to us.” Her words were calculating and with every breath, she took a step closer to Bucky.

Bucky didn’t like this at all. He couldn’t grab a weapon or defend them without dropping Y/N and harming her or the baby. It was a risk he refused to take.

“Hey!”

The woman turned around at the voice to see Jimmy standing behind her with a gun raised and aimed right at her head. Before she could speak, he pulled the trigger and a bullet shot into her skull.

Jimmy watched as the woman died instantly and her body crumbled to the floor.

Then Bucky saw it in his eyes.

Jimmy blinked rapidly as he realized what he had done: that was the first person he had ever actually killed.

Jimmy looked shaken. His hair was messed up. There were various cuts across his skin, which meant that he had been in quite the scuffle before coming to his Bucky and his mother’s rescue. That’s why it had taken him so long.  

“You guys okay? I heard a gunshot. I’m 5 seconds away from raising these metal doors.”

Nat’s voice speaking in their ears seemed to snap Jimmy out of his head.

Bucky and Jimmy stared at one another.

“You okay?” Bucky finally asked.

Jimmy just shrugged and nodded. This was not the time for him to show absolutely any vulnerability.

Before Bucky could ask any more questions, Natasha had managed to raise the two metal doors that had trapped Bucky and Y/N. The two men glanced behind her to see more dead Hydra agents.

“Is she alright?” Nat asked Bucky, hurrying to push hair out of Y/N’s face.

“Let’s get her back to the jet.”

By some miracle, they had no further altercations as they rushed back to the jet. Thankfully all the other team members survived. But many had wounds and bruises that needed treatment.

Bucky finally placed Y/N down on one of the cots in the medical section of the jet. He looked around to see four other women dressed in civilian clothing. They were the pregnant women the scientist had been referring to. They seemed more lucid than Y/N.

“What did they do to her?” Jimmy asked softly.

“It’s some sort of sedative.” One woman remarked as her eyes looked at Y/N’s lifeless body with sympathy. “They gave her a stronger dose when she wouldn’t calm down and started using her powers to manipulate the agents.”

Bucky’s body hadn’t calmed since the confrontation with the scientist.

Would the people he loved ever be safe? Were Y/N, Jimmy, and his unborn child forever doomed and punished for Bucky’s past?

Bucky slowly backed away from Y/N, leaving Jimmy to hold her hand. He didn’t stop backing away until he hit the wall of the jet, sliding down and sitting on the floor.

Maybe this was Hydra’s final attack on Bucky. He expected it to be a physical, life or death battle. But perhaps they realized the best way to torture him was by reminding him that nobody would ever be safe. The paranoia would eat away at him.

This was their final memento: Bucky could never truly be happy because he was a danger to anyone he loved.

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

Part 17

So I’m not really into the whole damsel in distress trope. But I hope everyone can appreciate my reasoning for this little plot point

Like always, i love hearing ALL your feedback. Shout out to @justreadingfics for their real-time commentary of binge reading this entire series lmao 

[trashartandmovies]

Berlinale Film Festival 2021, Industry Event, Day 1

We all knew the 71st Berlinale would be different, but who’d have guessed we’d be given a twofer? At this point, the juries for the Competition, Encounters, Shorts, and Generations sections have all handed out their awards. These juries got to watch the films in their respective categories on the big screen. Meanwhile, the press were given the opportunity to screen these movies at home, as well as the films in the Berlinale Special, Panorama, Forum and Forum Expanded sections, as well as the six films making up the Perspektive Deutsches Kino category and episodes from the six television shows included in Berlinale Series. (The always excellent Retrospective section is only screening during the summer.) Altogether, around 150 at-home screenings were made available to the press. We had five days to watch them. I was able to watch 22 of them. This is Part One.

———

I’m sure everyone covering the festival is hoping that the Summer Special, in mid-June, will go smoothly and we’ll be able to catch at least a fraction of the movies we weren’t able to see. (For geo-blocking streaming reasons, a few films in the lineup weren’t available at all in my geo-region. Including two in the Competition: the FABIAN adaptation and Daniel Daniel Brühl’s directorial debut NEXT DOOR.) Usually, the press is given a week ahead of the festival to check out the Panorama, Forum and Generations titles. One assumes it’s so that audiences may get some recommendations on these lower-profile movies in the inevitable situation when all the high-profile films are sold out. Will this happen in the summer? Unless I missed a press release, the details around the Summer Special are still a bit vague. Rightfully so, since we’re still living in week-by-week uncertainty as far as lockdown measures go.

All we can do now is cross our fingers and hope for a chance to get a look at some of the these titles, because when presented with the challenge of covering a 150-movie lineup over just five days, you have to make some obvious decisions. I suspect many people did what I did — try to watch all the Competition titles and get in a few Encounters, Specials, some shorts and hold out hope for one or two stray Panoramas or Forums. To make matters more heartbreaking, the press screenings went like this: every morning at 7:00 AM, you’d get an impossibly long list of films to watch until 7:00 AM next morning. You’d get a few Competition titles, a few Encounters and Specials, and a deluge of films from the other categories. For many films, all you could do is look at the title, nod, and say to yourself, hopefully we’ll meet again soon, because there’s no way I can fit a sixth movie in today without losing my mind.

(Now there was a wrinkle added to this plan. Over the weekend of March 6 - 7, the press could screen the award winners that got announced on Friday. But it was difficult to try and take this into consideration in any strategic way.)

———

Like most film festivals, Berlinale usually kicks things off with a star-studded opening night movie that’s usually too mainstream for the critics. With no red carpet to be concerned with this year, that wasn’t the case. Instead, on Day One, the closest to a big movie star name was Iain Glen (Game of Thrones). Glen isn’t the lead in Tim Fehlbaum’s TIDES, shown in the Berlinale Special program, but he does play a key role as an astronaut who’s landed back on Earth, generations after human had mostly left the increasingly inhabitable planet. Humans have been living in a space colony called Kepler, but everyone ended up sterile, so missions are being sent back to Earth in the hopes that they can once again live there and get their reproductive groove back.

That’s the underlying story of TIDES, and it’s just one element that will likely feel very familiar to anyone who’s well-versed in post-apocalyptic cinema. The color palette is stark, with muted colors. The landscape is barren, this one with lots of water, rather than the desert locales of Mad Max. In fact, the notorious WATERWORLD came to mind more than once while watching TIDES. There’s even a doll in the film that looks just like Dennis Hopper’s character in that film, eye patch and everything. That little detail may be one of the most interesting things about the film.

The main character of TIDES is another astronaut, played with a committed intensity by Nora Arnezeder. She crash lands on Earth, is held captive by central casting post-apocalyptic scavengers, and eventually tries to track down a McGuffin that will let her contact Kepler and report back that there are people reproducing on Earth. Meanwhile, she also suspects that something might remain of the previous mission that was comprised of her father and Iain Glen.

The main attraction here is Fehlbaum’s use of stunning landscapes and practical locations, like a beached industrial ocean liner that serves as inspiration for one of the primary sets. The art design and costumes are all exceptional, while the acting and photography are all decent enough. But it never does much with the conspiracy it tries to entertain us with. Its attempts at being thrilling look good, but can’t help but feel like pretty standard stuff at this point. It’s worth noting that one of the film’s producers is Roland Emmerich, a man who knows a thing or two about making generic high concept action pictures. Some things, like the art design and the pleasingly diverse and international cast, set TIDES apart. But the story is far less inspired.

Faring better were the Day One Competition titles. I started with MEMORY BOX, a lively picture wherein a daughter gets to better understand her mother when a box of the mom’s old teenage diaries and correspondence ends up on their doorstep. (This mother-daughter connection is essentially the same theme that Céline Sciamma’s PETITE MAMAN covers in a different, more sci-fi, fashion.) As the daughter, living in a nice house in Montreal, digs into her mother’s old journals, scrapbooks and tape recordings, the film travels back to 1980s Beirut through the eyes of her teenage mom. It makes these trips back in time through some pretty cool moments of collage-like animation — putting scrapbook pages into motion and diving into photographs and contact sheets that come alive. Plus, the soundtrack is killer, full of lively 80s post punk like Killing Joke, The Stranglers and Blondie.

There’s romance, the trauma of war, a strong refugee story, and a poignant tale of cross-generational understanding. The kicker is that it’s very autobiographical, with the film mirroring co-director Joana Hadjithomas’s own story of corresponding with her friend in Paris while Beirut was falling down around her. These journals are backed up by old photographs taken in Beirut from the other co-director, Kahil Joreige. Like last year’s fascinating BLOODY NOSE, EMPTY POCKETS, and this year’s A COP MOVIE, Berlinale movies are continuing to find success in blurring the line between documentary and narrative fiction. The movie has a little trouble maintaining momentum all the way through, but I loved the experimentation on display here, and the unique ways it tells its story. It helps that MEMORY BOX really sticks the landing at the end.

Next up was ICH BIN DEIN MENSCH, or I’M YOUR MAN — another film, like many in recent years, interested in the ethics behind artificial intelligence and robots with emotions. Think of it as a romantic comedy version of BLADE RUNNER, or an updated version of the forgotten-by-time Ann Magnuson and John Malkovich vehicle MAKING MR. RIGHT. This one, based on a recent short story by Emma Braslavsky, is directed by Maria Schrader, who recently helmed the popular Netflix series Unorthodox (she’s also a veteran film and TV actress, from Tatort and Deutschland 86 to AIMEE & JAGUAR). Schrader continues to prove that she has a good eye for framing and storytelling. The movie doesn’t always escape the problem that many German movies continue to struggle with, which is that they often feel like a good TV movie rather than a work of cinema, but it manages better than most.

The general idea is that Maren Eggert plays Alma, a researcher who is assigned the task of spending a couple weeks with a new personal companion robot named Tom, played by the dreamy-eyed Dan Stevens. Alma is, of course, a completely rational-minded person who is happy to just get through the two weeks with as little interaction with Tom as possible. In her mind, it’s an impossibility that a piece of technology could fulfill a human being’s needs. Of course, as each day goes by, Tom continues to surprise her and wear down her defenses.

It’s a pretty well-worn story by now. The issues that get raised over the course of the movie are some that Star Trek: The Next Generation was dealing with on a regular basis (Tom is similar to Data, though Stevens doesn’t need any special contact lenses), but there are some interesting wrinkles here. Few movies have looked at this subject from the female perspective. And if there’s one that that this year’s Berlinale truly excelled at, it’s offering a wide variety of movies by female directors and/or with female leads. We’ve covered three movies that fit that criteria already, and many more will come. What’s more, Maren Eggert gives us a character who’s at an age where she’s wrestling with the question of whether or not her child-bearing days are behind her. When’s the last time Hollywood dealt with that subject? So, while Alma starts off as a very emotionally distant, academic type, and the best thing about the movie is uncovering her past and getting to understand why she has put up so many walls. I’m not sure it does much with the subject of AI or robot companions, but it does provide a charming odd-couple story and I don’t have any complaints with Eggert winning the festival’s best actress award.

The nightcap on Day One was INTEURODEOKSYEON, or INTRODUCTION, the newest film by the prolific Korean auteur Hong Sangsoo. At last year’s Berlinale, Sangsoo was also in the Competition with the excellent THE GIRL WHO RAN, and he doesn’t disappoint with INTRODUCTION. Ironically enough, if you’re unfamiliar with Hong Sangsoo and don’t know where to start — understandable given the nearly 30 films he’s directed in the past 25 years — INTRODUCTION ain’t a bad way to start. It’s not his best work, but it’s pretty damn good, and a very accessible entry-point into the man’s style and thematic interests. And it barely cracks the 60-minute mark, so you’re not committing to much.

This one ping-pongs between a young man, Youngho, and a young woman, Juwan, both trying to figure out what to do with their lives. Juwan wants to study fashion in Berlin, Youngho wants to become an actor. Both run into problems with these pursuits — some of which are out of their control. In Youngho’s case, it leads to a hilariously drunken dinner confrontation with Ki Joo-bong, who may or may not be playing a version of himself, since he’s only credited as “Old Actor.” The esteemed Korean actor Joo-bong has appeared in Park Chan-wook films, SAVE THE GREEN PLANET, as well as few of Sangsoo’s other films and some 70 other movies. In INTRODUCTION, his character is revered by every other person he meets. And his advice to Youngho is an eruptive highlight in a movie that’s otherwise pretty subtle.

