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ladamedusoif · 10 months

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Visiting - Chapter 7: Forget Who We Are

(Moodboard by the wonderful @cutesyscreenname)

Pairing: Professor!Ben (College AU) x OFC Lydia/fem!Reader (reader POV/2nd POV)

Summary: Seeking a change of scenery after her life falls apart, Lydia crosses the Atlantic and arrives in a small New England town, to spend a year expanding her intellectual horizons as a visiting professor of art history at a small liberal arts college. Her growing friendship with Ben Morales, professor of Hispanic literature, forces Lydia to confront the fallout from her past - and raises unexpected questions about the future.

Chapter summary: As the semester winds to a close, and Lydia and Ben prepare to go their separate ways for the holidays, it's time to face facts about what happened at Thanksgiving - and indulge in some holiday cheer.

Word Count: 11.4k (it's worth it)

Rating: Explicit (MDNI; 18+) - for real.

Content (chapter specific): Smut; Professor Ben College AU; smaller-than-usual-for-this-fandom age gap (Lydia turns 42, and Ben is 47); canon is not a thing here; slow burn; idiots-to-lovers; fingering; oral sex (F and M receiving); praise kink; tongue-in-cheek size kink; discussions of sexual health and explicit consent; Ben and Lyd are consent masters; safe but technically unprotected PiV sex (talk about it first, people); creampie; strong language; alcohol consumption; weight and body insecurity; references to the holidays; did I mention the smut?; tiny bit of angst for good measure; smutty mcsmutterson.

A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from Father John Misty's song "Real Love Baby", which - to quote @julesonrecord - has become one of the songs for this pair of idiots as they come to terms with what they feel about each other. I listened to this a lot while drafting and writing this chapter.

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I'd also recommend the classic "Fall at Your Feet" by Crowded House as a song with an appropriate vibe for this chapter. (God, I love this song so much.)

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("Who knows where that might lead?" jeez alright Neil Finn hit me in the feels, why don't you?)

I'm so grateful for all the love I've had for this story and for this pair. Every comment and reblog and ask is a little lift to my soul (I mean that!)

And I'm extra pleased to be posting this important chapter this week, given that OG SNL Ben, the character that got into my head and made me think "imagine that man as a college professor of literature", is technically now Emmy-nominated.

They're idiots, the love might be requited, but they still have a long way to go, trust me.

Further A/N after the chapter to avoid spoilers.

See the Series Masterlist for an outline of Lydia's story and background.

Cross-posting to AO3 (got delayed this week because of The Attack!)

Thanks, as ever, to @lunapascal and @julesonrecord for loving Bendie as much as I do, and for being patient sounding boards as I work out how to tell this vital part of their story.

Taglist: @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @cutesyscreenname, @tessa-quayle, @vermillionwinter, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @perennialdoll247, @love-the-abyss, @imaswellkid, @intheorangebedroom, @javierisms, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @littlemisspascal, @khindahra, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @ruebyretro, @rhoorl

“So you’re in at what time tomorrow?”

“It’s not tomorrow, mom, it’s the day after tomorrow. Actually, it might be the day after the day after tomorrow with the time difference? Let me check, I’ll confirm later.”

You’re discussing the final arrangements for your flight home for the holidays with your mother by phone, while simultaneously checking over your end-of-semester to-do list.

There’s always a certain giddiness in the air - tempered with panic, as everyone tries to get as much work as possible wrapped up - as the first semester winds to a close for the winter holidays and the student body starts to thin out, and Barrow is no exception. All that’s left on the calendar are two events, happening tomorrow: the Founders’ Luncheon, a formal event considered a vital part of the college’s fundraising activity; and - much more importantly, from a faculty staff perspective - the informal annual staff holiday party, held in the evening.

You zone out a little as your mother starts telling you how busy she is with the preparations for the holidays. Looking through the glass panel in your door, you see a familiar figure standing further down the hallway, glasses dangling from his mouth as he opens his office door while juggling a stack of books.

A little smile creeps across your face, but there’s an ache in your chest: yearning tempered with uncertainty. You haven’t actually seen Ben in person since Thanksgiving. He’d been away at a big comparative literature conference in the south, and by the time he’d got back you were leaving for New York, where you were speaking at a week-long conference on eighteenth-century art.

You’d been in touch, though. While you were both away, you kept up the constant back-and-forth of messages that you’d grown used to over the last couple of months, a steady stream of jokes and gifs and selfies and commentary on everything: from the books you were reading to the shows you were watching, to the most mundane, everyday experiences.

Well, almost everything. In all of those exchanges, neither of you had ever brought up Thanksgiving, or the accidental, sort-of “kiss” that had haunted your dreams and fantasies over the last couple of weeks.

Ben turns just as he’s about to go into his office. He smiles, raises a hand, and gives you a little wave

“Hey there, stranger.”

He’s there at your door, a mug of coffee in each hand, as usual, and a soft, if nervous, smile on his face.

“Hey stranger, yourself.” You take your coffee gratefully and sit back in your desk chair. “Why does it feel like I haven’t seen you in forever?”

Ben shrugs and leans against the doorframe. “Conferences, travel - and I guess it feels longer because we’ve seen each other pretty much every workday, right?” He takes a substantial sip from his mug, and looks at you. “I can’t stay, I’ve got a supervision meeting, but, um, how have you been? How was the conference?”

You throw your head back and flail your hands excitedly. “Oh my god, it was amazing! Full disclosure - I might have skipped the occasional session because I was in New fucking York. But it was so worth it. And the paper seemed to go well, so - all good. How was yours?”

He exhales and shakes his head, rolling his eyes for comic effect. “The paper was a rushed job, I was basically in a hotel in Louisiana for four days, my daily treat was a trip to the CVS across the road, as you know - but yeah, the discussions were good, the work was interesting…” He raises an eyebrow and smiles mischievously. “Still - clearly I should have become an art historian purely for the conference locations.”

Neither of you seems willing - or able - to bring up the elephant in the room. Perhaps you just didn’t need to talk about it. You’d both seemed surprised by the “kiss”. You both seemed to understand it as unintentional. Maybe further discussion was unnecessary.

You reach into your desk drawer to retrieve a pack of luridly-frosted holiday cookies. “Hey, take a couple of these for that meeting. You need the extra sugar and artificial ingredients to get you to the end of the semester.”

Ben’s face lights up. He walks over to the desk and takes two of the cookies, holding them in his big palm carefully. “Damn right I do.” He looks down at you, and you feel the smile spreading across your face at the sight of those eyes at close quarters.

You take a deep breath. “Ben, I -”

A knock at your office door, still ajar. To your surprise, it’s David.

“Hi Lyd, hi Ben - I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all,” Ben reassures him. “I was just leaving.” He turns back to face you before he leaves the office. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lyddie, at the luncheon?”

You nod. “And the holiday party. For god’s sake, don’t forget about the party or Susan might kill you.”

He grins, pats David on the shoulder, and wanders down the hall to his office. David closes your office door and sits in the chair in front of your desk.

You extend the pack of cookies towards him. “Help yourself and try not to think about the amount of edible glitter involved. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

David gingerly picks up a cookie shaped like a snowman. “I’ve been up with Evan this week, and realised I wouldn’t see you before you go home,” he explains, nibbling a little of his cookie. “I wanted to call by and wish you safe travels and happy holidays.”

Before you can start to return the sentiment he puts up a hand, gently.

“There is something else. Lydia, can I say something to you? Between us. It will never leave this room.”

You shift in your chair. “Sure, of course - oh shit. Is… is Evan okay?”

David smiles and nods, reassuring you. “He’s fine. It’s not about Evan, actually. It’s about you.”

You feel your eyebrows shoot upwards.

“Well, really… it’s about you. And Ben.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck.

You get a sudden, strong memory of David in the cab on the night of your birthday drinks, looking at you intently as Evan confirmed that Ben was single, contrary to Amy’s rumour mongering.

What did he know?

“Oh, okay. Okay.”

“I don’t know how else to put this, Lyd, but I think that man - I think Ben has feelings for you. Strong feelings.”

You feel your face heat and your mouth start to dry up. There might even be tears pricking your eyes. You try as best you can to control your breathing.

“David, no. I don’t think so. He’s never done anything to suggest otherwise, and he’s had the chance, so -”

David tilts his head to one side, his eyes kind and serious.

“Lydia, I’m a theatre scholar. I study bodies and expressions for a living. I know what’s real, and I know what’s performed. And I’ve seen you two together enough, and heard each of you talk about the other enough times, to know that he has real feelings for you.” He looks at you intently. “And… to be fairly certain that you have feelings for Ben, too.”

The pricking sensation has turned to real tears, rolling heavy and slow down your cheeks.

“Please, please don’t tell Evan.”

David crosses to your side of the desk and wraps an arm around you. “It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” He hugs you as you protest that Ben just wants to be your friend, that he couldn’t possibly want someone like you, and then pulls away, looking at you face on.

“All that might be true. Maybe. But…just see. See what happens if you let the light in, just a little. You might be surprised.”

Before you leave work that evening, you pop into the main faculty office, a small, festively-wrapped parcel in your hands. Susan barely notices you pass, wrapped up in counting glasses and bottles of wine for the party the next day.

You scan the rows of cubbyholes, each one labelled in alphabetical order for a staff member, until you find it:

B.E. Morales

You place the little parcel on top of a couple of academic publisher catalogues, addressed to Ben.

A couple of rows above his, you notice something in your own mailbox: a gift box with a Post-It on top.

Another explanatory Post-It, you think, placing the box in a tote bag.

A very small Christmas gift, if you have room in your suitcase. - B.

You bring it home and place it carefully in your hand luggage.

Your invite to the Founders’ Luncheon had arrived just before Thanksgiving: a small, gold-edged cream-coloured card with the event details printed on it in elegant black lettering.

“Does everyone attend this?” you’d asked Susan, studying the invite carefully.

She shook her head. “A select few. We usually nominate the visiting professor to attend, though - so be prepared to smile and gladhand anyone who looks like they might be willing to donate to support the diversity and inclusion project. Or maybe even a new wing for the library, if you’re extra convincing.”

You hummed thoughtfully, wondering what you could dredge up from your wardrobe that would be formal enough for the luncheon and still be appropriately festive for the party later the same day.

“You’ll have at least one familiar face there, though,” Susan added, stacking a pile of freshly-copied course materials. “Ben’s been asked to deliver the address that kicks off proceedings - trying to get philanthropic support for the diversity stuff he’s been working on. He’s nervous as all hell about it - you can imagine - but I think he’ll be pleased to know he has you there for moral support.”

In the end, you’d plumped for a crimson vintage-style swing dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a cross-over neckline: demure enough to wear to the lunch and look like a Serious Intellectual, but ready to be dressed up with some well-chosen holiday accessories for the party later.

Though Ani insisted it was nothing fancy, everyone seemed extremely excited for the holiday shindig: a gathering of colleagues in one of the bigger teaching rooms in the building, fuelled by eggnog, wine, and party food. You had already heard in detail about Evan’s carefully-curated playlists. It seemed like the perfect way to blow off a little steam after a busy semester.

The party was due to start about 5pm, but first there was a formal lunch to contend with. All morning, you’d been silently repeating ‘elevator pitches’ about your work, the importance of the progress already made in diversity and inclusion, and the resources the college needed to continue it. Visitor or not, you were ready to do your best with the wealthy donors who might write a fat cheque - and get a tax break in return.

You’re running over the list of talking points in your head as you meander down the corridor on your way to your office, about an hour before the luncheon is due to begin.

“Motherfucker!”

The loud swearing stops you in your tracks. His door is ajar. You knock lightly.

“Come in.” Ben turns, sounding frustrated, but brightens and visibly relaxes when he realises it’s you.

“Oh, hi Lyd! Sorry, I’m just…” He stops and runs his eyes over you from top to toe. “Wow, you look…great.”

You can feel your face burning, and try to deflect from his words. “So do you. I mean… you’re all fancy.”

He’s dressed more formally than you’ve ever seen before. A white button-down shirt, slim navy dress pants, black lace-up Oxfords. The collar of his shirt is turned up, and he’s holding the source of his irritation: a dark green tie.

Oh, fuck me. He looks so good.

He exhales sadly. “I can do this without a mirror - usually. But it’s like I can’t remember how to do it today, and I think I’m losing it.”

“Might also be because you’re thinking about the speech, no?”

He sighs and looks a little sheepish. “You know me too well, Lyddie.”

You feel heat spread at the nape of your neck. Pull yourself together.

“Can I help at all? With the tie? I could act as your mirror, or help to get it right…”

His eyes light up and he drapes the tie around his neck again. “Oh, please? I need to run through the address one more time and I’m already late. Here: it’s probably quicker if you just do it for me at this stage.”

Oh. Oh, no.

Your instinctive need to help had overridden whether or not you could actually cope with this: physical proximity, first of all, but then having to tie Ben’s tie? With all the intimate domesticity it implied? It could end you there and then.

You take a deep breath and move a little closer, taking each end of the tie in your hands.

“I can literally do one knot, so I hope this is what you’re after,” you say, and he laughs lightly. You begin to knot his tie, muscle memory kicking in from your school days, when a tie was part of your convent school uniform. By necessity, you’ve had to edge closer still to him, and you can feel his dark eyes burning into you as he watches your fingers work.

David’s words from the day before continue to run through your brain on a permanent loop.

Let the light in, just a little.

You look at Ben through your lashes, mouth drying and a telltale throb fluttering through your core.

“Hope I’ve done this right. I’ll just adjust it and then I can take a picture so you can check.” You tighten the knot slightly and work it up towards the hollow of his neck, eyes trailing up to meet his gaze.

Let the light in.

You bring your hands up to fold down his collar and, almost without thinking, graze your fingertips off the grey patches that you love so much, just at the corners of his jaw.

Ben closes his eyes for a moment, and you can see his breathing speeding up slightly. He swallows hard.

“I meant it.”

You fold down the collar and adjust the knot, praying that your heart will stop beating quite so quickly and that the ache between your legs will dissipate. Still, you don’t stop touching him, bringing your right hand to rest lightly on his chest, just over his heart.

“Meant what?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. “I meant it. On Thanksgiving. I…meant to kiss you.”

Your eyes widen and your features soften in understanding. “Ohhhh.”

He brings one hand up and places it over yours. “I know you didn’t mean it, you went in for a kiss on the cheek and - I’m sorry, I just have to tell you, Lyd. I… I wanted to. And I should have kept kissing you, the way I wanted to.”

With his free hand, he strokes your cheek with his long fingers, the warm span of his palm carefully cupping your jaw as if you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

You smile shyly, reciprocating his gesture as you stroke your thumb along the scruff on his jaw. “I was going in for a kiss on the cheek…but I meant it, too. I wish I’d been braver that night.” You giggle. “And yes, you should definitely have kept kissing me.”

For an instant you remember the defences you’ve built up around yourself: around your heart and your soul. They were a protection and a comfort, a suit of armour deflecting even the slightest possibility of future pain and loss. You cannot be hurt or disappointed if you never expect anything. Never let anyone in.

But even the best armour is not completely impenetrable. The first weakness was exposed the day you realised what you actually felt for this man, even if you could barely admit it to yourself.

Smiling softly, Ben drops his arm to your waist to pull you close to him, continuing to caress your cheek with his free hand. “You…you’re so beautiful. I…”

His tongue darts fleetingly across his lips, as if he’s looking at a delicious morsel, and it’s enough to make you almost feral with sheer desire.

He angles his head slightly, gently nudging at your nose with his. His soft, pink lips meet yours, slightly open, in a warm, perfect kiss.

With a light moan, your tongue immediately seeks entrance to his mouth. He tastes of peppermint and coffee, of sweetness and bitterness all at once. You reach for his tie, not breaking the kiss, and gently tug him along with you as you walk backwards towards the wall of his office until he’s almost pressing you into it.

As he kisses you ever more deeply, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, tight as he can to his body, slowly moving his hands over your back and hips, and trailing his fingertips across your ass. In return, you run your hands through his hair and stroke your fingers down one side of his neck, eliciting a groan from him, before breaking away to wrap your arms around the broad span of his back.

You have felt his warm body before, when you’d hugged, but this was something else entirely. No need to worry about whether you’d lingered a little too long in his arms. No need to suppress the desires that had haunted and tormented you. Now it was time to express them.

Ben breaks off the kiss momentarily, pausing to look at you with those intelligent, sensitive, coffee-brown eyes. A wide grin spreads across his handsome face. You feel his cock pressing, half-hard, against you in his dress pants. The sensation sends another wave of wetness to your centre.

“What are you smiling at, Professor?”

“You. Beautiful, gorgeous you.”

It’s all you can do to stop the happy tears from falling. Instead, you wrap your arms around the back of his neck and pull him in for a deep kiss, hungrily tasting each other. He breaks away and moves his mouth to your neck, pulling a moan of desire from you that’s probably louder than was wise in a workplace.

He’s working his way down to your collarbone when your eyes snap open and you freeze. Ben looks at you with concern.

“Are you okay? Is this too much? We can stop. We can slow down. Whatever you…”

You shake your head frantically. “I wish we didn’t have to stop but, Ben: the fucking luncheon!”

His eyes widen in panic. “Oh, FUCK! FUUUUUCK! What time is it? Fuck fuck fuck -”

You look at your phone and try to calm him down. “You’re fine, you’ve got like twenty minutes before it starts. Hey,” you reach for his hand, “remember the message of Hitchhiker’s Guide? Don’t Panic. And maybe relax a bit, so you’re not… visible. Ahem.”

He raises an eyebrow and laughs. His breathing slows a little, and he squeezes your hand gratefully before planting a final, chaste kiss to your lips. “I’ll see you over there. Might be a bit late for the holiday party, depending on how many people they want me to meet after, but we can, uh, pick up where we left off?”

He looks so sweet and so painfully shy that you almost can’t believe this is the same man who was pushing you into a wall and kissing you like his life depended on it only a few minutes before.

You lean in for just one more kiss. “Abso-fucking-lutely we can.”

His address to the luncheon is, unsurprisingly, brilliant. Erudite, warm, funny: infused with the passion you saw him bring to his work and to his subject every day. He is so talented: he wears his learning lightly, his natural charm working to hook the audience in and hang on his every word.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he looks so gorgeous up there at the podium: smart suit, curls neater than usual (you suspect he’d run some wax through his hair after you left him), and that tie.

That fucking tie. You can’t even look at it, because it immediately sends your brain right back to the feeling of tugging it to pull him against you, to the taste of him, to the way his big hands roved over you, gentle but needy, to the way his body revealed just how turned on he’d become by kissing and touching you.

Fuck. You try to ignore the ache between your legs, choosing to focus instead on the handsome man at the podium.

You listen attentively to Ben making a powerful case to the large hall full of wealthy donors for the importance of making arts and humanities education accessible. The room fills with applause as he brings his address to a close, and you clap as loud as you can, looking at him with a broad smile on your face. As he walks across the stage, he turns and spots you.

“Was it okay?” He mouths the words towards you.

You nod enthusiastically, and give a subtle thumbs up. He does a tiny air punch, and grins at you as he disappears off stage.

“I’ve switched up the playlists - no one really wants more than an hour of festive hits, even if it’s curated by me. Vegan no-pig in blanket?”

Evan proffers a tray of party snacks, having come over to join you near the tables set up with drinks and food. The music has become much more eclectic: fewer holiday hits, many more danceable, extremely cool, crowd pleasers. A few people are even starting to clear space in the centre of the room as a makeshift dancefloor.

“Where’s Benjamin?” Evan asks as you chew on a no-pig in blanket. “You’re normally joined at the hip.”

You try not to choke on the pastry, grabbing a glass of red wine to wash down the food. “He was doing the address at the founders’ thing, remember? I think they wanted him to stay around afterwards to meet possible donors. It’s all about the diversity and inclusion programme.”

Evan nods, satisfied. “I’m not keeping any food for him, though.”

The strains of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” are abruptly cut off as Jen Arden taps on her wine glass. “Head of department holiday speech time! Don’t worry, I won’t keep you from your partying too long - I want to see everyone out on that floor!”

Her words are succinct but heartfelt, thanking everyone for the hard work that had made the semester successful and noting your arrival and integration into the Barrow community. You blush slightly as the eyes of the room turn in your direction.

“And as some of you know, Ben Morales delivered the address at the annual Founders Luncheon today - an important part of fundraising for the inclusion programme he’s been spearheading.” Jen looks around the room, seeking out her friend, eyes resting on the doorway as Ben finally arrives. “And here he is now!”

Ben shyly acknowledges the applause in the room, making a beeline for the food and drink. Pure coincidence, of course, that you happened to be standing over there, too. He stands behind you and greets Evan.

“Well, did you secure the megabucks? Are there hessian sacks printed with dollar signs currently filling your office?”

Ben huffs a laugh. “We have to wait and see, I guess. They seemed nice. Weird, though, talking to people you know are multi-millionaires. Billionaires, even. You keep thinking, ‘why do you need all that money?’”

He shakes his head and reaches for a glass of red wine. As he does so, he trails his hand along your lower back, fingertips grazing the top of your ass. For an instant you wonder if it was an accident, until you feel the palm of his hand pressing lightly but deliberately into the small of your back.

Evan is talking at length about the snack selection at this year’s party and is clearly oblivious to Ben’s shenanigans and the heat rising in your face as you struggle to maintain your composure. Glass of wine obtained, Ben continues the conversation with Evan, studiously avoiding your attempts to catch his eye.

He’d been explaining his holiday plans - Ben is going west, trying to make up for some of the time lost when he cancelled his trip at Thanksgiving, and is really excited about it - when Evan spots an incoming call on his phone. “Oh shit, it’s my mom. I better go talk to her - sorry guys!”

He exits the room, already talking loudly to his mother about her holiday menu plans.

As soon as you’re both alone, you swivel to face Ben head-on.

“Um, excuse me?”

He smirks. “Excuse you?”

“Benjamin Ernesto Morales. You know what I’m talking about. You’re lucky I didn’t spontaneously combust in front of Evan.”

He chuckles. “Ah, that was just a friendly hand placement. Nothing more to it.” He arches an eyebrow, and once again you can feel desire - no, need - rushing through you. The urge to kiss him here, in front of everyone, without a thought for the (possible) consequences, is overwhelming.

“You, sir, are a menace. Why didn’t I know about this before?”

He does that half-smile that makes you melt, and shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, on another topic - where’s Ani?”

“They messaged me this morning. In bed with a migraine, poor thing. I think these things wait until the end of the semester, just when you’re about to relax, and then bam.”

He makes a sympathetic face and nibbles on a cookie. “So it’s just us, then?” His gaze is both gentle and flirtatious.

