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seeds-and-sins · 4 years

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On the Fly

Pairing: Homelander / Reader

Rating: T (Language, lots of bad language)

Description: You are a loud mouth New York cop that doesn't give two shits what anybody else thinks. Homelander is the hero of America, the stars and stripes of justice. The fans ship you two together so bad, and it was all your fault. If only you had kept your mouth shut.

It was such a cheesy, stupid idea that the Vought marketing team had developed. One single interaction between Homelander and some tiny, pathetic little officer goes viral, and all the fans want more of it, ALL of the fans. You were just doing your duty that day, Homelander and Queen Maeve intervened when your partner and you were about to lead a huge drug raid that had been planned for months. You, always having been the more forward one, approached Homelander, when she just so happened to be addressing the news about the incident.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" His eyebrows rose up at the sight of you, a fleshbag at most, badgering him. Your hair was loose, the NYPD vest fastened tightly on your torso, toned biceps flashing, gun at your side, he was absolutely confused at first. No officer just straight up approached him unless they wanted an autograph, or a handshake. You wanted neither. And you were so angry, your New Yorker accent was shooting out of from your lips without restraint.

"Excuse me?" He then snorted, reminding himself that you were both being watched.

"This was my raid, not yours, you don't just come fucking barging in without notice. We had planned this for months."

"And I understand that, um..." He forced a smile, although he really wanted to just break your neck. No one had ever had the gull to speak to him that way. "You are the real heroes."

"Oh, like that fucking shit is going to cut it, huh?" You pushed Homelander, although it was almost like pushing a wall, you did it anyways. Everyone around you both made a resounding gasp, even some of the emergency services crew members in the backdrop paused what they were doing. "Listen buster, I trained for this shit show, and what did you do? You were born with the power to fucking fly and shoot lasers from your eyes? Big fucking whoop!" Homelander's jaw went taut and he sighed agitation.

"And don't you know who you are talking to? I saved your lives and made your jobs easier." You crossed your arms, lip pouting out.

"I didn't become a cop so that you could make it easy for me. I knew what I signed up for. Next time, mind your own shit! I will keep you on stand by."

"Next time, I will still do what heroes always do." He stated firmly between clenched teeth, then bowed down closer to you, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate you, but to his surprise you didn't even flinch. You came straight forward, faces an inch from eachother as you kept a hard eye contact.

"You fucking come into my establishment again, I will have your ass." You growled, fists at her sides.

"And we'll see how well that goes for you, officer." He snarled right back, then you were storming off. Even though you truly wanted to be the last one standing, you had work to do.

The next day you did the usual routine. You went on your six miler, hit the weights at the gym, and then got ready for the day. You didn't think anything of it, got your coffee, grabbed a whole of the daily paper and walked to work in uniform. As soon as you showed up to the department, it was a shit storm. People were flying back and forth, colleagues of yours sent you stares without replying to your greetings, the whole place was in disarray. Then you saw him, and your blood only boiled more, he was standing with the commissioner and several unfamiliar faces. When the commissioner saw you, his entire expression lit up in that face you knew all too well, the 'I am trying to hide how pissed I am so I will smile' face.

"Officer (L/N)! Come over here!" He exclaimed with feigned excitement, he scurried the lit of you into his office, where you took your usual seat. You had been here before, you weren't usually very good at following the rules as it was. This blonde woman took the seat beside you, two others standing behind her with clipboards. She had this eerie grin on her face, not much different from Homelander's.

"Officer (L/N), its a pleasure to meet you." She held her hand out, you didn't accept it and tilted your head towards your boss.

"What the fuck is going on?" As the woman retrieved her hand, the red head behind her replied in an all too chirpy tone.

"The fans love you! They want you in a team up with Homelander." She explained, you rolled your eyes and then stood with a sigh.

"This is a joke. I am not doing it."

"You have no choice, (Y/N)." Your boss said and he said it all too sternly, surely he would have your badge if you disagreed.

"I don't believe this, why me? Huh? Because I said what everybody else was thinking?!"

"Here are some of what the fans have been saying." The other one handed her clipboard to you, the blonde still staring in silence with that polite and cringy smile. You squinted as you read over the list of comments, particular on the viral video between Homelander and you.

"Aww, they are like an old married couple?!" You read aloud, "What the fuck?!" Then down to the next one. "Why don't they just get a room?! Team up?! What the fuckety fuck?!"

"It appears the two of you have had some chemistry, I suppose." The blonde finally spoke coolly, you then raised your glare to Homelander.

"Do you think we have chemistry? Huh? 'Cause I think you are just a fucked up, flying monkey asshole."

"(Y/N)!" Your boss chastised, you crossed your arms with a sigh.

"Whatever, lets just get this over with. People will get sick of it eventually."

"Perfect, we will have the cameras on you, as soon as within the hour." Your jaw dropped, and you wanted to speak in protest, but the words wouldn't leave your lips. As everyone left the room, Homelander was the lsst one to tap your mouth shut, he grinned.

"You're a celebrity now, (Y/N). Get used to it." You thought you could, but it was so much work trying to ride this out. The cameras followed you for weeks, allowing Vought to post short videos of your encounters with Homelander. Homelander replaced your partner for that period of time, which only drifted your friend and you further apart. The short videos became so popular, soon the two of you had your own TV show every night at nine. It was originally called Justice.

"Do you think we could film your workout routine, (Y/N)?" Vought was insufferable in their addiction for the show, it had gotten a lot of publicity and was a number one hit for the industry. Homelander accompanied you on bank robberies, house calls, domestic disturbances, etc. Meanwhile, the both of you disagreed over everything and the banter only made the two of you more popular. Vought started making t-shirts and memorabilia that selled like crazy. The two of you posing, your playful remarks, and almost all of the words that left your mouth:

Flying Monkey Motherfucker!

It was like a fucking hillbilly porno!

Go fuck yourself with some bullets!

Listen, I have bigger balls than this two bit motherfucking laser machine!

That was when the true name of the show was born:

"Yeah, like you think I am going to be like you, fucking on the fly-"

"That's it!" One of the producers shouted from behind the cameras. Homelander and you glared at him, annoyed that anybody would interrupt the very imoortant argument you both were having. From that point on the show was named 'On the Fly', it ran like crazy, and despite its popularity, Homelander and you still hated each other's guts. The fans expected the picture portrait chemistry off screen, and neither of you really understood what they meant. Until Season 8, that is...

"There's about twenty of them." Homelander stated, as he eyed the side of the warehouse.

"Perfect! Half and half." You cocked your guns and the both of you started towards the double doors, leading in through the back. There was a body cam on you, one on Homelander, and a cameraman, one of several as some of them had been 'accidentally' into the mix of shoots and dangerous fights.

"Last time you said that, you killed one of my guys." Homelander stated, pointing a finger at you in warning not to make the same mistake again.

"We'll just separate everyone as we go, okay?" You stood back as Homelander kicked the chained doors open, the shots started firing almost instantly. One thing Homelander could respect you for was that you kept up very nicely, for a meatbag that was. You were fit and vigilant and would have made a fantastic hero, if you had powers.

Homelander grabbed you by the back collar of your vest, tossing you gently up to a catwalk that crossed the warehouse, where you easily shot at four of the criminals. Homelander skillfully did his work, lasers flying around, punching threw chest and throwing people out of the roof. You both finally came to the last guy, he was unarmed. You were out of ammo and mags. You holstered your gun and grinned at him.

"Is this one mine?"

"Sure is," Homelander cringed a bit, the guy was bit and hefty, twice your size. "Unless you want me to handle this one." The man's eyes widened and he shook his head, then raised his fists toward her.

"Nope, I got it." As always, you struggled fighting against the bigger ones, but you always caught up. Homelander stood off to the side, herring you on even as you got your face punched or as you were thrown against a storage container.

"Keep going, (Y/N)! Just shout if you need help." He would mock, arms crossed, that one camera man looking in in horror. Finally you grabbed the back of the guy's head and drilled your knee into his face, he dropped to the side unconscious. Breathing heavily, bloodied face, fists clenched and sweating pooling off your skin, you kicked him one last time. You nearly fell back if Homelander hadn't been there to prop a firm hand against the middle of your back. "I knew it." He grinned, wiping a hand across the bruise on your cheek. "I could have done better, but..."

"Oh, fuck you, you pile of heroic shit." The both of you started to walk side by side back out of the front, where several cameras waited and the camera crew stood to finish the episode. You both turned to eachother and stared, you placed your hands on your hips.

"Not too bad, supershitter." You said with a huff after finally catching your breath.

"You too, officer, you too." But it felt dull, something was off, the air was thick and the wind was a bit too breezy for your taste.

"Cut!" The director came forward from the crowd, smiling with that off smile, he could feel it too. "We are going to run this ending again. Why don't you guys kiss, or something?"

"What?!" You narrowed your eyes on the director, that was where you drew the line.

"No. Not happening." Homelander chuckled, like it was some joke. You didn't know why his denial offended you right then and there, but it did.

"What am I not pretty enough for you? Fucking jerk." The director slowly started to back peddle, gesturing to the cameras to start rolling again. Homelander held his palms up in surrender and shrugged.

"You have blood and shit all over your face, why would I want to kiss you?"

"Oh, so if I didn't have shit on my face, you would do it?" You saw Homelander hesitate for a moment before returning to that same confident swagger of his.

"No, I never said that."

"Well, then what the fuck is the problem?! Why wouldn't you kiss me? Hmm?"

"Why does it bother you so much?" He jested, hands now on his hips and he stepped closer. He had to tilt his gaze down to consider your tinier self.

"Why does it bother you that it bothers me?" His eyebrows furrowed to contest.

"It doesn't bother me." He spat, you crossed your arms and smirked evilly, only really wanting the last word. It didn't matter if he kissed you, or not, right?

"I think it does. I think you are lying." You teased.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because if it didn't bother you, you would just kiss me and get this shit over with."

"Fine." You didn't expect him to just go with it, your eyes widened as you stared up at him, hands dropping to your sides. Then you shook your head, pulling yourself back into thst glare.

"Fine, then." And you both leaned into each other, tight lips pressing together, and you hated yourself but you enjoyed the contact more than you'd like to admit. Everything was quiet, so quiet a pin could drop on the asphalt and everyone would be able to hear it. You gasped when Homelander's hands snaked around your waist, and your own hands found his biceps for support as you were slightly lifted off the ground. The gasp opened your lips and Homelander's tongue slid through and the kiss deepened as your mouths opened up and fought for dominance. Homelander held you tighter as he then ascended thousands of feet up into the sky. You gripped him harder and cried out, cheek pressing to his, now too high up for the cameras to find you.

"Hom-John, what the fuck, man?! Put us down!"

"Shut up." And he kissed you again, then soaring you both through the sky towards a destination unknown. You were so lost in the kiss at that point, that it didn't matter where you were going. This was the last thing you expected to happen, ever, in a million years. But you weren't going to complain...

Meanwhile, the camera crew and director stood down below in shocked silence. The silence was soon broken by the director's words:

"That was absolutely fucking perfect! Cut scene!"

Master List

#homelander #reader #homelander x reader #vought #cops and robbers #the boys #one shot

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bbrandy2002 · 3 years

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Fearless

Chapter 2: Take My Hand And Drag Me Headfirst

Book: The Royal Romance/The Royal Heir

Pairing: Prince/King Liam x MC (Riley Brooks), Drake Walker x OC (Alyssa Devereaux)

Series Premise: Riley Brooks and Alyssa Devereaux became best friends as freshmen at Syracuse University, a borderline-sisterhood that lasts forever after. When Riley meets a handsome prince and is asked to compete for his hand in a mysterious faraway kingdom, she invites Alyssa along for moral support.

What the girls think will be a crazy temporary adventure becomes two sets of happily ever afters … with twice the shenanigans to show for it.

A/N: This series is written in loving collaboration between @bbrandy2002 and @burnsoslow.

Series Warnings: Smut 🍋🍋, language, canon violence (gun violence, bombing, terrorism), drug use, probably more stuff as we think of it. By reading this series, you agree that you are at least 18 years old and are prepared to deal with adult themes.

Thank you @burnsoslow for the beta and putting some of your magical finishing touches where needed.

Chapter 3 will be written by @burnsoslow , I’m so excited for that!!

___________________________

Propped against the railing of the rear deck of a small tugboat in the middle of the Hudson River, the warmth of Liam’s arms wrapped around her from behind, Riley thought back to the words Daniel spoke to her earlier about fairytales and happy endings. Maybe it was the hope in his voice she needed to hear during a vulnerable moment to lift her spirits, but she was really starting to believe them herself.

The newly fired, down-on-her-luck Riley Brooks had left the Tapped Out Bar with a mysterious man that she plowed over during an escape from rats while taking out the garbage. A little while later, she accidentally attacked him again in the alleyway of her former employment with her sad little stick. They struck up a conversation, and through some awkward stalling on his part, he finally worked up the nerve to ask her out for a drink.

Riley wasn’t someone who normally took off with random guys she just met to flit about the city, but there was just something about Liam that was different -- that was special.

Call it intuition. An inclination. Instinct or inkling. Whatever it was, was a possibility. Of what? That remained to be seen.

After talking to his friends about his plans, and at her behest, the pair headed west on foot until they reached a busy late-night cafe that overlooked the choppy waters of the New York harbor. Sitting on the open deck, moonlight cascading off the ripples of the sea, a light jazz tune playing through the outdoor speakers, they talked for over an hour about everything and nothing, while sipping coffee and plucking at a large cinnamon roll they shared. It was the most Riley had spoken in a long time. When you live with and are friends with the more outgoing Alyssa, you learn to appreciate the fine art of listening. She spoke about her dads, her friends, places she traveled to and what not. All very light, casual conversation. Liam mentioned he had family, his country of origin, how much he was enjoying New York, but never revealed too much.

Not wanting to sound too whiny and pathetic, she stuck with the positive things in her life; she surprised even herself that there were a lot more than she realized. But he captivated her in a real way that made it so easy. Liam laughed with her and made her feel interesting and personable; maybe even desired.

And as the night carried on and the patrons of the cafe dwindled down, a Miles Davis tune began to play: “Blue and Green.” A bright smile tugged on the corner of Liam’s lips as he pushed his chair back and rose from the table to offer his hand. “My lady.”

Riley looked around the deck to see if anyone else was dancing -- they weren’t -- but how could she say no?

She didn’t want to say no.

Beside their little round table and under a string of hanging white pearly lights and garland, they slowly swayed together like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was chemistry in motion with every soft blare of the trumpet, rhythmic taps on the snare drum, and light pitter pats on a piano played in G major. The tempo was leisurely and elegant, creating the perfect ambience for the feelings that were stirring within them.

With her head resting snugly against his firm chest, the thrumming of his steadily-beating heart reverberating in her ear, Liam revealed, “I’m the Crown Prince of Cordonia, Riley.”

Never breaking their stride, Liam lifted one of her tiny arms in the air and twirled her around gracefully. Riley smiled up at him as they returned to formation; their hands intertwined between them. “And I’m one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

Liam laughed as they continued their gentle side-to-side movements. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not lying to you. Perhaps I should have been a little more upfront with you from the beginning, but I’m normally not allowed to go out without the Royal Guard.” He paused for a moment to lower her into a deep dip, sensually inhaling the perfumed scent around her decolletage, before pulling her back into his arms. “And I was only allowed out on the condition that I kept my identity a secret. But, just for one day … I wanted to be free.”

It was one of the most romantic nights Riley had ever experienced in her life, but as the music continued to play, their steps gliding in sync, she nuzzled her cheek against his firm body and responded, “You’re so full of shit.”

Liam pulled away, amused by her choice of words and disbelief. “After I told you all of that, you still think I’m lying?”

Riley shrugged. “I dunno.” She casually pulled out her chair under his watchful eye and sat down, crossing her legs. Lifting a coffee mug to her lips, she winced at its cold temperature, and the fact that she hated coffee. “So, I’m not really into the whole role-playing thing, but if you’re gonna be this ... Prince of Condomania, how about if I play the sultry villainess spy who comes to steal the treasures from your castle and you catch me in the act?” She batted her eyelashes and splayed her hands across her chest. “I will neva surrenda, Prince Liam. If you wont me, you’ll haf to take me right heya.” Riley animatedly flung her arms out and arched back over her chair.

Liam knit his brow. “What the hell kind of accent is that?”

Riley sat up and smiled proudly. “It’s Cajun. I have this friend and I really like how he talks; it’s so sexy. Do you think it sounded convincing at all? Maybe a little too nasally? You want me to try to do your accent next?”

With a grin, Liam shook his head and took the seat across from her. “You’re something else, you know that?”

She sighed. “That’s what they tell me.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Riley watched curiously as Liam pulled out his phone and began typing something on it. He held it out to her. “I want you to look at this, Cajun Villainess Spy. Tell me what you think?”

“Oh God, you’re gonna show me a dick pic, aren’t you?” Riley slammed her eyes shut as she reluctantly reached for his cell, but sort of peeked out one eye.

“Eh, no. That’s never really been my style.” He gestured insistently for her to look at the screen as he sat back and crossed his arms. “I think you’ll find everything you want to know about me right there.”

It only took her a second to study the images and gloss over the text he pulled up, but a satisfied smirk formed on Liam’s charmed features while watching her eyes grow larger. Riley jumped up from her chair, the momentum causing it to tip over. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a real prince?”

Liam guffawed, “I did!”

“No, you didn’t! You had I’m joking written all over your face. How was I supposed to know your serious face and your joke face look the same?” She tossed the phone back to him like it was molten iron scorching her palm. “I’d rather have the dick pic.”

After picking up her tipped-over chair and getting settled again, she took a moment to just process the identity of the man she had spent the last couple of hours talking and dancing with. Her real-life Prince Charming. This incredibly sweet, hot guy sipping coffee in front of her was part of a royal family, and she was an unemployed everything. What on earth possessed him to want to spend time with the likes of her?

She looked up from her fidgeting fingers that were picking at the green fabric covering her thighs and smiled softly at him. “I’m sorry I overreacted. It’s just …”

“A lot to learn about someone? No, no, I get it. I probably would have had the same reaction if I were you.”

“So ... what happens now?”

What happened next was what led them to the boat they were on for an impromptu midnight ride to see the Statue of Liberty.

Liam laid out the details of his situation: He was a prince visiting New York City with his friends who were throwing him a last-minute bachelor party. Riley listened attentively while he explained his upcoming social season: not knowing yet who he was going to marry, but that duty required him to take a wife by the end of the year. He had hoped while he was in the city to visit its most famous statue; however, his friends hadn’t planned for it. Riley heard the disappointment in his voice and it tugged at her heart.

It was definitely too late to catch one of the many tours that traveled to Ellis Island during the day, but Riley was determined to do what she could to make it happen for him. Part of her was motivated by the fact that she liked him a lot and enjoyed his company; he was charming and refined, different from anyone she’d ever met. The longer she got to spend with Liam and got to know him, the better. But there was also this other part that felt sorry for him. Riley could see the struggle in his eyes and the weight on his shoulders between what he wanted to do, and what his position forced his hand to do. In her mind it was clear that Liam was the kind of guy who got everything -- except what he wanted.

In some ways, she knew the feeling.

To Liam’s surprise, Riley assured him she would find a way for him to see that statue. So, while he paid the tab, her mind raced with how the hell she was going to pull this off. And just before the actual possibility of having to hijack a vessel began to fully take shape in her mind, she pulled out her phone in one last-ditch effort to not break the law. Riley knew no one who owned a boat, but there was one person in her life that seemingly had a connection to everyone in the damn city.

Riley bit at her fingernails as the phone rang, glancing over her shoulder once to watch Liam paying the cashier. “Come on, come on. Pick up. Pick up.”

“Heyyyy!”

“Alyssa,” Riley whispered in an urgent tone into the phone, unclear whether her friend would even hear her over the party music and raucous chatter that was blaring in the background. “I need your help with something.”

“Riiiiley!” she slurred. “My bestie. My sister from another parents. I love you soooo much. More than everyone in the whole wide ... something. Hey, guys! Riley’s on the phone; say hi to her!”

“Wait, Lyss! No.”

A loud chorus of drunken greetings could be heard through the receiver as Alyssa held it up in the air.

“Alyssa!” Riley repeated in frustration while listening to her best friend start another conversation with a partygoer about the perfect symmetrical shape of the cheese cube she just ate. Apparently, it looked like a “tiny little house, for teeny, tiny little cheese people.”

Riley smacked her forehead. “Alyssa!”

Liam returned from paying the bill, his hands stuffed in his pockets and bouncing on his heels. He raised his eyebrows at Riley as if asking eagerly whether she was ready to head out on this adventure she told him she would make possible. Riley smiled back and raised a finger, indicating she’d be ready in a moment. Panic started to set in as she cursed under her breath and continued to try to get her friend back on the call. “Lyss.”

“Riley,” Alyssa laughed. “You’re still on the phone? No way! Hey, guys! Riley’s still on the phone. Say ‘hey’ to her!”

“NOO! Please, Alyssa, I need your help.”

“Whatcha need, Ri? You know I’ll do aaaanything for you.”

“Ok, do you remember when you caught our dorm room on fire senior year cooking ramen noodles in the microwave, and all my stuff burned up?”

“That checks. Sure.”

“Well, it’s time to pay up on that favor you said you’d owe me.”

Somehow, the planets must have been aligned just right, because a very inebriated Alyssa comprehended Riley’s request enough to talk to Damien about it and have it actually make sense. Luckily, the private detective knew a guy who drove a tugboat for the Port Authority working the night shift and was more than willing to see what he could do for Alyssa’s best friend.

-----------

Riley felt Liam’s arms tighten around her waist as the Statue of Liberty came into view. She had seen the landmark more times than she could remember in her life; perhaps she had become so accustomed to it being there that she took for granted how it would affect someone seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t until she twisted around in his arms to view his reaction, to see this beacon of freedom reflecting in his mesmerized eyes, that it all made sense. Liam was a beautiful man with a beautiful soul; if anyone deserved this moment to reflect on what it truly meant to embrace the freedom he longed for, it was him.

