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wkemeup · 4 years

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Double Blind

summary: Set up on what might be the worst blind date you’d ever been on, you find yourself captivated by the mysterious bartender instead pairing: bucky x reader, bartender!au warnings: a handsy asshole named Brock Rumlow a/n: this was written for @notyetneedcoffee‘s 2k writing challenge! My prompt was “Touch her again and lose that hand." Congrats on 2k!!

The night hadn’t even started and you already missed your couch. With every step along the sidewalk and the click of a heel, you craved to dive into the soft cushioning of your old, worn down sofa, rid yourself of the makeup on your face, and watch movies all night with your best friend. Though, considering she was the culprit behind your current predicament, you might have to reconsider your friendship status for a while.

Natasha was always on your back about how often you kept yourself holed up in the apartment. You weren’t one for nights at the bar in tight dresses baring more skin than you were comfortable with or mingling with strangers in overcrowded spaces with music so loud you could hardly hear yourself think. You were always content with a bowl of popcorn on your lap and hair thrown haphazardly away from your face watching a fourth episode of the same series in a binge, and perhaps that made you a little lame, but you didn’t much mind.

You were happy in your ways, but Natasha had other plans.

It was how you ended up wearing a dress from her closet, black and short enough for your hands to be gripping and tugging the fabric down every few paces, and on your way to a bar downtown to meet a guy you didn’t even know. Some friend she was.

You crossed your arms as you walked, holding the sleeves of your jean jacket tighter against you to hide the exposure of your chest that Natasha had adamantly suggested you learn to flaunt. She tried to snatch your jacket from you before you could leave, but you swiped it back just as you slid out the door.

You didn’t mind the heat of sweat that had started to bead at the back of your neck. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make if you were forced to wear a dress that had stranger’s eyes following you down the street with wolf whistles in their wake.

The guy’s name was Brock Rumlow, a security analyst from Natasha’s firm she crossed paths with in the break room on a few occasions. Devil that she was, took it upon herself to set up a blind date between the two of you.

He was handsome, she told you; tall, dark haired, and with a jaw line so sharp it could cut through glass. He was brooding and mysterious and made the kind of money that could force you to overlook some minor character flaws, though she refused to elaborate until you at least agreed to meet the guy.

You were already so picky, she told you. You had impossibly high standards that no man could possibly meet, but hell, maybe that was the point.

You nearly walked right past the address he had texted you to meet at, surprised to find an entrance to a dive bar located down a series of steps away from the sidewalk and with a sign barely illuminated by a fading light. You glanced at your surroundings, clenching your jaw at the isolated area and the group of men across the street smoking under a street lamp, and reminded yourself to give Nat a piece of your mind when you got home.

Stepping into the bar, it was instantly apparent that you were wildly overdressed, even with the jean jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the faded smell of second-hand smoke soaked into the wood of the barstools and booths, the clicks of the pool table as two rather large men with thick grey beards leaned over the edge to inspect their next moves, and the stick of spilled beer on the floor under your heel.

A man in the corner of the room was watching you, arms folded over his chest like he was eyeing up prey, with a kind of hungry gaze that sent shivers down your spine as it trailed over your body. He licked his lips and you shuttered.

Tugging your jacket as far across your chest as you could manage, until it was wrapped in layers over itself, you quickly made your way to the bar. It seemed like a safe enough place. It was a decent distance away from the hawk staring you down in the corner of the room, anyway. The sticky sound of the floor followed with every step you took.

The bartender’s back was to you as he was cleaning a series of glasses in the sink. Watching him for a moment, he didn’t seem to notice you standing behind him but you could hear the faint sound of him humming along to the rock music playing softly from the jukebox in the far end of the room. He nodded his head along to the beat, shoulders swaying somewhat. It made your lips curve into a faint smile.

You were about to clear your throat, hoping to get his attention, when he turned around suddenly, tossing the rag over his shoulder and the features of his face softened into confusion as he laid eyes on you.

Blue. It was suddenly all you could see. Eyes like deep ocean waves and clear open skies. With long, brunette hair by his shoulders tucked behind his ears and a plain black t-shirt barely able to contain the strain of muscles in his arms and across his chest, he certainly looked tough enough to work in a bar like this, but with eyes like that, you wondered if he really belonged here at all.

He smiled at you, something soft and endearing, and you almost forgot why you were in this place to begin with.

“You sure you’re in the right bar, doll?” he asked sweetly, not skipping a beat and wiping the towel along the countertop of the bar in front of him and gestured for you to take a seat across from him.

Looking around, you winced at the men at a booth in the corner of the room who were about three seconds away from a brawl. One pointing a finger at the others chest, and the other so beet faced that he looked like he was about to explode at any given moment from holding back his tongue.

You turned back to the bartender with an uneasy grimace, hoping that your directions had led you astray because this certainly couldn’t be the ‘restaurant’ Brock wanted to meet you at.

"Is this The Centurion?”

“The one and only.” Blue-eyes nodded, clearly a little amused by the way your shoulder slumped and the quiet huff that left your lips.

Of course, it was.

“You might want to change the name of this place,” you commented nervously as you finally took a seat, a slight tremor of a laugh in your voice, “because I clearly wasn’t expecting a bar like this when I left my apartment.”

You gestured to the dress and heels you were wearing and the stain of red upon your lips. He laughed a bit at that as you grabbed a napkin from behind the bar and started to wipe the lipstick away, leaving behind smudges of red upon the paper cloth. You licked your lips to restore some of the moisture and already felt a little lighter without it on.

“’Bar like this?’ Whatever could you mean by that?” he teased, all bright eyed, and when you started to realize what you had said and a blush burned in your cheeks, he only winked at you, chuckling softly to himself. “Trust me, I know this place is a shithole. I’m just surprised to see anyone besides our regulars around here, let alone a beautiful woman lookin’ like a deer in the headlights. We usually cater to a rougher sort of people.”

“You know, I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment,” you laughed, letting a brush of your hair fall into your face to shield the burn of red his comment elicited. The touch of your cheek was warm as you tried to hide it with the heel of your palm.

“Only an observation,” he replied quickly, though with a smirk on his lips.

You nodded, struggling to contain your smile.

He started to wipe down parts of the counter beside you, lifting up bowls of pretzels and limes, and swiping underneath, though there didn’t appear to be much of anything needing cleaning.

He was humming to himself again, not bothered at all by the way your eyes watched him as he worked. He started to wipe down his work station and you noticed rather quickly he paid special attention to the space of the bar ahead of you.

You sat in silence for a while, periodically checking your watch and tugging the lapels of your jacket further across your chest at every glance towards the door, only to find that same man in the corner staring you down and sending unpleasant shivers down your spine.

“Are you cold?” the bartender asked softly, looking over at you curiously as he dried a glass by the sink. “I can turn the AC down if you want.”

You raised an eyebrow, confused, seeing as you had sweat dampening the back of your neck, until he nodded at your jacket, which was still wrapped tightly around your chest. “Oh! Oh, no, I’m burning hot actually. This—This is my roommates dress and I never—I don’t usually wear stuff like this -- not that there’s anything wrong with it -- but I just—um—”

“Men are gross,” Blue-eyes concluded, biting on the edge of his lip as you nodded. He sighed, shaking his head as he slumped back to lean against the bar. “Yeah, I noticed Harvey’s been eyeing you since you walked in here.”

You followed his gaze to find the man who had been staring you down like a hawk the moment you stepped inside. He had yet to take his eyes off of you, though when you turned around, you found the bartender glaring at him with a kind of warning in his expression that gave the man enough sense to keep his hands to himself. Harvey threw his arms in the air, retreating back to his table in the corner and to the series of empty bottles beside him.

“Sorry about him,” Blue-eyes said sincerely. “I can’t kick him out for lookin’, but I swear if he comes close enough to make you uncomfortable, I’ll knock him into next week, alright? I double as the bouncer here, too.”

He added the last bit with a wink and it got you smiling.

“Busy man,” you commented and he laughed. It was the kind of sound that made your stomach twist in knots and you wondered if it was possible to preserve something so beautiful, something so light and airy that sat in such contrast to the tall, thick wall of muscle standing before you.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” you added, sincerely. He nodded in return and you got the feeling he wasn’t like the men who frequented this bar or the men who shouted at you as you walked down the street. He was something else entirely.

Glancing up at the clock in the corner of the room, it was past the time Brock was supposed to meet you and while you thought about sending him a text to check in, you decided against it, half hoping he would just stand you up so you could go home, or maybe, if you were brave enough, ask the bartender for his name.

“So, what can I get you? You must be looking for a drink if you're wasting your time sittin’ up here with me,” he asked as he swung the towel over his shoulder he had just used to wipe his hands.

You glanced behind the bar, hoping a drink might calm your nerves and settle the warm blush in your cheeks at his words and eyed up the series of bottles and liquors on the shelves. Bourbons and vodkas, tequilas, and a few select drafts of beer, and nothing you would ever touch. You frowned.

“You don’t happen to have a Pino here, do you?”

He laughed at that. “I’ve got a shitty red blend that might be worse than boxed wine? But if you let me make you something, I promise it'll blow you away.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Alright then, but I’ll warn you, I’m picky when it comes to alcohol.”

“I think I’ve got a good enough read on you,” he shrugged casually and it made your heart skip, “just give me a minute.”

You watched as he pulled out a tall glass from under the bar, placing it on the counter in front of you with a wink. Then, he started to fill it with various bottles he poured too quickly for you to tell what they were. One was certainly carbonated, leaving bubbles in the glass, while others were clear, some rich in color, and he topped it off with a straw, sliding it closer to you.

You eyed him suspiciously, amused by the confident look on his face, and you took a sip. It was better than you expected, with a subtle taste of cranberry and ginger, with the alcohol barely noticeable, and you sat back with a content sigh.

“What is in this?” you gaped, moving to take another sip.

“A secret I’ll take to my grave,” he replied cheekily, arms folded over his chest and leaning back against the wall behind him, watching you as you nearly downed the first half. Then, a man at the end of the bar was waving his hand, and blue-eyes nodded at him before turning back to you. “I have to take care of this guy. Don’t drink that too fast, doll.”

You nodded, lips still wrapped around the edge of the straw as you took another sip, desperately trying to ignore the thumping of your heart when he shot that smile at you again. Watching as he made his way down to the end of the bar to refill the series of beers for the man and his friends, you felt a vibration coming from your purse. You frowned, seeking out your phone to find a text from Natasha.

How's it going??

It’s not. He’s not even here yet, you responded, glancing around the room to double check because you certainly wouldn’t have noticed if he did arrive amidst your conversation with the blue-eyed bartender. It was nearing fifteen past the time Brock was supposed to meet you anyway.

Give him some time! Maybe he’s running late. Don’t back out, Y/n. This will be good for you!

You’re the worst, just so you know.

Love you, too.

“So, you never did say what brought you to a bar like this,” the bartender said, his voice surprising you as you glanced up from your phone.

“Oh, well,” you stuttered, suddenly embarrassed, “my friend is trying to set me up with some guy she knows from work. He said to meet him here.”

He raised an eyebrow and the flash of disappointment on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “The guy said to meet you here? For a date?”

“You see why I’m overdressed then, don’t you?” you replied, nodding with a teasing smile.

“Definitely wouldn’t waste a dress like that in a place like this,” he agreed, the curve of his lips pushing at his cheeks and though his comment was about your dress, his eyes stayed glued to yours. He made no attempt to steal a glance down your body or under the jacket you kept wrapped over your chest.

“Yeah, well, it’s my friend’s,” you grumbled, tugging at the fabric on your thighs in hopes to pull it closer to your knees, though it jumped back up to the mid of your thigh the second you released the material. “I would much rather be in sweats on the couch right about now.”

“I hear you,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I feel like jeans are too restricting. Can’t imagine how you’re sitting in that dress comfortably.”

“That’s the kicker. I’m not.”

That got him laughing again and the smile that ached in your cheeks was one you wished you could have worn for hours. Blue-eyes was still wiping down the same section of the bar he’d been cleaning since you got here and you wondered if he was really meticulous in his polishing or if he was finding excuses to talk to you. The thought alone made your stomach twist up in knots.

“I don’t know many people who’ve even heard of this place. We mostly cater to regulars,” he said after a few moments, voice fading out a little as he seemed lost in thought. “Maybe I know the guy. What’s his name?”

“His name?” you repeated, suddenly unsure why you were so reluctant to tell the handsome bartender with the big, bold, blue eyes and the sweetest laugh you’d ever heard. “His name is, um--”

“Bucky! A little help!” a voice suddenly called from the back of the room where a small, brunette woman with an apron draped over her waist and a thick eastern European accent was attempting to keep the two burly men who had been arguing earlier from throwing fists. Even as small as she was, she kept a hand on both of the men’s chests, keeping them apart.

“Shit,” Blue-eyes, or Bucky you supposed, cursed, sending you an apologetic grimace. “Hold that thought for me?”

“Y/n,” you blurted out suddenly before you could lose your nerve, stilling him in his movements and a grin spread across his lips. Time seemed to slow down for a moment.

“Y/n,” he repeated, smiling at the way it felt on his tongue. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

You nodded, watching how he chewed on the edge of his lip before he hopped over the end of the bar, jogging towards the commotion. The men seemed to straighten their backs and settle down the moment he stepped into view. He seemed to have that presence about him. Perhaps it was the reason you’d gone straight to him as you first stepped into the bar.

Caught up in the way Bucky placed his hand on the shoulder of one of the men to help calm him down and ushered the other to take a seat, you didn’t notice the presence of someone hovering over your shoulder; not as you smiled softly to yourself as Bucky began to take a seat himself across from one of the men, nudging the other into the booth as well in favor of exchanges words over fists.

“Y/n?”

You gasped, startled, turning around to be met with deep brown eyes and a charming smile. The man grinned at you, but there was something off in it, like it was a layer of a mask. He was staring at you, raising an eyebrow at the way you glanced over in Bucky’s direction out of instinct, hoping he’d notice, though you weren’t even sure what you would have wanted him to do.

“Brock?” you asked, uncertain and he nodded, his smile fading the longer it took for you to tear your eyes away from Bucky. If he was a regular here as Bucky suspected, it was evident he didn’t get along well with the bartender.

“I see you got started without me,” he commented, gesturing to the half empty drink Bucky had made for you.

“Oh, well, you were late, so,” you muttered awkwardly, reaching to take another sip to ease your anxiety but Brock grabbed the glass from you before you could, placing it down behind the bar.

“I’ll order you something nicer,” he said flatly.

It was then that Bucky returned to the bar, albeit slower as he swung around the barrier to find Brock standing next to you, looming over your shoulder almost possessively. His eyes flickered down to the drink that was now placed out of your reach, causing him to frown.

Bucky looked to you, soft eyes and concerned expression, and you only nodded, answering his silent question that yes, this was the man you were supposed to meet. His whole body seemed to tense up at your response.

“Rumlow,” Bucky gritted his teeth, jaw clenched and strained history more than obvious between the two.

“Barnes,” Brock replied, just as stiff.

In the exchange, Bucky’s eyes turned to you, trying to catch your own though you were staring down at the floor, a heat of embarrassment in your cheeks you couldn't quite place. You felt a sudden hand on your forearm, rough skin under the palm but so incredibly gentle, and you looked up to find Bucky watching you.

“Call for me if you need anything,” he said sternly, like a warning. “I won’t be far.”

“Thanks Barnes, we’ll be sure to do that,” Brock spat, taking another step closer to you so that his chest pressed against your back, his arms curling around your sides. You shuttered out a shaken breath. “Why don’t we go sit over at the booth for some privacy?”

Your eyes met Bucky’s again, panicked for a moment and you swore you might have seen him shake his head subtly.

“O-oh, I actually prefer sitting here. If that’s alright?”

Brock paused, clearly reluctant to your request, but he eventually took a seat next you, dragging the bar stool close enough to you that when he sat facing you, his knees parted wide enough that his legs were practically caging you. You glanced down, observing the territorial nature of his stance and you gritted your teeth.

Meanwhile, Bucky had been called down to the end of the bar to attend to one of the men at the pool table. He was reluctant to move, but as the patron called for him again, blue eyes met yours and gave you a subtle nod; one that told you he’d be close enough to come running if you needed him.

As he retreated, you watched him for a moment, wondering what it was in the few moments you’d known him that he started to carry an aura of safety around him, a sense of protection, one you had no interest in being removed from and yet, Brock was poking at it with the sharp edge of a needle.

Even from the distance, as Bucky listened for the men’s order, his eyes were on you; not territorially, but out of concern, out of care. His hands were gripping the countertop, shoulders tense and hunched. You only looked away from him when you felt Brock’s hand on your leg.

“So, I should tell you I almost didn’t come tonight,” he purred, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush against your neck, leaving an unpleasant shiver in its wake, “but when Natasha showed me a picture of you, I couldn’t stay away. Had to try a bite of that myself.”

Awkwardly shifting yourself away from Brock’s closeness, you reached for a menu behind the bar, clearing your throat and nervously pushing hair behind your ear and desperate to change the conversation.

“Why don’t we, um, why don’t we get some food? I haven’t eaten in a while actually and--”

“What I want isn’t exactly on the menu.” Brock tugged the pamphlet from your hands and tossed it behind the bar. It fell down to the floor and he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest that it nearly took out a tray of glasses on its way down.

You didn’t like the way he was looking at you, feeling incredibly unnerved and exposed under his stare. You swallowed thickly, folding your jacket tighter across your chest. “So, what do you do at the firm? Nat said you were an analyst?”

A pathetic attempt of changing the subject again. He wasn’t interested.

“Why don’t you take off your jacket? It’s a thousand degrees in here,” he urged, fingers already sliding up your back and slipping under the collar of your jacket and attempting to pull it down. You only held on tighter.

“I’m okay,” you tried to respond, but Brock’s grip was tight on your collar and he was working on sliding down the jean over your shoulder despite the hardened clench of your hands to the fabric.

Brock’s hands moved to your own, trying to pry your grip away from the lapels long enough to loosen your hold and remove the jacket himself. There was no kindness in the way his hands touched you.

You could tell he was starting to get frustrated when he grunted at your reluctance.

“There’s no need to cover up, baby,” he pressed, darkness in his tone and you tried to shoulder away from him.

“Everything alright over here?”

You looked up, startled by the familiar voice. You didn’t realize how tense you were under Brock’s touch, your hands aching from how tightly they were clenching around the flaps of your jacket wrapped over your chest, desperate to keep it secure, eyes locked on the wood of the bar to avoid Brock’s unsettling stare.

Bucky was standing just a foot away from you, barrier of the bar between you feeling like a mile long. He was staring daggers into Brock, not moving a muscle until Brock’s hands retreated from your jacket with a defeated groan.

“I was just trying to help the lady out and take her coat. I was being a gentleman,” he said, though his hand quickly made its way to your thigh. It seemed he needed to have some kind of physical contact with you while in Bucky’s presence, just to remind you who you were here with. You tried to ignore it.

“Yeah, I’m sure you were,” Bucky accused, shaking his head in disgust and seeing straight through Brock’s excuse. He turned to you, incredibly softer now. “Can I get you anything, doll? Anything you want, just say the word.”

You knew what he was offering and it was more than a refill on a drink. The discomfort must have been clear as day across your face because the way he was watching you was so incredibly sincere; like he was prepared to jump over the bar to your defense the second you asked him to. Eyes filled with nothing but sparkling pale blue that made your stomach twist and turn in such startling contrast to the Brock’s hands roaming over your thigh. You longed to get lost in him.

“No, no I’m fine. Thank you,” you replied reluctantly, forcing out a smile, but Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave yours, like he was waiting for you to change your mind. A silent conversation between the two of you and you tried to mask the scream in the back of your head wanting him to rescue you.

“The lady said she’s fine, Barnes, so give us some privacy,” Brock spat, his hand creeping along your lower back and you let out a shaky breath at the touch of him.

Bucky noticed, his eyes darting down to Brock’s hand, but he didn’t say anything, not until you gave him the ‘ok’ to do so. It took him a few seconds, lingering behind, before he ultimately returned to his duties at the other end of the bar.

Heart still in your throat, you tried to find a way to get through this hellscape of a date so you could get home and tear into Natasha for setting you up with a man like this. He didn’t seem to care that you leaned away from his hands as they roamed your body, and if anything, it urged him on.

“So,” you started, nervously avoiding his eyes, “what, um, what got you into analyt--”

“Enough with the small talk,” Brock grumbled, grabbing a firm hold of your bar stool and yanking you closer. You gasped at the sudden movement, clinging onto the bar to avoid losing your balance. “We both know why we’re here tonight and it’s not to get to know each other.”

You shook your head, stretching your neck away from his touch as his fingers trailed up along your shoulder, though it didn’t prove of much use. You could still feel the unpleasant tremble of shivers in his wake.

“I don’t know what Nat told you but I’m not looking for--”

“I know exactly what you’re looking for, baby,” he whispered, startlingly close to your ear, and his hand was on the bare of your thigh, creeping dangerously close to the edge of your dress.

“Brock, stop,” you urged, trying to swat his hand away but he held on firm enough to grip into your thigh.

“Don’t be dramatic.” His fingertips slipped under the fabric of your dress and you jumped up from the bar, stepping a few paces away from him but he followed you.

“I think you should go,” you warned, your voice shaking despite the anger in your veins. It was a wild range of fear and embarrassment and fury rushing through you and you couldn’t control even an ounce of it.

“I came all the way out here for this and you're not even going to put out?” Brock spat at you, inching close enough to cage you against the edge of the bar. There was nowhere for you to go.

You were starting to panic, desperately looking down the bar for Bucky but he was suddenly nowhere in sight. Your hands pressed against Brock’s chest to find he was as unmovable as stone.