Subtlety is often Sangsoo’s thing, but the emotions he leaves you with tend to be pretty strong. This is his magic. He writes very realistic, dialog-driven scenes that, on their own, are nuanced and deceptively simple. But these quiet scenes build up to an ending that makes everything come together in a profound way. Even if you’re familiar with Sangsoo’s work, INTRODUCTION may come across as slight, or a minor work in the maestro’s deep catalog, but I found it’s pleasures to be more immediate than usual. To my knowledge, no one is writing screenplays like this. The way he reveals characters, develops them, and draws connections through casual lines of dialog, sometimes nested deep within a conversation, is practically his trademark move, and it’s never not remarkable. It demands your attention and then rewards it at the end. His technique is patient, confident and hugely sophisticated. The only problem I see is that, given his track record of releasing one or two movies a year, his talent is in danger of being taken. Don’t be one of those people.

[thecaffeinebookwarrior]

Internal Conflict:  Five Conflicting Traits of a Likable Hero.

1.  Flaws and Virtues 

I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but characters without flaws are boring.  This does not, as many unfortunate souls take it to mean, imply that good, kind, or benevolent characters are boring:  it just means that without any weaknesses for you to poke at, they tend to be bland-faced wish fulfillment on the part of the author, with a tendency to just sit there without contributing much to the plot.

For any character to be successful, they need to have a proportionate amount of flaws and virtues.

Let’s take a look at Stranger Things, for example, which is practically a smorgasbord of flawed, lovable sweethearts.

We have Joyce Byers, who is strung out and unstable, yet tirelessly works to save her son, even when all conventional logic says he’s dead;  We have Officer Hopper, who is drunken and occasionally callous, yet ultimately is responsible for saving the boy’s life;  We have Jonathan, who is introspective and loving, but occasionally a bit of a creeper, and Nancy, who is outwardly shallow but proves herself to be a strong and determined character.  Even Steve, who would conventionally be the popular jerk who gets his comeuppance, isn’t beyond redemption.

And of course, we have my beloved Eleven, who’s possibly the closest thing Stranger Things has to a “quintessential” heroine.  She’s the show’s most powerful character, as well as one of the most courageous.  However, she is also the show’s largest source of conflict, as it was her powers that released the Demogorgon to begin with.  

Would Eleven be a better character if this had never happened?  Would Stranger Things be a better show?  No, because if this had never happened, Stranger Things wouldn’t even be a show.  Or if it was, it would just be about a bunch of cute kids sitting around and playing Dungeons and Dragons in a relatively peaceful town.

A character’s flaws and mistakes are intended to drive the plotline, and if they didn’t have them, there probably wouldn’t even be a plot.

So don’t be a mouth-breather:  give your good, kind characters some difficult qualities, and give your villains a few sympathetic ones.  Your work will thank you for it.

2.  Charisma and Vulnerability

Supernatural has its flaws, but likable leads are not one of them.  Fans will go to the grave defending their favorite character, consuming and producing more character-driven, fan-created content than most other TV shows’ followings put together.

So how do we inspire this kind of devotion with our own characters?  Well, for starters, let’s take a look at one of Supernatural’s most quintessentially well-liked characters:  Dean Winchester.

From the get-go, we see that Dean has charisma:  he’s confident, cocky, attractive, and skilled at what he does.  But these qualities could just as easily make him annoying and obnoxious if they weren’t counterbalanced with an equal dose of emotional vulnerability. 

As the show progresses, we see that Dean cares deeply about the people around him, particularly his younger brother, to the point of sacrificing himself so that he can live.  He goes through long periods of physical and psychological anguish for his benefit (though by all means, don’t feel obligated to send your main character to Hell for forty years), and the aftermath is depicted in painful detail.

Moreover, in spite of his outward bravado, we learn he doesn’t particularly like himself, doesn’t consider himself worthy of happiness or a fulfilling life, and of course, we have the Single Man Tear(TM).

So yeah, make your characters beautiful, cocky, sex gods.  Give them swagger.  Just, y’know.  Hurt them in equal measure.  Torture them.  Give them insecurities.  Make them cry.  

Just whatever you do, let them be openly bisexual.  Subtext is so last season.

3.  Goals For the Future and Regrets From the Past

Let’s take a look at Shadow Moon from American Gods.  (For now, I’ll have to be relegate myself to examples from the book, because I haven’t had the chance to watch the amazing looking TV show.) 

Right off the bat, we learn that Shadow has done three years in prison for a crime he may or may not have actually committed.  (We learn later that he actually did commit the crime, but that it was only in response to being wronged by the true perpetrators.)  

He’s still suffering the consequences of his actions when we meet him, and arguably, for the most of the book:  because he’s in prison, his wife has an affair (I still maintain that Laura could have resisted the temptation to be adulterous if she felt like it, but that’s not the issue here) and is killed while mid-coital with his best friend.

Shadow is haunted by this for the rest of the book, to the point at which it bothers him more than the supernatural happenings surrounding him.  

Even before that, the more we learn about Shadow’s past, the more we learn about the challenges he faced:  he was bullied as a child, considered to be “just a big, dumb guy” as an adult, and is still wrongfully pursued for crimes he was only circumstantially involved in.

But these difficulties make the reader empathize with Shadow, and care about what happens to him.  We root for Shadow as he tags along with the mysterious and alternatively peckish and charismatic Wednesday, and as he continuously pursues a means to permanently bring Laura back to life.

He has past traumas, present challenges, and at least one goal that propels him towards the future.  It also helps that he’s three-dimensional, well-written, and as of now, portrayed by an incredibly attractive actor.

Of course (SPOILER ALERT), Shadow never does succeed in fully resurrecting Laura, ultimately allowing her to rest instead, but that doesn’t make the resolution any less satisfying.  

Which leads to my next example...       

4.  Failure and Success 

You remember in Zootopia, when Judy Hopps decides she wants to be cop and her family and town immediately and unanimously endorse her efforts?  Or hey, do you remember Harry Potter’s idyllic childhood with his kindhearted, adoptive family?  Oh!  Or in the X-Files, when Agent Mulder presents overwhelming evidence of extraterrestrial life in the first episode and is immediately given a promotion?  No?

Yeah, me neither.  And there’s a reason for this:  ff your hero gets what they want the entire time, it will be a boring, two-dimensional fantasy that no one will want to read.  

A good story is not about the character getting what they want.  A good story is about the character’s efforts and their journey.  The destination they reach could be something far removed from what they originally thought they wanted, and could be no less (if not more so) satisfying because of it.

Let’s look at Toy Story 3, for example:  throughout the entire movie, Woody’s goal is to get his friends back to their longtime owner, Andy, so that they can accompany him to college.  He fails miserably.  None of his friends believe that Andy was trying to put them in the attic, insisting that his intent was to throw them away.  He is briefly separated from them as he is usurped by a cute little girl and his friends are left at a tyrannical daycare center, but with time and effort, they’re reunited, Woody is proven right, and things seem to be back on track.

Do his efforts pay off?  Yes -- just not in the way he expected them to.  At the end of the movie, a college-bound Andy gives the toys away to a new owner who will play with them more than he will, and they say goodbye.  Is the payoff bittersweet?  Undoubtedly.  It made me cry like a little bitch in front of my young siblings.  But it’s also undoubtedly satisfying.      

So let your characters struggle.  Let them fail.  And let them not always get what they want, so long as they get what they need.  

5.  Loving and Being Loved by Others

Take a look back at this list, and all the characters on it:  a gaggle of small town kids and flawed adults, demon-busting underwear models, an ex-con and his dead wife, and a bunch of sentient toys.  What do they have in common?  Aside from the fact that they’re all well-loved heroes of their own stories, not much.

But one common element they all share is they all have people they care about, and in turn, have people who care about them.  

This allows readers and viewers to empathize with them possibly more than any of the other qualities I’ve listed thus far, as none of it means anything without the simple demonstration of human connection.

Let’s take a look at everyone’s favorite caped crusader, for example:  Batman in the cartoons and the comics is an easy to love character, whereas in the most recent movies (excluding the splendid Lego Batman Movie), not so much. 

Why is this?  In all adaptions, he’s the same mentally unstable, traumatized genius in a bat suit.  In all adaptions, he demonstrates all the qualities I listed before this:  he has flaws and virtues, charisma and vulnerability, regrets from the past and goals for the future, and usually proportionate amounts of failure and success.  

What makes the animated and comic book version so much more attractive than his big screen counterpart is the fact that he does one thing right that all live action adaptions is that he has connections and emotional dependencies on other people.  

He’s unabashed in caring for Alfred, Batgirl, and all the Robins, and yes, he extends compassion and sympathy to the villains as well, helping Harley Quinn to ultimately escape a toxic and abusive relationship, consoling Baby Doll, and staying with a child psychic with godlike powers until she died.

Cartoon Batman is not afraid to care about others.  He has a support network of people who care about him, and that’s his greatest strength.  The DC CU’s ever darker, grittier, and more isolated borderline sociopath is failing because he lacks these things.  

 And it’s also one of the reasons that the Lego Batman Movie remains so awesome.

God willing, I will be publishing fresh writing tips every week, so be sure to follow my blog and stay tuned for future advice and observations! 

[stargleeksil-blog]

Criminal Minds s02e10 Lessons Learned review - or more aptly named, holy shit I can’t believe they put him in harm’s way, I’m going to fucking kill those bastards, oh he’s all right, good. fuck you assholes.

Episode 10 – Lessons Learned

Okey dokey, so we’re nearly halfway through season 2, and I’ve only been working on it two days (in actual reviewing time, I’m divulging some inner secrets that can only be divulged to those privileged few who deign my words worthy of reading, so shhh!!!). Pretty intense shit is going on over here.

I just called one of my friends to get rid of cockroaches. I know, it’s pussy thing to do, especially for a lady, but come on! That’s like the one bug that really gets my goat! I can deal with spiders, ants, mosquitos, even flies. But not roaches. Ugh. So gross. That and rats are my two weaknesses.

So, back to Criminal Minds, because let’s face it, Shemar and Matthew are so much better than dealing with household pests. Let’s see what this episode has in store.

Let’s see what happens.

Whoa, that’s a SWAT car. Yikes. This is gonna be intense.

A lady team leader. I love it.

Hey! It’s Professor Short-Skirt from Community! Awesome!

Well, it’s not a meth lab, but there is an escape tunnel, and that’s a fucking bomb.

Who the fuck wakes Hotch on a morning sleep-in. Damn. Poor thing.

God, I can’t believe that he has to do this to his wife. But come on, it’s his fucking job. I love Hotch so much.

Straight to business.

Wait. Emily knows Arabic? Damn.

I love you already, Prentiss. Awesome.

I love how everyone’s like, awesome! We could use her!

And then Penelope dazzles everyone with everything. Lol.

Jin d’Allah. Meaning soldier of God. Lovely.

Oh god, he’s part of the Jihad. Yikes.

Wait. Wait. Hold the presses. Reid read the Koran? Damn.

They have to do in 48 hours what the CIA haven’t been able to do in two months? Fuck.

Wait. Gideon is heading to Guantanamo Bay? Oh my god. That’s intense.

Yup, they should assess Prentiss on the field, and she’s willing enough, what’s the harm?

Dale Turner: “Some of the best lessons are learned from past mistakes. The error of the past is the wisdom of the future.” Who is this guy and can I marry his brain?

Gideon, why are you being so harsh on Prentiss? And Prentiss, he’s right, this isn’t a treat to go with them to Guantanamo. You have to prove your worth, and you have to not interrupt[t Gideon while he’s playing chess with Reid, and you need to tone down your sassiness. Capiche?

Oh Reid’s ‘oooh snap’ face is everything to me.

So Gideon is a genius.

Haha the whole chess board just went kersplat. I love it.

There’s a mandatory 90-degree turn when you approach Gitmo? Damn.

And Reid was winning! Wait what, Gideon would have had him in three moves? Damn. Prentiss is good.

Wait, it’s a bio-chemical bomb? Damn.

Hey! Hey! Why torture the guy? You want answers, that’s not how you get them.

So Gideon’s going to swoop in as the hero who is juxtaposed to his usual tormentors? That’s awesome.

Crap. A list of chemicals. Damn.

So Jin d’Allah is so convinced he is going to suffer, he won’t even cooperate? Youch.

A list of chemicals needed to weaponized Anthrax. What’s that? Some kind of explosive that’s deadly? From your tone, Derek, it sure seems that way.