“What are you thinking, Liam?” She broke the silence.

He shook his head in wonderment. “It’s magnificent, Riley. I’ve heard art has meaning because of what it makes the viewer feel. Whether it’s ink splatters on a canvas or on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, it only matters if it moves you.”

“And?”

Liam let out a sigh of contentment and lowered his gaze to her. “And right now, looking at this view with you … I feel like … anything is possible.”

“I feel that way too.” She slowly nodded, finding herself lost in his eyes, his voice, his embrace. Nothing in this moment mattered to her anymore: the long stream of bad luck, the crappy job she just lost, her epic failures at relationships. They all seemed to just wistfully fly out into the ocean and bury themselves below its sandy bottom.

Wrapped in each other's arms, surrounded by the salty sea air and a skyline full of hopes and dreams, Liam pulled her as close to himself as she would go, his other hand moving up to caress the side of her face. Both searched longingly into each other's eyes, waiting for the other to make that next big move.

Feeling an awakening of courage and fire in the depths of her fluttering stomach, she threw all fears and caution to the wind. Riley grasped on to the lapels of Liam’s jacket and gently lowered him to her eagerly awaiting lips.

The kiss was tender and brief, but magical; it left her spellbound. Riley could swear she floated out of her body and traveled into the clouds that blanketed above them and enveloped her wholly.

Liam rested his forehead on Riley’s; his hands reached down to grasp hers and swing freely alongside them. “You’re full of surprises tonight, Riley.”

“Is that before or after I knocked you out earlier?”

He chucked, rubbing the bump on the back of his head. “Both times. I’m certainly not sorry about either, though. I’ll never forget this night … or you.”

If you have a concussion, you might. She smiled up at him, “Me either.”

As their boat rounded the island, Riley took one last glance back at the statue that now represented so much more in her mind. Her gaze traveled across the expanse of the gleaming torch, down the long arm of the statue, over to the dim lights shining through the glass within the crown. Something caught her attention -- an odd movement -- and she couldn’t help but squint real hard to make out the image that was quite small from her vantage point. She tilted her head, trying to figure out what the hell she was seeing before it finally became clearer to her. She let out a loud gasp. “Oh my God!”

From behind, Liam leaned down next to her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked curiously, trying to match his view with her line of sight. “What are you seeing?”

Riley pointed up. “I see ass cheeks!” she replied in disgust. “And not just any ass cheeks … big, gigantic ones smooshed right up against the window. There’s two people up there just going at it and … oh, no wait, she just got turned around. Yep, yep, those look like boobies now. Who does that kind of thing, having sex where anyone could just see? And in the Statue of Liberty, of all places?”

Letting out a forced cough then clearing his throat, Liam squeezed Riley’s shoulders several times and laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, I know. Sick freaks, huh?”

The pair watched the display for a second longer than they should have before turning to look at one another, blushing and smiling sheepishly. Riley only hoped she played off her disgust well enough that he didn’t realize she was a sick freak too.

Liam looked away, hoping the same.

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It was well past midnight.The Brooklyn streets were mostly bare, with only the occasional late-night dweller cruising the sidewalks or a yellow cab making its weekend rounds. Just a stone's throw across the bridge, the city that never slept, with its flashing lights and bustling tourist, lay in deep contrast to this quiet residential district that was only lit up at that hour by street lamps and halogen headlights.

Riley considered where she lived to be a fairly safe neighborhood. Crime and lawlessness weren’t unheard of, but it was rare for that area. Like many women of her young age, walking alone in the dark wasn’t something she usually set out to do unless she had no other choice. That’s why when Liam insisted he accompany her the few blocks from where they finished their excursion to see her home safely, she was more than willing to oblige him.

“This is my stop. Home sweet home.” Riley stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led to the entrance of her building and turned to Liam. She looked more gleeful than she actually was.

He glanced up at the plain red brick building. It was nothing special, but he made a mental note of the address numbers over its clear glass entryway. He knew it was unlikely he’d ever see her again, but on the off-chance, maybe someday if he was ever in the neighborhood … no, he thought … there’s no point in going there. “I see that ...it’s nice.”

Riley looked at him with a hopeful expression. “I know you said you had an early flight in the morning, but … if you’d like to come up …”

“I wish I could, Riley. Trust me, I want to more than you know; however, the limo will be here soon with my friends, and ...” he swept a strand of blowing hair from her face, memorizing her every feature. “... I don’t want to make this harder on either one of us.”

Nodding, Riley gave a half-smile. “I understand.”

They stared at one another for a moment, hoping to prolong the inevitable. “Come here, you.” Liam pulled her into him and wrapped his arms around her. ”I can never thank you enough for everything tonight, Riley. I’m so glad I ran into you. Well ... actually you ran into me.” Riley let out a soft laugh that made his heart skip a beat. “You were the best part of my trip, Riley. I mean it.”

Before they knew it, the limo pulled up alongside the sidewalk in front of Riley’s apartment. Both felt a sinking feeling, knowing this was the end, and embraced a little tighter as the squeak of the limo’s brakes dulled and the awaiting engine ran in the silent backdrop.

Riley drew in a breath, the heels of her shoes tapping one another. “I guess this is goodbye?”

Frowning, Liam’s palms moved up to her face and rested along her jawline. “I’m afraid it looks that way.” He leaned down and kissed her gently, her arms winding around the back of his neck to hold him there for as long as she possibly could.

Knowing if he didn’t end it there, it never would, Liam broke their kiss, stroking his hand through her hair and said, “Take care, Riley.”

She smiled back. “You too, Liam.”

Not wanting to leave until he was sure she made it inside safely, Liam watched from the sidewalk while Riley slowly made her way up the concrete steps, scouring through her bag as she did so. When she reached the top, she stepped in front of the locked door, frantically digging and shaking her bag in search of the keys to get in.

“Everything okay up there?” Liam called up to her as she knelt down and started frantically tossing items from her purse, slamming them down next to her feet: wallet, cell phone, lip gloss, ink pens, breath mints, hand sanitizer, a half-eaten bag of skittles, a box cutter she didn’t know she had, a marshmallow bunny from Easter, Midol, tampons …

“Mother fuck,” she grumbled in frustration to herself before yelling back cheerfully, “Yes, just looking for my keys. They’re always at the bottom,” she laughed, trying to make light of it.

“They’re in your hand, Riley,” she heard him point out when she finally gazed down into her hand and slowly opened her palm. Liam let out a laugh when he saw her face twist up, realizing she had them the entire time.

“Get out of here. You said you didn’t want to make this harder.” Riley began stuffing everything back into her bag.

He continued to laugh as he threw his hands up and stepped away. “I’m going.”

As soon as she unlocked the door and walked inside to the lit-up entryway, she heard the limo pull away. Everything in her wanted to look back in hopes he’d stayed behind by some chance and was walking up those steps, approaching the door, wanting her to let him in. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; the greatest guy she’d ever met was gone, and the only way to see him again would require a Google search.

In her mind, though, she had made a prince’s dream come true. Maybe she wasn’t half bad after all.

In a huge way, Liam did the same for her. Too bad he would never know it.

___________

Riley opened the door and stepped inside her dark apartment, closing it behind her. After such a long day, feeling a little disheartened, all she wanted to do was slip into some comfy night clothes, wash her face, brush her teeth and crash until next week. Taking two steps away from the door, her foot caught on something and she went flying forward, landing with a hard thud to the floor.

It felt like the wind had been knocked right out of her chest when she hit the ground. “Son-of-a--?” She pushed herself up on her knees, shook out her sore hands, then reached over to flip the light switch on.

“Alyssa?” Riley whispered.

Lying on the ground, curled into a peaceful little ball, was her roommate, still in the same clothes she last saw her in, hands pressed together and tucked under her cheek like a sleeping cherub. Riley crawled over to Alyssa, swept her hair out of her face, and checked for breathing. The strong smell of alcohol emanated from her tiny sighs -- Alyssa wasn’t a heavy drinker.

Concerned, Riley jiggled her arm. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

An angelic murmur was the only answer to her question.

Not wanting to leave her on the floor, Riley stood up and bent down, her hands grasping both of Alyssa’s wrists before she pulled her down their hallway as gently as she could and stepped into her best friend's bedroom.

Huffing out of breath, she made it next to Alyssa’s bed. Riley crouched down and tried to lift her onto the mattress, but Alyssa was dead weight. Maybe she had no other choice but to leave her there.

Riley pulled a blanket and pillow from the bed, rolled Alyssa to her side, and got her as comfortable as she could. After placing a wastebasket next to her friend and leaving a bottled water on the night table, she patted her back. “I have so many things to tell you in the morning, Lyss. You’d be so proud of me.” Riley swallowed down the emotions that had threatened to escape since she realized Liam had left for good. Her voice broken and feeble, she continued, “I took that risk. I was fearless, just like you told me to be. It didn’t work out the way I had hoped, but …” she sniffled through a small smile, blinking back tears. “... I have no regrets.”

Riley rose to her feet and headed for the door when she heard a faint voice call out from behind that stopped her in her tracks. “Ri?”

She turned her head. “Hmm?”

“I’m always proud of you.”

Switching the light off, Riley smiled back at her friend, who still appeared to be resting in a calm slumber. “I know. Good night, bestie.”

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

The next morning, just as the sun had peeked from behind the clouds and the air was fresh with newness and warmth, Riley woke. Today would differ from every day before. She didn’t want to lie in bed all day and dwell on what-might-have-beens or how her life was a dead end to nowhere. She was determined she wanted something more out of it -- whatever that may be.

Slipping on a pair of trainers, running tights and a long sleeve shirt, she pulled her hair up in a high ponytail and headed out.

She made it two blocks before collapsing on a bench, gasping for air, and flipping off a kid on a bike who was laughing and taunting her.

After five more blocks of running and taking a break at nearly every bench or stoop along the way -- that same jerky kid still deriding her as he circled around each block -- Riley made her way back to her building, hunched over and sweaty. She didn’t jog as far as she’d liked to, but she made the effort, for which she was pleased with herself.

It also didn’t hurt that there was a mouthy kid out there somewhere with two flat bicycle tires, crying to his mom, that was giving her a new boost of life.

Reaching for the door of her building, she chuckled to herself thinking about his pouty little face -- haha, sucks to be you, kid -- when someone yelled out her name.

“Shit,” she panicked, thinking the boy’s parents had found her and had come to beat her ass. Riley fumbled with her keys, trying to make a quick getaway inside.

“Hey, Riley! Stop.” The voice sounded oddly familiar, and curiosity couldn’t stop her from whipping her head around to take a quick peek. She instantly recognized the man who was racing up the stairs towards her, from the bar. He was one of the guys from Liam’s party last night who helped after the collision.

Pulling the keys from the lock and gripping the pepper spray attached to them, she jumped back when he suddenly hopped up next to her like a fireball of energy.

“Riley. I’m so glad I caught up with you. I’m Maxwell -- we met last night -- and this is Rashad.” He pointed over his shoulder. The man gave a simple nod in return. “He was there, too.”

Her brows knit in confusion. “Oookay. You both aren’t here by chance upset over a couple of slashed bike tires, are you? Because that wasn’t me. I saw who did it, though, if you need a witness statement.” Riley’s eyes shifted around, looking for a person to match her fake would-be description.

Maxwell shook his head with a chuckle and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, her gaze falling to it. “Nah, I came to talk to you about Liam. You’re all he could talk about when he got back to the hotel last night. He went on and on about the cafe, and the trip to the Statue of Liberty, and how beautiful you are ...”

“He -- he did?” She was pleasantly surprised, her heart bursting at his words.

“Yeah. We’re heading back to Cordonia so Liam can find someone to marry and all that jazz. But before I go, I wanted to officially extend to you an invitation to join us for the festivities in Cordonia. Sooo … is there somewhere we can talk?”

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

“You want me to do what?” Riley jumped up from the sofa, her eyes wide and mouth gaping as she gawked back at Maxwell, who was sitting at the far end. Her trembling hand shot to her forehead before she paced back and forth. “Let me get this straight. You want to sponsor me to compete to marry a man I just met last night? And not just any man, a prince. You’re going to fly me halfway across the world -- You could be the Official Royal Serial Killer, for all I know -- then prance me around like some beauty pageant contestant? And all I have to do is say ‘yes to the dress’ that you can’t afford? Just hop right on a plane with two strange men, huh? How naïve do I look to you?” Riley paused for a second. “Don’t answer that.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I saw how Liam looked at you last night at the bar, and later when he returned from your date. I’ve never seen him that happy before. Honestly, I don’t want him to lose that. We’re kinda crunched for time, though. I’ve got a plane leaving in an hour.”

“An hour?” Riley questioned as she plopped down on the coffee table, her back to Maxwell and the guy in the chair across the room who hadn’t said a word the whole time. It was a once-in-a-lifetime offer to travel somewhere new and exciting and literally rub elbows with royalty. To live out that fairytale that most girls could only dream of. But more importantly, it was a way to see Liam again, and she wanted to so badly … if Maxwell was indeed telling the truth.

Even if nothing came of it, there was no job tying her down anymore. Her dad had just gotten married to her stepfather and stayed busy as a chef for Beyonce and Jay-Z, so he would be fine, and she had enough money in savings to pay her portion of the rent while she was gone and expenses for her travels. There was just one thing she would insist on.

Riley spun around on the table, her eyes flashing between the two men. “I will do this -- on one condition.”

Maxwell clapped his hands excitedly. “Yes! Just name it and it’s yours.”

“Max.” Rashad leaned forward in his chair, his elbows pressed into his knees. “You don’t even know what she wants yet.”

“I’m getting to that.” Maxwell turned to her with an arched brow. “Okay, Riley. What is your condition?”

She hadn’t even asked Alyssa yet, but Riley steepled her fingers and volunteered her, anyway. “My roommate has to go with me.”

“No problemo.”

“What -- Really?”

“Sure. She can ride the jet back with us and I’ll even help her find a good hotel room nearby so you two can visit … if you’re able to find time in between all the competitions, balls, traveling, lessons, and what not. It’ll be great!”

Riley shook her head adamantly, not willing to budge on the issue. “No! I want Alyssa there for all of those things. If I even have the slightest chance of being a serious contender and a fully functioning human being, I need someone there to make sure I don’t do anything stupid … and I will … a lot. Plus, she’s my best friend, and I’m not doing this without her.”

Feeling the pressure to relent and the seconds ticking away until takeoff, Maxwell’s shoulders slumped, taking in Riley’s pleading expression. “I -- I don’t know what to do. Your friend would have to be sponsored also in order to stay with you. She would have to be a suitor and compete for Liam’s hand just like you and all the other ladies, and there can only be one sponsee for each noble house. If you’re our pick, then she would need to have someone of nobility who doesn’t have a suitor yet and knows it’s all a ... ruse …” he trailed off, grinning impishly, as an idea suddenly popped into his head. Maxwell’s gaze swept across the room and landed on his friend, Rashad, who had a deer-in-the-headlights look, knowing exactly what he was getting at.

“Oh no. Leave me out of this,” he insisted while waving his hands back and forth. “This is all on you, Maxwell.”

“No, don’t say that yet.” Riley sprang to her feet and grabbed a picture frame from a nearby table, falling to her knees in front of Rashad to beg. “This is Alyssa.” She cheerfully pointed her friend out in the picture, delighted when the Lord of Domvallier’s eyes grew and seemed more than intrigued. “She’s not only beautiful, charming, and supportive, but she’s the smartest person I know. Everyone just loves her. And even though she won’t want to win because of me, she’ll represent your house with the greatest of integrity and propriety. I swear it.”

“It’s for Liam,” Maxwell interjected, wagging his brows. “Imagine how grateful he’ll be when he finds out your part in making this happen for him.”`

Rashad let out a heavy groan. “Max, you know I would do anything for a friend -- especially Liam -- but it’s not that simple. There’s a reason why Domvallier opted not to have a suitor join this season: I have business dealings in California that coincide with some of the competitions. And with Mother’s and Father’s health in decline, I couldn’t possibly burden them with traveling and overseeing a suitor. It just wouldn’t work.”

Riley turned to Maxwell. “Well … couldn’t she just hang out with us most of the time? It’s not like she’d be in it to win it, anyway.”

“I don’t see why not.” Maxwell shrugged. “We all travel and stay together for the most part anyway.” He glanced over at Rashad, who could do nothing but stare at the two of them bouncing like eager children with big cheshire grins, while he literally decided the fate of a woman who had no idea she had just been volunteered to “pretend” compete for the hand of a prince the entire summer, in another country, and had to board a plane in just under an hour.

Rashad sighed and took the photo from Riley’s hand, giving it a quick glance. He was definitely smitten by the bright, blue-eyed woman with the big dimpled smile and wouldn’t mind getting to know her better, particularly if she was everything described to him. “I should have gone with Drake back to the plane.” He shook his head and handed the photo back to Riley. “Can’t believe I’m doing this, but --”

Before he even finished his thought, Maxwell and Riley leaped to their feet to celebrate, whooping and howling around him, ruffling his jet black hair, hugging, and clapping him several times on the chest.

“What’s going on?”

The three of them whipped their heads around at the raspy-sounding voice that caught their attentions.

“Lyss!” Riley’s eyes lit up at the sight of her best friend standing there; she couldn’t wait to share all the good news with her. Maxwell, and particularly Rashad’s, jaws dropped at the sight before them. They both did a double take of the picture in the frame and then back to the petite brunette who wore a rumpled party dress, was missing one flat shoe, and sported smudged mascara under her sunken eyes and hair flying in every direction.

Riley moved over to Alyssa, placing a gentle hand on her arm with a smile. “Alyssa. These gentlemen are from Cordonia -- It’s somewhere you need a plane ride for. This is Lord Maxwell Beaumont.” She gestured and received a wave back. “And this is Lord Rashad of Doberman Pinscher,” she stated in a posh accent.

“Domvallier,” he corrected, stunned and still unable to take his eyes off his new suitor.

“Lords?” she questioned in a feeble tone; Riley nodded back at her.

Alyssa smiled at the two strangers, then lowered her head and curtsied like she was wearing a ball gown before them. “How do you do? Welcome to House Devereaux-Brooks. It’s so kind of you to stop by and make our acquaintances. Please do make yourselves at home.” She straightened back up and immediately turned to Riley. “I’m dying. Where’s the Advil?”

Riley insisted Alyssa have a seat while she retrieved the Advil and a glass of water for her. Feeling that was a fair deal, Alyssa stumbled over to the couch, accidentally stepping on Maxwell, who held onto her arms and helped her the rest of the way. When she was seated, she leaned forward, rubbing soothing circles around her temples, willing the room to stop spinning. Riley shuffled back with two pills and a cool bottle of water, and handed them to Alyssa, who hastily threw back and chugged nearly the entire thing. She couldn’t remember a time when she felt so thirsty.

No one knew really how to respond just yet. Rashad conferred in hushed tones with Maxwell, as Alyssa kept her eyes closed for a moment, taking in slow, deep breaths. Everything from head to toe ached and throbbed.

Finally, she smacked her still-dry mouth and announced, “Okay, I’m going back to bed. Goodnight, everyone. It was so nice to meet you all.” She moved to the edge of the sofa when Riley pressed lightly on her shoulders, holding her back.

“Wait a minute, Lyss. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Lowering the shades in the living room to block the sun from Alyssa’s sensitive eyes, Riley began to explain how she met Liam at the bar last night and was asked to go out for a drink with him. Alyssa nodded her head slowly as she followed along, somewhat remembering their phone conversation about the date, how he was a prince, and the Statue of Liberty -- Lyss was proud of herself for being a part of making that happen. The next of their conversation continued on to Liam returning to his country for the social season in which he was expected to find someone to marry by the end of the summer. “I’m so sorry he had to leave, but what does any of this have to do with you, Ri?”

Riley glanced over her shoulder. “That’s where these two guys come in.”

Alyssa followed her friend’s gaze then shook her head. “I’m not following.”

“Maxwell wants to sponsor me to travel to Cordonia to compete for Liam. And we leave in an hour. Yay!” She raised her arms in a V, trying to garner excitement from her roommate, knowing she’d probably freak out.

And she did. “YOU CAN’T GO TO A FOREIGN COUNTRY! FOR ALL YOU KNOW THESE GUYS ARE SERIAL KILLERS OR SEX TRAFFICKERS!” Alyssa looked at Rashad and smiled shyly. “Not you, of course.” She then eyed Maxwell. “Probably him.”

“I know, I know. But that’s kinda, sorta where you come in.” Riley’s eyes danced around the room while tugging on the hem of her shirt.

“What do you mean?”

Maxwell checked the time on his phone as Riley laid out the details, point by point, to her friend, who guzzled the last bit of her water as she found out she had basically been enlisted into becoming a suitor as well. Alyssa spit out her water. “WHAT?”

Rashad sighed and looked for paper towels to dry off his lap.

Taking in Alyssa’s bug-eyed stare, Riley scrambled to make the whole situation sound more appealing to her.

“There’s skiing --”

“You know I can’t ski.”

“There’s ice skating --”

“Are you trying to break both of my ankles at the same time?”

“There’s horseback riding --”

“Oh, God, horses?”

“And beaches.”

Alyssa started to complain before stopping herself. “Okay, that doesn’t sound so bad. But still, Ri --”

“Please, Alyssa,” Riley pleaded, her still-small voice just above a whisper. She sat down on the coffee table again, across from her friend, eyes glassy. “I would never ask you to do something so big for me. But, I want you there … I need you there. This … this is the guy, Lyss. He’s the one.”

Seeing the hopeful expression staring back at her, Alyssa’s heart sank. She set aside the empty bottle and leaned forward, placing a compassionate hand on Riley’s. “First of all, you don’t need me. You’re more than capable of doing this on your own. I mean, give yourself a little credit … you landed a prince.” They both let out soft laughs before she continued. “But, secondly, you know I’m a hopeless romantic. So if this is the only way you’ll go … count me in.”