“Us, and the rest of the faculty.” You gesture around the room, giving him a look that says “no funny business”.

He gently moves his hand along the edge of the table until it’s within touching distance of yours, and gently runs his fingertips along the back of your hand. You reciprocate by stroking the side of his hand with the pad of your thumb.

It’s so stupidly chaste, like something from a Georgette Heyer novel about maidens and gentlemen in Georgian England, and yet it’s one of the sweetest, most intimate things you’ve experienced in a very long time.

Ben’s eyes widen as the music changes and the unmistakable opening bars of “Edge of Seventeen” begin. “Oh, Lyd!” He outright grabs your hand now. “Let’s dance, come on.”

He looks perplexed when you don’t move. You beckon him closer with a tilt of your head, and whisper into his ear, feeling your cheeks heating.

“I can think of something better than dancing, but we might need to be somewhere more, um, private.”

His expression shifts as understanding sets in. “Oh. Ohhh.” He grins, looking you up and down. “Yours or mine?”

Praise be to Stevie Nicks. “Edge of Seventeen” got so many colleagues out on the ‘dancefloor’ that the two of you were able to slip away completely unnoticed.

You unlock the door of your office and switch on your desk lamp before pulling down the blind over the glass panel. The soft light illuminates his handsome features as you turn back to face him: the strong line of his profile; the softness of his mouth, lips slightly parted; the glint in his warm eyes. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and with a smile you suddenly recall the first time you noticed how beautifully broad he was, standing in the kitchen at Evan’s Halloween party.

“Hi, Ben.”

“Hi, Lyddie.”

You’re standing close now, face to face. You walk your fingers up towards the knot of his tie, looking at him through your lashes, and tug it so that he’s right up against you, beautiful dark eyes taking you in. He leans in with a smile and kisses you slowly and deeply, the bristling sensation of his moustache and beard against your lips and face going straight to your core.

The pace was never going to stay slow. You wrap your arms around him and he pulls you tight to his body, moving his hands over your hips and ass and pulling little gasps and moans from you. The mints and coffee of earlier are replaced by the taste of red wine and sugar cookies on his lips and tongue.

You start to run your hands through his hair, stroking your fingers down the side of his beautiful neck, loosening the knot of his tie, and opening the top buttons on his shirt to create a little more space for you. He inhales sharply when you break away from the kiss to gently lick and nibble at his neck and collarbone. You can feel him hardening against you, again.

He pulls away slightly, keeping his hands around your waist. For the first time in your life, you actually understand what romance novelists mean when they describe a character as having ‘lust-blown eyes’. Ben’s coffee-brown eyes are near black, pupils dilated and lids heavy, conveying a potent mixture of sweet affection and utter desire. He lifts his hand to stroke your cheek gently, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, before gently moving you towards the edge of your desk.

He’s nervous. He moves some of the piles of your papers and books out of the way, careful not to disrupt the chaotic ‘order’ you maintain, so you have more room to sit on the desk. As you sit on the edge, you notice his hands are trembling a little. You feel a bit better about the quivering sensation that’s been running through you since you entered the office together, a mixture of desire and nerves.

You hitch up the skirt of your dress a little, opening your legs and creating more room for him as he stands between them, resting his forehead against yours.

“You okay, Ben?”

He looks at you in surprise. “I’m great, Lyd, I’m just…it’s…I’m really glad.”

You feel a surge of affection in your chest. “So am I. And I’m glad for this tie.” You use it to pull him close to your body again, kissing him hungrily. He leans against you, hands on your waist and back.

“Is this okay? Can I…touch you, Lydia?”

Something about the way he says your name, softly but purposefully, sends you utterly wild.

“You know you can, Ben. I’m all yours,” you whisper, edging closer and slowly moving a hand down his broad torso, strong and soft at the same time. You reach his waistband and keep going, brushing your hand lightly over the bulge straining against his dress pants as you maintain eye contact. “I want you.”

He closes his eyes, letting out a soft moan, before bringing his hands - those beautiful, big hands - up to softly caress your breasts as he moves his mouth to your neck, planting gentle kisses and sucking the skin ever so gently.

It’s miraculous that you don’t come undone there and then, tipped over the edge by the feeling of his hands on your breasts, his mouth working the sensitive skin at the base of your neck, and his cock growing ever-harder underneath the light massage offered by your palm. Your fingers work at the buttons and zipper of his pants, desperately trying to get access to his hard length.

He’s pulled up your dress, running his hands up your thighs and towards the warm, wet apex of your legs. He lets out a sigh of pleasure as he traces his long fingers from the top of your stockings to the bare skin of your upper thigh, leaning back to look at your body with a sort of delighted rapture. You silently congratulate yourself for choosing to wear hold-ups instead of regular pantyhose under your dress.

Even in this moment, part of your brain starts to worry about the state of your body and its many flaws, wondering what he is going to think about the you that’s under the scarlet fabric. That said, he seems to be keen so far. He grabs handfuls of the soft flesh on your thighs and hips, grunting with pleasure into your mouth. He feels insatiable already, one hand still caressing your tits as the other slips right between your legs and starts to rub at the soaking crotch of your panties. You’re trying to keep it together, moaning as you move your fingers against the waistband of his boxer briefs, ready to take him in your hand and attend to his pleasure.

Suddenly, the lights in the corridor come on. Laughter and loud chatting from a group of colleagues fills the air. Both you and Ben freeze, breaking off the kiss while your hands stay put.

“Shit… do you think they heard us?” you hiss, unsure what the rules are around this kind of thing at Barrow.

He turns to look at the door of the office, trying to see how close the group was.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think we were that loud, were we?”

You smirk and raise an eyebrow.

“We weren’t, but we were just getting going…”

He rests his forehead on your shoulder and laughs before looking at you again, withdrawing his hands and straightening your dress.

“Shall we get out of here? I can call a cab…”, he offers as you nod in agreement. He quickly does up his fly before grabbing his phone from his jacket pocket and pulling up the relevant app. “This is going to sound so cheesy, but - your place or mine?”

You giggle. “My apartment looks like a packing monster threw up in it, so, if you’re okay with yours…”

He smiles and nods enthusiastically, tapping in the details. “Five minutes. They’ll be at the main entrance.”

“Five minutes, so that’s two minutes to get to the door - and three minutes for another kiss?”

He chuckles deeply and pulls you in again.

Ben fastens his seatbelt in the back of the cab, looking at you expectantly. The street lights have him half in shadow, half in light, and you have to focus for a moment to answer.

Fuck, he’s so sexy.

The little voice deep inside you still whispers about how someone as fucking hot as him surely couldn’t want someone like you. But you manage to hush it, focusing on Ben’s beautiful face.

The cab journey is short - no more than five minutes along the quiet streets - but feels like an eternity. You’ve spent the entire ride making out in the back seat, like horny students rather than two forty-something academics. Pulling up at his house, you and Ben try to retain at least a little decorum as you hustle to the front door.

“I hope you gave that guy a good tip,” you joke as Ben fumbles for his keys, one hand resting on your ass.

He grins. “The tip was three times the cost of the ride. Think that should cover him for enduring our, uh, shenanigans?”

The front door opens and the two of you step inside. You pause for a moment to take each other in, you trailing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck while his thumb caresses your cheek. Your lips meet again as you peel off each other’s coats and fall back against the wall in his hallway, your hands fumbling to undo his pants again while he dips his long fingers, finally, into the wet heat between your legs.

“Oh, fuck!” It feels like you’ve been waiting for him all your life. And, judging by the noises he’s making, the feeling seems to be reciprocated.

“God, Lydia, baby, I can’t believe you’re this wet for me already,” he purrs, sounding genuinely surprised and stroking the inside of your cunt firmly while his thumb works your clit. “You feel so fucking good.”

Ben resumes his work on your neck, moving more urgently now than he had in your office. His moustache and beard brushes against the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders and makes you wetter still as he continues to massage your clit, occasionally slipping a finger into your pussy. You moan deeply, feeling yourself tightening around his finger as you get ever closer.

“Fuck, I want you,” he whispers in your ear. “I really want you, Lyddie. I need you. You know?”

You whine with pleasure, one hand inside his briefs palming his cock as he works you to the edge. You can feel the orgasm about to burst deep inside, focused on the sound and sensation of his fingers - Ben’s big, strong fingers - sliding in and out of you.

He doesn’t stop, but he sounds a little more vulnerable. “Is that okay? I hope that’s okay,” he continues, and you feel like you’re about to black out.

“I…fuck…that’s more than okay, that’s - Jesus, I want that. And I want you, I need you, to have you, I want you…fuck, Ben! I think I’m going to fucking come, I…”

He looks down to where his hand is working you towards your climax. “That’s it, good girl. You’re so close. Come for me, beautiful girl.”

Good girl. Beautiful girl. Praise kink: activated.

Somehow he manages to look sexy as hell and sweetly shy as he brings you to the edge, eyes warm and dark. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting to make you come, I…I’ve wanted to, so badly.”

You come with a gasp, cunt throbbing and tightening around his fingers. It has been a long time since you’ve come this hard. Your eyes shoot open, looking directly into his.

He strokes the side of your face with his other hand as he takes you through the aftershocks. Your wetness soaks his fingers as you kiss him, trying to express your gratitude for what he’s made you feel, leaning against the wall of his hallway.

You break away, able to concentrate more effectively on the way his cock is now fully hard under your hand. “Fuck, baby, that was… holy shit. It’s, uh… it’s been a while.”

He blushes and kisses your forehead. “Can I take you to bed, Lyddie?”

You grin and start to giggle. He looks confused. “What? You don’t want to?”

How can you explain the myriad feelings racing through you in this moment? Excited. Nervous. Happy. Horny.

“I do, Ben. You know I do. I’m just, I dunno, I’m - I’m happy. And I really, really want you.”

He gives you a flash of that sexy fucking smile as he withdraws his hand from your panties and gently moves yours from his cock.

“Come on.”

Taking your hand, he leads you up the stairs.

You notice almost nothing about Ben’s bedroom as the two of you enter, besides the side lamp he quickly flicks on and the pile of books he moves off the bed before turning his attention back to you. Lips locked, you focus on unbuttoning his shirt while he tries to get your dress off.

In an instant you are standing before him in black and red bra, black (sensible) high-waisted panties, and hold-ups, his shirt, tie, and pants already discarded.

His eyes widen as he takes you in, gaze lingering over the black lace and red satin of your bra. “Wow. Holy shit.”

Instinctively, you move a step backwards and wrap your arms over your body protectively. You are suddenly overwhelmed by all that is wrong with your body: its size, its awkwardness, the stretch marks from weight lost and (more commonly) gained, marks and scars, a belly that is far too squishy and soft, in your opinion, hips that are too wide, breasts made heavier and less, well, perky with age. And that’s before you get on to your perennially crunchy knees.

You feel every one of your forty-two years, and then some. The fact of his utter gorgeousness leads you to only one conclusion.

God, he’s probably only ever fucked hotter people than me. I can’t compare, surely?

You feel exposed. The defences - physical, sure, but emotional, too - have been irretrievably breached, and the fear of rejection scares the shit out of you.

The sight of Ben Morales before you, wearing just his boxer briefs (and, you notice for the first time, a pair of candy cane-patterned socks), makes you even more anxious about how you must look to him. He is a gorgeous vision, easily the most beautiful man you’ve ever even seen, let alone gone to bed with: lightly golden skin, strong arms and legs, broad shoulders, and a soft tummy that is as adorable and sexy as you’d imagined.

And best of all, that beautiful, kind face, now looking at you with real concern.

“Are… are you okay? Lyddie? Are you alright? We can stop, we don’t have to -“

You shake your head and bring your eyes up to meet his.

“I really don’t want to stop, Ben. I mean it, I want you…I need you in every way. It’s just… I mean, this,” and you gesture loosely to your body. “Like, I’ve had sex since my last relationship but it wasn’t like this, it wasn’t…this. It wasn’t…it didn’t mean…”

He reaches his hands towards you to bring you in for a hug. You take a deep breath as you try to explain properly.

“I haven’t been naked with someone like you…someone I actually care about in a long time. And I’m scared that you won’t like what you see, because you look so good and hot and so beautiful. You’re just so beautiful, Ben. And I…I’m not…”

He holds you closer and places a gentle kiss on your forehead. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he whispers. “I wish you could understand what it feels like to have looked at you, to have thought for so long about what it would be like to hold you, to kiss you, and now to finally touch you.” He’s blushing.

“Kinda wish I could see myself the way you seem to see me, too. Don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘beautiful’ before. Before…you.”

He is still holding you, warm and gentle against his broad chest. You are suffused with a feeling of absolute safety.

“I mean it, Lyd. If you don’t want to go any further we don’t have to.”

You pull back, bringing your arms to your sides and resisting the urge to hide yourself from his gaze. You look him in the eyes and shake your head with a soft smile.

“I know. We’re keeping going. I want this, too.”

He kisses you and reaches around to undo your bra, struggling against the hooks.

You reach behind you, keeping your eyes on him, and deftly undo the bra. His mouth moves immediately to your breasts, tongue circling first one nipple and then the other before pulling back to admire you, chest rising and falling and eyes widening as he looks at you.

Has anyone ever looked at you like that before? Like you are the most perfect creature to ever exist?

Mind you, you’re looking at him in much the same way.

“You are so fucking beautiful, Lyd. You are. Let me show you how gorgeous you are.”

You smile shyly, still a little conscious of your body, and sit back on the side of the bed.

Oh, shit. The sensible part of your brain butts in, abruptly.

You need to talk about this now, not in the moment.

“Uh, Ben? Before you do that, can we maybe talk about, um, health and that?”

He looks confused. “Health? I had a cold in October but - oh. Yes. Yes. I get you.”

He scrabbles around for his pants.

“What are you doing, Ben?”

“Getting my phone to show you my last screening results. We have the tests as an option on annual physicals and I had mine in August.” He locates his phone and looks at you fondly. “Just before you came over, as it happens.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, giggling affectionately. “Ben, love, I trust you. Just tell me, I don’t need to see them.”

He kisses the top of your head. “All good. And you?”

You nod, still feeling deeply awkward but relieved. “Also all good. Last test just before I came over. Funny, that. I’ve got a contraceptive implant thingy, as well.” You point out the little plastic device just under the skin of your upper arm. “And I haven’t been with anyone since, obviously.”

“Me neither.” He grins and whispers in your ear. “I did have a crush on someone in work, though.”

You smile and run a hand over the salt-and-pepper scruff along one side of his face. “A crush, huh? So you were waiting for them?”

He nods and kisses you softly as he gently encourages you to lie back on his bed, before swiftly discarding the candy cane socks and joining you in bed.

For a couple of moments you just lie there together, hands trailing across each other’s bodies. You look at his handsome face, and the realisation that you’re actually going to sleep with him dawns. It triggers an unfortunate, involuntary surge of giggles.

“Why are you laughing?” He’s running his hand along the curve of your hip, fingers tugging at the waistband of your panties.

“I’m not laughing, it’s just…” You start giggling again and hide your face against his broad shoulder.

“Okay, that’s definitely laughing. What did I do?”

You look at him and feel the affection and desire catch in your throat. “You didn’t do anything, baby, I’m sorry. It’s just - we’re basically naked and in bed together and…I’m excited?”

He laughs too, now, chest heaving as he pulls you tight and kisses you, slowly and deeply. You reach for his body, leg wrapping around his and one hand slipping to his hard cock while he caresses and sucks on your tits. His hand is inside your panties now, eagerly seeking out the warm, silky wetness of your folds.

“Going to take these off, is that okay?” You nod, moaning as he tugs down the black fabric and lifting your hips so he can drag them over your ass. You kick them off as he rolls you against him, one hand grabbing the flesh of your ass while the other rubs small circles over your clit.

You lean back slightly to look at him, your hands now tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs. “I want you naked, too,” you murmur, breasts resting on Ben’s chest. “Want to go down on you for a little bit. Is that okay?”

His eyes widen. “God, yeah. Fuck, please, Lyd.”

His boxers discarded, you move down his body, one hand already gently stroking his hard length. You resist the urge that strikes you to drag your teeth over the soft flesh of his tummy, maybe even to bite him.

You plant a gentle kiss to the tip of his cock, flicking your gaze up to meet his as you take him, hard as hell, between your lips, tongue gently flicking over the head.

The gesture drives him crazy, and he groans, low and long.

“Fucking hell, you’re good at this. You’re really fucking good at this. So fucking…oh God, Lyd.”

You smile at the praise as you continue to take him deeper into your mouth, fingers tracing around the base of his cock and stroking him lightly. The bulge you’d first felt in his office earlier that evening did not disappoint.

“Fuck, Lyd, I won’t last if you keep that up,” he hisses, breathing ragged as you use your tongue to lick up and down his shaft.

Gently, you remove him from your mouth and push yourself back up the mattress, Ben’s strong hands guiding you back into place against the pillows. He drops his hand back to your soaking pussy as you feel the warm, solid softness of his body on yours. You inhale his masculine scent deeply: his cologne, leather, paper, and still a hint of wine from his lips.

You never want to be anywhere but here.

He begins to trace a line of kisses from your mouth down to your breasts and tummy, slowly bringing himself down the line of your body until he is nestled between your legs. He runs a finger along a patch of stretch marks on your hip before kissing them softly. With care and a kind of reverence, he plants kisses on the soft flesh of your belly, starting just under your belly button, and working his way down as far as the hair that covers your mound.

He gently pushes your right leg out to make a little more room and open you up, lifting your leg over his shoulder, before beginning to lick purposefully at your glistening folds. You cry out with pleasure, one hand reaching back to grip the wooden headboard of the bed and the other dropping to the back of Ben’s head. You trail your fingers through his hair as he eats you out, moaning as the line of his nose nudges rhythmically against your clit while his tongue explores you.

It doesn’t take much to bring you back to the edge, and when he brings a finger up to massage you while his tongue slips in and out of your cunt, you come on his face, hips rolling up and back as you climax.

He grins as he shifts his body back up the bed and you reach for him, pulling him in for a kiss so that you can taste yourself on his lips. He hums with pleasure and pulls back to look at you, rubbing a thumb gently against your cheek before nuzzling in at your neck. His weight against you is somehow devastatingly erotic and perfectly reassuring.

He pulls back again and you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, opening your legs even wider as you feel the heavy, hard length of his cock pulsing against your core. He rolls one of your nipples between the tips of his fingers, letting his broad palm cup the soft flesh of your breast.

Your voice is quiet, but determined. “I want you to fuck me, baby. Please. Fuck me.”

“I’m going to, darling.” He drops a hand to your soaking pussy, making sure you’re ready. He looks deep into your eyes and you try to make a mental screenshot of this moment: what it feels like to have him above you, to have the weight of his body against yours, to feel the tip of his cock nudging at the lips of your cunt; to look into his eyes and see them dark with lust and warm with affection, to have him tracing his fingers across your mouth and jaw before asking, silently, for a final gesture of consent.

You nod and gently move your hips down as if you’re going to take him into you all by yourself. He moans loudly, guiding himself slowly and steadily inside you until he bottoms out. The stretch makes you gasp, though it’s in no way painful. You close your eyes as you adjust to the sensation of him filling you, warm and heavy.

He’s looking deeply into your eyes when you open them again. “You okay?” He gently strokes the side of your face with his long fingers.

“Mmmyeah,” you sigh, distracted by the pleasure of having him inside you. “You’re big, you know,” you murmur. “You’re such a big boy.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth you screw up your face with embarrassment.

Lydia, what in the fuck was that? Did he already manage to fuck the filter out of you with his fingers? Did he induce some sort of malfunction in lydiabrain.exe?

Ben’s eyebrows are raised but you can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

You’re fucking this up, Lyd, as usual.

“Oh god I’m so cringe, I’m so sorry -“

He stops you with a chuckle and a soft, sweet kiss. “I mean, it’s a hell of a compliment.” He arches an eyebrow and looks endearingly smug. “Would you like your big boy to fuck you now?”, he purrs.

This time, you’re the one who can’t help but giggle as you roll your eyes in mock horror at the cheesy line and he grins in response. You can’t remember the last time you felt this intimate with a lover.

“I would like that very much. Move, Ben, please.”

He takes it slowly at first, keeping his body close to yours as he uses his hips to pull out and push back into your core, over and over. The rhythm is steady and insistent, and your body responds in kind, your hips moving to meet him and your legs widening and hitching up to take him even more deeply.

He’s starting to increase the pace slightly and you whine, digging your fingers into his broad shoulders. “You feel so good, Lyd,” he pants, “so fucking good. So warm and tight.”

“You like how tight I am for you? You want to see how much I can take?” you coo in his ear as you trail your hands down his back before spreading your palms over his ass, triggering a growl from deep within his chest as he fucks you faster.

“Want you to take it all, baby, know you can…” A grimace flashes across his face, though he doesn’t stop, and you wonder if something’s wrong. You bring your hands back up to his shoulders and run a finger along the bristling hair on his jawline.

“Are you okay? Do we need to stop?”

“Sorry, just a tight muscle somewhere -“ He looks a little sheepish, as if his body is letting him down.

“Hey,” you murmur, “get on your back. I want to fuck you on top.” His eyes widen with delight and you shift your bodies together, keeping him inside you as he eases carefully back onto the bed and you straddle him.

For a moment you stay just like that, quiet and still. He looks you up and down, smiling at the sight of you and brushing the tips of his fingers gently over the weight of your breasts and the curve of your hips and thighs. You run your hands over Ben’s chest, gazing at his body as if it were a treasure. When you start to trace your fingers over his tummy, he seems to shrink back a little, embarrassed by his physique.

In response, you shift forward, pulling him out of you slightly so that you can lean in and run your tongue and mouth over the soft flesh of his stomach. He’s looking down his chest at you, and you look up from under your eyelashes.

“This is a really sexy tummy, you know. Probably the sexiest I’ve ever seen in my life.”

A smile flickers across his face. “You don’t have to say that -“

You silence him by sinking back down onto his full length, pulling a cry from his lungs. With a roll of your hips you start to ride his cock, keeping your fingers on his tummy. As you pick up the pace he can’t keep his eyes off your breasts, and he greedily lifts himself up to suck on your nipples. The sensation of his tongue tracing the outline of each nipple is enough to throw you off, and you have to really concentrate on the rhythm you’ve set with your hips and ass.

Months of pent-up frustration and desire find their release as you fuck Ben harder and deeper, his hands digging into your hips and thighs. “Fucking hell, Lyd, you’re amazing,” he rasps, eyes flitting between the fluid movement of your hips and the bounce of your tits. “Feels amazing. Feel good for you, too?”