“Let me go,” you said quietly, desperately, and losing the strength in your tone quickly. Your breaths were coming in too fast, heart rate skyrocketing, and as Brock’s hand slid up your side, you bit down hard enough on your cheek to draw blood.

“Maybe you should learn a little respect,” he sneered, fingers pushing their way into your hair and before you could even part your lips to shout for someone, anyone, to notice Brock was suddenly ripped away from you, his hold vanishing as he was tossed forcefully to the ground.

“Touch her again and lose that hand,” Bucky growled, hovering over Brock and placing himself strategically between you.

His hand darted out behind him, searching for you to confirm you were alright and you grabbed onto it, squeezing it hard and the tension in his muscles only seemed to relax for a moment.

“What are you gonna do about it, deadbeat?” Brock spat back from the ground, brushing off his hands. “You gonna try and fight me for her? Is that what you want, huh? You want the girl all to yourself?”

Standing behind Bucky, you watched the way his body acted at your shield, his shoulders heaving with every panted breath, free hand curling into a fist as Brock attempted to stand, the other in sharp contrast sitting tenderly wrapped around your own. Brock rose from the ground, gritting his teeth and pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Y/n, go with Wanda,” Bucky said over his shoulder, voice low and stern.

“But Bucky,” you whispered, afraid of what would happen if you left him.

He paused for a minute, turning back to you. His jaw was clenched, tense, but his eyes were full of worry; blue shades of concern and urgency.

“Please,” he asked, holding your gaze for longer than he probably should have but there was just a desperation in his tone that took you off guard. His hand squeezed yours and you nodded at him, releasing him though it pained you to do so and jumped into the arms of the petite woman who ushered you safely away from the fight.

With her hand on your forearm, she tried to lead you to the back room where the owner’s office was, but you planted your feet, turning back to Bucky and Brock as they were spewing taunts at one another too low for you to hear, but you could see the tension burning in the air as they circled one another.

“Wait! Will he be okay?” you asked timidly, flinching on impact as Brock suddenly took a swing that Bucky was able to dodge easily before he slammed Brock’s head to the countertop. Eager chants urging them on started to echo in small space of the bar as men cheered and sloshed beer over their glasses. It was chaos in a matter of seconds.

“Bucky can take care of himself, I promise,” Wanda replied urgently, pushing you further into the back room and you let her guide you away when Bucky and Brock were suddenly hidden from view by the patrons gathered around enthusiastically to watch.

Even from inside the office as Wanda closed and locked the door behind her, you could hear the crashing of glasses and the grunts of pain and exertion from beyond the walls. You slumped down into the chair behind the desk, arms wrapped around your waist and tried not to picture what was happening.

“How long have you known Bucky?” she asked, trying to distract you.

You shook your head, finding it impossible to tear your eyes away from the door. “I-- I don’t. I just met him tonight.”

That seemed to surprise her.

“Why?” you asked, flinching at a loud, muffled crash beyond the office followed by a collect eruption of shouts and applause.

She shrugged, a soft smile on her face. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Bucky smile the way he has tonight. He doesn’t usually spend so much time cleaning the bar, especially that one particular spot.”

You shook your head, shaking away her comment because it felt too real. “Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s only because you guys usually have old biker men and handsy assholes frequenting this bar.”

Wanda pursed her lips, a knowing look in her eyes and entirely unconvinced by your excuse, but she didn’t push it and instead agreed, “sure. Maybe that’s it.”

***

Wanda certainly did her best to keep you distracted, but with every echo of a cheer beyond the wall, your attention quickly diverted back to the door, leaving you to ruminate constantly on whether it was Bucky or Brock who had been struck before the reaction of the crowd. You didn’t know who these men would cheer for or if they only cared about the thrill of the fight, eager to watch either side get a decent hit in.

Wanda informed you that Bucky had a history of fighting. He used to be a boxer back in the day and knew his way around a fight better than most. He would take care of himself, she told you, promised you.

You didn’t know why you cared so intensely, why you worried so much. You didn’t even know him, and yet, something about the blue in his eyes, the tenderness of his smile, and the sweet tone in his laugh drew you to him unlike anything else.

There was so much about him you still wanted to know, so much more you longed to talk to him about and ask him just to have a chance at hearing that laugh again. It had been years since you felt anything remotely like this and never so quickly. The fact that after all of the sweet talk and the teasing, he jumped head first into a fight to protect you from a man who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself, only seemed to spur on the twists in your stomach for him.

So, when the crowd began to quiet and the door to the office began to unclick with the turn of a key from the other side, you weren’t quite sure relief was a strong enough word for the release of tension in your chest. Though, when Wanda stepped aside and Bucky’s full figure was in view again, that same panic rushed back tenfold.

“Oh God,” you gasped, hand clamped over your mouth as you stood from the desk.

Bucky slowly made his way inside, evident by the wince on his face that something was bothering him in his leg. Blood dripped down from an open cut on his cheekbone and his lip was busted open in the center. Swelling had already started to take effect around his eye and his skin was marked in pinks and reds sure to turn blue in a few hours.

Your lips were parted in shock and the panic must have read over your features judging by the way Bucky tried to push out a smile for you.

“You should see the other guy,” Bucky joked, though a drip of blood slid past his lip and neither you nor Wanda smiled. He turned to Wanda, observing the tension in the room between you. “He’s already gone. No chance he’ll risk his own ass by calling the cops, but better get a word in to Steve at the station as a warning. I don’t want that piece of shit in this bar again.”

Wanda nodded, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder before she left the room.

Then, you were alone.

“How are you doing?” he asked after a moment of silence, sincere as can be because only this man would be concerned about you after he just took a pretty significant beating.

There wasn’t even a thought to yourself as you looked at him. You were too focused on the blood on his face, the open wounds, and the way he was holding onto his side like it pained him just to breathe. You shook your head at his question, in disbelief.

“How am I--? Jesus, Bucky, look at you!” you stuttered out, pointing at the state of him and you suddenly realized your hands were shaking. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug.

Bucky must have noticed because he pushed himself further into the room, despite the clear ache as he walked and he sat against the edge of the desk next to you, close enough for you to hear the subtle wheeze in his breaths and feel the heat off of his skin.

“I’ve had worse, doll. I’m fine,” Bucky whispered, blue eyes raking over your face.

“You didn’t-- you didn’t have to do that,” you said, unable to meet his eye, staring at his hands as they gripped at the desk.

“’Course, I did,” he replied quickly. “I wasn’t going to let him touch you like that, not with you so clearly telling him to stop. Guy like that doesn't know when to quit, doesn’t respond to being asked nicely either, but he’ll run off after a few good hits.”

“But why?” you choked out, finally gathering the courage to look at him only to find the crease of his brow stitched together and a layer of surprise on his face. “You don’t even know me. Why put yourself in harm's way if--”

“Well for one,” Bucky started, pulling your hand gently into yours, watching the way you stilled upon his touch, a gasp leaving you in a breathless kind of way, “I wouldn’t let him do that to anyone if they were explicitly saying ‘no,’ but you... I don’t know. Maybe I’m crazy and maybe I’m making things up as I go, but there’s just something about you. From the second you walked in I didn’t want you to leave. I hated every time I had to deal with someone else and I lost a few minutes I could have been talking to you. That was all before Rumlow even showed up, and once he did, it felt like my skin was on fire.”

You watched the way he played with your hand, running his palm over it and cupping it between his own, drawing lines in your palms, and distracting himself with something tender despite the broken knuckles on his skin. His words left your heart racing but you bit on your lip, letting him continue.

“I’ve seen him hit on women before,” Bucky sighed. “I’ve seen the way he treats women like he deserves something from them but I’ve never seen him go this far, to—to trap you at the bar like that. I just—I lost it. The thought that you could be next in this line of women he’s hurt and I couldn’t--”

“Okay,” you whispered, pulling his attention from your hands and meeting his eye. You nodded at him, hand squeezing back at his to still his anxious movements. He seemed to relax at that, though your eye was still drifting up to the open wound on his cheek.

“Will you let me fix that up?” you asked softly, and he narrowed his eyes, confused.

“You sure you don’t want to run from this place and never look back?” he whispered, evading your question with an almost certain look as though he was awaiting your escape; maybe because of the confession that he might feel something for you other than the adrenaline in his veins, or maybe because he was bloody and broken and too hardened and violent to be touched by a woman as gentle as you.

You shook your head, following the crease in his brow and tenderly cupping his cheek to closer examine the wound, watching as his facial muscles relaxed instantly under your touch. Blue eyes studied you like you were from another world as you took a mental note of the supplies you’d need.

“I assume you have a first aid kit around here somewhere, tough guy?”

He chuckled at that, a lower, harder sound than the laugh you’d heard out in the bar, but it was still as beautiful. He was trying to hold this one back from the pain in his ribs, but it was too sweet to ignore. He nodded, pointing at the drawer next to your thigh. Sure enough, inside was a kit that was faded in lettering and looked to be years old.

You pulled out alcohol swaps and bandages, gesturing for his right hand. He gave it over to you without hesitation. His hand felt nice sitting in yours; heavy and calloused, and impossibly tender.

“This may sting,” you warned him.

“Do what you need to, doll,” he smiled and even through cracked lips he was stunning.

He still hissed as the alcohol-soaked cloth touch the exposed wounds on his knuckles and he tried to pull away instinctively cause you to grip tighter onto his hand to keep him firmly in place. He didn’t flinch as much as you pressed it to the break in his skin again, dabbing gently and ridding his knuckles of the blood before you tenderly applied the soothing gel and wrapped his hand.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he said softly. “You sure you haven’t done this before?”

“Who says I haven’t?” you smirked, gathering new supplies to start working on the cut on his face. You gestured down to his thighs and he parted them for you, letting you step between them as he kept his seat on the top of the desk to give you a better angle to work on the wound on his cheek.

Standing this close to him, you wondered if he could hear the thunderous pounding in your chest.

“Might be a little jealous someone else is getting this kind of attention from you,” Bucky replied casually, as if it didn’t make your stomach twist over on itself.

You bit your lip, taking in a steady breath as you dabbed the alcohol wipe to his cheek. He winced, reflexively trying to dodge the burn of the wipes, so you reached up to the cup the side of his face to hold him still. He relaxed instantly under your touch, almost leaning into it. You ran your thumb along his cheek on his unmarked side to sooth him as you placed the sting of the alcohol to the wound again. He didn’t budge even an inch this time, eyes staring into yours as you worked.

“Well, your supposed jealousy is unwarranted, seeing as it was my brother with the tendency to end up battered and bruised,” you said, focusing on the open wound rather than the blush in your cheeks and the sincerity with which Bucky was watching you. “He always had a hard time walking away from a fight. Didn’t matter he was consistently smaller; he was constantly picking fights under some moral imperative he lives by.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Bucky laughed, and you could feel the vibration of it against your palm. “Mine grew up to be a cop.”

“Better tell him to watch out for a lanky teenager running around Queens with a vigilante complex,” you grinned, grabbing a bandage from the kit and gently applying to the cut on Bucky’s cheekbone, paying careful attention to line it up perfectly despite the crinkles in his smile leading up to his eyes.

You pressed on the bandage, ensuring the adhesive was applied and let out a sigh of relief. You hand slipped away from his cheek and though you were smiling at him, you missed the contact instantly.

You smiled at him. “I think you’re gonna make it.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked, a sudden longing in his voice that brought shivers to your spine as he tilted his head. His eyes were somehow twice as big, twice as blue, when he looked at you like that, like he wanted you to stay.

You made no move to step away from your stance between his legs and while his hands stayed planted on his thighs you could tell he was inching closer to you, though he’d never make the first move, not after what happened with Brock.

“Maybe I should double check,” you said, almost breathless.

Your hand slid up the side of his arm, with more courage than you’d ever had in your veins in a single moment in time, and cupped the side of his face again. You didn’t have the energy to even pretend to look at the bandaged cut because your eyes were flickering to his lips; pink and pillowy and so incredibly perfect.

Your free hand came up to rest on his shoulder, playing absentmindedly with the fabric of his black t-shirt and as you took a step forward, though impossibly small because it was miracle in itself you could get closer than you already were, Bucky’s hands slowly came to your hips. It was timid at first, gently seeking permission and waiting for a soft nod from you before he tugged you closer.

His breath was warm on your cheeks the closer you leaned in. Lips ghosted against yours and a soft chuckle left him as he winced at the touch, the cut on his lip from the fight stinging at the feel of you. He moved to readjust, positioning himself so that it was his upper lip you captured between your own, not that you much minded, because the thought of him alone was enough to keep you sustained, despite the trembling in your legs.

You hardly even noticed the office door swing open.

“Hey Bucky I could use some help with—oh, I’m sorry!”

You jumped away from him instantly, stumbling back from the shock of Wanda’s entrance back into the office and the flush of her cheeks as she turned away. Bucky’s hand reached out to grab yours before you crashed into his bookshelf and he was grinning wildly, almost impossible to contain.

“What’s going on Wan?” Bucky asked sweetly, though he didn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Burgess isn’t as keen on letting me close up as the rest of them were,” she said apprehensively, offering him an apologetic grimace.

“Ok, kid, I’ll be right out,” he replied and Wanda quickly exited the room again, muttering another apology under her breath. Bucky laughed breathily as he stood up, hand still tight in yours. “Promise you won’t go far? I’d like to make sure you get home safe, if that’s alright?”

You nodded quickly, not trusting your own words from the nervous aching in your bones. As Bucky slipped past you, he pressed a quick kiss to your hairline, winking before he stepped out of the room. You exhaled a breath you were sure was held since the moment his hands touched your hips and slumped down into the chair. The sharp vibrations that came from your phone nearly pulled a yelp out of you.

Glancing down at the caller ID, you saw an image of Natasha with about three dumplings stuffed in her cheeks and tears in her eyes from laughing so hard. You rolled your eyes, picking up the phone.

“How’d it go!” she shouted the second you pulled the phone to your ear.

Not bothering with greetings, it seemed.

“I can’t believe you would set me up with that monster,” you hissed, glancing back at the door. “What is the matter with you!”

“Forget Brock,” she groaned, “I’m talking about Bucky!”

You froze. “Wait, what? How do you know about Bucky?”

“Do you seriously think I would set you up with Brock Rumlow?” she gasped, feigning offense. “He’s a Grade A asshole and will hit on anything with legs.”

You rubbed at your temples. “Nat...”

“Ok, so... I may have set you up on a blind date, but it wasn’t with the guy I told you it was with,” Natasha explained, “and maybe I didn’t tell Bucky either, but I would bet next month’s paycheck that you two hit it off instantly and he got all worked up and jealous with Rumlow around. Did he come to your rescue? Bucky really loves being a hero...”

You shook your head, hand planted into your face and trying to process what she was telling you. Natasha wove people around her fingers in string and let them dance beneath her hands. She was perceptive and intuitive and seemed to know the people in her life better than most of them knew themselves; you included. Still, you couldn’t help but be impressed. She was so much smarter than anyone gave her credit for.

“You’re incredibly manipulative. You know that don’t you?” you said, though there was a teasing tone in your voice, a smile on your face and frankly, relief that she didn’t actually think Brock was someone you’d like.

“I like to think of myself as strategic,” she retorted, laughing.

“Yeah, well, wait until you hear how your ‘strategic’ plan let Brock get far too handsy with me.”

“Did Bucky punch him out? I guarantee he went all White Knight for you.”

“I hate you,” you laughed. “I hate you so much.”

You glanced up to find Bucky standing in the doorway, just watching you contently with a smile on his face. You chewed on your lip, looking away from him nervously as a blush rose in your cheeks, wondering how long he’d been standing there.

“Nat, I have to go, but I’ll talk to you when I get home, alright?”

“He’s in the room now, isn’t he?”

You could practically see the gloating smirk upon her face as she sat curled up on the couch and twirling a pen around her fingers. It was criminal how often she was proven right.

“Goodbye, Natasha,” you pressed, ignoring her protests and tossing your phone back into your purse.

“That the supposed friend that set you up with Rumlow?” Bucky teased, crossing the room to you and leaning against the desk. You settled in next to him and felt your heart skip a beat at how quickly he let his hand slip into yours, nervously biting on his own lip.

“Turns out she wasn’t setting me up with Brock at all,” you shrugged and when Bucky furrowed his brow in confusion you explained, “I think we have a mutual friend. Romanoff.”

Bucky started laughing at that, shaking his head, with a grit of his teeth. “Of course, she’s involved in this. I can’t believe she actually pulled off another double blind.”

“A what?”

“A double blind. Like in research studies when the participant and the researcher both don’t know if they’re in the treatment or control group,” Bucky clarified, unable to shake the smile from his face. “She’s done this before with my buddy, Steve, and his fiancé Peggy. She puts people in these situations she knows will lead to some kind of organic connection they never would have had otherwise. It takes your guard down, opens you up to something you might not otherwise see. I mean, think about it. Would you have ever stepped foot in this bar if you weren’t supposed to meet Rumlow here?”

“I think I could have done without Brock in general,” you laughed. “I was liking you all on your own before he even showed up. Though, I’ve never had someone fight for my honor before.”

“Wish it was under better circumstances, but I won’t say I’m against having an excuse to punch the guy.” Bucky grinned, stepping in closer to you, his hands sliding up your arms tenderly until the rested against your neck, his thumbs running over your jawline in soothing sweeps.

He sighed, his smile softening as he looked down at you, like he was memorizing the intricate details in your completion. “Is it bad to say I’m happy Rumlow isn’t a better guy? You knocked me out from the second you walked in this bar and if he was a decent guy, maybe you wouldn’t have even given me a second look.”

“I would have,” you said adamantly and when Bucky met your eye again, you could see the surprise lingering in his features. There was a trace of uncertainty, an insecurity you didn’t expect from a man so charming, so beautiful, and so incredibly willing to jump to your defense in the very second you needed him.

In a surge of courage, as his gaze flickered down longingly to your lips, you closed the space between you. Your hands clung to the fabric of his shirt, the hardened ripple of muscle beneath evident against your touch, and it took Bucky a moment to pull himself from the shock of it before he kissed you back.

Fingers raking against your scalp, he captured your lips in his, pulling your lower into his mouth and sucking sweetly enough to draw a moan from you before his tongue swept over it. You yanked him closer, tugging on his shirt, only find him pressed up against you with nowhere else to go.

With the lingering scent of alcohol in his clothes, you drank him in. Lips moving against one another, hands roaming and aching for more, and only pulling away when you were breathless and his lips were red and swollen and so impossibly gorgeous.

You met each other’s eyes, a laugh breaking through the both of you as you leaned forward against his chest, just caught up in the rush of everything that happened and the adrenaline in your veins that led you to this moment. Bucky’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, holding you securely to his chest and you felt his lips press gently to the crown of your head; a soft, delicate gesture that expected nothing in return.

“I’m a little annoyed I’ll have to thank Natasha later,” you teased, drawing another laugh out of him.

“I’ll happily do it for you, if you like,” Bucky offered, pulling back just enough to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I’ll throw my pride in the Hudson and thank her a thousand times if you let me kiss you like that again.”

“Yeah?” you giggled, leaning up to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips before you pulled away, leaving him wanting. “What about a date?”

“I’ll give you any date you want,” he replied quickly, seeking out your lips again as his arms wrapped around your waist again and pulled your feet from the ground. You broke away laughing and he pressed his lips to your forehead. “Just say yes and I’ll take you anywhere, give you anything your heart desires.”

“That’s a bold offer,” you commented, grinning at him.

“Not when it’s sincere,” he replied, sending you a wink that made you knees feel weak.

As he grabbed your bag for you and led you to the doorway, his gentle hold around your shoulders serving as lingering connection to you in sharp contrast to the way Brock’s touch was an act of possession, you leaned into him with every step. The soft vibrations of his laugh, the low tone of his voice, and the gentle touch of his hands caught up in your senses as he walked you home.

Your regret of leaving your apartment faded in an instant the second you first saw him and even now with his pace in line with yours and your arm wrapped at his waist, you ardently decided you’d deal with a hundred Brock Rumlows if it brought you to Bucky.

If it brought you to blue eyes and kind smiles.

Your knight in a black t-shirt and faded jeans.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #needcoffees2k

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pl-panda · 4 years

Text

The vines that bind us - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 || Next

-----

Until a trip to Gotham came knocking on the front doors

“I can’t believe Lie-la of all people managed to somehow get us the trip to Gotham!” Mari moaned with a mixed expression on her face.

Adrien, who was walking next to them, showed absolute disgust. “Technically, It was my father and I that did the heavy lifting. She really wanted to go to the Wayne Gala and…”

“What Lie-la wants, Lie-la gets.” The three finished in unison before laughing a bit.

“Don’t worry Mari-bear. I can promise you that this no good liar won’t get to ruin your return home.” Chloe pulled her best friend closer. Best friend. Much better than a servant. Who would’ve thought? “And we can even try to find your mom on free Saturday.”

“Yeah…” The girl with black-blue hair didn’t seem particularly cheerful at that.

“Now I refuse to have you making sad faces throughout the whole flight. You cheer up right this moment and that’s an order!” The blonde commanded.

“Yes, Maman-bear.” Mari giggled.

The three of them finally arrived at the rest of the class, who were already gathered around madame Bustier. Of course, Lila was bragging about a million different things, but the three paid her no mind. Adrien did his best to hide behind the girls, cherishing the last moments of freedom. Finally, Mari and Chloe had to step forward for their tickets. The blonde got hers without any problem, but for Mari there turned out to be none.

“I’m so so sorry Marinette!” Lila said with fake regret. “I must have accidentally miscounted the number of students… It must’ve been when I was helping those poor orphans. You know, at…”

“Sure…” Mari didn’t even try to act as if she believed her for a moment. When Lila scowled, realizing that it didn’t affect the girl, she smiled. “I guess Chlo, Adrien and I will have to go with the contingency plan number 1.”

“What?!” The sausage-hair shouted.

