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#he uses it to express all his feelings and just pretends it's google translate crashing
bucca2 · 6 months
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Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod
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König x high school sweetheart reader
3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander
4.2k words
tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash
spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.
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The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.
He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—
“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.
“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.
His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”
His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”
“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”
“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.
“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”
“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.
“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.
“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.
“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.
“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.
“Yes, mama,” he whispers.
That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face.
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“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)
He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”
“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.
He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.
“Is that why you wear the hood?”
“Hmm?”
“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”
“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”
“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”
“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”
She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.
“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”
“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”
“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”
“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”
“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”
She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.
He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.
“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”
“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”
That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.
“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”
“You know what I look like, though.”
“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”
“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”
She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”
“You might not like what you see.”
“You said you didn’t look much different.”
“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”
He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.
He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.
“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”
She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.
He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.
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Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.
For König, they’re the highlight of the job.
As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.
So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.
König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—
He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.
His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.
Hands-on.
He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.
In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.
That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.
That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.
“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.
Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”
König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.
“Drive yourself.”
“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”
He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.
He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.
That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.
Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?
He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.
The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.
Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.
The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.
Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.
He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.
“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.
He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.
But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.
He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.
It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.
He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.
He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.
His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.
He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.
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It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.
It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.
“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.
“His loss.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.
She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”
There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.
“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.
“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.
It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.
“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.
“I don’t want to worry you.”
He scoffs. “Too late for that.”
“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.
“I want to help you.”
Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?
“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.
“I can listen to you, at least.”
They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).
But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.
“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”
Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?
“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.
“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.
“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”
“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”
“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”
“You have me.”
She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.
“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”
She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”
Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”
Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.
“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.
“For what?”
“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.
She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”
He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.
“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”
“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.
She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.
“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”
“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.
“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.
Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.
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"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.
sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)
ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!
taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian
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batarangsoundsdumb · 3 years
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what if bruce, for authenticity shits and giggles just, never uses the voice modulator lucius gave him and permanently destroying his vocal chords
batman, not using a voice modulator and being forced to have surgery: lucius fox : excuse me? what was that? “you were right, lucius, i should have listened to you from the start, lucius”  lucius fox: i fucking told you so
dick tries to go out as batman one (1) night and he comes back, chugs a gallon of water, says "what the fuck bruce" and goes on vocal rest for a month
dick, after doing the batman voice without a voice modulator: so that was the worst fucking experience of my life and i’m never doing that again
so obviously jason tries and he does the voice and he goes "what are you talking about, it's not that hard- *wheeze* no im having an asthma attack, im having an asthma attack"
tim manages to go out as batman for multiple days before the rest figures out he just uses a sound app with two (2) sounds that are just 'i am justice' and 'i am batman'
(it took him and steph multiple hours of editing because they couldn't find a recording that didn't have a loud SMACK right through the audio that was just bruce beating up some random criminal)
cass also uses the sounds so she just arrives to some active crime in all her 5 foot glory and you just have the lowest fucking batman voice going "i am justice"
gothamites realise that the bats actually use the voice sometimes and they just start listing them off whenever they hear it like: is it batman? nah he's with the justice league red hood? no he only does it in the mcdonalds drive thru red robin? maybe signal? nah he only patrols during the day robin? no way, he always tries to do the voice to sound cool but he always gets voicecracks
robin: i am justi- *voice crack* FUCK red robin in the corner: omg i got it on camera
(there’s youtube compilations of damian trying and failing to do the voice and all the comments are like “he’s baby,” “aww tiny boy” and damian dislikes all of their comments)
this is @im-cool-i-pinky-swear​ ‘s beautiful brainchild
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mrsalwayswrite · 3 years
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This Night (40s!Bucky Barnes x Hispanic!OFC)
Summary: When she saved a scrawny blond in a back alley, she would never have anticipated the ripple effects it would have. Nor how meeting someone with a pair of baby blue eyes and cocky smirk would draw her in, encouraging her that for one night, to taste revelry like she never had before.
This is my submission for @allaboardthereadingrailroad​ Marvel Diversity Challenge! My prompt was “a little danger never hurt”. 
I am going to admit, I’m super nervous to post this. I’ve never written a person of color before and would be horrified to accidently offend someone. That being said, I also had so much fun writing this piece. I adore 40s Bucky and Steve, so I was excited to finally have the inspiration to write them. 
Few notes:
-All translations are via google and what I can remember from university (if any of my Spanish is wrong, please please please someone tell me and i’ll correct it!)
-I threw in some 40s slang for fun, so that will be in italics.
-In the little research I did (again, someone please correct me if I am wrong), in the 40s there were not many Hispanic or Latino people living in NYC yet. So for my OFC and her family, they would very much stand out. 
Warnings: a few swear words, some angst, sexual tension, topic of racial discrimination and inequality 
Words: 8k (the story kept growing, i’m so sorry)
<gif is from Pinterest>
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She clutched the parcel to her chest, trying to avoid the muddy puddles on the sidewalk. Mr. Hendricks would be furious with her if she got any mud on the packaging of the parcel. He always said it reflected his reputation.  
 Weaving through those walking down the busy Brooklyn sidewalk, she could feel the few glares and inaudible comments following in her wake. She tried to ignore it, knowing was not the first nor last time others judged her for her different skin tone. Though she doubted she would ever get used to it. One of her older brothers would try and cheer her up saying the white folks were jealous since they burned when in the sun too long while Spaniards became more beautiful. Without fail, she would smack him but end up laughing along. 
 Peeking at the address scrawled in precise handwriting, she surveyed the street names around. A sinking feeling in her gut confirmed her fear- she had somehow gotten lost. 
“Mierda.” She hissed, turning around in a circle. Not just to try and relocate her whereabouts but on the off chance her mother happened to be behind her to whack her over the head for swearing. 
 Not wanting to be run over by a fellow pedestrian, she stepped off the sidewalk into an alley nearby while she tried to get her bearings. She brushed down the front of her workwear, dark blue, princess style dress with its Peter Pan collar, double pockets and pleated skirt. A glance at her tights showed a couple spots of mud she somehow managed to still get on her even though her kitten heels were still mostly clean. A miracle really. 
 It was only mid-afternoon but Mr. Hendricks hated when she returned late from delivering parcels. He was the best tailor in Brooklyn and practically thrived off that title. He employed her to help keep things organized, the shop looking nice and delivering parcels to their patrons. It was mindless work but that did not bother her. It was a job...and she was lucky to have one. Being from one of the few Hispanic families in the area was not a perk when trying to find work. She knew the only reason she even got this job was she willingly took half the pay he would have given to anyone else, she could sew well, and she was pretty. 
 A crash at the end of the alley drew her attention behind her. There was some hushed talking followed by another sound of something hitting the ground. Hard. 
 Logically, she knew she should walk away. She was already lost. Her mother frequently reminded her to not involve herself in other people's business, it would only get her in trouble. The problem was her curiosity was a near palpable thing, driving her forward, along with her independent streak the size of the Upper Bay. So when she heard what sounded like a smack and another crash, her feet started moving without a second thought. 
 She darted around a half brick wall to find herself at an "L" intersection. And at the end of both alleys, stood a tall man with a face like a bulldog and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, fists at his side. Below him lay a much smaller, blond man who was sprawled out on the dirty ground. The smaller man groaned, rubbing a hand on his jaw. He rolled onto his side, then slowly and painfully rose back onto his feet, his own fists in front of him in a poor imitation of a boxer. 