You nod, not wanting to break the rhythm. With a smirk, he slips a thumb to your clit and starts to rub circles over and around it. You cry out his name in response.

“Fuck yes, Ben, keep doing that, keep doing…that’s it, fuck!”

“Are you going to come again for me, Lyd?”, he murmurs gently, the quiet of his voice in stark contrast to the obscene, wet noises coming from your cunt and the dirty talk he’s sent tripping from your tongue.

For the third time, the tightly-wound coil snaps deep inside you. You can feel your cunt pulsing around Ben’s cock as you ride out your peak, feeling him tightening between your legs. He’s close. He sits up, pausing to kiss you and to suck on your neck for a few moments while he caresses your tits, before easing you over and onto your back again so he can finish with you underneath him.

“You’re so close,” you whisper to him as he starts to fuck you again, hard and steady. “Let go, baby. Come for me.”

He picks up the pace, the wetness of your pussy letting him take you as hard as he wants. He’s still holding back.

“Let go. Come in me,” you purr, hitching your hips slightly to let him go even deeper. “I want your come in me.”

That’s enough to tip him over the edge, and Ben’s rhythm stutters and finally breaks. With a gasp and a shudder you feel him come, crying out as he fills you, cock buried deep within you and beads of sweat dripping from his chest onto your tits.

He stays put for a moment or two, panting into your neck as he tries to pull himself together. You run your fingers through the soft curls of his hair and hold him close.

“Thank you.”

His words are almost inaudible, barely a whisper, and you aren’t entirely sure if you’ve heard them or imagined them. You respond with a kiss to the top of his head.

After a couple of moments Ben pulls away and gets out of bed, pulling the comforter around you before crossing from his bedroom to the bathroom across the hall. He returns with a washcloth and a towel, cleaning you up and gently drying you off. He places one more kiss on your belly and smiles, moving back up to join you at the head of the bed.

You lie close together, facing each other in a comfortable silence. He strokes a little pattern on the curve of your hip while you absent-mindedly trace a finger over the constellation of dark freckles across the top of his chest.

He tilts your chin up to look at you, stroking your cheek as his big dark eyes gaze into yours. You plant a soft kiss on the little bare patch of skin along his jaw before shifting back to look - really look - at Ben’s face, mapping it with your eyes. The slight furrow between his brows. The line of his nose. The specific shape and colour of his lips. The little divot in his bottom lip.

“Was - was that okay?” He looks at you intently with those big, baby cow eyes, waiting for a response.

You are surprised by the question and by how quiet and awkward he sounds, given that he’s just made you come deeper and harder than you have in years. Or maybe ever.

Three. Fucking. Times.

“It was…” you search for the right word as you run your fingers over his strong bicep, “amazing. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard before, honestly. Was it good for you too?”

He blushes, a wide smile creeping across his face. “Pretty spectacular, Lyd. You on top? I mean…” He mimes fireworks exploding with his hands, and you bury your face in his chest as you laugh. You stay like that for a little while, tucked into his side with a big, stupid smile on your face and your arm wrapped around Ben’s tummy. He holds you close to him, tilting his head to rest on yours.

The gesture brings you back, suddenly, to Halloween. His arm around your waist. Your arm around his shoulders. His head resting against you, yours against his.

Fuck, you two are idiots.

“We should have done this ages ago,” he murmurs, and you worry for a moment that he might be able to read your mind.

You reach for his hand, twining your fingers together.

“Was it worth the wait, Ben?”

He squeezes you tightly. “Every fucking minute.”

It’s still comparatively early when you fall asleep (the joys of a 5pm party start time), you as the little spoon, Ben dozing off with an arm around you and his hand gently holding your breast. His body is warm and comforting against your back, and you listen for a couple of minutes to the sound of his breathing slowing, steadying, into sleep.

You don’t sleep for very long - maybe an hour or two. You blink awake, noticing that the lamp is still on, and that Ben’s broad hand is still in place against your soft skin. You caress the back of his hand with yours, trying not to wake him but wanting to feel him under your fingertips again.

“Mmmmm. Hi, baby.” He drowsily starts to kiss the back of your neck, and his fingers begin to squeeze lightly at your nipple. It grows hard and pert as he nuzzles into your neck, his mouth tracing a line of kisses along your shoulder. You are still wet from earlier, but can feel the ache building again between your legs. He shifts closer to you, and you feel his cock, hard again, pressing against your ass.

You keen quietly with pleasure, still sleepy, your body starting to grind against his. He whispers a question into your ear, and in response you drag his hand down your body, lifting your leg ever so slightly so he can feel for himself.

“Christ, darling, this just from me playing with your tit?”

You hum your appreciation, nodding. “Mmmm. And the orgasms.”

He chuckles quietly. “Can I have you?” He shuffles down slightly, his hard length already notching at your thighs.

“Always,” you purr, and he reaches around to tilt your face to his. He kisses you as he lifts your leg, drapes it over his, and carefully pushes inside you. The stretch is still new, but more familiar now, and you mewl a little as he bottoms out.

It’s slow at first, intense and intimate as he works up a rhythm while still half-asleep. He moans into your neck as he fucks you gently, praising you over and over. “You feel so good, Lyddie,” he whispers, “taking it so well.” He sucks lightly at the crook of your neck, making you whimper with pleasure.

“You’re so beautiful. Beautiful girl,” he sighs, rolling his hips firmly but slowly as he thrusts up into your pussy.

“I lo-... I love y-your…body. So soft for me.”

“I love your body too, baby.” You drop a hand between your legs and touch yourself. As he realises what you’re doing, he picks up the pace, fucking you harder from behind until you come with a cry.

His hand drifts to your uppermost hip, holding you in place as he fucks - and talks - you through it. “That’s it, baby. You feel so good when you come like that for me. I lo-”

You know he’s close, both from the stuttering rhythm and the fact he can’t use his words any more. He mutters and curses as his movements become more staggered. With a moan that seems to come from the depths of his soul, he spills into you with a final thrust, panting into your back as he stays inside you for a moment.

You turn your mouth to his again, and he kisses you with hunger and gratitude.

You are both utterly wrecked, in every sense, lying flat out on the bed together as you come down from a shared high.

“So I know you’ve got your flight tomorrow,” he says, fingers idly running up and down your forearm, and you brace yourself for him suggesting you should probably go home.

“But if you’d like, you can stay the night? I can drive you to your place as early as you need.”

“If you want me to? I don’t want to impose…”

He shakes his head. “It would be a pleasure. I want you to stay, you know? Would you like something to sleep in? A t-shirt?” You nod in response. He’s holding your hand, rubbing his thumb against your palm.

He retrieves two T-shirts and a pair of boxers from a tallboy that stands against the opposite wall of the room, holding the shirts up for your approval.

“REM 1999 tour shirt, or study abroad souvenir?” He really is gorgeous, you think, even when he’s standing naked making silly faces and pretending to model each shirt. Actually, especially when he’s doing that.

“Ooh, vintage Universidad de Málaga 1996, please.” He crosses back to the bed and hands you the faded red cotton shirt before pulling on his own.

“That’s a precious relic,” he says with mock seriousness. “It is a privilege to wear that shirt.”

“Understood. I respect the power of the shirt.” You bow your head, crossing your arms across your chest reverentially and he laughs gently.

He clambers back into bed, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close under the comforter. You rest your head on his shoulder, hands on his chest, and sneak little glances up at him. He’s already starting to drift to sleep, lids heavy and breathing slowing into a steady rhythm.

Oh, fuck. He’s so gorgeous. He’s so beautiful.

The last word slips, unbidden, from your lips, and he looks confused for a moment before breaking into a gentle, sleepy smile. “So are you.”

The afterglow is cosy and safe. He holds you close with his strong arms, and your fingers are entwined with his. It is both new and familiar, strange and reassuring; a first time, and like you’ve been doing this forever.

(bookshelf divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more; other dividers by @cafekitsune)

Further A/N: They got there. They have a long way to go (please don't hate me - it can't all be sunshine and orgasms roses). Next chapter sees some more Christmas "cheer", albeit on other sides of the Atlantic.

Thank you so much if you've been with them this far - don't forget, of course, that Lydia is just visiting...

#visiting fic #visiting masterlist #mr ben snl #mr ben au #mr ben x ofc #mr ben fanfic #professor ben x ofc #professor!ben #professor!ben x ofc #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #Youtube

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dangerously-human · 6 months

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I was tagged by @alyss-mainwarning for a song shuffle game (I always enjoy these!). Putting in a separate post instead of reblogging because I'm old-fashioned, and I think it's just easier to navigate.

rules: shuffle your “on repeat” playlist and post the first 10 tracks, then tag 10 people

I think we're probably not surprised at this point that it's pretty much all stuff off Ghostbustin' With the Buds, right?

Fairlies - Grian Chatten: Contribution from @womaninwinter's sickos playlist and it's a great THB sound from LW's self-denial POV, especially "Do you miss the days before hope knocked on your door? But you went and fell in love, and into love you fell, and it made you feel unwell, oh well" (Ah. Ow.)

House a Habit - We Are the Guests: I can't remember whose playlist I got this off of, but wow, VERY Lucy leaving vibes, especially the way the narration goes back and forth between the man and woman singing in the second verse. But seriously, this is just painfully on the nose, with lines like "I don't know if I should stay or should I go, he told me this house would always be our home… Everyone tells me to just stay the same, but it's not like that, no it's not like that, oh, tell me someone's out there listening to me 'cause I wanna know that like I wanna know you, oh, stay with me… Everyone tells me you're fine, don't be in love, let's make this house a habit… Oh please don't imagine a life without me, at least not yet, this house is a habit and it's lovely to live in it… This head is a hospital, someone please tend to it" (!!!)

Waking Up - We the Kingdom: I've talked about this one before multiple times, the victorious declaration of returning from the Other Side ("I am alive in the land of the living") as well as something that captures my own healing after the depression years.

Summerland - half•alive: Captures the temporary elation of the warmer months in a way I think vibes well with how Lucy describes that season for the Portland Row trio, the way it's the cycle of it all that even makes it meaningful, and the hope of it all in the ups and downs! "Whatever ain't golden now will only come back around." I'm particularly attached to this for the unseen summer between TCS and TEG. (Also this has been stuck in my head for at least the last week.)

Hot Tea - half•alive: Freaking cute Locklyle vibes! Especially fitting considering all the waxing eloquent about the comforts of good hot tea in these books. "Hold you in my hands like hot tea, knowing I'm safe 'cause you want me," the adopted feral cat energy, it's perfect.

Tip Toes - half•alive: Okay well, I guess this answers the question of what artist is most represented in my L&Co playlist. 😆 (They're actually in second place for that distinction, it's just that I'm also new to their music and so least likely to skip.) This song is SO Lockwood coded, especially the way his desire to make his family name immortal can blur the lines into pride, even the misplaced sacrificial nature and the way he needs to frequently reassess his priorities as a leader. "I'm on my tiptoes, trying to see past my ego, reaching for something more than this feeling of being important, leaving my hear behind is bleeding, but still my pride is screaming, my future will listen to me, will I always know this divide, living most of this war inside, take the ghost of me with the tide to die and release my heart to come alive" - like!!!

Dancing in the Minefields - Andrew Peterson: Used very recently for fanfic title purposes (That's What the Promise Is For), this one just screams Locklyle, married young and facing life's challenges together and helping each other remember the light in the world when the dark closes in. Literally could quote the entire thing for them and struggled not to when I posted the fic, so to choose something I didn't put there, can we just all shriek about that third verse/bridge, especially "So there's nothing left to fear, so I'll walk with you in the shadowlands till the shadows disappear, 'cause he promised not to leave us and his promises are true, so in the face of all this chaos, baby I can dance with you," together?

still feel - half•alive: At any given time having exclamation point variety thoughts about these lyrics, especially as applied to Lockwood, or Kipps, or tbh just broadly across this series. "To realize the hand of life is reaching out, to rid me of my pride I call allegiance to myself… Oh I am not a slave, can't be contained, so pick me from the dark and pull me from the grave, 'cause I still feel alive, when it's hopeless, I start to notice, oh, and I still feel alive" I AM FEELING THINGS!!

Out of the Dark - Tritonal, EMME: I've had this one on repeat while driving a lot lately, it's a great sound, and also a very fun Locklyle song post-THB. Obviously "I know you're scared of diving deep, afraid of what's just out of reach… Sometimes the weight's too much to carry, when it gets heavy, feels like everything's falling apart, so unsteady, you'll be the light to get out of the dark" is delightful imagery for our beloved burdened ghostbusting duo, but also the dual meaning of "There's an end in sight, just hold on tight, you'll make it to the other side" is chef's kiss, they're going to make it to their hash-it-out conversation on the Other Side in TCS and also make it to the other side of the dark in terms of emotional context and setting. Obsessed.

Twenty Something - Nightly: I've already said a few times this is my best inspiration for writing introspective angst lately, used for a Fringe WIP in addition to being on repeat for the writing of Living With the Ghost of You, especially the Lockwood POV chapter. The lyrics are only right at a slant but the vibe is perfect.

I just did one of these so I'm not going to tag anyone this round, but if you happen across this and want to join in, please do say I tagged you!

#personal #lockwood & co

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alyshiba · 2 months

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IRON FLAME CHAPTERS BREAKDOWN: 1 to 3

Since I'm re-re-reading Iron Flame, and thime annotating, I thought, why not sharing my rambling madness with everyone ?

I envision this a bit as a book-club reading, so you can comment-reblog and add your thought, opinions, theories etc..

I already have red multiple times this book, so to make thing fair to those who might be reading it now for the first time, I'll divide this post in two parts: part one will be readable by all, while the second part will feature the theories, foreshadowing, and miscellaneous that include spoilers for the events who happens later on the book.

Of course, as always under the cut there will be spoilers for Iron Flame (in this post from chapter 1 to 3)

Chapter one

In chapter one we deal with a lot of confusion, and we do not get a lot of weird quotes and informations (or at least that I noticed).

The first thing that I noticed is the name of the scribe who is quoted in the Epigraph: Cerella Nielwart. Who's surname is oddly similar to Jesinia's (Neilwart), maybe it's a typo, or not, but I found it odd, and I would like to know more about Cerella, if they're actually related to Jesinia.

In page 2 we discover that Brennan now goes with a different name (for obvious reason) with is Brennan Aisereigh. I know on the web you'll find that the surname means resurrection, which totally fits, but on the Learn Gaelic webiste you'll see that the spelling for "resurrection" is a bit different (Aiseiright, with an extra I). Maybe again it's a typo, or maybe not idk.

In page 3 Violet tells us two very interesting pieces of information: the first is that Riorson house has been sieged 3 times (that she knows of), one of them being ofc during Fen's rebellion. It would be interesting to know when the other two sieges happened and who was on either side. Then we get a reminder that the rebellion relic that the marked one carry masks them from Melgren's signet. I don't know Codagh, but it's odd for one dragon to dimish the power of their rider, no ?

In pages 4 to 8 we get the first glimpse at the Revolution's leadership. During the first read I found it a bit confusing to make sense of who they are and how many are present, so I'll bullet-point them for you:

Major Ferrish (whom Xaden is talking to), he's the Hawk-Nose that responds to Xaden's question. He's described as "an older man with an eyepatch and hawkish nose [...], tuft of thinning grey hair [...] lightly tanned, weathered skin, his jowls hanging, [...] thick hands and a round belly."

Trissa, who is described as a "petite woman with glossy black hair like a raven"

Felix (whe learn the name in page 7), who is described as "large, [...] with ebony [skin] hand tugging at his thinck silver beard"

Woman #1, described as " older woman built like a battle ax [...] with blond hair brushing past her square alabster skin."

Suri, a "brunette with olive skin and a single streak of silver in her hair", she also as a giant emerald ring.

We know from page 4 that the Assembly, which would be leadership, is composed by seven people in total, but only 5 are present in that moment ( the ones above ), so Xaden and Brennan in this moment are not part of the assembly, they must have other roles. And, we need to meet 2 more people.

All of these people are dressed in rider black, Violet notes, so it's safe to assume that they are bonded riders, with signets and all.

In page 8 we also get an interesting line from Brennan: "Knowing that she [Violet] is bonded to Tairn, whose bonds get deeper with each rider and whose previous bond was already so strong that Naolin's death nearly killed him?" So, from this line we know that the rebellion knows that Naolin is dead, just as leadership, and that either Brennan thinks this as well, or is lying about it.

Chapter 2

In this chapter we get a lot more informations, most of which are summarized in a map I made:

The first noteworthy lines are in the epigraph: we learn here that above Riorson House lies the original hatching grounds of the black dragons line from with Tairn and Codagh descend. The first thing we can assume is that Riorson House, and Aretia, sounds now a lot like Basgiath, with a fortress and a vale with hatching grounds and all. So it made me wander if there might be more places like these around the continent. In this line we are also given the name of the family line of both Codagh and Tairn: Dubhmadinn, which is a composite word of 2 scottish gaelic terms: Dubh (black, blackness, darkness, pupil of the eye, ink, dark, sad) and Madainn (moarning).

We then get to the first weird thing we encounter, in page 11 Violet spots "a rune shaped scar or his [Brennan] hand", we then cut to Tairn saying that he will no longer speak of his former rider and that "Naolin didn't fail, but that it cost him everything". I think Naolin is dead. I mean, at the end of FW Tairn promised to always be truthfull to Violet, so I don't think he would hide this from her. But the fact that he died doesn't mean he couldn't have turned Venin. Maybe to save Brennan he channeled from the source, and then either he was killed or he died from the power usage (maybe Tairn killed him to sewer the bond).. Either way I don't think he'll come back in the present. In this scenario it would be possible that the rune on Brennan's hand would be some sort of protection, something that prevents him from tapping in the source, or using the venin power siphoned in his body from Naolin.

So far one of the most interesting information we get in chapter 2 are from pages 12 to 14.

The first line of information we get is that Dragons used to live in what is now called the Barrens, until General Dramor (he's the villain who faught against the first 6 riders) ruined the land in the Great War. It is safe to assume that General Daramor was a Venin, since we know the first 6 fought them. And that if dragons lived in the Barrens, maybe there was an hatching ground there as well ?

We then get an updated, real, situation of the continent by Brennan. I don't know about you, but I need to visualize what I'm reading, expecially if it involves battles, travels etc. So here's a map with the current situation which I'll update every time we get more news.

Here's what you need to know to read it:

Castle Icon = Basgiath;

Dragon Icon(s) = Dragons og hatching grounds, every color of dragon icon correspond with the dragon breed;

Light Blue stain = Navarre's wards (which does not cover Aretia & Tyrrendor);

Small orange flags = uncofirmed locations of most recent venin attacks;

BIG orage flags = most recent venin attacks in confirmed locations;

Small red Flags = old venin attack in non confirmed locations.

Red Stain = Venin territory

In this map you notice, like Violet does, that the Venin are moving towards Navarre and following the stonewater river (the rivers close to Braewic provice), and that both Resson and what we can assume is Jahna (from Brennans lines) are on almost the opposite side. We also learn from Brennan that in both of those locations were found lures, that were of Navarrian craftmaship.

So, is someone in Navarre working with, or exploit the Venin ?

Brennan then tells us that the hatching ground of Basgiath have enough energy to sustain the venins for decades, so that appears to be their short time goal.

Violet then reminds us in pages 14 - 15 that 400 years ago (so 250 years after the unification & og battle against Venin) the scribes (and the ones who ordered them to) deleted every knowledge of Venins (& who knows what else) from public records. It is interesting to note that it happend way after the actual battle against Venin happened, in a moment where Navarrian should have felt protected and forgot about the monsters they faught. Why 400 years ago ? Why not immediately after the unification ? What happend that pushed an entire generation of leadership to delete history ?

Then I'll just remind you that we know it happened 400 y.ago because Violet's dad wrote it a note directet to Vi that he hid in the "fables of the Barrens".

The last two important pieces of informations we get in page 15 are: Brennan telling us that "he thought dragons were the only key to power wards" (weird, is there something else that can be used to power up the wards?) and that "something killed the venin off 650 years ago", which is debatable, considering that there are still Venins I'm starting to think that they just weren't defeated, but just banished, somehow. Which then makes me wonder why are they back now?

In page 17 we close off the chapter with the revelation that Sgaeyl kind of hates Brennan. Maybe she senses the Venin power used to revive him (to connect back with the Naolin channeled from the source to bring Brennan back). Note that Brennan has been around Sgaeyl since Xaden bonded her, so roughly 3 yars ago, and 3 years after his resurecction.

From here on there are spoilers for the rest of the book.

Chapter 1 - page 2: Considering the Rune talk we get later on, I think it's obvious that the reason why the marked ones are masked from Melgren's signet is the rune Liams (and Sloanes) mom made rather then Codaghs doing. It would also give leadership one more reason not to teach runes at Basgiath, I mean, one non-dragon-related power just countered what's considered the strongest signet ever. If I were in Melgren's shoes I wouldn't want that knowledge around.

Chapter 2 - pages 12 to 14: Considering that the same lures were found in Basgiath before and during the battle, it is kind of obvious that at least someone inside of Navarrian leadership is working with the Venins, or maybe using them for some other reasons. I'm not straith up saying some is venin inside of leadership, simply becouse so far we have no evidence of it.

Then it's obvious that in Resson the lure was used to try and kill Xaden (an the marked ones), but the one in Jahna ? Maybe they needed to see if it would work? Or were there another reason?

Chapter 2 - page 15: on this re-read I stopped by this page, because we'll later learn that by using dragon power to raise the wards venins and gripphin riders can no longer wield magic. Which is debatable since in FW Jack Barlowe uses Venin power on Violet (Rebecca confirmed it in an interview, clip is here).

This bring us to two issues: there might be a way to raise a ward using gripphin (or venin) powers, which would solve the Aretia and Poromiels wards problem, or ruin us all, AND that there must be a fault in Navarre's wards if Jack channels Venin power in fourth wing, when Basgiath's wards are still strong.

In Chapter 2 - Page 17 we also get a very important reminder: the poison that the Venin used on Violet @ the battle of Resson cut her off from her bond with the dragons and her powers.

Doesn't it sound familiar? How would the leadership be able to develop (we later learn that it's something they develped this year) a poison that works in the same way of another one the Venins actually have ? I mean, the only difference is in the administration...

I'm more and more convinced that the real enemy of this book are not the Venin alone, but a coalition of some of Navarrian Leadership and the Venins (if they are cooperating or using eachother I don't know).

In chapter three - page 22 Tairn gives an interesting information: " The First Six Riders were desperate to save their people when they approached the dens over six hundred years ago. Those dragons formed the first Empyrean and bonded humans only to protect their hatching grounds from venin, who where the bigger threat." From this phrase we understand that the first six bonded dragons were one from each breed (they bonded only to protect their hatching ground). So what of Andarna ? So Andarna's breed either refused to bond with a human rider, OR bonded with a rider who already had another dragon. Like Violet.