As the two of them hugged and Riley expressed her fervent thanks, Maxwell cleared his throat and interrupted their happy moment. The girls turned to him as he stated, “I hate to break all of this up -- I really do. This is like the totally awesome stuff I live for -- but we’re pressed for time now. Our friend Drake is already on the plane waiting and isn’t above leaving without us.”

“Oh good. Doesn’t he sound like a little ray of sunshine?” Alyssa scoffed, causing Riley to snicker and drawing half a smirk from Rashad.

The guys headed down to the limo while the girls rummaged through their rooms, stuffing as many of their things as they could possibly fit into suitcases and bags. After taking turns getting quick showers, being vigilant of the time, they double checked to make sure they had what they needed for an extended trip, planning to call friends and family on the drive to the airport to let them know where they would be.

Alyssa slipped on a pair of sunglasses as she stepped into the hallway, while Riley locked the door to their apartment behind them. “And you’re sure this Liam is worth all this?”

Riley regarded her thoughtfully before letting out a contented sigh, “Yeah. He’s worth it.”

Alyssa shrugged and pushed the sunglasses higher on her nose. “Well, if we don’t die, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell.”

-----------

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ladyeliot · 3 years

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All of me. Chapter One [B.B.]

When she met him masterlist

Prologue

Pairing: Winter soldier x Female Reader [Michelle]

Summary: In May 1954 two parallel worlds were to meet in Berlin. On the one hand yours, completely chaotic, on the other that of the Winter Soldier.

Warnings: Angst. Toxic relationship. Mind control. Winter Soldier.

Word count: 3075

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

West Berlin. May 1954

The mirror showed a reflection you hadn’t stopped to contemplate in a long time. Rosy cheeks offered life and warmth to a pale face that seemed to have been forgotten. Your skin was smooth and the colour of porcelain, showing the youth that had just begun. Your eyes were highlighted by a greyish iris, which seemed to be complemented by blue drops, but as pale as your complexion. Your golden hair was tied back behind your face, but even so, a few strands stood up in rebellion, sliding down your forehead.

You moved closer to that imposing mirror, which was perched on the chest of drawers in that hotel room. It was then that you could see on your lips that the reddish lipstick had been fixed to perfection, offering a speck of colour to that ensemble that you formed in your totality. Your attention was diverted to the melody coming from the phonograph’s horn, however you could notice the presence of a person behind you reflected in the mirror itself. Those vermilion lips showed a smile, as the warmth of the male body pressed against your back.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” the whisper overpowered the music. “Tonight every man in the universe will know how lucky I am.”

A blush came over you, causing you to look away from his face through the mirror and lower your gaze, still smiling. It had been a few months since you had left behind everything you had known in your nineteen years, venturing out to suffer the indifference and rejection that the unknown future could bring. Your life in New York was a past that counterbalanced the pain and happiness of your younger years, but it did not offer you all that your inner self demanded, until he came along. Richard was a young British man of beauty, wit and chance, who had made a fortune in the tobacco world after the end of the Second World War. So you could say that it didn’t take long for you to notice him and for him to want you among his various properties. It was an accumulation of promises that entered your mind and led you to follow him to Europe without questioning their veracity, accepting the consequences that this meant for a young woman of your position in a world run by and for men.

It had been many years since you

had had a male figure to support or guide your decisions, as well as your purpose in life. The loss of your father during the Second World War made you acquire a mind of your own and make decisions of your own, which mostly used to be accepted by your sweet mother, but which in this case did not find a place in the audacity of your friends and family. Those who knew you thought that your judgement had been clouded or that you had only lost your mind because of your love for that gentleman.

Richard had made his appearance in New York City just a few months earlier. Your fates crossed in the New York night, during the presentation of a new Walker Motors Corporation internal combustion engine at the Edison Hotel, a milestone in the market. Richard was an external guest, invited by one of the company’s own partners, but you were invited by the leading eminence. It is worth noting that Charles Walker, director of WMC, has been friends with you since your childhood, which is why you attended the private party. However, it was not until midnight that Charles himself took it upon himself to introduce you, alluding that Richard had shown an exclusive interest in meeting you.

“Where is your mind?” Richard’s lips brushed your right earlobe.

His fingers rested on your neck and brushed aside a slight lock that fell across your collarbone to rest his lips on it. All the while you watched each of his movements in the mirror.

“I don’t want your mind to go elsewhere if I’m not in your thoughts,” that whisper sent a shudder around your body, as Richard’s lips continued to trail firmly down your neck.

You had been extremely decisive in agreeing to give yourself to a man you barely knew, or had any testimony about his past. But your mind was so dazzled by the hopes you had placed on him and his oaths that you had barely been able to consider the fact that something could go wrong.

The kissing stopped, which caused you to open your eyes again to find your own reflection. Richard turned away from your body for a moment to look inside his jacket. After a few seconds he pulled out a greenish rectangular box, which he opened without letting you see what was inside.

“Close your eyes,” the young man asked softly in your ear.

With little opposition you acted as he had instructed. A tingle tingled around your neck, which brought a subtle smile to your lips as you waited for Richard’s command to open your eyes again. However, it wasn’t until after he placed a brief kiss on your bare shoulder that you decided on your own to contemplate the object resting on your collarbones. Your lips parted in surprise, as an array of pearls lay upon you, illuminating practically the entire room. Your fingers slowly brushed each one of them, you hardly knew what to say, the only thing that came to your mind was the questioning of why about that detail.

“Tonight you will shine over the whole world,” Richard’s hands rested on your hips. “There won’t be anyone in Berlin, east or west, who doesn’t know who Michelle Wells is.”

You offered him a blushing smile as you stared at your figures in front of the mirror, those words giving you the encouragement you needed to face the performance that was to take place in a few hours.

Your ability on stage had been recognised in various clubs in New York, but you knew that the audience that night could not compare to the one you had had before. New York had been the pinnacle of jazz, and Harlem had been a favourite neighbourhood of its own creation, yet it was a far cry from anything you were used to.

A slight sigh came out of your mouth, showing the presence of your nervousness in such a situation. It was an unavoidable fact of life that you were thousands of miles away from your hometown, and even if you had made yourself think that you and Richard would find your own home, you couldn’t help but feel incomplete.

“Take everything out of your mind, leave it blank and just focus on you from this moment on,” the breath collided with your ear, creating a brief shiver down your spine. “Forget everything you have lived through, and all the people. You are the creator of your own destiny, and no one can stand in the way of that. Tonight may be the most important moment for your future. For our future.”

In that instant you turned around so that you could look directly into his eyes, those that depending on the light could appear blue or green. Under the dimness of the lamp the greenish hue could be found in them, but you barely noticed it because their proximity was cut short when he said those words, melting into a slow, passionate kiss before he left for the club.

Meanwhile, in East Berlin

A whitish light flickered faintly above him with each step down the long corridor. The silence was broken by the flickering tinkle and the sordid screams in the distance. The place felt like hell itself. However, if it really was hell, it was not as he had imagined it to be. The mist was pouring out of his nostrils with every exhalation, the cold was bordering on extreme. Yet he was unable to feel it in every part of his body. His gaze was impassive, as his ice-cold eyes seemed to be held in a sea of darkness. The road came to an end as the stiff iron gate cut him off. His footsteps slowed but did not stop, as a dull echo reported the opening of the gate, offering entrance to a new area.

The walls, as sturdy as the material of construction, stone, offered not a hint of light, for there were hardly any openings in them. The place had the characteristics of an underground bunker, with only a musty smell coming from the ceiling. His figure continued his march along the corridor, with a firm and decisive step, knowing where he was going. At that instant, a silhouette loomed on the right side, guarding a new entrance. That silhouette, noticing the presence that was heading towards him, moved away from in front of the door, opening the way for the man, who stopped in front of it until it opened.

“Oh, we’ve been expecting you, soldier,” said a German-accented voice from inside the room.

Unlike the corridor, there was a pleasant warmth in that room for anyone. However, he was no longer a person. The door closed behind him, preventing him from leaving, for he would have to face the four figures sitting at an oval table. One of them rose from his seat and slowly approached him with his hands behind his back, until they were facing each other.

“I believe the orders you have been given are clear soldier,” he observed curiously squinting at the young man. “Do you have any doubts?”

“No, sir,” a coldness crept into his voice from inside his throat, it seemed as if he had spent the last few months barely expressing a sound through it.

“That’s the way I like it,” that statement came along with an encouraging look from every part of the young soldier. “Kerkove will be in charge of taking you to the west side of Berlin. There you know what you have to do.”

The soldier merely nodded, processing all the data that had been offered to him hours before. The door opened again to let him out, just as he had entered, and the person in charge of his mission stood there. Over the past months he had carried out a number of other missions on the eastern front, but this was the first time he would be infiltrating the western zone, covered by American and British soldiers, which is why he was wearing an American infantry uniform, similar to that of his companion.

As he arrived outside, he realised that the night was clear, as the moon was in full bloom, a fact that could hinder the key points of the mission. Even so, he had to concentrate, since his first test would be the moment he wanted to cross the border, for although he was in the uniform of the American army, he had to pass himself off as one of them.

Fifteen and a half kilometres was the distance to be covered by car, before walking three kilometres to the point in question. The quietness fell upon him, sharing a constant blank stare, and with nothing else in his thoughts but each and every step to be taken that night. There were hardly any words between the two of them, until the moment they parted, as his companion informed him that they would meet again after four hours at the rendezvous point to carry out their extraction.

The ease with which he found himself in West Berlin in five minutes seemed absurd in the face of so much apparent control over the population itself. The tranquillity received on the other side of the wall caused a rupture in the new area, a commotion was generated as he walked towards the more central streets, entering the Berlin night. The movement of pedestrians and cars caused him to slow his steps, remembering his sense of mission ‘To blend in without being discovered’.

The streetlights illuminated the roads and the power of those lights fell on his face, generating a sense of uneasiness in the face of his own passivity. Groups of uniformed men walked along, mingling with the local population. He was curious as to where they were going, for the premises of the busy main street invited him to enter them. Those five soldiers in British uniforms, which he could distinguish by colours and badges, made their way to the pavement in front of him and then entered a place called 'Central Club’.

After looking around, he could not think of a better situation than to take the same path and thus discover their frequent activities. With the proximity to the place, he noticed the melody that could be heard behind the door, which became more and more noticeable after opening it. An unfamiliar smell hit his face as he stepped inside. Warm brown tones met his gaze as did long descending staircases. Hesitantly he descended each step, incorporating the smell of aniseed liqueur into his senses as the notes coming from those instruments became more constant. A greenish curtain gave way to the hall, which was unexpectedly packed with people. Its tables were completely crowded and the noise mixed with the melody hardly let him think in those moments. He looked around as a boy bumped into him trying to get in. His gaze fell on the bar on the right-hand side, intending to sit down and take in the area at his leisure. Nearby he could find an empty stool catching the attention of the bartender himself.

"What will you have?” he asked as he wiped a glass of champagne between his hands “Is this your first time at the Central Club?”

The soldier nodded, half-opening his lips, for he had scarcely noticed his presence.

“Then you must try our special aniseed and ginger cocktail,” the waiter began to serve him after watching the boy nod. “I suppose you’ve come for her, haven’t you? We haven’t had the club this full since before the war, she’s a real gem, I envy the man who gets her.”

The soldier paid little attention to his words, but nodded at every comment he offered, for he had not yet been able to adjust to the atmosphere generated by the crowd. Music was still playing on the circular wooden stage in the background. A band was providing entertainment, showing off their merits with a piano, drums, bass and saxophone. However, due to the noise it was impossible to hear them.

He took the glass that the man had prepared for him a few minutes ago and brought it to his lips, making his throat burn with every drop that fell through it. His senses were amplified and the warmth was rising from within him. She turned to the man behind the bar to inform him to refill the glass, for if he was to blend in he hoped to do so as everyone else in the place did.

The music stopped and male words came from the stage. The soldier barely noticed. However, the deafening noise of applause and cheers made him look towards the back of the room. A female figure appeared as if out of nowhere before his very eyes. After she came on stage, silence fell, reminding him of peace. The spotlights created an aura of divinity around the young woman that abstracted any of his own thoughts as soon as he beheld her. Her crimson lips could be glimpsed from every corner of the club, making the blood burn under those uniforms.

Time had stood still for a few moments, for the slowness with which such an event unfolded before his eyes was apparent. The girl slowly brought her fingers around the microphone to bring it closer to her mouth, as she set the rhythm by snapping her fingers to the melody of the bass. That was the moment when the soldier became a man, his reasoning engaged in a constant struggle against his experience. That voice had taken over his thoughts and was the only thing he could hear inside him. The melody had awakened a sliver of his memories, but he had not yet realised that fact. The hole of darkness that made him up had found a flame to illuminate it.

“All of me

Why not take all of me?

Can’t you see?

I’m no good without you”

His muscles had relaxed as the minutes passed. His lips were parted and his eyes were completely lost in hers. For an instant he thought he could feel their paths meet, holding her gaze, a fact that generated a throbbing in his heart that he did not seem to possess. In a subtle blink of an eye, barely noticing it, the girl finished her song and lost his vision as everyone in the room rose to their feet to applaud her, but he did not. He preferred to keep his gaze lost trying to glimpse what had just happened in those moments, as his mission became present in him again.

“It’s a wonder,” the bartender interjected. "A woman with a voice like that can’t possibly go unnoticed. I think I could listen to her for the rest of my life, and watch her too. You know what I mean.“

The soldier just sipped the last of the liquor in his glass and turned his attention back to the group of men in British uniforms who had led him there. They seemed to be in a hurry to leave again, so he took a note from his pocket and without looking back left it on the bar to follow them. From that moment on, his evening was based on analysing each of the places they frequented and the activities they carried out, making the odd brief conversation, and letting himself be seen in the area. He did not have a chance to think about the heady moment he had experienced until he returned to the bunker and was asked for all the information he had collected. However, although a new memory had settled in his mind, he was unable to express his encounter with you.

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mcfiddlestan · 3 years

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WinterFrost Single Dads AU

Hey, ya'll. Told ya I was working on this thing. I've got about six chapters done, but I'm not ready to post it to AO3 just yet. One big reason for that is I don't have a title yet. So I thought I'd post a couple of chapters, let ya'll get a feel for it, then take any suggestions you might have.

Just a small note: I tend to name fics after song titles that inspired the story or somehow fit with the plot.

Anyhoo...here's the first chapter. I *might* post the second tomorrow. We'll see how the response to this goes.

xoxo, La

Pairing: Loki x Bucky Barnes (there are others past and future, but I'm not giving them away just yet)

Rating: M

Word count: 1,775

Summary: Loki is living a great life as a Manhattan lawyer and constantly partying with Tony Stark, his best friend. Loki's life before he came to New York more than a decade ago is a mystery for those close to him. But it's all about to come to light when he gets a call from someone in his past.

Bucky is just trying to catch a break. A few hookups with a fellow soldier led to a quickie marriage and baby -- and two years later, a quick divorce. His daughter is now eight years old and the light of his life. But he can't seem to get his shit together. Struggling to find a job and keep a hold on his sobriety, it's a one-night stand that gives him the kick in the ass he needs to be the man his daughter believes he is.

Warnings: Mature language and situations, some drug use, and talk about addiction.

Chapter 1

The sound of his front door opening and closing pulled Loki from a deep sleep. So deep, it took him a moment to remember where he was and how he knew that was his front door. His eyes opened slowly, once, twice, and then again, to nothing but the darkness of what he was sure was his bedroom. Then he felt the pounding, incessant, pulsing around his entire head. Damn migraines. Loki let out a low groan, thought fuck it, and buried his face deeper into his pillow. Moments later, the door to his bedroom pushed open.

“Rise and shine,” a deep voice sang.

Loki grumbled at the familiar voice, and slowly, he turned his body, rolling onto his back. “Why are you always so chipper in the morning? Oh, for Norn’s sake!” He threw a pillow over his face as the curtains pulled open and let the blinding daylight flood the room. “Close them! I’ve got a damned migraine!”

“Ooh. So sorry, Mr. Friggasson. There’s a cup of tea on the nightstand. Would you like me to get you some water and a couple of ibuprofen?”

Another groan sounded through the room as Loki forced himself to sit up. “Yes, please,” he answered as he rubbed at his face before reaching for the two pillows to prop them up behind him. In his sleepy haze, he remembered to pull the bedsheet over his lap to keep his modesty. Loki reached out for the teacup first, cupping it in his large hand as he took a gentle sip. “Mmm, perfect. Thank you, Fandral. And, for the thousandth time, please stop calling me Mr. Friggasson.” He sipped again, ignoring Fandral’s giggle as he rummaged through Loki’s closet. “What time is it?”

“A quarter to eleven.”

Loki sputtered into his tea. “Quarter to eleven? Why did you let me sleep so late? I have meetings today.” Loki hurriedly set his drink down and started to rise, gathering the sheet to wrap around him. Fandral was suddenly there, nudging Loki back into the bed, “Relax, Loki. You’re fine. Your early meeting was canceled, the board meeting at the Tower was pushed to Thursday, and Mr. Stark canceled your lunch meeting.”

“Cancelled? Why?” Loki settled back in the bed, rubbing at his neck. “He didn’t say. But he left the message for me before three am, and there was a lot of noise in the background. So, take a guess.”

Loki snorted softly. “That’s your boss, Fanny. Don’t judge.”

“You’re my boss. Mr. Stark only signs the checks,” Fandral said through a smile as he laid out a pair of pants and a shirt on a chair in the corner for Loki to wear for the day. “Once the morning meeting was canceled, I thought I’d let you rest a little longer since you didn’t have to rush into the office.”

“Thanks,” Loki muttered from behind his cup.

Fandral gave him a nod and turned to head around the corner towards the master bathroom.

“Any other messages?” Loki called as he set the teacup back on the nightstand. He sat back, his face contorting in pain, willing the migraine to ease up. He made a mental note to see an optometrist already.

“Yes, a few. Natasha called. She got a lead on the security break from a couple of months ago, I guess? She said she’d have a report for you on the improvements she’s already made with F.R.I.D.A.Y.” Fandral stepped out with a small white bottle in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He handed the water to Loki before popping open the bottle and dropping two white tablets in Loki’s open palm. “Also, someone’s been trying to get a hold of you all morning. He’s called four times already. No real message, just ‘need to speak to Loki urgently.’ Someone named Thor.”

Loki went still. He swallowed down the pills and water in his mouth, watching Fandral’s retreating back. A million different questions ran through Loki’s mind, but he couldn’t decide on just one to ask, nor would Fandral be able to answer any of them, judging by what he’d just said. Fandral returned from the bathroom, and Loki hoped he didn’t look as panicked as he felt. “Someone named Thor, you say?”

Fandral, staring at his phone, made a noise of agreement. “Sounded foreign, but I couldn’t place the accent.”

“Norwegian.” Loki shook his head dismissively when Fandral looked at him with a quizzical look. “Did he say how to get a hold of him?”

“Yes. At least, I have the number for you.” Fandral lowered his phone, eyed Loki, who’d gone much paler in the last thirty seconds. “Are you all right?”

Not in the slightest. “Yes. Uh, Fandral, I’m going to take a shower.” Loki rose from the bed, his migraine still there but hardly forgotten. He held the bed sheet tight at his waist and walked around Fandral. “Listen, if he calls again, tell him I will call him back as soon as I’m free. If he doesn’t, when you hear the water stop, give me twenty minutes, then put the call through.”

Fandral frowned at Loki as he followed him with his eyes. “Sure, boss. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“Fandral. I’m fine. Will you order some food? Get me a sandwich, please. Something toasted, turkey.” Distracted, Loki didn’t wait for Fandral to confirm. He walked into his bathroom and started the water in the shower, then moved to the sink. He stood before the mirror for a moment, thinking, fretting, irritated. Why would Thor be calling him after all this time? What could he possibly have to say to Loki? After more than ten years of no communication, Loki felt as if they were strangers.

The steam began to fill the room, fogging up the mirror, so Loki dropped the sheet and stepped under the spray. He let the hot water wash over him, easing the ache of his muscles. He took the showerhead in hand, adjusted the setting of the water, and held it over the back of his head to let the hot water pummel the skin of his neck and his scalp, hoping to make the migraine go away. Though with the newly added stress of a phone call with someone from his long-forgotten past, Loki wasn’t sure it would go away now.

Washing his body and hair quickly, after just fifteen minutes, Loki stepped out and went through the motions of grooming then getting dressed. When he stepped out into the living room, Fandral was just taking his food from its delivery packaging.

“Did he call?”

“No. Feel any better?”

Not at all. “Much. Fandral, could you give me some privacy?”

He froze with a wrapped sandwich half out of the bag. Only his eyes moved in Loki’s direction, “Um, sure? Do you want me to come back in, what, an hour?”

Loki shook his head. “No. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Fandral dropped the sandwich on the table and faced Loki fully, crossing his arms. “Don’t look at me like that. Nothing is wrong. I just don’t know how this conversation is going to go, and I’d rather not have an audience if you don’t mind.” He spotted a bag of chips and snatched it up, ripping it open to pop one into his mouth.

Fandral, still frowning, reached into the bag once again to split the napkins between the two of them. He repacked his meal, then lifted the bag from the table. “All right. Your phone is on the counter. I input the phone number since he called the office, not your cell phone. And – I’ll be available, just in case.”

“Thank you. Fandral.” Loki gave his back a quick pat as he paused beside him. “I mean it. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Well, I think we both know that’s a mutual feeling.” He reached for Loki’s arm, giving his wrist a quick squeeze. “Call me later? So I know you’re all right?”