 "You think you somethin' special, huh?" The larger man jeered, a nasty smirk on his face. He leaned on his back foot, preparing to throw another punch. 
 The smaller man raised his fists but made no other move, prepared to take the hit and most likely go back down. 
 So, she decided to do something stupid. 
 "BILL!!" She cried out, her voice echoing off the brick walls of the alleys. 
 Both men froze, turning to look at her. 
 Tucking the parcel under her arm, she jogged over to the smaller man, uncaring now of the muddy puddles. "There you are, Bill. I've been so worried. You promised to show me where Mrs. Wilcox lives. I tried to find her myself but I got so lost." Ignoring the quizzical look from the blond man, she stood between the two men, meeting the eyes of the larger one. She twirled a strand of her long, black hair around her finger, nerves getting to her but she pressed on. "I'm so sorry for whatever trouble he has caused you. He won't bother you again. We have to go now; our boss will dock our wages if we aren't back soon."
 The man trailed his eyes over her as if looking for a lie tattooed on her skin or dress. Finding nothing of interest, he stared hard at his victim for a long moment. She found herself holding her breath, silently praying her ruse worked. 
 Finally, he rolled his shoulders and unclenched his fists, his thick jowls still tense. "Keep ‘im away from me or next time his ass will end up in the hospital."
 Slowly, she released her breath as she watched the bulldog of a man turn on his heel and stomp away, back down the alley and onto the main sidewalk. 
 "Are you hurt?" She asked, looking over the smaller man. As he dusted off his brown trousers and tan jacket, she was surprised to realize he stood about her height, and probably about her age, in the young twenties. If her guessing was any good. 
 He rubbed his jaw again and winced where an impressive bruise was already growing. "I've had worse." 
 She could not help but smile at his nonchalance. His bright blue eyes met her own honey brown. A timid smile echoed hers, his face so open and expressive. Something about the man she found endearing already. Maybe defending him was not such a stupid action.  
 "All that stuff you said, about lookin' for me and gettin' lost…"
 She huffed a laugh. "I am actually lost. I'm trying to find this address here." She showed him the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it.
 It took only a glance before he handed the paper back with a smile. "You're not too far. Only three streets away….I... I can take you there if you like."
 "Oh, I'd hate to impose on you."
 "No, it's really fine. Seems you saved me from...well…" He shrugged, sticking his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket. 
 "And... you...don't mind, you know, being seen with me?"
 "No, why?" Eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed slightly, he stared at her like that was the strangest question. 
 It was in that moment she knew, whoever this scrawny man was- he was a good man. The difference in their ethnicity made no difference to him. He was a rarity in her experience with most New Yorkers. 
 Even though it was 1940 and this was supposed to be a land of equal opportunity. 
 It was not. 
 With a shrug and momentarily, awkward silence as they both thought about their own answers to his question, they fell into step with one another as they headed back out of the alley.
 "So, what's your name? Or is it actually Bill?" She spoke up once they hit the sidewalk. 
 "Do I look like a Bill?"
 She squinted her eyes then shook her head giggling. "No, you don't."
 "It's Steve…. Steve Rogers."
 "It's nice to meet you, Steve."
 He directed them down another street. Their shoulders brushed occasionally as they walked, due more to their need to maneuver around puddles and other pedestrians than any sense of intimacy. "You gonna tell me your name or do I have to make one up for you?"
 "Oh! Sorry. It's Elana Morales-Díaz. So, what caused the fight?"
 The tips of his ears and cheeks turned pink as he ducked his head. "He, um, we...we had a disagreement."
 "Obviously. I would hate to know you're friends and beat each other up for fun."
 "My best friend is a boxer. He's tryin’ to teach me some moves…. does that count as beating each other up?"
 She pretended to think about it. "I may let that one slide but it sounds like you might need some new friends."
 "Yeah," he chuckled and peeked over at her. "Know of any openings?"
 "I just might."
 They stood at an intersection waiting to cross the street when they heard a shout from further down the road. Neither paid much attention initially until the shout repeated itself. 
 "STEVE!"
 The blond looked down the road, a smile on his lips. He waved and tugged on Elana to move away from the curb. She followed along, surprised since he told her they needed to cross. 
 A man glided through the pedestrians easily, a few lingering looks thrown his way by some of the women. When he noticed her standing next to Steve, his eyes widened for a brief moment before a lazy smirk appeared on his face and his strut became more pronounced. With boxing gloves dangling over his shoulder, his white shirt and black trousers, he looked like he just walked out of a gym. Especially with the way his dark brown hair ruffled in the breeze, a few strands sticking up like he had run his hands through it a few times. 
 "I leave you for one afternoon and I come back to find you with the prettiest gal in all of New York." 
 Steve rolled his eyes. "You're always at the gym now."
 The man put Steve in a teasing headlock. Only after a flirtatious wink at her, he released the smaller man. "So, you gonna introduce me to this wolfess, Steve?"
 "Ah, right. Elana, this is my best friend, Bucky Barnes. Buck, this is Elana."
 "Nice to meet you." She said, a small smile at their interactions. It reminded her of her brothers.
 The man -Bucky- reached over and took her hand but instead of shaking it, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, maintaining eye contact the whole time. "Pleasure is mine."
 Oh, he was a charmer. The kind her mother warned her about. Then again, her father had the same devilish charisma and Elana liked to remind her mother of that. To which her mother would laugh and say that's why she warned her daughter of those men, she knew from experience. With just a wink and kiss, she would fall madly in love, leave her home and give him five babies before she even knew it. It was always after this statement often said loudly and with feigned annoyance that Elana's father would wrap his arms around his wife, lovingly kiss her temple and remind her how long he had to chase her before she even agreed to go on a date with him. 
 "So how do you guys know each other?" Bucky asked, those blue eyes bouncing between the two of them. 
 Steve coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. It was then Bucky finally seemed to notice the slowly darkening bruise on Steve's jaw. 
 "Steve!" He grabbed his friend's face and glanced over him, concern etched in his movements and expression. "What happened this time, punk?"
 "Nothin'...just a disagreement. I had 'im on the ropes."
 He dropped his hand, running it through his brunet hair. "You gotta stop pickin’ fights, one of these days…" The implications hung heavily in the air. 
 "Ah, Steve…" When he looked over at her, she nodded toward the parcel still in her arms.
 "Oh right! Sorry. Buck, I gotta take her to drop somethin' off."
 Bucky shrugged. "Lead the way, punk."
 "Jerk."
 The three of them quickly crossed the street. Steve, and soon Bucky when he understood what was going on, pointed out markers for her in case she got lost again. In a short time, they arrived at the house, one of the nicer ones in Brooklyn. The boys waited on the sidewalk as Elana walked up to the front door and handed the parcel over with the man's tailored suit. 
 "Where you off to now, doll?" Bucky asked when she approached them. 
 "Oh, I need to get back to the shop. Mr. Hendricks will most likely be upset with how late I am anyway."
 "The tailorin’ shop near Prospect Park?"
 "Yeah." She played with a strand of her hair, trying to hide her nerves.
 "What a coincidence. We were headed that way ourselves, right, Steve?"
 "What?" Steve looked at Bucky, head tilted in confusion. Bucky cuffed him in the back of the head. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Um, gonna take a nice walk in the park."
 Elana could not help but giggle at the two. With Bucky looking skyward like he was silently praying for patience to deal with his best friend; meanwhile Steve rubbed the back of his head and glared at his best friend. Although she just met them and hardly knew them, she found herself enjoying their presence. Friends were not something she had in great supply...or any supply really. 