So even the smallest amount of this Anthrax is deadly to many people? Yikes.

God, I already love Prentiss. She’s like – he’s Egyptian, from Cairo, wait, no, he might be from Yemen, but most like Egypt. You do you, Emily.

So he’s slightly impressed by how much Gideon finds out about him through conversation rather than violence.

Gideon’s worst enemy is ignorance. Welcome to the club, buddy.

Aww, he’s letting him pray! That’s so amazing!

Yikes! Those details are driving me nuts! So turns out that the NSA is routing its satellites to the USA during emergencies of electronic traffic. Meaning, they can basically monitor whoever they want at any given time and just not tell anybody. Well, that’s an unsettling thought there, guys. My condolences. Of course, I don’t know how it works here in Israel, either, so it might very well be happening here, too. In which case – NO ONE IS SAFE! WE NEED AN ESCAPE PLAN TO MARS!

Wait, those CIA assholes kept those water bottles there to remind him that he couldn’t have any? Wow, talk about extreme measures to get him to crack. Yet, they were unsuccessful, so what’s the point? I’m learning a whole new mass of information about the American law enforcement system, and some of it isn’t to my liking at all.

“How can you ignore the fact that Muhammad preached passivity while he was in Mecca? ‘Do no violence.’” Wow. That is true.

“His later message from Medina was perfectly clear. ‘When violence comes upon you, you must fight back with violence.’” Seriously? Turns out he’s not even quoting the Koran, but the Hadith. “The Verse of the Sword”. Which the Muslims argue cancels out earlier teachings. Someone’s spin on the words of the prophet. Oh dear lord.

Fight and slay infidels wherever you find them and seize them in every stratagem of war. – that’s in the Koran?

Ah! Unless they repent. Establish regular prayers and practice regular charity.

So those who embrace the Jihad basically spin everything that Muhammad said and the Koran to support their violent ways to justify their killings as the will of Allah? Oh god, that is seriously messed up, brother.

“How is it that my faith would allow you to live and worship as you please, and yours would take my life and snuff it out?” Amazing. Simply amazing.

“You are simply misguided people of the book.” PAH! “But if you revert to Islam …” seriously? That’s the only way to repent for their ‘sinful ways’?

So he survived a bombing on a bazaar in Cairo? Damn. And he was only eight? Yikes.

Let’s verify it with Oracle of All Knowledge.

Half his family died in the bombing? Damn. Poor thing. But that is not the reason to go on a killing spree in the name of a god, and call it holy revenge. It isn’t.

Wait. They’re going into a site, where there might be an active bomb, an active chemical bomb no less, with no coms? Oh god. Please let my baby boy survive this. I won’t be able to cope with it at work today.

So he’s relieved by telling him that they found the sites? What’s wrong with this guy? Oh my god, he’s the one calling the shots on the bombings. Fuck. Get out of there! The bomb is there and is about to blow!!!! I know it! Morgan, get out of there, leave Professor Short-Skirt, take Hotch with you, and scram!

Oh snap. So they may have gotten the Anthrax from a foreign lab? Damn.

Oh crap, the girls can see the bombing in Annandale, oh god.

Please pick up!

Oh thank god.

“Don’t worry. Don’t think you’re gonna get rid of me that easy.” Thank the almighty lord of chocolate Adonises and chiseled abs. I wouldn’t live without Shemar XD

“Do you need anything?” “I know who to call if I do. Thanks, baby doll.” Aww, just kiss already.

So they didn’t use Anthrax in the two first bombs. But the third one will involve it.

Jind, don’t fuck with Gideon, and don’t fuck with me. You suck, you are evil, and you need to stop.

Wait. He’s changing his story now? His son is the kid who got blown up in the bazaar bombing, and he was the one who survived? Fuck you, asshole!

His real name is Jamal Abaza. Go to hell.

Hey, CIA assholes, why you so rude to my Gideon? Not nice. He’s trying to school you.

Fuck protocols. Assholes.

“How goes with the CIA?” “I don’t know what Gideon said to them, but they are feeding me information like crazy.” Ha, I love Gideon and I love his power of persuasion. I would believe anything that came out of that pretty mouth of his.

Seriously? Jamal, seriously? You and Gideon breath the same air, you are comprised of the same biological components that make you a male human being. Just because you believe in different faiths does not make you all that different. Just means you believe different things. And the fact that you believe your god would like you to eliminate anyone who doesn’t believe in him, but that’s beside the point, am I right? I’m not? Well, fuck you asshole.

Oh. So he’s less than human? You try to kill other humans. Come on.

And yet Gideon is still gracious to him.

That should count for something.

20 grams of Anthrax missing. Ruh-roh.

“No one wants the other kids peeing in their sand box.” Ew, Garcia, simply ew. I mean, true, but ew.

Soft entry. As opposed to what? Cuz you just banged open a door. That’s hard for me.

Whoa. That’s a lot of dead bodies, dude. Fuck.

So he’s bringing in Reid to talk to him? What the hell are you doing?

He’s making jokes? Seriously?

Oh god. Mandy’s horrified expression is just amazing. So touching.

Oh crap. He’s going to blow up a mall. Fuck.

Ha! They manipulated him to think it’s a different time, and they just let him show his final hand. I love you Gideon, and I am so sorry for those people. I hope they get there in time. Shit.

Please, Hayley, postpone the pictures, you need to not go to the mall.

Shit. They’re going through the air vents. Damn.

Yes! My baby boy got him. And now they’re saying it was a robbery? Come on. Let’s not pretend it was anything other than a terror attack.

Oh thank god, Hotchner’s family are okay. Thank god.

Hahahahhaa Jack is so cute!

Ralph Waldo Emerson: “In order to learn the most important lessons of life, one must each day surmount a fear.” Meh, somewhat true.

Boom. Gideon schooled Reid again.

Aww! He’s letting Prentiss play him? That’s nice. So they’re finally trusting her. Good.

 Okay, so this episode hit close to home. Not because I was raised in a Jewish household, but because I was raised in Israel, and Muslim extremists and the Jihad were always a threat hovering over our heads. I really hate terrorism. Because it’s a group of sad, pathetic people brainwashing an entire group who believe in a certain faith that in order to prove their faithfulness they have to kill others and maybe die themselves. This episode was extremely powerful. It made me appreciate Prentiss, and make me like her. It had me anxious over my baby boy, Derek, on whether or not he was going to live, and thank goodness he did, and it had a bit of Penelope going nuts over him as well, which was awesome.

Amazing episode, amazing writing, and I hope this season continues to amaze me.

[qvicksilversass]

Take it Out on Me

(Steve Rogers x Reader) 

After everything he went back to them, leaving Steve broken and you to try and pick up the pieces.

Words: 2021 Warnings: Angst, sad Steve, language

An: Just a little something, got a new part to Bad Habit on tuesday and Mischief on thursday. :) x

Tags: @lexbugz, @goal-mine, 

Tag List

 Masterlist

Losing Bucky to Hydra had broken him, you saw him slip away more and more each day. He would deny it, tell everyone he was fine, but you knew, beneath the facade he put up, behind the false smiles and empty words he was losing himself to his depression. Every bit of news about Bucky made things worse, every act he committed for Hydra was another weight on Steve's shoulders, another reminder he had failed his friend.

It was another damage control mission, the latest in an endless list since the Winter Soldier had returned to Hydra. Fury had intel Bucky was due to raid the SHIELD base for files on a new serum and you were there to stop him killing everyone to get them. By the time you arrived, half the base was dead or injured and the files had been uploaded to Hydra.

Steve's hands were shaking as he aimed the gun at Bucky, his shield discarded beside him. Bucky was mirroring Steve's stance, but he didn't waver, didn't show any signs of emotion.

"Please Buck, don't make me do this," Steve pleaded, getting no reaction from his friend, "you have to stop killing people, this isn't you."

Bucky smiled, "Sorry Steve, I've made my choice," his fingers closed over the trigger and you started running, "I guess it's the end of the line, pal.."

"Goodbye Buck." Steve dropped the gun, resigning himself to his fate.

Wrenching the shield from the ground you throw it in front of Steve just in time to deflect the bullet back into Bucky's shoulder. It tore right through his flesh and he didn't even flinch. Both men turned to you, Bucky using the distraction to run.

You would never forget the rage in Steve's eyes as he stalked towards you, for the first time in all the years you had known him you were truly scared of him, he grabbed your arms roughly, shaking you.

"You should have let him kill me, what use am I if I can't stop him? Can't bring him back?"

"Steve please! I couldn't let him kill you!"

"That's exactly what you should have done!" He throws down his mask and slams his shield into your hands so hard you stumble backwards,"I don't love you, I never did."

"Don't come after me y/n." His words burned into your heart and all you could do was watch as he walked away.

---

The days pass and Fury sets up a search team to trace Captain America, but you know more than anyone if Steve didn't want to be found no one would find him. You set off on your own search, listing off the places that meant the most to Steve.

Eventually you find him in Bucky's old apartment, sitting on the room length leather sofa downing a bottle of bourbon. His hair was unbrushed and stubble dusted his cheeks. From the state of the place he'd been here at least a few days.

"You know this place used to be home, now its a million dollar fucking penthouse."

The pain in his voice startles you, "I thought if I came back here, he might too? I don't know," he sighs running his hands over his face, "but there's nothing left. Everything I had, it's all gone; Peggy, Bucky, I don't belong here y/n."

You have to bite back your despair, after everything you'd been through he still didn't see you as important as Peggy and Bucky and you'd given him everything. You push down your sadness and sit opposite him.

"Don't say that, we need you, the world-"

"Bullshit!" He smashes the bottle making you jump, and you notice the hurt in his eyes that he's scared you, "Captain America has been dead a long damn time y/n."

"Please come home, we need you."

"I can't save anyone y/n. I'm not going back there, nothing feels right anymore."

"Steve, I need you."

He stands and approaches you a softness in his eyes you hadn't seen in a long time and brushes the tears from your cheeks. He kneels down between your legs and kisses you softly on the lips. You stroke his face, his stubble feeling so foreign underneath your fingertips. He was already changing, pulling further away from you and who he was. Your heart aches at the contact after so long and you don't notice the tranquilizer gun until it's too late, Steve's tears fading as he lies you down on the sofa.

"Sorry y/n, I won't bring you down with me."

When you woke up the apartment was cold, dark and so very quiet, "Steve?" You call out half hardheartedly, already knowing he was long gone.

He had left everything in a neat pile beside you, his uniform, his passport, his wallet, his notebook - every belonging you associated with him, what made him Steve, he'd left it all behind.

The final stab to your heart was the photograph of you he always kept with him, the one with 'My best girl' scribbled on the back. His way of telling you it was over, the way he knew would be the most final.

"Y/n!" You heard Fury shout, the apartment becoming crowded with soldiers, but you still didn't look up, tears streaming down your cheeks, "Agent y/l/n?"

"He's gone sir." You whimpered and held out the pile of belongings, he took them and tried to hand back the photograph, you refused and ran out of the apartment, not looking back, not listening to Fury's calls.

---

Almost a year later, you still looked for Steve. A part of you still held a out a flicker of hope that he would come back, or at least let you know he was safe. Your love never faltered, not once. You often wondered what he was doing, if he ever thought about you. Every noise you heard at night, you still hoped it was him. You kept busy just like everyone else, you all missed him. The tower wasn't the same, everything there reminded you of Steve so you rented an apartment just outside the city.

Your latest run in with the Winter Soldier had gone badly, it had turned into a battle; one that not everyone escaped from. Wanda was seriously hurt, Clint was missing and Bucky was gone - again. He was starting to seem unstoppable, you all just kept going around in circles and it was draining the life out of everyone.

If you had been a little less exhausted you might have heard the noises, heard the footsteps along the corridor and the handle on your bedroom door turning.

"Steve?" you grabbed for your gun and the intruder spun it around his finger as he stepped into the light.

"Sorry doll, but you're going to help me find him."

You brace yourself to fight but he's too quick, lunging forwards and hitting you with the butt of your own gun, knocking you out cold.

---

Pain sears through the back of your head and you attempt to take in your surroundings, the rhythmic clicking of metal drawing your groggy eyes. Bucky sits at the table opposite you cleaning and organising his dismantled guns.

You pull on the nylon chord tying your wrists to the plastic chair, hissing with pain when they cut into your wrists. The apartment was small, scruffy, and there are no personal items, nothing to give away where you are.