Note that we already kind of know the Venins background story: a brother bonded a dragon (the first six - or who came defore them -), a brother bonded a griffin, an another, jelous, turned to stealing from the source. The jelous brother was then vanquished by their sibling who commanded the sky to realease it's power.

We already have a lot of paralles that refers to Violet. So I find it very likely that one of the six might have bonded 2 dragons, and that it was the one who bonded two dragons.

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ravenwitch45 · 1 year

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Just read a Hazbin/Helluva x Owl House fanfic you made and IT WAS AWSOME!!! Honestly I like seeing Amity, Edric, and Emira adopted by M&M, who we know are better parents than Odalia even though Alador is trying to be better, but it's still an amazing idea. Is there still some fanfic ideas based around it, if so could you share some details about the AU?

Ah those fics, it's been a while since I thought of them but I'm glad some people still stumble across them and enjoy them so much. I must admit though that the original asker for those fics @beastkeeper91 gave me that idea even though I took my own spin and wrote em, as well as a few others, but yes I suppose there are a few other ideas I didn't explore in either, some theirs, some my own and I'm happy to share a few.

But first since you just said fic, I'm gonna be safe and assume you only read one, and put both here, please read both before you go further cause I'm going to assume you've read both as I discuss the new stuff

(Note those are their reblogs of the fics, cause they were kind enough to send them to me so I could find them easier since this was a while ago, now the new stuff!)

First of all, since the Owl House has since wrapped up I guess I'll speak on M&Ms status during season 3, most likely they'd end up collected like everyone else, sad but that means Amity gets three parents to lovingly greet after everything is done, and Odalia isn't just the third wheel now, she's the fifth wheel! Cause she deserves it :3

Also Stolas and Blitz would probably be right with them, a little bitter but the whole crew gets the collector is a child and all, and if Amity thinks there okay, they'll listen to their daughter/niece. Speaking of daughters I still don't know what to do Octavia and Loona, sorry ladies XP

And since this is a somewhat M&M centric AU, I certainly can't just not mention the episode that most focuses on them and their relationship, Yep Exes and Oohs.

Crimson exists in this AU, but luckily Moxxie has of course cut ties with him, he still sucks essentially, and I don't hate Moxxie enough to have him dragged back. Not sure what he runs in this AU, cause I don't think the boiling isles has a straight up mob, but it's something Moxxie wants no part of. He's aware of his 'grandchildren' and I'm only air quoting that cause this man hardly deserves children, let alone grandchildren, he's never met them though, he is a little impressed with Amity after the brawl so he's intriqued.

Now that I think of it imagine the tension if while he's taking over running the company, Alador get's involved with Crimson, unaware of his shady dealings, and Moxxie just wants to explode right there when seeing him again. Oh lord the drama... And the possible bonding with his kids when they find out that just like them he had a bad parent like they did in Odalia

On a lighter note, how about we talk about some funny scenarios with the funny shark man?

Chaz in this AU, is on much better terms with his exes, and kinda acts like an unwanted uncle to the blight kids, often joking he might just get back together with M&M to become their dad. Ed and Em find him amusing, and kinda get their sense of humor from him at times, and Amity can't stand him one bit, though she is nicer in this AU to start so she's at least cordial with him, agree with who you like.

Moxxie and Millie however, kinda keep him on a short leash when around their kids, none of his usual horn dog behavior as you'd expect, and Moxxie says he'll just steal Chaz's voice if he ever does it in front of em. Which is usual successful, so the kids just see him as the weird uncle, who just acts very awkward round their parents.

Speaking of magic, Chaz is a bard, just like Moxxie in this AU, though Chaz uses his voice for his magic, while Moxxie and say Raine use instruments, his magic looks like green and teal sound waves. Not sure what or if he'd branch off into other stuff after the sigils removed, maybe illusions for like stage effects but that's just me XP Still figuring stuff out for him.

Now this is an idea completely given to me by good ol beastkeeper. Now in this AU I.M.P doesn't exist as we know it, which I felt was for the best not only cause portals are a much more serious thing in TOH, but also not exactly a great career to have when your daughter ends up with a human girlfriend. XP

My original idea was that they kinda had a club during their hexside days and that's kinda how they got so close, but after graduating they all kinda ended up doing different things while staying in touch, Moxxie became a Bard, Mille an Abomination expert, and Blitz a beastkeeper, but then Beastkeeper proposed I used an idea there using in their own Helluvaverse/TOH AU, check it out, it's a little dark but still neat I think.

Anyway they proposed a new company, I.A.S. Imp Appreciation Soceity, essentially activists for equal treatment, now in my AU Imps are just a type of biped demon, same with Goetias, Shark Demons etc. But I reason that Belos, in his puritan head, ended up getting Imps considered lesser and more "wild" then other types, mainly cause they resemble classic ideas of demons the most, cause Belos is an asshole, no surprise there.

Anyway that means they still technichally work together. That's about as much as I've explored it in my head. Either way I find it cool.

The last thing I wanna mention is a few miscellaneous ideas I have thought up but don't feel have enough layed out to say much about, I want a little plot of Blitz and Luz working together and bonding, protagonist solidarity and all. Also of course figure out what Loona and Octavia are like in this.

Also figuring out a ton of hexside time stuff, how they all met, how they interacted, how the parents possibly did. tons of stuff, but I hope for now this is a good bit of information for this AU, maybe ask later and I'll say even more who knows XP

#ask reply #helluva boss #the owl house #helluva millie #helluva moxxie #amity blight #edric blight #emira blight #helluva crimson #helluva chaz #chazwick thurman #blitzo #crossover #luz noceda #my writing #kinda

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elainapendragon · 2 months

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An Eternal Hope: Flier of Fate

Summary: Recently freed from a lifetime of thralldom, young Valdyrbjalla is eager to earn her freedom as she works in the Pirate Archipelago alongside her family. Thankfully, her friend Jarnir may have just found the key to doing so...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, necromancy (?), slavery, dealing with past trauma, PTSD (?), fear of torture, let me know if I missed anything!

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

The deafening sounds of metal-on-metal filled the air. The Main Square of the Svartl Black Market, Izana, was full of conversation and bargaining. Women calculated how to buy food, or clothes, clutching skinny children or chastising them if they tried to scurry off without permission as they hurried from trader-to-trader. Young men, most of them eldest sons, guarded their families closely, grim-faced as they surveyed their surroundings with their hands prepared to brandish a sword or axe. The husbands of these families were closeby, working various jobs for various trades throughout Izana, doing what they could to provide those few coin for their struggling families. In this part of Valhöll, life was hard, and cruel, and it was every man for himself. The people who lived within or worked in Izana were mercenaries, rogues, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants; anyone and everyone who was on the run from the law could find a safe haven here.

Stands and booths with old weathered flags of all colors were set up around the stagnant fountain, which smelled of must and mold even three blocks away. The merchants had on display various wares such as foods, rustic handwoven clothes, modest jewelry, or weapons fashioned from whatever could be scavenged. Looming over the Main Square were old, rickety gray buildings with failing black shingles, sparkling with hundreds of years of sand blowing into their cracks and crevices from the black desert of Svartalfheimr. Their wood was rotted, their walls bowing, and each and every one of them threatened to collapse if the wind blew too hard. These buildings were mainly shops, but inside one or two were rowdy taverns to house civilians or traveling merchants.

The people of Izana were as harsh and unforgiving as the habitat in which they lived: rogues, mercenaries, pirates, criminals, poachers, opportunist traders and merchants, even jewel thieves– anyone who was on the run from the law resided and worked in the Black Market. The einherjerii and the royals who commanded them all knew of Izana’s presence, but its location had been hidden long ago by wizards who feared for the safety of the children in Izana. If any approached with intent to do harm to anyone in the Black Market, an impenetrable fog would appear, hindering all progress. Any who dared to venture near enough quickly turned back when they saw the graveyard of Svartl Army and Royal Einherjerii ships scattered throughout the surrounding waters. For now, the location of Izana had the security of being hidden.

A few children occupied themselves by crowding by the smithy, watching my grandfather, Fjörr, and our employer Byardölf, a dark elf, forge weapons and tools from ingots of steel and iron. Down the street, our close friend Jarnir and my sister Alfhildr were hard at work as an ostler and a groom at the only stable in town. On the other side of the circular marketplace across from us, my mother Rúnhildr and my grandmother Hildegardr were helping a sweet old dark she-elf named Lesnir make tapestries, rugs, and jewelry. Outside of Izana entirely, my brother Jarl remained with our small longship, the Skídbladnír. With him was our only sword, as it was up to him to ensure the safety of our ship and belongings. It had our coin from our last few weeks of work, our clothes and food, and the ship itself was in near-perfect condition. Too many bandits and pirates would try to steal it for themselves were it left unguarded; but there were no strong alliances in this place to form a formidable group, and few would take on a man with a brand-new sword when the blade might very well shatter their dull ones, or cause an injury which, in Izana, would almost always go untreated. It was up to the gods if you survived a wound here. The risk of an inglorious death by infection wasn’t on anyone’s itinerary.

For the last two years, we had worked every day from early-morning to mid-evening, slept on our ship, then repeated the process all over again the next day. Every month, we had one week off. We would take that time to sail to our small home on Hneflagi Island, have a day to rest, then return to Izana and our jobs. It was all to survive: coin to stock up on food and rent for the harsh winter months when the waters of the Pirate Archipelago and the northern shores of Valhöll would freeze over– nobody dared to sail during that time.

It took nearly all of our coin just to pay for the rent on Hneflagi. When the Pirate Archipelago had first been established, it was a safe haven for escaped slaves, rogues, and criminals of all kinds. People homesteaded off the land and built small cabins, hunting and fishing– but it fell prey to greedy jarls who claimed islands as their own, from various parts of Valhöll, showing off titles and deeds to wild lands and therefore claiming also the people as their own. Those who escaped thralldom were, once again, enslaved, if not as under poor conditions. Hunting, fishing, and growing crops was not permitted, punishable by return– a term used to mean either return to one’s previous life, previous owner, or to the einherjerii. I myself had witnessed several people, especially during the winter time, break a rule set by our jarl and be taken away. The archipelago wasn’t protected by a magical veil like Izana was. It was all too easy to get captured, and living within the walls of Izana was far too expensive. Our jarl demanded an obscene amount of coin every month in order for us to live there, even though it was simply a ten-by-ten room with eight sleeping rolls and eight little cubbies for what few belongings we possessed, one of many units within a large hall designed only for sleeping in at night.

Wodensdäg was the only day of the week where we could sit and rest. A good portion of the day most people spent in worship of the Old Gods such as Odin and Thor, while some still, even after their unfairness, preached of Baldr and his following Æsír. We, however, did neither, resentful toward the New Æsír for their handling of the slave issue across Valhöll that we had fallen victim to, and none of us felt that praying to gods long dead would solve anything. So we slept and ate, regaining our strength. Without that single break in a long week of hard labor, I doubt that any of us would have made it these last two years.

I often wondered what it was like to live free. To have a home somewhere, with actual rooms and windows and places for us to put real beds, real tables and chairs and decorations. Maybe a large yard with a garden, but at this point, I would settle for a small house in the bustling city. I wondered what it was like to not feel worried over if we would lose our home, or where our next meal would come from. I was tired of feeling the difference between surviving and living, we all were. But there was not much we could do about it; our freedom was ridiculously priced, solely for the purpose of keeping us in a form of shackles forever. In order to be free, we would either have to live as rogues and risk getting caught more easily, or leave Valhöll entirely, and we didn’t have the resources to do that either.

My mind drifted to far-off places as I worked, exploring vast wilderness I’d only read about from a bird’s eye view as a way of escaping the thick, charred air of the smithy. No one could come close enough to me to watch me work, Byardölf had seen to that personally. Izana’s only smithy did noble regalia for lords and ladies miles in any given direction, even if they didn’t know it, and if anything tarnished his reputation, he would lose business– so my concentration on carving designs into the leather of grips and sheaths had to be undisturbed.

I had my own personal workshop, set toward the back of Byardölf’s open smithy by the wall of his house. A long stone table was before me where I could set up various tools and lay even a greatsword down to tend to its handle, adding a secure grip and any designs requested. The weapons came from people who came to Byardölf asking for repairs, or new designs to be added, and that was the majority of what we did here: repair and replacement. Only rarely were brand-new weapons made, as no one could afford the obscene costs of the materials.

That was why today, it was so crowded with observers.

They were forging a new weapon.

It was only an axe, but that didn’t stop anyone from being impressed. Especially the children. The process had taken place over the course of the last several hours, and the people of Izana had watched from the melting of the iron ingots to the first hammer blow and everything beyond. Now, it was nearly finished as Grandpapa plunged the red-hot woodcutter’s axe blade into a barrel of oil, quenching its fire. After a few moments, he removed it and gently eased it into the furnace, ensuring that the blade was evenly treated before bringing it back to the anvil. On the opposite side of the smithy, Byardölf’s dark gray face was set with concentration as he sharpened a dagger to perfection on the grindstone– his work was repair work. I had seen that dagger a million times by now, always returning to sharpen dull edges. I often wondered what the owner used it for, and so carelessly, and how the blade had not been reduced to a thin needle by this point.

The heat of the forge and the midday desert sun baking the cobblestones made it even hotter inside of the smithy, underneath the overhanging roof and surrounded by fire, smoke, and ash. The air was thick and hard to breathe, nearly choking. My eyes stung and burned like they did every day, watering so badly I kept a dry rag by my side to dab them, only using the inside as the outside was covered in a layer of soot and grime. Strands of my pitch hair were stuck to my forehead, my skin so soaked with sweat that my clothes dripped and reeked of it, plastered to my body uncomfortably.

One mistake with my fingers– slightly swollen and red as my heart struggled to pump blood in this sweltering heat, pounding in my wrists and legs and neck and head all at once– and my tool slipped out of my slick grasp, falling quickly to the floor with a clatter of metal that was thankfully inaudible, cloaked by the sounds of butchered conversations and the grindstone chipping away at the dull edges of a steel blade, muted by the gentle taps of Grandpapa’s hammer to the axe. The failure to properly hold the weapon made me frustrated, and a half-stifled huff burst from my chest before I could stop it. Byardölf glanced at me, his sharp elven hearing catching my irritation as well as the noise of the tool falling, but paid neither any mind and went back to his work. I tried to move as little as possible when reaching for it, grimacing as my thin clothes clung to me without any slack. With exaggerated care, I sat the tool on the desk before tugging and pulling at my shirt until it had released its death-grip on me. I barely stifled a grunt of frustration, and Byardölf turned to raise a thin eyebrow at me meaningfully, his white-on-black eyes boring into mine with a message I didn’t miss.

Byardölf typically didn’t like people showing irritation in his smithy. “If you’ve got to let off steam, go to the back of the house and ensure nobody sees you.” Showing frustration could let people get the wrong ideas– if you’re angry with the work and with yourself, then how well will the job be completed? It also shows the public incompetence and childish responses to an important job that needs to be done well. Even working here for two years, however, I’m still considered an apprentice, so repercussions wouldn’t be as severe as they would be if, say, Grandpapa threw a half-finished sword out of anger. The worst punishment I might get is scrubbing the whole smithy free of soot with a toothbrush (which is an exaggeration, I hope; I’ve heard Byardölf threaten such a thing, but he’s never actually forced me to do it).

I lifted my hand a bit in acknowledgement, letting my frustration slip away with a slow exhale. Byardölf nodded appreciatively and went back to his own work. Heaving a sigh, I did the same, leaning down close to the strip of leather I’d been working on, my nose practically touching it as my eyes struggled to focus. The design that had been requested for this particular piece was a symmetrical knotted rope design on a backdrop of triangles– it was difficult for me to draw the stupidly straight lines required, and my hands would barely work now from how long I had been straining them. They felt numb, like they’d just turned to jelly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw skirts and a ruff of lace. It caught my attention immediately and I quickly looked up, smiling as I saw Byardölf’s wife, Myennr. She wore a lavender dress with white faux-silk lace, her pitch black hair drawn up in an elaborate dark elf style that was adorned with glass beads in a variety of light purples and whites to match her attire. She returned the smile warmly, holding a well-crafted tray that Byardölf had made. Balanced on it were three pottery cups, and beside it, a plateful of freshly-cut cubes of cheese. It wasn’t much, but at least it wasn’t chewy, stale bread, or horse, or camel, or sandwalker steak– I swear, I’ll never eat sandwalker again. The stringy white legs twitching on its roasted body had made me so queasy that I couldn’t bear to even be near it.

Myennr couldn’t get everyone’s attention without yelling very loudly to be heard, so she took a few more steps toward the forge to get the attention of the toiling blacksmiths. Grandpapa saw her first, and with a warm smile, he paused only briefly enough to snatch a handful of cheese and shove it in his mouth, washing it down with a loud swig of water. The crowd of children dispersed as they realized that it was time for lunch, thankfully giving us our privacy.

Byardölf looked up, alerted by the sudden silence of the forge and by the departing crowd, swiveling his head in confusion. He glanced over his shoulder to see what had caused the commotion, then quickly turned back to the blade and grindstone before he accidentally sharpened his finger– we’d been here for two years, and so far, I hadn’t seen a smithing accident yet. I had to fight a shudder at the thought of tearing flesh and bone splattering all over the forge.

In his thick dark elven accent, Byardölf said, “Give me just a moment, my darling! This blade is almost perfect!”

Myennr rolled her eyes at her husband’s antics. The smithy’s cacophony of sounds had calmed significantly compared to what it had been as the grindstone slowly halted, allowing for only the hollow clank of the iron mallet on the red-hot steel. She turned her attention on me– she always doted on me, fearing the smithy was no place for a girl my age. It was an excellent place for me, actually. I didn’t mind the soot, bruises, cuts, or crushed fingertips that sometimes accompanied the job. “How is it coming with your end of the work, dear?” Her accent wasn’t as easy to understand as Byardölf’s. Whereas he had learned to speak Valhöllian fluently many decades ago and had kept it a part of his daily language, Myennr had only recently learned it, comparatively. She wasn’t extremely difficult to understand, but there were some times when she lapsed into Dark Elven in the middle of a sentence.

I shrugged, making a face. “I don’t know, Myennr…” I chuckled a little to myself, subtly trying to cover my half-finished designs– I’m usually better than the sorry excuse that lay before me on the unfinished grip, barely clinging to the hilt by thin straps of leather.

Myennr laughed softly, patting my head with a dainty smile that bunched up the apples of her cheeks, pushing her eyes into a squint. “I’m sure you’re doing fine, dear.”

Humbled by her faith in me, I nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Myennr.”

Byardölf stood then, dusting fine shavings of metal off of his pants with an old leather glove. He held up his repaired dagger proudly, a huge grin on his face as he watched the sun glint off of its fine edges– it was a prime example of the unmatched dark elven craftsmanship. The curved blade was wickedly sharp, perfect for cutting just about anything. Its newly-polished crossguard was practically blinding when it caught the light, twisting asymmetrically. It was a ceremonial dagger, one that you now couldn’t tell had been crushed underneath a longship. “Perfect, if I do say so myself!”

When prompted by Grandpapa’s outstretched hand, Byardölf eagerly passed the knife to him. Quickly, so as not to lose the shape of the axe, Grandpapa tested its sharpness with a quick swipe to his thumb; he hardly needed to graze it across his skin to leave a mark. He chuckled as he saw that the blade had made a clean, easy cut, then handed it back to Byardölf, wiping the blood from his thumb onto his apron and very clearly impressed. “You go right ahead and say it! That blade is possibly the finest you’ve done yet!”

Without asking, Byardölf passed the blade to me also– always, he treated me like a regular blacksmith, valuing my opinion as much as my grandfather’s despite my lack of experience. Without questions, I took it, excitedly admiring its sleek, shining form. But, without a proper grip, and with how sweaty my palms were, the dagger slipped backward out of my hand and cut my left palm clean open when I attempted to catch it. White-hot pain shot up my arm, starbursting from my hand. My fingers went numb immediately. Blood flooded freely from the wound, staining the sooty ground a sluggish black. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Well, shit,” I hissed, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. Grandpapa glanced over once to ensure I had all my fingers, and frowned.

It was Byardölf who said, “Oh, dear. Can you still work?”

It was an effort to move my hand; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite close it and make a fist. I always stopped short, the muscles refusing to cooperate. “Not with my left hand. My right is fine.” My face lit on fire with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Embarrassment because I was so stupid as to try and catch it, anger because we would lose precious coin if Byardölf wouldn’t let me work with this injury.

“Let me see it,” Byardölf ordered gently, and I obliged with a grimace. He took my hands, turning them over and inspecting the damaged one with a deep frown. Unexpectedly, my head snapped to the side, and it took me a second to realize that he’d smacked me upside the head. “Stupid girl! Jhah’ksah! Have you learned nothing? You are lucky I will let you work with that!”

“Yessir,” I mumbled dejectedly, swallowing my embarrassment. Grandpapa looked on and saw him reprimanding me, and I knew he approved of the lecture because, had he not been occupied with the axe, he would have given me much more of an earful. “Th-that’s… Very sharp, Byardölf. Very sharp. I don’t think you need to work on that anymore.”

Byardölf huffed, shoving my hands back toward me. “Do you think sarcasm will make up for the speed you just lost?! Will it heal your hand?!” When I meekly shook my hand, he added, “Then silence yourself!” He gestured to Myennr, exasperated. “Will you patch her up, dear?” She nodded in agreement, and Byardölf collected the blade from the floor to clean it.

Grandpapa sighed and shook his head. “You have to be more careful, Valdyrbjalla. What if that wound gets infected?”

“I’ll keep it clean,” That wasn’t a promise I was sure I could keep. Already, soot was clogging the jagged edges of the gash as it drifted about from the forges, caught on the breeze. If it did become infected, there was a very good chance I could lose my hand. Worry, fear, and nausea settled in my gut, making me a squirming, sick mess as I tried to ignore the sharp throbbing in my arm. I was just glad it wasn’t my right hand, else I wouldn’t have been able to work.

Myennr set her tray down on the most empty edge of the table, then rushed inside to grab the necessary items; I closed my eyes tightly and struggled to focus on anything else but the open flesh, gushing blood, and the pain. I balled up my good fist and pressed my knuckles against my lips, refocusing on the pillar as I willed my stomach to calm. Myennr soon returned with a clean but tattered rag, a flask of alcohol, and a bandage. I squinted hard and tightened my jaw as she poured the stinging liquid onto the cut and made sure it seeped deep into the wound by pulling it apart. A sensation like hot fire erupted in my hand, down to the bone, numbing any feeling except pain. Burning tears sprang to my eyes, a few slipping past my eyelashes and leaving tracks on my ash-stained cheeks. A low grunt and a small flinch were the only signs of discomfort that I allowed myself to show.