“Of course my Daddy would not send us to travel like peasants. We have tickets for the first class.” Chloe supplied, looking smugly. “We did plan to maybe sit with the rest of the class. What a shame…”

“Yeah, My dad also didn’t want me to travel anything less, but I convinced him to let me stay with my friends. Guess he will get what he wanted in the end.” For his part, Adrien at least tried to look apologetic. He didn’t try hard at all, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“But… But…” Lila tried to come up with something, likely a lie, to counter it. She didn’t have time as the trio handed their teacher the filled forms from their parents/guardians/Nathalie and proceeded to the plane. The tickets were personal, so she couldn’t do anything. The Italian girl came up with a lie to tell to the class, but it would do no good until they landed.

--------

“Did you see her face?” Plagg was rolling in the air while holding a giant roll of camembert.

“You were amazing my queen.” Pollen complimented.

“I still can’t believe your dad just… bought out the whole first class!” Marinette sighed.

“Phi! Daddy always gives me only the best. You should know it by now, Mari-bear.”

“Okay. Mari. You are the Gotham expert here. Any advice?” Adrien asked a bit more seriously.

“Gotham survival guide is probably unlike any other city.” She started. “The first rule is, believe it or not, run away if a person laughs too much or smiles too widely. The downside of living in the same city as the Joker is that most people don’t laugh in public. Secondly, never show that you are lost. Wherever you are, it’s exactly where you wanted to be. Finally, the third is to never flaunt your wealth.” She looked critically at Chloe before taking away her purse and lipstick in a golden case. “This,” She then pulled a mobile phone in a ridiculously sparkly case and popped it out of the cover, “this,” finally, she detached the golden chain on which the purse was supposed to be suspended and replaced it with a pre-prepared white one with copper clips, “and this must all go away.”

“Ridiculous! Utterly Ridiculous! Now it will totally clash with my comb!” Chloe complained.

“Oh no! How will you ever survive that?” Mari deadpanned. All three of them had another burst of laughter. After they calmed, Adrien started.

“Do you think it’s wrong that I want to bet which rule will Lila break first?”

“Ten macaroons she will say out-loud about money.” Mari threw.

“I raise, four tea parties she will start by asking for direction.” Chloe had a grin on her face

“Are you sure?” Adrien asked. When the blonde nodded, he shrugged. “Movie night and double popcorn bowl refill that she will do both in one conversation.”

“Hi, could you be so kind to point me to my exclusive hotel? You know, I’m staying at the penthouse of this luxurious new one.” Mari gave a quite good parody of Lilia.

“So to sum up, the pool is now ten Macaroons, Four Tea parties, and movie night with triple popcorn?” Chloe asked. When they nodded, she quickly noted it on her phone.

“Now, who wants a movie? I think they have the newest Thomas Astruck one.” Adrien pulled a disc from the container next to his seat.

“Good for me!/Go!” The girls said. Chloe, who was in the middle loaded it and the other two leaned onto her to watch together. The three were happy. Faintly in the background, there was knocking on the doors to their part, but nobody paid attention to very angry Liela and some classmates. For some reason, the doors were stuck and the blinder rolled down. Later if someone asked, Pollen would deny everything.

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

When the plane landed, the class was practically kicked out. The team walked calmly down the stairs, all of them having smug expressions. Lila wanted to comment, but a glare from Mme. Bustier shut her up quickly. Mari and co. would later try to guess, what got the crew so pissed at their classmates.

Once everyone was accounted for, the class made its way to the customs to retrieve their luggage. There was a small problem with Mari’s travel bag as it was apparently misplaced to the flight to Timbuktu, but luckily her true suitcase, which had her things inside, arrived safely. She giggled at the thought of custom office in Timbuktu receiving a bag full of Adrien’s old socks that smelled camembert.

Overall, the airport went mostly unproblematic. At least until they found themselves cleared and gathered in one place while Mme Bustier left to check on their bus. One of the men, wearing a dark blue suit started to laugh almost maniacally. Everybody immediately cleared away from him, out of sheer self-preservation. Lila must’ve decided that a show of kindness was a good way to regain class’ good grace. She was confidently approaching the man before suddenly Mari grabbed her and pulled her away. The designer might’ve despised the liar, but Joker… you don’t mess with Joker.

Of course, Lila used the chance. She faked falling on the ground and started crying crocodile tears. “Marinette?! How can you be so heartless? I wanted *sniff* to check on the man and you trip me?” Lila sniffled, eyes watering with crocodile tears.

“I might have saved your life genius!” Mari snapped. Joker was a really touchy subject with her. “Does the world Killer Clown mean something?”

“Don’t invent things, you bully!” Alya shouted. That seemed to break the dam and at once the class started to say awful things to Mari. A year ago, it would hurt her. Half a year ago, she would be sad. Now? Now she pitied them. Chloe didn’t, and she was ready to jump to protect her best friend.

“Ridiculous! Do you like… share a single brain cell? What if that man was…” she didn’t get to finish because Mme. Bustier returned. The commotion immediately calmed. By now the man stopped laughing and returned to talking with his friends.

“The bus is waiting. Come on children. Follow me.”

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

Arriving at the hotel, the class was split into different rooms. Of course, Lila tried to lie her way into some privilege, but Mari was too dead inside to care. The Jet Lag was killing her. At least she got some sleep on the plane. From the rumors she heard from the class, they didn’t because of Lila’s drama with the staff.

“Now I want you all to be ready here at eight a.m. sharp. A Wayne Enterprises representative will come here to explain the details of internships.” Mme. Bustier instructed them. This, for some reason, caused outrage in students.

“What do you mean internships?!”

“Wayne Enterprises?”

“Shouldn’t we be preparing to go to Gotham Academy or something?”

The terrible trio in the back had trouble holding back laugher. Adrien warned the girls about what his father planned, so they could all prepare. Gabriel Agreste, devious as he is, decided to punish Lila and teach Adrien something about running a company at the same time and using his connections to put the class up for an internship at WE. He did send the liar all the details, but she must have skimmed over the corporate jargon because the class was fed overexaggerated stories about what they would and wouldn’t do during two months trip.

Most parents were more than happy to send their children away from Paris for two months, especially since the Internship was free and the employment rate after it was quite high. WE kept quite a lot of the interns, if only out of habit. But perhaps it was mostly because the class has become a go-to place for the Akuma. Only Mr. Pidgeon and perhaps Gigantitan were akumatized more often. Mari actually picked up to cleansing their class weekly through a ritual she learned, otherwise there would be enough residual dark energy to power a demon portal. Not something one would want in the middle of a classroom.

“I was told you’ve all read the brochure provided and Lila summarised it for you.”

“I did!” The sausage hair defended. “Marinette must have told them some imaginary story about the trip!”

Immediately, several other people started to nod and confirm this. Chloe actually started to walk toward the liar almost red, but Mari grabbed the back of her blazer and held her in place. All the while she had a completely deadpan expression like it was normal for her (it was).

Mme. Bustier sighed. “Well, In that case, I will…”

“Excuse me, but shouldn’t we be going to sleep today already? We don’t want to be late tomorrow.” Adrien asked with an innocent expression, but there was some satisfaction hidden there too.

“Well… um… I…”

“We will be going then.” Chloe grabbed the key and led Mari to their room. Calline didn’t even question it. She wanted a pay raise after this.

-----------

The next morning, Mari was woken by a frantic Chloe

“Mari-bear! It’s already late! You don’t want to be late for your first day of Internship girl! It would be utterly Ridiculous!”

At first, the girl mumbled something, but once she finally processed everything she leaped out of her bed and started getting ready in record time. She was brushing her teeth, packing her purse, and tossing clothes at her best friend all at once. Once she had everything, she turned to see Chloe on the ground tied with a gray blazer. Mari just burst out laughing.

“How…”

“Ridiculous!” Chloe shook her head. “I demand you untie me this instant! We don’t have time for this!”

Once they dressed and did their hair, both girls were ready. Chloe now had a black button-down shirt, deep red blazer, and a matching pencil skirt. Mari also made her wear smart black stilettos (instead of her usual that were slightly more extravagant). The look was completed by a tablet in leather flip-over cover. Mari had a similar outfit, except her shirt was white and the suit was in dark blue. She opted for flat shoes to spare the embarrassment that was Marigold on heels.

“Ready to rock Gotham City?”

“Like you have to ask.” Mari smiled. There was something about the city of crime that made her feel safe and open up more. Maybe being on home turf gave her the much-needed confidence boost.

When Chloe tried to open the doors, she found them stuck. She was about to go on a rant about poor quality when Mari casually grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. There was a faint creaking sound as the mechanism gave.

“Um…”

“It must’ve been old,” Chloe said with a devious grin. “Nothing happened. Don’t you worry! I will deal with it.”

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

When the doors to the elevator opened and two girls strode into the lobby, their class was already pushing toward the exit. Adrien looked very much uncomfortable with Lila hanging off his arm, literally sinking her claws into him. He mouthed them a muted ‘later’. Alya stared at the girls with loathing.

“Ah, you are here.” Mme. Bustier spoke. “Lila said…”

“Whatever.” Chloe dismissed their teacher. “Aren’t we in rush?” The blonde practically seethed the last word.

“Yes, good to see that someone is responsible.” The teacher gave Mari a pointed look. Apparently, she still didn’t get over the fact that she resigned from the class rep position.

“But…”

“Drop it. She is not worth it.” Chloe whispered. “Daddy will take care of that once we are done.”

Mari just nodded. She knew Chloe was preparing a lawsuit against the school, but their hands were tied until they graduated or Damocles could try and undermine it. Both girls knew that no adult would help them with the lawsuit beyond Chloe’s father signing whatever dotted line she asked him to. That man was more whipped than a fresh can of whipped cream.

The ride to the WE was short and uneventful. Girls took up to gossiping in English, effectively limiting any eavesdropping. Mari spent most of the time tearing down the outfits of all the villains. She started with Riddler, more as a joke than actual rant, but then she somehow got onto this new guy Anarky. From there, she just kept on, smoothly sailing from one to the next. Even her mom got some shots. Mari still couldn’t stand how skimpy it was. Her rant carried over when they exited the bus and entered the WE. Security led them to a conference room, where they were told to take seats.

Mari guessed that it wouldn’t be Lila if she didn’t immediately start sputtering lies about how well she knew the building already because of her Damiboo giving her private tours (All while clutching Adrien like a leech). She didn’t have enough ducks left to give to try to expose Lila about several facts. Such as that Damian Wayne definitely wasn’t living with Bruce when he was five. Any Gothamite could tell her that. Bored, she returned to her rant.

She was nearing the end of the list and was very much engaged in complimenting Harley Queen for her recent change in wardrobe. She still considered it a disaster, but at least it was somehow human.

“Ekhm…” A voice broke her out of the rant. “Good morning. My name is Richard Grayson. You are the french class chosen for the internship program, correct?” When people nodded, he continued. Idly, Mari noted that Alya and Lila stiffened and suddenly stopped talking at all. “We reviewed the individual profiles and appointed each of you a mentor that will help you settle into your roles. As I read the names, please come forward so I can update your badges. Do carry them on your person all the time or we will have to take you to our human cloning facility.”

People stared at him.

“Okaaay… That’s that about jokes…” He sighed. “The rules will be explained by individual departments. Now, who’s up for a tour?”

People started to cheer at that and Dick smiled. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad?

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

It was that bad. Even worse. He knew from the background check that the class was both insanely talented… and borderline criminal. It was like someone de-aged the Rogues and put them in one class. The report called them Akuma class, which (if google is to be believed) meant demons. He questioned how they got accepted into the internship.

They only toured two floors when Dick wanted to tear half of them to shreds. He noted immediately that they were bullying the girl with black (slightly blue? Maybe it was dyed?) hair. What surprised him was that the teacher didn’t react. If he was to be honest, the girl and her friend slightly irritated him too. They kept talking and seemed to ignore him. It was not because they kept tearing down each and every bats’ fashion choices. Definitely not that. When they brought up Discowing he had enough.

“Ekhm. Excuse me, girls,” he stared at them. Both immediately stopped talking and looked at him. “Could you pay attention? I wouldn’t want any of you to waste your internship lost on our maze-testing floor.”

“There is no maze-testing floor in this building.” The blonde pointed out.

“And besides, we memorized all you’ve said.”

“Care to recall?” He heard several people groan at his pun.

“The first floor is most representative, where guests are welcome and low-level meetings happen. There is a separate kitchen for employers there that is always fresh on fruits. Don’t use the coffee machine there as it was only patched up and there is a high chance it will set itself on fire again. The…”

“Fine. You’re good. Still, I don’t appreciate the chatter.”

“They are always trouble!” A girl in bright pink colors shouted.

“Yeah! Why do you have to ruin this trip for Lila!?”

“You’re just jealous of her boyfriend!”

More voices like this came from the crowd of kids. Dick started to feel bad that he singled the girls out. It definitely gave the class a reason to gang up on them. And the teacher still did nothing! He sighed. What did HR think when they accepted them. He would have to look into it later.

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

Mari decided that she didn’t like Dick. Everyone in their class kept talking, but for some reason, he singled them out. For the rest of the trip, she made sure to pay as much attention as she could. There was this silent determination on her face. Chloe wisely also kept silent.

After the trip class was led back to the conference room where another employer handed out the identificators and folders containing their assignments.

“Keep the IDs on you at all times. As opposed to the ones you received, this won’t expire and are synched with your jobs, so you will have access to anything you might need. They are also mandatory to receive lunch in our canteen. When you get acquainted with your tasks, you can go to the level specified at the end of sheet one. Your mentor will meet you there.” With that, he left. Dick really needed to do some in-depth research on this class. Something kept icking his detective sense.

“Well, I’m going to the law department. Apparently whoever made the assignments knew my well.” Chloe bragged to her friend after opening the folder.

Timidly, Mari also opened her folder. She skimmed over what was inside and groaned. “Apparently, I’m interning as personal assistant to one Tim Drake.”

“They actually assigned you to the sleep-deprived coffee addict?” Chloe asked in disbelief.

“You know him?” She asked in surprise

“He and his brother ruined my daddy’s parties two years ago. They got into an argument that ended up with them wrestling over a cake. It took me weeks to get the cake out of my hair! Weeks!” The blonde summarized.

“oh…” Mari tried to hold back the giggles.

“Don’t laugh! It’s a serious matter! Do you have any idea how much work it takes to have such a perfect hair?!”

“Of course… cakehead.” The girl couldn’t stop herself.

“Ugh, you… you… plant leg.” Chloe said.

“Really?” Mari raised an eyebrow. “That’s the best you can come with?”

“Well, I usually have better things to do than thinking about good insults.” Still, Chloe hugged her best friend. “Be careful. I wouldn’t put it past The Liar to try and sabotage you somehow.”

“I’ll be careful. Wish me luck.”

-----

The elevator took Mari all the way to the highest floor. When the doors opened, she stepped int a large room with one desk. As soon as the doors closed, the woman who was standing there rushed toward her. The girl tensed for a moment but she reminded herself that there is no real threat.

“Oh finally! I was asking them to hire someone else for months!” She had a messed bun of red hair on her head and looked like she didn’t sleep in a week.

“But… I’m just an intern madame!” Mari tried to explain.

“An intern?” The woman paused her packing and stared at the girl with wide eyes.

“Um… Madame Sarah Jackson?”

“Yes. An intern…” She said in a disappointed voice to herself. “Ah! That’s no problem at all!” She started to tap on her Waynetech Tablet and after a moment she smiled. “There! You’re hired!”

“Wha…?!” Mari shouted, but was interrupted when Sarah pushed the tablet into her hand, followed by a large box full of documents and a small mug with a coffee bean pointing a gun at the reader and words ‘Your Coffee or your life!’.

“They are your problem now! Everything you need is in the box. I left detail about ongoing stuff and whatever you might need. Don’t call. I’m outta here!” She shouted before grabbing her personal belonging and leaping into the elevator.

“But…! But…!?” Mari shouted after the closing doors. She could hear a cheerful shout as the elevator left the level.

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

#maribat #miraculous ladybug #maribat au #miraculous lb #batman #dc #mlb x dc #Marigold AU #Mother!Ivy

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everyhowlmarksthedead · 4 years

Text

KEEPING UP WITH THE ARIZAS

Michael “Riz” Ariza x Reader

Chapter 6: “The first date: first attempt”

Word Count: 2.3k

Author comments: Warning of some angst, and I'm not even sorry. This work wasn't re-edited, so I'm sorry if you find grammar mistakes! I hope you all enjoy. Gif isn't mine, more or less 'cause I cut it to keep Antonio's part, but credits to the author.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 @chibsytelford @dazzledamazon @mara-mpou @sammskellington @gemini0410 @1-800-imagines @briana-mishell24 @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @leaalfred ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

“I can't believe you're gonna actually do'et”.

Your father appeared from nowhere, resting a shoulder on the door frame, cross-armed. He looked at you from top to bottom, rolling his eyes with a snort, while you put your makeup on point with a red lipstick. The rest was somewhat light, but you needed to highlight your lips, one of your best attributes.

“Do what, dad?”

“Trying to ask Riz out”.

“Why?” You inquired turning at him, with both hands supported on the edge of the sink, twisting your neck some inches to the right.

“'Cause he's my friend, my brother”.

“Then, I just have to kill you. Which is a good idea 'cause he could feel guilty for god knows why, so he would want to take care of me. Maybe live together at the ran—”.

“He's older than you. And not even his type”.

“The encouragement you give me… Wao, papá!”

“I'm trying to protect you”.

“Well, thank you. I don't need it, okay? I've been preparing myself since I have fifteen. And… shouldn' you let me commit my own mistakes?”

“Good. I don' wanna hear you cry after him laughing at this… bullshit”.

Those last words felt like a knife stabbing your chest. Almost five years working on it. Trying to be his friend, losing your ass even when he was simply breathing close to you, taking interest in whatever he could be doing (...). It wasn't only a physical attraction. You really found him very intelligent, funny, hard-working and loyal. And it could sounds bad, but sometimes you wished to be one of Vicki's girl, because of the much care he had with them. Almost five years working on it, arming yourself of courage, just to see how it burned among the flames of your insecurities at the end.

You raised your eyes subtly outlined, looking your reflection in the mirror. One minute ago, you were feeling stunning, amazing, out of this world, even sexy wearing a tight black dress over your knees and a heart shaped neckline. It was the first time you were dressing like that, trying to surprise him, being used to see you on your ‘rider outfit’ which is a cool one too. Now you felt ridiculous, with some painful lashes running under your chest, snorting because you knew your father was right. Taking off the makeup from your face with a wipe, your father put his head out the door.

“Are you re—? What are you doing? For god's sake, (Y/N), when I get to the party, there will be no beer! Those fucking prospects drinks more than the fuckin' Charlie Sheen on his day off”.

“I forgot I have an exam next week, leave to the clubhouse”. You just said, cleaning the red color covering your pinky lips.

“Mi amor, listen…” He raised a hand close to you, being stopped before he could touch you.

“Dad, just fuckin' leave! Okay? I'm fucking fine”. Interrupting him, you threw the wipe inside the sink with a sudden move. “I fuckin' get it. Your brother. Older than me. With interest in women, not in… in… I don' even know what the fuck I am”.

“Cariño...”

“A fuckin' clown, dad. That's what I am. A. Fucking. Clown”. You pointed out every word on air with your left forefinger.

“You don' need to be this rude”.

“Well, fuck you for breaking my fuckin' heart, instead of telling me ‘go, do it and if he doesn't want you, I'll hold you’. That's what a normal father would say to his daughter”.

“I didn' mean to hurt you”.

“But you did”. Turning at your father to face him, you took off the black dress raising it on air hanging it in your fingers. “I had to work at Bernardino's one month to afford it, and all the makeup you see here. From dusk till dawn, surrounded by creepy drunk old men”.

“I could have paid it for you”. He said then, with a guilty tone of voice because of everything.

“But, that's not the point, dad! I was trying to show Riz I can also earn my own jack”. You leaned towards the toilet where you left your huge Mayan's black shirt to wear it. “Go to the party, get drunk with your brothers, fuck some chick and have fun”.

Your father toured his incisors with the tip of his tongue, nodding in silence. After clean the mess in the bathroom and keep all your stuff there, you just lay down in bed hugging one of your big pillows. You were waiting for that weekend for five long days away at the university, as every week since you move out of Santo Padre to San Diego.

You didn't know you had keep it. You totally forgot it and finding it brings you bittersweet memories of that night and what happened the days after. Giving a spin over the black high-heels, putting well the tight dress on, you have a look in the mirror. Still fitting like a glove to your anatomy. And you're incredibly stunning in it. You like it, you have always liked. But you don't feel like you can use it. It's like if it is going to bring some bad luck to your relationship.

“Shit, you look like a cheap bitch, baby”.

You were so self-absorbed, that you haven't realized Riz was resting his back on the door frame.

“Yeah, I'm gonna ask Vicki to be one of her girls, 'cause you can't even find your small cocky”.

Teasing each other all the time it's a current mood. And you love it. Turning at him and focus all your attention in your husband, your eyes notice the way he tied his hair in a small black bun with some bristles falling by his temples. No matter how many years can pass away, he will run you out of air with the most minimal detail.

“Are we celebrating something?” Riz lifts up an eyebrow, licking his lips. Not being nervous, but excited about the idea. “I know every special date and today isn't one of them”.

“It's just a dress, Michael”.

“Really? I was about to ask you to marry me again”. He chuckles crossing both arms on his chest covered by leather.

“I bought it seven years ago, for a… date I should have had, and that never happened”.

Riz's jaw get tense from zero to one hundred, just in a second. His gesture turns into somewhat more confused, when he notices the sadness and the pain in your voice. You never told him about that night, but maybe could be a good moment to do it. Your eyes come back to your own reflect in the mirror, before taking off the shoes, heel against heel losing almost seven inches of high.