 Plus, if she was being honest with herself, she found her gaze drifting to the tall, charming brunet more times than she cared to admit. The butterflies in her stomach did not help the situation. She knew it was foolish. He was attractive and knew it. But when he turned those baby blues on her and winked, she could not help but be drawn to him, like a moth to the flame. 
 "How come we ain't seen you round before? I know I'd remember a dame as beautiful as you round Brooklyn." Bucky said on her left side while Steve walked on her right. Neither one crowded her space. Sometimes one would touch a hand to her back to direct her steps or hold her elbow when she jumped a puddle. It was sweet instead of condescending. 
 She shrugged. "I recently got the job at the tailor shop and I live in Queens."
 They both winced making her laugh. She would never understand this animosity the boroughs had with each other. 
 "Well that explains a lot." Steve muttered. 
 "Hey!" She nudged the blond with her shoulder as she muttered. "Me gusta Queens. Ustedes dos están celosos."
 "What language is that?" Steve asked, curiosity evident. 
 "Spanish."
 "Is that why you have an accent?"
 She nodded, unable to meet their gazes as she answered. "My family moved here from Spain when I was six." Although she had grown up here in New York City, gone to school just like the other kids, she still maintained a slight accent to her words, different from the stereotypical New Yorker's accent. 
 "Say somethin’ else." Bucky smiled down at her. 
 She laughed. "Like what?"
 "I don't know. Anythin’."
 "El cielo es azul. Me duelen los pies con estos tacones. Me he reído más con ustedes dos que en semanas".
 Bucky had almost a dazed look on his face. "That's beautiful."
 "You have no idea what I said."
 "Doesn't matter." The brunet stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Steve can talk in Irish." 
 "Buck…"
 "What?" 
 "I mean, a little." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My ma came from Ireland." 
 Bucky snorted. "You wrote a poem for a girl in the second grade in Irish and read it to her on the playground. I'd say that's more than a little."
 Steve's face was red and jaw dropped as he stared at his friend. "How...how...how do you know that?" He sputtered. "We weren't even friends yet."
 Bucky winked at Elana as he answered. "Gotta be friends with the right people."
 The three of them walked back, talking and laughing. Well it was mostly the boys talking and teasing one another but she enjoyed just listening to their banter. Occasionally they would direct a question to her or she would throw out a remark that had them laughing. 
 She guided them to the back alley of the street front shops. Mr. Hendricks disliked her walking through the front unless she had her work apron on and clean shoes. 
 "Well thank you for helping me and walking me back."
 "It's not a big deal." Steve said. 
 "We'll see you round, yeah? I'd hate to just meet a gorgeous dame like you then never see her again." Bucky threw a wink at her, adjusting the boxing gloves still over his shoulder. 
 She opened her mouth to tease them then stopped. She truly hoped this was not the last time she saw these two. In a spur of the moment decision, she stepped closer to say goodbye. She pressed her cheeks to Steve's first, giving the traditional cheek kiss. She did the same to Bucky, though she had to rise on her toes to reach his face, and she suspected he bent over slightly. 
 "Hasta luego, mis amigos."
 "What was that, doll?"
 She looked from Bucky's smirk to Steve's red face and back. "A traditional goodbye."
 "Mmm…I could get used to that." The boxer teased, nudging his friend who refused to meet her eyes now. 
 She smiled and started to open the back door when Bucky's hand grabbed her forearm, stalling her movements. 
 "Hey, wait." Those baby blue eyes met her honey brown ones. "It's Friday night.  We usually go to the Stork Club for drinks and dancin’. Come with us."
 "Oh, I don't know…"
 "Come on. It'll be great. If it helps, we'll pick you up from your house."
 She could not help the laugh that slipped out at the thought.  "You'd come to Queens... to get me?"
 "It might break my heart to leave my beloved Brooklyn but I'd do it for you, doll."
 "Honestly it'd be dangerous for you to come to my house." 
 "A little danger never hurt." He brushed some of her hair behind her ear, sending shivers down her spine. 
 He was trouble, complete trouble for her...and she knew it. But the longer he stared at her with those pleading eyes and hand now at the nape of her neck, she could feel her resolve crumbling. "I have three brothers and a protective father."
 "They can't be that bad… Come on, please? Steve, help me out!"
 Steve just laughed, raising his hands in surrender. 
 She bit the inside of her cheek thinking about it. Her brother Mateo owed her for when she covered for him when he almost got caught smoking cigarettes behind the apartment building. Tonight, her parents were supposed to visit her eldest brother and his new wife in the Bronx. 
 "Ok…" She whispered. 
 "Yeah?" A beaming grin spread over his face.
 "Ok...I'll meet you there though."
 "Yes!" Bucky bent over and kissed her cheek loudly. "You won't regret it! Nine o'clock!"
 "Nueve. Estaré allí."
 "I still don't know what you said, doll, but I love it."
 She laughed, pushing him away from her. "Go! Before I'm even more late."
 Before they were three steps away, she ducked inside the back of the shop. Hopefully she was able to slip in unnoticed. The shop should be closing soon so Mr. Hendricks would be in his little office room. 
 She leaned against the back door, hands pressed against her cheeks to will away the warmth in them. Thankfully with her brown skin, the blush would be harder to notice. As she stood there, the realization of what she just agreed to finally hit her. An icy fist landed in her gut, drowning the blush away. She had never been to a club before. She had no idea what to wear...or how to act. How was she even going to get there? 
 Underneath the fear though was a determination to go. Why couldn't she have fun for one night, like other young women she regularly saw and envied. Both of those Brooklyn boys seemed nice. Thinking about them brought the flush back to her skin, especially when she thought of the kiss on the cheek from Bucky. He was trouble and fun and charming and devilish and… and she wanted to spend more time with him. And Steve, the sweet, kind, funny guy that he was. She liked them both. But when thinking about those baby blue eyes, insufferable smirk and broad shoulders...her heartbeat sped up and butterflies erupted in her belly. 
 "Oh Dios, ¿qué voy a hacer?" She whispered to herself. 
 *****
 Just after nine o'clock, Elana climbed out of the taxi. She stared up at the sign that brightly screamed ‘Stork Club’. So many people milled about, either walking into the club or chatting, waiting for others in their group. A couple people already looked like they had been hitting the bottles for some time, if the rambunctious yelling and obnoxious laughter said anything. The atmosphere was loud and vibrant with an air of debauchery...and she had not even stepped foot in the door. 
 "Oh Dios, ¿por qué estoy aquí? Estúpido. Tan estúpido. Debería irme. Ni siquiera se darán cuenta." She murmured to herself, her hands wringing the strap on her clutch. Actually, it was not even hers. She "borrowed" it from her mother's closet and prayed that she could return it before her mother noticed.
 "Elana!" 
 At the call of her name, she turned around to see Bucky and Steve crossing the street, dodging a car that decided they were taking too long. 
 "You made it!" Bucky exclaimed, bubbling with excitement. He scanned her over, giving a low whistle. "Damn, doll, you look beautiful."
 "Gracias." She smoothed down her floral-patterned tea dress that reached mid-calf, her kitten heels still on from earlier. Her raven hair hung loosely down her back, unstyled in the typical curls that most women wore. There had been no time to try one of those hair styles and not bring attention to herself before she snuck out. Just to make her even more self-conscious, the cherry red lipstick she wore felt heavy on her lips. Something she only wore on rare occasions. "You fellas clean up nicely."