Loki nodded and didn’t move until he heard the door close behind Fandral. It was true; he didn’t know how he would function without Fandral. They were classmates in law school, and both started at equally prestigious firms upon graduation. They were good friends but fiercely competitive, too. Loki credited that manic drive to one-up each other for getting him to the top five percent of their graduating class. But after a few years, while Loki had been on the up-and-up, Fandral was drowning, barely keeping his head above water as a tax lawyer. Loki watched one of the first friends he’d made in New York crumble under pressure and struggled to help him find a way to deal. Eventually, Fandral walked away from the six-figure salary, the company car, and all the perks that came with it. Loki was impressed that Fandral

dared to do it. After a few months of getting help and finding a better mental space, Fandral moved off of Loki’s couch into a modest apartment that was a fraction the size of the loft he was in before and looked for a less-hectic job. Loki had snagged a cushy position as Stark Industries’ in-house counsel, thanks to his friendship with its C.E.O., and was still getting settled. Managing New York’s richest son’s money, company, and public image was turning out to be a full-time job. And Loki needed help. He’d already recruited Natasha Romanov, a former N.Y.P.D. Officer, he brought her on for her computer and investigative skills. So he offered Fandral a position as his assistant. Fandral took it and promised to be the best right-hand man. Loki expected he’d be bored within a month just answering phone calls and setting up meetings. But Fandral’s duties, mostly taken on of his own volition, had grown exponentially in the past five years. He acted as assistant, maid, valet, and social buffer for the notoriously introverted Loki.

Loki would be a mess without him.

Because he was starving, Loki wolfed down half his sandwich and chips, grateful that the shower, the food, and the medication had helped relieve the worst of his migraine. Taking a deep breath, Loki picked up his phone from where Fandral left it for him. His thumb hovered over the screen, over the unknown phone number. And with his heart in his throat, Loki tapped it. He listened. He waited. And, finally, after three rings, the line picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Thor.”

#WinterFrost Single Dads AU #winterfrost #yay i wrote a thing #my fic #loki x bucky #questions & comments are welcome

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hopelessromanticspoonie · 4 years

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A New Year’s Truth

Characters: Loki x Empath Avenger Reader

Summary: Reader is stuck at Stark Tower with Loki after the December holidays are finished. But each glancing touch with Loki speaks a truth that he doesn’t seem willing to face. Will the New Year change that?

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: This is only loosely edited, as I’m still very very ill. I will go back and further edit it once I’m better, but I wanted to get this out to y’all before the New Year. I hope you enjoy!

The time between the various winter holidays and the New Year was always a weird one.

It was as if the world was stuck in a holding pattern, waiting with bated breath for a new year with new expectations to begin. When was the right time to take down all the festive decorations? How long was socially acceptable to do absolutely nothing on the couch but watch cheesy movies from your childhood and pig out on chocolate-covered treats? All the stress and excitement died down to leave everyone in a trance-like state, shuffling in pajamas from the couch to the kitchen to bed and back again. For some it was a relief, to finally have the stress and familial obligations lifted from their weary shoulders. For others, that had never been a concern, and one day just melted into the next.

It was the fourth day that you’d worked on permanently etching a likeness of your backside into the couch while you binged Bake Off and ate your weight in the last of the cookies you had made for Christmas. They were left behind, as were you, after your teammates had all split off to spend the last of the year with their respective families - even Steve and Bucky had gone with Nat and Sam to relax with Clint’s family.

You wiped a stray crumb from your shirt when Loki strolled in from the direction of the kitchen. He was the only other inhabitant in the tower, choosing to stay rather than to go to New Asgard with Thor and play diplomat for a people lukewarm to him at the best of times. You didn’t blame him. He cast a critical eye at your disheveled appearance before folding himself gracefully into the comfortable leather chair he preferred, pulling a book from his pocket dimension to read while he sipped at the steaming mug in his hand.

You could practically feel the judgment pouring off of him in waves without looking at him. Groaning at your ruined relaxation, you rolled your head around to stare at him, quirking a brow. “Out with it.”

He mirrored your expression, although with much more disdain and arrogance than you could ever muster. “I beg your pardon.”

“I don’t need to go over there and touch you to know that you’re judging me. Spill it,” you muttered, sitting up and stretching, arching your back into it with a sigh you felt all the way down to your toes. You tugged your hoodie back down from where it had exposed just a sliver of the skin of your stomach, and Loki’s eyes quickly flitted from it back up to your face. Interesting.

“If you must know,” he closed his book, leaving it to rest on his lap, “I am honestly astonished that one could descend so far into a vegetative state without going comatose. I do not believe you have moved from that spot but to sleep or gather food in days.”

You stood, brushing cookie crumbs from your sweatpants absentmindedly. “And?”

“It is almost impressive, were it not such a waste. There is much to be done, and yet you are perfectly content to waste away watching others live their lives.”

As if he was one to talk, sitting there drinking his tea without a care in the world. “And what is there to be done exactly?”

“To begin, the decorations from Christmas and Hanukkah remain on display, and the kitchen is almost out of provisions,” he rattled off with a shrug.

Well, that second one certainly would need tending to. Normally the groceries were delivered twice a week from a food order that everyone contributed to, but you had forgotten about it when it hadn’t been brought to your attention. Perhaps a bit of fresh air would do you some good. You left the room without another word, quickly dressing and making yourself presentable to the public before coming back out into the living room with Loki’s wool pea coat draped over your arms.

“C’mon, Muscles. You can help me carry the groceries.” You held up his coat for him in invitation, shaking it lightly.

He rose, smoothing his hands down his white button-up shirt to come to a stop on his hips. There weren’t any wrinkles to be found on his outfit, but you would touch that body at any opportunity if given the chance, so who could blame him? “You expect me to accompany you to the market?”

You popped up a hip and mocked his rich, velvet accent that admittedly sent shivers of pleasure down your spine. “You expect to eat, don’t you?”

The once pristine glittering snow had morphed into a grey sludge that sucked at your feet with each step back from the store. Your hands were thrust out from your sides to maintain your tenuous balance as you trudged along behind Loki, who had taken the reusable bags full of food from you without protest excluding a well-executed roll of his dark eyes. His towering figure cut a path through the crowded New York City pedestrians who watched him with unabashed curiosity and trepidation as he passed. You were afforded mostly confusion as you inelegantly followed in his footsteps.

Until your foot slipped on a hidden patch of ice beneath the slurry, and a squeak of shock came from your throat as your hands flailed out wildly for something to grab onto. Concern rushed through you, strong and overwhelming, as Loki’s hands grasped yours to keep you from falling. When you looked up to him in grateful shock, and your eyes locked, tendrils of desire snaked out from his heart to wrap around yours and squeeze with the barest of heat. There wasn’t any mistaking the feelings he had at that moment, no matter how fleeting, and you both knew it.

“Thanks,” you murmured, awestruck in the face of such intense emotions that Loki worked to keep hidden.

He jerked back from you as if you had burned him, picking up the bags he had forgotten in his haste to help you. “Do not mention it. Come. I’m famished and you obviously are not suited for this weather.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?”

You looked up from where you kneaded the flour-covered dough against the countertop, jaw set in determination as you leaned into your work. “It tastes better when you make it from scratch. I figured someone with your impressive knife skills wouldn’t find it challenging to chop a bit of garlic and tomatoes for a simple pasta sauce. If I’m mistaken…”

Loki bristled, his eyes tightening as he made quick work of unbuttoning his sleeves before rolling them up the pale expanse of his arms. “I am quite capable of performing such a menial task.”

You dropped your gaze to the exposed skin, delighting silently in the flex of his forearms as he set to work doing as you had asked. It was quiet, calming, to work together in the kitchen. The rhythmic sound of his knife hitting the wooden cutting board timed with your rolling and kneading the pasta dough was almost musical, working with the pulse pounding in your ears at such a domestic scene to keep you very alert.

Not too alert, apparently, as when you began to cut the long floured noodles from your rolled sheet of dough, you managed to slice the pad of your index finger.

“Shit!” you cursed, dropping the knife and pulling the bleeding digit into your mouth. You quickly checked to make sure you hadn’t ruined the dough, eyes darting around the room for something to staunch the bleeding.

“Let me see,” Loki commanded quietly from behind you.

You turned to him to see his hands held out for yours, exasperation written into the firm set of his mouth. “You don’t have to touch me. It’s okay.”

“Let me see,” he repeated, gently encircling your wrist with his long, elegant fingers, pulling your finger from in between your lips.

There was that concern again, warm and soft as it wrapped around you like a blanket from where his hands deftly worked at cleaning and wrapping your hand in a band-aid. You weren’t used to people touching you, not of their own accord, not once they knew that you could feel their every emotion through the connection. It was an invasion of privacy, and more than that, it was opening them up to the possibility of you pushing certain feelings onto them - an aspect of your powers that you never used unless in dire situations on missions.

You would never do that to Loki, even with the desire that unfurled deep within your belly as you watched his calculated emerald eyes admire his handiwork. Anything that he felt, you wanted it to be authentic and coming only from him. Which was why the affection that teased just at the edges of your awareness made your breath catch in your throat, and your gaze drop to his lips as he wetted them with a flick of his tongue.

“Loki, I-”

“Perhaps I should finish the rest of the meal, so you do not risk ruining the pasta with your blood,” he commented dryly, leaving you empty as he released you from his hold.

You cradled your hand to your chest as if you could still feel the affection he had unwittingly shared on the stinging skin. “Of course. Just do what I was doing, without the stabbing part.”

You should’ve worn gloves for the party. Or perhaps a dress with sleeves.

The combination of so many bodies jostling around you, leaving you with just flashes of humor, lust, frustration, anger, sadness, and so many more emotions that you couldn’t name but could taste on your tongue, was too much. Tony had gone all out with the guest list for the New Year’s Eve party, and you felt positively ill at so many sensations washing over you in time with the pounding music and conflicting colognes and perfumes invading your nose.

The frigid wind on the balcony was a welcome breather, whipping around you and electrifying your senses to remove the lasting negative effects of the others from your person. Until you were just you again, as conflicted and frustrated as ever as you thought about Loki and Thor chatting amiably with amiably inside. The countdown was due to begin soon, and you didn’t want to see who the dark god paired off with to welcome in the new year with a kiss. That was one mental image you were perfectly content not to have engraved in your brain for the foreseeable future.

“The party not to your liking?”

Your chin lifted from where it had settled on your chest to watch the crowds below, all packed together and shouting their revelry into the abyss that climbed up the tower windows to reach your cold-reddened ears. “I didn’t realize it would be that crowded, and I’m not wearing sleeves.”

A coat, woolen and heavy and scented with cedarwood and spice settled over your shoulders to block the worst of the cutting wind. Your arms unraveled from around your waist to grip onto the lapels, holding Loki’s coat tighter to you. Loki stepped into your line of sight, regarding you with an unreadable expression as he leaned against the safety rail as if he wasn’t several hundred feet in the air. “That was poor planning on your part.”

“Yeah, but I look good in this dress,” you replied with a humorless laugh, swinging your hips back and forth as it to prove the point.

“You do,” was his warm reply, matching the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth as his eyes trailed down the length of your body slowly.

What you wouldn’t give to know the feelings behind that look, but you wouldn’t ever invade his privacy in that way. Not without permission. Thankfully, the cold air already turned the tip of your nose red and flushed your cheeks, otherwise the effect his searching gaze and thoughtful gesture would be much more clear. “Thanks for the coat. You always seem to be stepping up to help me, lately.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied in that crushed velvet voice that had just a hint of roughness to it as he took one step closer to you.

The crowd down below began counting down. You could barely hear the numbers over the roar of the wind in your ears and the pounding of your heart as Loki shielded your body from the cold with his own. His hands came up to settle over your upper arms, rubbing the soft satin lining of his coat into your skin.

And your eyes fluttered closed just before his lips brushed against yours at the last second. Love unlike anything you’d ever felt before matched the caress of his smooth lips over yours, catching in your heart and coaxing out a warm glow of happiness that you weren’t sure began or ended with the man cradling you in his arms. It was untainted by darkness, driven from the purest sense of adoration and affection that you had experienced from another soul.

His forehead rested against yours once he allowed you a moment to breathe, quite kind of him after having stolen the very breath from your lungs. Hope, sharp and bright, teased out from him and into you to make your fingers curl into his black suit jacket. “I am not one to easily speak my emotions freely with others. But you must know…”

You nudged your nose along his, your heart soaring at the physical contact and the shared joy that danced between you to the tune of your drumming heartbeats. “I do. You can’t exactly hide that from me.”