“One month working in a… bikers' pub, enduring bullshit, to buy it. But I stayed at home”.

Riz isn't sure if he wants to know how a guy broke your heart, but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know why you kept that dress, seeming it like the dead body of a bad memory. And you're talking about something that happened seven years ago. Before being together, so he's starting to make his own Netflix movie in his head.

“I was i—”.

“I don' wanna fuckin' hear it”. He just raises a hand slightly, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“I don' give a fuck about what you did seven years ago”.

His hardened voice gives you some chills around your back, knowing he's really angry because of what he's imagining. Something too far from reality.

“Take that fuckin' dress off”.

And that is the best confirmation to know the grade of his annoyance.

“Riz, I wanna tell you something”.

“Fuck, no! You have told me a million times that I was your first love. Your only one. But something happened seven years ago that broke your fuckin' heart and fucked you down, and you keep that… clothe you were gonna use with him. How the fuck should I feel, ah? So you lied to me and… what? I was the second choice?”

“You should be a film director”.

“Good, thank you for first hurting me and then fucking laughing in my face”.

“Could you plea—?”

“FUCK, NO, (Y/N)! I'm fucking disappointed right now!”.

For a second you could swear that your husband is about to cry, with his eyes getting reddened. You can feel the tension in his body, seeing how furious his chest grabs and expels the air.

“It was my father”. You say then, before giving him the opportunity to leave the room. “My father broke my heart, actually. Even if the date wasn't with him. It was me who didn't go”.

Now, he's a little more confused, turning at you after giving you his back some seconds ago.

“Actually, me and… the ‘other guy’... we never talked about having a date. I just… wanted to force it. I mean, he was my friend. The point was come to the clubhouse and maybe earn some time together, alone”.

Yes, you're making him suffer a little, but he never was clear with you. So it's a kind of payback. And you know exactly what he is thinking. Clubhouse, Mayan, friend, seven years ago: Angel. He has been your best friend since ever.

“I can't fuckin' believe you…” He whispers letting his head falling down, until his chest meets his chin, laughing between teeth bitterly.

“But my father told me that he would never notice me, as I wanted, as I wished it. Do you wanna know why?”

“Fuck, no. And fuck you, (Y/N)”.

You have to do a big effort to not break in laughter, walking closer towards him.

“Because he was his brother. He was loyal. And a little bit older than me. Apparently I wasn't his type either”.

“I'm fuckin' done with this… bullshit, (Y/N)”. He says then whilst moving his hands about to lose his mind, walking away from the main room, looking for his helmet to leave the house.

You don't move a single inch of your body, waiting just one second before raising your voice.

“But he finally noticed me, 'cause I broke a bitch's nose who was talking shit about him!”

Silence. You can't hear his heavy boots touring your home. Riz is standing next to the principal door, and you don't need to be looking at him to know it.

“That night when Coco was full patched! I was ready to go and ask him out!” You add dancing your hips from the left to the right slightly, waiting patiently for Riz to coming back. “I was mentalizing myself for almost five years to do'et! But I thought my father was right! And I decided not to do it 'cause… I was more scared of losing that friendship, than him breaking my heart”.

Even if that last sentence is recited something low, you're sure he has heard it, with his steps walking through the hallway right to the room.

“But… well, I finally got my date, but I didn't use that dress just in case it brought me bad luck. I was too in love, to ruin it for a superstition. And I kept it in a bag”.

Riz appears again with pursed lips and his dark eyes on his feet. A little ashamed because of his words, but still being mad because of you making him believe something it wasn't true just to tease him.

“And…” Taking some steps close to the Mayan, you grab the helmet to leave it above a chair, placing his hands on your waist after that. “I made him the love of my life, my best friend, my confidant, the prize of my good karma, my soulmate…”

“All that?”

“Nope, I made him a lot of things more. But those are the most important”. Traveling your hands to his shoulders and lifting up yourself on your tiptoes, you kiss your husband with all the love you feel inside your chest. Slowly, enjoying it.

Sometimes you forget how lucky you are of having Riz by your side, and sometimes he does it too, but you know you own the whole world being together. He's the most kind man of all. The most loving, pleasing and empathic husband you could ask for. Always working hard to make you smile, to make you feel like a goddess, to make you feel proud of what you two have. Michael lives for you, and you live for him.

Deepening the kiss a little more by straining his tongue between your lips, his fingers go up to your cheeks caressing them and pushing you closer to him, with his scent intensifying and flooding your lungs. His mouth molding perfectly to yours, as always, so slow that steal you a soft gasp tangling your hands on his wrists.

“I have never felt love for anyone it's not you, mi rey”. You say almost in a whisper, when you pull away yourself a second to take some air, touching his nose with yours. “And marry you for a second time sounds so good…”

“Change your clothes, mi amor”. Riz soughs, eyes closed, with a silky loud tone bristling your skin. “We're leaving”.

“To Las Vegas?” You sound excited as a five years old about to go to DisneyWorld for the first time, even if you're already married.

“You wanna marry me again?”

“I wanna marry you every day of my life, Riz”.

#mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans x reader #michael riz ariza x reader #riz ariza x reader #riz ariza #michael riz ariza #keeping up with the arizas

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bearsfakedthemoonlanding · 4 years

Text

Gender Queer: There’s a Few Memories that Stick to me that I’m Sure Don’t Mean Anything to Anyone Else

[Content warning: mild transphobia, drunk driving mention, mild homophobia, mentions of abusive relationship, F-slur used for self (second to last paragraph)]

I’m sixteen years old, sitting on the kitchen table while my mom tuts around in the kitchen. I haven’t come out yet, but I have cut my hair off. Julie Andrews pixie that my mom tried to fix, but it was too short to turn out anything but boyish. I think it’s starting to grow out, get a little shaggy. I didn’t have any idea how hair gel worked at that age. I was wearing baggy jeans and chucks and a green t-shirt that said “Meddle Not In The Affairs Of Dragons, For You Are Crunchy And Taste Good With Ketchup.” My favorite uncle got it for me. Mom is staring at me for a long time, and I finally turn to look at her and ask, what? what’s up? She doesn’t want to tell me, says I don’t want to know. I insist. She finally sighs and says, “Well, I was just looking at you, and for a moment I felt like I was looking at the son I could have had. That’s strange, right? I’m sorry.” She thought I’d be upset, like I didn’t know what I was doing, and while I felt bizarre it wasn’t because I was sad. It was because I was happy. She looked at me and saw a son, saw a boy, and something about that felt so right that I felt guilty. I shouldn’t have wanted it. I didn’t change anything, though.

Twenty-two years old. Work got out at seven-thirty, and I drove the hour and a half to a different time zone to the only gay bar within driving distance. Jackie’s in South bend. Or Vickie’s maybe. It’s dark, and I’m in a pick up truck and a black t-shirt. The city can be dangerous in certain areas and I’m anxious about everything I’m doing. Gay bars are different here than they are in Vegas. Still, I bolster myself up and go inside, walk with wide shoulders and heavy boots, trying to feel brave to be taken seriously.

It’s empty. The bartender is a gorgeous person with long hair and lipstick and rough hands. They laugh when I order a Seagram’s but oblige, and I torture myself trying to find a polite way to tell them how pretty they are. My not-yet-girlfriend texts me and tells me not to be such a baby, to have fun. I want to go home.

Then two people walk in, a man and a woman both shorter than I am, and they pass around a plate of vegan fudge that I’m dumb enough to eat even though it could easily be laced with something. I’m a disaster with weed, each and every time. I got lucky. The boy sits next to me with the girl on his other side, and she leans around him to flirt with me, hand on me knee and shoulder and neck, and he sits there and smirks at me. It’s not predatory. He doesn’t look at me the way I’m used to men looking at me, like I’m something pretty and easy and delicate. We arm wrestle. He leans his head on my shoulder. I feel like a man.

They dance with me, two more Seagrams and I’m no longer self-conscious, though I am blushing. She drags me around by the belt loops. He lets me put my hands on his sides. She pushes me against a wall, and kisses me neck, and he places a hand on my chest over my binder and seems happy to find it, which is not a response I’ve ever had before.

They tell me I’m the best of both worlds, half-way between a man and a woman, and that they’re bisexual and best friends and looking for someone to play with. I play for a while, safe there in the public eye and probably pissing off the regulars there for a quiet night. I tap out after four or five drinks and drive myself home, a little drunk, very unsafe, but absolutely glowing.

I’m eighteen years old, and in less than 24 hours I’ll be admitted to the hospital and put on a ventilator for pneumonia-- so obviously this memory is hazy. I’d gotten up at six that morning to get work done before school, I’d struggled through school, and I’d stopped at a gas station before work. There, I bought two doses of Dayquil, a coke, and a five hour energy. I slammed it all and clocked in to the job that I hated. It payed $6 an hour and was hardly enough to put gas in the beater truck I drove around everywhere.

I’m going through the racks, bending down to pick clothes up off the floor and rehang them. Goodwill was my personal nightmare. Every time I leaned over, my head spun and vision danced with black, and my heart would pound and skip so hard I was half-convinced I was dying.

Someone’s sweet little grandma drops something in front of me, and I stoop down to pick it up for her. She says, “Oh what a sweet young man!”

And the friend she’s with, another darling grandma, says, “No, no, that’s a girl.”

“It’s a boy.”

“It’s a girl.”

They argue back and forth, and I’m too dizzy and nauseous to be an active part of the conversation. I remember standing there doing my best to keep the floor from rocking underneath me while also glowing in adoration. I was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt under my smock, and my baggy navy blue school trousers. I was an enigma, and I was overjoyed.

After work I would go back to school for play rehearsal-- my part was small, unimportant, a Pick a Little Lady in the Music Man-- so I spent most of the evening on the floor between seats listening to my friends talk. I would get so tired, head spinning and heavy and eyes burning, that I would have to lay down. Every time I was horizontal, my chest would heavy and coughs from the bottom of my gut would overwhelm me enough to have me right back up and doubling over. Eventually, someone dragged me up to our director, who sent me home. I insisted I could drive. I don’t remember anything between talking to her and being at the doctor’s office the next morning, suffocating behind a face mask and half-collapsed in the waiting room.

He was terrible. Sneaky, passive-aggressive, physically aggressive. He was rude to waiters and condescending. God only knows how I was stupid enough to waste so much time on him, let alone give him any power over me. It started with a loss of virginity, when he offered blatantly and my dumb-ass brain told me “it’s now or never.”

It was terrible. Should have known from that first night, when I went over to watch movies wearing sweatpants (men’s section), boxer briefs, and a pull over sweatshirt (hers). He said, “you really dress like this, huh?” He’d only ever seen me in workout clothes at our college sport club.

The thing about bad men is that it doesn’t matter what your gender is, if you have a vagina that’s all they see you as.

We were out on a date a few months in, bowling at a casino after grabbing dinner. He’d said to dress up, so I put on my nice black jeans and a button up shirt. He was disappointed. We argued over who got to pay the bill. I won, and he snapped something about how he didn’t have to waste his money at least.

We went bowling. Every bowling date I’ve gone on with men (3) have been absolute train wrecks in totally opposite ways. This time, we spend the night at odds with each other, as he takes it all seriously and tries to give me pointers, and I do trick shots-- sliding on my knees and bowling belly-down on the floor and spinning around with my eyes closed. He thinks I’m ridiculous, but I’m having fun.

We’re walking back, and he pulls his hand out of mine and sticks it in his pocket. He says “We look like homosexuals,” and I’m baffled, because at 20 years old I might be butch but I’m still a girl. He says, “You walk like a man, and why are you dressed like that?” He tells me I ought to grow my hair out, or at least put some makeup on. He asks, “Do you ever wear dresses?” Asks me to try and put in an effort.

I bought a dress a few months later, and I showed it to him. He frowned.

When I look in the mirror in a dress, I see nothing but a boy in a dress. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but when you’re not thinking of yourself as a boy it feels rather disheartening. I had some weird hope that the dress itself would transform me into a woman. I think he did too.

I didn’t wear that dress again until my twenty-first birthday celebration with my uncle. He came in from out of town to waste money on a elaborate, drunken celebration. He has money to waste like that. I dragged one of my friends along, my roommate since sophomore year, and it was the most drunk I had ever been and she was a sweetheart about holding my hand and leading me around and adjusting my dress every time the straps slipped down or I spread my legs too far. Nothing makes me feel like a fag quite as much as wearing a dress. I still don’t know how to feel about that.

In a way, I’m glad that he never saw me as “pretty.” I’m glad I managed to be such a disappointment, and to crawl my way out of it with my life in tact and his pride rather bruised. He deserved nothing less, but his gross comment-- his confusion, disgust-- still makes me grin when I think about it.

I’ve taken so much joy throughout the years in other people’s confusion about me. At nineteen I used to proudly say that my gender was “confusion.” To be fair, I am rather confused by it. So are other people. And in its own way, isn’t that rather wonderful?

#honorable mention i'm 15 and tell my boyfriend i'm going to try jacking off #he says girls can't call it that #and i tell him girls and boys are the same thing anyways #and how does he know i don't have a penis #dating men has been a very interesting experience #especially since every one of them expected me to be a girl #sorry boys #trans masc #trans masculine #trans boy #transgender #trans #lgbt #queer #nonbinary #memories

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foreverbeingthunderbuddy · 6 years

Text

Just Say It [one-shot]

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Prompt: “Not to be dramatic, but I am going to die if we don’t do something … like now.”

Summary: Tony throws a Halloween party – the first ever for the reader. What to wear when you want to impress your superhero crush, Steve, but also want to hold on to your dignity? light, fluff, and one or two cuss words ;)

A/N: This is my piece for @starksparker’s 10k Writing Challenge! I’m so so sorry this is coming so late :// Prompt is in bold. Also first time I wrote for Steve so please don’t kill me :) Word count around 5,5k. Gif by @drunkromanogers .

Masterlist

Until you moved to New York, Halloween was never really a big thing for you.

Your little group of friends in your hometown never bothered throwing an actual party or attending one, it was always more like a coming-together while wearing cat ears and eat chips in candlelight kind of thing. Of course a scary movie would play on TV and you’d spend your night screaming at too many badly done jumpscares while your friends would laugh and talk about how badly done these jumpscares were.

You like to think you never went to a party dressed like a slutty bunny because you are better than that, but behind that carefully built wall of denial you know it’s because you never got invited.

So? There are worse things in life.

For instance, being invited by your boss Tony fucking Stark to come to his probably way-over-the-top Halloween party with no Halloween party-experience on your side whatsoever. Do people still go slutty these days or are scary costumes actually in now? Should you come alone or bring someone? Besides, for a party of that scale, do people even put on costumes or is that just an excuse to have another sinful fête (how May, your supervisor, always calls it) and everyone wears the usual glamour and glitz-attire?

Google doesn’t seem to be able to give a clear answer.

Another question. Assuming people actually go scary nowadays, what could you wear that would both showcase your funny, spontaneous side by committing to a creative, spooky outfit, and your sexy, I’m-single-too-must-be-destiny side by, well, wearing something sexy?

Even though sexy isn’t usually the style you feel most comfortable in, a party is a party and a party whose guest will be Steve “strongest BDE” Rogers calls for special actions.

“Before I forget, have you finally figured out your costume for the party next week?” Roxie asks and takes a sip from the cup filled with hot chocolate in her hands. Her dark eyes roam over your face curiously, eager not to miss the smallest hint of emotion. Roxie knows about your crush on Steve.

“Nope. Last night I had a drink, or four, and I thought it’d be super funny if I showed up as Captain America. With a shield and angry eyes and everything. But then I thought, maybe that’s weird to dress up as … Steve basically to impress said Steve.” Your last words hang in the air like a question and you see Roxie raise her eyebrows.

“Odd mating call, I have to admit,” She says and breaks into a grin but collects herself when you threateningly lift your index finger. “But of course, I, too, think that’d be a great idea. Or you don’t dress up as an Avenger when going to a party hosted by the Avengers. Just a suggestion.”

You sigh and look down into your own cup on the table in front of you. You’re sitting in your little kitchen, both gulping down hot chocolate like it’s water and listening to old songs playing on the radio.

She came straight from the hair salon to show off her now super short hair à la Danai Jekesai Gurira and you spent the last fifteen minutes admiring every single inch of it. And then you spent another ten minutes praising the white eyeliner she’s wearing that builds the perfect contrast to her dark skin and got all the details about the collection that “Never gonna buy anywhere else, Y/N, I’m serious”-eyeliner comes from.

“What if- I mean, we know Steve lived in the 40s right, so what if you went all retro and dressed up as someone from the fourties or fifties? That’s trendy nowadays and you like old stuff, right?” Roxie asks and you don’t miss the teasing sparkle in her eyes.

“You like old stuff?” was the exact question she asked the moment you told her you fell for Steve Rogers. She didn’t intend to be mean, she just wanted to provoke you out of your Finally-we-have-world-peace, trance-like state that you were in during the first weeks of having a thing, a huge thing, for him.

“Isn’t he like a hundred years old?”

“Um, no, I mean, uh- no. He didn’t age, Roxie, not his fault he was frozen.”

“….. Imagine the diseases he could have. I’m sure a hundred years ago diseases were different. I don’t think our modern bodies are made for 40s’ STDs. You could die.”

“Um, I don’t think our bodies are made for any kind of STD but that’s not the point.”

She has admitted she finds him kinda hot, too, but she’s too proud to go any further than that. Sometimes you wish you could read her mind. Or more accurately, all the time.

“Yes, I like old stuff. Old music and clothes, everyone does. It’s called vintage,” You say and try to distract her before she gets the chance to start philosophizing about Steve’s STDs again.

Alleged STDs. She has no proof he actually has them and you’re definitely not going to tell her that he probably was a virgin until he woke up in the modern day. Again, no proof, but people talk and people speculate, especially people who work for Stark in the Tower or Upstate Facility and who regularly pick up a couple of words and sentences here and there, making six out of two and two.

You probably shouldn’t believe anything that gets exchanged in the daily Stark Industries gossip meetings in the hallways and kitchens but … believing Steve didn’t bang his way through the country in the 40s does help calm your jealousy a bit. A tiny bit.

You know he had girlfriends since starting to work for Tony but a girl can ignore that and wait ‘til she’s home and has a glass of wine in her hand before she turns to google to figure out what the “Ten Signs He Likes You” are. Preferably, there’s a phone in her other hand and her best friend (Roxie) on the line.

Cliché, you know, but … there’s a reason why these things are cliché, they’re just too fitting. And relatable. Roxie disagrees.

“But just imagine. You, in a 1940s vintage style tea dress, grey tartan, short sleeve. Black T-Strap Pumps, but sexy. I’m talking five inch heels. You’re going to a Halloween party, not church. Ooh! And one of those little hats that women wore on the side of their heads. And red lipstick, heavy eye make-up, some rouge. Did they have anything else? A highlighter?”

“You look remarkably excited about your vintage ideas for someone who doesn’t like old stuff,” You comment but can’t hide a smile. Your best friend is a stylist first and a lawyer second. Only the latter professionally, but the former at heart. If you let her, she would give you a complete make-over. Needless to say, the thought alone scares the shit out of you. She is just too unpredictable.

“Y/N, maybe try to contribute to this brainstorming, would you, I’m trying to get you somewhere.”

*****

You shouldn’t have made brownies. What made you think bringing brownies to a Tony Stark party was a good idea? You are going to make a fool out of yourself if you walk in there with two loads of self-made goods in your hands. What made you think this was “cool and spontaneous”?

Ah, yeah, right. Ally told you this year’s party wouldn’t be held in one of Tony’s mansions or the Tower. Due to some mild excesses last year, Tony – and the various authorities involved, yikes – has decided to keep it small and personal this year. His words, not yours. The party will be at someone’s apartment in New York where you live, but rumour has it that that someone is loaded as fuck, so apartment probably doesn’t apply entirely.

Read: a gigantic loft.

The fact that there aren’t going to be as many people here as you thought, makes you a little nervous because your anonymity and option of turning invisible, if everything gets too much, go downhill the minute you step through the front door. Hard to disappear without leaving if there’s hardly any space to disappear into.

Why the brownies?

How Ally put it, it sounded like this is a cozy, little get-together among friends and bringing something is usually what you do when you’re invited to something like that, right? Right?? Roxie talked you into it, to be honest.

“Men love those!” She screamed whilst wildly pointing at the freshly baked goods on the counter, “Everybody loves chocolate caramel layer scares, trust me. He won’t know what’s happening to him.”

Ha. You can guess what’s going to happen to him if he tries more than one of these: diabetes. Not that you told her that.

It’s fine, Y/N, it’s gonna be fine, just drop the brownies on the diamond counter and never get near the kitchen again, so no one will suspect any connection between you and these health risks.

You take a deep breath and one last look at the intimidating building in front of you before you start walking to the entrance. It’s been a while since you last wore heels, but thankfully Roxie doesn’t just understand style but also comfort and picked a pair that looks and feels good. You shouldn’t get too optimistic, though, the evening hasn’t even begun yet.

Before you reach the glass door, you see your own reflexion in the dim street lights.

Your outfit is exactly what she envisioned in your kitchen, grey, very 40s, very femme fatale and tight on the right places. She even got you one of those “little hats women wore on the side of their heads”. Her sister Florence took care of your make-up which means you have your face all done up, smokey eyes, lashes who aren’t exactly your own, dewy cheeks and serious red lipstick.

To add a tiny scary factor, Roxie and Florence put some fake blood on your stomach area to make it look like you got stabbed, some on the side of your head where the hat sits – “Someone crashed the hat needles into your skull, Y/N, and blood is dripping down your temple” – and on one corner of your mouth.

You wish you could have taken Roxie with you as your plus one, but Ally said no companion – small circle. Well, judging by the music already coming from a window on the, what, sixth floor (?) small circle means something entirely different to Tony. Who knows how many people he invited.