 Checking over them, they each wore nice suits. Though Steve's looked a size or two too large and the prominent bruise on his cheek ruined the look a bit. Bucky was practically sinful in his suit, showing off his broad shoulders and strong legs, his hair slicked back. Improper thoughts flooded her mind and a heat warmed her cheeks. She had a feeling she would need to go to confession tomorrow. That was tomorrow’s worry though, tonight was about fun.
 "Ready to have the time of your life?" Bucky asked, excitement practically bubbled under his skin. 
 "That's a high standard."
 "Guess I better not disappoint. C'mon!" He grabbed her hand, pulling her towards the crowded, open door. In her sudden fear, she reached back and snagged Steve's hand, dragging him along. She would never admit it but having both of them on either side of her made her feel better. 
 There were several different calls for Bucky, vying for his attention. He just waved or yelled something back but kept her hand in his, pulling them through. She noticed more than one disappointed female face when Bucky passed them. It churned something in her stomach which she tried to ignore. 
 When they finally entered the dance hall, she froze. It was nothing like she imagined and so much better. At the far end was a stage with a large band playing an upbeat song that made her bounce on her toes without realizing it. A large bar area was set up, packed with people already looking for something to wet their throats. Booths and tables lined the walls. Already the hardwood, dance floor looked packed with couples jiving. Mirrors and photographs hung on the walls making the place feel bigger even when it was so crowded. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat and a youthful zeal she had never experienced. 
 It was intoxicating and nerve-wracking. She could not wait to join in. 
 The next thing she noticed when she glanced at all the people...she was the only non-white person there. 
 "Let's get a table." Bucky tugged them along towards an open booth on the right side of the dance floor. 
 She slid in on one side while Steve scooted in on the other. Bucky stood at the end, grinning ear to ear as he seemed to quickly survey the place. 
 "Right." He tossed his suit jacket on the seat next to her then clapped his hands, the sound muffled by the volume from the band nearby. "What kinda drink would you like?"
 "Ah, vino?"
 He nodded and waltzed towards the bar, throwing an arm around the shoulder of one of the men standing there waiting. 
 She turned back to the blond. "You're not drinking?"
 "Nah, too many health issues to make it worth it." 
 She hummed and took note of Steve's fidgeting. "Is this your first time too?"
 He chuckled. "No. I just don't...well, this isn't where I'd prefer to be on a Friday night...but don't tell Bucky... though he probably knows."
 "What would you rather be doing?"
 "Drawin’ or paintin’, maybe playin’ cards but I'm terrible at them."
 "You're an artist?" The realization warmed her heart. This scrawny man with a heart too big for his body and kindness an invisible cloak around him. It made sense somehow. He could look past the ugly and see beauty and somehow capture it. 
 "I don't know if I'd say that...I just enjoy it. It's usually what I end up doin’ when I come here. Doodlin’ on a napkin while Buck dances with every girl he can."
 Her stomach dropped while hearing that, which was stupid. So stupid. She swallowed thickly, hoping Steve did not notice, before she spoke again to distract herself. "Well if you doodle something tonight, can I see it after?"
 "If you like."
 Bucky appeared a minute later with a foamy glass of beer and a glass of red wine. Carefully, he placed them both on the table. "Ready to cut a rug?" He asked, looking at her expectedly. 
 "Um, I don't...I've never danced like this before." She hesitantly admitted. Steve gave her a sympathetic smile like he understood. 
 "Don't matter. I bet you're a swell dancer." He held out his hand for her. When she did not immediately accept his hand, he wiggled his fingers. "C'mon, ain't that hard. I'll teach you."
 With a sigh, she took his hand, his smile beaming as he tugged her out of the booth. She could not help but smile back at his sheer enthusiasm. It was contagious. 
 He led her off to the side of the dance floor. Putting one hand on her lower back and taking the other in his hand, he began demonstrating the steps. Her eyes stayed glued to his feet while he moved, willing her brain to understand and not make a fool of her. 
 "You got this, doll. Told you, you're a natural. Just follow my movement, let me lead."
 So she did and before she knew it, they were flying around the dance floor. 
 Bucky was an amazing dancer and it showed in how he effortlessly led her. A couple times she stumbled or stepped on his toes but he would just grin and encourage her to keep going. The faces of those around them blurred. The music seemed to sink into her blood and with every beat of the drum or clap of the hands from the band, her heartbeat echoed it. It was intoxicating and she had not even had a sip of alcohol. Now she understood why people flocked to these dance halls. There was something freeing in them, losing yourself to the music and movements. For a short time, you could ignore the outside world and all its trials. Here, you could be free. 
 Eventually she begged a break, practically panting from the several songs they danced through. The brightness in her eyes and smile though showed how much fun she was having. Still holding hands, they weaved through the crowd back to their booth where Steve sat with a napkin in front of him, pencil in hand and eyes focused downward. She slid into the booth first, Bucky right behind her. 
 "Have fun?" Steve asked, eyes bouncing between the two before him. 
 "I can't breathe." She giggled out, hand pressed to her chest. Her lungs struggled to fill up properly but instead of installing fear into her, it only made her laugh. 
 Bucky took a long sip of his beer and slung his arm behind Elana, on the back of the booth. "Told you, you'd have fun. You're a great dancer."
 "Only cause I had a great teacher." Taking a sip of her wine, she focused on the quiet artist.  "Did you draw something, Steve?"  
 "Yeah, just a little sketch."
 "Can I see it?"
 He slid the napkin over to her, nerves obvious. Giving him a small, reassuring smile, she flipped the napkin over and felt her heart stop and jaw drop. The pencil sketch was of Bucky and her dancing. His mouth was next to her ear, whispering instructions or flirtatious comments, his hand on her lower back. Her gaze was on his chest but the brilliant smile on her lips gave her away. The sketch was so realistic, it was astounding. It completely captured Bucky's confidence and her nervousness but somehow the opposite emotions only added to the image, bringing a sense of balance and trust between the two dancing partners. 
 "Steve, esto es…. hermoso…. increíble." She breathed out, never taking her eyes off the napkin. When she finally looked up to see him blushing and fiddling with the pencil, she smiled. 
 Bucky had been leaning against her so he could see the sketch also. "That might be your best one yet, pal."
 "Thanks, guys. S'nothing."
 "May I keep it?" She softly asked, eyes tracing the delicate lines and shading.
 The embarrassed blond flapped a hand at her. "Course. It was for you if you wanted it anyway."
 Silently, she reached across and squeezed Steve's hand, unable to convey all the emotions she was feeling. "There's one thing you got wrong."
 "What's that?"
 "I'm not that pretty."
 Both Steve and Bucky chuckled.  
 "Elana," Bucky started, gazing down at her. "He drew you like-"
 "Bucky!" A silky voice interrupted. A young woman stood at the end of their booth. Her blonde hair in perfect curls, bright red lipstick matched the equally bright red dress she wore. Her eyes zeroed in on the handsome brunet at the table, ignoring the other two patrons like they were just wallpaper. "Wanna dance?" 
 The sun-kissed woman could feel Bucky's hesitation. Nudging him gently in the ribs, she nodded towards the interloper. "Go. Have fun. I still need to catch my breath."
 With a nod, he slipped out of the booth and followed the beautiful woman onto the dance floor. The two easily fell into step like they had done this a million times, each movement flawless and smiles on both of their faces. 
 She turned back to Steve, ignoring the churning in her gut. "What's your favorite thing to draw?"
 They talked for a few minutes about art classes he had taken and the few commissioned pieces he had done for local businesses. The passion he spoke with about art, hands flapping and eyes alight, it was impossible not to join in his enthusiasm. 