As soon as it was over, a combination of the searing pain and the shock had left my arm nearly completely numb. Myennr carefully bandaged my hand and let it rest on my lap, which I thanked her for, because I couldn’t move my arm very well now. “Please try to be more careful with sharp things, won’t you?” I could only nod in response, still in too much shock to say much of anything.

Grandpapa continued his dutiful work on the axe blade, while Byardölf put the dagger, now wrapped neatly in cloth, in a locked chest by the door of his house. That was where he kept all the weapons that were repaired or crafted during the day; he would move them inside before the closing of his shop.

Myennr went back inside the house to tend to her own duties, and we returned to our work. Slowly, realizing that the action was picking back up and our lunch was over, people returned to crowd around the smithy. Though my wound still ached and throbbed, shock caused the pain to lose its edge. I pushed it to the back of my mind and focused, soon nearly forgetting it as I went back to cutting and shaping the leather; although it was much more difficult with only one hand. I had to improvise, using the heavy hilt of one tool to hold the leather down so that I could work on it.

Only a few moments had passed when a loud, drunken shout rang clearly through the smithy: “Hey!”

I nearly cut my good hand when I jumped, scrambling to catch my cutting tool as it tried to leap out of my hands. Grandpapa momentarily paused in shaping the axe, his head snapping up with surprise. Byardölf stopped in the middle of shoveling chips of dark wood into the smelter, trying to find the source of the yell. The three of us scanned the crowd in confusion for a moment, and then Jarnir waltzed into the smithy as if he owned it, swaying as he shoved through the people gathered near.

Byardölf heaved a deep sigh as Grandpapa shook his head, both returning to work irritated by his drunk and dramatic entrance. Jarnir sauntered over to me instead of either of them, knowing he’d have to yell in order for them to hear him well; I was somewhat out of the noise, here toward the back of the smithy. I leaned back, letting out a sigh of my own. Typical Jarnir… This wasn’t the first time that Jarnir’s shown up drunk, and I very much doubted if it would be the last.

“What are doing here, Jarnir?” Involuntarily, my nose wrinkled as the strong stench of rum washed over me when he leaned closer. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. He’d often come into the stables drunk after work, but he’d never left work. “S-shouldn’t you be in the stables?”

Dismissively, he waved a hand, the gesture nearly causing him to fall over. “Bah. Drank too much during lunch.”

Jarnir, unlike the rest of us, was born and raised a pirate. He looked the part– greasy dark hair held back by a dirty bandanna, a worn leather vest over an old tunic, ratty trousers and boots that were barely holding themselves together. This wasn’t out of a lack of coin to buy new, but rather laziness. He had been a pirate all his life and didn’t see personal hygiene the same as we did. He had been captured on the open seas shortly after we were, and soon he became our only friend during our thralldom. Here, he was renowned as one of the worst pirates around, his love for drink hindering even his basic functions. When we had first arrived here, he had been offered several jobs after proving his prowess in a raid, but after getting himself the first of many, many bottles of rum, he was never called upon again. If he were to beat his alcoholism, we could easily make extra coin, but it was a difficult road for him to take.

My eyes widened as the realization struck me that he’d meant that he’d gotten drunk while working. If he lost his job, again, we’d have that much less coin until he could find another. And after trying every place in town and failing to complete basic tasks because of hangovers or drunkenness (or stealing from them outright), it would be very, very difficult. He would have to risk traveling somewhere, and with his lust for drink so strong I doubted he would make it twenty feet through the desert before turning back.

“Did Cedrir fire you?!” My heart was in my throat.

Jarnir snorted– or, he tried to, anyway. It sounded more like he’d just choked. “Hah! No. Wasn’t my fault, see; other stablehands brought in some rum. Couldn’t help meself. Cedrir promised I can still work, s’long’s I can control meself next time.” It took me a moment to process his slurred speech, but when I did, I released the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I slumped back in my seat, relieved beyond words. We always worked so hard, and earned so little… Our landlord was one of the cruelest in the Archipelago. If the rent wasn’t paid in full, and on time… He had no sense of compassion or empathy. I’d seen on numerous occasions what he’d do, summoning hired sellswords to drag someone to the nearest battalion of einherjerii. Getting taken back is a fate worse than death. “Don’t scare me like that…”

Jarnir mumbled an apology before leaning down to look at the grip of the mace I was working on. After a quick, drunken examination, he smiled proudly and ruffled my hair a bit too roughly, nearly shoving me clean out of my chair. I shoved him off and he swayed drastically, stumbling back a bit. He paid no mind to it, smiling like an idiot. “Yer doin’ good!”

Shaking my head, I turned my focus back to the grip, trying to give him the signal to leave. “I think you should go keep Jarl company on the Skídbladnír, Jarnir…”

Jarnir almost fell over when he nodded. “Aye. But first…” He dug around in his pockets sloppily for a few moments. He took so long, in fact, that I had the time to finish one of the triangles of the design, and I almost forgot what he was doing. Finally, though, he managed to yank out a piece of crumpled paper. Frowning, he examined it with disappointment before his dark eyes flicked to me to gauge my reaction; because apparently, I should have one for the mystery paper that I knew nothing about. “Oops.” With some difficulty, he flattened it out as best as he could and carelessly shoved it in my face. “Take uh look!”

Gingerly, I plucked it out of his hand and turned it over. The paper had fancy writing and blue swirls decorating the edges underneath the framing, which was a pattern of shimmering golden knot designs. When he realized I’d started reading it, Jarnir waved his hands about frantically like I was doing something incredibly wrong. “No no no, so everyone can hear it.”

Stifling a sigh and barely concealing the roll of my eyes, I began to read aloud in the loudest, over-exaggerated story voice that I could muster. “‘Keifdel Drakonsson, renowned Drekivörðr general and Headmaster of Hyveldirin, is hosting a gladiatorial competition that will start in Vanaheimr in two week’s time.’” Pausing, I squinted against the harsh light of the setting sun bouncing off the cobblestones to glare at Jarnir pointedly, shaking the paper a bit for emphasis. “What is this?”

Jarnir only gave me a huge grin, a gold tooth flashing in the firelight of the forge. “Keep readin’.”

Just oblige him, I told myself, so he’ll let you get back to work. Reluctantly, I continued to read, this time unable to hide the irritated shake of my head. “‘All are welcome, including…’” The next words caused me to abruptly stop, my heart in my throat. I reread it a couple of times, excitement bubbling up before I could stop it and making my leap up from my seat with a shout, “‘In-including pirates and rogues!’” My cry alerted Grandpapa, who whipped around briefly before returning to his work when he saw nothing was the matter. Byardölf, however, had been listening the whole time, working the bellows while simultaneously paying attention to what I was reading.

He furrowed his brow. “My, this is the first I’ve heard of any competition that accepts pirates and rogues– and I’ve lived a long while.” Byardölf had never actually told us how old he really was, but his references and quips led us to believe that he was at least six hundred years old, maybe older; his surprise and interest only added to my own.

“‘...B-between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one…’” I finished hurriedly, gripping the paper so tightly it began to rip. The next sentence made me even more excited than the last, and I repeated it with a wild cry of exhilaration. “The entry fee is only fifty coin!” I let out a whooping laugh, my eagerness exploding and wholly ceasing any rational train of thought. “We might be able to…! W-wait…” As Grandpapa, hearing this part, and Byardölf both shook their heads, I realized the issue here. All my hopes smashed themselves to bits on the hard stone of reality, and I shot Jarnir a dejected glare; although really, the fault was mine for getting so excited. “Vanaheimr is an entire month’s journey away, Jarnir. We’d never make it in time.” I thrust the paper at him, frustrated. “Why would you even–”

He dodged my shove and spun his hands in a wheel-like motion, smiling like some goofy kid who’d just been given the keys to all the candy shops in Valhöll. “Keep readin’, Bjalla.”

My tight grip on the paper turned to clenched fists, shredding the edges. I found myself wanting to toss it into the forge; it was too late. What was the point of reading any more? Jarnir hadn’t found the flier in time– none of us had. “Jarnir, there’s no–”

He reached forward and pushed the paper further towards me. “Yes, there ‘s. Trust me.” He tried to wink, and tapped the flier repeatedly. “Just do it.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not–”

Jarnir jabbed a finger at the page. “Look ‘ere, Bjalla, look!” Of course, he was pointing to a part of the paper that I’d already read, so I reluctantly continued from where I left off. “‘In order to ensure all participants arrive on time, they’re required to take…’” My eyes flicked back and forth between the paper and Jarnir’s dumbly pleased face, and I was confused. “Gryphyn-Baskets?”

Gryphyns were beautiful, majestic creatures; ones of legend that few humans were granted the privilege of seeing. With the hind end of a lion and the front end of an eagle, they were roughly fifteen-to-twenty feet long and were the gentlest of creatures, only resorting to violence if it were an absolute must. Because of this, they were tamed long ago and used to carry huge baskets that could hold small groups of people.

But Gryphyn-Baskets were also highly expensive, only getting more expensive the greater the distance was that you wanted to travel. Only the rich got the luxury of such quick transportation; gryphyns were magical in nature, and could travel between worlds in mere days. Not to mention, almost every registered Gryphyn-Basket in all of the Surface Worlds left for their destinations by way of the Worldtrees– it’s a lot easier to take off with a basketful of people from the mid-branches of the spawns of Yggdrasíl that straight off from the ground.

Entrance to those Worldtrees is very strict and secure; rogues or pirates getting in is unheard of. Death or imprisonment are usually the outcomes if anyone is stupid enough to try. I lifted the paper in a half shrug. “What I’m reading is absolute nonsense, Jarnir, this is–”

“By the sands, girl, just keep reading!” It was Byardölf who spouted off, surprising me; I did as I was asked and realized with a jolt that I hadn’t even finished reading the sentence I was on; and that changed my whole understanding of the situation.

“‘Of which all fees are paid for by the hosts in advance!’”

“See what happens when you stop complaining after every pause and see the whole thing through?” Byardölf chuckled, more to himself, with a shake of his head.

I barely heard him. My heart was pounding in my ears, my hands trembling. Only fifty coin. All travel expenses paid. Is this really happening? Do we really have a chance to go? With a shaky voice, I continued reading. “‘Anyone wishing to participate must fill a contract, obtained by stating the specific words, “I, state your name, wish to enter” on the flier you hold; on signing, the contract and the fifty coin placed on its surface will be immediately transported to the hosts and you will be expected to arrive at your closest Worldtree in nine days.

“‘The competition will begin once Sir Drakonsson sees the competitors are fit enough to pose a challenge. Once in motion, the competitors will face the most feared monster of each world in a gladiatorial arena. Blakkr Svartlsson, the most powerful Seiðberendr in all of Valhöll, shall revive anyone who has been killed immediately, and they shall continue onward with their team should they win. There is no real threat of death here.’” It was the prize that made me choke on my own words for a moment, the prize that caused Grandpapa to nearly drop his hammer: “‘Th-the prize for the winning team will be full training at Hyveldirin for any subject they so choose. Additionally, if any of the members of the champions are pirates or rogues, they will be granted their complete freedom and a full pardon, so long as they have never committed a murder.’”

My chest rattled with a shaking inhale. The Svartl Worldtree wasn’t exactly close; but its huge creaking branches could be seen even from here, wreathed in clouds and unearthly large, a soft pink with new spring blossoms that were the size of whole towns. I’m sure, barring any sandstorm, we could hire a sandwalker carriage that could take us straight there in nine days.

The entry fee? The traveling expenses? Hel, even the time period in which to get to the Worldtree? All of them fell nicely into place. It sounded far too good to be true. I let my arms fall to my sides, gazing dumbfounded at Grandpapa and Byardölf. Even if we don’t win… It’s a chance to do– to be– something more…

“What d’ya think?” Jarnir cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds fun, eh? And you three c’n actually join this one too! Worldtree’s less than a week away by wagon. Left for the journey meself to trade those horses of Cedrir’s last summer, y’remember.” I nodded for emphasis; it had been a worrisome trip, as Jarnir’s fence was to meet him in the roots of the tree closest to the entrance, and we were scared that he’d get captured. But the journey had been quick, and that only gave me more hope. Jarnir tapped the paper sloppily for emphasis. “I’m showin’ Alf next, and Rúnhildr and Hildegardr. Poor Jarl’s up last, but only ‘cause he’s standin’ guard on the ol’ Skiddy.” His crude nickname for our precious ship made me visibly cringe. He snatched the paper out of my hand before leaving the smithy, stumbling into a table stacked high with iron and steel ingots on his way out and nearly knocking it over.

Slowly, I looked over at Grandpapa, silently asking him his thoughts on the matter. He sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know… Winning honor is one thing, but if you don’t win, they may very well send the three of you back to the duke’s when it’s all over. And with how many contestants there will be, there is a very high chance that you might not succeed.”

Even here, we’re constantly under threat of being returned forcefully. One wrong word or action, and off we go. We barely escaped by the skin of our teeth last time; I doubt we’d be able to pull it off again. If we could win… Hel, even if we didn’t, we’d still have been trained by Keifdel Drakonsson himself. We could gain the skills needed to become excellent sellswords, and earn far more coin than we do now. I was suddenly filled with a surge of determination.

We can do this… Jarl, Alf, and I, we could do this. Even if we didn’t win, we’d have made names for ourselves. We could win honor and glory through battle, just like the old days in the legends. We would see sights we never would otherwise– the Worldtree, gryphyns, dragons, all eight worlds, including the difficult-to-reach Sky Isles that loomed overhead… We would meet our heroes, and be trained by them. The competition itself seemed enough of a prize for me.

What Grandpapa said, though, still rang in my ears. The thought of being returned to the duke, after that lifetime of Hel he’d put us through… he’d surely torture us. We would never survive a second round. Before convincing any of my family that we could do this, I would have to convince myself that it was a risk worth taking first.

My hands were still shaking with excitement as I went back to work.

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incorrect118buddie · 2 years

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Fanfic Friday

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HELLO BEAUTIES HAPPY FREAKIN FRIDAY !! I HOPE YOU HAVE ALL HAD AN AMAZING WEEK AND IF NOT BUCKLE IN AND TRY OUT THESE AMAZING FICS BELOW TO TAKE YOUR MIND OFF OF THINGS!! I MISSED LAST WEEK AND IM SORRY BUT HOPEFULLY THIS LIST MAKES UP FOR IT . SHOUTOUT TO THE FOLKS SENDING IN FICS ! TO THE AUTHORS THAT ARE MENTIONED , YOU ARE APPRECIATED AND YOUR ART IS SEEN✨ PLEASE GUYS KEEP SENDING IT IN!! HAVE A BEAUTIFUL WEEKEND AND MAKE SURE TO REBLOG AND LIKE THE NEXT UPCOMING INCORRECT118 QUOTES ♥️🚒🧯♥️

upstairs/downstairs by : @adventuresofprettyboyandthekid

Summary : While everyone else is upstairs, Buck and Eddie are downstairs, finding a way to occupy themselves, one that isn’t quite safe for the workspace.

You're the Only One (Who Makes Me) by : @spinteresting

Summary : Christopher is at camp for the week. Buck and Eddie just got together, and they take advantage of the empty house, exploring each other's bodies many times in many ways.

i wanna be known (by you) by : @starlightbuck

Summary: In which Eddie delves into the intimidating world of online dating.

his name on your heart by : @tripleaxeldiaz

Summary : Buck hops off the back of the ambulance, kneeling down so they’re eye to eye. “I’m always happy to help, sweetheart, but my name’s not—”

the hero's shoulders, and the gentleness that comes (not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it) by : boy_crush

Summary : What happened between Buck finding Eddie in his bedroom and the talk in the dining room.

You Can't Stop Missing Me by : @jackluvsdaniel

Summary : Eddie is a clothes thief, and Buck is soft about it. Featuring Buckley-Diaz family feels.

I, Hildy by: red_to_black

Summary : or - the many ways in which Hildy interfered with Eddie and Buck's life, until they got the picture

All the truth that I can tell by @tabbytabbytabby

Summary : A session with Frank leads Eddie to reflect on his feelings pertaining to one Evan Buckley.

#incorrect 911 quotes #evan buck buckley #evan buckley #christopher diaz #edmundo diaz #streaming #911 on fox #television #eddie and buck #buckandeddie #911 fandom #fanficfriday #fanfic #buddie fic recs #fanfiction recommendation #buddie911 #buck and eddie #admin talks

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captains-simp · 3 years

Note

Okie dokie then ;) then may I request with Yelena and Wanda, angst 3 (happy ending) fluff 9, situation 4 and au 7 (them being the body guards 😏😍) I seriously find this pairing a total chefs kiss and I've reblogged/requested many, just look at the yelena belova tag (many being nsfw lol) and thanks, yep Wanda is the love of my life and the dream girl for me;_;

Total chefs kiss. This is going to be a two parter because I kind of got carried away fjskshsksb 😅 and I'm gonna write a smut as a lil something extra eventually

Hopefully this is okay for you too? @teenwonder

Part 2, Part 3

"It wasn't meant to go like this."

"Are we about to kiss?"

7.3k words

[ masterlist ]

Buy me a coffee ☕

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I don't need protecting." You defied stubbornly for the fifth time that hour. You continued making your security checks around your house as the two women followed you. "See? I know how they work, I know what to look out for." You continued as you moved a chair to stand on it and reached your hand up to take a photo of the top of your wardrobe to check for any bugs. "If there was a threat I would have found it by now." You insisted, flicking through the photos and finding nothing out of the ordinary.

"You should go to a safe house to be sure." Wanda said as she watched you put the chair back. You knew who she was, you watched the news. As flattered as you were that an Avenger had been assigned to protect you it seemed like a waste of all of your times.

Yelena was surveying the rest of the room silently. She wasn't much of a talker that one. You hadn't seen or heard of her before. You had wondered if she was new to the hero gig or if she was in a different line of work. It was probably the latter considering how she seemed to know what she was looking out for too. A spy maybe?

"You've said that already, the answer's still no." You exclaimed. "I'm sure there are a lot of people who need that more than me. Go babysit them." Wanda continued to look at you sternly while Yelena observed the street from your window, eyes scanning the opposing buildings before she closed the blinds slightly.

"Look, the situation has been assessed and this is the conclusion we've come to."

"Sounds like you're quoting someone word for word." You quipped as you sauntered back towards the kitchen to check your food.

"You can still go about your daily life-"

"Most of it." Yelena added.

"But we'll be near by, you won't even notice we're here half the time." Wanda assured but you were still skeptical.

"I think I'll notice." You said as you checked all of your canned foods. "There are two of you after all. Why is that anyway?" You asked as you turned around to face them, genuinely curious at the excess.

"Yelena knows the protocol for these things better than I do. But seeing as you won't go to a safe house and Wilson Fisk is a considerably powerful man, I'm here too." You hummed as you looked between the two.

"And how long will you be gracing me with your presence?"

"Until Fisk is caught." Wanda said simply, your jaw could have hit the floor at that news. You didn't doubt the Avenger's abilities and strength, but as Wanda had said, Fisk was powerful. He could avoid capture for much longer than most criminals.

You turned back around and leant against the counter as you spun the can in your hand around. You couldn't help but once again question if you had done the right thing. Sure, it was the beginning in your efforts to right all of your wrongs, but how long would it be until you could confidently say you were safe again. Even if Fisk was locked up there was always going to be people loyal to him on the outside. You couldn't name all of them because Fisk was the only one who knew everything.

Your father had always trusted Fisk. He talked about him highly to you whenever he got the chance, turns out he did the same with Fisk about you. So when your father died in an unavoidable car crash, Fisk offered you a place in his company.

Everyone knew Fisk had done illegal things. Unspeakable things. But no one could ever prove it. You could. As time went on you had grown closer to Fisk and became trusted by him. He disclosed secrets to you that you could assist with. You're ashamed to say you did. For years you went along with everything he did. Until you finally snapped, unable to continue knowing what your actions cost others. Your hands were clean in the way you had never killed someone with a gun or your own hands, but a simple suggestion to Fisk that they were were threat was all it took.

There was only so much you could prove when you finally worked up the nerve to go to S.H.I.E.L.D. You had received no time in exchange for all of your evidence and a statement, not forgetting to actually testify if Fisk was caught. That was probably another reason the two women were there - to make sure you didn't do a runner.

"I have a beach house." You said suddenly as you turned back around to face them. "I'd like to stay there. It's not like I have a job to go to now and not many people know about it." You explained. Who said you couldn't relax when you probably had a hit on your head and would do for the foreseeable future?

Wanda and Yelena exchanged glances, like they were discussing it silently. You knew they would still prefer you to be moved to the safe house.

"It's pretty isolated." You added. Yelena nodded once at Wanda before turning back to you.

"Don't tell anyone you're going, we leave in half an hour." Yelena said, moving to the living room window to peer out of it like she had in your bedroom.

"We?" You questioned, annoyed they had made that decision for you.

"Yes." They said in unison. You looked between them for a moment then sighed, accepting that no matter what you said the pair would follow you around.

"Alright then." You muttered as went back to your room to pack a bag. You had no idea how much you needed to pack due to the uncertainty of how long you could be away.

"Do you...need to borrow some clothes or something?" You asked, still not really understanding how the two women were going to do their jobs.

"We've got everything we need thanks." Wanda replied and you nodded, remaining clueless to how much to bring. Eventually you settled with what you thought was the right amount. There was a washing machine at the beach house and you could just buy more clothes if you really had to.

You put a few unread books into a bag too and went to get your electronics only to be stopped by Yelena.

"Leave them here." She said firmly.

"They're not bugged or tracked." You argued, not wanting to be parted from them all.

"You don't know that for sure, and even if they're not right now they could be later." You sighed in defeat, knowing Yelena was right. You put your phone and laptop back on your bed but continued to put you Nintendo Switch in.

"All of it." Wanda objected.

"Really?" They both gave you stern looks that admitted gave you slight chills. Not that you would ever let them know that though.

"Right." You put the device back on your bed too and paused when your eyes fell on your wardrobe. You went over to it and after a few minutes of digging around you pulled out your Nintendo DS Lite and waved it at Yelena.

"This thing is ancient, there's no way anyone would even think to try track or bug it...if that's even possible." Yelena held out her hand for you to give it to her which you reluctantly did as you searched for your games.

"It's not like I go parading it around anyway." You called while your head was still in the wardrobe.