You step into the building and walk to the reception. Yes, you heard right. Reception. This is going to be fancy, you can tell. Doesn’t help your goddamn nervousness. The box in your hands gets heavier and heavier the longer you hold it and there’s one needle attaching the hat to your head that just pokes into your scalp like it’s holding on for dear life. You need to fix that as soon as you find a bathroom.

Nothing in this lobby hints at the ongoing party or its theme, everything looks as sterile as possible. Not Tony’s style, admittedly, but you guess he had trouble with the neighbours, so he refrained from decorating everything.

“Good evening, Miss, can I help you?” The man behind the desk asks and looks up to you over his round little glasses. Is that a smile or just a coincidental shadow illusion on his face?

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, I was invited to Tony Stark’s Halloween party,” You answer (um look at my costume?) and try another smile that doesn’t get reciprocated, instead he nods and pulls up a piece of paper that looks like a list. Oh, there’s a smiling pumpkin candle on his desk, right next to the little box of paperclips. Mister Dead Inside rebelling against the stuck up neighbours, what a nice touch.

Within a few seconds he finds your name, puts a check mark behind it and meets your eyes again with a sober look on his face.

“The elevator is over there, the party is on the fifth floor, 1-0-3-1 is the code for tonight. I hope you’ll have a very nice evening, Miss Y/L/N.”

I hope so, too.

You thank him and walk to where he pointed, punch the numbers into the little keyboard on the wall and step into the opening elevator. The last thing you see before the doors close is him pulling out what looks like another pumpkin candle from one of his drawers and positioning it on his desk.

There’s no music coming from any speakers in the elevator during your ride up, but there’s definitely music coming from outside the elevator, growing louder and louder the higher you get. Hrrr, your pulse really has no business speeding up like that. It’s not like you’ve never been to a party.

You’ve just never been at a party smaller than Tony’s huge orgies (basically) and therefore never got the chance to talk to Steve with a champagne glass in your hand and no “I have to go save the world now, sorry, dear” between you two. All you know is Business Steve, stern eyes, determined eyebrows, important stuff to do. You have no clue what Private Steve is like. And that’s … kinda scary.

What if Private Steve is a douche? No. He isn’t. You don’t need to know him to know that. But what if Private Steve is boring and stiff (hmm) or … what if he likes to collect stamps or miniature trains? Is there a bigger mood killer in this world than collecting miniature trains and would you be able to stand above it?

Roxie would be of great help right now, it’s a shame you couldn’t bring her.

The doors open and reveal an open, dark hallway that is decorated with spider nets, candles, two skeletons, fake blood on the wall, a couple of pumpkins, a crooked mirror and various dusty boxes and murder equipment. This looks surprisingly awesome. After what you saw in the lobby, your expectations fell to a humble level but this is really cool.

At least a dozen voices can be heard from around the corner and the music is a notch too loud for your liking. You hesitate for another second before entering the apartment and slowly walk around the corner. What you see definitely has Tony Stark written all over it.

Take the decorations from the entrance and multiply it by a hundred. You have never seen this many different candles, and someone really had a blast with the fake spider nets. There is even a broken chandelier hanging from the ceiling, adding to the dim, mysterious atmosphere produced by the candles and blinking chains of lights.

It looks like a great party.

Oh and the people? As diverse as it gets. From vampires, werewolves and witches to pirates, various animals including a giraffe, to cartoon show characters, murdered people, injured people, angry people, to clowns, zombies, princesses, nuns, nurses, monks, angels and devils, the KFC guy and oh, is that one-armed Spongebob?

Looks like people go scary, sexy and funny. Questions answered. Time to drop off the brownies that are still in your hands and that feel like two hundred pounds at this point. No one seems to notice you as you walk past the Power Rangers and follow Ernie and Bert into a hallway that hopefully leads to the kitchen.

It doesn’t. It leads to another hallway with several closed doors which could be bedrooms. Ah. Ernie and Bert want to make out. Your bad. You turn around and walk back to the gigantic living room that in itself looks like a loft and try to make out the way to your admired location.

“Am I having hallucinations or did the 1950s just arrive at my party?” A voice suddenly asks and you jump, not expecting the noise next to you. The person who the voice belongs to turns out to be a black Aladdin, open vest showcasing abs and everything, completed by silver eyeliner and a fake wig to get the typical 1001 Nights Prince’s hair but doesn’t quite fit the rest of his appearance. But who are you to judge a dedicated man’s Halloween costume at his own party?

“Yeah, that actually might be a hallucination because I don’t represent the 50s, but the 40s,” You say and smile, just as Albert Einstein walks past you. Something to tell your grandkids about.

“Oh, I’m sorry M’lady, I got the decade wrong but the costume looks, um, fetching.”

Is this really how people talked in the 40s? Probably not. You laugh and feel a little of your nervousness go. Only a little, but still.

“So this is your party? Can you tell me where the kitchen is then?”

“Over there, next to the skeleton on the wall and the bloody unicorn. Thank you for bringing something, Miss 40s, I really hope this is dessert.”

“It is. Brownies,” You say and watch as Aladdin punches the air in joy.

“Nice! I’m glad Tony invited you, no one else brought Brownies yet. Speaking of, Tony should be here somewhere,” He informs you and roams the crowd.

Oh, please let him be Genie! Please let him be Genie, God, please!

Tony Stark topless in blue body paint and a little ponytail on the top of his head is something that would make the whole stress worth it.

You scan the room and look for Tony but you find someone else. Steve. Standing with a small group of people, a beer in his hand, he looks too beautiful to handle. So much about getting calmer.

“Okay, I’ll bring these to the kitchen, thank you!” You quickly announce and start to move.

“It was my pleasure, a lady in distress, how could I not help? The royal court has raised me to be a Prince, not a dizzard,” Aladdin proclaims and tips his fedora- you mean, his little hat. Didn’t Aladdin grow up on the street and only got access to the palace when he met Jasmine? This Aladdin here either forgot his own origin story or had more than a couple of drinks already.

While dodging guests, you walk over to the skeleton and the bloody unicorn (another guest) and enter the kitchen. Having a will of steel, you didn’t once look at Steve or check out his outfit. Like a powerful queen.

You walk around the kitchen island and put the box on the huge counter (not diamond by the way) and start unpacking. It looks like a lot of people brought some stuff, thankfully, and you place yours at the dessert side of the buffet. There are a couple of vampires with you in the room, but suddenly you hear more people walk in behind you.

“… like it’s the worst, Abe.”

“If anyone makes another theatre joke to my face, I think I’m actually gonna shoot someone,” A deep voice answers and you turn around.

Abraham Lincoln and a zombie nurse are deep in conversation while the nurse pours glasses of bowle on the kitchen island for them. You need a couple of seconds to recognize them as Mark and Jess from your department.

“You chose the outfit, Mark- um Abe, so you gotta live with that now. Just suck it up like a real man and get drunk with me. I never drank with a president before,” She says and hands him his glass. That’s when she notices you.

“Y/N, hi! Good to see you! Nice costume, are you … I don’t know who you are. Someone from the 60s? A celebrity? Meryl Streep?”

Did she just say 60s? Wait, did she just say Meryl Streep??

“Um, no. I-“

“Jess, why would she be Meryl Streep, she looks nothing like her, look at the hair. There were other actresses besides Meryl in the 60s, by the way. Also, I don’t think Y/N is going for the 60s, I think she is going for first World War,” Abraham Lincoln muses and takes a sip from his cherry bowle.

1910s definitely wasn’t what you envisioned.

“That’s why she is all bloody, because she served in the war and got killed by a grenade splinter in her chest,” He continues and seems very sure of his ability to identify vintage fashion.

“Women didn’t fight back then,” Jess retorts and pushes a strand of red hair out of her face. Even if women had served in the World War, they wouldn’t have worn a dress and heels. Time to solve the mystery.

“I’m a lady from the 40s and I got brutally murdered by my unfaithful husband who didn’t want to pay for a divorce.”

“Makes sense.”

“At least you got the decade right, Abe,” She says and pinches Mark’s side who squinches his eyes at her comment.

“The first World War wasn’t in the 40s, that was the second one. Did you leave your brain at home tonight?”

Geez.

“Y/N, by the way, Steve was asking about you.”

What.

WHAT.

Your eyes grow wide as you stare at Jess.

“He was?”

“Yup. Wanted to know if you’d be here, too, ‘cause he had overheard Ally telling you about Tony’s invitation. I said I didn’t know and that you’ve never been to Tony’s Halloween party before, so who knows if you’d be going.”

Yeah, because you’ve never been invited before but that’s the details. Steve asked about you!! Is this even real?

“I, um, okay? Cool. Well … I’m here. Um … do you know why he asked?” Okay, can your voice sound any more unstable? Try to keep your cool, for god’s sake!

“Nope,” She simply says and eyes you curiously. Poker face! Poker face!! You smile.

“Okay.”

Short silence.

“Wow, Y/N’s got a thing for Cap. That’s cute.”

“Mark!”

“Jess, I’m Abraham Lincoln, please respect your presid-“ A rather violent punch against his shoulder cuts off his sarcastic remark.

At that moment, a small group of people walks in and to the dismay of your previously relatively steady heartbeat you see Steve with them, now being nerve-wreckingly close. The kitchen seems quite crowded now.

Did he dress up as Han Solo? Heart be still!

Before he can catch you staring, you quickly turn back to face the counter and pretend to be occupied with inspecting the cover of the box you brought the brownies in. Oh, click-closure, interesting. But is it purple from both sides…?

From the corner of your eye, you see someone push in right next to you, and you don’t need to look up to know who it is. You’d recognize that cologne anywhere. You dare a glance to your left and realize that Steve has his back to you and is talking to a fantastic-looking blonde in a Super Woman costume.

It’s easy to see that every single woman in this room and a couple of dudes are subtly staring at Captain America and you can’t blame them.

He doesn’t notice you and you think you’d get away when, on the other side of the room, two of your co-workers in sexy Harry Potter costumes (Hufflepuff and Slytherin) come up to the kitchen island. Hufflepuff sees you, claps her hands and laughs, getting everyone’s attention.

“I didn’t think you would come!”

Slytherin whistles approvingly at your costume and excessive make-up just as Steve turns from having his back to you to looking at you. His expression is kind of friendly when he turns, surely because he’s having an inspiring discussion with Wonder Woman, though he also looks curious to see who Hufflepuff is yelling at, or at least that’s how it seems to you. The minute his eyes meet yours, he freezes and stares.

“Look at you!” Slytherin calls out and grabs an empty glass to fill it with bowle, “That dress is beautiful, so retro, I love it. 50s? You should come to work looking like that, no wait, we should all come to work looking like that. Every Wednesday. We’ll make it our Mean Girls-inspired theme day. Minus the fake blood of course.”

You want to run. You don’t want everyone looking at you.

“You have no idea how long I have waited to hear those words,” Hufflepuff comments and goes for her own glass, “I’m a sucker for everything vintage. It’s so cute.”

“I’m actually a lady from the 40s, whose, um, whose husband cheated on her and now doesn’t want to pay for a divorce, so he, uh, killed me,” You explain, now not so sure about your costume idea anymore. You also try to avoid Steve’s beautiful eyes which are so painfully close and they are looking at you! One might think you never had a boyfriend before, it’s pathetic.

“Ooh, drama! I like that,” A guy who you don’t know says, “Trouble in paradise?”

Trouble in paradise? Does he think you had beef with your *non-existent* boyfriend and now you went for Murdered Wife? That’s something Roxie would do, no doubt.

“No, just liked the idea.”

The general attention in the room moves away from you and the little groups get back to their own conversations.

You chance a look at Steve out of the corner of your eye and see he’s still staring at you, no longer frozen. There is activity behind his eyes, lots of it. Just nothing you can understand. You stop trying to look at Steve without looking like you are looking at Steve and take a step forward.

“Can you pour one for me, too?” You ask Hufflepuff and she does as you ask. Steve’s gaze burns into the backside of your head. Why isn’t he saying anything? He never seemed shy around you.

The music in the living room changes into a different song and a Pink Power Ranger shrieks and pushes against the pirate next to her.

“Let’s go dance! Please!”

“No, let’s just stay here for a while.”

She sighs and looks annoyed, as far as her body language tells you because the mask covers her face completely. All of a sudden, you feel a heat at your back, like someone came up behind you and you think you know who it is. For the sake of your reputation – ‘cause you’d definitely ruin that if you turned around now and stuttered like a horse – you keep your back to him and hold on to the surface in front of you.

“We’ve been standing around all night. I need to move!”

The pirate doesn’t answer and demonstratively takes a sip from his cup. You do the same and listen to the music blasting through the apartment (Steve has moved to stand next to you now), all while ignoring the tension between the two of you in the air.

The music goes into the chorus and the bass booms.

“Not to be dramatic, but I am going to die if we don’t do something … like now.”

“Sarah, if you want to go dance, go.”

Seriously. You start to grin at her childlike crossing of the arms.

“Y/N.”

The blood in your veins freezes at his voice, so close, so him, captivating you instantly although you try not to let it show. You turn your head, still smiling, and look at him. You barely smile around him, let alone at him, because you are usually too nervous but he took you off-guard this time. Then you realize where you are, only a few inches away from Steve fuckin’ Rogers, and your smile dies on your face.

He is still staring at you, but now he is staring at your mouth.

You feel your knees get a bit weak.

The tension gets unbearable, so all you have in mind is ESCAPE. You turn away and attempt to walk around the kitchen island when Steve grabs your wrist.

“Hang on, Y/N,” He says.

He pulls you back gently and you involuntarily get close again, head tilted up to meet his eyes but immediately regretting it because how are you going to get out of this situation now?

“Hm?”

“I like your outfit. Been a while since I saw someone dressed like that.”

Roxie would high-five you now if she was here.

“Thanks.”

“I was actually … hoping to see you here, I-“

“Oh my god, who made these brownies?!” Someone cries out next to you and both of you turn your heads to the side. Albert Einstein stands at the counter, eyes huge, one of your brownies in his hand and his mouth is chewing wildly.

“Me,” You inform him and hesitantly raise your hand.

“These are unbe-fucking-lievable. I’m in love. Everyone please leave me alone now, I need some me-time.”

You smile at him, what a nice thing to say, especially from a physicist that legendary.

You look back at Steve and realize he is watching you again, this time a small smile plays around his lips. Seeing a Private Steve Smile up-close creates a tingling flutter in your belly and kind of detaches you from reality for a second. Where are you again?

“Y/N, what did you put into th-“

“Okay, that’s it,” Steve declares, interrupting Hufflepuff, lays one arm around your waist and starts to move, so you have no other option than to follow him. “I can’t even have one solid conversation with you without anyone interrupting.”

You don’t say anything because you’re way too overwhelmed by the sudden physical contact. He has never really touched you before, aside from shaking your hand or platonically laying a hand on your shoulder, and now you don’t really know how to react. The wild beating of your heart doesn’t help the matter.

He guides you out of the kitchen and you find yourself standing in the loud living room. Pink Power Ranger is dancing like there’s no tomorrow and if this wasn’t such an important moment, you would laugh. Are you being dramatic or just needy?

“I mean, I’m sure the brownies are great, but … well,” He says, arm still around your waist, blue eyes looking down at you, his smell has long catapulted you into a Steve-induced trance, “What I was saying is, I’m glad you’re here because- actually I was trying to approach you at the Tower this week but you’ve been busy and I didn’t want to interrupt, and … well, I was wondering if you want to go out-“

“Han Solo and Lady 40s, arm in arm in my living room! Never thought I would see that happening,” Aladdin booms a few steps away from you. Is this night even for real? Since when have you been so popular??

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Steve bursts out, grabs your hand and drags you past Aladdin into a hallway. You shoot the host an apologetic look but don’t bother stopping the grin on your face. This is kinda funny, not gonna lie.

The hallway is empty and there seem to be no other horny guests so far. As soon as he knows the air is clear, he turns around to you and moves way into your Personal Space (like always, it seems), his beautiful blue eyes locking on yours.

“What I was trying to say is-“

“Hey, Steve my man-“

“You better piss off now, Carl, or I can’t guarantee for anything anymore!” Steve growls at Carl, who just appeared behind him, without even looking over his shoulder.

At this moment he sounds so threatening that you can’t help but wince a little, your eyes grow huge as you watch Carl do a 180 and walk into the direction he came from. Your gaze flickers back to the man in front of you and it’s obvious he is trying not to lose his temper – a trait you never thought he had in him, losing his temper, you mean.

A small muscle in his jaw twitches and his eyes look unusually dark while they stare at the corner of your mouth, so you try a smile. At that, his face changes and he looks up into yours.

“You wanted to ask me something?”

Phew, who would have thought you would be that fucking courageous. Roxie won’t believe this.

“Yes.”

He gets even closer, so you retreat until your back hits the wall, and he puts his big hands against the surface next to your shoulders. Caging you. It’s just that it doesn’t feel like it. He could show you a way out and you would still stand glued to this spot.

“Before anyone gets in the way again, I’m gonna make this short. Do you want to go out on a date with me?”

****

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jamesbvck · 6 years

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change your mind | one

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Modern AU, High School!Bucky) Summary: Senior Year: the last year to be a somebody or a nobody. A chance to fall in love, ace that final exam and make memories. After a terrible first impression, Bucky makes it his mission to fix the mistake he made with the new girl. Will they get their chance? Warnings: swearing, teen drinking, smoking, mention of drugs A/N: Hello! Welcome to a new Bucky story! A few notes: this story is totally meant to have a cheesy, extra teen movie vibe. Also, Bucky has short hair in this fic. Feedback in encouraged!

CYM MASTERLIST | NEXT

Forty-five minutes outside of New York City sits a quaint town called Valhalla. The oak trees are tall and mature, the rows of houses sit one by one identical to the next. Banners hang in store windows exclaiming the town’s pride and joy of their local high school football team. Neighbours are friendly and smiles are bright. This was your new home, at least for a little while.

The final moving box was placed in the corner on top of an old dresser that had been passed down through generations. The large bay window streamed in afternoon sunlight and warmed the room. This was it, another new beginning. You were used to it by now; new town, new school, new people to stare at you in the hallways. You weren’t a stranger to introducing yourself over and over again, retelling your story of how you had been now to five schools in seven years. No place was truly a home though this time your mother promised this new job of hers was a means to an end. You wanted to believe her, truly you did, but the consequence was that it truly didn’t matter. You were going into your senior year of high school and any friends you could hopefully make would move off to college and disappear. It was bittersweet.

A slow, deep breath exhaled through your nose as your eyes explored the room. It was forest green, not your ideal colour so painting was on the to do list. For now it was unpacking and getting familiar with the neighbourhood. Your packing mainly consisted of unpacking t-shirts and mostly laying on your bed with your phone. You decided that perhaps it was best to take a walk. Your mother was busying herself with kitchen boxes and hummed along to Rick Springfield. The doorbell chimed through the home. Your mother perked up in curiosity, hurriedly making her way to answer the door.

Neighbours, you thought. And were correct. Your mother loved meeting the neighbours.

She welcomed them inside, already there was laughter and smiles. You sighed hearing your name being called. This was cake walk but you weren’t necessarily ready to meet people today after you had driven days from Indiana. So, you emerged from the kitchen.

“There she is!”

In the makeshift living room stood three individuals with welcoming smiles on their face. They looked like a family from a catalog, prim and proper.

“Sweetheart, our neighbours have kindly stopped by. These are the Carter’s: Arthur, Polly and their daughter Peggy. She’s goes to Valhalla.”

Here was the thing about being new: you had to be open to people or else it was going to be hard to adapt. High school was hard enough especially bouncing around from state to state, but there was always one person that could make it worthwhile. So you plastered on your most friendly smile and waved to them. The Carter’s waved in return and Polly Carter began to speak.

“It’s always nice to have new people in the neighbourhood. The previous homeowners were a little less than kind.” Polly commented with a pristine British accent. That caught you off guard for a moment but her voice was soothing.

“Why don’t you show Peggy around?” Your mother was beaming. She liked when you had friends around. She always wanted you to have new experiences.

You nodded and Peggy followed you. It was a quick tour through to the kitchen and a glimpse of the backyard before you took Peggy upstairs: mom’s room, bathroom, tiny guest spot and then, finally, your domain.

“I’m guessing you didn’t paint your room this horrendous green colour?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Absolutely not.”

“Good. I would have questioned your sensibility.”

Peggy offered to unbox your books as you continued with your clothes. She was terrific help alphabetizing the titles and making sure it was pleasing to the eye. You hadn’t met anyone like Peggy before; she was smart, humourous with hints of sarcasm and she seemed like one tough cookie. Not to mention her beauty was incredible. She dressed in soft pink structured shorts with a white blouse that had the tiniest black polka dots on them. Her brown hair had soft waves and with a beret clipping back bangs. Her lipstick even matched her shorts.

“Five schools in seven years?” Peggy’s perfectly arched brows nearly rose to her hairline as she glanced over her shoulder. “That’s exhausting.”

“It’s not at bad as it sounds.”

It wasn’t, not really. You never got too attached to things to begin with. The only thing constant in your life was good music, books, and movies. Sure, the packing and driving across state lines was taxing but it didn’t kill you.

Peggy finished with the book boxes and you finished folding the last t-shirt. You made a good team and thanked your new friend for helping you out.

“Do you think you could show me around? I was going to go out and explore before you and your parents arrived.” You never had a tour guide in new place before. You sort of just went with the flow and read whatever you could online. Peggy agreed, expression vibrant as she nearly pulled you out the door.

The rows of lookalike houses ended at a park with a jungle gym and splash pad. Children were running around and laughing, soaking in their last few days of summer. On paper and in person this town was shaping up to be something from a novel you had once read: colourful, lively and welcoming.