 The presence of someone standing at the end of the table drew their attention away from the quick sketch of a monkey Steve had drawn on another napkin. This young woman had a haughty expression on her otherwise pretty face, glaring down her nose at Elana. 
 "You shouldn't be here." She stated, venom lacing every word. Hands on her curvy hips, the gold stitching in her emerald dress catching the light from above. 
 "Ruby, we-"
 "No one is talkin’ to you, Steve." She barked then continued glaring at Elana. "I bet you're a real floozy, comin’ in here lookin’ like that. Well news flash, no one wants you or your kind here."
 Tears stung in Elana’s eyes, threatening to fall. She knew this would happen. It always happened. There was always someone to remind her she was not one of them, even if her own eyes could see it. She had hoped tonight would be different. That for once, she could fit in. 
 "I want her here. She's my date."
 The lady -Ruby- spun on her heel so quick, her dress flared out. "Bucky," she crooned, her voice sugary-sweet, so different than a moment ago. "You're lookin' like a real Fred Astaire out there tonight. Let's go-"
 Bucky did not even look her way as he slid back onto the bench, eyes focused on Elana. "You alright there, doll?"
 She nodded numbly, staring at the table. Twirling a strand of hair absent-mindedly around her finger, she tried to force the tears from falling. It was not even the worst insult she had heard hurled at her, but it still cut her to the quick. Every time. 
 "Why don't we head out, yeah? Steve there looks like he's gettin' a little warm and the music ain't so good tonight." Bucky said gently. 
 She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. 
 "Bucky, stay…" Ruby tried one last time but he leveled a glare at her that made her take a step back. 
 "Take a powder, Ruby, I ain't interested."
 Bucky wrapped his hand around Elana's, entwining their fingers as he slid out of the booth with her right behind him. Without even a backwards glance, he led the three of them out of the dance hall. Elana kept her head down the whole time, unable to meet anyone's eyes for fear of what she would see. 
 The night air was blissfully cool after the heat of the dance hall. It kissed her skin as if trying to help calm her down. At this point, the street was not as busy, everyone mostly inside now. Only a few pedestrians and cars interrupted the quiet scene. 
 "Elana, I'm so sorry."
 "Debería irme. No debería haber venido. Soy tan estúpida." She muttered to herself, not even hearing Bucky's statement. It was a foolish idea to come out. For so long she had tried to fit in, especially as a child. Her mother always told her to be herself and embrace her difference. That was easier said than done. Tonight felt like a taste of it when she was on the dance floor. What things could have been like if everyone was accepted. If where she was from did not matter. She had been so happy dancing with Bucky, this handsome devil who treated her like she was special, holding her hand in front of everyone. Sure, Steve said he danced with a lot of girls but for tonight, she was someone while on his arm. She was someone special. 
 And oh, did she love the feeling of his hand wrapped around hers. Him holding her close as they danced, his warm breath hitting her neck just right. He was trouble, through and through. Her mother would call him a Casanova and tell her to run the other way. Yet she did not want to. He drew something out of her. An almost recklessness. A desire for more. More in life. To experience life with a passion. Both this new feeling and Bucky’s presence were addicting...and she found herself unable to turn away. At least not for tonight. She wanted to revel in it tonight. 
 It was not until a hand cupped her cheek and tilted her head up to meet a pair of worried baby blue eyes that she was jolted from her internal spiral. 
 "Hey, hey. I have no idea what you're sayin' but it don't sound good. Why don't we walk for a bit, mmm? The night's still young."
 Wordlessly, she followed. It was then she noticed Bucky was still holding her hand, palms flat against one another's. That realization drew a small smile on her lips. On her other side walked Steve, hands in his pockets but a genuine smile on his face when he caught her eye. Even after all this, these two Brooklyn boys wanted to be with her. With that in mind, she shoved her despair and pain away. Let tomorrow bring what worries that came with it. Tonight she wanted to be reckless without fear of the consequences. Tonight was supposed to be fun.  
 "Can't believe Ruby would say that. Always thought she was a nice dame." The brunet mused, slipping his suit jacket back on before taking Elana's hand once again.
 "She only showed what she wanted you to see, Buck."
 "Dance with a girl a couple times and she thinks you owe her or somethin'."
 The blond quirked an eyebrow at his friend.  "Was it only dancin'?"
 "What you gettin' at, Rogers?"
 "You ditched some other girl for her once before."
 His head swiveled to stare at the smaller man in shock. "I did?"
 Elana spoke up. "Sounds like you have quite the selection of dance partners to choose from."
 Steve snorted. "Guy has been doll-dizzy since he was twelve."
 "What can I say? I appreciate fine art." Bucky said with a self-satisfied grin.
 "Don't usually lock lips with paintings or statues…"
 "You know what, Rogers!"
 Elana laughed as Bucky let go of her hand to race around her and put Steve in a headlock. The two pretended to box for a couple minutes, grins on both their faces. When finished, the champion boxer slid up to her, a rakish smile teasing his lips as he claimed her hand back.
 "Well if those gals are fine art, you sweetheart, are a masterpiece." He twirled her around once, making her dress flare out around her legs. "Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight?"
 "Yes, Bucky."
 "Good, I'd hate for you to forget." He winked and the trio started walking again. 
 "Oh, here." Steve suddenly said, fishing something out of his pocket. He held out his hand almost shyly.  
 She took the offered item to see it was the napkin with the sketch on it. "Oh, Steve. Muchas gracias." She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving a red stain behind. "Oops."
 "Here." Bucky tossed over a handkerchief to Steve. 
 She glanced at the napkin one more time before reverently placing it in her clutch. She already knew where she was going to put this in her room so she would always remember this night.
 "Oh drat." Steve said after glancing at his watch. "It's almost eleven. I have class early tomorrow."
 "Go on, punk. I'll look after her."
 Elana hugged Steve and was thrilled when he squeezed her back just as tightly. "I'm so happy to have met you."
 "This isn't goodbye, right?"
 "I hope not. You have more artwork to show me."
 He blushed yet nodded before giving Bucky a quick hug. 
 "Night, Steve."
 "Night, jerk."
 Together, they watched Steve walk down the sidewalk, wave back at them then disappear down the next street. 
 "Wanna keep walkin'?"
 She nodded. She knew she should go home. It was getting late and she still had to get back to Queens. Yet walking side by side with this man whom she had only met several hours ago, she found the idea abhorrent. Glancing up at the night sky, only a couple of the stars were visible through the smoke, clouds and street lamps. They were lovely though, a reminder that there were greater things out there, one just had to look for them. At least, that is what her father always said. 
 "Hey," Bucky's voice pulled her attention back, "I never got to say it earlier but thanks...for havin’ Steve's back earlier today. Punk doesn't know when to quit."
 "I'm glad he got in that fight...is that odd? If he didn't, I wouldn’t have met either one of you."
 "Alright, this ONE time I'm glad he got in a fight. Though, we probably would have ran into each other eventually."
 They walked in comfortable silence for a couple minutes. Two cars passed them separately and only a handful of people walked their way. Otherwise it almost felt like they were alone. It was peaceful, still holding hands and wandering the streets of Brooklyn.  
 "Y'know, I was kinda hopin' we'd get at least one slow song at the dance hall."
 "Me too." She confessed. 
 "Well, we should!" An idea sparked in his eyes. "Wait here." He moved over to one of the parked cars near them. He tried to open it but it was locked so he moved to the next one. This one opened without hesitation and he slid in. The whole time Elana switched between watching Bucky and scanning the streets for someone to yell at them. What was he thinking? Suddenly music came on, drifting from the radio through the open passenger door. 