"Don't worry doll he should be here soon. Even that blockhead couldn't miss the trail I left him," he glances up, avoiding eye contact with you,"that's if he cares about you as much as I think he does."

"You might be disappointed there." You mumbled under your breath still looking around for something you could use to get free.

"You better hope I'm not." His hands start to shake and throws down his gun clenching his fists as he walks across the room, grabbing a backpack from under the bed. His posture not that of the winter soldier you had fought against for the last year, this man just seemed tired.

"Are you going to kill him?"

"That's not not up to me." He just shrugs, rummaging around in the backpack.

"And me?"

"They don't care about you."

Bucky pulls out a water bottle, holding it to your mouth to drink, leaving you confused. It was such a strange gesture from the cold-hearted winter soldier. Irritated he pushes the bottle into your mouth and you take a few gulps.

"How could you choose Hydra over Steve?"

"There was no choice doll, it was inevitable," he says coldly, clicking the chamber back into the gun, "there's no going back after what I did."

There's a moment he looks at you, something behind his cold eyes but its gone just as quickly as you see it.

"Asset, status report. Asset, what is your location?" Bucky's head snaps to the accented voice on the radio, Russian you guessed and he storms across the room crushing it to pieces with his metal hand. The winter soldier would have complied, the winter soldier wouldn't have left the radio on in the first place.

"Bucky?" You whisper his name and his eyes blaze with anger, "there's no mission is there?"

"Say another word and-"

"You want him to stop you, this is all because you want him to kill you."

Bucky grunts and rips a strip of fabric off the bed, twisting it around his hands he holds it out to you daring you to speak again.

"All those mistakes, I knew it was too messy, you wanted to draw him out."

His boots thud against the wooden floor and he stands behind you grabbing your chin to force your mouth open.

"Wait, let Steve help you..."

Bucky ignores you and ties the gag, checking through the window when he hears the rumble of a motorcycle approaching.

"Let's find out how much he cares about you huh?" He quickly checks his scanners, pleased Steve came alone. Bucky unties your ankles, giving you a warning glance when he unties your wrists, pulling you up off the chair and tying them in front of you again.

Your heart pounded when you heard his footsteps, it had been so long. You'd pictured the moment you found Steve in so many ways, none of them like this. Excitement and anxiety pumped through you in equal measure, you had so many questions.

Bucky waits until the door opens to roughly shove you into view. Steve takes a step forward, raising his hands and glancing between you trying to asses what he was walking into. Every part of you wanted to run and embrace him, tell him to run, to not let Bucky manipulate his feelings for you.

Steve starts to step toward you but stops when Bucky grabs you, his gun against your forehead, metal arm against your throat.

"What is this Buck? Let her go."

"You weren't takin' notice, punk, I had to try something new."

"Well I'm here, what do you want?"

Bucky smirks, throwing a gun at Steve's feet and gesturing for him to pick it up. Steve's face pales.

"You're gonna have to choose Steve, because I'm not going to stop," Bucky pushes the barrel into your forehead again, distracting Steve from the crack in his voice,"and I will kill her. It's me or her."

"Make your choice, pal." Bucky is trying to keep up the facade, his body betraying him, you can feel his heavy breathing against your back, hear the speed his heart is pumping. He was scared.

Bucky closes his finger over the trigger and you close your eyes expecting him to shoot you, Steve couldn't kill Bucky, he wouldn't.

The blast of the gunshot was so loud it took a few seconds to realise Bucky's grip had loosened on you, that you were still breathing. Your eyes open to Steve in as much shock as you are, staring at the space where his best friend was just standing.

He blinks a few times, his eyes darting to you and he rushes over. Acting on autopilot he unties you and pulls the gag from your mouth, "Steve?" you grasp his shaking hands in yours when his eyes fall onto Bucky, lying still on the ground. You want so badly to protect him, to shield him from the grief and guilt that’s slowly overwhelming him.

Steve drops to his knees next to Bucky, gently pulling him onto his lap and brushing the hair out of his face. Steve’s tears drip onto Bucky’s pallid skin as the realisation of what he's done hits him all at once and your heart aches for him. 

"I'm sorry, I should have stayed, fought harder, for both of you..." he whispers and you kneel behind him, wrapping your arms around his chest and holding him to you. Soft whispers of love for his friend leave his lips between painful sobs and you cling onto him, only able to offer him your own love desperate to offer him any kind of comfort, placing a kiss to his neck. 

Steve’s other hand covers yours, "I love you both so damn much, but I couldn't let him kill you, he knew that."

"Bucky wanted you to stop him," he turns his head to face you and you knew he thought you were placating him,"he was still in there."

Steve shook his head, “no, y/n, both of us, we’ve been gone for so long.” You reached up and cradled his head to your shoulder, running your fingers through his hair. 

Why didn’t Bucky ask for help? Why did he give up? Steve would have moved heaven and earth for Bucky, there should have been another way. You reach down and pick up Bucky’s gun and your breath caught in your throat when you saw it wasn’t loaded. He had no intention of killing you, how could you tell Steve? He’d killed his best friend for nothing? 

You glance down at him and something catches your eye. No, it shouldn't be possible, even for a super soldier. He was shot in the heart, point blank...then it happened again, the movement so slight you almost missed it.

"Steve, he's still breathing."

[gracieyvonnehunter]

The best $2,000 I ever spent: many, many rounds of bingo

Dana Rodriguez for Vox

It’s the one activity where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

The one time in my life, aside from sleeping, when I’m not obsessing about money is when I’m playing bingo. I know that sounds ironic, but bingo is my mental escape, offering a few hours where the numbers in front of me all start with a letter, not a dollar sign.

I’ve been in debt my entire adult life, first with student loans from undergrad and the law school I never graduated from, then from living above my means — not hard to do on a $40,000 New York City salary.

In my 20s and 30s, I ignored my debt, thinking it would somehow eventually resolve itself (how, I’m not sure, but I assumed more money would simply materialize the older I got). When, at 40, I realized that wasn’t quite how real life worked, I dedicated myself to earning as much as I could as a freelancer, with a mix of book royalties, articles, and a part-time copywriting gig.

The downside of self-employment is I never feel like I can truly be “off.” There’s always a potential story at my fingertips, and thereby a way to chip away at my looming debt, which hovers at a little over $50,000.

My local bingo hall is my happy place, somewhere I can go any night of the week and know I’ll leave with a smile on my face no matter what the outcome. It’s the one activity that lets me escape, well, me, where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

I live within walking distance of a bingo hall that offers games every evening, plus an additional 10:30 Tuesday night game, and Friday morning and Sunday afternoon games. Over the last four years, I’ve attended almost all of them, and win or lose, each was money well spent.

Entry costs $5, for the bare minimum number of two boards for 12 rounds, but I never play the minimum. You can buy extras for a dollar or two, depending on the value of the round; most offer $100 or $200 jackpots, with some rounds for larger amounts ranging from $1,000 to over $4,000, depending on how much has been bet. The first night I attended I spent around $30 and won $200, thus turning me into an instant convert. Now, I usually spend around $50 each time I go.

Lately, that’s every few months, but after the 2016 election I played bingo several times a week to help me forget about the news. I was a drag queen bingo regular in the East Village in the ’90s, but there we were competing for Queer as Folk DVD box sets and giant glasses filled with margaritas. This is serious, adult bingo, the kind where you’ll get shushed for talking too loudly.

The bingo hall is a place where I can forget about myself for two hours. For that small slice of time, I’m not a failed adult riddled with debt. I’m simply a middle-aged white lady with a dabber in her hand. All those money worries and existential angsty thoughts that rush to the surface whenever I have a free moment — Will be able to retire someday? Will I ever be a mom? What if [insert horrible catastrophe befalling anyone in my family]? — I can push to the back burner and focus solely on getting five stamps in a row, or a pyramid or four corners, or whatever variation of the game we’re playing at that particular moment.

I’d be lying if I said the prospect of winning doesn’t motivate me to settle in alongside women 30 and 40 years my senior, who come armed with special bingo bags that hold a rainbow array of dabbers and tape to fasten their boards together. Money, of course, is the main reason any of us lurk at the bingo hall. Another reason I stopped going to casinos is that the only games I like, slot machines, have the lowest odds. After reading that, I couldn’t quite bring myself to revel in their blinking lights and beckoning noises.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds (please don’t tell me if they’re bad). Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash. All that’s required of me is to stamp red or green or purple blobs of ink onto a piece of pre-printed paper. I love the sense of excitement that washes over me at the start of each new round — all those blanks squares, all those possible chances.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds. Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash.

When my boyfriend and I moved within 10 minutes of Atlantic City, I worried that the lure of the casinos would be impossible to resist. Yet one evening in a smoky local casino cured any romanticism I might have had. I don’t know how to play casino games like poker or craps, and I don’t care to. I don’t want to think too much when I’m hoping to catch a financial windfall, or for it to feel like work, but I do want my mind to be occupied.

Bingo fills that purpose perfectly. There’s no free time to stare dazedly at Twitter. I can’t slack off or I’ll miss a number being called. The avid players know to look up at the TV screens to see which number will be called next before it’s actually spoken. Bingo makes me feel like I’m an active participant who, with a combination of luck and alertness, has a chance of winning. Bingo is full of colorful markers, breathless anticipation, and quick reflexes, surrounded by people who are a little more relaxed than the average casino-goer. Regular players give advice to newcomers, call out happy birthday to each other, and root for their friends as much as themselves. What I’ve learned is that I don’t actually love gambling; I love bingo.

I allow myself to be fully immersed in the drama. I double and triple check my cards, mentally noting which ones are close to winning and which ones are duds. I rub the orange hair of the troll doll I bought on my first visit. I silently chant “I-18” or “G-57” until the combination echoes in my mind. There’s a ripple of energy that races around the room when someone is about to hit bingo, knowledge that is transmitted either through a small gasp passed as if playing an almost-silent game of telephone or a collective Spidey sense shared by the players.

The few times my good-luck tactics have actually “worked” and I’ve looked up at the screen to see my number about to be called, I’ve felt euphoric. It’s what I imagine winning a game show — my ultimate bucket list item — would be like. I don’t care whether it’s luck or chance or fate. In that moment, I’m not, for once, thinking about the money. My entire being is focused simply on hearing that magic letter and number spoken into the microphone by the person sitting behind that spinning wheel, at which point I can shoot my hand in the air and call out as loud as I can, “BINGO!” There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory.

There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory

That possibility is truly why I play bingo. For $50, I get to spend an afternoon or evening utterly caught up in the dramatic highs and lows of being three away, then two, then one. I know going in that I have just as much of a chance as anyone else in the room.

While the result may be just as predetermined and out of my control as playing the lottery, bingo feels more active, like if I pay close enough attention, I just might win. History has shown that I truly might; I’ve won four times, out of approximately 40 visits, totaling $1,350 (with one momentous Super Bowl payout of $1,000). I’ve spent around $2,000 by my estimation, so my total losses are $750.

Given those numbers, you might assume I’m just sinking myself deeper into debt, and technically, you’d be right. But I’m purchasing much more than that potential chance to become a champion. I’m buying myself a temporary shortcut to mental health, a reprieve from that constant inner refrain that loops from you’ll never be good enough to why even bother trying. Unlike casinos, I never sense that the people around me are gambling with their rent money in a last-ditch effort to get rich. We’re all playing bingo, with an emphasis on play. With bingo, I don’t have to be smart or ambitious. I’m not being measured by my net worth, or anything else.

In lottery player parlance, I’m a dreamer, someone who sees their gambling as the “chance to fantasize about winning money.” A bingo victory feels likely enough that it makes sense to try, while knowing that what I could potentially win during any given round, while exciting, wouldn’t change my life. At best, I’d pay down a small fraction of my debt. Competing for a welcome but not mind-boggling amount of money, though, feels more sane and satisfying than wondering if I’ll win the next Mega Millions.

Plus, bingo is more communal, and more fun; in that room, I’m a dreamer surrounded by dreamers. I know that someone in the same room as me will be walking away the big winner. I can say congratulations, and see the look on their face when they win — and know it might be me next time.

Rachel Kramer Bussel writes about sex, dating, books, culture, and herself. She is the editor of over 60 anthologies, including the Cleis Press Best Women’s Erotica of the Year series.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/35fkdb5

[timalexanderdollery]

The best $2,000 I ever spent: many, many rounds of bingo

Dana Rodriguez for Vox

It’s the one activity where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

The one time in my life, aside from sleeping, when I’m not obsessing about money is when I’m playing bingo. I know that sounds ironic, but bingo is my mental escape, offering a few hours where the numbers in front of me all start with a letter, not a dollar sign.