He gathered you into the warmth of his embrace, tucking your forehead beneath his chin with a relieved sigh. It was safety and contentment and promise and a love so new and bright that you hoped to never find its shadow. “No more hiding. Not in this new year.”

~~~

Little Bit o’ Loki taglist: @myownviperroom @grahoundart @darealbellabelleoftheball @boubouinscarlet @iamverity @rt8815 @lots-of-loki @otakumultimuseoc @ms-cellanies @rosierossette

Whole Shebang taglist: @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @just-the-hiddles @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @blah666 @brokenthelovely @myworddump @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @claritastantrum @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @lovesmesomehiddles @peterman-spideyparker @wegingerangelica @bluefrenchfries604 @catsladen @silverswordthekilljoy

#loki #loki fluff #loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki/reader #avenger reader #empath reader #new years eve fic #marvel fanfic

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gemmaosman · 5 years

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BASIC INFORMATION.

Full name: Gemma Osman Birth name: Yasmin Bayram Pronunciation: JEH·muh OS·man Birthdate: September 1st, 1990 Age: 29 Zodiac: Virgo (Capricorn moon, Scorpio rising) Gender: Female Pronouns: She/her Romantic orientation: Heteroromantic Sexual orientation: Heterosexual Nationality: American Ethnicity: Turkish Current location: Florida Living conditions: Villa, shared with other housemates. Extremely organized space, not a thing out of place.

BACKGROUND.

Birthplace: New York City, NY Social Class: Lower class to upper-middle class. Educational achievements: Bachelor of Communications from NYU Father: Joseph Bayram Mother: Mira Bayram (nee Candemir) Sibling(s): None Birth order: First and only Pets: None Previous relationships: A few not worth mentioning, once previously engaged. Arrests: None - a few speeding tickets though Prison time: None

OCCUPATION + INCOME.

Current occupation: Receptionist at Honeybell Motel Dream occupation: Unsure, looking to distance herself from the world she got tangled up in Past job(s): Sales Associate at Express, Receptionist at a law firm, Personal Assistant to Robert Katzenberg Spending habits: Previously conservative, spending hard-earned money only on things she really, really wanted. With a bigger pay check she spent with less thought, though her spending was still mostly practical. In debt?: No Most valuable possession: Currently a pair of Louboutin heels she couldn’t leave behind; previously her engagement ring

SKILLS + ABILITIES.

Physical strength: Average Speed: Average Intelligence: Above Average Accuracy: Below Average Agility: Average Stamina: Above Average Teamwork: Best when she’s in charge, organizing everything Talents: Organizing, yoga, cooking, speed-reading, and Summer was right, her handwriting is really nice Shortcomings: Currently super paranoid, hardworking to a fault, sometimes has trouble seeing the bigger picture, can’t fight Languages spoken: English and some Spanish Drive?: Yes. Jump-start a car?: No Change a flat tyre?: No Ride a bicycle?: Yes Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: Yes (violin) Play chess?: Yes Braid hair?: Yes Tie a tie?: Yes Pick a lock?: No Cook?: Yes

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE + CHARACTERISTICS.

Faceclaim: Melisa Pamuk Eye colour: Brown Hair colour: Black Hair type/style/length: 1b, medium to long length, often pulled back in some sort of ponytail or bun or clipped up Glasses/contacts?: None Dominant hand: Right Height: 5′9″ Weight: 132lbs Build: Slim, more toned in the legs (mostly her calves) Exercise habits: Yoga, pilates, cardio Skin tone: Beige Tattoos: One, a small butterfly on her left side Piercings: First hole, both ears Marks/scars: One from a burn she sustained on her wrist (accident involving the stove as a child) Clothing style: Used to be business professional nearly 24/7, but with a new life, she looks a bit out of place dressing like that. Now, she typically wears jeans (regular blue jeans, or black or white jeans) with blouses (that still look business-y or at least nice) and a blazer if it’s cold. Also kept some of the less-professional but still nice-looking colored pants with her and sometimes wears those. Jewelry: Diamond earrings or gold hoops, often gold necklaces, a small gold watch Allergies: None Diet: Went paleo for a year, glad she gave it up. Not vegetarian but does find it easy to go without meat for a few days. Cooks with a lot of vegetables and prefers chicken over other meats. Physical ailments: None

PSYCHOLOGY.

MBTI type: ESTJ Enneagram type: Type 1 - the Reformer Moral Alignment: Lawful Neutral Temperament: Melancholic Element: Earth Emotional stability: Used to be fairly stable, now just extremely paranoid Introvert or Extrovert?: Ambivert, slightly more on the extroverted side, though you wouldn’t know it with all this fear Obsession(s): Organization Compulsion(s): Finishing what she’s started/set her mind to Phobia(s): None (generally afraid of getting stung by wasps but wouldn’t call it a phobia) Addiction(s): Previously, her phone, but has been getting much better now that she’s had to start over Drug use: None Alcohol use: In moderation Prone to violence?: No Prone to crying?: Currently yes Believe in love at first sight?: No.

MANNERISMS.

Accent: New Yorker Speech quirks: Using her hands when she talks Hobbies: Yoga, cooking, going to probably take up calligraphy as per Summer’s compliment Habits: Making everything neat, Nervous ticks: Wringing her hands, her eyes give it away most of the time, shrinking her stature Drives/motivations: Getting over this fear, living a normal life Fears: The mob Sense of humour?: Has one, isn’t really good at being funny herself Do they curse often?: Not really

FAVORITES.

Animal: Owl Beverage: Nonfat cinnamon dolce latte no water extra shot with 2 pumps vanilla served 190 double cup Book: The Only Woman in the Room by Marie Benedict Color: Maroon Food: Spaghetti carbonara Flower: Jasmine Gem: Ruby Mode of transportation: Car Scent: Roses Sport: Gymnastics Weather: Sunny Vacation destination:

ATTITUDES.

Greatest dream: To get back to a normal life, maybe find out who she can be here Greatest fear: The mob finding her Most at ease when: Doing yoga or laying by the pool Least as ease when: Around Frankie Worst possible thing that could happen: Being found Biggest achievement: Landing her assistant job Biggest regret: Opening that door

#about #headcanon #this is So Late i'm so sorry

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bettercallsabs · 5 years

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The Groom To Be 1/?

A/N: Thank you all for your patience with me! My life took a turn in the right direction this week, aside from the unwarranted sickness. I moved back home last week, and started my new job on Wednesday, and it’s been a crazy 2 days. So thank you for baring with me. I appreciate more than you know! So here it is!! Part 1! Taglist is open, so never miss a post dearies! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. *This series will also be posting to Wattpad*

Engaged!SteveRogers x WeddingPlanner!Reader (plus sized reader)

Warnings: none really, some swears.

Word Count: 3k +

You'd overslept. Of course.

On possibly the most important day of your life you overslept. You had stayed up until 3am getting everything in order for your “big” day. You couldn’t believe your ears when Trisha-your boss- told you Larissa Levingston herself had requested you as her wedding planner, you nearly keeled over in shock. Rushing to make yourself presentable, you took a few moments to assess yourself in the mirror. You could go without washing your hair, but your bare face could definitely use some makeup. You took your time styling your hair, so it framed your face just right. Appearance was a big deal when it came to your job. You as a person, not just your “work”, sets a first impression. And this couple, especially Larissa Levingston, was used to extravagant things, she was a billionaire heiress after all.

Makeup? Check!

Hair? check!

Outfit… Still I’m progress.

You had narrowed it down to three outfits;

Stylish and chic power suit. A black fitted skirt with a ruffled blouse and heeled boots. Or, the fitted, deep maroon, knee-length dress that hugged your curves in all the right places, complimenting your voluptuous figure. You slipped into your favorite black blazer, one that never steered you wrong and you even considered it a tad lucky.

Glancing over the finished product, you hooded at yourself in the mirror, whispering to yourself, confidence is key. You are confident. You truly felt good about today, you were ready. And you looked good too. You were about to whoop add on possibly the biggest event of your life.

I’ve got this

You grabbed your keys from the dainty ceramic bowl your niece had made you, that sat near the edge of your breakfast bar, and headed out of your small loft, locking the door behind you. The air was frigid, the brisk breeze licking at your skin, as you stepped out into the New York winter that was in full swing. Checking the Apple Watch that adorned your wrist, you shifted into overdrive. The last thing you wanted was to be late on possibly the most important day of your life. After a short train ride, you arrived at the office, the 16th floor of a high rise located on w 38th st. The office took up a corner of the floor-sharing the floor with an insurance company and a law firm. You were greeted by Paula -who was your very attentive receptionist- as she handed over a handful of mail and notes. “Thank you Paula.” “Just a reminder, Chaz is out sick with strep, so if you need any assistance, give me a ring.” Of course, Chaz, would be sick on thee most crucial day of your career. But you could do this with

out an assistant. You were Y/N,L/N. You had worked your ass off to get this far. Poured your blood, sweat and tears into this. You could do this. No, you were going to do this! You tossed your mail and shoulder bag onto your desk before sinking into your padded swivel chair. You quickly put yourself to work, perusing your email, sorting into folders based on importance and time sensitivity. You were so engrossed in your work, you were startled as your Apple Watch chimed loudly from your wrist. 15 minutes until appointment.

You silenced the reminder, taking a few moments to tidy around your office, fluffing the pillows that rested in each corner of the love seat, that claimed the south side of the office. As a finally touch, you adjusted the newest issues of bridal magazines neatly dispersed across the rose gold coffee table. There was a soft knock at the door, Paula’s head popping through the slight open door.

“Ms.Levingston and Mr. Rogers are here. Should I send them in?” Smoothing out your dress, as you regained your posture from the hunched over position, you took in a deep breath before flashing a light smile in her direction. “Absolutely. Send them right in.” You leaned against the desk, hands folded together on your lap as Paula left the room. Seconds later, Paula was holding open the door as two unbelievably gorgeous humans walked in.

Larissa was a thin and lengthy woman. Her perfectly tanned skinned was accented by her long, thick strawberry blonde locks that were styled in a curly half updo. Her smile was bright and infectious, spreading to her warm honey brown eyes. Her arm was entangled in Steve’s, her hand resting on his toned forearm. You’d heard about Steve Rogers, butthe again… who hadn’t? He had a reputation that exceeded so many- but you’d never realized how breathtakingly handsome he was. His defined jaw was covered with a light scruff. His dreamy blue eyes met yours, sending a shiver down your spine. Your eyes quickly fell to the floor. You could still feel his gaze on you, making you feel more on edge then you already were. Clearing your throat, you pushed yourself from your desk to greet the -seemingly flawless-couple. “Hi, my name is y/n, I am so thrilled to be working with the two of you to make your wedding dreams come true. Please take a seat.” You directed the couple to plush love seat, grabbing the iPad from your desk. “Can I get you two anything? Water, coffee, tea?” “I’ll have tea if you don’t mind. Iced sweet tea with some lemon, if you have it. Anything for you baby?” Larissa’s southern drawl dripped off her tongue like warm molasses. Steve shook his head no, a faint but kind smile gracing his lips, as his gaze caught yours for a split second, causing your heart race to increase. Shifting in your seat, your body grew warm as you fidgeted with your jacket. “I can definitely make that happen.” You used this as an opportunity to regain your composure, sending out a text to Paula, before sitting down across from the couple, one leg tucked behind the other. You spent the next hour going over their vision for the wedding. Color schemes, theme, flowers, venue. Your mind was blossoming with ideas, you felt flutters of excitement and anticipation consuming you. “So, do you have a set budget you’re looking to stay in?” “Daddy said, money is of no issue. Whatever it takes.” Steve’s eyes widened as his jaw went rigged. He looked slightly terrified, as if he had no idea what he had gotten himself into. What may have been a nightmare for him, was a dream for you. Not having a set budget was what planners dreamed of. The detail you could obtain was nearly unimaginable. It felt as though the world was playing at your fingertips. “I’ll get started on the first steps right away. I’ll be emailing you often, as the work progresses. I’d like to meet with you both sometime next week, to your venues. When would you be available?” “Oh dear. I’m leaving for Ukraine on Thursday. I have some mission work over there, so my sweet sweet Steve will be handling all of that-“ She wrapped her arms around Steve, giving him a squeeze and a quick peck on the cheek. “He will be my eyes, he knows what I like. And you can always email me for input of course.” “Oh. Okay. Well I will keep you updated via email then. So when you are available Steve? I’m sure your schedule is rather. . . Hectic.” “I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I can shoot you a text? We can text you right?” You couldn’t help but laugh at his innocence. “Absolutely. You both have my number. Feel free to text or call me whenever, day or night. For the next 7 months, I’m at your disposal.” “Perfect. I’ll text you when I know. “ You showed them to the door, closing it softly behind them. Sliding into your desk chair, you let out a deep sigh, exhilaration hitting you like a swift kick to the gut. No y/n. Absolutely not. Get yourself together. You are a professional. You’re career is your life. You can’t become lose your professional for some dreamy blue eyed man. A soon to be married blue eyed man. Get your shit together woman. You did what you knew best, throwing yourself into your work. Within five hours, you had put together 9 color schemes, selected 14 floral arrangements for each of the venues they had picked out. You mocked up a layout for the wedding website. After thorough research, you found a few caterers and photographers that fit Larissa’s-rather extravagant- criteria. The screen of your watch lit up with a notification as it buzzed against the home of your wrist. A text from Steve Rogers. Steve: I am free all of next week after 8am. Given nothing comes up. Let me know the plan. Steve. Picking up your phone from its place on your glass desk, you sent Steve a quick text back. Y/N: Great, I’m going to make a few calls, and I will get back to you. Steve: cool. Thanks. After a few calls and emails sent as urgent, you had set up 4 venue tours. Not a shabby start for one day of work. Y/N: Wednesday. If you could meet here at 10am, we will have a car to drive us to the venues, unless you prefer to drive separate, I can send you the details. Steve: I’ll be there at 10. Please don’t torture me... too much. You burst out in a spit of laughter, as you read his text. Clearly this wasn’t Steve’s idea of a fun time, you were fairly certain that most grooms weren’t thrilled with the whole wedding planning process, especially when they see firsthand how much it costs. You put yourself to work for a few more hours, trying to push thoughts of Steve from your mind. This was going to be a tough 7 months. The sun was set when you left the office, the air even colder than when you had arrived. You snuggled your jacket tight against you as you made your way for the train, ready to succumb to the sleep you so desperately needed. Chaz sat a large cup of coffee on the desk in front of you, the rich scent billowing in clouds of steam from the lid. Cupping your hands around the paper Starbucks cup, you let the warmth seep into your hands, as goosebumps rippled over your body.One of the best feelings on the world.

“Thank you Chaz. God I really need this today.” “I thought you loved touring venues?” “I do! It’s one of my favorite parts of the job, but with eager brides, not reluctant grooms.” You took a sip of the hot coffee, savoring the taste as it drizzled down your throat. “Well, at least he’s massive eye candy. Meow.” You rolled your eyes at Chaz, as she winked, her callous laughter trailing behind her as she left the room. Shaking your head, you collected the essential paperwork, stuffing it into your folder before placing it into your oversized bag. Planer, check. Keys, check. Wallet, check. Phone, check. You ran through your mental checklist once more, before settling that you indeed had everything. As you turned from facing your desk, you fell back against it, your heart skipping in your chest. A surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins, your hand resting over your chest as you keeled over trying to catch your breath. Steve Rogers stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe. His laughter was the sweetest thing you had ever heard. It sent a warm flush rushing through your body as bubbles popped in your belly. “For someone so fierce looking you sure do scare easily.” Steve pushed himself from the wall, closing in on the space between you. “I’ll have to remember that. I apologize, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Your assistant said I could come in.” “No, no it’s fine. It’s probably my biggest character flaw, startling easily. You’re lucky I didn’t scream.” Your laugh was awkward but not forced, as you hesitantly met his eyes. The flutters returned, sending blood rushing to your cheeks. You broke the eye contact, trying to collect your thoughts, before speaking. “Uh, the car is waiting if you’re ready.” Steve nodded, extending his arm out for you to lead the way. Grabbing your jacket from the coat rack you made your way to the elevator, suddenly dreading this day more than before. Steve didn’t let his disinterest disrupt the tours. He acted as though he truly wanted to be there, although, his eyes told a different story. He was kind and attentive, as you went into detail about your vision for the venues. The Edison ballroom was beyond lavish. The large room was empty, the chandelier sparkling off of the glossy floor. You watched as Steve took in the view, his eyes lighting up. “This would be the dance floor here. And we’d be doing round tables with a rectangle table for the wedding party, obviously, which would be located here.” You held out your your iPad -that had your vision sketched out as you- as you pointed around the room. “Larissa would love this. Amazing. You are truly, very talented. I see why Larissa wanted you.” You felt the heat rising in your cheeks as the blood rushes hot. You quickly turned away from Steve, distancing yourself from him with a stretch of your legs. You were frantic, and you didn’t know why. You couldn’t understand your irrational behavior. What the hell was your problem? Steve took a step in your direction, his stride smooth and eloquent, his hand light as a feather as it tapped your shoulder. “Are you alright?” You had to think quick on your feet, luckily for you, it was one of your best talents. “Something got into my eye, it startled me. We’re good now.” You put on your most believable fake smile, as you turned the attention away from your embarrassing outburst. “So, where were we? Oh yes, tables. Over there I was thinking the cake display would be perfect. A little-“ “Speaking of cake, I could really go for some food right now. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” You glanced down at your watch, the time reading 12:36. You hadn’t really thought about lunch, but who were you kidding? Food sounded amazing right about now. What you wouldn’t do for some French fries. “I, didn’t really plan for lunch, but if you think you’ve seen enough here, I suppose I could cut you loose a bit early, look over the specks and placement a little more, maybe finish up my rough sketches and we can meet back here in an hour?” “You don’t ever stop, do you?” Your eyes grew wide as your brow furrowed in confusion. What was he talking about? “Wha- what do you mean?” “You’re a busy bee. All you do is work. Don’t you ever just take a moment to breathe?” All you could do was blink at him. No. You didn’t have time to stop and smell the roses. You were building a reputation here. And you don’t build the best rep on the east coast, by stopping to... breathe. “My job is my life. I would think that you of all people would understand. You know, being a hero and all.” Steve shrugged nonchalantly, his demeanor calm, cool and collected. And not to mention sexy. “If I let my entire life circle only around being Captain America, I wouldn’t have a life worth living. Sometimes you just have to take a step back to really appreciate what you have. That being said, I’m taking you out to lunch. My treat.” You were flabbergasted, as you stumbled over your own words, barely able to get out a comprehensive sentence. “I- Uh- But my work.” “Nope. It’s happening. Come along.” Steve grabbed your wrist, where you expected his grip to be overly strong and painful, it was light, almost as if he was caressing you. It sent shockwaves coursing through veins, as warmth radiated through you. You wanted to pull away, but a part of you was thrilled by the feeling of his embrace. Against your better judgement, you let him drag you along... The tiny cafe was hidden away in the back of a bakery. The aroma of decadent goodies made your tummy rumble. As you took your seat across from Steve at the petit circular table, you could feel your heart pounding in your throat. You suddenly felt uneasy, the urge to get up and bolt and never look back.

You gripped the menu too tight in your hands, trying to control the nervous shakes that travels through you.

This is just a meal with a client. Chill the heck out!

“Benny, two Cubans please.” Steve shouted across the small area. “Best Cuban sandwich you’ll ever have. I guarantee!”

Shyly, you glanced up from your menu. A crooked grin graced Steve’s handsome face, you thought your heart might melt.

Oh come on. . . For fucks sake!

As you contemplate running away again, a small and stout man rounded the corner, carrying two large plates that smell like heaven.

You said nothing, as you stared at the plate in front of you in awe. The sandwich was huge! It looked and smelled absolutely delicious, you could feel the excess saliva collection in your mouth.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked before I ordered. I just got excited. I’ll get Benny back-“

“No. It’s alright. This actually looks amazing! Thank you.”

You flashed Steve your award winning smile, and it was genuine. If he hadn’t ordered for you, you would have been sitting there for ages trying to decide.

Steve smiled back, a grin that spread to his eyes, forming wrinkles in the corner of his eyes.

“Larissa would kill me if she knew I was eating this, so let’s keep this between us.” He laughed before diving into his sandwich. You chuckled softly to yourself, before taking a bite yourself.

Steve’s eyes lit up, as he set his sandwich down, his gaze focused on you.

“Did I just hear a laugh? Did you just laugh?”

“Umm…” The blood rushed to your face, your sandwich falling onto the plate with a thud.

“That was a adorable. I didn’t think someone so serious actually laughed.”

Steve returned to his sandwich as if what he said would have no effect on you. Boy was her wrong. You were swooning. Over a client! And engaged client!

Thankfully, there was food in front of you, to help distract you…

After devouring the majority of your sandwich, you were craving a long nap snuggled up in your comfy bed with your favorite fuzzy blanket, and to forget about Steve Rogers for a moment, but that wasn’t going to happen, at least, not anytime soon. . .

FOREVER TAGS:

@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked

@itsanerdlife

@sea040561

@dsakita

@princess-evans-addict

@marvels-queen-bee

@mariekoukie6661

@flashfanfics

TGTB TAGS:

@lilypalmer1987

@tnupsweetpie

@drakestdream

@carrietoddrick

@patzammit

@universal-death-of-a-fangirl

@the-lachrymose-one

@notyourtypicalrose

@ereboring

@whatmakesmebeme-tblr

@stark2510strange

@pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

@mrsalh32611

@cattfeine

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ohstardust · 6 years

Text

Rose Coloured Boy - [1/11]

Summary: Sebastian Stan & Eleanor Egan spent the better part of six years being the European outcasts of Rockland Country Day School. Despite growing through their teens as best friends, college soon broke down their friendship until nothing remained. Ten years later, a turn of events in a city as large as New York City, finds them running in the same social circles once again with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x OFC

Word Count: 2k

Masterlist / Story Background / Playlist / AO3

A/N: Happy Birthday to Sebastian! I thought it was very fitting to start this series on his birthday so I hope you like the start and please let me know what you think. Part 2

1995

Eleanor Egan had befriended Sebastian Stan on an overcast morning in late August of 1995. No one had forewarned Eleanor how tragically horrific, and anxiety inducing, being the new kid at school would be especially when in a foreign country. Where she knew no one besides her mother and entered a school where most students had already grown up together. By 8am she’d already felt like a fish out of water and classes hadn’t even begun yet.

There were few things that could have eased her nerves that day more than another foreign new starter in class, she was thirteen years old with little inclination to start making new friends. She already felt too old to start that, past the point of starting fresh and trying to be social so she could avoid being the outcast even further, but someone else in her position eased her worry, and it lessened the pressure and cooled the heat that had been rising in her cheeks since breakfast. Eleanor didn’t like being the centre of attention at the best of times, especially not when she was being singled out for being the new different European student in a foreign country that was far more vast than her birthplace. With the other new student stood up before the class, she sighed in relief with the knowledge she now had someone else to share the first day spotlight with.

Rockland Country Day School was nothing like Eleanor had imagined. With only 120 students across PK - 12th grade, it was a far cry from the 1200 student populated high school she had known for the past year. Everything was so small despite the vast district she’d found herself now inhabiting and she cursed every life changing moment that had led her to Rockland. But her mum had reassured her that this was right, this was what they both needed, and they had each other, what more did they both need besides that and stability? The calming arms that embraced her still left her with an ounce of concern, but she trusted her mum was doing right by them both. She had no other choice. She had her mother or nothing.

After a day of few whispers and stares and more nice to meet you’s and small smiles, she worried less about returning the following day, and the years that were still to come. This wasn’t like the school’s they showed in American movies, this was civilised and welcoming and oddly comforting. She supposed she could stick it out here for the duration.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Romania. That’s where Sebastian Stan had been born. It had caught Eleanor so off guard that she stared wide eyed and bewildered at the young boy for a good five seconds after learning about his nationality. It was clear as day he wasn’t American, she’d been quick to realise this as soon as he introduced himself to their class of students, she just wasn’t expecting him to be so European. But it calmed her knowing he was in the same situation as her, the pair a million miles from home surrounded by people they were yet to know. She’d left England only six weeks prior and it felt so daunting to be thrown back into education somewhere that felt uncomfortable and new and unlike anything she’d experienced before.