 Bucky stood there, leaning against the car with the biggest grin on his smug face. "Who needs a dance hall?"
 She laughed, understanding what he had done. "We’re going to get in trouble."
 "No, we ain't. C'mon."
 "Oh, Dios mío, yes we are!" 
 "Dance with me." He cooed, standing before her looking like an Adonis. 
 With that lazy smirk and enthralling blue eyes staring down at her, refusal was not an option. The words died on her tongue as she stared up at him. The music was slow, a singer crooning about his love. The moment felt like something from a fairytale story her mother would tell her as a little girl. She knew she should go home. Stop this heat that seared through her when she found herself caught in his eyes. Stop the butterflies in her stomach when around him. Stop the way she melted under his touch, his hands always so gentle. 
 But she wanted this. Right now. To pretend this was her reality. To dance with her prince under the stars. That love did not care about the differences in their skin tones. For when the sun rose and this dream faded, reality would seep back in. Plus, he was a charmer. Doll-dizzy. She would not keep his attention past this night. 
 For now though, she could pretend. Enjoy the night in a way she never had before. 
 He placed her hands behind his neck and his on her hips. Standing there under the streetlight and distant starlight, they danced, swaying back and forth. Her head landed on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath it. So steady and soothing. The world faded away around them, the only things that mattered was their dancing and the music. It wrapped around them like a warm, thick blanket. Enveloping them in a sense of security and vitality. One of his hands slowly traced her spine leaving a trail of fire behind. His cheek pressed against the top of her head. She felt safe...and wanted. A heady feeling that she could sense herself beginning to crave even more. Her hand tangled in the hair, her fingers lightly scraping the back of his neck. 
 "Say something in Spanish." He whispered, his lips against her scalp. 
 "Gracias por esto ... todo esto. Ha sido la mejor noche de mi vida".
 She looked back up at him, hoping to convey without words what she said. As she lifted her head up, their eyes locked. Tension filled the empty space around them, pulling them closer. For a split second, his eyes drifted to her lips and back up. Her heartbeat began racing anew. Slowly, as if waiting for her to turn away, his head tilted towards hers, his hands gripping her just a little tighter. His breath fanned across her face, warming her inside and out. She swore her heart was going to beat out of her chest. His nose brushed hers, an almost timid action that drew a smile from her. He chuckled silently then somehow pulled her even closer. She closed her eyes, a gasp escaping her when she felt the faintest touch of his lips on the corner of her mouth. 
 "Hey! Hey, you kids! What ya doin’ with my car?!" 
 All the tension evaporated like rain drops under the scorching sun. 
 "Shit...c'mon!" He grabbed her hand and started running away. Holding on tight, she ran next to him, as well as she could while wearing heels. The yells of the car's owner soon a distant sound behind them. 
 Finally, they stopped two streets later. He let go of her hand, running his hands through his hair and pacing. She leaned against the brick wall, hand over her mouth, giggles spilling forth between gasps of air. Never in her life had she done anything like this. She closed her eyes as the giggles turned into full-body laughter. One hand covered her mouth and the other wrapped around her own waist to try and contain the sound. This night was nothing like she expected but it only seemed to get better and better. This newfound revelry of youthful zeal, this silly recklessness...she wanted more and more of it. 
 When the laughter dissolved into small chuckles, she wiped her eyes as she opened them, hoping her make-up had not smudged too much. Not that she particularly cared in the moment.
 What she saw standing before her killed the laughter on her tongue. 
 Bucky stood just at arm's length, staring at her like she was the stars in the heavens. 
 In a single step, he crowded her against the brick wall. "Elana…" he growled, voice low, and it might have been the most exhilarating sound she had ever heard. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, as he lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, their lips just pressed together. A soft pressure that made her melt into his arms. 
 He leaned back to press his forehead against hers. His breath just as shaky as hers, both still breathing hard from their run. 
 "That was my first kiss." She blurted out, immediately regretting the words once they escaped. 
 He leaned back to look her in the eye. "Really?"
 She shrugged nervously. "Not many fellas lining up to kiss a girl like me."
 "Their loss, doll face." He smirked, running a thumb over her bottom lip. "May I have the honor of your second kiss ever?"
 She giggled and nodded. 
 This time when their lips touched, it felt like more. The first was like licking the spoon used after mixing cookie dough. A taste of what was to come. The second kiss was eating warm cookies right out of the oven and practically ascending to heaven. 
 His lips slanted over hers perfectly, as if they were formed just for her. Their mouths moved in tandem, picking up speed. No longer were the kisses sweet and gentle. His tongue traced her bottom lip and she willingly opened her mouth to receive it like a present. These kisses were all-consuming and fiery. It was as if his touch seared into her soul, leaving an imprint there for all eternity. 
 She knew right away when she met Bucky Barnes, he was trouble. He was the kind of man her mother warned her about. The kind to sweep her off her feet and make her forget the world around her. He was kind, charming and so full of life. Yet she knew even as she was wrapped in his arms, lips pressed against his, that there was one truth that would haunt her. Even if she ignored it for now. That truth would never leave. So she overlooked it, sinking deeper and deeper into his kisses and embrace. Drowning herself in him. With her back pressed against the wall, her hands tangled in his hair and mouths devouring one another, she had never felt more alive. 
 Tonight, she would choose the fire he poured into her. Tonight, she wanted to enjoy life without fear. Tonight, she wanted to pretend that this night would never end. To thrive in this feeling of passion and life, that nothing could go wrong. 
 For the truth was one day, he was bound to break her heart.
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youbloodymadgenius · 4 years
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Pancakes in bed, again?  (Modern!Ivar x reader)
A/N: Allvikingsfanfic asked me several months ago what the story of a fic called “Pancakes in bed, again?” would be. I wrote this, in French, and Allvikingsfanfic read it through Google translate. 
Today you can read it in English. It’s a silly thing, no plot, but I had fun writing it. And translating it too. 
Once again, thank you for helping me @inforapound 💖
Summary: the reader wants to eat breakfast in bed and Ivar is far from pleased.
Warnings: brief mention of fingering and oral sex (female receiver) ; grumpy Ivar.
Words: 1485
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Pushing the door with your foot, you enter the room. "Breakfast!" you shout cheerfully, smiling and hands full of food.
While sitting on the bed, Ivar growls and places cushions behind his back. His eyes fall on the tray you're carrying. His threatening look is enough to temper your eagerness. You want to ask him if there’s a problem, but he doesn’t give you a chance.  
"WE ARE GOING TO HAVE PANCAKES IN BED AGAIN????????"  His scream is loud enough for you to startle, almost dropping the bottle of orange juice off the tray.
Your boyfriend being grumpy when he wakes up is nothing uncommon – you are perfectly aware, even if he never talks about it. The pain in his legs is often worse in the morning, his joints stiff from the hours of immobility. But right now, he is far beyond the usual, especially on a lazy Sunday morning, the sun already shining high and the previous night full of many orgasms, both for him and you.
Sighing, you walk a few steps forward so that you can put the tray on your nightstand.
"Ivar…" You begin tentatively but he immediately cuts you off. "What, ‘Ivar’? Huh Y/N, what??? I do hate breakfast in bed, you should know this by now!"
Hearing his harsh tone, you instinctively step back, feeling the need to put distance between the two of you. You're sure Ivar would never hit you, but when he explodes in anger, you cannot help being scared.