I’ve been in debt my entire adult life, first with student loans from undergrad and the law school I never graduated from, then from living above my means — not hard to do on a $40,000 New York City salary.

In my 20s and 30s, I ignored my debt, thinking it would somehow eventually resolve itself (how, I’m not sure, but I assumed more money would simply materialize the older I got). When, at 40, I realized that wasn’t quite how real life worked, I dedicated myself to earning as much as I could as a freelancer, with a mix of book royalties, articles, and a part-time copywriting gig.

The downside of self-employment is I never feel like I can truly be “off.” There’s always a potential story at my fingertips, and thereby a way to chip away at my looming debt, which hovers at a little over $50,000.

My local bingo hall is my happy place, somewhere I can go any night of the week and know I’ll leave with a smile on my face no matter what the outcome. It’s the one activity that lets me escape, well, me, where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

I live within walking distance of a bingo hall that offers games every evening, plus an additional 10:30 Tuesday night game, and Friday morning and Sunday afternoon games. Over the last four years, I’ve attended almost all of them, and win or lose, each was money well spent.

Entry costs $5, for the bare minimum number of two boards for 12 rounds, but I never play the minimum. You can buy extras for a dollar or two, depending on the value of the round; most offer $100 or $200 jackpots, with some rounds for larger amounts ranging from $1,000 to over $4,000, depending on how much has been bet. The first night I attended I spent around $30 and won $200, thus turning me into an instant convert. Now, I usually spend around $50 each time I go.

Lately, that’s every few months, but after the 2016 election I played bingo several times a week to help me forget about the news. I was a drag queen bingo regular in the East Village in the ’90s, but there we were competing for Queer as Folk DVD box sets and giant glasses filled with margaritas. This is serious, adult bingo, the kind where you’ll get shushed for talking too loudly.

The bingo hall is a place where I can forget about myself for two hours. For that small slice of time, I’m not a failed adult riddled with debt. I’m simply a middle-aged white lady with a dabber in her hand. All those money worries and existential angsty thoughts that rush to the surface whenever I have a free moment — Will be able to retire someday? Will I ever be a mom? What if [insert horrible catastrophe befalling anyone in my family]? — I can push to the back burner and focus solely on getting five stamps in a row, or a pyramid or four corners, or whatever variation of the game we’re playing at that particular moment.

I’d be lying if I said the prospect of winning doesn’t motivate me to settle in alongside women 30 and 40 years my senior, who come armed with special bingo bags that hold a rainbow array of dabbers and tape to fasten their boards together. Money, of course, is the main reason any of us lurk at the bingo hall. Another reason I stopped going to casinos is that the only games I like, slot machines, have the lowest odds. After reading that, I couldn’t quite bring myself to revel in their blinking lights and beckoning noises.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds (please don’t tell me if they’re bad). Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash. All that’s required of me is to stamp red or green or purple blobs of ink onto a piece of pre-printed paper. I love the sense of excitement that washes over me at the start of each new round — all those blanks squares, all those possible chances.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds. Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash.

When my boyfriend and I moved within 10 minutes of Atlantic City, I worried that the lure of the casinos would be impossible to resist. Yet one evening in a smoky local casino cured any romanticism I might have had. I don’t know how to play casino games like poker or craps, and I don’t care to. I don’t want to think too much when I’m hoping to catch a financial windfall, or for it to feel like work, but I do want my mind to be occupied.

Bingo fills that purpose perfectly. There’s no free time to stare dazedly at Twitter. I can’t slack off or I’ll miss a number being called. The avid players know to look up at the TV screens to see which number will be called next before it’s actually spoken. Bingo makes me feel like I’m an active participant who, with a combination of luck and alertness, has a chance of winning. Bingo is full of colorful markers, breathless anticipation, and quick reflexes, surrounded by people who are a little more relaxed than the average casino-goer. Regular players give advice to newcomers, call out happy birthday to each other, and root for their friends as much as themselves. What I’ve learned is that I don’t actually love gambling; I love bingo.

I allow myself to be fully immersed in the drama. I double and triple check my cards, mentally noting which ones are close to winning and which ones are duds. I rub the orange hair of the troll doll I bought on my first visit. I silently chant “I-18” or “G-57” until the combination echoes in my mind. There’s a ripple of energy that races around the room when someone is about to hit bingo, knowledge that is transmitted either through a small gasp passed as if playing an almost-silent game of telephone or a collective Spidey sense shared by the players.

The few times my good-luck tactics have actually “worked” and I’ve looked up at the screen to see my number about to be called, I’ve felt euphoric. It’s what I imagine winning a game show — my ultimate bucket list item — would be like. I don’t care whether it’s luck or chance or fate. In that moment, I’m not, for once, thinking about the money. My entire being is focused simply on hearing that magic letter and number spoken into the microphone by the person sitting behind that spinning wheel, at which point I can shoot my hand in the air and call out as loud as I can, “BINGO!” There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory.

There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory

That possibility is truly why I play bingo. For $50, I get to spend an afternoon or evening utterly caught up in the dramatic highs and lows of being three away, then two, then one. I know going in that I have just as much of a chance as anyone else in the room.

While the result may be just as predetermined and out of my control as playing the lottery, bingo feels more active, like if I pay close enough attention, I just might win. History has shown that I truly might; I’ve won four times, out of approximately 40 visits, totaling $1,350 (with one momentous Super Bowl payout of $1,000). I’ve spent around $2,000 by my estimation, so my total losses are $750.

Given those numbers, you might assume I’m just sinking myself deeper into debt, and technically, you’d be right. But I’m purchasing much more than that potential chance to become a champion. I’m buying myself a temporary shortcut to mental health, a reprieve from that constant inner refrain that loops from you’ll never be good enough to why even bother trying. Unlike casinos, I never sense that the people around me are gambling with their rent money in a last-ditch effort to get rich. We’re all playing bingo, with an emphasis on play. With bingo, I don’t have to be smart or ambitious. I’m not being measured by my net worth, or anything else.

In lottery player parlance, I’m a dreamer, someone who sees their gambling as the “chance to fantasize about winning money.” A bingo victory feels likely enough that it makes sense to try, while knowing that what I could potentially win during any given round, while exciting, wouldn’t change my life. At best, I’d pay down a small fraction of my debt. Competing for a welcome but not mind-boggling amount of money, though, feels more sane and satisfying than wondering if I’ll win the next Mega Millions.

Plus, bingo is more communal, and more fun; in that room, I’m a dreamer surrounded by dreamers. I know that someone in the same room as me will be walking away the big winner. I can say congratulations, and see the look on their face when they win — and know it might be me next time.

Rachel Kramer Bussel writes about sex, dating, books, culture, and herself. She is the editor of over 60 anthologies, including the Cleis Press Best Women’s Erotica of the Year series.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/35fkdb5

[shanedakotamuir]

The best $2,000 I ever spent: many, many rounds of bingo

Dana Rodriguez for Vox

It’s the one activity where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

The one time in my life, aside from sleeping, when I’m not obsessing about money is when I’m playing bingo. I know that sounds ironic, but bingo is my mental escape, offering a few hours where the numbers in front of me all start with a letter, not a dollar sign.

I’ve been in debt my entire adult life, first with student loans from undergrad and the law school I never graduated from, then from living above my means — not hard to do on a $40,000 New York City salary.

In my 20s and 30s, I ignored my debt, thinking it would somehow eventually resolve itself (how, I’m not sure, but I assumed more money would simply materialize the older I got). When, at 40, I realized that wasn’t quite how real life worked, I dedicated myself to earning as much as I could as a freelancer, with a mix of book royalties, articles, and a part-time copywriting gig.

The downside of self-employment is I never feel like I can truly be “off.” There’s always a potential story at my fingertips, and thereby a way to chip away at my looming debt, which hovers at a little over $50,000.

My local bingo hall is my happy place, somewhere I can go any night of the week and know I’ll leave with a smile on my face no matter what the outcome. It’s the one activity that lets me escape, well, me, where money becomes more magical and less weighty.

I live within walking distance of a bingo hall that offers games every evening, plus an additional 10:30 Tuesday night game, and Friday morning and Sunday afternoon games. Over the last four years, I’ve attended almost all of them, and win or lose, each was money well spent.

Entry costs $5, for the bare minimum number of two boards for 12 rounds, but I never play the minimum. You can buy extras for a dollar or two, depending on the value of the round; most offer $100 or $200 jackpots, with some rounds for larger amounts ranging from $1,000 to over $4,000, depending on how much has been bet. The first night I attended I spent around $30 and won $200, thus turning me into an instant convert. Now, I usually spend around $50 each time I go.

Lately, that’s every few months, but after the 2016 election I played bingo several times a week to help me forget about the news. I was a drag queen bingo regular in the East Village in the ’90s, but there we were competing for Queer as Folk DVD box sets and giant glasses filled with margaritas. This is serious, adult bingo, the kind where you’ll get shushed for talking too loudly.

The bingo hall is a place where I can forget about myself for two hours. For that small slice of time, I’m not a failed adult riddled with debt. I’m simply a middle-aged white lady with a dabber in her hand. All those money worries and existential angsty thoughts that rush to the surface whenever I have a free moment — Will be able to retire someday? Will I ever be a mom? What if [insert horrible catastrophe befalling anyone in my family]? — I can push to the back burner and focus solely on getting five stamps in a row, or a pyramid or four corners, or whatever variation of the game we’re playing at that particular moment.

I’d be lying if I said the prospect of winning doesn’t motivate me to settle in alongside women 30 and 40 years my senior, who come armed with special bingo bags that hold a rainbow array of dabbers and tape to fasten their boards together. Money, of course, is the main reason any of us lurk at the bingo hall. Another reason I stopped going to casinos is that the only games I like, slot machines, have the lowest odds. After reading that, I couldn’t quite bring myself to revel in their blinking lights and beckoning noises.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds (please don’t tell me if they’re bad). Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash. All that’s required of me is to stamp red or green or purple blobs of ink onto a piece of pre-printed paper. I love the sense of excitement that washes over me at the start of each new round — all those blanks squares, all those possible chances.

With bingo, I’ve never stopped to look up the odds. Instead, I let myself sink into a fantasy world where I fully believe that I just might walk away with a stack of cash.

When my boyfriend and I moved within 10 minutes of Atlantic City, I worried that the lure of the casinos would be impossible to resist. Yet one evening in a smoky local casino cured any romanticism I might have had. I don’t know how to play casino games like poker or craps, and I don’t care to. I don’t want to think too much when I’m hoping to catch a financial windfall, or for it to feel like work, but I do want my mind to be occupied.

Bingo fills that purpose perfectly. There’s no free time to stare dazedly at Twitter. I can’t slack off or I’ll miss a number being called. The avid players know to look up at the TV screens to see which number will be called next before it’s actually spoken. Bingo makes me feel like I’m an active participant who, with a combination of luck and alertness, has a chance of winning. Bingo is full of colorful markers, breathless anticipation, and quick reflexes, surrounded by people who are a little more relaxed than the average casino-goer. Regular players give advice to newcomers, call out happy birthday to each other, and root for their friends as much as themselves. What I’ve learned is that I don’t actually love gambling; I love bingo.

I allow myself to be fully immersed in the drama. I double and triple check my cards, mentally noting which ones are close to winning and which ones are duds. I rub the orange hair of the troll doll I bought on my first visit. I silently chant “I-18” or “G-57” until the combination echoes in my mind. There’s a ripple of energy that races around the room when someone is about to hit bingo, knowledge that is transmitted either through a small gasp passed as if playing an almost-silent game of telephone or a collective Spidey sense shared by the players.

The few times my good-luck tactics have actually “worked” and I’ve looked up at the screen to see my number about to be called, I’ve felt euphoric. It’s what I imagine winning a game show — my ultimate bucket list item — would be like. I don’t care whether it’s luck or chance or fate. In that moment, I’m not, for once, thinking about the money. My entire being is focused simply on hearing that magic letter and number spoken into the microphone by the person sitting behind that spinning wheel, at which point I can shoot my hand in the air and call out as loud as I can, “BINGO!” There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory.