You had never had the heart to throw it out. It was a miracle it still worked. While that would be the first time in years you had used it you always remembered it was there.

You managed to detangle the charging wire from other broken cables when Yelena deemed it acceptable and handed it back to you. It was hard to contain a triumphant smile.

The drive to the beach house was mainly silent. You had given Yelena the location as she was the one driving and Wanda sat next to her. You were sat behind the red head but spent most of your time gazing out of the tinted window until you became uncomfortable with your paranoid thoughts.

"You guys done anything like this before? Babysitting I mean." You said convosationally to keep your nerves at bay. Yelena didn't answer, her focus staying on the road but Wanda glanced back at you in the mirror.

"It's not babysitting-" She cut herself off to conceal a smile upon hearing Yelena's internal disagreement with that making you frown in confusion. "It's more like witness protection." She said simply. You hummed in response and looked between the two of them.

"Bodyguards." You concluded. "I didn't think that was your thing, everytime I hear about you on the news is always very overt action."

"You really think everything I do is on the news? They wouldn't be covert operations if everyone knew about them."

"Well no I just..." You tried, not wanting to sound like an idiot infront of the two women but suddenly finding yourself at a loss for words. "With your powers and all." You summarised and stared back out the window again, wishing you could arrive quicker and be apart from them both.

"Like I said, not everything I do is on the news." That caught your attention.

"You can do more than the red... sparkles?" Wanda tried to block out Yelena's thoughts in response to that but they were considerably loud.

"Yes I can."

"Like what?" You continued.

"My powers are on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know." The corner of Yelena's mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. You were a moment too late in catching that before your turned your attention to the silent blonde.

"What about you, blondy. What can you do?" You asked Yelena, knowing you wouldn't get much else from Wanda.

"Don't call me that." Was all Yelena said. You smiled at the reaction, knowing you would definetly keep calling her that if it meant getting a word out her.

"Are you an Avenger too?" You continued, ignoring her comment.

"Not really." She muttered, eyes glued to the road.

"Not really?" You copied but she didn't respond. "Are you a spy?"

"Not really." That wasn't going to stop you.

"What are your powers?"

"I know a hundred different ways to kill a man."

Oh. You blinked and for a brief moment questioned if you were trapped in a car with a psychopath.

Wanda gave a sudden laugh but put the back of her hand to her mouth to stop herself as she looked out the window with a smile. You wondered what the hell she was laughing at but mostly you were taken about by how the sound of her laughter was just...perfect.

You didn't ask any questions for the rest of the drive. But that wasn't saying much as it only took you another five minutes to get to the beach house.

It might have just been the relief of being somewhere safer than you had in a while, but you realised how much you missed the house when it came into view.

It was mostly surrounded by long green grass that went up to your knees and tickled against your bare skin that time of year. There was a slightly slope leading down to the warm sand that always got all over the decking. The back of the house stepped out onto an area of shorter grass and the front had a spacious decking that stepped out onto the sand and was usually the place you watched the sunsets from.

You saw Yelena's reaction to the large glass windows on the house and half wondered if she was going to want to border them up. Her jaw tensed in a ridiculously attractive way.

When you all got out the car you studied both of their expressions for approval but they remained stoic.

Of course.

"I'll check the perimeter." Wanda declared as she scanned your surroundings and trudged off before anyone could respond.

"If you know the protocol better why don't you do that?" You questioned curiously. You actually weren't trying to be a pain that time, you just wanted to know how they decided what worked without even having to discuss it.

"If there's anyone around Wanda would be able to find them quicker than me. She knows what else to look out for too." Yelena said as she grabbed one of your bags from the back of the car. You took the other and closed the boot before you both made your way to the house.

"Does she have like super hearing or something?" You quipped, knowing that wasn't it but hoping the suggestion would prompt an answer out of the blonde.

"Something like that." Yelena mumbled, eyes searching the outside of the house.

That worked well. You grumbled internally.

You got the house key from inside your pocket and reached for the door only to be stopped by Yelena. She took the key from you and dropped your bag down against the wall before letting herself into your house.

"Wait here." She ordered as she looked at you over her shoulder then disappeared into your house. You glanced back around for any signs of Wanda but she had disappeared quickly.

It was starting to get dark out and there was a slight evening breeze that told you you had packed the right clothing. It would be hotter in the day, but you were thankful for the heating system in the evenings and nights.

After a while you started to wish you had brought a watch with you. Without your phone you had no way of telling the time, you prayed the clocks inside were still working.

Eventually Yelena reappeared in the doorway but you had your back to her as you gazed around at your surroundings and wrapped your jacket tightly around you. Yelena, light footed as she was, unintentionally crept up behind you and put her hand on your shoulder firmly to get your attention. She did exactly that.

You could have sworn you momentarily jumped out of your skin in fear from being taken by surprise. It didn't help that Yelena's grip wasn't the friendliest. It was unfair that she barely had to do anything and still radiated assertiveness. You wondered if she was always like that.

"You really know how to creep up on a girl, huh?" You joked and tried to ignore your racing heart rate. Yelena didn't say anything but looked at you studiously, you felt yourself being locked in by her eyes that seemed to peer into your soul. It was entrancing.

"Everything alright here?" Wanda's voice broke you out of your trance as she approached with a slightly concerned look on her face as she glanced between you and Yelena.

"Yeah." You breathed out and smiled weakly. Yelena's gaze stayed a second longer before she turned back to the house. Wanda followed and you assumed you could too.

The interior was exactly how you remembered it and gave you an assuring feeling that no one had been there. The downstairs was an open plan space with the kitchen to the left, the stairs on the far right and the rest of the space being the living area leading to the decking area. You could see the sea even from the other side of the house.

You jogged up the stairs with your bags to see the bedroom you always stayed in facing you. All the doors were open and you guessed Yelena was planning to keep them that way apart from the bathroom. You were going to be pissed if you were killed on the toilet.

You threw your bags down on the floor and jumped onto the bed on your back, gazing up at the ceiling that had a few badly drawn stars on. You smiled at the memory of when you had drawn them on with sharpie, greatly under-estimating how hard it was to draw on a ceiling.

You were pulled away from the memory at the sound of knocking on your door. You glanced over at the door to see Wanda standing in the doorway as she tried to subtly take in the room arrangement.

They're not going to follow me around this house too, are they? You wondered.

Wanda gave you a quick smile before she spoke. "I'm about to make dinner, any preference?" The Sokovian asked consideratly.

"We just got here, you can relax before you do anything else." You offered as you rolled onto your side to face her properly.

"It's late, we all need to eat after that drive." Wanda explained.

"Well yeah but you coukd still put your feet up for a bit."

"This isn't a holiday, y/n." Wanda said in a joking tone even though what she was saying was entirely true.

"I know." You muttered, suddenly feeling guilty as you realized the two women were going to enjoy this just as much as you. "Whatever you want, chef's choice." Wanda smiled more warmly this time and nodded before disappearing again.

You lay thinking about her words for a while. You were still sure there wasn't a significant threat on your life, at least not one that required an Avenger and a 'not really' Avenger. But you should still show some gratitude for what they were doing. They would be away from friends and family the entire time too.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, admiring the view from your window for a brief second, before starting downstairs.

As soon as you left your room the smell of Wanda's food overtook you. You couldn't tell what it was but it smelled delicious. Your stomach agreed and gave a low growl as a reminder of how little you had eaten that day.

You continued down the stairs and saw Wanda hovered over the stove as she looked up at you in slight surprise. Meanwhile Yelena was on one of the couches watching the news.

It really isn't a holiday. You thought.

"It smells great." You complimented. "What is it?"

"A Sokovian dish." Wanda said fondly. You hadn't tried Sokovian food before and you wished you had. You had clearly been missing out. "It will be done soon." Wanda assured, as though sensing your hunger.

You gave her a smile before venturing over to the living area and making yourself comfortable on the other couch. You glanced over at Yelena who was already looking your way but turned her attention back to the television when your eyes met briefly.

Apparently nothing new was happening in the world so you soon zoned out the news and watched the slight shimmer on the sea surface. You planned to go out in the sea at somepoint in your visit, you were sure you had spare swims suits somewhere in the house.

Wanda surprised both you and Yelena when she came over to you with two plates. She passed one to you once you sat up and the other to the blonde, both of you thanking her gratefully. You waited until Wanda came back with her own plate to start eating, joining Yelena on the other couch.

You couldn't help but notice that Wanda sat quite close to the blonde, barely leaving any space between them before curling her feet up under her and leant back into the soft couch. Their shoulders were touching ever so slightly and neither of them acknowledged it in any way as though it was natural to them. A habit they didn't know they had fallen into.

Huh. You thought to yourself. Interesting.

Not wanting to study them any longer in case they noticed, you turned back to the television like they were and began to eat your meal and holy fuck this is amazing!

When you went to compliment Wanda you saw that she was already smiling down at her lap. Had you said that out loud.

"This is even better than last time." Yelena whispered and you still managed to hear.

"It's incredible." You added eagerly. Wanda smiled appreciatively at you and you found you had to return to your food quickly, learning that you couldn't hold eye contact with either of the women for very long.

"Thank you, y/n." The silence in the room was filled with the television before you spoke again.

"So you do all the cooking for the Avengers do you?" You asked casually.

"If I let any of the others cook the place would have burnt down ages ago." Wanda said as she gave Yelena a faux stern look. Yelena's knee hit Wanda's as she continued to pay attention to the screen earning a smile from the read head.

Very interesting.

"And you're all close?" Your eyes narrowed slightly at the pair, searching for any trace of a reaction. You certainly got one.

They both whipped their heads around at you, the television forgotten. You thought that you had gotten your answer until you saw that Wanda was looking at you with a slight frown while Yelena's gaze was nothing short than accusing.

"You ask a lot of questions about the Avengers." Yelena stated. Your eyes widened as you realised what she was insinuating. Given your recent history it was no surprise suspicion arose.

"It was only a couple." You tried as glanced between your half eaten food and the women infront of you. "I'm sorry I just... I don't know." You stammered as you attempted to avoid their gaze that still dug into you.

"Curious?" Wanda finished for you; like she had taken the word right out of your mind. Her voice remained unhostile.

"Yeah." You smiled weakly and went back to your food but couldn't help but look back up. Wanda was taking hers and Yelena's plates back to the kitchen with an unbothered expression. Meanwhile Yelena's eyes stayed on you without the accusing look in her eyes. She was stoic, unreadable, making it all the much harder to maintain her gaze. You instantly backed down to continue eating, feeling her eyes stray from you again.

After a while of the three of you sat watching the news (you didn't want to try your luck asking for another program) you muttered something about going to bed. You were tired, but in reality you just wanted some alone time to process the day's events.

Neither of them said anything in the moment, but Wanda eventually knocked on your door to bring you away from your thoughts and back to the strange circumstances of your reality.

"Hey." She greeted with a gentle smile. She was wearing loose sleep wear of pajama shorts and a shirt that was slightly too big and fell just above the end of her shorts. You averted your gaze when you realised your eyes had stayed a second too long on her slim legs. She didn't seem to notice and if she did she clearly wasn't bothered.

"Hi." You smiled back as you sat up under your duvet. Your bedside light was still on so Wanda could see you clearly.

"So I know this place is a lot safer than your house in the city but we still can't take any chances." You nodded silently, that was something you were trying not to think about but knew you should. "Even at night." Wanda added, her eyes flickered to small fold out couch under the window. You followed her gaze and soon realised what she meant.

"Is that really necessary?" You asked as you sat up entirely.

"Me and Yelena will take it in turns every night and we'll be on the couch." Wanda explained as she watched you for any signs of discomfort.

"Okay." You said simply. You knew they were just doing their job and what they thought was best. You had to trust them.

"Okay." Wanda repeated with a smile and stepped into the room.

You lifted the duvet to get out of bed to help Wanda adjust the couch but she put her hand up to stop you.

"I got it." She assured. You opened your mouth to insist but Wanda raised her hand again, this time flicking her wrist that was surrounded by a red glow. You were so entranced by her powers you barely registered the couch folding out on its own.

"Neat trick." You tried to say nonchalantly even though you were in complete awe of the red swirls that had disappeared as suddenly as they appeared.

"Thanks." Wanda said modestly.

"The duvets and pillows are in the cupboard outside-" You started to say but those exact items came slowly floating into the room along with a blanket that layed itself down on the coach before the pillow and duvet.

"Thank you." Wanda said again, this time with a slightly smug grin that she sucked at hiding.

Wanda got into the bed and you reached for the light on the table to turn it off. The room plummeted into darkness and made you acutely aware of every little sound in the room. It felt as though it accelerated your thoughts too.

"I'm sorry if I was asking too much earlier." You suddenly said, getting the thought out before you could try to stop it.

"You didn't, we just have to be careful of these things, giving information about the team I mean. Your questions were harmless so don't worry over it." Wanda explained in the dark as you listened carefully.

"Okay." You said after a moment, pausing again before you spoke. "Thank you for what you're both doing."

"You're welcome, y/n." You smiled at that and silence fell over you both for a while.

"Goodnight, Wanda." You finally said.

"Goodnight, y/n."

The following few days dragged by. As you predicted Yelena told you not to go in the sea and kept a close eye on you when you sat on the sand with soft waves occasionally brushing your feet.

Wanda continued to make new amazing Sokovian dishes that you were in awe of, they never ceased to get better everytime. You knew you would miss her cooking when you went back to your normal life. That seemed far off though. Everyday Wanda and Yelena checked in with the team and gave them updates - not that there were any. You always tried not to eavesdrop, but they always did it right infront of you. Granted, if it was about you you were sure you were entitled to listen.

You didn't speak when they slept in your room. You had a million questions bubbling around in your head. Wanda would be more open to answering the personal questions but you still didn't want to try your luck.

You wondered a lot about the pair. Especially the kind of relationship they had. It seemed a little more than a professional relationship, maybe something more than friends too. They were always so casually close during dinner, often sharing small smiles as though they were having a convosation in their heads.

In the moments they thought you were further away then you were you saw one of them leaning into the other. You could have sworn you saw Wanda kiss Yelena's cheek once too. You had wanted to ask if they were a couple, even if you were pretty sure you knew the answer already, but knew they wouldn't like that. Professional boundaries and all.

You weren't annoyed at it though. If anything you were envious. Even those brief moments of intimacy you wished you could have. Things just seemed so simple.

One day you started to get board of sitting around doing barely anything. Wanda had gone out to get more food and Yelena was laying on the couch reading a book when you went out to the decking area. To the left was a large container that you usually only used when you had a lot of guests. It had been a while since that had happened so you hoped nothing had ruined or rusted.

Your eyes scanned over the contents of the box until they landed on a basketball. You grabbed it and threw it a couple inches above your hands to test its condition. It was only slightly flat, not enough for you to bother with the pump. You threw it over to the sand and continued your search for the stand and hoop, finding them at the bottom.

After a few minutes of getting things out of the way and almost falling in the container twice, you picked up the heavy base, just about holding it under your arm, and got the shortened pole and hoop in your other hand.

It didn't take long until your grip on the base loosened. You should definetly have gotten them in two trips but you stubbornly decided to keep going towards the flat patch of sand. You lifted your leg in order to further support the base the last few meters, having to hop the rest of the way before letting everything fall.

You leaned forward to rest your hands on your knees to catch your breath and when you glanced back at the container you saw Yelena leaning against the sliding door frame with her arms crossed and an amusing smirk playing on her lips. Your face and neck instantly heated up as you could only imagine what she had witnessed.

You started assembling the post as you tried to ignore the blonde who was so clearly still watching with interest until you deemed it acceptable.

You spinned the basketball in your hands as you took a couple of steps back and threw the ball at the basket, only for it to bounce off of the edge. At least you managed to catch it when it came back towards you.

You huffed and mumbled something about being out of practise before you took another shot and hit the opposite edge, this time not catching it when it came back. You huffed and ignored the urge to glance back at Yelena, still being able to picture her expression.

You threw the ball again, and again, and again, each time worse than the prior and growing more frustrated by the second. You were startled when Yelena's hand touched your shoulder to spin you around to face her, the amused smirk still there.

"Again?!" You exclaimed, remembering the last time she did that.

"You're doing it wrong." Yelena said as she took the ball from your hands and threw it up at the basket. It went in perfectly and your face flushed again.

"I'm just in the wrong clothes." You blamed as you motioned to your denim shorts and loose t-shirt. Yelena glanced down at her own jeans and shirt and hummed in a disbelieving tune as she threw the ball again. She caught it as it fell through the loop and handed it back to you with a smug grin.

You copied how she had done it and much to your surprise, it circled the basket before falling through.

"Pure chance." You muttered even though you used the technique the next few through until Yelena blocked you one time to snatch the ball out of your hands to throw it again.

You grinned as you ran infront of her to block her throw only for Yelena to easily throw it over your outstretched hands. Your attempted it over and over again but Yelena kept avoiding you with ease no matter how hard you tried to block her.

Eventually, and probably by pure luck, you knocked the ball sideways slightly so it missed the loop. You grinned proudly at Yelena. "Nice try, blondy." You quipped. She gave you a stern glare that quickly twisted into a smirk.

"I'm pretty sure I'm winning here." Yelena said as the spun the ball in her hands.

"Well you're obviously going to be better at any sports than me." You rolled your eyes with a playful smile.

"Obviously?" Yelena asked with a knowing smirk.

"You're a spy!" You exclaimed.

"So?" Apparently still playing dumb so you could fuel her ego.

"So you're all athletic and stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Stuff! You're fit- physically I mean- you're in shape- er good shape I mean!" You stammered as your eyes widened and Yelena's smirk grew.

"Are you calling me attractive, y/n?" Yelena teased as she moved closer to you so there was barely any space between you both and you could see the thin layer of sweat glistening on your forehead. Your mind was cloudy and you couldn't think of a response as your mouth went dry.

"Don't tease her, Yelena." Wanda scolded. You whipped your head around to see the redhead strolling towards you both with two bottles of water and a sly smile playing on her lips.

You avoided Yelena's gaze as you accepted the bottle with a thank you but could feel her watching you still.

"Just some harmless fun." Yelena mused as she brought the bottle to her lips.

"That would be new, everything's a competition with you." Wanda grinned earning a light hit on her arm from Yelena who clearly wasn't pleased at the truth.

"So that's why you're a bad looser." You teased as you tried to grab the basketball from Yelena only for her to lift it up out of your reach.

"I let you win that one." Yelena lied. Just as she was started to look very smug with being able to keep the ball away from you red mist surrounded it and tore it from Yelena's hands and into Wanda's.

"That's not fair!" You and Yelena explained at once but Wanda was already throwing the ball up and landing it in the hoop.

"Beginner's luck." Yelena accused as she collected the ball and passed it to you before going to sit down and watch.

"Definetly." You agreed and went to shoot. Just as the ball was about to pass through the loop the red mist returned and jerked it sideways.

"Wanda!" You exclaimed. "That's cheating."

"I'm sorry I just couldn't help myself." Wanda laughed as she tied her hair up. When her hair was away from her face it highlighted every feature of her face, especially that smile. She was beautiful. You glanced at Yelena and saw her leaning back on her hands making the muscles in her arms more prominent. The lazy grin on her face was towards Wanda and allowed you to get a good look at her jawline. She was beautiful.

Fuck, they both were. It was unfair and very distracting when you were playing against them.

Wanda moved to stand with her back to the basketball stand and rolled up the sleeves of her sweatshirt with a determined look on her face. You mirrored her expression and position before swiftly moving a step to the left to throw the ball. As if reading your mind, Wanda stepped to the side the moment you did and smacked the ball out of the air barely a second after it had left your hands.

You stood, mouth agape, staring at Wanda in disbelief of how quickly she had been able to do that. She smiled smugly as she passed the ball back to you. You shook of your shock and aimed for the net again, this time stepping to the other side for Wanda to catch.

It went like that for a while. The redhead was seemingly always one step ahead of you and prevented you from being successful.

It really was like she could read your mind. You paused slightly as you studied Wanda's expression. She could make things move with her mind, was or really a stretch to assume she could read minds too? Was that her secret power.

Deciding to test the theory you focused strongly on your planned tacktick before suddenly stepping to the left for a brief moment then back to the centre to throw the ball. Wanda didn't move when you did and was able to catch the ball with both hands with a smirk.

"You can read minds!" You exclaimed with a proud smile at the realisation. Wanda faulted and dropped the ball to the ground, turning to Yelena who had visibly stiffened. You ignored their expressions and continued. "That's cheating." You mumbled and picked up the ball.

You glanced over at the sea and saw that the sun was starting to set so you decided to pack the equipment away. The two still hadn't spoken.

"You're quite the detective." Wanda mused as she lifted detached base and pole into the air with her powers. The three of you strolled leisurely back towards the house, all tension dissipated from Wanda's words.

"I played a lot of cluedo as a kid." You declared with a fond smile.

"What version?" Yelena asked as she narrowed her eyes at you.

"Scooby doo of course." You tested and her approving nod returned.

"Of course."

"Don't pretend Cluedo had the same effect on you, Yelena. It took you weeks to learn I could read minds and only because you read it in a mission file." You laughed at the story and even more at Yelena's devastated expression. She glared daggers at Wanda who seemed completly unfazed.

"It's not the only secret I've figured out." You said slyly as you looked between the two. They both turned to you as you walked, clearly comfused as to what else you could figure out.

"You guys are dating, aren't you?" You weren't actually 100% sure of that. It was really just a hunch with flimsy evidence. But if you had been right about Wanda's powers you wouldn't be surprised if you were right about that too.

The two women exchanged worried glances that told you the answer. While you smiled at first you faltered when you saw their panicked expressions.

"You guys are cute." You assured as you smiled at the ground.

"We can ask the compound to send someone else for you." Wanda said, her voice quieter than usual.

"What? No way!" You exclaimed. Wanda seemed to ease at her assurance but Yelena stayed silent as her eyes remained glued to the house with an unreadable look.

"Besides, blondy has to teach me how to not suck ass at basketball and magic hands has to teach me to cook Sokovian dishes." Yelena cracked a smile at that and Wanda chuckled. "I'm not letting either of you go yet." You declared and missed the shared look between Yelena and Wanda.

It was early on a Friday afternoon when you remembered your DS. You had just finished one of your books and your mind wondered to thinking of swimming in the sea like it often did.

Wanda was leaning against the armchair of the couch with her legs outstretched and feet on Yelena's lap while they worked on their laptops.

You got up to get the device from your room and collected the small bag you held all the games in. Both of the women's eyes flickered up to you when your returned with the ancient toy in you hand.

You turned it on, thankful for charging it earlier in the week, and selected one of your Mario games. The familiar tune filled the room and you quickly turned the volume down as to not disturb the pair, still smiling at hearing the nostalgic music.