Before the end of the first day, Eleanor and Sebastian had become firm acquaintances with all the promise of a firm friendship in the making.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“What were the chances that in this tiny school, there were two brand new European students starting the same day in the same grade?” Eleanor wondered aloud in a muted whisper on that first Thursday afternoon, her chin resting in her left hand as her right repeatedly tapped her pen on her book in Science class boredom. Their teacher’s words circling and swirling around them in a haze that stopped just short of reaching Eleanor’s ears.

“Stupidly low, yet here we are.” Sebastian responded, scribbling notes in conjunction with the regaling of information, his hand working overtime, curious eyes darting from the blackboard to his paper and back again.

“I don’t believe in all that fate rubbish, but if I did, I’d probably put all the blame on that.”

He stopped his hand for a second and lifted his head to seek out the young girl wearing an amused smile, “Let’s just pretend it’s fate then,” Sebastian flashed a rounded, toothy grin at her before turning back to his notes.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

There’d been some mild excitement when she shyly spoke to her mother about Sebastian for the first time, it was strange, and she couldn’t put her finger on it, she’d had plenty of boy friends back home, but he felt different. Something about his confused accent from his time in Romania and Austria, his chubby cheeks that were impossibly rounded when he smiled and his earnest curiosity for learning all he could both in and outside of class, it twisted her in a way that she hadn’t felt before. He was a dorky nerd, yet so was she, and she’d smiled wide when she told her mum that she felt she’d met the boy version of her. Statistically it was bound to happen one day, but not this early on in her life. They were scarily alike for all their differences.

It was during the second week that Sebastian and Eleanor had come to befriend Nina Riley, a New Yorker that laughed loudly at weak jokes, spoke so animatedly that she encountered many near misses of smacking her dinner off the table with her gesticulations and had the longest hair Eleanor had ever seen in person. It was evident Nina was going to grow up to be a bit of a heartbreaker one day, yet Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to feel jealous every time a boy looked at Nina before they looked at her because she was so bright and had a smile more blinding than the sun itself.

The trio became thick as thieves, the three musketeers they often referred to themselves as. Odds were, if you were ever looking for one of them, you’d find the other two in their wake with wide smiles and shaking shoulders. They were the outcasts, no matter how nice and welcoming the other kids were, Sebastian, Eleanor and Nina were still on the outside of everyone else’s groups. And that was fine, they had their own and nothing was going to change that. Well almost nothing.

Nina left Rockland in the summer of 1999 with a promise to keep in touch and a sad smile reserved for those who knew her the most. The crack in their group left a hole that Sebastian and Eleanor didn’t know how to fill, hadn’t needed to fill in the four years they’d all been friends, so they grew even closer in their remaining two school years until the space was filled with just the two of them, comforting and complete again. They didn’t ever hear the full story for Nina’s departure, her family life a closed book, with mere snippets and glimpses at the odd pages, they simply had to accept she must go and wished her well through the tears and sadness of the fracture and loss of their best friend.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

2001

She didn’t tell Sebastian how thankful she was to have him beside her during that first year, and those remaining ones, until they were graduating high school. But she’d said it with a pink tinge to her cheeks as she curled up beside him on a shared picnic blanket surrounding DeForest Lake as they mused over their future with the young, naive curiosity only two eighteen-year olds could, full of hope and fear and excitement for the unknown. Old enough to make their own decisions and steer their life how they wished, but still young enough to have forever stretched out in front of them with endless possibilities. The clouds were few and far between, shifting at such a rate regardless, and the blue sky felt poignant and deliberate for one of the last afternoon’s they’d unknowingly spend together for another ten years.

Eleanor’s eyes wandered over the landscape rolling out before them, the towering trees, the flowing water, the tranquil sounds of the peace and quiet. The lake had been the place they could escape when things got too much, or they needed a break from the world, where they told each other endless secrets and make silly promises they thought they would keep. It was their place with all it’s cliches in tow.

“I’m scared, Seba.”

“Of what?”

“Of leaving. Home, school, this safety blanket we have around us, you. Everything’s gonna change, the world is so vast out there and I feel so small and lost in comparison.”

“Me too, El. Me too,” he sighed and tightened his grip surrounding her lower back, sniffing back the tears that were forming, he wouldn’t cry, he had to be strong for her, wouldn’t let her see just how scared he was of everything changing too, “but college is going to be amazing, we’re gonna have the time of our lives. We can be free.”

“I don’t feel ready, just wanna stay here a bit longer and pretend we don’t have to grow up yet.”

“You’re going to be the most successful person this school has ever seen, you mark my words, draguţă.”

Her head lifted off his chest and she grinned down at him, eyebrows raised teasingly as she ruffled his thick curly hair, “Wasn’t it you who was voted Most Likely to Become a Celebrity?”

Sebastian eyes rolled, and he scoffed, “I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Not as long as you keep me around you’re not, I’m never letting that go.”

“What a shame, time to get rid of you then.”

Sebastian certainly deserved the jab in the side and bite to the shoulder he received from the smaller girl, his soft smile forming.

“I’m kidding, couldn’t let you go even if I tried.”

“Me either, and god have I tried Sebastian Stan.” She dramatically dropped her head back to his chest in mock exhaustion and fisted his soft marl grey shirt.

Sebastian pressed his lips to the crown of her head and snorted at her comment, “You’re terrible to me sometimes, absolutely horrible.”

“Get used to it darling, I’m not changing anytime soon.”

“Good.”

“Oh and Seb?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re gonna be the most successful Rockland graduate. I can just see it now, a big hotshot actor with a legion of adoring fans and a pick of any girl you want. It’s what you deserve.”

His cheeks turned pink and he grew bashful, hiding his smile in her hair. He didn’t allow himself to dream this much, it was too dangerous and uncertain, he was too afraid to jinx himself and feel the disappointment further down the line. But the thought made him feel warm and content, knowing the faith Eleanor had in him. He was certain he could do anything he put his mind to with her belief.

“Only if you’re by my side, being overly emotional and lame as always.”

“I resent that, idiot,” she protested, “but yeah, I’ll be there.”

They didn’t know everything would change in a matter of months, both so sure they’d be around each other for the rest of their lives, in the audience cheering each other on through every theatre performance, attending premieres together for each others films, maybe even working together on a few occasions, and for them, that kept the dream alive longer than their friendship, it felt like an attainable goal if they were aiming for it together.

The regret would settle in years later when they were old enough to properly reminisce; they’d remember this day with a fond sadness, through a haze of why did I let you go? that would last for a moment or two before they shook themselves free and continued on with their lives.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Rose Coloured Boy tags: @lovingfionn, @lowdenglynnstyles, @outofworkactress

#rose coloured boy #Sebastian Stan #Seb Stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fanfic #seb stan fanfiction #sebastian stan series #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan x you #chace crawford #chace crawford fanfiction #chace crawford fanfic #chace crawford series #chace crawford x ofc #sebastian stan x ofc

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inkstainedfanfics · 7 years

Text

Let Him Go

Request: "I feel like we ask for this a lot but please you have to do a part 2 of missed shots or i might just die" + other sweet requests!

Word Count: 2,716

Pairing: None

Part 1 | Drabble

Tag List: @dont-give-a-bother @heneed-somemilk @caseoffics @wefracturedmotivation @ladyredmayne @stevette60 @myrtus-amongst-the-stars

Requests are currently open! Feel free to send one in

You slip inside with a group of men you’ve never seen before. Thankfully, they assume you’re a friend of a friend of a friend that they’ve just never met. The alcohol they drank on the way may have helped a little, too. You can smell it on their breaths as the men laugh at some obscene joke.

What crude people. Judging by their accents, they must be some of Tina’s friends. You huff out a breath as you slide along the wall away from them and try to tune out their thoughts.

Strings of twinkling lights hang from the ceiling, draping down to the guests’ heads, remaining just high enough to be out of reach of any mischievous teenager. Tables covered in white cloths dot the small area of the room that isn’t a dance floor. Vases with red roses sit in the center of the tables, the only pop of color in the room aside from the matching walls and black chairs. A band plays a simple swing song near the front of the room, right next to the empty dance floor. People filter in from outside, entering the already warm reception room.

You approach the bar near the back of the room and order a glass of iced water for now. You may need the courage of alcohol later, but you need a clear mind for a little while. Taking the drink with a thanks, you wander over to rose colored wall. Leaning against it, you watch people wander in, laughing and talking with one another, enjoying the day. You sip your drink and count the amount of people you know.

Only about ten people, not that that surprises you. Most of the guests seem to be New Yorkers. Whenever one of the people you know ventures close to the bar, you bow your head and busy yourself with adjusting your dress or fixing the roses in the vase near you. No one approaches you, to your relief.

Not until a man, for whatever reason, approaches you, stepping in front of you when you look at the hem of your dress and tug it down.

“Hi.”

You glance up at him, sighing. Raising you head, you paste a smile on your face. “Hello.”

He extends his free hand. “I’m Edward.”

Taking his hand, you introduce yourself. You note his firm grasp.

“We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I don’t believe we have.”

He leans a shoulder against the wall. “I didn’t think so. I would have remembered such a beautiful woman.”

You roll your eyes and stare at your drink. Just the type of guy you’d wanted to avoid.

“So, how do you know the couple?”

“I’m an old friend.”

“Bride or groom?”

“Neither.”

“Really?” His deep voice breaks through the soft swing music in the background. “How’s that possible?”

“Circumstances.”

“All right, I get it. You don’t want to talk about it. So, what’d you think of the ceremony?”

“It was nice.” A lie. You hadn’t gone.

“Did you like the candles? I thought they were a nice touch.”

“They were just lovely.” You shake your drink, trying to break the ice up, only half listening to Edward.

He laughs. “I knew I didn’t see you there.”

Blushing, you look up. “What?”

“You’re lying! If you’d been there, you would have known there was not a single candle in the entire church.”

You scowl. “Fine. I wasn’t at the wedding. Happy you figured it out, Mr. detective?”

He laughs again. “So, you’re a wedding crasher, then?”

You purse your lips. “No, I was invited.”

“But you only came to the party?” He lifts his glass toward you. “That’s my kind of woman.”

“Listen, Edward, I’m just here to see someone, then I’m going.”

“Who? Tina?”

“No.”

“Oh, are you in love with the groom? Is that it?”

You fight the urge to scream. This man is impossible. “I’m not in love with Newt.”

“You’re blushing. Merlin’s beard, is there anything you say that’s honest?”

“Why are you even here?”

“The free beer.”

You shake your head and peer around him. Newt and Tina still haven’t arrived, but Mrs. Scamander stands near the door. She’ll stop you if you try to leave. Gritting your teeth, you face Edward again, shifting so his broad shoulders block you from Mrs. Scamander’s view.

“You’re not from New York or London, are you?”

A cocky grin spreads across his face. “What gave it away?”

“The stupid way you talk.”

“Stupid? I find most women call it charming.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t pronounce anything correctly.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s you that can’t pronounce anything.”

Rubbing your temple, you give in. “Where are you from?”

“Scotland, proudly.” He winks at you.

You allow yourself to dig in his head. He’s telling the truth. “What’s a guy from Scotland doing at a New York wedding?”

“I was invited, same as you.”

“How do you know Tina?”

“Tina? Never met her. I’m here for Newt.”

You frown and try to peer into his thoughts for answers. “I’ve known Newt since I was little. I know you’re not one of his friends.”

“No, not one of his friends. One of his brother’s, though. Theseus didn’t think he could make it through the night without someone to match him drink for drink.”

You gesture to the drink in his hand. “You’re getting a headstart?”

“He’s a lightweight. If I didn’t start first, I wouldn’t get to have any fun.”

Taking another sip of water, you eye him. He may be right. Theseus isn’t small by any means, but next to Edward, he might look it. Edward’s tux sits snug across his chest, hugging his obviously muscled arms. He’s tall, too. Tall enough to force you to lift your chin to meet his ocean blue eyes, a perfect complement to his chestnut brown hair. He could be attractive, you suppose, to some women. Though most may be turned away by the thick scar starting at his hairline and winding down between his eyebrows, over his straight nose, and ending in the middle of his left cheek.

“Like what you see?”

You glower at him. “I wasn’t admiring you.”

“Right… Because you’re in love with Newt.”

Damn it. If a stranger can tell, everyone you know will be able to, including Theseus and Newt.

“Tragic story, that is.”

You hold your glare an extra second before changing the subject. “How do you know Theseus?”

“Met him in the war.”

“Is that where that scar came from?” You jab your chin toward his forehead.

He lifts his hand to the tip of the scar. “It is indeed. You know, most would consider it impolite to ask about that.”

You shrug. “It’s not like you’ve been very polite to me.”

The room erupts into a sudden clapping. You peer around Edward.

Tina enters first. Her dress is beautiful, flowing and covered in beads, sleeveless, but with a draping pearl necklace that dips to her stomach. Her shy smile radiates warmth and elation, and even from so far away, you find it hard to tune out her thoughts. So before Newt even makes it through the crowd of guests waiting to congratulate him, you’re hit with a picture of his smile the way Tina sees it.

Edward reaches for you as you stumble back. He takes your glass and sets it on the table while you lean against the wall, back fully pressed against it. Newt, your Newt, hers in her mind.

He is, you suppose, but you don’t want to think it.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you focus on Edward’s alarmed thoughts. He’s closer, making it easy to dig into his mind, shuffle through the stories hidden in there. You don’t go anywhere that seems too personal, just try to read about how his last few days have been.

You don’t even realize Edward has left you and returned until he tugs on your arm. “I got a chair. You look like you need to sit.”

You want to protest but realize from his thoughts of you that you’re deathly pale. “Tell me a story.” You breathe out as you sit. Anything to get him thinking.

“A story?”

“Yes. A story.”

“Let’s see. One time, I met this beautiful woman. Just gorgeous. Problem is, I haven’t always been the charmer I am now, and when I met her, I couldn’t speak. Just tripped some noise right out of my mouth.”

You can see her as he talks: a long-legged woman with maple colored eyes and the sweetest smile. You pick the image apart, try to count the freckles crossing her nose, estimate her shoe size, debate what color her hair is as Edward tells the story.

“By the time I knew what to say, she had gone and left the building. Never saw her again. Biggest regret of my life.”

You lean your head against the wall and open your eyes. “That can’t be true.”

“It is. After that, I went to the war and learned that if I wanted something, I should probably go after it.”

“So you haven’t regretted one thing in the last eleven years?”

“Not a thing. You should try it.”

You sigh as Tina’s thoughts grow distant and disappear. The couple’s first dance came and went as Edward told his story, and now the dance floor is full of other couples or parents with their kids. Edward follows your eyes.

“Would you care to dance?”

A red head bobs through the crowd. “I – I don’t think I can.”

Edward’s voice softens. “He’s married.”

Tears threaten to fill your eyes and your voice squeaks. “I know.” You clear your throat. “I know he is. I haven’t seen him in a year, though. I loved him for so long, but we were best friends first. Best friends and I just walked away from him.”

“Did you say something you regret?”

You watch Newt smile and take Tina’s hands. “Yes.”

“Then you need to say something to him. Apologize.”

You turn your attention back to Edward, meeting his intense gaze. “I can’t. What if he doesn’t care about me anymore?”

“At least you’ll know.”

“I could ruin his wedding.”

“Or you could make it better. You think some part of him doesn’t miss you if you were such good friends?”

“I don’t know.” You play with a jewel on your dress.

Edward watches you for another moment with a tilted head then stands. “I know just what you need. Wait here.”

You let him walk away, turning your attention to Newt. He dances with Tina, turning to speak with others when they tap on his shoulder or approach him, laughing when some of Tina’s friends drag her away to dance with them. He scans the crowd on the dance floor and you allow yourself, for one moment, to dig into his mind.

The tears make their way into your eyes. He’s looking for you. Pulling out of his thoughts, you close your eyes and try to control your breathing. He does miss you.

Edward shoves two tiny glasses into your hands and sits. “Here. Courage.”

You blink away the tears and look up at him. “Excuse me?”

“Liquid courage for you. Take a couple shots and you can do anything.”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely. Now drink and go talk to lover boy over there.”

You hesitate, eyes darting between the drinks and Newt.

“Come on, now. We haven’t got all day. I’d still like a dance once this is all over with.”

You wait one more moment, meeting Edward’s blue eyes, wondering why he thinks he gets a dance, but then you grab the drinks and gulp them down, reveling in the burn on your throat.

“There you go. Now go talk to him. Get your best friend back.”

You stand, breathing in. I can do this.

Weaving through the tables, you avoid Theseus and Mrs. Scamander. At the edge of the dance floor, you pause, finding Newt. He’s in the middle, surrounded by Tina’s family. He could probably use a friendly face.

You look back one last time. Edward smiles at you, nodding. You have to do this. You shove your way through the crowd, not giving yourself a minute to consider how very poorly this could turn out.

You stare at his back, at the piece of lint in the middle of his black jacket. Summoning up every ounce of courage, you lift your hand and tap on his shoulder.

The smile drifts from his face when he turns. Your own wobbles.

Newt stares at you before his lips twitch at the corners. “You didn’t RSVP.”

“Sorry,” you just want to hug him, “I got a little caught up running from eye-eating doxies.”

“Nasty little buggers. I thought we’d trapped them all in the top drawer of your dresser.”

You laugh shakily. “We missed a couple.”

Newt’s lips finally curve into a whole grin. “I guess we’ll have to watch the doors.” He glances around before extending a hand. “I think I’m supposed to invite you to dance.”

“I hope you’ve improved since the mini-ball you hosted in the Hufflepuff common room.”

Newt grimaces, “Oh Merlin, I hope so too or I’ve just made a complete fool of myself in front of Tina’s friends.”

He takes one of your hands in his and places the other on your hip, swaying along to the beat. The two of you dance in silence for a minute, listening to the conversations of others around you. As you spin, you notice Newt glance at Tina. The worry in his eyes melts away, his shoulders loosen, and you know he can’t help the smile that stretches over his face.

He’s happy. He’s so happy. You watch him mouth three words to her, and you know he means them.

His smile dims a little when he looks back at you, and the worry returns to his eyes

“Are you here for good?” It’s a nervous question, one you know means a lot to him.

You look at him, look at the best friend you’ve known for over 20 years, who you grew up with, told everything to, fell in love with, and, now, as you close your eyes and let out a deep breath, fall out of love with.

You open your eyes back up and smile at him. “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

Newt’s smile grows slowly, but it ends up filling his face. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry. I had to sort some stuff out on my own. Well, almost on my own.” You glance back at the tables. Edward leans against one now, speaking with Theseus. When he sees you looking, he winks.

Newt notices the gesture. “You know him?”

“A little.”

As the song slows to an end, Edward says something to Theseus and starts your way. You look toward Newt. “Do I look okay?”

He smiles his crinkly smile. “You look even better than you did when I first met you and you were covered in mud.” You roll your eyes and start to move away as someone else nears him, but before he lets go of your hand, he grows serious and meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Anything for you.. I’m sorry for leaving in the first place.”

“My mother’s going to be elated. She absolutely adored you.” Giving you a half smile at his joke, he glances at Edward. “He likes to travel. Don’t let him whisk you too far away.”

“Like you did? You are, after all, the reason I’ve seen ten different countries.”

Newt looks back at you, sly twinkle in his eye. “Yes, but I trust myself to keep you safe.”

You step back, shaking your head in fake exasperation. “You can’t get protective now.”

“I’ll try not to.” Newt promises, but his smile tells you otherwise.

You’re so glad you have your best friend back.

Edward taps you shoulder a moment later and holds out a hand when you turn. “May I finally have a dance?”

Smiling, you place your hand in his. “I suppose. As a sort of thanks.”

You only promised him one dance, but as the night wears on, you find yourself spending it next to him.

#Newt Scamander #newt Scamander x reader #newt Scamander imagine #newt Scamander one shot #fbawtft #fluff #requested #sequel #omg I loved writing this #Esp. Edward #my own character #adore him #I hope you all love him to #So this isn't exactly a happy ending with Newt #but that wasn't possible #sooooooo #I hope you like it!

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abiteofnat · 7 years

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TRENDY MY ASS, THIS WAS JUST PURE DELICIOUS...

Because now that avocado toast is a must-have at every brunch, healthy restaurant, and cafe that incorporates natural lighting and yellow accents it is a competition of who has the best one. Sometimes avocado toast tastes like bread with unseasoned guacamole on top, and sometimes it’s so full of flavor and texture you can’t understand how God put it on our green earth to enjoy.

As I watch Moulin Rogue and go through all the photos from my ten days in New York (both upstate and in the Big Apple) I’m amazed by the amount of ground covered and food eaten. I mean we like food, but we were in Syracuse for literally 12 hours and managed to do a whole Food Network season of Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives in that time. My family began our East Coast Adventure with a crack-o-dawn flight to Syracuse on a Friday, creating a deep rooted need-not-want for a giant iced mocha and a thicc everything bagel with veggie cream cheese from The Great American Bagel in the B concourse of O’Hare. While I am a morning person, I also wake up so intensely hungry for hard carbs and pure fat that in order to remain calm on a small plane catapulting through the open sky I had to enter a carb coma and that bagel surreeee did it! If you’ve never had Great American Bagel, hold your hand out right in front of your face this moment. Now picture a bagel that fills up your entire hand finger tip to finger tip that smells like bread right out of the oven and filled with what I think is the BEST cream cheese ever. For airport food, it is the Beyonce of airport food. I went there.

Once in Syracuse we realized there is absolutely nothing to do there BUT EAT, as we had from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. to amuse ourselves before seeing my sister’s “summer college” theater performance she had spent three weeks there working on. After walking around the cute but sparse downtown of this old salt mine city, we found Original Grain, a cute & healthy eatery on the corner of the most picturesque section in town. It’s a warm, inviting spot filled with painted white wood accents, blue and yellow chairs around tall tables, and a ceiling covered in ivy and flowers. It feels a bit like a grotto, or somewhere that you would find in Hawaii while cruising around. There are two counters of morning food and afternoon food options, with the morning side offering different variations of avocado toast and a ton of smoothies/ energy drinks blended up right there. The afternoon side offers salads, poke bowls, and wraps for your lunch break pleasures and lemme tell you everything was so colorful and “crunchy” looking that I was nearly temped to eat a poke bowl at 11 a.m.. Too early for raw fish in my book though, also I was still very full of bagel. Mom and Dad ordered two different avocado toasts though, the Smashed Avocado and the Egg Man (minus the meats).

The “smashed” had red pepper flakes, scallions, very crisp ripe tomatoes, and then a carrot & cumin dressing that I want to put on EVERYTHING. This dressing was such a weird freakin flavor; a mix of savory and spicy and rich and light all at once. It had a slight Asian flair to it, same with the ponzu sauce on the other option- it was sweet but given the saltiness of the soft-boiled egg placed on top it created a full mouth of flavor. I’ve never had an egg soft boiled like that where the outside was firm but the inside creamy as if a deviled egg had been reconnected at the seam and holy crap I have to get over my fear of eggs and learn how to make it!!! Also that would require a water boiling pot which requires a stove which neither I own.

I also got a smoothie, the likes of which I had never had because it was full of chia seeds and berries and witchcraft instead of a brown banana and some almond milk such as I am used to making myself. I cannot recall what it was called but order any smoothie and I promise you will be full of nutrients and vitality when it’s gone.

After OG Grain we went for a drive to small town America part of Syracuse near the river filled with family-owned ice cream shops and little places for travelers such as us to stop in and enjoy their road-trip vibes, which Regional Donut Authority served up perfectly! My mom, the queen of donut hankerings, found the one kooky donut place in the twenty mile radius and I fell in LOVE with the whole damn thing. The outside is like a vintage teen television show set and the inside takes you back to the 50′s, where you can picture teens sharing a donut before Jenny has to be home by 9, and there are old posters with witty sayings strewn about. There’s something about old Coca Cola merch that hits my nostalgia button even though I’m a 90′s kid, and the table and chair sets inside were all clad in Coca Cola logos which made it a stellar spot anyway- but then the DONUTS.