There are no other moments in my life where I get to literally yell out a victory

That possibility is truly why I play bingo. For $50, I get to spend an afternoon or evening utterly caught up in the dramatic highs and lows of being three away, then two, then one. I know going in that I have just as much of a chance as anyone else in the room.

While the result may be just as predetermined and out of my control as playing the lottery, bingo feels more active, like if I pay close enough attention, I just might win. History has shown that I truly might; I’ve won four times, out of approximately 40 visits, totaling $1,350 (with one momentous Super Bowl payout of $1,000). I’ve spent around $2,000 by my estimation, so my total losses are $750.

Given those numbers, you might assume I’m just sinking myself deeper into debt, and technically, you’d be right. But I’m purchasing much more than that potential chance to become a champion. I’m buying myself a temporary shortcut to mental health, a reprieve from that constant inner refrain that loops from you’ll never be good enough to why even bother trying. Unlike casinos, I never sense that the people around me are gambling with their rent money in a last-ditch effort to get rich. We’re all playing bingo, with an emphasis on play. With bingo, I don’t have to be smart or ambitious. I’m not being measured by my net worth, or anything else.

In lottery player parlance, I’m a dreamer, someone who sees their gambling as the “chance to fantasize about winning money.” A bingo victory feels likely enough that it makes sense to try, while knowing that what I could potentially win during any given round, while exciting, wouldn’t change my life. At best, I’d pay down a small fraction of my debt. Competing for a welcome but not mind-boggling amount of money, though, feels more sane and satisfying than wondering if I’ll win the next Mega Millions.

Plus, bingo is more communal, and more fun; in that room, I’m a dreamer surrounded by dreamers. I know that someone in the same room as me will be walking away the big winner. I can say congratulations, and see the look on their face when they win — and know it might be me next time.

Rachel Kramer Bussel writes about sex, dating, books, culture, and herself. She is the editor of over 60 anthologies, including the Cleis Press Best Women’s Erotica of the Year series.

from Vox - All https://ift.tt/35fkdb5

[saints-row-2]

Toast

Short (2000 word) fic taking place after SR2. 

BossGat, domestic, cute. No plot this time just Johnny and the Boss!

Boss wakes up to the smell of burnt toast. They do not remember if they dreamt. They lie back in bed and stare up at the ceiling, a blank white canvas marred only by a couple of bullet holes. Not enough to spoil the place. The bed they’re in could sleep three, but right now it’s just them, the man who should be lying behind them is too busy in the kitchen, burning toast.

Boss rolls out of bed, dragging the sheets along after them, shivering in the cool air. The clock on their phone says it is 1:12 pm. They quickly put on some shorts, and then a T-shirt when they see the goosebumps on their arms. The room itself is a mess; clothes spread across the floor, bottles and glasses left lying around, discarded fast food cartons next to – but not inside – the bin. They used to be a lot tidier, when they lived alone, but they don’t anymore and the mess doesn’t really seem like such a problem. The furniture is still expensive and new, shiny polished wood and metal. Boss will never stop loving being able to buy the best just for the hell of it.

They leave the bedroom and walk across the vast space of their penthouse apartment. Through the huge bank of windows on the wall, they can see the whole Stilwater skyline. The sky is burnt orange by the summer sun scorching the city, but the air conditioning must be on full blast, because Boss can’t feel any of that heat. They almost feel frozen, until they walk into the kitchen and see the source of the burnt toast, and then they feel warm all the way through.

Johnny Gat is in his underwear, moving loudly sizzling bacon and eggs around a pan while the offending toast smokes gently on a plate next to the stove. Boss grabs one of the stools from the bar and drags it over to him, parking it next to Johnny and leaning on the counter beside him.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Johnny says.

“I’m surprised the fucking fire alarm didn’t go off,” Boss says.

“Yeah, I fucked the toast up,” Johnny says, “but this bacon is gonna be perfect.”

Boss eats a slice of burnt toast anyway, because they don’t like wasting food, and because Johnny made it for them. They watch him, half the cooking and half just admiring how good he looks when he’s stripped down. In the background, the radio plays The Mix just loud enough to be heard.

“What’s on the to-do list today?” Boss says.

“Nothing,” Johnny says. “We’re on vacation.”

“Fuck.”

“Only you would be upset about time off. You’re a fucking workaholic.” It’s said with love, not anger. Boss knows Johnny admires how much they get done. It doesn’t need to be said.

There’s plenty the Boss could still do, even if it’s ‘time off’. They’re halfway through a painting they were going to send to an art show next month, they still haven’t signed off the final few pieces for the Saints fall fashion line, they need to kill that journalist who was spreading rumours about them – but looking at Johnny, they decide to pass on all of it. It can all wait another day, and today’s a good day. The sun is out, Johnny is making breakfast, they just bought a fresh load of ammo and the cops are paid off for the rest of the month.

“What do you wanna do?” Boss says, as Johnny dolls out bacon and eggs to them both.

“I dunno,” Johnny says. “We should go out for a drive.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

Maybe they’ll drive up Mt Claflin with a cooler of beer and some good weed. Maybe they’ll end up doing a drive-by. Boss is open to ideas. They pour themselves and Johnny some coffee.

Karma Chameleon comes on the radio and Boss laughs suddenly enough to make Johnny jump.

“What?” He says.

“Don’t you remember?” Boss says. “This fucking song was on the radio all summer long when we first came back.”

“Yeah…” Johnny says, eyes lighting up. “This and… What was that one you loved?”

“Gangsta Bitch? That’s still my shit.”

“No, I know that one. The one about ruling the world.”

“That’s it. Everybody Wants to Rule the World. Tears for Fears.”

“Right, yeah. Now that was a good song. This is fuckin’ garbage.”

“Karma Chameleon is great.”

“You got no fucking taste.”

“Explains why you’re here.”

Johnny laughs, punches them on the shoulder. Boss leans in, kisses him on the cheek, then on the lips, and then on the lips another time, for good measure.

“Maybe the first thing we do today should be go back to bed,” Johnny says.

“We can do that,” Boss says. They finish their coffee. “Can you turn the AC down? I’m freezing to death in my own fucking apartment.”

“What are you talking about?” Johnny says. “It’s hotter than Hell in here. Why do you think I’m in my goddamn underwear?”

“Looks good,” Boss says.

Johnny just laughs, and does not turn down the AC. Boss decides they will put on more clothes, which is punishment enough for them both. They look outside again, through their big beautiful windows, and see that it is suddenly lashing down with rain.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Boss says. “Guess we won’t be driving a convertible.”

Convertibles aren’t really their style, anyway. They’re about to say this, before they turn around and see Johnny fucking around with the radio. They didn’t notice when he put jeans on.

“What are you doing?” They say.

“Sound’s all fucked up,” Johnny says.

The radio keeps making an odd chiming noise every few seconds, like the announcement before someone speaks over the intercom.

“We’ll buy a new one,” Boss says. “We could buy fifty.”

They don’t care about the radio. They can do anything now, anything they want. They got money and they got power and they got Johnny Gat to back them up. Boss has never felt less worried in their entire life, and they weren’t a person prone to fear in the first place.

“You don’t like boats,” Johnny says.

“Not fond of them,” Boss says, “given my history.”

“If you can’t ride boats, and you can’t ride planes, how are you going to escape this time?” Johnny says.

“The fuck you say?” Boss says. They can’t remember the last time they rode a plane. It was probably when they came to Stilwater, taking a plane from the mainland. Before that, when they came from America to England on a flight that took half a day they spent in a state of near hysteria. They don’t really remember it that well.

Johnny blinks, confused. “I said ‘why can’t we drive a convertible today?’ Are you ok, Boss?”

Boss glances back towards the window and sees Saint’s Row baking under the sun, looking like it’s hot enough to melt paint off the side of the old Church.

“I thought…” Boss trials off. “I think I might be kind of fucked up.”

Johnny studies their face with concern, touches their forehead like they’re a sick child.

“You’re freezing,” he says. His hand feels scalding hot to the touch.

“You’re burning up,” Boss says. “Are you sick?”

The smell of the toast is starting to make them feel sick. Johnny snorts derisively, and they wait for him to say some tough man bullshit about never being sick a day in his life, but then he says;

“You ever learn how to fly a plane?”

“What?” Boss says. “Yeah, I can drive anything. You feeling alright, Johnny?”

Johnny is staring at them, all while the radio loudly shouts the same chiming noise over and over. When is someone going to speak through the intercom? Boss is waiting for a message, but there’s no one on the other side. Maybe they’re hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I can’t hear you,” Johnny says. “Did you give up talking again?”

Johnny is standing in the middle of Boss’ nice shiny kitchen wearing blue jeans and a white button up shirt, and he is soaked to the skin. Ultor took all the graffiti off the Church, their agents convinced Johnny to cover up his tattoos. Boss can’t explain why, but in that moment, those two events feel so obviously interconnected that they feel like they’ve hit on some great new discovery They want to tell Johnny about it, but he’s not listening to them. He’s mouthing words they can’t hear.

“You have to press the button on the intercom,” Boss says. “It only goes one way.”

Johnny holds a radio to his mouth and his voice comes in loud and clear through every speaker in the room; the jukebox, the TV, the radio in the kitchen that once played The Mix.

“Do you think I bled out, or do you think I drowned when you crashed the plane into the ocean?” Johnny says.

The Boss jumps back, and then they’re falling as their stool tilts backwards and throws them down onto the floor, hard. They lie there, breathless for a moment, staring up at the counter and their spilled coffee spilling down the side and onto the floor. Johnny leans over them.

“Jesus, are you alright?” He says.

He bends over and effortlessly hoists them off the floor and to their feet, letting them put an arm around his shoulders to keep them steady. His shirtless skin is soft under the Boss’ hand, and he smells the same as he always does; gun oil and cheap cologne.

“Yeah, I just fell,” Boss says. “I’ve lived through worse.”

“You need to go the fuck to bed,” Johnny says.

He spins them around and places a hand on either shoulder, marching them out of the kitchen and back across the huge expanse of their apartment, towards the bedroom.

“Only if you come with me,” Boss says.

“I plan on it,” Johnny laughs. “I ain’t going nowhere without you.”

A commercial for Freckle Bitch’s starts playing on the radio, and Boss is about to ask Johnny if he’s heard this one before, because it sounds familiar to them, it sounds old to them, but then they get a good look through the open bedroom door, and out into the open screaming skies above Steelport. Johnny’s hands on their shoulders are so strong, and try as they might, Boss can’t fight back against his grip. He keeps on driving them towards the door.

They can almost feel the wind on their face, the closer they get to the door, feel the force of the hungry sky pulling at them and trying to drag them away from Johnny, away from their beautiful apartment in Stilwater, to spit them out into hostile skies above a city they don’t know and never wanted to know.

“I don’t want to,” Boss says.

“Do you ever think about Hell?” Johnny says. “Did you think, when you were on that boat, burning, that it might be like Hell?”

“Johnny, stop,” Boss says. “Let’s just stay here. Let’s not go anywhere.”

They have never heard themselves beg before.

“Right on,” Johnny says. “I’ll see you in Stilwater.”

“How can I go back there without you?” Boss says.

Johnny is still pushing, and they are still struggling, still fighting to stop themselves from being propelled across the room and towards the door. They fight, but the weight of his hands on their shoulders is immense. They push to try and turn around, against his grip, against the immeasurable weight of him dragging them down, but when they finally manage to just look up behind them, Johnny isn’t there at all. And there’s nothing left to hold them back as they fall out of the door and into the empty skies below.

The bed in Shaundi’s ex’s place is tiny. When Boss wakes up, with a start like they’ve been scared awake, they’re curled up on the mattress so tightly that they’ve pulled a muscle in their neck. They force themselves to uncurl, once their eyes are open, to stretch out and take up the little of the room that they have. Their back hurts.

Boss can smell burning toast. Already fully dressed, they clamber out of bed and out of the bedroom to look over the rest of the tiny apartment. But once out of the bedroom door they realise it must have been one of the neighbours, because there’s no one there with them at all.

[abovethesmokestacks]

Sweet Dreams - Assorted Flavours (7/9)

Title: Sweet Dreams - Assorted Flavours Pairing: Bucky x Reader Rating: General Audiences (for now at least) Warnings: Fluff and feels. The usual suspects. Spoilers: None

Oh my darlings. You have no idea how long I’ve waited to finish this chapter. Or, well, some of you probably know, since I’ve bitched about it. A lot. In short: long-ass cold, not one but TWO drabble/mini series and a stubborn-as-all-fuck writer’s block. At least I can console myself with the fact that my cold served me well in writing this chapter once I had regained the higher brain functions necessary to actually do some writing. Recipe will be added as soon as I can compile it!