You soon became engulfed in the game and the afternoon flew by. You had struggled with the controls at first given how much smaller they were to the modern consoles but soon got the hang of it and became immersed in the game.

You had had to charge the device twice in the time you were playing earning multiple snide remarks from Yelena about how it belonged in a museum. You always flipped her off as you continued playing.

The only indicator of time you had was when Wanda got up to make dinner. Most nights you hovered around the kitchen to help in anyway the Sokovian instructed and picked up a few skills in the process. Other nights Wanda shooed away and insisted you get out of her kitchen. You usually stilled tried to watch parts of what she was doing to learn something.

You were vaguely aware of the television playing for a while when Yelena also abandoned her work for the day. You didn't notice it being turned off though, not until Yelena propped herself down beside you.

You glanced up at her, noting how close she was, and found her full attention was on the two small screens. She watched in silence for a while as you played then breathed sharply through her nose when Mario died.

"I doubt you could do any better." You mumbled as you went to start the level again. Yelena held out her hand and you passed the DS over with a smile.

She pressed down on the right arrow key and immediately walked into a mushroom. You burst out laughing at the failed attempt and saw her restart the level again with a grumble about the controls not working.

While she avoided the mushroom on the second attempt, she mis-timed her jump soon after and fell off the world. You laughed again and shook your head, knowing it would take her a while to finish the level and being fueled by stubborness.

She tried over and over but never managed to complete the level. You were beginning to think she would break the poor device out of frustration. She only stopped when Wanda lifted it out of her reach with her powers and put it on the top of the kitchen cupboards. It was something she complained about relentlessly at dinner. It probably didn't help with your continuous mockery of her inability to complete one level.

You woke up during the night to go pee and upon your return from the bathroom saw a dim light coming from downstairs. Curiously, you etched towards the stairs and heard the familiar sound of buttons being furiously pressed and the occasional muttering from Yelena.

You crept down a few steps to peer down and saw the Russian sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up onto the couch the the teal device resting on her knees. You could make out her face being lit up by the screen and the concentrated expression that remained firm. You bit back a chuckle and watched the blonde for a while before returning to bed with a smile.

Although you were feeling content when you got under the covers. You mind found itself falling down a rabbit hole as you considered the two women protecting you.

You had one of them sleeping on the couch in your room and when the other one was done playing video games she'd go back to the spare room to sleep. Away from each other.

You enjoyed both their companies, perhaps a little too much, but you felt sorry for them. They were a couple that had been cooped up in a house with some random women and they never got to spend any real time together. You could only imagine how much they wanted to go home. You would miss them when they did, you knew that. There was nothing left for you in the city. And yet the urge to fix everything you had done was still strong.

There was one thing you could try. It would be hard, near impossible to get away from the two women at all never mind longer enough to do it. If you did it right, you would be able to find Fisk and fix everything.

You knew you would be risking your life, but the fact that you might not see Wanda or Yelena again, successful or not, was what caused a pang in your chest.

You stared up at the ceiling and focused on the barely visible drawn stars in the dark and started making a plan.

#wanda maximoff imagines #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x yelena belova #wanda maximoff x yelena belova x reader #wanda x yelena #yelena belova imagines #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader

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kthynes · 2 years

Text

THE MIXOLOGIST 🍸 (3/7)

part three: french 75

previous part

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: bartender!steve rogers x fem!reader

summary: after a rough break up you find yourself frequenting the same bar every night where you’re tended to by Steve who helps you through your heartbreak.

word count: ~8.2K

warnings: 18+ nsfw. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT — This part contains: some course language, safe alcohol consumption, fun banter. Yearning and pining. Mentions of war, the military. Historical references. Actual quotes as said by SR.

Passages italicized in bold = flashbacks/past conversations

author's note: Even though I did some research there’ll definitely be some inaccuracies when it comes to following the MCU timeline — again this is meant to be a modern AU and the plot comes from my own creative integrity so take much of it with a grain of salt.

Reblogs, likes and comments are encouraged! And as self explanatory as it should be, please do not copy and/or translate my works onto any other platforms. Cheers!

taglist: @patzammit @denisemarieangelina @mrs-djokovic @bookwormchick91 @lauracontisstuff @blossombela @maroonsunrise83 @jesgisborne @ysmmsy @jennmurawski13

This series has not been beta’d so any mistakes are my own.

six months later

Steve roguishly thought of his past, running with time and the people that mattered to him the most. He was Captain America, after all. Heavy emphasis on was.

Now, he’s meant to be incognito, a nomad looking over his shoulder well after hanging up his vibranium shield. The posterioring stealth suit was kept dormant, ruminating dust in an acclimatized lab— so he’s told. But with every incremental opportunity there’s a dutiful ache in his pneuma that begs to feel the tough, rubberized leather against the chapels of his skin. He’d confer that whenever he went to bed, devoid.

Who he was and who he’d come into prosed a greater leitmotif.

If you go, you’re gone Rogers. He remembers. The stern soliloquy that infantilizes his entire existence. It’s a prophetic cri de cœur, one that Steve’s heard on many rotations, especially from Fury who would never impede his intercessions twice.

“Mrs. Erskine.” One of the attendants greets a known elitist. Steve frowns while intently going over inventory in his head, pen barely touching paper at this point. The house lights are dim and he squints at the tally, taking work as a warranted distraction.

Tito’s. Replaced. Vodka and Tequila.

Jameson. Double check.

Jarred olives and Bacardi. Check.

“I’d like to be out of sight if possible.” Marlene Erskine isn’t so thrilled. She’s looking at everyone else except the man in front of her who offers to take her mage-like coat.

“May I?” Steve hears the courteous plea, a cry for attention that stakes his subordinate at low par. He shakes his head while shifting through a cold deck of recipe cards and paperwork.

“Oh alright then, fine… Thank you.” The weight of the shrug finally comes off. She fashions a sensible tan pullover and a straight narrow knee length skirt. The long, ribboning scarf stays on for modesty as she scopes the party that honors women in STEM and business. Her beady eyes adjust, finally landing on Steve who narrowly avoids her agog gaze. “Everyone must be here.” She hums to herself.

“Ma’am?”

“Go on.” She cautions to be led. “I’ll follow.”

“Right this way.”

While heralding himself as a "man without a nation", Steve finally found normalcy, sought for it at an upscale bar in New York’s most safest, not to mention richest, Harlem’s. The covetous tavern was tucked away from his childhood domicile where much of the surrounding metropolis was absolutely aberrant; a metamorphic ghost town with strife and fast feet.

Without much consideration, he settled in a Manhattan village where the periodic scaling of the once lively, tooting 40’s architecture was now weathered down to brick lacquered buildings, remodeled businesses and an imperialist mirage of a present day borough.

Although with further retrospection, some historic memorandums were safe kept —like the tassel awnings by each shopfront, the dismal rat infested alleyways and the musty arrangement of smells that would stew up from either a poorly maintained manhole or an unbathed homeless man. It was all ornately there to reckon.

Cherry Lane theatre. Hotel Albert. 10th street studios were all slightly unfamiliar to him. But the infamous meatpacking factory stood bouldering and tall along with the neatly pigeonholed row houses that were inhabited by avant-garde residents who’d pardon their way as Steve passed them with indifference every morning and night.

As hard as it was to admit, his fondest memories of the city wore on thin and averse just as his encompassing juncture.

There’ll be a whole lifetime that articulates a fine divide between good and the myopia of chaos that ensues. You’ll have to look around to see.

“What’s going on?” Wes appears next to Steve who was stuck to his shins the whole time.

“Just trying to get my hands around these bottles.” Steve motions to the gallons of Lost Abbey ale that weren’t stocked on cart, nor were they requested in the first place. Until now that is. “I shouldn’t have to accommodate this.”

“They’re asking?”

“You bet they are.” Each brass bond bottle was pulled up and lined against the backsplash where Steve stood wistfully repentant, contemplating whether a little bleakness would save him from dumping premium alcohol down the drain. But shit happens and people of this century were colorful brutes who drank their weight, never took no or sorry for an answer.

“Here lemme get them out of the way for you.” Wes insists while upholding a barrage of decorum to set aside.

“Who in their right mind petitions for high commodity beer?” Steve runs a hand down his tired face. Clinks and clatters, the cart sinks in agony with each drop. “Actually, I haven’t checked the expiry date on those. Hold up.”

Wes takes a step back as Steve scans the bottle necks for the all clear. “Do you think there’s going to be a back order?”

“Oh one hundred percent. These are the last of what we got and they’re… good to go.”

“Nice. Maybe we can swig some shots later.” Wes continues, loading the last of the beer with a grunt that lingers. His humor is impartially bearing.

“Please do. I mean I don’t know what goes but I appreciate you guys a whole lot, day in, day out.” Steve claps his colleagues on the back as a congressional ‘thank you.’ “So go ape.”

“If you say so chief.” He strolls away, using his hip to nudge the stubborn trolley forward.

Going through the clipboard checklist, Steve crosses out his inventory, checks it twice, rounds to the nearest tee and then looks up. His reflection from the giant mantle ahead drew up a different demise. In between rows upon rows of alcohol he sheens his rugged, dreary appearance through the glimmering gold plane mirrors. This couldn’t be him at his expectant best.

You are presumed to be made up, Steve Rogers. Almost god-like to some. After all, the world's first superhero doesn’t come by easily.

“I think you’re absolutely wrong.” You giggle from a far distance, phone hotly pressed against your ear while completely engrossed. The snow swirls behind you as your booted feet stomp on the duster mat out front. You awkwardly marshal past coat check, smiling at Kenny as you girl boss your way across the loft.

“Maybe Maya can have a look at the projections and then we can talk. How ‘bout that?”

Your jaded assistant agrees on the other end as the client file gets passed mid-conversation. “Whatever. There’s no way of convincing you.”

“Not even the slightest.” You add, ending the call to stare at the blue light screen and punch in a few choice words. The phone rings again, you pick up - this time aroused by another inanity.

“You’re kidding!” Your excitement borders sheer exasperation. One of your hallmark clients, a couple at that, decided to have an open house style proposal. Georgina Scott and Andrew Morales were firm partners and astound lovers. They were on the market to buy a home until they pulled this stunt.

“The whole nine yards and a paid audience. I guess I forgot to mention it.” Juni monotonously reiterates, sucking her teeth and obviously overjoyed.

“How?”

“They’re crafty like that, Y/N. Did you not read their InTouch exposé?” She rhetorically coos as you stare at an off handed pap shot photo, trying to piece together how this all came down in a narrow two storey walk up. You'd assume that Georgina probably shed a fake tear or two whereas Andrew was inadvertently relieved from any financial stipulation. They were terrible like that, working the other like a fiddle and playing you by the ear. “She’s my wifey for lifey. He says. He’s my sweet money man. She says. Fucking head cases.”

“I have no words.”

“Lucky for you, this is their home. A two bed plus den townhome on 22nd, I believe.”

“That’s not….” You’re at a loss, slowly approaching the vacant roundabout where Steve resolutely sluices beer steins. His eyes cut to you and in your splay of thoughts you grimace. He’d do anything in his power to see for it, halting to wipe his hand on a small tea towel. “Oh my god, wait. No…” You groan, a hand plastered to your forehead.

Steve’s not crazy about a lot of things but he’d surely hang the moon when you were around. Matt would tell him not to, warning the rueful Captain that his kindness could turn on him. But the light you were made it nearly impossible. He’s taken to you by the frightful upheaps that akin night and day.

“The deposits in, Y/N. What’s the big deal? It’s not like you have offers stacking up and besides these two are absolute cash cows.”

“Juni.” You chide, tiredly rubbing your face as Steve wordlessly pours a mug of hot water for your cold hands to grasp. He’s mindful like that— to the point where your eyes narrow and twinkle. If he wanted to he would.

“Sure there are factoring alternatives but with them, we can both finally eat.” She quips, matter of fact.

“You know we’re in the midst of a crazy bidding war, right? Thanks Steve.” You gently tell him once you wrap your palms around the steaming mug. Your frigid hands embrace the soldering heat, eyes briefly falling shut. “Let’s be pragmatic here.”

“Forget that! Are you with sexy big dick Steve?” If your face was ever hit with a hot cast iron pan, the sensation would be similar to the warm numbness you felt from the peak of your hairline down to the back of your neck. Steve smirks while hearing it all, flattered and contentious by this interaction. He lets you come undone, not truly inciting if you ever took to the name. He liked it just as much as he liked you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You mutter a threat.

“Hey Steve!” Juni loudly swoons on the line. Steve stops to say something, mouth agape for you to fill in the blanks.

“Don’t.” You instantly signal him, sweating like a spit roasted pig. “He says hi. Can I…” you pause to clear your throat. “Can I call you back later?”

Your heart batters down to a normal BPM. Steve smiles to himself knowing the impact was more human in nature than anything else.

“Do you still want the reports?” She finally jesters.

“Yes Juni, spare me will you.”

Like the summer solstice, Steve knows of Juniper ‘Juni’ Williams, your longtime assistant and quirky best friend. He also knows of Maya Cortez, the other ‘more-serious-to-charm’ associate who works alongside you at the agency. And then there’s Matt your small town bestie who you'd belittle like a brother, looking out for the other when the going got tough. Your circle was just them, small and let in by a few.

“Ok you need to— Oh I know… Alright, fine! Whatever, yes, ok, ok, bye!” You laugh through sprightful exhaustion, ending the call for good. “Can’t believe her.”

Steve found your sense of self to be superlative. He would indirectly make note, observe these versions of you that are elemental and obsolete yet make you, you. But under the perils of his forlorn pretense and the misfortune white knight complex, you didn’t have the slightest clue about him, who he was, is and can be. To you, Steve was just a sterling mixologist and not to mention a good friend.

Friend. Now there’s an impending notice.

Infrequently after Steve’s inquisition, you showed up almost every night with newfound ease and wonderment while deprecating his falsified commodore at face value.

He did good by you, for you, unrequited, over and over again. And that was it.

For many months on in, Steve was at the bar awaiting in spirit, unserious by his dues but so very grateful of you.

“You don’t look so good.” You unveil yourself under the glimmering fairy lights strung above, perfectly in season. Steve scoffs at the utterance. He’s pitiful while on the side there’s a long clutter of tools, big and small, laid along the bar strip to dry. The dishwasher was out of order, huffing and puffing like the dapperly super soldier himself.

“I was just told to serve four cases of high premium beer at a strictly wine and champagne event.” He unloads, snapping you a blazoned look and your head jerks back.

“Is that it?” You question, slowly slipping out of your prickly, cold cocoon coat and setting it aside.

“As much as I hate to say it, I’m not running a charity bar here.”

“That’s very meta, don’t you think?” He rolls his eyes, moving through the stretch like a chamois and passing stationery to his crew who’d give you a less than obligatory smile.

“Don’t get smaht (smart) with me.” He conjugates the New York and Boston accent with a half smirk that rests on his bearded upper lip. “Alright?”

Your hands are rifling through your purse lining for a thoughtful afterthought. “Well I’ve got $50 to my name. What does that cover?”

“My left shoe.” He rebuts, eyes sparkling a new haven and crisis. Day old receipts, crumpled Nature Valley wrappers, even one of your emptied birth control blister packs comes flying out for show. Steve grows weary, biting his bottom lip to hide a coy, ceaseless grin while you rip apart your small flap wallet.

“Then fifty it is.” You slot a fresh bill into the idling tip jar that is looted from last night's service.

You’re beaming. Not for too long. Steve shuffles forward and comes up right in your face. He slides his hands into fists and rests them on either side of you, flexing a river of veins that form right along his thick forearms. This is different. Strange and impermeable to decipher as wafting spearmint and the dankest whisky imaginable soon tingles your senses. He rambunctiously exhales, tucking in his chin to scorn a better look.

He’s truly fucking with you at this point and you let him, remaining innocently unbalanced in the stare off.

“How pretentious do you have to be to know your place?” He mutters as you innocently peer at him through your thick lashes.

“I… I don’t know, you tell me.” You try not to stutter. Steve studies your countenance, his eyes landing on your pillow pink lips that jut out for dreary sake. And this is how you got to him.

“Yeah right.” He deftly pulls away to your heart's titillating murmur and contrives a laugh that’s larger than life. Asshole.

“Take back the fifty and lemme do my job, sweetheart.” He reaches the overhead shelf and grabs his own mickey, trying to weigh in on the fun to no avail. “Don’t be weird.”

You mockingly ignore him and lean in with your forearms splayed on top of the counter.

“So what’s on the company menu tonight?”

After taking an abortive shot, he feigns disgust and sibilates. Unfortunately the serum only amplified his sense of taste.

“Aside from Bruichladdich, that is... You’re insane.” You comment as if you were witnessing a bloody slaughter.

“No fucking shit,” Steve growls on the low while coming to his own.

He catches that look in your eye. It's unmistakable how taken aback he is and the way you assume your own natural beauty. Soon enough you get distracted, easily so. He shakes his head, smacking his lips while turning to stiffly open another bottle of prosecco for a weak handed waitress who thanks him in return.

“Make sure you secure it tightly afterwards.”

“Got it.”

“Hey hey.” You sing-song like a true house guest, this time at Ian— the flamboyant server who loves you next to kin it seems.

“Hey ho.” He gets by with a tray plated with croquettes, deviled eggs, poached meats, cheeses, breads, pickled root vegetables and even spanakopita. It’s a worldly delicatessen of bites meant for a richer consortium, that is until your friend pipes in, “Would you like to try?”

“Oh no no. Guests first.”

“Suit yourself.” Ian gaggles with an extended eye roll. He tags along with another waiter who shifts some of the appetizers onto his own tray to distribute. You suck in a deep breath, feeling a little out of place and adjusting to the bubbly atmosphere.

“This is a nice set-up.” You remark at the sight of the trapezing tapestry coming down from the ceilings. There’s a few new installments and a Christmas tree that’s been spruced, nearly mammoth in size. The visionary directive was different, quaint and pretty to look at.

“Primark.” Steve relays the event coordinators on spiel. You sound a disgruntled ‘ahh’ that acknowledges him.

“Very nice.”

“You know there’s a truckload of bites going around, the offsite catering company has made sure of it. So don’t be shy.” Steve affirms, pulling sprigs of mint leaves to garnish the pre-poured juleps that were left out and swiped by fascinated guests alike.

“Cheers.” He occasionally salutes with an empyrean grin.

“I’m not really keen on finger foods.” You watch the two women giggle and sway, speaking in hushed tones about the cute bartender that you couldn’t digress, a fact is a fact after all. Don’t go there Y/N. “Maybe later if I work up an appetite.”

“So you’re basically on a ‘liquid diet’ then?” He points to the alcohol out on display.

“It’s like you know me.” You sardonically respond, still grasping onto your warm water glass.

“Barely.” He counters.

Steve got to know you little by little. He knew your profession, place of birth. How you were practically a novice wanderer in the apple state yet over time you've accumulated your favorite city haunts, bodegas and boutiques. He knew you by memory, down to the color of your toenails which was an even milder revelation. Ballet pink to be exact.

And if we were to compare apples to oranges, he’s never met anyone like you, humanly unique and a tough stride to meet, a challenge at best.

“Liar.” You sheepishly implore, feeling a sinful chill reach your shoulders.

Steve drops a straggly piece of twine and holds a hand out, brows questionably arched. “Give me that.”

“What? No, why?” He swipes the ruddy mug from your grasp and dumps it into the sink.

“I’ll get you a heat pack instead.” Before you could protest, he disappeared into the back room where his office presided along with the first aid kit.

“You don’t have to do all this.” You shyly state as he returns and hands you the freshly microwaved gel compress for aches and sores— and now for your cold, reptilian hands.

“Careful, it’s hot.” He sympathizes, nodding at the untouched sack in front of you. “Just wait it out before you rest your hands.”

“Thanks.” You reluctantly express your gratitude, taking in the furrowed look on his stoic face that remains a constant. “I guess poor circulation is no laughing joke.”

“It’s not.” He studies the till screen as a respite distraction, rubbing his bearded jaw while going through orders and transactions, completely emboldened by you. A low purl passes through as he smiles with affliction, “I mean I’d hold your hands but mine are a little tied up at the moment.”

With the grueling turn of winter and his super soldier ability to radiate heat like no other, Steve has held your hands before, gently twiddling with your fingers that were cold to the bone. He enjoyed providing this kind of solace and you appreciated the gesture, letting your imprudent heart skip a beat.

But from one friend to another, you kindly passed up on the offer— ultimately recoiling from his touch, for now.

“No need, I’ll sit on them if I have to.” You assure him and the silence is brief.

“Speaking of, tonight’s special is an old time classic.” Steve gruffly mentions right under while one hand reaches for a clean steel chalice and the strainer top.

You’re quick to fasten him a high brow look; thinking back to the outlandish time he made you shoot down whiskey and pickle brine, inconspicuously. He sparked your flavor palette while you feigned your malignant annoyance for him from then on in.

“You’ll like this one.” He finally promises with a gentle timbre that rumbles deep from his diaphragm. Fuck that. “I’m sure of it.”

“No you aren’t!” You playfully squeak. Steve opens his mouth to say something but then clamps it shut. He breaks out the widest Grinch-like smile as a test and you simply hover over to deride him, tongue out like a snotty school child. That mouth of yours…

“Hey boss, do you think we can get a hold of some vodka?” Matt appears from the opposite end of the bar, carrying a tin bucket and a frayed dish rag. He’s putting on the ‘I’m-busy-and-working’ act and you’re somewhat convinced, sinking back in your seat as Steve turns away to rig a couple waters for patrons that swoop in to ask. He harnesses his boyish thoughts and cranes his neck back to gauge his partner's requital.

“If there’s any…” Matt blows out under great duress while looking fit to the tee.

All the servers and backend staff parallel the same black tie regalia except for Steve who ostentatiously displays the sex appeal of a certain double ‘o’ seven agent. Languorous to the eye, his look consisted of a crisp white button down with the top buttons popped off and a quilted black vest. You’d assume he was wearing tapered slacks and wingtips but you couldn’t dare to look.

It’s almost conclusive that Steve was a coquettish man, it’d be unintentional yet forthcoming in disguise. You’d be set ablaze at every given encounter and gaze, not sure where to draw the stipulated line. Wait, is that a dick print or his phone?

“What kind?” Steve asks. You suck in a deep breath that welters out of restlessness, baiting your gaze elsewhere. Stop being a pervy little shit Y/N.

“On the rail is just fine.” Matt gathers next to him, inspecting each bottle of poison as you try to keep to yourself. “We’ve seemingly run out...”

“According to?”