Each handmade from start to finish, decorated by some sweet young adult behind the counter, and in a cute lil display case with a million options to choose from. I went with the s’mores and also a Fruity Pebbles once because I have no self restraint from anything that will make a dynamic photo and also taste AMAZING and ya know what? For $2 a pop I think I could swing it.

This S’MORES DONUT WAS JUST FREAKING CRAZY. The cake was moist and not greasy or heavy, the marshmallow fluffy like a Hostess cupcake filling, and the graham cracker slightly chewy from the August heat and entirely melt in your mouth. The frosting on both was perfect; not sickly sweet and not gooey. Just good ole frosting with a lot of tasty stuff on it. While these donuts are small, they are full of flavor AND fun. Plus, I got to enjoy them with my parents and learn the story of how they met which is really special.

The last stop on our tour de eating a lot was a dinner destination called Pastabilities, a popular Italian place downtown and where we were meeting up with a family friend who also had a child in the Syracuse summer college thing. Suddenly this desolate downtown was packed with people, and they ALL wanted to go to Pasabilities, but this place was prepared and once inside it was easy to see they’re used to a large volume of humans and have ample space. But very very cute space! This is no tacky Italian location, it is a real classy place with a modern twist and lovely plates of homemade pasta that was making my stomach growl. You get their delicious hot bread and “Famous” spicy tomato oil upon sitting down which I took full advantage of, and then we ordered a round of rose and some burrata for the table because who can resist burrata?????

This burrata was fresh, smooth, placed on fresh greens and good enough to eat sans bread. We also ordered a kale caesar that was full of fresh cracked pepper and sundried tomatoes, and then for the main course we enjoyed some linguine alfredo that made me want to kiss the chef. This alfredo was rich, dense, full of various cheese notes and there’s no need to describe the taste of homemade pasta because there is no way to describe that. It is a full toes to mouth taste that makes you go “HOT DAMN”. While Syracuse is not my number one favorite place ever visited, I really did appreciate the time spent with my parents and family friends over delicious food and in a new place in general. The beauty of travel is seeing the world no matter where in the world it is, and that comes with visiting places some call home and some make home if even for a few hours. We’re often in small, odd towns due to family stuff that forces us to be a funny, adventurous unit and make the best of it; the next morning before we drove to Cornell to begin a college tour for my sister we stopped at a local coffee chain called Freedom of Espresso and in the early morning sipped mochas made with locally sourced espresso in a quiet, hidden part of town, and that was worth the whole trip. Coffee, new places, and the knowledge there’s even more to see real soon. That’s the best thing in the world, I think.

ANYWAY, should you ever find yourself in ‘Cuse and need a million pick-me-up’s and larger pants to fill, please follow in my steps!! Should I find myself there due to an intense need to visit Destiny USA (their mall, the name is fabulous) I will for sure be trying the Penne Vodka at Pastabilities next because good GOD it looked yummy. (Note: my dad just walked in and I showed him this post and he goes, “Yes that burrata was unexpectedly good.” So if you don’t believe me, trust Keith, he’s a tough critic.)

Keep your peepers open for my next post on summing up NYC!!! How do I have normal blood pressure and cholesterol I eat like a street vacuum cleaner!!!

Until next time, Happy Eating!

- Natalie

#foodblog #food #blog #foodblogger #chicago #syracuse #travel #new york #avocado #avocadotoast #coffee #pasta #breakfast #brunch #snack #dinner #donuts #sweet tooth #rose #happy hour #wine

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roselesliedaily · 7 years

Link

Rose Leslie: ALL KINDS OF WOMEN OUT OF THEIR ‘COMFORT ZONE’ 04.27.2017

photography by KRISZTIAN EDER / story by GUY LESSER

As Gwen Dawson—the youngest house maid at “Downton Abbey”—she secretly dreamed of escaping a life of service, and becoming a secretary (in the show’s very first season). In a memorable season six cameo, she returned to visit England’s best known stately home, as the wife of a rising politician, an eloquent feminist, and an ardent advocate for the education of women.

In “Game of Thrones” she was the auburn-haired wilding archer Ygritte, for whom Jon Snow broke his Night’s Watch vow of chastity—kindling an impossible passion that both characters would deny, even to themselves, until she died in his arms (toward the end of Season 4), while the wilding armies lay siege to the Wall and Castle Black, telling Snow one last time (with a broad Lancashire accent) that he “know[s] nothing.”

As for the fate and fortunes of Rose Leslie’s latest character, Maia Rindell—a recent law school graduate (from a prominent and enormously wealthy Chicago family, who’s secured a job offer at the law firm of her godmother, Diane Lockhart)—this may depend less on Leslie— or her versatile gifts as an actress, or even on the storytelling skills of Robert and Michelle King in creating an absorbing sequel to their long-running CBS hit series “The Good Wife,” and rather more on the venerable broadcast channel’s marketing bet that it can launch its new subscription streaming service “All Access” by luring the old show’s loyal audience (of 10-13 million regular viewers over seven seasons) back to the colorful political and legal world of Alicia Florrick (played by Julianna Margulies, who won three Emmys and was nominated for seven more in the role), but without Margulies’ beloved character ever actually turning up in the sequel.

MONROWE recently caught up with Rose Leslie by phone, shortly after her return home to London following some five months living and shooting the first season of “The Good Fight” in Brooklyn, New York.

Guy Lesser: So, is Julianna Margulies going to be lured into appearing in Season 2 of “The Good Fight” when you all come back to shoot next fall?

Rose Leslie: I don’t believe so. I don’t believe so. No—but, as a mere actor, that’s not something I would ever be privy to. Were you wanting to see Juliana appear?

GL: Not necessarily. But when a character like Alicia doesn’t die, with, say—

RL: An arrow through the heart?

GL: There’s no closure to her storyline, and of course Alicia does periodically receive mention in “The Good Fight.”

RL: True, true. But I loved the way they ended “The Good Wife” and left the door open— even if there isn’t any way that that she’s going to come through it. But it also reflects life, when, you know, you’re not too sure whether you are going to see an old friend again.

GL: Were you a fan of the “The Good Wife” or was it Maia’s character that convinced you to take the part?

RL: I was completely drawn into the world that the Kings created in “The Good Wife,” and I felt completely honored to be asked to be part of that. But it was the writing that really got me. I feel that they are such bold writers, and such advocates for women, and as a result, I greatly admire their work. I knew this was something I would love to be part of—particularly when it came to Maia, and the opportunity to explore in depth one character through the arc of however many episodes. She wasn’t someone—despite the privilege she was brought up with—who felt entitled or was arrogant. She realized that she had to work incredibly hard to prove her worth to her peers and others. And I rather loved her backbone and her resilience. And certainly with everything that is thrown at her through the season. You see her flaws, but you also see that she’s passionate, and dedicated to the cause of fighting injustice, and I love the core of self-belief she has.

GL: Did you discuss Maia with the Kings?

RL: They asked me to read the pilot and to come back to them—to see what I thought, and whether I was a fan of this particular genre, and this particular universe, and the character. I really loved the pilot. And they were very open to discussion in terms of letting me know what the character’s arc would be in the first season, and helping me be aware of where the character was going to go.

GL: In some ways, she seems so different from other characters you’ve played.

RL: Obviously, I’ve had to be prepared to play all kinds of women. But I always find myself being drawn to playing characters who are forced to get out of their comfort zones. Hopefully that keeps it interesting for the audience, but certainly for me—along with the development within the character—it keeps it interesting.

GL: The fictional Rindell family is very clearly modeled on Bernie Madoff’s, with many of the same questions posed about who knew what, when, and who was blissfully ignorant about the family’s and Madoff’s investment fund’s extraordinary good fortune—particularly before the scandal broke. What sort of preparation was involved for playing someone who’s American, a lawyer, and the daughter of this sort of family?

RL: I had played a couple of American characters before, so I felt at ease with the accent, although I’d never approached a project where I was talking in American for nearly five and an a half months. I listened to voices on Youtube and American TV so it would come across as naturally as possible. But I was also surrounded by Americans on set— so if I wasn’t too sure about how to pronounce a particular word, I could just ask anyone. With Maia Rindell, I didn’t necessarily check out the bar exam—was that terrible of me? But I did do some research when it came to Ponzi schemes, and I read Stephanie Madoff Mack’s autobiography, “The End of Normal.” And of course that was her take on being married to Mark Madoff, and what they were thinking, and the horrific consequences after Bernie Madoff confessed. It seems just extraordinary, crazy in a way, that his surname was “made-off.”

GL: I actually went to a minor English boarding school, called “Mill Hill,” that is sometimes confused with your boarding school, Millfield—both because of its name, and for its prowess at team sports. Of course, not only did I not fit in, but even after two years of playing them, I’m still far from sure I understand either cricket or rugby.

RL: Cricket is still something I cannot wrap my head around. I’m lost halfway through the explanation. And I still don’t get it—not that I’m proud of that—I should understand how cricket works. Rugby is a lot easier to follow—rugby I get.

GL: So were you good at sports?

RL: Interestingly enough, I know Millfield is well known for sport— my older sister was, and is fantastic when it comes to that. She did netball, a lot of hockey, and rounders. But Millfield also has a fantastic drama program. And from a very young age, rather than pursuing sport, I was always drawn to the creative side, and they were brilliant at pushing you to write pieces of your own, and perform pieces of your own. There were evenings whereby you could do whatever you wanted to do— whether that was dance or poetry or a bit of acting or singing, playing a musical instrument. And so, we were really encouraged by the school to explore.

Then, after I was 18 and my A-Levels, my fabulous drama teacher—Mr [Alex] Boyd-Williams—helped me chose and hone my monologues to apply to LAMDA drama school. Helena from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” was my “classic.” And my “modern” which was powerful, and rather harrowing, and very dark—but then, I’m kind of drawn to that—was from a Mike Bartlett play.

GL: Which is to say, the road to your playing “Emma” in the Crucible Theatre’s revival of Bartlett’s “Contractions” last year began when you were at Millfield.

RL: I really do owe my love of Bartlett and the enjoyment I find in reading his work to my drama teacher, Mr Boyd-Williams. He introduced me to Bartlett, and pushed me in this particular direction.

GL: Was “Downton Abbey” in some sense your first “big break,” or somehow get you the role of Ygritte on “Game of Thrones?”

RL: Downton very much helped me land an agent, and be more confident in the acting world. And I felt incredibly privileged to have a job that lasted for 6 months. Before Downton everything I’d done was episodic, so that was a really really lovely, wonderful experience.

I did hear from David Benioff’s office [GoT’s co-developer} that they happened to see me when Downton was airing in the US, and they were looking for an auburn-redhead. And as a result, I was one of many to audition for Ygritte. So [Downton] definitely helped me get my foot in the door, since I’m not sure I would have been able to audition for the role if I hadn’t been “seen.” But I feel it’s always a snowball effect— isn’t it? That each job lends to the next. Then, there’s also an element within my career driving which particular role or character I want to choose next. And hopefully through that there’s longevity. . . .

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how2to18 · 5 years

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HIS NAME WAS DANIEL, he told me, eventually. He’d found me stumbling down the highway near the Hungarian-Croatian border on a sweltering day. I still had a vague hope of getting to Budapest, but by that point I’d given up trying to catch a ride and was seriously dehydrated. Seeing a two-liter bottle peeking out from the roadside grass, I’d run across two lanes to have a look. As I unscrewed the cap, the vapor of heated urine rose up and I fumbled the bottle back to where I’d found it. I kept walking, not holding my thumb up anymore, only trying to scout out a spot over the barrier where I could sleep. While I wasn’t looking, Daniel’s shiny new BMW pulled over in front of me and I bumped into it.

The short, bald, muscular man inside, dripping with sweat, started swearing in French. He asked what the hell I thought I was doing. In my own stuttering French, I thanked him for stopping and asked where he was headed. He told me Romania. Running through the map in my head, I asked whether he could drop me off near Budapest. He said he would and handed me a bottle as I got in. I guzzled the water down, and we sped away.

When I caught my breath, I said he didn’t sound like he was French. Speaking in a mix of stilted English and oddly accented French, he told me he was from Transylvania. He’d trained as an engineer, but there’d been no jobs, so he’d joined the French Foreign Legion. I asked whether it was true that they took on criminals sometimes. “Not if you are a fucking psychopath,” he said. “Not if you killed a bunch of people or burnt down a school. If you just robbed a bank, then maybe yes.”

He’d been a paratrooper in the Congo. He wouldn’t tell me anything more. Instead, he told me about his trip, how he’d started in the south of France and had driven to where he’d picked me up, more than 700 miles, without stopping, except for gas. When I pressed him for stories about the Legion, he looked at me with genuine pain. “Do you want me to tell you how I watched my friends die for the first time? How I left them? No! About how it feels to take life? Non, bien sur.”

He went on to tell me about how he’d fought off malaria in the jungle, how he’d refused field medication because “it tears you up inside.” He told me of the deep shame and guilt he felt over the things he’d had to do. I asked him how he’d survived and how he dealt with those memories. “It took great strength,” he said, pointing to his temple. “If you’re so curious, why don’t you join the Legion? Quelle age are you?” I told him I’d just turned 18. “You’re a child,” he said and asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I wanted to write. “Another good way to get yourself killed.”

Now you may say I didn’t have the right to ask all those questions. I didn’t have his experiences and couldn’t possibly understand his trauma. Besides, ours was just a passing acquaintance. But we came to an understanding that we were two human beings trying to be good. What gave me license to excavate his shame was my relative innocence, my uncurdled curiosity, my belief that he too was trying to be a good man, and my suspicion that talking might help.

After figuring out that I was originally Russian, he told me he’d found some salvation in the works of Dostoyevsky. He’d read of Dostoyevsky’s epileptic Christ character in The Idiot, a man of limitless good who tragically succumbs to his yearning for goodness. Daniel thought that this character’s sacrifice for the sake of others was a worthy one. I unreservedly agreed. Now, Daniel said, he was raising a young son, named Andrei, like my Russian name. He hoped he too would be a good man.

Daniel’s shame was transformative, constructive. He told me that his favorite novel, the one that most defined the shape of his life since the Legion, was The Brothers Karamazov, about a faithful man sent back into the world to deal with the earthly affairs of his family. Of course, it’s about a whole lot of other things too, but that was what Daniel remembered. He concluded that we were all just trying to help each other to be better.

His compassion — and its pairing with an intense interest in Dostoyevsky — wasn’t exactly surprising or unfamiliar to me at the time. In those days, when I was criss-crossing continents hitchhiking, people would ask me whether I liked On the Road. I’d tell them there wasn’t enough hitchhiking in it for my taste, too much roadtripping. What I really liked was Dostoyevsky. I loved The Brothers Karamazov, loved The Idiot, Demons, Crime and Punishment, everything he’d labored over. And I had a suspicion that, if Kerouac had been asked the same question, his mind would have shot off in the same direction, as would the minds of so many literary hitchhikers.

“What’s the name of that Russian author you’re always talking about — the one who put the newspapers in his shoe and walked around in a stovepipe hat he found in a garbage pail?” Remi Boncoeur asks Sal Paradise in On the Road, sounding more like he’s conjuring up the memory of Diogenes than Dostoyevsky. “This was an exaggeration of what I’d told Remi of Dostoevski,” Sal comments. Remi then goes off about people with faces that deserve a name like Dostoyevsky.

But Kerouac’s allusion has a deeper significance. In certain ways that the writer of history’s greatest hitchhiking novel must have picked up on, Dostoyevsky’s late novels reflect the openness and the vulnerability of standing by a road waiting — hoping — for a car to stop. They reflect the experience of hoping — believing — that the driver will be good.

There’s something about entrusting your welfare to the whims of speeding humanity that is essential to engaging with Dostoyevsky’s radical project, and there’s something about Kerouac that made him particularly successful in that engagement. The two main things Kerouac must have understood about Dostoyevsky, if only because these things chimed with his own life and work, were that there was a powerful yearning for sainthood in Dostoyevsky, a yearning — not necessarily religious, though tinged with Christianity in Dostoyevsky’s case — to be good, to be moral, almost beyond human capacity, and that sainthood is inaccessible without accepting that one must pass through darkness to get there.

A ride through the south of England made clear to me just how essential this darkness was to the saintly paths Dostoyevsky set out on. The car belonged to an engineer who was apocalyptically obsessed with Demons, which may outdo Crime and Punishment as Dostoyevsky’s scariest novel. He picked me up at a service station near Essex where he’d stopped for a cigarette. He gave me a lift because he remembered hitchhiking from his home to Turkey as a young man.

“Nothing will get better until we exterminate the politicians,” he said, not long into the ride. Brexit had just happened and that sentiment wasn’t new to me — I’d heard it all over Britain — though his phrasing was a little more brutal than the standard rhetoric most of his countrymen offered. “We need some sort of natural disaster that will make people realize that they must oppose their government.”

He had a thin, upper-crust accent and an air of almost threatening confidence and intelligence. He seemed unbelievably efficient. His hair had gone gray but his intensity had not abated, or perhaps it had been renewed. He worked for a wind-power company that was based in Denmark and he was going down to London to attend to some offshore turbines.

His politics tended toward the optimistically catastrophic and the catastrophically optimistic. “It’s a system run by the very few,” he said. “We need London or New York to flood. Or even Tokyo. Something to cause a major depression and cause a real change.” I asked him what would come after, whether he was some form of communist. He denounced that as a failed creed. Instead, he brought up the conspiratorial nihilist group in Dostoyevsky’s Demons. He seemed to view them as a kind of example.

That’s funny, of course, because Dostoyevsky, though he was involved with similar groups as a young man, wrote the book largely as a denunciation. The engineer understood this, but nonetheless he sympathized with the violent conspirators. On my next reading of the novel, I was reminded of his fiery spirit and the group came to much more vivid life.

Eventually, he dropped me off, giving me a firm handshake and wishing me good luck. The hard, pouring rain made hitchhiking a chore, so I ran across a couple of traffic circles, hopped a roadside fence, and crossed a creek. As I walked through the woods, scouting for a level, relatively dry spot to sleep, my mind was filled with the radical notions of bygone days.

In that forest, as rain droplets pattered on the surface of my tent and water began to drip through, I thought about how Dostoyevsky’s youthful association with that conspiratorial circle in St. Petersburg finally caught up with him. Consequences burst into his room in 1849 in the form of the czar’s soldiers. Later, as he stood in front of a firing squad with his fellow radicals, the thoughts that passed through his head were exactly what you’d expect. “He felt only a mystic terror,” a friend recalled Dostoyevsky’s description half a lifetime later, “and was completely dominated by the thought that in perhaps five minutes he would be going to another, unknown life.” And yet the bullets did not leave their chambers. They never made that swift journey through his flesh.

Anticlimactically, Dostoyevsky and his co-conspirators were led back to their cells. What happened in his head at that moment, the mysterious and powerful operations of his rare neurons, set him apart from the other men who’d stared down the gun barrels with him. It didn’t take long for most of them to fall apart, physically and mentally, following the shock and terror. Dostoyevsky, however, accepted his fate at that moment, and he allowed it to alter him. “Now, deprivation means nothing to me,” he wrote his brother from the cell, and he would later tell his wife that he sang louder that day than he’d ever sung before, so loud that his voice touched its limits, “so happy was I at being given back my life.”

What followed wasn’t the release and amnesty Dostoyevsky had hoped for, but though he would soon be sent off to serve a horrific sentence in a Siberian work camp, that moment changed him, in some ways, for the better. Dostoyevsky’s biographer Joseph Frank claims that, immediately after returning to the cell, the writer experienced a revelation, a “blinding truth that Dostoevsky now understood for the first time — the truth that life itself is the greatest of all goods and blessings, and that man has the power to turn each moment into an ‘eternity of happiness.’”

This understanding wasn’t limited to his life. It permeated his work. It’s what makes reading him so powerful for people like Daniel, the former legionnaire, and for people like Kerouac and me. “If the values of expiation, forgiveness, and love were destined to take precedence over all others in Dostoevsky’s artistic universe,” Frank continues, “it was surely because he had encountered them as a truth responding to the most anguished predicament of his own life.”

This is exactly the sort of sweeping epiphany that Kerouac tried to build toward in his books, and the experiences and motivations that led to those revelations, though not the same, must have felt comparably powerful.

Kerouac never faced down a firing squad, not a literal one. But he did live with guilt, and he suffered in ways big and small. The primary cause was the death of his older brother Gerard when Kerouac was four years old. In later years, he explicitly associated his brother’s decline with the rise of his own saintly urges and behavior. “The world was his face,” he wrote, “the flower of his face, the pale stooped disposition, the heartbreakingness and the holiness and his teachings of tenderness to me.” He wrote, in Visions of Gerard, that the death didn’t affect him immediately, but it hit him hard enough that he returned to write about it all those years later.

And yet, unlike Dostoyevsky, who found the merits of suffering in huge, almost melodramatic plots, especially in his earlier writing, Kerouac relegated events of that caliber to the sidelines. The first lines of On the Road read, “I first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up and my feeling that everything was dead.” This prominently placed split-up haunts all that follows, but it’s never mentioned again. In the original scroll manuscript, Sal’s comment about “feeling that everything was dead” refers specifically to the death of his father. At some point in the writing process, Kerouac chose to emphasize smaller sufferings.

Kerouac found shades of transformative, transcendent hardship in the mundane experiences of travel. They were there for him to explore because travel isn’t just a continuous shock of freedom and joy; it’s just as often an experience full of obstacles and discomforts, of setbacks and confusion. Fundamentally, the overwhelming excitement that makes travel so compelling is caused by gnawing, impatient longing for the next thing, and by not knowing what comes next.

Kerouac doesn’t shy away from these aspects. He writes about scrounging up money, about being pulled over by humorless cops, about missing his friends, about loneliness and being lost. But it’s not depressing because not only does he not shy away from all this, he focuses on each of those moments. By flinging himself on the world, by accepting all that comes at him, whether good or bad, as beautiful, and by focusing on the smaller things, Kerouac’s books begin to touch a sort of sainthood.

The sun was starting to set and the heat had evaporated by the time Daniel dropped me off on the ramshackle outskirts of Budapest, among the stray dogs and scrap-metal fences. Before he let me go, he made me write down his number, telling me to call him when I got to my friend’s apartment. “I’d like to be sure you’re okay,” he said. But after talking to him, I wasn’t sure he or anyone could ever be fully okay, nor was I sure we wanted to be.

Dostoyevsky and Kerouac were never quite okay. They lived troubled lives, striving toward aspects of goodness, and neither of them lived to grow peaceful and calm, perhaps because they didn’t really want to. Dostoyevsky’s sainthood, to the extent that he achieved it, was hard-won, born of guilt, early onset cynicism, and a lifetime of fuck-ups. Kerouac’s sainthood was shrouded by alcoholism and dissatisfaction. What they shared, and what I think allowed them to experience moments, if not a lifetime, of near inhuman goodness, was a sort of transcendent shame and a willingness to take the good with the bad, to accept the world as they experienced it. I think Daniel experienced those moments too.

Hitchhiking, with all its indignities and discomforts, also forces you to accept those saintly, beautiful moments, if not necessarily to experience some sort of deeper transcendence. Kerouac must have known that. He must have known that the moment you step out with a thumb up, the world can do with you as it likes. He must have known that, to even get to that roadside, you had to believe in the possibility of good, to believe that you can fall in the world and yet, by doing so, paradoxically rise. He must have known that nothing he’d found in literature would prepare him for the surprises and mysteries that the world would throw at him once he gave himself up to it — the difficulties and upsets, and the unexpected joys.

Nothing, that is, except what he’d found in the novels of Dostoyevsky, the secret Patron Saint of Hitchhikers.

Andrew Fedorov is a writer often found in New York and sometimes found walking across countries. Follow him on Twitter @andrewfed.

Banner image by Bradley Gordon.

The post The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dostoyevsky appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff · 5 years

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Nothing, that is, except what he’d found in the novels of Dostoyevsky, the secret Patron Saint of Hitchhikers.