Tag list at the end of the chapter. If you want to be tagged in future chapters, send me an ask, and I’ll add you to the tag list.

| read on AO3 | | not read Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)? | recipe |

VII. Tread Gingerly

Ginger: a herb in the Zingiberaceae-family, known for its aromatic, underground stem. The stem can be used fresh or dried and ground as a spice. Ginger goes well with apples, lemon, pumpkin, chocolate and dates.

You tried not to push as weeks passed after the incident in the shop. Bucky had said he would try, and you knew he did. He would tell you how he'd slept each time he came in, sometimes sounding so proud for managing two hours, sometimes sounding so utterly wrecked because all of his progress had shattered and he'd had a bad night. You tried not to keep track, but it was hard. With each night, you took his offered update, compared it to the one before, and your heart sank when realizing the good nights barely outweighed the bad ones. You tried to tell yourself it was okay, that he was doing okay, that good and bad nights in equal measure was still better than just bad nights.

It was something to hold on to, and you needed it.

There was no shortage of work, people suddenly crowding to the shop. Valentine's Day came and went, and much as you would have loved to spend it with Bucky, the year's most romantic day was condensed into sharing a pink cupcake and a quick kiss in the kitchen before you had to rush to get everything in order. He'd sat in the shop for a couple of hours, sneaking out while you were in the kitchen to fetch a new batch of pink lemonade cupcakes. Returning, you'd found his seat empty, napkin folded neatly on the small plate you'd served him a chocolate cupcake on. Scrawled onto the tissue was a simple ”Open me”. It had brought a smile to your face, remembering his first visit, and the message left on the napkin. You had taken the plate with you into the kitchen, picking up the napkin, expecting it to be another message. To your surprise, there had been weight to it, something flat and hard wrapped in it. Tearing away the improvised wrapping, you had gasped as a metal disc suspended from a thin ball chain fell into the palm of your hand

JAMES B. BARNES 32557038 T42 43 A                              P

One of his dog tags. Ignoring the steady trilling of the bell above the door, you'd pulled your phone from your pocket, calling him with a lump in your throat.

”Hello?”

”Thank you.”

”You found it.” You could hear the smile in his voice.

”It's... You didn't have to get me anything, Bucky.”

”I wanted to. You've been working so hard, and I wanted you to have something when we couldn't spend the day together.”

You smiled, turning the tag over in your free hand, the pad of your thumb running over the indentations of the stenciled letters.

”Well, James B. Barnes, 32557038, T 42, 43, A, P. Thank you.”

He gave a short, barking laugh. ”It's not the original. Couldn't keep anything that could be used to trigger me back. Though I wouldn't be surprised if it's gathering dust in some old Russian HYDRA compound somewhere. But it's the same information. Still accurate. Still...”

”Still what, Bucky?”

The line had crackled as he exhaled and drew a breath again. ”It's a thing soldiers did, still do, I think. Give one of their dog tags to their girl before shipping out. I- I remembered, there was this guy shipping out at the same time as me. We were supposed to embark, but his girl wouldn't let go of him, crying up a storm, and he tried to get her to calm down. Could tell the fella was close to tears himself. Eventually, he got his tags off, unhooked one and pressed it into her hand, promised her he'd come back, that she'd have a piece of him with her always.”

Closing your fist around the tag, you had pressed it against your chest. There hadn't been that many Valentine's Days spent with a significant other, and any gift you had received now paled in comparison. Bucky had given you part of himself, showing his affection in a way that had your heart beating wildly in your chest.

”Doll?”

”I love it,” you said, voice shaking with emotion. ”It's- thank you.”

From that day, the chain hung around your neck, the cool weight of the tag against your chest a sweet reminder of the man you loved. No matter if he was there or not, no matter how busy the shop was, you'd stop for just a few seconds to feel the metal on your skin. If Bucky was there for the night, he'd smile sweetly at you, at the hand touching the tags hidden under your shirt. It became as much a sign of affection as the kisses and hugs you shared, and for you, it became something of a good luck charm that held you over even during the most stressful nights.

Until one day, it didn't. March was slowly coming to an end, and though you had managed okay, it felt like the month had drawn on for way longer than it should have. You felt tired, the telltale signs of a cold weighing down on you. Being sick was not an option, not when you were the sole employee, and so you did everything you could think of to preemptively stop the cold from flaring up completely. If you had been the only one fighting a cold, it might have worked, but with literally everyone and their mother getting hit at more or less the same time, you were fighting a losing battle. Tea sales spiked as tired customers dragged themselves in through the door for something soothing to drink and something sweet to keep them awake long enough to last through the night.

”It's unfair,” you complained to Bucky one night, head feeling like someone had poured concrete into it.

”Unfair that I went through horrible human experiments, brainwashing and had my memory shot to hell for the slight perk of being able to resist the common cold?” he joked, looking a little too smug as he took another gulp of coffee.

”You know what I mean.” You refilled the tea kettle, setting it back onto the base and turned it on.

”I do, I'm just teasing you. If it's any consolation, I rarely got sick before the serum either. Made it all through the war without getting sick, and at one point I had to share a tent with Dugan, who had the flu for two weeks.”

You mock glared at him, pursing your lips and crossing your arms over your chest. Bucky merely bit his lower lip, apparently your attempt at looking stern had little to no effect on him. Kind of like the cold remedies you had gulped down by the gallon. Your hand drifted to the tag underneath your shirt, fiddling with it and silently asking it for strength for the remaining hours. End of shift could not come soon enough.

You made it through two more days before it got to you, although you steadfastly refused to admit defeat. Despite your limbs feeling like they were laced with lead, you got up, took a fever reducer and set about baking tonight's cupcakes. For days you had been subsisting on soups and gallons upon gallons of lemon-ginger-honey tea, something that you brought into your baking tonight, using ginger preserve to create a cupcake that tasted akin to what getting better felt like. It was slow work, your head drooping, your body forcing you to take short breaks to regain strength, running up the stairs to sneeze. By the time Bucky came around, half an hour before opening, you were still rushing to get the last batches of cupcakes mixed.

”Overslept?” he asked, taking in the disarray surrounding you.

”Sick,” you replied, exhaling heavily and crashing into him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

”Then why are you open? You should be upstairs in bed, doll.”

”Can't.” Your voice was muffled against his warm sweater. ”Have to stay open.”

”Sweetheart...” he began, but you shook your head, looking up at him.

”I need to stay open,” you reiterated, trying to sound firm. ”Either way, it's too late to do a 180 now. I've got the cupcakes almost all done. I can't let them go to waste.”

Sniffling, you turned and walked back to the bowl with half-done cupcake batter. Bucky really shouldn't have mentioned bed. It was all you could do not to abandon everything and go upstairs like he'd said you should. Sleep was... complicated when you were sick, always waking up every two or three hours feeling like you'd both gotten way too little and way too much sleep, never quite finding a happy middle. Sensing Bucky following your every move, you let out a little sigh, looking up again. Sure enough, he'd parked himself in his usual spot, arms crossed over his torso, peering at you with a perturbed expression on his face.

”You're hovering,” you told him flatly, swallowing to suppress a cough.

”I'm surveying,” Bucky rebutted, demonstratively placing one foot over the other to cross his legs.

”Well, then, can you go upstairs and survey me some tea? My throat's killing me.”

Bucky pursed his lips, eyes raking over you before answering. ”What kind?”

”I have a cup by the kettle. It's- there's a strainer in there with chopped ginger that should be good for another cup. Just heat up water, add it with a bit of lemon juice and honey. They're both in the cabinet to the left of the stove.”

He gave a sigh, his own kind of non-verbal protest, but nevertheless disappeared up the stairs. Letting out a long breath, you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, inhaling again as best you could. It was okay, you could still make it. No extra flourishes for the remaining cupcakes. No one would care, it was okay to keep it clean and simple. A shiver travelled up your spine, and you shuddered, shaking your hands before returning to the unfinished cupcakes.

Bucky returned not five minutes later with a scalding hot cup of tea, trying in vain to at least get you to sit down while you drank. You reiterated how there was no time, commenting that maybe you should dress up in white rabbit ears to make your point. Instead, you had him help where he could, carrying the trays of finished cupcakes out to the case. Part of you felt a little guilty for bossing him around, but he seemed happy to help when you refused everything else. It would be fine. You'd make it through the night. Just a few more-

”Doll?”

”Wha'?”

You looked up, head spinning with vertigo as the shop was brought into focus, Bucky's concerned face taking up most of your field of vision. Next to him, someone cleared their throat, and you whipped your head around, the movement feeling unbearably slow. It was Stan, again, his fingers tapping against the counter. Wait, when had Stan come in? You gave a weak smile, surreptitiously looking around. There were a handful of customers spread out at the tables, Bucky sitting in his usual spot by the counter. You became aware of something clenched in your fist, looking down to find a crumpled ten dollar bill, your other hand hovering over the cash register.

”I hope you're not trying to skin me,” Stan joked, eyes glittering behind the perpetual shades he wore no matter the season and time of day.

”N-no!” you stuttered, almost managing to hide it behind a laugh, forcing your fingers to tap quickly so the register opened and you could give the man his change.

”You should take a day off, darling, you don't look so hot,” he remarked, holding out his hand to take the coins.

You couldn't help but shoot a dirty look at Bucky for that one, who only shrugged in response.

”Oh, don't you know, Stan? I am in fact a robot. Place closes down, they come in and turn me off, stuff me in a cupboard out back.”

”Well, hell, maybe you should tell them to take you in for maintenance.”

”I am going to assume you said that out of concern,” you mock-grumbled, placing your right hand on your hip, the left grabbing hold of the edge of the counter when your world once again began to sway.

”As you should,” Stan smiled, and nodded his head, grabbing the cupcake he'd bought. ”Thanks for this.”

You managed a weak smile, waving the old man off as he headed for the exit. To your right, you could feel Bucky's eyes burning a hole in your side. Stifling a sigh, you let your gaze flicker back to him, and sure enough, he had that expression on him where he wanted to argue.

”I'm fine,” you told him in a low voice, pushing the cashbox closed.

”You're not,” he replied gently, reaching over to take hold of your hand. ”You spaced out, doll, you were gone for almost twenty seconds.”

”'S not that much...” You looked down, blinking a couple of times to reestablish focus.

”It is. Count it out, see how long you just stood there.”

You reluctantly obliged, counting quietly to yourself. It got unbearable by the time you hit ten, and you pulled a face, clenching your free hand into a fist. So maybe you were a little sick.

”I can't close down, I'm-”

”I know, you're the only one here,” Bucky finished for you. ”I swear, if you and Steve had met back in the day, you'd've given me a heart attack.”

His comment pulled a snorting laugh from you, causing another wince as vertigo struck again. You faltered, your grip on Bucky's hand tightening as you slumped forward. Breathe. You gotta breathe, you told yourself, your left hand letting go of the counter edge to pillow your head as you leaned down. Your forehead felt uncomfortably hot and clammy against your hand, but the position provided a small sense of relief. Just a moment, just a couple of seconds-

”Doll!”

Bucky's frantic hiss made you bolt upright, head swimming at the too-fast motion. You swayed, squeezing your eyes shut as a throb behind your eyes surged through you. Had Bucky not been holding your hand in his, you were sure you would have toppled over.

”I'm fine!” you blurted out automatically, only to whimper when the throbbing in your head protested the statement wildly.

Bucky simply looked at you, a plea in his gaze that just begged you to reconsider. You had your retort on the tip of your tongue, another pointed comment about your situation when your eyes fell to the clock on the wall. You were barely one and a half hour into your day. The realization sank like a stone in your stomach. There were still hours to go, and you already felt like you'd been through the grinder. The bell above the door chimed, and you let out a heavy sigh as you saw five women hustle inside, looking way too perky and alert to be real.

”Sweetheart, please, you're gonna run yourself into the ground,” Bucky said under his breath, having noted your defeated expression at the influx of customers. ”I know you don't want to, but-”

”I'll close.”