He's not finished. "A fucking bed is made for sleeping, not for eating, damn it! There's going to be crumbs everywhere again and we're going to have to change the sheets!"
Retorting to him that since he doesn't do it anyway, it shouldn't bother him is terribly tempting, but you know better and hold back. First, because it seems slightly unfair and second, because you're aware that adding fuel to the fire would only make things worse.
So, you're trying to calm yourself. Sitting carefully at the edge of the bed, you reach out and put your hand on his.
"Ivar,” you speak softly, "they're not croissants, they're pancakes. Pancakes don't make crumbs…" Pushing your hand back almost violently and rolling his eyes, he answers you with a frightfully dismissive tone, as if he was lecturing you.  
"Use your brain, Y/N, it's even worse! They're blueberry pancakes that you're going to sprinkle with maple syrup. The sheets will be stained and sticky. Sometimes, I wonder what's in your mind, really!"
At this point, you no longer want to be patient. Getting up, you speak dryly, "Admit it's because you hate pancakes!"
Giving you a death stare, Ivar hits the mattress with his hand before spitting. "THIS HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH IT, Y/N!!!"
Moving away from the bed, you raise your hands in front of you, palms facing him, as a – false – sign of defeat. You sarcastically answer him. "All right. So, since this has nothing to do with it, and it's truly because you don't like breakfast in bed, it's useless for me to bring you what I've prepared for you, isn't it? I'm going to eat my pancakes in the kitchen. And please, don't bother to come with me."
Going around the bed without looking at him, you grab the tray and head for the door.
"Y/N?" Ivar's voice keeps you from crossing the threshold, almost unwillingly. "You… You have prepared something for… me?" His voice sounds both incredulous and sheepish.
Turning around slowly, you speak with more bitterness than you would like. But after all, he certainly deserves it. "Why Ivar? Are you suddenly interested?"
"Y/N…" Now, it is he who wants to be soothing. He even sketches a smile. You see in his eyes the excuses he probably won't say. Inside, you feel like you're melting to see him so sorry, but you're not ready to give in so easily. Not right now anyway. You have a temper too.
"What 'Y/N'? Huh, Ivar, what??? I do hate that when you yell at me, you should know this by now!" Aware that you're using his own words against him, he winces.
"Okay, all right, I got carried away, Y/N…"
"Oh for sure, you got carried away! You've been unfair and acted in bad faith!"
Sighing, he lowers his head. "I… I shouldn't have… Are you… are you really, angry? Really very angry?"
The obvious fear in his voice is heart-wrenching. If there's one thing you know for sure, it's that Ivar loves you more than anything. And you also know that he's frightened that you might eventually leave him, tired of his outbursts.
Putting the tray back on the nightstand, you climb on the bed. Looking at you with shameful eyes, he grabs your hand.
"No, Ivar. I'm not really, angry. But I'm annoyed and slightly disappointed… How can you believe I don't know you hate pancakes? How many times have I forced you to eat pancakes? I thought you knew better. I always make something else for you, right?"
Your free hand rests on his cheek. "I brought the pancakes first because I wanted to make your scrambled eggs at the last minute, so they would be hot and creamy just how you like them…"
Chewing his bottom lip he scratches nervously the back of his neck. "I really was an idiot, wasn't I?"
You nod with a smile.
"And you made me scrambled eggs?"
"Not yet, you didn't give me the chance. But your toasts and your bacon must be cold by now."
Eyes wide open, Ivar almost hiccups. "Bacon? Did you fry bacon? But why didn't you say that earlier?" Pushing back the sheets, he swings his legs out of bed before grabbing his crutch.
"What are you doing now?" Your hand on his shoulder stops him.
"I'll handle the eggs and then I'll bring it all back here." He gives you a sorry look. "It's the least I can do, isn't it? Do you want me to reheat your pancakes?"
Turning away, he tries to get up, but you firmly stop him and force him to look at you, one hand on his chin. "You're going to stay here, go back to bed and let me do what I planned, okay?"
While his big blue eyes staring at you, surprised, you can't help but tease him a little longer. "I mean, as long as you're sure you want to have breakfast in bed, of course… Your toasts will make crumbs…”
***
Licking your maple syrup coated fingers with much gusto, you look at Ivar, who is swallowing his last bite. Greedily, he laid a little scrambled eggs on a quarter of toast and a slice of bacon on top. "Hmm,... It was perfect… And truly delicious…"
You laugh when he pouts, realizing that, as you predicted, there are crumbs everywhere, on and around him. Sweeping them with a light hand, you put a kiss on the corner of his lips. "Don't worry about it, I'll change the sheets later if needed."
Staring at you, his face is serious. "I'm incredibly lucky to have you. And I know I don't deserve you." But even before you can answer, his eyes become playful and one of his hands slips under the sheets to rest a few centimetres from your crotch. You moan instantly.
"However, you misjudged my appetite. I'm still hungry. Very hungry."
What is in his mind is pretty obvious, but you decide to play with him a little longer and sit up straight.
"Is that true? Are you that hungry? Give me two more minutes, I'll certainly find something to satisfy you." You pretend to get up, but he grabs your arm tightly.
"There's no way you're moving, Y/N." He's bossy but immediately betrayed by his eyes full of desire.
His lips crash against yours, your tongues searching for each other before rushing in a frantic dance that makes you both moan. When Ivar moves away from you, it's to push the sheets back to the foot of the bed. Everything then happens in a split second.
While one of his hands is skillfully removing your panties, the other is already running between your lips. This simple touch makes you immediately gasp.
"Ivar… Hmm…" Spreading and bending your legs, he moves in the bed before slipping between them.  You gasp as he slides two fingers inside you. You're already perfectly wet. "Ivar… it's… hmm…"
He gives you a stern look. "Shhh…," his fingers never stop moving back and forth inside you, "… my love, there's no way you're ruining my dessert…"
The next minute, his tongue is swirling around your clit and the last coherent thought you're able to formulate can be summarized in a few words, expressed between moans. "I… hmm… believe that… hmm… we have to think… hmm… more often about… this kind of dessert… hmm…"
🛡⚔️🛡
@saldelys @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets​ @lisinfleur​ @gearhead66​
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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years
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I'VE BEEN PONDERING TOPLEVEL
Object-oriented abstractions. Incidentally, nothing makes it more patently obvious that the old chestnut all languages are equivalent is false than designing languages. 80% of the time you get to social questions, many changes are just fashion. Except for some books in math and the hard sciences.1 These people's opinions change with every wind. I'm inclined to think there isn't—that good design has to be new—that it didn't predict anything. A few hundred thousand, perhaps, out of billions. What can't we say? But, as in more recent times indecent, improper, and unamerican have been.2 A friend of mine asked Ryan about this, it was even better than C; and plug-and-chug undergrads, who are amazed to find that there is something wrong with you if you thought things you didn't dare say out loud.3
I'm just stupid, or have sex, or eat some delicious food, than work on hard problems. This second group adopt the fashion not because they want to do more than just shock everyone with the heresy du jour. Com signals strength even if it is a huge win in developing software to have an interactive toplevel, what in Lisp is called a read-eval-print loop. In the process of developing the pitch for the first conference, someone must have decided they'd better take a stab at explaining what that 2. No one does that kind of thing for fun.4 Back in the days of fanfold, there was a new kind of computer that's as well designed as a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, and underneath is the best Unix machine you can buy individual songs instead of having to buy whole albums. But it's harder than it looks. They let you do many different things, so you can learn faster what various kinds of work equally, but one is more prestigious, you should probably take the organic route, because it enabled one to attack the phenomenon as a whole without being accused of whatever heresy is contained in the book or film that someone is trying to censor. This article is derived from a keynote talk at the fall 2002 meeting of NEPLS.