Andrew Fedorov is a writer often found in New York and sometimes found walking across countries. Follow him on Twitter @andrewfed.

Banner image by Bradley Gordon.

The post The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dostoyevsky appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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junker-town · 7 years

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The bloodlines of America run through the Kentucky Derby

48 hours inside the gates of America's most famous horse race

I’m in the beach and swimwear section of the basement-level T.J. Maxx on Wall Street in New York City and I’m frantic. I’m going to Kentucky tomorrow for the Derby, a strange Southern party that has always fascinated me, a Yankee from New England.

“Do you have a hat?” my editor asked me earlier today, and I realized I expected one to magically appear when I got to Louisville. That’s clearly not how things work, so here I am, trying to decide between the lesser of two straw evils. I send a picture of each to my mother. She tells me to buy the white one because the black one makes me look like I’m going to a funeral.

The next morning I get on a plane, cross several state lines, and land in the pouring rain among the lush green hills and steel gray rivers of Louisville.

Two women, who I assume are from some sort of tourism department, greet arriving passengers at the gate. Their hats match their red, rose-printed dresses, and I marvel at the feathers and curlicues cascading out from their brims.

My hat is crushed in my bag.

“I had a bunch of girls from Vanderbilt in the car wearing ponchos before you, so it smells like flowers and plastic,” says my Uber driver named Randy. We’re driving through the rain, passing boarded-up houses that surround Churchill Downs.

I’m on my way to the Oaks, the set of races held the Friday before the Kentucky Derby. Everything we pass is gray, except for the blinking red and blue lights of a police cruiser and the yellow caution tape marking off a crime scene next to it. There’s a big heroin problem in the neighborhood around Churchill Downs, Randy says. Homicides have been on the rise, too.

Inside the track, the white-washed tunnels feel like a mix of a country club and the concourse of a baseball stadium. It smells like cigars, beer, and a front yard after a heavy rain.

Everything here is pink, from people’s outfits to the banners hanging from the painted rafters. It’s Filly Day, and some of the proceeds go to breast cancer research. I didn’t realize Filly Day was a thing, so I’m wearing a black dress, my stupid hat, and black toenail polish. If anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m from New York.

The people in lines inch closer to the betting windows or booze vendors as they wait to bet or buy what’s probably their thirteenth mint julep or aluminum bottle of Bud Light. They look miserable. They should be miserable, because a steady drizzle alternates with downpours, and everyone is dressed for what they want the weather to be. Women stick it out in sundresses and rompers, bearing their shoulders, midriffs, knees. The cuffs of men’s seersucker pants are caked with mud, their sleeves wet. They’re playing pretend, wearing costumes and acting like they enjoy shivering on a 45-degree day.

A damp cold has settled into my bones, numbing my toes, tensing up the muscles in my shoulders and the back of my neck. I want to leave, but I haven’t seen a horse race yet. I’ve never seen a horse race, so as the bugle blows, I go down to the rail by the track and hold onto the wet metal.

The gates open and the race starts on the opposite side. I watch the Jumbotron set up in the infield, an open cage for drunk people which is slightly cheaper ($90) than the cheap seats in the grandstands ($175). Suddenly the horses, the purest manifestation of bloodlines, the embodiment of animal eugenics, round the corner and go from screen to flesh.

Their hooves spin through the track, which looks like frosting on a cake that’s been left out in the sun. Mud spatters the horses’ flanks and creeps up the jockeys’ legs, whose silks haven’t changed in 150 years. The jockeys strike the backsides of the beasts with riding crops.

I strain against the rail, speed and strength hurtling through my chest. I didn’t expect the race to be so visceral, to be so overwhelmed, for the horses to run right through me. I feel like someone knocked the wind out of my lungs.

What I can’t feel is my entire left foot at this point, and I’m having trouble typing notes on my phone because my fingers are so stiff with cold, so I leave. Outside the gates, I have to step through an obstacle course of soggy horse race trash that covers the stone entrance: shattered mint julep glasses, soaked betting books, cigarette butts, the runoff of American vices. It looks like a hangover.

In the middle of all of it, there’s a guy selling red t-shirts. He holds one up, and yells out the slogan stamped across the front: “Donald Fucking Trump,” he cries. “Donald Fucking Trump!”

I’m at the Barnstable Brown Gala on Friday night standing three feet away from Tom Brady. A barricade of folding chairs separates me from the football god as he holds court. His teammates Danny Amendola and Jimmy Garoppolo sit on one side of him, and an old guy I don’t recognize sits on the other.

A muscled man in a suit and a flat-billed Navy hat — clearly Brady’s Guy — swats away people wearing sparkling evening gowns and crisp tuxedos. They keep trying to sneak through the makeshift guardrail of seats. He firmly tells them, in a pronounced Boston accent, to stop.

Stahhhhp.

Brady’s Guy is raising his voice at one particularly adamant woman when all of a sudden I hear the sound of splintering wood and look over to see Brady’s chair spontaneously collapse, sending him crashing to the floor. There’s a collective gasp as Brady’s Guy springs to the quarterback’s side to help him up. Brady looks stunned at first, then starts to laugh. He stands up and brushes himself off.

“Was this your chair?” he jokes to another suited man. Brady grins. “Sorry I broke it.”

The surrounding crowd breaks out into relieved laughter.

The Gala is an annual event that the Barnstable-Brown family hosts the night before the Derby. There might not be official aristocrats in America, but if there were, the Browns would qualify. They’re the Kentucky Browns, as in Brown-Forman, as in one of the largest publicly traded companies in the spirits and wine business.

Patricia Barnstable, who was of the Doublemint twins (along with her sister Priscilla), married into the family when she wed David Brown. They started hosting this party at their home on Spring Drive 29 years ago to raise money for diabetes research. So far, they’ve donated more than $13 million to the Barnstable Brown Diabetes and Obesity Research Center at the University of Kentucky.

Sadly and ironically, David developed diabetes and died of complications in 2003. So now Patricia, her mother Wilma, and her and David’s son Chris Barnstable Brown — a lawyer and football writer who lives in New York City — organize and run the party. They don’t hire a PR firm because stars like Peyton Manning, Jeff Bridges, Brady, and Katie Couric know that if you’re going to the Derby, you can’t miss this. Patricia handles all the celebrities; Wilma sells each of the 1,200 or so tickets over the phone herself.

People are lined up along the rainy street outside the gates to watch the celebrities show up. The fans scream out names (“IT’S JOEY FATONE!!!”) as the party busses unload. They call horse racing the sport of kings, so it’s fitting that American royalty — the ones who grace the pages of the tabloids I browsed while I waited in the checkout line at T.J. Maxx — show out for it.

This party is a weird and wonderful pocket of Chris Barnstable Brown’s life, a yearly pilgrimage to pay homage to his roots. He recalls how, when he was ten years old, he danced in his backyard with Brooke Shields at the party. How his father used to shake the hand of every single guest who came through the wrought iron gates on either side of his driveway.

Which is why he’s still standing outside in the cold drizzle, two hours after the party started: to carry on his father’s tradition. From my perch on a riser in the press pen beside the red carpet area, I watch him shake the hand of each bedazzling star, moneyed Kentuckian, and guest of a guest who enters his family’s home.

Photo by author

Jesse Eisenberg poses awkwardly. Richie Sambora slides in and does a jazz hands pose. A bunch of famous people I don’t know — but who are apparently a big deal from some superhero TV show — put their arms around each other. Jeff Bridges and his wife are as sexy as you want them to be in real life; Jason Witten’s hair is thinning. Tracy Morgan jokes with the local newscasters. The cast of Vanderpump Rules, a reality show about bartenders at a Los Angeles restaurant, preen. New money oozes from their pores.

I shed my raincoat, hide it behind a catering table, and go back to the party in my evening dress and heels. The woman guarding the VIP section nods and pulls a rope aside when I flash my media badge, and I make my way up the sloping hill to the tent where I can see Aaron Rodgers, Randall Cobb, Jimmy Garoppolo, Bode Miller, Rickie Fowler, and Justin Rose hanging out.

Rodgers stands by himself away from his teammates. He’s facing the stage, where someone — maybe country singer Travis Tritt, but I can’t remember, and that seems unlikely — is covering a Ben Harper song. I introduce myself. We stand there listening together.

“Do you play an instrument?” I ask.

“Yeah, I play the guitar,” Rodgers says. “I love this song.”

“I just went to a Ben Harper concert a few weeks ago,” I say. “He played with his daughter. It was pretty cool.”

Rodgers lights up. “Really?” He says. “Ben is the reason I play. I sent him a signed jersey after I saw him in concert, and he sent me back a guitar. Can you believe that? He sent me a guitar!”

“Whoah, you should send more musicians signed jerseys,” I tell him. “You’d probably have way more guitars by now if you did that.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Rodgers says.

I get the sense that he wouldn’t mind being left alone, so I leave him alone. People keep coming up to take selfies with him. He obliges, always gracious, but you can tell it’s exhausting. A few tables away, Brady — who’s secured a sturdier chair — is dealing with the same thing. This is their price of admission.

“Aaron hates this shit,” says Eric Bakhtiari, ex-NFL player and brother of Packers tackle David Bakhtiari, looking over at Rodgers. “Normally, you know who I let through? Veterans and attractive women. My brother guards Aaron on the field, I guard my brother off it.”

He pauses and turns back to me. “You can use that in your story, it’s my gift to you.”

It’s now midnight, and Kid Rock — who was recently photographed in the Oval Office with President Donald Trump and Sarah Palin — is rapping. The Packers circle up and decide it’s time to go. So do the Patriots.

I watch Julian Edelman embrace Brady, then embrace Garoppolo, and then grab a bottle of water off the table and chug it in under thirty seconds. Both crews of players get whisked away by men in suits. Our new American thoroughbreds are paraded through the crowd like horses in the paddock before the Derby.

Kentucky has so far felt like an acid trip you’d have while reading US Weekly, a prep school semi-formal, and a frat party during a monsoon. Parts of Louisville I pass going in and out of the track are so bleak, but the trappings of the Derby are so bright. A huge swath of history seems missing, like someone’s painted over a wall without stripping it first.

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Shirley Mae Beard at Shirley Mae’s Cafe and Bar

I go searching for what it is and head over to Shirley Mae’s Cafe and Bar, where a Clinton/Kaine sign still hangs on the iron bars of the front door. Carrying my hat in my hand and shivering in my sundress and raincoat, I push it open to enter an empty front room with a few tables and a well-stocked bar. It’s dimly lit and humid in here; the bar feels sticky and soft. You could carve your initials into it using only a fingernail.

Pictures of celebrities posing with Shirley Mae Beard, the owner, hang behind the bourbon bottles. I see Whoopi Goldberg, Hillary Clinton, B.B. King, Morgan Freeman. That famous picture of Clinton wearing sunglasses and looking at her cell phone hangs on the wall, blown up to the size of a poster.

Shirley Mae’s daughter Dee Simpson comes out from the kitchen. She’s wearing a shirt that says, I’M NOT ARGUING, I’M JUST TELLING YOU WHY I’M RIGHT, and has very short graying hair that she’s growing out after rounds of chemo. Three months ago doctors finally declared her cured of uterine cancer, but she says being cancer-free is like being in AA — you go day-by-day, month-by-month. Shirley Mae and her shock of white hair shuffle around behind the counter, stirring the contents of pots and poking at frying chicken.

“Oh, look at you, you got your hat and everything!” Dee says. She smiles, and her eyes crinkle in a way that gives me the sense that she’s not not making fun of me.

“Let me see what you’re wearing, take off that rain coat,” she says. I oblige.

“You trying to catch a man in that dress?” Dee laughs. “Lookin’ all fancy for the races.”

I laugh, too, and turn what I imagine is a very deep red. I feel like an overdressed moron in this dress and goddamn hat. It all might fit in at Churchill Downs, but right now it just seems silly, like I’m an actor who forgot to change after a play.

Shirley Mae used to throw another celebrity-filled party, an antidote to the hoopla at the track. In 1988, she started the Salute to the Black Jockeys Who Pioneered the Kentucky Derby in honor of the 15 black jockeys who won the race, a piece of history that gets lost in an overwhelmingly white event. Until 2000, a black man hadn’t ridden in the race since 1921. This year, not a single jockey is black.

“There weren’t any [Derby] events that attracted the black community,” Dee says as we sit down at a table near the kitchen. “You just had to get in where you fit in. They used to have jazz in the park, and that was something we kind of clung to. So my mom came along, and there’s a lot of apathy here. She just decided that she wanted something for the Derby that the black community could get involved in and black kids could be inspired by. This event is not just something that happens to us, it’s about us.”

Celebrities — the ones whose pictures hang on the wall — used to headline Shirley Mae’s festival. They’d take the stage the family put together in the back alley behind the bar. It sits on South Clay Street in Smoketown, an approximately thirteen-by-fourteen block area of Louisville that’s cordoned off by I-65 on one side and South Fork Beargrass Creek on the other.

“Kids grow up in the projects and wind up with apartments in the projects,” Dee says. “They can’t get out. It wasn’t a jumping off point, it was just a circle.”

Eventually, the city hiked up the tax rate, residents couldn’t keep up with their payments, and authorities seized and razed the old projects that used to surround the restaurant. The city handed them to developers; developers replaced them with condos containing a few rent-controlled units the projects’ old residents could apply to live in. Many of the houses nearby bear foreclosure signs. If you go on Zillow right now, there are at least ten pre-foreclosure auctions. You can buy a three-bedroom house for $23,000. The blurbs describe the area as “up and coming.”

“So the area is gentrifying?” I ask.

Dee looks at me, expressionless.

“I don’t know what that means,” she says.

“It’s like, when, uh, well ... it’s like, when —” I fumble over my words and Dee interrupts me.

“It’s taking you an awfully long time to explain that word,” she says, chuckling. “Do you know what it means?”

I finally come up with an explanation and Dee says yes, that’s what happening.

Shirley Mae comes over and half-tosses a paper plate of food I haven’t ordered onto the table in front of me. It’s loaded up with a pile of ribs, hot-water cornbread, soft green beans topped with chopped tomatoes and onion, and mashed potatoes indented and filled with a pool of yellow, melted butter. I thank Shirley Mae. She just nods, puts a styrofoam cup of gravy down next to the plate, and then walks away.

“She knows the history well, but she’s tired,” Dee says. “We’re open 24 hours starting today, we don’t close ‘til Sunday morning. We have a liquor license and we take advantage of it.”

The liquor license is largely why the family stopped putting on the festival. They couldn’t both work the two bars they own and host the event, so they ended up missing out on the weekend, which is the biggest forty-eight hour bonanza any Louisville bar can ask for each year. The festival also got too unwieldy, and Shirley Mae didn’t want to charge or exclude anyone. Satisfied that the history was now at least out there more than it used to be, the family held the last Salute to Black Jockeys in 1995.

I ask Dee how she feels about the Derby now.

“Well, it’s a rich man’s thing, okay? And all the snobbery that goes with it. The trappings that go with being rich, that’s the Derby. The hats. That’s debutante-ish.”

She gestures to my hat that I’ve tried to hide on the floor under my chair.

“You get here from New York. You buy into the imagery of it. You get the hat. You got the hat before you got on the plane, you know what I’m saying? ‘I gotta get my hat.’”

“It was on your list.”

I go to the backside of Churchill Downs early on the morning of the Derby.

To get in, you need to either own a horse, work with the horses, or have a media pass. It’s calm among the long, low green roofs of the barns. They look like a child took all the Monopoly houses out of the box and arranged them in even rows. The hay smells sweet. A dumpster bin filled with wood chips and manure sends steam up into the cold drizzle.

The horses, physical manifestations of millions and millions dollars, wait in white-washed stalls. I’m standing in front of Patch, a Derby contender and fan favorite. He stretches his regal neck over the ropes across his doorway. Ginny DePasquale, who’s been an assistant to Patch’s trainer Todd Pletcher for about twenty years, reaches out to cup the horse’s nose in her hand. She pulls his face towards hers.

“It’s kind of quiet back here,” she says, turning back to me. “Because you can’t hear the races and you can’t hear the crowds.”

The loudest noise is the chorus of birds chirping the way they do when the weather might clear up. The cords of veins in Patch’s neck look like they’re straining to get out from under his mahogany coat. He moves his beautiful head in a sweeping arc, and as he turns to the side I see the deep socket where one of his eyes should be.

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Vets removed it due to an infection last year, and now there’s just a crater of bone. Skin and hair have grown over it, like moss on a stone. Ginny says they haven’t been able to see a difference in him since the operation.

She excuses herself to go check on another horse, and I make my way to the workers’ cantina where they serve tacos, burgers, pancakes, and, on race day, $20 cigars. The room reminds me of an Elks Lodge.

The backside is a village — along with the cantina, there are dormitories for the seasonal workers, 80 percent of whom come from South America (Guatemala mostly) to work in the barns. They wire money back home from the local grocery store. There’s a recreation room back here, too, with pool tables and betting windows where money gets siphoned from workers’ pockets back into the racing machine. The spire of a small chapel breaks the monotony of the rectangular barns, cutting into the sky like a mirror of the spires across the track.

Four separate ATMs line the wall under four TVs in the cantina. The sun comes out and the mood lifts. A mix of English and Spanish floats up to the ceiling. Workers and people who look like they could be owners, but I’m not sure, pour over the same betting books.

The first race of the day is about to start. As the cashier hands me my change, I hear the national anthem pipe in through the television’ speakers. The cantina goes silent. Everyone — citizens and non-citizens — stands up to face the wall of televisions, placing their hands over their hearts.

Photos of the Capitol building in D.C. flash as the anthem plays, alternating with visuals of fireworks bursting over Churchill Downs. Montages of waving American flags crawl across the screen. The room sings in unison. A hispanic worker shifts his weight from foot to foot. A white guy fidgets with the cowboy hat he’s holding to his chest.

When they get to “home of the brave” everyone claps and lets out whoops that bounce off the low ceiling and linoleum floor. The patriotic cheers linger until the chatter of several languages resumes and swallows them up.

I change behind a car in the parking lot of the backside, trading my jeans and thousands of sweatshirts for a cotton sundress and a black, feathered fascinator I bought from a lady selling hats in my hotel. I face the sun. For the first time in three days, I’m finally warm.

A guy driving a golf cart offers me a ride to Gate 10 and I hop on. We tear out of the backside, joining the lines of people in pastel who are streaming towards the spires. A group of old men sit in lawn chairs and hold up numbers from one to 10 as women go by.

In his essay about the Derby that I reread on the plane, Hunter S. Thompson wrote, “Along with the politicians, society belles and local captains of commerce, every half-mad dingbat who ever had any pretensions to anything at all within five hundred miles of Louisville will show up there to get strutting drunk and slap a lot of backs and generally make himself obvious.”

I see plenty of dingbats in the concourse: three separate guys dressed as Colonel Sanders, at least ten different men in seersucker suits with pink Vineyard Vines foam whales on their heads (most of them overweight, in a fratty, beer-y kind of way), a woman whose pink shoes perfectly match her date’s pink suspenders, 30,000 swooping haircuts on 30,000 different white men, and a woman brandishing a cigarette holder like she’s Cruella de Ville.

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I also see Jax, one of the cast members from Vanderpump Rules, buying a drink. I take a selfie with him because my friends are obsessed with the show (ironically, I think, but I could be wrong), and when I turn around, I bump into a guy wearing a suit with the Packers logo plastered all over it. His girlfriend’s yellow and green hat and skirt matches. Aaron Rodgers is somewhere upstairs on millionaires row. The fan and the idol are separated by only four floors but millions of dollars. They won’t see each other today.

I’ve gotten completely lost while I people-watch, and realize I’m wandering in circles through the maze of tunnels as I look for Section 125. I attempt to get up to Millionaire’s Row just for the hell of it, but the guards aren’t interested in being sweet-talked. One of them looks at my ticket and tells me I need to go back out to Gate 1 in order to find my seat.

Gates. There are so many gates. This place exists in gates. In barriers. In lines. Some are literal, like the lines of people waiting to buy drinks or make bets. Or the line the horses cross to determine how much you’ve won or lost. Or the wrought iron gate that guards the driveway of the Barnstable Brown house on Spring Drive. Or the barricade of folding chairs protecting Tom Brady from fans. Or the white columns that pen reporters in behind the red carpets all weekend. Or the gate the horses strain against before the start of a race. Or the railing that keeps fans back from the track. Or the mechanical arm at the entrance to the parking lot of the backside. Or the ex-NFL player who decides to shield Aaron Rodgers from people at parties — except for 10s, and real life heroes who’ve been to war.

Other barriers and lines are legal, like the one the city tried to draw around Shirley Mae’s restaurant so they could demolish it for 20 extra parking spots. Some gates are metaphorical, like the one that keeps people in Smoketown from getting off the wheel of poverty.

But the most indelible lines here are the ones you can’t see. They’re made of blood, and they determine how thoroughly a beast has been bred, how deeply a family is rooted. No amount of money can redraw lineage, but wealth is a master key. With enough money, there are very few gates you can’t open.

I look around at the drunk people. Do they know we’re all being corralled? Not just here, but everywhere? Organized according to our ability to access the real American dream, in which the only path to wealth is to have money to begin with? If they know that being here at all means you’ve accessed something?

I finally find Section 125. At the entrance, a drunk guy is slumped on the ground with his back against the concourse wall. He looks up at the usher, who’s telling him he doesn’t have the correct wristband to get in.

"Trust me, I have the right one,” he slurs, showing her his wrist.

"No, you don't, sir,” she says.

"I have the right wristband,” he insists.

"No, sir. You don't,” she says again.

I show her my wrist and she nods. I walk to my seat.

On Friday at the Oaks, I thought this weekend was about nostalgia. I thought it was a pageant, a relic of an America that doesn’t exist anymore, when celebrity belonged to people in bloodlines named Vanderbilt, Carnegie, and Rockefeller, rather than to servers from L.A. restaurants famous for punching each other in the face and sleeping with each other on a reality show.

But Donald Trump, a tacky reality star himself, is our president and the pictures coming out of the White House only feature white men. This isn’t a nostalgic America. This is our unscripted reality. How we divide ourselves is a much deeper part of our nation’s soul than how we come together. Yes, we’re all watching the same thing today, but we’re seeing it from vastly different vantage points, each determined by what we can afford and which gates our names open. By unalterable bloodlines.

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I make my way down to the rail. I’m buzzed on bourbon and I’ve lost 26 dollars betting on horses. My throat is sore from the secondhand cigar smoke. I’m blessedly warmed (and burnt) by the sun, which has dipped below the spires and thrown our section into shadow.

The crowd — mostly made up of people who aren’t from Kentucky, but, like me, have parachuted in for the experience — starts to sing “My Kentucky Home,” a song written in 1852 by Steven Foster, a man who also wasn’t from Kentucky. The song used to contain the word “darkies.” That’s been changed to “people” now.

Between breaks in the song I hear a woman a few feet away from me yell at another woman who’s trying to squeeze onto the rail.

“Where is your seat?” she demands. “You aren't legally supposed to be here!”

“The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, ‘tis summer, the people are gay,” sing the stands.

"Your ticket isn't for here,” the woman continues, getting shriller. “You can't be here!”

“Weep no more, my lady, oh, weep no more today,” the crowd sings.

“Sure, it's the right section, but it's not your seat!” screams the angry one. The other woman shrugs and doesn’t move. The angry one gives up, fuming, her elbow akimbo so that it digs into her pesky neighbor’s side.

The song ends and the crowd erupts again. Across the track, people claw at the fence of the infield. They’re stacked on top of each other. I’m pushed up against the rail by the crush of other bodies, too. Everyone around me strains to catch a glimpse of the gates where the horses are lining up.

The gun goes off.

The gates open, and the crowd roars as Classic Empire, Patch, Always Dreaming, Irish War Cry, and 16 other purebreds race by. I once again feel the thunder of the hooves in my chest, and the cold metal of the rail in my ribs. The stands seem to cheer, seem to breathe, seem to vibrate as though they were one giant body. For two minutes everyone here, from the owners on Millionaire’s Row to the drunk college kids in the infield to the workers watching from the windows of the cantina, is united by the primal experience of watching these animals run. The frenetic energy is bigger than any of us. It transcends the barriers, leaps over the gates, erases all lines. It's so loud that it becomes its own deafening silence.

And then the last horse finishes and the race is over. Always Dreaming wins. Vinny Viola — a friend Trump tapped for Army Secretary, who withdrew due to compromising business ties — owns the horse. The mud’s stopped flying, heart rates have slowed, the money’s been counted. We’re all just winners and losers again, sectioned off according to where we’re supposed to be. A man in a green suit behind me jumps up and down and screams. He had $700 on Always Dreaming.

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