“Antoine, you know how he is, always wanting to try ‘zomething new.’ This time he’s insisting on making a framboise, whatever the hell that is—'' Matt stops and sees you, his brown penchant eyes widening.

So you came up a little underdressed, wearing nothing but a black pullover and some dark washed jeans, a tired face spot free of makeup. That’s not to say you weren’t charming or beautiful or anything ordinary but the exact look you heeded told him otherwise.

“Oh hey you.”

“Matty.” Your smile brightens at the drop of a hat.

“I see you’re back for another night, as expected and out of element.” He hums and trivializes with an impervious grin. He’s used to your perennial visits by now. He doesn’t ask why or questions the merit of your stay. He keeps mum and for that you can almost hear his quibbling thoughts. “You doing alright, m’love?”

“Grand.”

“Polish potato or Russian rye?” Matt contemplates, tapping a finger over his tightly pressed lips.

“Just take the rest of the Belvedere.” Steve instructs as he starts peeling lemon rinds into pretty decorative swirls.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine. There’s about half a pint left?”

“Just about, yeah.” Matt rocks the bottle back and forth, letting the alcohol swoosh in its wake.

“Then have at it.”

“Alright cool, thanks man.” He grips a firm hold of the bottle that’s in his prized possession. “I guess I’ll see you two in a bit.”

“Probably not.” Steve adds, glancing over his shoulder to see Matt already sauntering down the aisle.

“Where’s he stationed?” You ask with a slight frown.

“The cart... Hey, are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” He discernibly asks. Steve does that a lot. He cares, he coddles, he makes you feel like the only woman in the room deserving of his attention. It’s fucking sick. You’re ready to object but he’s quick to assert.

“I hear the crab cakes are divine. I’ve had one too many to count.” He bobs his head at the event coordinator who signals for a few trays and extra tulips.

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Well sue me for wanting my girl to eat.” Steve grumbles to himself, setting aside another arrangement. His girl?

“Your girl?” Your sweet melodic laughter stakes him with clowning grief. “I’m sorry Steve but that seems a little too inclined.” You cock your head to the side, a hand held to your heart, eyes twinkling a mayhem. Steve is biffed by it, by you. “At least coming from you.”

“Maybe so but it’s never just you. Lookit there’s my other girl.” He points to the ever gorgeous Shaylene who waltzes by in a fitted midi dress and stilettos. She grins at Steve who courteously winks back. They share a quick cheek kiss at the pass off and your belly flip flops at the initial sight. They were all like this, overly friendly and bashful to boot. You fell somewhere in between, keynoted as the helpless one.

“Wow.” You drawl. “There’s always gotta be someone else, huh? Heya Shay.”

“Heya bunny boo.” She chirps.

“Ain’t that life… Be right back sweetheart. I have to get this to the other end before someone loses their shit.” Steve holds up a stack of trays, crystal clean tulips, a few cloth wrapped utensils and unlit tea lamps for ambience. You let him have his way around like a true commander in chief.

“Inevitably. Need any help?”

“S’all good, I think I can manage from here.” He slides through the closest half door to you and then leans in to sing his truthful vices. You smile at his yearning charm, eyes nearly rolling as his gravelly words cut through the music above, “Keep them hands nice and warm for me, will ya?”

You were close to thwarting him with the sludgy compress but by a hair's breadth, he escapes the opportunity.

“Oh fuck off.”

🍸

You piece your heart back together to the soft trill of old 1920s jazz and the everlasting classics. The venue was booked out for a private affair as guests walked the threshold in swallowing taffeta gowns and tuxedos. You’d muse throughout the evening milieu, depreciating your past that had zero affiliation with your present. Every once in a while you’d smile at guests, share a few choice words and then be left on your own. In routine you were OK with that. Moments in this realm were meant to be ephemeral anyways.

“Enjoy your night, darling.” The older woman sweetly parts with one free hand ghosting your back while the other nurses a half full glass of champagne that’s gone disappointingly flat.

“You should get another.” You comment.

“That I will.” She cackles, finishing off the rest before doing so. “It was so nice chatting with you though.”

You punt a squinty eyed smile as she sashays away in a beautiful rose colored gown, a designer who you couldn’t recall for the life of you.

In some instances you aspired to be like her. Possibly married, maybe even divorced with compounding settlement money and a giant empty French styled home. A realtors sex dream. You’d think to yourself.

But would you be happy with all that? Proud, even? Temporarily.

“Thank you for coming.” Marlene stands just behind the barrier, greeting her most esteemed guests who flocked past the foyer. Each sharing their own sentiment, she briefly casts a slight glance your way as you twirl your drink around, being unfavorable in your own right. She presses her lips together, possibly coming up with her own conclusions about you. Her fascination becomes pitiful as returns to welcome another couple.

Seasonal transgressions were starting to fill the void with December right around the corner. Time, perceptively, flew by. There’s a strong flurry of snow that blows outside the ceiling to floor windows that face the front entrance, entrapping everyone in a worldly snow globe.

Being here saved you.

But seeing him meant everything unimaginable.

“Al-right let’s get this show on the road.” Steve breathlessly emblems a compliant smile, clapping his hands together while greeting each patron, all older and astute with expertise.

You were still seated in the same spot where he left you, bemused by bespokeness, attention at full mast.

“You good?” He whispers, a tender rasp that comes from genuineness.

You gently nod your head, still grasping onto the warm compression pack from earlier. He putters another smile that churns away your insides, turning to gather his amplitude of ingredients and tools to chasten.

“A French 75,” He infinitely booms to the crowd, retouring a different candor. “Similar to the fast-firing 75 mm field gun but delectably better.”

Steve begins his delving pour, it’s graceful and quick. The people next to you cock their heads slightly, fascinated by the highs and lows that come with his servitude.

“To start we’re gonna work in 1 ounce of gin,” Pour. “½ ounce of freshly squeezed lemon juice, ½ ounce of simple syrup,” Splish splash. “…And 3 ounces of, you guessed it Bert—” The older lonesome gentleman to your right chuckles as Steve pauses to carefully prop open a bottle of champagne.

The cork pops and white sand foam fizzles right down his broad bony knuckles. It’s a clenching sight as the alcohol free flows into the iced shaker without missing a drop. He’s sneaky, swiping his tongue against the flat ridge of his fist, indiscreetly slurping up some of the sweet fizzy nectar that was impartially leftover.

Incriminating piece of shit, you mentally curse as the fleeting sight makes your inner coil twitch.

“And that’s that.”

“Hmm.” You tightly hum a curt appraisal as do the other women who struggle to cling onto their partners. Steve smirks, taking his two Midas hands to jerk the tumbler back and forth. He says something and your mind instantly falls right into the gutter as you mutter a low, “Fucking hell.”

“This drink, a lot friendlier than the name implies, made its first appearance in 1927 at the height of the Prohibition era and was soon after immortalized in the 1930s by a chap named Harry Craddock. Now, it’s served without an exact reason.” He unscrews the top and pours the chilled drink into each flute.

“Thank you.” You mouth as soon as he passes you a glass, the first of many.

“Cheers.” He takes a lightheaded sip with you and everyone else.

“This is lovely.” Steve smiles at the compliment. People begin to disperse, taking their drinks on the go and leaving you two to be. “Certainly has character... like yourself.”

“You think so?”

“I’d somewhat conspire. But then again who is Steve Rogers?” You take another swig, unwavering from his propinquity that turns a new leave.

“You’re asking me?” He disbelieves, dredging a heavy handful of ice into the blender that’s left propped open. Your resolve is to watch him work, admiringly so, it becomes a fettering colloquy.

His smirk says it all and you quirk up. “That I am!”

He smooths a hand over his apron before turning the machine dials up three clicks, murmuring a few incantations and then hoisting the lid down as the contents sit in the clear vault for a bit. You’re still awaiting his answer, he exhales a little too pestiferous.

“Well for starters I’m not running with the mafia.”

The Avengers could be considered one but never in the slightest. Steve's underworld was extraterrestrial at best, a costa nostra of good doers and luminaries. Even Marlene Erskine would vouchsafe for this as she hosts tonight’s jubilee with great matador.

“Although,” He starts up again, the metal strainer comes apart in his hold while he assesses the inside and then does another toss up.

“The Evans's are one of my more reverent customers. I keep the tab open for them to do business and in return there’s hardly any bloodshed.” He forces a boyish smile, making you feel things you shouldn’t feel.

“Good to know.” You stifle a chanced laugh.

“While thankful of my time,” he runs a few metal spoons and spools under the water faucet, distantly boisterous. “I did have the highest honor in serving the military as a colonel.”

Steve fabricates a partial truth into a whole caucus lie. A part of him couldn’t egg on the fact that he was a century old super soldier, by defect. So he chose to relive his pre-serum existence, a life that made the most sense to relent.

“Oh wow.” You caw, mouth going dry like a fish out of water.

Steve refuses to meet your eyes, blending frozen rosé in a sectioned Ninja blender. It’s loud, emulsifying a rich concoction to go with the winter chill. He sighs, hands on hips while taking a greater stance.

“Yeah I did two separate tours before settling down.” He cautiously explains his rotation and the time he fought alongside the original 6—now minus him, of course. But then thoughts of the Howling Commandos came flooding in, silencing him in the very bar that has been reverted since then. He goes to open the ice rack and stings a heady glance, face illuminating a pensive white glow before remembering to grab a bag of frozen berries.

“Now I’m good for nothing.” He slams the cooler shut and you can’t say much there so continue your parade of questions.

“How long have you been in the military?”

“About nine years, on and off.” Another lie.

“I see.” You thoughtfully nod, watching him use his teeth to rip open the plastic bag. You wet your lips, curiosity at peak. “Have things changed ever since you got back?”

70 years later and Steve doesn’t recognize himself anymore. A mirror is a mirage to him. But you weren’t supposed to know that.

“A whole lot.” While multitasking Steve reaches over and slides you another flute to sip on. It’s a stern, redundant plea. He tells you that it’s harmless to celebrate the night even if there’s nothing substantial worth celebrating. You drank to drink, wearily trying not to slur your words like you did the first night you met him. But it’s like they say you meet people for a reason.

Steve Rogers was a walking encyclopedia. He was finally turning the pages in his life and you were simply seeing for it, trying to be a placating olive branch in his ceaseless meadow, one he hasn’t looked to with hope. Until now.

“I had to cut my losses and relearn a life that was completely different from how I last remembered it…” he pours the thick, icy mix into Cosmo funnels and shelves them on a tray with diluted concentration.

“A part of me feels insouciant but I know kids these days would phrase the term to be FOMO. You know, Fear of missing out.” His eyes widen and without failing to miss a beat, you giggle. “The severity of the circumstance is far less scathing but here I am making up for it.”

“At the Grotto? Of all places?”

“Believe it or not sweetheart, this place has a lot of personal history and indignation. Like the time my father who lost one too many bets at that standalone,” Steve gestures to the small wooden circle table where guests left their drinks to idle, “Somehow managed to get my shy mother to dance with him while being a complete chad.”

“And it worked.”

“Sure it did! I mean how else would I be around?” He winks. There's an unassuming waitress, quietly waiting for the tray of froze’s to be passed. She’s trying to do her job and not be torn to shreds by another housewife. There were plenty of hopeful piranhas in disguise, some even in plain sight.

“Here you are my love.” He lifts the tray before walking over to the short stewardess who lowers her stance at the hand off. “You think there might be more to come?”

“I don’t think so.” She huffs and all while unenthused he gives her a knowing look that bellies his constant concern. She shakes her head, attempting to level with him. “It’s fine— I’ll bug Matt, you’re busy anyways.”

“Don’t tell me that.” Steve took it as a playful push and she simply shrugged while moving away from the haughty bartender.

He lightly sighs before coming to a sudden cognizance. His eyes widened, tongue firmly planted against the inside of his cheek, a finger drums the table top as if he were pointing to it —and he was. His embodying surroundings painted a vivid picture that fell back to the year of 1945.

“You know right at this spot...” He loudly enchants, soon remembering Bucky out of all people.

“That spot?” You signal to the opposite end where he stands and smiles as your chin falls into the grooves of your palm, intrigued.

“This bend ri’here...” His excitement is unparalleled. You laugh while he continues to fraternize his telltale manifestos. “Is where my best friend and I had our first round of initiation beers after being enlisted in the army. We ran it back then...”

“I bet you did.”

“Now it’s just me, honoring my time and sharing war stories with veterans twice my age.” Steve towers in front of you and exhales a small laugh, not meeting your blank stares. “I know it’s a bit chary but I see my purpose here Y/N and my life—“

“Your life comes full circle.” You nod. “Is your best friend doing alright?”

“I fucking hope so… He’s been, um, overseas for a while now so we chat when the connection is there otherwise it’s a ‘nice-knowing-ya’ ordeal.” Steve reprimands himself for being so unforgiving. He misses Buck more than anything and being an averse fugitive was no help in the cause.

“God I shouldn’t have said it like that.” He laughs, “I promise you he isn’t dead.”

You smile slightly. “And what about her?”

“What about her?” Steve deadpans, not expecting you to ask about Peggy.

“She who shall not be named…” You tread lightly. “Did you keep her waiting while you were away?”

“No.” He impassively states, there’s some coldness that enables his contempt.

To Steve, Peggy was strategically displaced in his past. When the large-span aircraft came pummeling through the stratosphere he made a paltry promise, one in a few that he’s kept to himself. So if anything, there was hardly ever a wait.

“But you loved her?” You prod. Love. There’s another dysphemism.

“Not quite.” He sighs, Matt catches his peripheral and that’s when the super soldier reveries. “Say, what exactly do you know about me?”

“I know that you’re a good man who chooses to deliberately let go.” You articulate, seeing his façade crumble. “You run because you can’t hide and now that you’re here, you’re stuck. Possibly looking for a sign.”

“If the universe says so.”

“I think we owe it to ourselves to live a lifetime where we don’t have to wonder why or when or how. We just live, be virtuous and free from inhibition. You deserve to show up for yourself first, Steve.”

“And yet here you are.” He murmurs. Your lips quirk up at the corners, forfeiting a soft smile.

“My point is that you can’t do good by everyone even if you’re made to believe otherwise, Cap.”

“You’re not wrong.” He studies your face up close. “But I hate that you’re so fucking right. Now can I please get you something to eat?”

You laugh. “If you insist.”

“It would bring me absolute joy in filling you up.” He provokes a double entendre. You’re stunned silly, cleverly hiding behind a champagne flute that is part way empty. You’re surreptitiously drinking tonight. It becomes a unanimous decision from hereinafter.

🍸

“Thank you for tonight.” You gratify in Steve's warm, engulfing embrace. His head is tucked in between your neck and shoulder while your chin is perched up, reeling in the sanguine closeness. It’s a sweet embalming attempt as faint notes of his lust cantering sandalwood cologne mixes with your white saffron perfume. Chest to chest and the drowning heartbeats that synchronized into one, you cherished this just as much as he did.

“Of course.” Steve flattens a kiss against your temple before pulling away, his broad hands hold onto your elbows at arm's length. “I just hope you had a good time.”

“I did…” You check your purse to make sure everything’s in place, nervously depreciating Steve's adjacency and sucking in a deep breath. He slides a large hand up your back, nudging you in close as people pass by to get out the door. Your phone flashes white in your clutch.

The Scott/Morales report comes toiling in. Juni later shoots you a text and signs it off with an eggplant and tongue emoji. She was onto you. Steve splays a decrepit grin, nodding at an older gentleman who has devoured many of his mixes on the tap. Their conversation flows when you choose to read her jaunty little text.

No harm no foul if you do. Just make sure you don’t neglect the balls.

“Jesus Christ.” You quickly pocket your phone.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat a few short bursts, one hand goes to lay on Steve’s chest, stopping him as he tries to get a good look at you. “Hey look I have a few wagers to sort out in the next couple of days so if I’m not around pulling your tail then you know why.”

“You know I don’t always expect you, right?” He teases, barely at eye level.

“You might as well, pal.” You gently pat him, feeling his muscles jump with laughter. There’s a sound, tires crunching under the fresh snow. You turn your head away to look out the side window and that’s when you spot a Blue line cab slowly rolling up to the curb. “I think that’s my ride. I’ll see you later then?”

“Sure. Text me when you get home.” So you both exchanged numbers, a very normal 21st century thing to do except for the fact that Steve has an old school Nokia and has almost always left you on read. You raise your brows at the leveling proclamation. Something tells you that maybe he’s figured it out this time.

“We’ll see about that.” You finally adjourn, taunting him a look of endearment. “Have a good night, Steve”

“You as well.” He whispers, releasing you from his brazen hold that falls into fists. You easily gravitate away, completely ardent by the inseparable feeling.

Within a few short steps the waspy winter air nips you under the toque you had thrown on. Your feet trudge across the snow paved crosswalk, shuddering as the cabbie rolls down his window. The interaction is brief, Steve hypothesizes and that’s when you hop into the back seat, smiling brightly at the partition ahead. That smile.

Your mouth moves, animating a long night that wields exhaustion but through and through again you always ask the other if they’re doing OK. And for that you were a good woman.

“Pretty girl.” Marlene comments and that gyps Steve who loses sight at the white snow glare and the winding tire tracks left behind. You were long gone, so he’s aware. “There’s obviously no way in hell you’re being honest with her.”

“Marlene.” He turns his head and eyes her up and down. Her fashion is demure, nothing like his own mother yet she imparted with some acuity and care.

“So nice to be acquainted again, Steven.” She pleasantly recalls the first time they chatted. It was over the Accords, the anger that admonished him was truthfully inconceivable. Marlene had never antiquated his capabilities but she knew something in him burned like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a stubbornness that commands a fair wager - one she could appease.

“Would you like me to hail you a cab?” Steve patiently imposes, wringing his overworked wrists in the process.

“No thanks, my driver should be coming up right around the corner. But in the meantime I thought we could talk.” She coaxes, infringing her unsaid graces. Steve emotionlessly steps back, making room for guests to announce their departures.

“About?”

“Whatever is running through your veins.” She bows at his form and physique. If Steve could crawl out of his skin and bleed out, he would. He wasn’t a proud man. He was living in the ubiquitous shadows and cowering to his superhuman abilities. He has saved almost everyone except himself.

“Ah the serum.” He finally tuts, guiding her back to his workstation where they continue a long overdue conversation in private.

“It’s practically in you to give, darling.” She jokes the blood drive slogan. “But that’s where I rest my case.”

“How’s your family doing?” He slowly pulls up a seat behind the bar, feeling the resolute shin splints the second he settles down. She mimics him and does the same with a smile that barely reaches her ghastly eyes.

“They’re doing good, thanks.”

“Good. Good.”

“And what about yourself? Are you happy to be home again?” She postulates some more. Steve’s eyes flicker to his floor staff who are quietly dispersed, cleaning up areas of the bar and lounge while shuffling to Led Zeppelin, another band added to his growing ‘To Know’ list.

“I don’t know, I’m starting to think that I’ve outgrown this place.” He drones on while catching Matt do a broom guitar solo to Moby Dick that plays along with his elaborate riffs. The cacophony of laughter sets precedence for Ms. Marlene’s wise choice in words. Steve couldn’t hear any of it.

“It’s restless New York, what were you expecting?”

“Not this.” He quacks under his breath. Marlene presses her lips together, agonizing Steve’s misfortunes as a play out of time.

“You should’ve lived and then made peace with your existence a long, long time ago.” She kindly surveys. “Being a hundred years old, chronic and mighty is a sad cause to probate. Your work truly never ends.”

“Now you know what keeps me up at night.” Steve plucks a used coaster and tosses it aside, his tone wavers - thinking of all the possibilities to fall back into line and serve.

“Blame my great grandfather for putting you through it.” She chides with light laughter. “For some odd reason, he just knew it was you for him. The whole resolve was irreparable, that man was out of his mind.”

“I find that statement holds some water.”

“As it should.” She confirms. “Look Steve, I’ve observed you through a far away lens. Stories and revelations about you were miraculous, like the coming of god almost.”

“That couldn’t be me even on judgment day.”

“Possibly so.” She hums, grave in thought. “But here’s the thing, Fury thinks you're his guy and so does Stark. I think you have far more potential than the hand you've been dealt with... You can be your own man again Steve and not some nomocratic puppet.”

“You sound exactly like your great grandfather." Steve shakes his head. "But cocksure."

"The apple does not fall far from the tree."

"So what am I in for this time?”

She exhales, slumping her shoulders that have been stiff all night. “Well ever since the HYDRA invasion there’s been a lot of reinventive measures. Over time, no one’s gotten the super soldier serum to synthesize down to the exact molecular bond except for the late Dr. Wilfred Nagel, a good friend of mine.”

“You mean your lover.”

Marlene ignores him and her defeat is apparent but so is the ulterior motive.

“By his way of grace, my team has done something beyond extraordinary. After years of rehashing, we managed to extract sample proteins from his initial formula to create an impermeable catalyst bond. This newly reproved serum stops the regeneration of new cells whereas the conceding variants enable greater mutation spans."

"With succession and the utmost confidence, I want to give you a possible way out.” She solemnly proposes. “Ease you into a life that’ll surely come to an end.”

“So the cure for immortality?” Steve retells, briefly entertaining the idea of death and the coming into his human self.

“Exactly that.”

“You know Bruce has been going on a tangent about the serum and effects of gamma radiation. Maybe he could benefit from this program.”

“I'm asking you, Steve. I’m giving you a choice here, not an ultimatum.” She enunciates, evidently flummoxed.

“I don’t know Marlene. From how I see it there’s still a lot of unfinished business.” Steve calibrates on his own.

“The world has everyday heroes—“

“—That lay their lives down. I don’t deserve to do anything less than them. This isn’t about me.” He interjects. She has a permanent frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I know we’re not perfect but the safest hands are still our own.”

Her silence is punctuated with a sigh. “There’s no convincing you Steve Rogers.” She picks herself up and back on her feet. “So I won’t ask again.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But if you look to those around you, you’d know that the greatest fight is only ever within you.” She sternly reminds him.

Steve looks down at his hands and surrenders. “Isn’t that half the battle?”

“Of course.” She gently scoffs, sliding her visiting card against the marbled counter. “Indubitably, I’ll leave you with this… Goodnight.”

“Goodnight to you as well.”

Her proposition leaves an embittered taste in Steve’s mouth as he watches her leave. If he was asked to revert right at the end of the Second World War he might’ve considered it; just to live life anew with acute normalcy.

Now the stakes were high and someone was bound to be on the lookout. People turned on people, willful experiments were often bipartisan of failed synergies. The risk to reward ratio was now incremental. He’d be counting his losses all over again and burning a whole new bridge while at it.

And then there’s you. A different side of the coin that he’s flipped for show.

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