“I was an exchange student freshman year. My parents thought it’d be a great time for me to explore another place. At first I didn’t want to leave home, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to make friends and fit in,” Peggy told her story. “Luckily I’ve been able to become friends with some lovely people, and my parents had decided to move to America as well.”

Peggy’s dad worked for a large corporation that had headquarters in New York, California, England and France. She had lucked out in being able to stay and probably live through a high school experience. You admired her for that.

You and Peggy walked in a loop and found the quickest route to your new school: Valhalla High School, home of the Panthers. The school was exceptionally large from the outside and from what you could see their football field was top notch accompanied with a scoreboard and a vast metal grandstand for spectators. You had read it was a football town, state champions five years in a row. Impressive, really. There were a few boys out in the field tossing the football around with one of them howling about something. Your eyes lingered on the old 1940s architecture for another moment.

“I was terrified when I first walked in those doors,” Peggy caught your attention. “I wished I had someone to help me navigate, so I always said I would help someone who was in my shoes. Valhalla’s a great school with some good people. You just have to weed out the dim ones. I’ve already done that for you.”

You laughed. That might have solved some of your issues but you still had to deal with the other ninety-five percent of people that attended the school. But you were thankful, hopefully they would like you like Peggy seemed to.

It truly turned into a friendship between you and Peggy. All week she showed you her favourite spots like the bookstore she liked to get lost in. There were a few corner stores, some food joints and a bowling alley up the road. She told you about Happy Hogan’s Diner, a place her and her friends visited quite frequently. It was the hottest spot in town besides Thunder Bowling Alley. Peggy stayed for dinner multiple nights and you lounged in her immaculately clean and organized bedroom. It was an easy and quick friendship and you were beyond content. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a strange school year afterall.

“There’s a party happening tomorrow, a ‘last summer hooray’ as some of my friends say,” Peggy’s tone was easy, unsure if you were into that sort of thing. You had been to your fair share of high school parties, so another one couldn’t hurt. “My friend Natasha wants to meet you.”

“Sure, Peggy,” you smiled with a nod. “Sounds like fun.”

Peggy hadn’t spoken much about her friends. Some of them were coming back from summer end vacations or were busy working most days.

You must have stared at your closet for thirty minutes. Time was ticking down as to when Peggy was going to come get you and you had zero clue what to wear. It wasn’t some fancy party, you thought. It was summer, still plenty humid and sticky. You would be just fine in shorts and a tank top. You hated to admit it, but you did want to make some sort of good impression. These people were going to be your peers! High school was tricky; one slip up and it’s talked about for a solid month. You dragged your hand down your face, quickly deciding on a romper and pulled it on. That was fine, it was cute and the outfit made you feel good. After a few more finishing touches, Peggy was downstairs accompanied by your mother who was telling her some story about the 80s and a party she had went to.

Peggy wore a red wrap dress with flecks of white lines. They almost looked like cupcake sprinkles, nonetheless you decided that your new friend could pull anything off and look fantastic. “Ready?” you asked, taking the last step down the stairs. Peggy grinned. “I know, mom, be safe and don’t talk to creepy men.”

“As long as you know.” You mother placed a kiss to your forehead, telling you to have fun.

Peggy promised the walk wasn’t too long (it was precisely a 26 minute uphill walk, but you refrained from complaining) and you ended up in a beautiful neighbourhood you had not explored yet. The homes were wealthy looking, the curb appeal was bougie and the expensive cars in the driveways clearly indicated that this had to be the cash zone of the town.

“Whose house is this?” You were curious, eyes wide.

“Family friend, the Starks.”

You followed her up the delicately laid pavers to the frosted glass front door. Already you could feel the music vibrating the frame of the home (more like mansion). Peggy swung open the door and the bass of the song playing struck your core. There seemed to be an infinity worth of people gathered inside and pouring outside into the rolling backyard. You stuck close to Peggy as she maneuvered through the gaggle of teenagers. You couldn’t help but dart your eyes in each direction of the place; wall to wall, ceiling to floor. The two of you broke free once there was a gap and you found yourself in the grand kitchen. There were munchies splayed on the marble island, open bottles of Coke and Sprite, empty beer cans, liquor bottles and some unmentionables.

“Figured you’d be in here.”

Sitting on the countertop was a redhead with hair cropped at her shoulders. She wore all black and a solo cup was dangling from her fingers. Her eyes were soft for Peggy yet death defying when they flickered to you. Damn, this girl could kill you with just one look.

“This your new friend you’ve been raving about?”

Peggy nodded, moving on to introductions. “This is Natasha, or Nat.”

“You got a preference?” You asked her.

Natasha shrugged, solo cup to lips. “Not particularly.” She stared for another for moments. You felt like you were silently being interrogated and you already knew never to piss Natasha off. Ever. “What do you drink?”

“Anything but tequila.”

“Probably a smart decision.” Natasha hopped off the counter and whipped up whiskey and coke, handing it over to you with what you think might have been a smile. You weren’t entirely sure but it was something. You tipped the cup to her in appreciation, then took a long swig of the alcoholic mixture.

Peggy had her arms lightly folded over her chest, pushing herself on the tips of her toes to look around. That’s when you saw Natasha smirk. “He’s outside playing beer pong with the boys. ”

You peaked interest, looking between each of them. Nothing was said but you could see Peggy had blushed. “Naturally.” She murmured.

The mixture of music kept you moving. It was a completely random compilation of old school rock mixed with new hip hop, 90s classics and disco hits. It should have been something to complain about but in fact it all weirdly worked together. Whoever was in charge had an ear for this sort of thing. You mainly stuck around with the girls, meeting a few people as you weaved through the home. You met the party host, at least briefly. Tony Stark was a guy with a devilish smirk and had an ego that radiated off of him. There were few words spoken before he was distracted by a group of three girls wearing the bare minimum of clothing and had some colourful pills. Peggy had rolled her eyes and Natasha had somehow swiped a half drank bottle of vodka from a passerby.

“I’m not drunk enough for a Stark party.” She tossed the cap and gulped down the clear liquid. You winced wondering if it burned her throat. She didn’t seem fazed.

“Where’s the bathroom?” You called to Peggy. She pointed you up the stairs and to the right, and informed you that they’d probably be outside.

You slipped away and took the dark hardwood steps up to the second floor. There were people in the hallway chatting, a couple aggressively making out, and a girl was already crying about God knows what. You slipped into the bathroom thankful there’s wasn’t a porno scene occurring. You locked the door and sighed, closing your eyes for a moment. This party was a little more extreme then previous house parties you had been too For starters, the house. Never in your life had you been in a place so colossal. There were probably a zillion rooms you hadn’t visited. But the vibe was the same. The party really wasn’t that bad. Everyone so far was decent, there wasn’t any unnecessary fights with testosterone filled boys to prove their manhood. You looked in the bottom of your cup seeing less than a sip left. Natasha had made you three of these and each time they got better; you felt pretty good. You checked yourself in the mirror before exiting the bathroom.

Finding your way to the backyard was less than a task and you weren’t even surprised seeing a ginormous pool, hot tub, and tables set up for flip cup and beer pong. There were a sea of people surrounding the area. Honestly, was the whole teenage population of Valhalla in Tony Stark’s backyard?

You began to search again, avoiding being smacked with a blown up beach ball and smushed by bodies. The smell of marijuana was potent, thick clouds as you passed a group of stoners. Your phone vibrated twice with an incoming text.

Peggy Carter: Where are you?

You squeezed passed two sweaty, drunk bodies and fumbled with your phone. You hit reply, letters incorrect as you tried to tell her that you were by the hot tub. You were struck forcefully in a head on collision. You bounced back, falling into a few people. The front of you was entirely soaked with beer; face dampened and phone flown from your hands.

“What the fuck?”

A kind stranger had brought you back onto your feet. You were drenched. You looked up seeing two guys, one appearing to be less than amused with the situation. He was clad in a letterman’s jacket, short coiffed hair and he smelled of beer and booze.

“Watch where you’re fucking walk!” You shouted at him.

“You talkin’ to me?”

“Let me see: douchebag who spilled his drink on me… Yeah I'm talking to you.”

Now he was intrigued. A smug lopsided grin was pulling at his lips. “What’s your name, dollface?”

“Fuck you.” You cursed, snatching your phone from the too perfect lush grass.

“You gotta at least buy me dinner first. I ain’t cheap,” he quipped. He took a moment to explore your chest. “The wet t-shirt contest doesn’t start for another ten minutes but I think we already have a winner.”

His pathetic and gross comment got a few howls from other guys. Some people had their phones in hands, some whispering and pointing. You were on display; a pedestal that you really didn’t want to be on tonight especially like this. Your clothes were soggy, reeking of beer and now you were in a foul mood. You immediately removed yourself from the entire situation and attempted to cover your body with your arms. Okay, this party turned out fucking awful.

You could hear him call after you with a mixture of laughter and profanity. Peggy’s voice echoed through the street. You wanted to stomp home but she hadn’t done anything wrong. Your pace slowed and Peggy’s sandals slapped against the pavement to catch up.

“Are you alright? I am so sorry.” Peggy was frowning, taking in your poor appearance.

“You didn’t do anything,” you shook your head, letting out a half hearted laugh in hopes she’d let it go. “Go back to the party. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s okay…” Peggy shifted. Something in her own eyes looked sad about something else. “Wasn’t having too great of a time and now I’d rather watch a movie and eat pizza.”

You wanted to ask her what happened, but the look in her eye said not to. So you began to walk again, motioning for Peggy to follow. “What’s a good pizza place around here? We’ll get extra cheese on them.”

Before you knew it, the first day of school approached and like all the years before, you were plagued with nerves. You tacked it up to be that this was the final year before the rest of your life, as your mother would say anyway. And it was a new school. But you had Peggy, and possibly Natasha. You weren’t too sure but you think she liked you, Peggy said she did. There was no real dress code minus the banishment of spaghetti strapped shirts and short shorts, so you were pretty safe clothing wise. Shorts and a t-shirt were going to work perfectly. You tugged on a t-shirt that dipped pretty low. Your chest wasn’t out on display but there was visible minimal cleavage apparent. Slowly your face faltered, remembering the wet t-shirt comment that asshole had made. It shouldn’t have affected you, yet here you were flinging out t-shirts that covered your skin more.

Shoes on and backpack zipped, you were out the door. Peggy was waiting at the corner, waving as you approached. She took you on the quick route to school chatting the entire way. The school grounds were absolute mayhem: parents dropping off their kids, freshman already lost and confused, bundles of students crowding the parking lot and stairs. You stuck to Peggy closely when you headed in through the front doors. She lead you to your locker and made sure you got into it okay.

“So your history class will down the hall, turn right and it’s the third door. English Lit on the second floor, then I’ll see you at lunch.”

You yanked open the blue painted metal door, slipping off your bag and took out some notebooks. “Thanks, Peggy, for everything.”

She smiled, waving it off. “Don’t be late for lunch!”

You sorted out your locker when Peggy left, taking out your notebooks for the first two classes. This high school was a lot more boisterous compared to your previous one. You glanced around observing your now peers crowding the hallway. Suddenly the students parted like the red sea. Your brows furrowed at the scene; students squishing themselves against each other and lockers. There were a group of four boys clad in Valhalla Panthers letterman jackets. You blinked a few times trying to figure out if they were actually walking in slow motion or if you had seen way too many shitty teen movies. You could practically hear Thin Lizzy’s The Boys Are Back in Town playing. The boy in the front was blonde, had nearly perfect skin, and a model’s jawline that could cut someone. His smile was angelic.

The one on his left had Denzel eyes, a toothy grin and confidence that oozed from him. He stood tall, upper body fit and well built. Tall, dark, and handsome was an understatement. The farthest one appeared slightly older, had a sloppy smile but overall didn’t appear to care too much. He had some rips in his jeans, converse dirty and drumsticks tucked into his back pocket. Then it was him: douchebag boy from Stark’s party. Immediately resentment bubbled in your stomach and you wanted to lay a firm punch against his jaw to knock off his stupid Ray Bans he was wearing inside. You turned away, not bothering to stare any longer.

You gathered your supplies and checked the time: two minutes until the bell rang. You shut the door, startled by douche boy resting against the lockers. He remove his sunglasses, looking at you. “You’re the girl from the party right? The one I said should win the—“

“What do you want?” You latched on the padlock and began to stalk away. He was quick, keeping in time with your pacing.

“I wanted to apologize,” he started. You scoffed. “Honest. Look I was a fucking jerk. I was drunk and didn’t even know what I was saying. Sometimes I say stupid shit.”

He fixed his immaculate coiffed hair which you knew he spent more than five minutes on. You didn’t care for his apology or whatever else he had to say. The bell rang and kids started to scatter. “You done? I gotta go to class.”

You darted away, going into your history class. You were one of the first ones in, taking a seat in the third row by the window. He followed, persistent as hell and occupied the seat next to yours. You shot a glare.

“I don’t care for your apology so you can get lost and go to class.”

He chuckled, setting his sunglasses on the desktop and took out a pen from his pocket. “This is my class.”

“Fuck off.”

You weren’t in the mood for boys and their desperation for a girl’s attention. It was pathetic and he seemed pretty dense.

“You think I’m jokin’?” He flipped open his spiral spine notebook and took out a folded piece of paper handing it to you. You snatched it, unfolding it. Low and behold there it was, first period AP American History in room 109.

When was the deadline to switch classes?

You also couldn’t help but notice he had AP Physics in the afternoon. Your forehead crinkled at the thought that this guy who made a sexist comment could have some intellect. There was no fucking way.

The door slammed shut causing you to jolt at the sudden noise. You dropped the paper back down on the boy’s desk catching his facial expression flounder. His shoulders became rigid and he looked pissed off.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, grumbling to himself.

Your attention turned back to the older man who wore a grey suit. Chalk screeched down the board with the name MR A. PIERCE in all capitals. The room’s chatter was quickly tabled as he turned around and surveyed the classroom. He unbuttoned his suit and stuck his hands into his pants beginning to pace behind his desk.

“As you can see, I am not Mr Phillips. Due to an accident, I will be your teacher for this semester. If you think this class is going to be watching movies and filling in the blank sheets, you may leave. If you think in this class you can sit and gossip with your friends, you may leave. If you think you can slide by and not do any homework, you can leave now.”

The room was pin drop silent. Mr Pierce continued to pace. “This is the start of your final year. I will not tolerate anything below a seventy-five percent average.”

The boy shifted in his seat next to you, more muttering and swears.

“Do we have a problem. Mr Barnes?” Pierce called out.

His eyes narrowed, a firm grip on his pen. “No sir.”

“Excellent. Let’s begin.”

Barnes was out of his seat the second the bell rang. You packed up your books and shook your head. The class wasn’t that bad, but Pierce was intimidating as hell. English Lit flew by in what seemed like minutes. The cafeteria was packed like sardines and you were glad to get your food and head outside. Peggy had sent you a text letting you know she was sat at round table on the east end. You found her easily this time, sitting down with a sigh.

“Going alright?” She asked. Peggy had some books open already highlighting and underlining. You shrugged, picking at your food.

Natasha came with a huff, sitting down on your other side. Her bag dropped to the ground and she set her tray on the table. “First day of school and I already want to stab Clint for telling the same story fifty times.”

Peggy smiled, jotting something down in her notebook. “Didn’t even last five minutes at their table.”

“Not sitting with us today Romanoff?”

You glanced up seeing angelic boy. Perhaps it was the sun but you swore their might have been a halo floating over his perfect head. He had one hand shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, a relaxed posture. His shirt looked too tight under that jacket.

“Choosing to sit with people who aren’t talking about Katie Bishop for the umptheenth time.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before looking at you. “We’re in Coulson’s English Lit together right? I think I was sitting in front of you. I’m Steve.”

Angel boy had a name: Steve. Steve Rogers, in fact. You gave him a kind smile, introducing yourself. Then the dynamic changed. Peggy was trying not to chew on her pen, shielding her eyes away from Steve as he turned to her.

“Hey Pegs,” he greeted sweetly. “Classes going okay?”

“You know…” Peggy shrugged casually. “They’re as good as they can be.”

Steve was nodding along to every word, shifting his weight from leg to leg. You looked between the two as silence formed amongst the background chatter. High suspicious.

“Hey Cap!”

Steve broke his eye contact with Peggy to see one of his friends waving him over. “I’ll see you guys later.” He waved, parting ways to the table under the large oak tree.

“Jesus Christ,” Natasha laughed. “You both are so dense.”

You looked at Peggy, brows arched. She straightened up, shaking off the simple (yet impactful) conversation she had with Steve. She wasn’t going to budge so you switched gears. “Why do they call him Cap?”

“Steve’s the quarterback of the football team, the captain, hence the nickname Cap,” Peggy explained. “So, Sam Wilson, they guy sitting on his left is one of his best friends. Genuine person, good for talks. Runningback on the team. Then there’s Clint--”

“Ugh.” Natasha joked.

Peggy laughed. “Clint’s actually doing senior year again due to an incident that shall not be named. He’s a guard, also plays the drums. And then--”

“Douchebag boy from the party.” You muttered. “He’s in my history class.”

Peggy frowned. “Bucky. He’s really not that bad once you get past, well, everything. He’s Steve’s best friend since they were kids. Wide Receiver, probably the best in the state.”

You glanced over. Their table was a little rowdy with the boys talking and some girls joining. Bucky caught your gaze and held you for a moment, tipping his head with a smile in a hello. Your eyes rolled and you saw him laugh. Clint patted Bucky’s shoulder and he got up from the table, sticking a cigarette in between his lips as he walked off to the smoker’s pit near the student parking.

“Two things to know: One, football is the only thing driving this town. And two, they’re treated like royalty. While some of them have egos, perks of knowing them aren’t so bad.” Natasha’s information was interesting.

You recalled that this team was five-time champions, so yeah, there was bound to be some small town fame to it. Besides, you didn’t have to be friends with Bucky.

Days seemed to roll on, but the first two weeks went by in the blink of an eye. Peggy had gotten you to join the Yearbook committee that met twice a week after school. It was something to look good on paper for whatever the future held. Steve had become your buddy in English Lit which made the boring class a little less dull. Bucky was still, well, Bucky. The title of douchebag was still crowned to him but it wasn’t as bad. Perhaps you got good at ignoring him or you just didn’t care. He was still persistent as ever to try and talk. According to Natasha via Sam, Bucky had made it his goal to try and make it up to you. Whatever the hell that meant. You wanted no part of it.

Peggy was staying late after Yearbook meeting on a Thursday. You gathered your things and headed out, dreading the essay you had to write for Pierce’s class that was due on Monday. You hadn’t been hit with so much work for one class in your life. Sure, it was nearing October and there was no more time for relaxing but Pierce was a heavyweight teacher. You sighed, pushing open the side doors to start on home. At least it was pizza night for dinner.

You jogged down the steps and detoured to the sidewalk. Your name was called and you glanced over your shoulder seeing none other than Bucky. He flicked the end of his cigarette before taking long strides to catch up.

“How was Yearbook?” He asked easily.

“Stalking me, Barnes?”

He laughed. “Nah, Peggy’s in the club and Steve told me you joined too. Plus, practice just ended so I was on my way home.”

You nodded. “Well, goodbye.”

“Wait! I wanted to ask you something,” Bucky gently tugged at your elbow. You breathed out, stopping to look at him. You were impatient, blinking to indicate you didn’t have all day. “First game of the season is tomorrow. Are you going to come watch?”

You scanned over Bucky’s face. It appeared to be a genuine question, no hidden agenda and his expression was neutral. He was curious.

“Don’t know. Might have other plans.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we all go out to eat after so you’re welcomed to join us. Happy Hogan’s has the best burgers.” Bucky took a step back, finished with his spiel. “Think about it.”

He walked backwards momentarily, fishing car keys from his pocket. You lingered as he climbed into a granite coloured Jeep Wrangler. He peeled off shortly after, heading west. Peggy had spoken to you earlier about the game tomorrow night and before you could even reply she was making plans to carpool and pick up Natasha along the way. It was settled before you could think.

Peggy was in her father’s car at 6:15pm. You grabbed your jean jacket and shrugged it on before getting in the passenger's seat. Her exterior was giddy. You hadn’t taken Peggy as being a football fan but you had a small hunch as to why she was in a smiley mood. Natasha was waiting at the end of the driveway, climbing into the backseat with her upper half clad in a leather jacket.

The parking lot at school was filled. Peggy managed to find a spot next to science wing of the building. You took in the exterior of the night. It was dusk and the flood lights of the field were switched on. It illuminated the entire field as well as the grandstands. The scoreboard was lit up: VISITOR VS PANTHERS and a countdown timer until official kick off. You followed Peggy and Natasha, crossing in front of the Panthers cheerleaders. You didn’t know details, but you knew Natasha had been a cheerleader up until the middle of junior year. There was an altercation with another girl that got her suspended for three days and kicked off the team. A few girls whispered as she passed by.

Luckily there was some room on the bench in the third row. Peggy sat in the middle with you on her left. The left side of the field was blank while the right had the town rivals, Ria High Kronans, warming up. The wind was cool, blowing around the spectators. It was nearing seven. The music from the surrounding speakers lowered in volume and antipatiation built up. In the far corner a bustle of fog erupted from the locker room entrance. The trusty Panther mascot cut through the fog, pretending to sneak around and quiet down the crowd with a finger to the mouth of the panther head. Everyone seemed to oblige. Slowly music started to build up and the panther started to count down with his large paw from five, four, three, two… The panther raised his arms up and the crowded exploded with cheers.

Here are your five time state champions, the Valhalla Panthers!

More cheers and whistling. The team barrelled through the fog and onto the field; a cluster of boys being praised by townsfolk. It was like Natasha had said: this town was driven by football. A song picked by Sam Wilson was playing as their pump up track. Sam along with Steve, Bucky, and Clint walked to the center of the field with the giant panther logo. They were met with four Ria players and a referee for the coin toss.