To say he looked a bit shocked was an understatement. Bucky squinted his eyes to look at you, perhaps checking to see if you were pranking him. You couldn't blame him, you'd probably also think someone was messing with you if you were in his position. Much as you had your principles and plenty of work to do, you also had your limit. Five new customers coming in to the tune of a ache that wouldn't give, that in fact seemed to be spreading instead. Maybe it was because you were finally admitting defeat, allowing yourself to feel as sick as you really were, and it spread like wildfire through you.

”You need help?” Bucky asked, nodding to the customers seated at the tables.

”Don't scare them away,” you mock-warned him, poking him in the arm. ”Just because I close early doesn't mean I don't want them to come back.”

”Oh, you wound me! I swear on my blessed Ma's grave..!”

”Are you gonna help or not, Barnes?”

Bucky merely gave you goofy grin and spun his chair around to jump off it and go inform the patrons that you were closing. You couldn't help your own little grin, however quick it was. The five ladies that had entered approached you, and you explained you would be closing early due to illness. You offered to sell them cupcakes if they were okay with takeaway. Thankfully, they were nice about it, picking out a decent sample box of cupcakes. Feeling bad, you threw in a discount before bidding them goodnight.

Hearing the bell chime again, this time knowing it was because people were leaving, was a bit of relief, until you looked back at the display, remembering the mess in the kitchen you hadn't had time to completely clean up before opening. There was so much to do still, and now that you were finally allowed at least one night's rest, you couldn't fall asleep right away. The cupcakes needed to be put away, the shop needed to be cleaned, the kitchen needed tidying, you had to count the cashbox and check the locks and the alarm, and-

”Hey, hey, what's the matter?” Bucky's voice, tinged with concern, drew your attention.

”There's... there's so much to do,” you answered, sounding way more defeated than you meant to. ”I-I can't, I don't want to...”

Ducking under the counter top, Bucky came up next to you, wrapping you in a tight hug. His embrace, while usually effective in easing your worries, didn't quite reach through to you. Sure, it helped a little, but the ache and the ever-present sensation of vertigo made it hard to focus and your thoughts were a jumble that kept going in circles, always returning to the disarray that couldn't be left to tomorrow.

”Shh, shh...” Bucky soothed you, letting a steady hand run calming circles over your back. ”What do you need me to do? What do you need help with?”

”Everything.”

”We'll be here all night, and that kinda defeats the purpose of you closing early, don't it?”

”I can't leave it, Bucky, the cupcakes-”

”So we put away the cupcakes,” he interrupted you, pulling you away slightly so he could look at you. ”We do the absolutely necessary things, nothing more, nothing less. Think about it, what can't you leave until tomorrow?”

You wanted repeat your answer, but he had a point. If you took on everything, even with Bucky's help, you'd be here for at least an hour, and your body was steadily giving out on you. Taking a deep breath, you ran through your end of night ritual, willing your racing mind to slow down, to match the steady heartbeat thumping under Bucky's shirt.

”Cupcakes,” you began, trusting Bucky to remember things better than you would at this point. ”We need to put them in the fridge, and... and lock the doors and check the alarms. I... I don't remember if I left something out. If I did we need to throw it away.”

”Cupcakes, doors and trash,” he summarized, stroking you over the crown of your head. ”Sounds doable.”

You nodded meekly against his chest, unwilling to leave now that you were there. Still, you knew you had to get started, and you extricated yourself from his hug. Bucky insisted he put away the cupcakes, urging you to lock up since you knew the system better. Too tired to argue, you gave another nod, dragging your feet to the front door to lock and deadbolt it, then twist and pull the handle an inordinate amount of times to really make sure it was locked. A slow crawl later via the till to at least pull out the cash drawer, you were in the kitchen, barely noticing Bucky as he scooched past you. After hiding the money, the procedure was repeated on the backdoor. Lock, twist, pull, repeat.

”It's locked, darlin',” came Bucky's gentle voice behind you.

You turned, finding him with one tray in each hand, a small smile in place.

”'M just being thorough,” you told him, feeling your cheeks burn slightly.

”I know,” he appeased, setting one of the trays down to open the fridge. ”Look, I'm just about done, only got three trays left. Why don't you set the alarm and go upstairs, I'll come up as soon as I'm done.”

”You'll need the code, do you remem-”

”954772.” Bucky shot you a grin. ”Memory might be a bit shoddy, but some things still stick. Go on, go upstairs and get to bed. I'll be up before you know it.”

If you'd had more energy, you would have teased him for that accidental innuendo, but as it was, you hummed and headed for the door that led upstairs. You punched in the sequence that would set the alarm and headed up the stairs while Bucky kept his eyes on you for as long as he could, knitting his brows together when the door finally swung close. He had to work fast. It was only a flight of stairs and small distance between your door and your bedroom, but god only knew what you could get up to in your state.

He hurried to fetch the rest of the cupcakes from the case and the windows, snapping a quick pic of the packed fridge that he sent to Stark with the caption ”I assume you can afford these?” He could accept bringing home a small box of leftovers, but this was more than he'd feel comfortable taking home without offering any compensation. Stark, not surprising, got back to him in seconds with a ”if this is a joke, I'm kicking you out”, followed almost directly by ”You don't toy with a man's emotions like this, so this better be real” and ”I'm writing a check now”. Bucky smirked, tucking the phone back in his jeans pocket. The kitchen, while still in a bit of disarray, could wait until tomorrow. There was nothing left out on the counters that needed to be thrown away immediately, although his fingers twitched with the need to help and tidy up. Bucky shook his head. He'd promised he'd be up as quickly as possible. Everything that had to be done was done. Giving the room one last once over, Bucky quickly punched the code to the alarm, opened the door an hurried up the stairs.

Making a beeline for your bedroom, his heart almost dropped when he saw your bed empty. Mind running a mile a minute, Bucky's eyes began scanning in the room, the tactical training that had been part learned, part forced upon him taking in the minute details of the room. Window closed, no sign of forced entry. Bed made, sheets still neat, no struggle. Point of extraction unlikely. His body started moving almost of its own accord to continue the meticulous search in the living room, hand already back in his pocket to call Steve and assemble his team mates to tear down the city if that's what it would take, when a soft whine diverted him.

It felt like his heart stopped completely when his eyes found you, curled up like a cat on the couch. The tension that had gathered in him bled away, jaw unclenching and lips pulling up into a soft smile. You looked so small to him, and Bucky couldn't help but see the similarities to Steve as his friend existed in his choppy memories; easily shrugged off as frail and weak but with tenacity to fight the entire god damn world. He hesitated before pulling the blanket from the backrest, scrunching up his face as he saw the hole still there. Why you still kept this couch was beyond him. Bucky shook out the blanket, draping it over you and pressing a kiss to your forehead, memories supplying context: his ma, kissing him and Becca just like this to test their temperature. You're warm, not quite burning, but it's getting there. He set off for the kitchen and seconds later, the kettle was bubbling. Quickly, Bucky found the ingredients needed to make you a fresh cup of tea, tiptoeing to the bathroom to rifle through the mirror cabinet. The telltale click of the thermostat shutting off sounded just as he pushed a fever reducer from the foil capsules.

”Sweetheart?”

Bucky gently stroked your cheek with his right hand, making sure to carefully set down the mug he held in his left on the coffee table. You gave another whine, curling together more and trapping his hand between your cheek and your shoulder.

”C'mon, sugar, wake up...” Another protest. ”Just for a little while. Got you some tea and something for your fever.”

”Bucky?”

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking until they finally settled on him, bringing out a dopey smile. A stronger man than him might have been able to keep a straight face, but Bucky conceded then and there; he was not a strong man, not when you looked at him like that.

”Got some tea and medicine for you,” he repeated. ”Think you can sit up for a little while?”

Nodding, you pushed your upper body down before trying to launch yourself up into sitting position. It took a couple of tries, a whole lot of suppressed grunts and Bucky gently helping you along and making sure the blanket stayed on you. When you were all seated, cup of tea in your hand and medicine swallowed, Bucky joined you, sitting down on your left. You hummed contentedly, letting your head droop and fall against his shoulder, your eyes once again falling shut.

”C'mon, drink a little more tea,” he coaxed you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

”Wanna sleep,” came the slurred answer, followed by a heavy sigh.

”I know, I know. Just a few more sips, okay? Then I'll tuck you back in.”

You held onto the mug with both hands, taking a few token sips before holding out the mug for him. Bucky shook his head and gave a small scoff. Yeah, Steve and you would have gotten along swimmingly, probably put him in an early grave. He took a sip of his own, humming as the combined taste of ginger, lemon and honey hit his tongue.

”Don't... Don' want you gettin' my icky germs.”

”Got immunity, remember? Your germs can't get to me,” Bucky told you, placing the mug on the table. ”Let's get you to bed, okay?”

You hummed, but made no move to get up from the couch. He tried cajoling you some more, but you were almost fast asleep again and pretty much dead to the world. Seeing no other way to get you from the couch to the bedroom, he gently shifted you so he could snake one arm under your knees and the behind your back to lift you up. You barely let out a huff as Bucky carried you the short distance, only turned a little in his grip when he sat down to pull the bedspread aside, and giving a shallow sigh when you were finally laid out like Sleeping Beauty. As he reached to pull the comforter over you, you shifted again, rolling onto your side, your hands coming up to clasp something at your neck. In the soft light from the lamp posts outside, the metal of the dog tag only glinted dully, but to Bucky it may as well have been the sun. 

He'd spotted the chain around your neck every time he'd visited since Valentine's Day, barely able to conceal the joy that shot through him. You always kept the tags under your shirt, but he could understand why, and the thought that you carried him with you where you went warmed him more than he'd expected. Bucky reached out, letting his fingers drag over your closed fist, feeling the metal of the tag, still warm from your body heat, under his fingertips. His left hand dipped inside the collar of his own shirt, pulling out the matching necklace with the second tag.

The idea had come to him when Steve had dragged him along to once again go through boxes of stuff from their time. It was mostly photos and trinkets, but at the very bottom were Steve's own dog tags. He'd gotten them, but never really taken to wearing them while out in the field, and after the Valkyrie went down, all of his belongings had been packed and filed away in storage. Bucky found himself missing his own tags, this simple sign of identification. Name, service number, vaccinations, blood group, religion. A solid sign that he existed. His own tags were lost forever, but Steve had pointed out he could probably get replacement tags if he wanted. It had taken some wrangling to get them, and seeing them looking so... new felt strange. He still remembered his own tags, a little banged up, the metal having lost its intial shine. Giving one of the tags to you had been an easy choice, and Valentine's Day provided the perfect time to do so.

Bucky leaned down, planting a soft kiss to your forehead. Your temperature seemed to have gone down a little, and you hummed under your breath.

”Please, don't go,” you murmured, leaning in to the sweet kiss.

For once, Bucky's first reaction was not to deny you. A stronger man might have been able to, but as he'd established, James Buchanan Barnes was not a strong man. He didn't care if he wouldn’t sleep a wink, he wanted to be here, wanted to do this. It was domestic, intimate. Forehead kisses and tea and someone who wore proof him right by their heart. He smiled against your skin, pressing another kiss there.

”I'll be on the couch, darlin'.”

His statement calmed you, allowing you to slip back to dreamland while Bucky eased himself off the bed and tiptoed out of the room. Lying down on the couch felt easier than before. He didn't expect to sleep, instead lounging and listening to the sounds of your rhythmic breaths while letting the tag flick between his fingers.

Proof he existed, a promise he'd always come back.

Tags: @ursulaismymiddlename, @loup-malin,@4theluvofall, @booksandshowsandmovies-ohmy, @assbutt-son-of-a-bitch, @bakexprayxlove, @thelastjedl, @juliagolia87, @oceanilserain, @fallingpanickedkilljoys, @bovaria, @ceebeetumbles, @feepsmoothie, @avengerofyourheart, @sarahsassafras13, @sebbytrash, @creideamhgradochas, @omalleysgirl22, @canumoveyourseatup-no, @just-another-fangirl777, @softwhispers, @therealgingermermaid, @c-maximoffs, @ipaintmelodies, @reniescarlett, @wellfuckbuck, @delicatecapnerd, @princesabee, @mizzzpink, @winter-in-wakanda, @andhiseyesweregreen, @supergoodatfailng, @ouatalways, @awaitingjudgementx, @4theluvofall, @avengingnights, @ourpeachskies, @lenavonschweetz, @beingpeculiarsince2001, @stephanie11220, @themcuhasruinedme, @feepsmoothie, @nuvoleincielo, @mellifluous-melodramas, @callamint,  @mrshopkirk, @tatortot2701