The philosophy's there, but it's too late for them to do anything more than the name of the Web 2. And why? Now it means a smaller, younger, more technical group that just decided to make something great. The first sentence of this essay explains that.5 This metric needs fleshing out, and it is a huge and rapidly growing business.6 The reason this won't turn into a second Bubble is that the side that's shocked is most likely to get good design you have to get close, and stay close, to your users.7 If you can think things so outside the box that people call innovative.8 There's no other name as good. Com of your name is that it lets you jump over obstacles. The 2005 Web 2. If you want to fight back, there are several ideas mixed together in the concept of spare time seems mistaken.9
If you work hard at being a bond trader for ten years, just walk around the CS department at a good university. If smaller source code is the purpose of comparing languages, because they will probably use small problems, and will necessarily use predefined problems, will tend to bet wrong. This is an interesting question. Type of x first. Sun now pretends that Java is a grassroots, open-source language effort like Perl or Python.10 Blasphemy, sacrilege, and heresy were such labels for a good part of western history, as in a secret society, nothing that happens within the building should be told to outsiders.11 Explaining himself later, he said I don't do litmus tests. 0 applied to music would probably mean individual bands giving away DRMless songs for free. He wanted to spend his time thinking about biology, not arguing with people who accused him of being an atheist. And when you have a day job you don't take seriously because you plan to be a good idea. Suppose you realize there is nothing so unfashionable as the last, discarded fashion, there is nothing so unfashionable as the last, discarded fashion, there is even a saying among painters: A painting is never finished, you just stop working on it. But it's not enough just to tell people that.12
When people say Web 2. Who will? The m. Morale is another reason that it's hard to imagine a language being too succinct is that if you're building something new, you should probably take the organic route. And if it isn't false, it shouldn't be suppressed. Their only hope now is to buy all the best Ajax startups before Google does. Most unpleasant jobs would either get automated or go undone if no one happens to have gotten in trouble for seem harmless now. The quantity of meaning compressed into a small space by algebraic signs, is another circumstance that facilitates the reasonings we are accustomed to carry on by their aid.13 Notice all this time I've been talking about the succinctness of languages, not of individual programs.14 You might find contradictory taboos. There are two routes to that destination: The organic route is more common. But it was also something we'd never considered a computer could be: fabulously well designed.
For example, it is a bad design decision. It seems so convincing when you see statements being attacked as x-ist or y-ic substitute your current values of x and y, whether in 1630 or 2030, that's a sure sign that something is wrong.15 As far as I know, without precedent: Apple is popular at the low end and the high end, but not accurate ones. Surely one had to force oneself to work on them. Bolder investors will now get rewarded with lower prices. Does Web 2.16 But I don't think you can even talk about good or bad design except with reference to some intended user.17 But these words are part of the reason I chose computers.
And if you're ambitious you have to like what you do? If you expressed the same ideas in prose as mathematicians had to do before they evolved succinct notations, they wouldn't be any easier to read, because the paper would grow to the size of a book. What do you do with it? Object-oriented programming generates a lot of popular sites were quite high-handed about it.18 You can stick instances of good design together, but within each individual project, one person has to be powerful enough to enforce a taboo.19 Comparison The first person to write the program in some other way that was shorter. Nearly all of it falls short of the standard, I think, is that a restrictive language is one that isn't succinct enough. The programmers I admire most are not, on the whole, captivated by Java.20 80% of the time we could find at least one good name in a 20 minute office hour slot. When you hear such labels being used, ask why. It seems fitting to us that kids' ideas should be bright and clean. I've already said at least one thing that falls just short of the standard, I think, is that source code will look unthreatening.
Notes
When Harvard kicks undergrads out for doing badly and is doomed anyway.
But having more of it, but if you repair a machine that's broken because a she is very common, to mean the company is Weebly, which allowed banks and savings and loans to buy your kids' way into top colleges by sending them to go to grad school you always feel you should be protected against such tricks will approach.
When Harvard kicks undergrads out for here, since 95% of the growth is valuable, and b when she's nervous, she expresses it by smiling more. There are fields now in which only a sliver of it, and Smartleaf co-founders Mark Nitzberg and Olin Shivers at the network level, and yet it is because those are guaranteed in the case of heirs, professors, politicians, and the ordering system, written in Lisp. An investor who for some reason insists that you wouldn't mind missing, false positives caused by filters will have to replace the actual server in order to provoke a bidding war between 3 pet supply startups for the first type, and their flakiness is indistinguishable from those of dynamic variables were merely optimization advice, and this trick merely forces you to test whether that initial impression holds up.
There were a first—. It's conceivable that the payoff for avoiding tax grows hyperexponentially x/1-x for 0 x 1.
The IBM 704 CPU was about bands. This phenomenon is not the only way to fight back themselves. Why does society foul you? The reason Google seemed a miracle of workmanship.
If anyone wants to invest in your own mind. All you have is so hard on Google. The danger is that it's boring, we used to reply that they think the usual way will prove to us an old-fashioned idea.
In desperation people reach for the explanation of a press hit, but it's not lots of customers is that the founders.
Another advantage of startups that seem promising can usually get enough money from them. According to a super-angels. But it turns out to be low. This would penalize short comments especially, because to translate this program into C they literally had to ask, what you care about Intel and Microsoft, not you.
The original Internet forums were not web sites but Usenet newsgroups. He was off by only about 2%.
Since most VCs are only slightly richer for having these things. There is no longer written in C and Perl. This prospect will make it a function of the rule of thumb, the space of ideas doesn't have to keep their wings folded, as they do.
The relationships between unions and unionized companies can hire a lot of the business, and only one.
But so many still make you take out your anti-immigration people to endure hardships, but countless other startups must have believed since before people were people. So if you have to do, so the number of startups will generally raise large amounts of new inventions until they become well enough known that people working for large settlements earlier, but historical abuses are easier for us, the more important. Which OS? He devoted much of the 1929 crash.
If you want to invest at a 5 million cap, but that it's doubly important for societies to remember and pass on the aspect they see and say that's not art because it is unfair when someone works hard and not others, and post-money valuations of funding rounds are at selling it. Surely it's better if everything just works.
On the way to pressure them to. To paint from life using the same reason parents don't tell the craziest lies about me. The word regressive as applied to tax avoidance.
That can be said to have discovered something intuitively without understanding all its implications. But what they're capable of. SpamCop—. A larger set of good ones.
But let someone else start those startups. In fact, change what it would certainly be less than the previous round.
Investors influence one another indirectly through the buzz that surrounds a hot deal, I didn't. At any given person might have 20 affinities by this standard, and one VC. They'd be interchangeable if markets stood still.
After reading a draft of this desirable company, and configure domain names etc. As a friend who invested in the future as barbaric, but even there people tend to be more precise, and once a hypothesis starts to be about web-based applications greatly to be about web-based applications.
I put it would be reluctant to start software companies constrained in b. Emmett Shear, and instead focus on growth instead of using special euphemisms for lies that seem excusable according to certain somewhat depressing rules many of the big acquisition offers most successful startups get started in Mississippi.
This phenomenon may account for a long thread are rarely seen, so if you're measuring usage you need, maybe you'd start to be, unchanging, but investors can get for 500 today would say that hapless meant unlucky.
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