Peggy breathed out slowly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t end in a fight.”

Brock Rumlow was the quarterback for Kronans. There was definitely hostility and egos between the two teams. The coin flipped and it appeared that the Panthers had first possession of the ball. The ref walked off but the boys lingered. Sam backed off first, then Clint. Bucky and Rumlow seemed to exchange some words with Steve having to yank on Bucky’s jersey to fallback.

Steve let go of Bucky, shaking his head and Bucky shrugged his shoulders. Clearly Bucky was an instigator. Peggy straightened up as Steve glanced over to the stands. She wiggled a few of her fingers at him and gladly, Steve waved in return. You turned to look at her, Natasha snickering on her other side.

“Not a word from either of you.” Peggy instructed.

It was pretty obvious after the first day of school that Peggy and Steve were smitten. Even worse that it had been nearly three years and nothing had happened. You smiled to yourself, laughing on the inside. It was going to be an interesting four quarters.

You were quick to register who everyone was. Steve was number four, Clint sixty-nine (this was more of a joke than anything else to him), Sam twenty-three and Bucky ten. The audience knew the cheers by heart, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. You nearly covered your ears when Bucky was running down the sidelines, wide open, and caught a 30-yard pass from Steve.

Touchdown: Panthers, #10: Bucky Barnes.

The victory was given to Valhalla, score of 21-10. Admittedly, it was an exhilarating game to watch. And you quite liked the small town vibe of people coming together to be one. You could feel the rush and excitement from the atmosphere, even finding yourself fully into the game and learning the cheers. Honestly? You sort of couldn’t wait for the next home game.

People descended from the stands and poured out into the field and parking lot. Peggy and Natasha had a spot by the field gate where they’d wait for the boys. You sat on top of the picnic table and watched the flood of cars exit the school.

“Rumlow was going to fucking deck you!” Sam laughed.

You glanced over seeing the boys walking out of the doors. Bucky had his head down, short dark hair wet and messy. He had a cheeky smile and a cool surface, both hands shoved into his pockets with his gym bag over his shoulders.

“We goin’ go Happy’s? Fuckin’ starving.” Clint slumped down next to Natasha, leaning his head back.

“Holding back big burly boys makes you hungry?” Nat asked.

Clint smirked, “Famished.”

Bucky parked himself next to you, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Looks like you changed your mind.”

“Couldn’t say no to Peggy,” you shrugged. “Plus it was a free ride.”

He hummed in response. He had a lingering gaze and you felt slightly heated, quickly glancing away at Sam who sat down. “I’m glad you came.” Bucky replied sincerely. “Next time if you need a ride, let me know.”

Your lips parted but nothing came out. Instead there was a collective decision to go to Happy’s before it got packed. The boys headed to Bucky’s Jeep and you gathered back into Peggy’s car.

“Careful where you tread. Waters rougher than it looks.” Nat nudged your ribs.

Your brow rose, puzzled with her words. “What do you mean?”

Natasha was silent, only a smirk gracing her red lips as she slipped into the passenger’s seat. Your head shook, getting into the backseat. As far as you were considered, you were on the shore watching everyone from the sand.

TAGS OPEN permanent bucky list: @buckychrist @sweetwaterprincess @demongirl0913 @queenlydias @lilah-bard @dontpanc @ohkingsteve @kingsebstan @cauraphernelia @yourwonderbelle @beauty-who-doesnt-need-a-beast @bleedlikerubies @fallenaristocat @bubblybuckybarnes @solarbarnes @my-world97 @mystic-scripture @ragnarokbarnes @bvcks @stardustparker @kali-rambles @pao-prazz @thorins-queen-of-erebor @eventyyr @stanclub @abbadontherisingqueen @lovinglokiforever @justasimpleassbitch @red-wallflowers @brooklynightsky @hellaqueerangelofthelord @yknott81@rvmanova @blame-the-russo-bros @rogrsnbarnes

CYM: @villainsaremorerelatable @akamaiden @smolbeanthings @noshitstark @memory-of-a-goldfish @lizfawn @pizzabarnes @moonbeambucky

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #marvel fanfic #fic: change your mind

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rhiannonfrater · 5 years

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The Anti-Makeup Movement & Growing Up Fundamentalist

I grew up in the sheltered world of Evangelical Christianity. There were very rigid gender roles, everyone went to church on Wednesdays, Sunday morning and Sunday night, and everyone understood a ton of unspoken rules that as a kid I learned about as I broke them.

Example: Don’t do cartwheels if you’re a girl. Because girls don’t wear shorts or jeans. Only dresses.

My mom ignored this rule after people complained about my tomboyish behavior. I got to wear stuff other little girls couldn’t because I was always climbing trees, doing cartwheels, and swinging from the monkey bars. My best friend’s mom finally started putting her daughter in shorts under her dress. Why? Some men complained they could see her underwear when she was playing on the playground.

Yeah.

Women didn’t wear makeup. They had their hair long and plain. They had to always wear dresses. Sleeveless blouses or dresses were scandalous. Men wore button down shirts and trousers. Only workmen wore jeans.

But the big thing…WOMEN DIDN’T WEAR MAKEUP.

If a woman wore makeup, she was being a whore. Only bad women wore makeup. Using makeup was the devil’s tool to lead women into a life of sin so they could drag men down with them. I remember sermons at church that railed against the evils of women wearing makeup. Most of the women in the congregation were bare faced, but four sisters from Spain always wore cosmetics, perfume, and designer clothes. I adored them. They’d sit stony faced as the pastor went on and on about the evils of makeup. Every Sunday, they’d arrive in their fancy cars, elegant clothes, beautiful hairstyles, and carefully made up faces and smiled at the frowns. They were wealthy supporters of the church, so they were untouchable. That pastor finally retired and the new one didn’t see the point of preaching against stuff. He was more about teaching people how to be good. My dad, the assistant pastor, felt free to carry on preaching hateful rhetoric. He was the biggest hypocrite, btw. There are many reasons he is out of my life now.

I attended private Christian school and the same rules applied. Only a few women broke the no makeup rule, but it was usually something simple like lip gloss or mascara. If a teenager showed up at school wearing makeup, she was made to wipe it all off. This was usually a shocking moment for new female students. Of course, this was the school that made the girls line up, hands at their sides, to prove that their dresses were knee length. So you can imagine our shock when the BIG policy change at school was that girls could wear culottes!!!! At gym. But still…the scandal! It was later overturned.

There was so much time dedicated to policing female bodies of all ages. How long our nails could be…how we wore our hair…how long our skirts were…how we took care of our bodies. I remember some missionary ladies coming to do presentations and our fascination with their unshaved legs. It was vanity to shave their legs, we were told. In the fifth grade I attended yet another private school. Every morning we had to attend chapel for 40 minutes. Every morning we heard about the wickedness of fornication, the evils of makeup, women leading men astray, the murder of innocent babies in the womb, etc. Hellfire felt like it was burning at our backs. Ages 6 to 18 all sat through these propaganda fests. We were pretty traumatized. Again, teenage girls wearing makeup were forced to take it off. I remember one girl putting it right back on after they made her take it off. She ended up running away. It took days for them to find her. She was found with her boyfriend. I hate to say it, but she was held up as an example of a whore. We weren’t supposed to be like her! She was forced back to school. On the bus one day, I watched her carve her boyfriend’s name into her forearm with a razor blade. She looked up and smiled at me. That was the last time I saw her. She was sent away. I don’t know to this day where she was sent or what they did to her. When my teacher got married, she wore a full face of makeup and a sleeveless dress. It was kinda scandalous. The defiance! The scandal! But at least she was married. My mother pushed the family toward a more relaxed version of Christianity once my dad stopped being a minister. She openly defied my father. She took us to movies (my dad had a meltdown when we went to see Star Wars), let us listen to the radio, allowed us to watch television, and she returned to dressing and looking how she liked. Rebellion like that was dangerous because he was not a good man. All the things he preached against all those years, he did in secret, but he was hardcore on proper appearances. He didn’t walk the walk, but he wanted us all to look like he did. At thirteen, my mom allowed me to put on makeup for the first time. My dad grabbed me by the hair and wiped it off with his fingers while calling me a whore. I was bruised and red afterward. My mom bought me my own makeup that I put on in the school restroom and took off before I got home. It was the 80’s so it was bright blues, purples, and pinks. I liked how radical I felt. Defiant.

I don’t know when the tide turned in evangelical circles. Maybe it was Tammy Faye Baker and Jan Crouch on their religious television networks that made it okay to wear makeup. I remember Tammy Faye defending her makeup wearing ways, but in a few years it wasn’t a big deal. Women at church had big ‘dos and lots of makeup. It became “the look.”

I’m sure that some of the stricter sects still shun makeup and any clothing perceived as too revealing or two masculine, but now makeup is seen as something feminine (as long as it’s a certain look). After a while, I got bored with cosmetics, so all I wore was black eyeliner and brownish lipstick. Then I discovered the goth scene.

It was like coming home. I love looking like Lily or Morticia. I love extreme looks. In my 20’s, I wore variations of Endora’s eye makeup from Bewitched to work. I find wearing makeup liberating. It’s a way of projecting who I am on the inside to the world on the outside. My bright red hair, black clothing, and wicked cat-eye tells a story about me. I’ve seen all the arguments about women giving into patriarchy, etc, when they wear makeup. Having grown up in a repressive society that was rigidly controlled by men, it feels weird to see the anti-makeup comments coming from the other side. It’s even weirder that men outside the cultish Christianity I grew up with are now the ones who tell women they look prettier without makeup or call their meticulously made up faces “false advertising.” It feels like a constant crossfire of the same arguments from long ago coming from the mouths of different people. But it boils down to the same thing.

Controlling a woman’s body.

I remember that fifteen year old girl carving into her arm with a razor blade, dark eyes peering up at me through her thickly mascaraed eyelashes. Her makeup was her war paint, her black lipstick a sign of ultimate defiance against the strict religious and patriarchal system we were up against. I was told she was a whore. A bad person. But I now see she was doing her best to fight against a system that wanted to crush us all into perfect, mindless drones. I hope, in the end, she won.

#personal

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dahvangogh · 5 years

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EROS, LUDUS AND PRAGMA, chapter one | duncan shepherd

Author Note: don’t have much to say, i’m too awkward lmao. this is the first chapter of this fic, not very happy with how it came out but i hope you all enjoy it. i will also upload it to AO3 and maybe Wattpad (not sure about that one lmao). you can reblog, comment or leave a like, whatever you prefer. Also, i pictured Duncan wearing that amazing look he wore on episode 3 and my OC, even though i do describe it, wears this amazing look.

There is no right or wrong anymore, there is only being in or out. She knew that very well, after all her mother worked for the Madame President, a woman who all she cared about was to end up on top, no matter the consequences or who she had to bring down.

Being a reporterfor District of Columbia Post wasn’t something she had always wanted, even though she had been curious from a young age and wanted to learn everything about anything remotely interesting, she dreamed of being a famous painter. Unfortunately, growing up as a Latino American, even though it was one of the largest ethnic minorities in the US, had been hard in Washington D.C. The rich white families controlled everything, with money and connections they had the key to survival in that damned city, and she didn’t have that.

‘You better work hard, Isabella.’ her mother always told her. ‘Nothing in life is free, what you get is due to your effort.’

Victoria Aguilar wasn’t a weak woman. A single mother of two while also working a part-time job at a supermarket and getting her degree on International Relations at Elliott School of International Affairs. She had worked hard all her life, her very united family helping her raise her children while she studied her ass off and made a name for herself. She had been so good at her job that the one and only Claire Underwood asked her to be her personal secretary. Many years later when Claire became the Chief Executive Officer of Clean Water Initiative, her mother was there behind her. After the Underwood’s won more and more power, Victoria followed Claire wherever she went and lastly, when she became the first woman to serve as President of the United States, her mother still remained working faithfully for Claire.

So Isabella knew she needed to stop dreaming and become someone important, not to gain as much money as her mother but to earn herself a place in that city.

Isabella won many scholarships, always the first of her class and ready to help anyone in need, and ended up graduating with honors on Journalism and Mass Communication at The George Washington School of Media and Public Affairs. One of her teachers was so impressed with her hard work that he asked her to join his crew at the District of Columbia Post.Gladly she acceptedand the team worked hard to air one of the biggest scandals of 201: a Senator who had sexually assaulted three different women in the past and now participated in many orgies of different important business men. When they had found out that some of those sex workers where women from East Europe trying to earn their citizenship, women who had crossed the border of Mexico searching for a better life for them and even underage girls forced into participating in those private parties, they gathered everything they could and exposed him.

The scandal had made her an important asset to the company, her fearless journalism and diligent work gaining an excellent reputation with her coworkers, editors and boss. Now she had an small office and much support from the company.

Isabella had sleep through her alarm that Wednesday morning. Fortunately, her best friend Amanda called to remind her of their girls night out tonight and fifteen minutes later she was running out of her apartment while calling her boss. Old John just laughed at her, and being the best boss he was, he just reassured her that it was fine and to take her time to get to work.

When she stepped a foot on the elevator and clicked the sixth floor, Isabella finally felt like she could breath. Even though John had reassured her over the phone that it was fine and her other editors would probably just laugh at her for having overslept, she always felt like she couldn’t allow herself to make mistakes. The Aguilars always tried to be perfect, professional and personally.

She stared at the mirror, letting her hair down from that horrible ponytail she had done earlier and fixed her red lipstick quickly. Isabella examined her outfit, she had quickly chosen a camp-collared white blouse with short sleeves and buttoned front tucked inside a pair of high-waisted black suit pants, her favorite ankle strap black heels for work and a black blazer. At least I look good, she thought happily while adjusting her heavy working bag that hanged on her left shoulder.

Eventually the doors opened at her floor and when she crossed them, the singsong voice of her good friend made her grunt in embarrassment.

‘Morning, sleepyhead!’

Sarah Walker was a tall, blonde and athletic woman with the best humor in the world. The two girls had become close after working in many stories, they were quite close in age after all the blonde was only 4 years older, and then when they shared an office together their bond became even stronger.

Her friend sneaked an arm over her shoulders and together they walked to Isabella’s office.

‘It happens to all of us, you idiot.’ the wink the blonde gave her, exaggerated almost childlike, made her laugh out loud. ‘Remember when I had that marathon of Gossip Girl and that bottle of red wine? Lord knows how I even got to wake up before 11 am.’’

Isabella crossed her doors office and quickly sat down, resting her back on her comfortable chair and closing her eyes. Sarah smiled at the sigh that escaped her friends lips, then leaned on the table besides her and patted her shoulder.

‘Bad night, huh?’ which the brunette just nodded as an answer. ‘Elle, you know that if you need to talk about anything, even about the weather or how you took a shit this morning, I’m here. You know that, right?’’

The brunette laughed and nodded again, patting the hand of her friend as a thank you for the comfort. She rose from her chair, unbuttoned the blazer and walked to her coat stand beside the only window of the room.

‘Girl, your ass looks bomb on those pants!’ Sarah squealed cheekily making her blush instantly. ‘Between having those big tits and that ass, I’m about to start considering murdering you and illegally transplanting them to me.’

She laughed out loud at the craziness of the blond, sat on her chair again and then removed her laptop from her working bag, placing it on her desk and opening the lid.

‘Miss Frankenstein, please leave my office immediately or I will call the SWATS.’ the brunette signaled her door while funnily pursing her lips, voice mockingly stern.

‘Oh! Maybe those lips too!’ her friend answered while walking backwards to the door. ’So thick and big, Kyle Jenner wishes!’

‘Fuck off already!’

Their loud laughs always behind their words, Sarah bidded goodbye for now with a wink and then disappeared towards the left side of the hallway towards her own office. Then when she was alone, Isabella started her laptop and took her notes out of her bag, scattering them on her desk.

She started reading and typing quickly.

‘’You sure about that?’’ she asked to Chad on the phone while crossing the steps back to her office.

An hour and half from her arrival she couldn’t stand another second without caffeine, her sleepless night fucking her routine and making her almost fall asleep on her desk. So she rose from her chair, went to their office kitchen and made herself a big black cup of coffee.

Then Chad King, another journalist and good coworker, called her. While she carried her cup of coffee in one hand, the other was busy holding her phone to her ear. Their team was going after another Congressman, they did that a lot, who they suspected had committed tax fraud and was covering it with bribes.

‘I just talked with his ex-wife… she obviously wants to speak up for a good sum of money, you know how this housewives are but I think we can find other sources.’’

‘We have his former secretary and the testimonies of other employee, so I don’t think the ex-wife is necessary in this.’ She smiled at John when passing by his office, the old man smiling in return at her. ‘Now we have many information so we need to sort it out and build this in a…’

Isabella pushed her door open with her bum and when she turned around to get inside his office, the sight that greeted her made her stop on her tracks. A young handsome man, no older than thirty, was standing in the middle of her office as if he owned the goddamn place. It seemed he had been looking at the painting she had hanged over in the main wall, behind her big desk, with some sort of contemplation but when she stepped a foot inside the room his undivided attention was fully upon her.

She tried to not gasp when he fully turned around towards her, for he was of extraordinary beauty. Tall, much taller than her which wasn’t something unusual, with beautiful brown locks and a chiseled face covered in stubble.

Black leather jacket with black jeans and nice shoes, he reminded her of those heartthrobs she found extremely attractive in movies. Isabella was passionate about classical art and she could swear his face had been crafted by Michelangelo himself. That nose, neither big or small, with those gorgeous lips and that strong jaw. He was asymmetrically perfect, her finger tingled from the need to sketch his face

‘Isabella? Are you there?’ Chad voice never had sounded more annoying that in that moment over the phone. ‘Hello?’

She blinked and closed the gap between her desk and her, quickly resting her coffee near her laptop.

‘Yes, sorry Chad...’ hurriedly she answered his coworker. ‘Something came up here, I will call you later.’

‘Okay, I will get a coffee and review some of the files. Talk later!’

The conversation ended and she left her phone next to her coffee, awkwardly staying there looking at him. Funnily, he did the same. He was just staring at her with those gorgeous blue eyes while a small smirk graced his lips.

‘Starry Night Over the Rhone by Vincent Van Gogh, huh’ his deep voice broke the silence.

Isabella raised her eyebrows surprised and peeked at the painting behind her, a soft smile appearing then.

‘Unfortunately most people only know about the Starry Night and not this one, but I find it even more breathtaking than any he has done.’ her voice full of admiration for the artist. She joined her hands in a soft clap. ‘Anyways, what can I help you with Mr…?’

He stood proudly, his smirk grew bigger while his eyes shined.

‘Duncan Shepherd’ he extended his hand and she clasped it in greeting. She tried not to show a reaction to that surname, because thanks to her mother she had heard many things about the family, and just smiled kindly.

‘Isabella Aguilar’

‘I know. May I?’ he then gracefully signaled the chair in front of her desk, asking for permission to take a sit.

She raised one of her eyebrows surprised but quickly tried to mask her surprised as good as possible.

‘Please.’

He sat as she did the same on her chair, the desk a big barrier between them which made her feel less anxious about having a handsome stranger who embodied more confidence and grace than she would ever do in her life.

‘I’m here to talk about a column published this past Wednesday.’

The woman just pressed her full lips for a brief second before smiling awkwardly at him.

‘Well, I think you should have this conversation with one of the chief editors or maybe the CEO.’ she joined her hands in front of her. ‘Even though I’m an editor, I’m also a journalist and I don’t have any say about those matters. I could call my boss if you want and…’

‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Aguilar.’ he elegantly crossed his legs while also joining his hands around his right knee, his black jeans tightening around his thighs. She tried not to bit her lips at the sight. ‘I came to see you, your boss won’t be necessary in this conversation.’

Mierda, he is fucking handsome.

She just raised her eyebrows again and tried to appear as confident as possible, for Duncan was intimidating in the way he carried himself. His confidence, elegance and graciousness made him look like he owned the fucking place. And it was her office, she should be the one feeling confident and not him.

‘As I was saying, this past Wednesday a column of this newspaper talked about my family’s dealings with ex-congressman Andrew Bernard, I believe you know who he is.’ she nodded, a few months ago her colleagues and her had uncovered how that congressman had been committing tax fraud while also bribing people to cover many dealings he did with different cartels. ‘And as you can understand, those accusations might damage our image to the public. So I came here to suggest that you might consider telling your coworker to do another refuting that information.’

What in the…?

‘Again Mr. Shepherd, I believe there is a misunderstanding here.’ she couldn’t contain the smile that graced her lips while she leaned back on her chair. ‘If you want to talk about that then you should do it with whomever wrote it. I don’t have anything to do with it.’’

‘Oh, really?’ the sarcasm was clear on his voice.

She just nodded back.

‘That’s funny, you know?’ he leaned closer to the desk, licking his lips quickly. She tried not to stare at them. ‘Because I know who your mother is, who she works for and how much it would help her owner..’

Isabella briskly sat straight on her chair surprised at those nasty words, quickly interrupting the pompous asshole.

‘Her owner?’ she almost spat those words back, the color on her cheeks a bit more pink than before. ‘My mother doesn’t have an owner, she is not a pet, and I would kindly ask you to take those words back or…’

He had the nerve to look slightly surprised at her outburst.

‘Pardon my bluntness, but I’ve seen how she runs after the Madame president and she really is the perfect embodiment of a lapdog. ’ he now leaned back, clearly satisfied with his words, nonchalantly gesturing while speaking. ‘That’s why I’m sure that thatinformation was handed to you by her and then you did the same with the columnist. As you probably know already, Underwood is not on good terms with my family and would love to destroy our image.’

The brunette just laughed out loud at how surreal the situation was, quickly trying to cover her mouth with her right hand. Duncan just raised an eyebrow, not understanding what was funny in what he had said.

‘I’m sorry, it’s just… I’m…’ she tried to control her smile, positioning both her hands at the desk. ‘Duncan, rest assured that I have nothing to do with the column. I don’t work for my mother and she has never influenced any of my work, not now not ever.’

He opened his mouth to reply back but she raised her hand to stop him, a mockingly smile now gracing her lips, while she leaned as close to him as the desk allowed it.

‘But if your family doesn’t want to tarnish their lovely reputation, then they should stop doing dealings with those kinds of people.’ her smile grew even wider. ‘I’m not gonna lie, Duncan. I’ve heard many things about your family, and if some of them came out, the least of your problems would be the reputation bit. Right?’

Duncan leaned closer, his smile dangerously ferocious while his eyes shined with wonder. They both stared at each other, a clear battle of how-would-look-away-first and dominance. Isabella raised her eyebrows and he answered the gesture with a soft smile, making her take a peek at those full lips of his. She tried not to gasp at the sudden pang in her chest, or how her tummy felt weird.

Good Lord, why is he so fucking attractive?

Quickly she rose from her place as he leaned back on the chair. Isabella placed her hands at both sides of her hips and raised her chip up, she was sure she looked like the embodiment of a woman in control. She actually wasn’t. Her fingertips tingled with the need to draw him while she felt warmth bloom down there.

He just stared at her from where he sat, a weird look on his face that made her even more uneasy than she had been seconds ago. His face didn’t give anything away.

Why is he staring at me like that?

‘So, having set things straight, I will kindly ask you to leave for I have work to do.’ she tried sound nonchalant, voice clear without stuttering like a teenager with a new crush, and smiled politely. ‘I believe you know where the door is?’

Duncan tried to suppress a smile, quickly licking his lips while standing up, and reached for her cup of coffee that rested forgotten next to her laptop.

‘You should warm that up, it has ran cold.’ his smirk made her wiggle her toes, almost as if they had been hit with electricity, something she did when she was feeling nervous. Then leaned back with his hands placed behind his back.

He approached the door slowly, or so she thought, opening the door completely for it had been ajar since before when she had come inside the room. When he had set a foot on the threshold, he looked over his shoulder and stared at her.

‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Isabella.’

And with a nod, he just walked out of there.

The girl just stared at the empty space of the door where he had been standing seconds ago, almost dumbfounded or in a weird trance. She probably stood there like a fool for a few minutes until she blinked too many times and finally came back from it.

Isabella quickly went to the door and closed it, then turned around and went to her working bag, fishing out her sketch book and placing it in front of her on the desk. She should have went back to her work, calling Chad back and doing the outline of the headline they should submit to John later that morning.

She should have done all of that.

But she didn’t.

#duncan shepherd x reader #duncan shepherd imagine #Duncan Shepherd #my writing #hoc #house of cards #fic: eros ludus and pragma

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carmenlire · 6 years

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Higher than the Big Trees

Chapter one on ao3

Chapter 2:

Alec unlocks the door to his penthouse and is immediately confronted with a smirking Jace.

“So what happened last night, bro? I called you a few times after you left with that guy but you never called me back. I was getting ready to send out a search party.”

Alec looks at him with an eyebrow raised and says, “You know what happened. It’s called a one night stand. I know you’ve been with Clary awhile but your memory shouldn’t be that faded.”

Grinning, Jace shrugs. “Yeah, well, you have fun with your flavor of the hour and I’ll just keep going home to the love of my life every night.”

With that Jace and Alec go in for a bear hug. They both lean into it, breathing each other in, and relaxing as their best friend-- no, brother-- is by their side for the first time in almost a year. They’d met at the bar last night but their hug then had been too drunk and messy. This embrace makes Alec feel like he's finally home.

“I missed you, you asshole,” Alec murmurs and Jace’s arms tighten around his waist.

“Yeah, you too dick. Now tell me, do you even remember his name?”

“Whose name?”

Stepping back, Jace points at Alec’s neck. “The vampire that left that thing on your neck. Or did you not even bother to learn it in the first place?”

Alec just laughs, unashamed. “I know he was a great lay. That’s all I need.”

“And they say romance is dead.”

If possible, Alec’s smile becomes even wider as he hears the clicking of heels after that deadpan comment. Turning to face the kitchen, he sees one of his favorite sights in the world-- his sister, laughing, walking towards him with two mugs of tea. Waiting for her to set the drinks on the table, he takes her in. Izzy is wearing one of her more formal outfits but it still has her risque touch: underneath the suit jacket she’s wearing nothing but a lace bralette. She looks stunning as usual and he can only imagine how many men sustained injuries walking past her this morning.

Giving her his trademarked Big Brother Hug, he lifts her off the ground, making her squeal with laughter as she demands to be down. Complying after a minute, the two just stand there, smiling at each other.

“It’s good to see you, hermano. It’s been a few months.”

“Yeah. How’d the shoot in Belize go?”

“It was one of the more inventive ones. I didn’t just stand there making pouty faces at the camera for two days. The other models and I got to go into the city and meet some of the people. Plus, I got a few other gigs from it so not bad at all. I was sad you couldn’t stay longer though.”

“I wanted to stay longer, too, but I could only carve out four days. But, I got to see you, so it was worth it.”

With a fond smile for her brother who had spent half of his brief break just traveling to and from Belize to see her, she gestures for the three of them to take a seat before asking Alec, “ How was the concert last night?”

The three of them sit down in the living room. Alec is in the chair closest the door, Izzy and Jace on the ragged couch they’d bought when they were seventeen. While they could buy a new couch that didn’t look like something a frat house had coughed up after rush weekend, it had been the first big purchase Alec had ever made and he was loathe to get rid of it. He knew he was too sentimental for his own good but until the couch actually broke, he just couldn’t see himself replacing it. Jace blustered and insulted the couch every day of his life, but he understood Alec’s reluctance and even shared a piece of it. Izzy, however, detested the couch and wasted no opportunity to tell them. But, even she had to admit that there was no better way to spend a lazy day then with a movie marathon on the run-down thing.

Taking a minute to settle in, Alec answered Izzy. “It was good. We sold the arena out and everyone went wild during the new material so that bodes well for the next album.”

Jace and Izzy traded guilty looks but Alec beats them to it before they can speak. “Don’t worry about not coming guys. You came to the opener last spring and you’re coming to the Good Morning America show next week, right? You’ve seen me perform a thousand times. It’s okay that you didn’t make it to this one.”

Jace nodded and added, “we wouldn’t miss it buddy. The chance to see you do your thing never gets old and I’m looking forward to seeing you deal with all those swooning teenagers.”

Izzy snickered. “Remember that time a boy actually passed out when Alec kissed his hand? I felt so bad for him!”

Groaning, Alec leaned back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling. “I paused the concert to make sure he was okay and so that he could get some medical attention but he turned it down flat because he didn’t want to miss a song. I let him backstage after and he gushed for fifteen minutes straight about how much he loved me. He was adorable but I just felt so bad that he’d gotten hurt over me.”

Reaching over to pat Alec’s shoulder, Izzy had nothing to say except, “poor you. People literally faint in your presence. How awful that must be.”

Alec glared at her but didn’t say anything else.

After Jace and Izzy’s laughter died down, the topic moved to their plans for the rest of the day.

“You guys still up for lunch?”

Alec nodded sharply. “Yeah, just let me grab a shower. Meet back here in half an hour? I have that acoustic show later this afternoon and I want to make sure I get there early.”

Jace scoffs while Izzy grimaces.

“You’ve been in the business ten years and party like it’s 1999 every damn night but you’re still freakishly early to every show. You’re such a nerd. When are you gonna trash a hotel room or, God forbid, show up to a rehearsal or concert--” Jace gasped in mock horror”-- on time?”

Alec was getting ready to offer a scathing reply when Izzy jumped in.

“Yeah, you really need a shower. I didn’t want to say anything, what with it being your first day back in town, but you smell like sex and coffee and that is disgusting coming from my brother.” She wrinkled her nose just to make it clearer how gross the whole thing was for her.

Alec glared at both of them before standing up and making his way to his ensuite.

“First of all, Jace, it’s called professionalism. I respect my fans and when you respect someone that means you put in effort for them and always make sure you’re punctual.” Opening his bedroom door, he called back, “Oh, and Izzy? It’s impolite to call attention to that kind of shit. You’re just jealous I’m getting some.”

With that, Alec shut the door just in time to hear Isabelle start cursing him.

After a long, hot shower using all of his favorite products Alec felt human again. He dresses in something a little more casual to fit the nature of the performance-- ripped black skinny jeans, his beat-up pair of combat boots, and a plain gray hoodie. While Alec had a costume designer for tour that came up with elaborate, stylish outfits, never to be worn twice during the course of the tour, he preferred to use his own wardrobe for smaller shows and the extra events he attended throughout the year.

Moving back into the bathroom, he takes out his sparse makeup bag. While Izzy was the Queen of Contour in the family, Alec had always enjoyed being her guinea pig. It was another creative outlet and a way for brother and sister to bond. Once he’d gone on the road, management had tried to dissuade him from wearing cosmetics in favor of carrying out their ideal image of him as a masculine heartbreaker of young girls’ hearts. How unfortunate for them that Alec was gay as hell and had a penchant for highlighter.

Taking out a simple black eyeliner pencil, Alec makes quick work of lining then smudging his eyes. He debates on adding anything else but decides against it. The vibe for this show is relaxed and he wanted to show the fans today the side of him that most rarely get to see.

Alec liked experimenting with his look but day-to-day he’s a pretty low maintenance guy and he wants to set the tone for the acoustic show as early as possible and the best way to do that is with his appearance. The show today is more chill hang-out than arena performance. He wants everyone who comes to feel welcome and relaxed and like they’re ready to make a friend.

He had received a lot of backlash in the media when, towards the beginning of his career, a picture had surfaced of him in a full face of makeup including contour, bright lipstick, and false eyelashes. He hadn’t quite developed the thick skin he was now notorious for and the online comments had devastated him.

It was Izzy who had shown him several social media accounts that had stood up for him, letting him know that they supported him no matter what he wore. He had never forgotten what those fans had done for him. The fact of the matter was that his fans went absolutely batshit when he wore makeup or had painted nails and he enjoyed the ritual and result of it all. Why not do a bit of fan service, have fun, and maybe let some of them see that there’s more than one way to be a man? Alec had built a career out of respecting and loving his fans and a lot of his effort was in making sure that these kids knew they could always be themselves with him. Whether that meant waving Pride flags during his concerts or having the courage to be their most authentic selves, Alec always felt the responsibility to be a positive role model for people in the same way he wished he’d had someone when he was younger and just starting to figure shit out.

Though today he was only wearing eyeliner, Alec knows the fans will love it.

So he plays up to the fans a little bit, so what?

Alec leaves his bedroom and finds Izzy and Jace talking in the kitchen.

“I’m headed out. I’ll see you guys later.”

Izzy throws the apple she had just finished into the trash can and grabs her coat. When Alec just looks at her she says smugly, “I’m going with you. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you perform and I think the fans would love seeing the Lightwoods together, don’t you?”

Jace looks at Alec like he expects him to put up a fight. He should know that what Izzy wants, she gets, and Alec actually thinks it’s a good idea anyway. His fans love Izzy and she adores them right back. Alec just shrugs and turns to leave the apartment, Izzy on his heels.

Alec gets to the venue a little over an hour early. He likes having extra time because it gives him a chance to talk to the fans in line that have been waiting for hours to get a seat in the front row. Despite Izzy’s protests they took the subway, and when Alec rounds the corner and sees the line stretching almost two blocks he’s taken by surprise by the way his heart becomes both painfully light and dreadfully heavy.

He never gets used to it. People love Alec, love his music, and that is a hell of a double-edged sword for him. He feels immense responsibility and pressure to be the best performer, the best role model he can be to these fans, these kids and adults and everything in between that pay money and spend time on him. But at the same time he’s always buoyed by their never-ending support and unconditional love.

He has worked fucking hard to cultivate this relationship with his fans and its foundation is a mutual respect and admiration. Alec knows they have his back but will always hold him accountable and they know that Alec does everything he can for them to make every show, every Instagram video, every surprise as amazing as possible. Alec is very active online, constantly answering messages and replying to tweets, posting videos that show him behind the scenes, that offer glimpses of his real life off stage, and the fans appreciate the effort.

The fans also know of Alec’s tendencies to be early and it doesn’t take long before the entire street seems to fall silent as everyone turns around and takes in Alec Lightwood. No one has even noticed Izzy yet and Alec raises a perfect brow before smiling softly and walking to the people at the end of the line.

“Hey, what’s up?”

The two girls in front of him are obviously starstruck but they rally quickly, he’ll give them that. They’re teenagers wearing what looks to be handmade tie-dye shirts with the cover art from his latest album stenciled in.

“Just waiting for this guy to show up. I hear he can sing,” says the taller girl in a fit of bravado.

Alec just grins. “Oh yeah? Funny, I think I heard about him. I heard he’s got a surprise in store for everyone.”

The girls’ eyes bug out and Izzy snorts before elbowing him in the stomach. While he’s busy glaring she turns to the girls. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to get a reaction. How are you guys doing today?”

The one who hasn’t spoken yet has a soft voice as she tells Izzy, “we’re super excited. We saved up for months to be able to come and we’re so happy we got to meet you.” She pauses for a minute, obviously internally debating something, before she turns to Alec and in a halting voice asks if they could get picture with him.

Alec readily agrees and he takes a few seconds to let the girls smooth down their hair and hands the phone to Izzy. He gives them a minute to make sure they’re satisfied with the picture and then throws them a soft smile and a “see you inside” before moving up the line to the next group.

The next hour flies by as he talks to every single person in line and takes pictures as requested. He’s always surprised, but overwhelmingly grateful, that everyone is quiet and waits their turn. He doesn’t know if it’s because they all know that he talks to everyone, or if it’s because he’s mentioned how anxious he can get in crowds, or if his fans are just more polite than others, but there are no riots or shouting or grabbing. Everyone is respectful and polite and it makes Alec’s heart sing.

When the doors open, everyone rushes inside. There’s only a hundred people in the small coffeeshop-- not Luke’s, because even if he loves his fans he’s not willing to compromise his safe haven-- and everyone has a centrally located seat. A few people wanted pictures with both him and Izzy, or just with Isabelle, and everyone notices her as she walks in behind Alec. There are people softly talking while his people finish getting everything set but everyone watches as Izzy takes a seat in the back and Alec makes his way to the small stage that had been hastily thrown together.

“Okay, I’ve talked to all of you just a few minutes ago but I want to make sure everyone is having a good day. How are all of you doing?”

There’s a rush of cheers and clapping and Alec grins as he slips effortlessly into his entertainer role.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says as he fiddles with the mic. “If you guys are okay with it, I have some treats I’d like to bring out.”

As Alec had been talking, a few people came out from the back carrying trays of sweets or coolers of drinks.

“We have some baked goods because who doesn’t like a good pastry?” There’s a smattering of laughter as he continues. “We have something for everyone. There are vegan treats, some with peanuts and some without and we have something for people with other assorted allergies or sensitivities. Feel free to talk to the waitstaff about any questions or concerns. Their names are Karen and Daniel and they don’t bite. Promise.”

With everyone munching on their snacks, Alec moves into the real start of the event.

“If it’s alright with you, I thought we’d start with some guidelines. There are only three rules today. Number one, you have fun. If you’re not having fun, you tell me and we’ll see what we can do about it. Though, I have to say, if your issue is that I’m not funny enough, I don’t know what to tell you. This is about as good as it gets.”

Everyone cheers in what Alec supposes is reassurance that he’s not a comedic failure and he’s laughing as he says number two.

“The second rule is that everyone relaxes. Go ahead. Take a deep breathe. This isn’t a concert where you have to scream for two hours. This is you and me and us all together enjoying some music and conversation. And that brings us to number three. Rule number three might be the most important so listen up.

“Rule number three is that you be yourself. As long as you feel safe and included during this chat, then I’ll consider this a success. We’re going to play some tunes and talk about some stuff and we can only maintain this pleasant atmosphere if everyone feels unafraid. There are no stupid questions or awkwardness here--except if it’s coming from me.”

With a last round of laughter that Alec swears is part relief and part indulgence for his inane tactics, he starts the Q and A section.

The questions are all brilliant and fun. Someone asks Alec what his favorite historical period was and why and that devolves into a general group discussion about everyone’s favorite trivia facts. There's another question that sparks a debate between the best type of recording equipment and Alec learns something from one of the fans that he makes a mental note of to research once he starts properly writing for the next album. The last question, however, makes Alec swallow hard and really think.

The question is asked by a teenaged boy that looks as All American Football as possible. When he raises his hand, Alec calls to him immediately.

Looking nervous, the boy opens his mouth. “Hi, Alec, my name is Patrick and I have kind of a serious question for you. This past year I’ve started to come to terms with the fact that I might be gay and I don’t know what to do. I just feel like all of these people have expectations of me and I don’t know how to meet them when they think I’m straight. How can I still be the quarterback and one hundred percent myself?”

Alec smiles softly and says, “Well, thank you Patrick for having the courage to ask me that. It takes a lot of guts and self-awareness to realize that things you’ve thought your whole life might not be true. I’m happy you felt safe enough to ask that here. I have to say though that as your journey of self discovery continues, you’ll start to realize that it isn’t either/or. You can be the high school football quarterback and a boyfriend to an amazing guy. It seems hard as hell, probably impossible, but it can be done. I was in marching band but I was also captain of the soccer team in high school and my senior year after we won the state championships I kissed my then-boyfriend in front of the whole school to celebrate. I was scared shitless but I knew that the people who loved me wouldn’t care and I had to decide not to care about the people who wouldn’t be able to reconcile the two pieces of me.

“Is there anyone else who wants to offer any advice?”

There are a few people that have experienced the same or similar issue and Alec gives them the floor. After everyone’s said their piece, Patrick says one last thing to Alec.

“Thanks, Alec, for being a great role model. I know you have to get that all the time but I really mean it when I say that you’re an inspiration to me. You’re music has really helped me this year come to terms with everything and realize shit and plus, it just bangs hard as hell.”

Everyone laughs and with that cue Alec starts to sing a few songs. He has his old-ass guitar and he’s playing his most popular songs from all of his albums. Everyone cheers when he plays a few random songs that were never singles and it’s totally silent when he plays a handful of songs from what will be his sixth studio album.

When the last note rings through and everyone is clapping, Alec sits there with his guitar resting against his knee and takes a minute to soak it all in. When it starts to die down, Alec takes to the mic one last time to offer his thanks for everyone that came out and has supported him. He does have a surprise though.

“I told a few of you that there was a surprise coming your way tonight. Well, here’s the thing. I feel like we really got to know each other this afternoon and it just wouldn’t be fair of me to make you pay for friendship. So saying, if you guys check your bank accounts after the show, you’ll see that you’ve been refunded the price of admission for today’s event. I hope it was worth your money, but if not, at least it was free," Alec ends with a little laugh.

The room erupts with his speech and Alec gives a last wave to everyone gaping at him before nodding to Izzy and making his way out the front door.

Izzy is beside him an instant later, shaking her head. “You act all cool and shit but you’re really just a drama queen, aren’t you?”

Alec grins as he throws his arm around her shoulders and they make their way to the subway station. “Being dramatic never killed anyone Isabelle. It’s not my fault that the music industry just happens to be a little more dramatic than most."

Izzy rolls her eyes and laughs to herself. The streets are crowded as Alec plans his evening.

It’s time to blow off some steam.

#Chapter 2 is up!#two chapters in two days #I'm such a mess and I hate myself #enjoy!#my writing #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #malec fic #malec fic rec

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fuckyeslilkim · 7 years

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Throwback Interview: The Mask Of Lil’ Kim

In a nondescript warehouse in Manhattan's Chelsea district, the rapper Lil' Kim is being primed for yet another fashion shoot. The theme of the day is baby-doll innocence, and the 4-foot-11 celebrity is appropriately undressed in a sheer blue and pink negligee and high-heeled sandals. With the final touches of turquoise eye shadow, pink lips and, of course, her trademark blond wig and blue contact lenses in place, the picture is complete. Sex symbol. Feminist icon. Freak mama.

Change the circumstances only slightly and you could imagine a porn shoot happening in this warehouse. The final products--the photographs that will sell Kim's raunchy lyrics and persona to the world--often come close to that. A full-page advertisement for her new album, "The Notorious K.I.M.," shows the star in the back seat of a limousine, naked except for black spike-heel boots and a safari-style hat. It's like the kind of pinup men find useful in prison cells and toilets.

But nobody seems bothered by the actual work of this shoot--least of all Kim, who patiently strips down. Quite the contrary: She considers herself a good role model--an empowered, independent woman in the highly misogynistic world of rap. Her fans include many young women who find in her an enviable example of personal strength.

To cash in on the marketing moment, corporate America has come running, showering her with endorsement offers--from Candie's shoes to Viva Glam lipstick. She earns cover treatments from mainstream and edgy magazines alike: The Source, XXXL, Vibe, Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Jet, Interview (on which she appeared wearing nothing but head-to-toe Louis Vuitton body tattoos). And now, Atlantic Records has provided the 25-year-old with her own label, Queen Bee.

From the moment she was discovered by rapper Christopher Wallace (a k a Notorious B.I.G., a k a Biggie Smalls) as a round-the-way girl roaming the streets of Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood, Kimberly Jones has set new standards for female rappers. Her 1996 solo debut, "Hardcore," made the highest-ever debut on the Billboard charts for a female rap artist. An unparalleled fusion of hip-hop and pornography, the album opens with a scene in which we hear a fan buy a ticket to a triple-X flick, and then loudly pleasure himself while watching Kim onscreen.

At last year's MTV Music Awards, her outfit spawned a media frenzy fueled by the shocked response of presenter Diana Ross, who reached out and jiggled Kim's exposed breast on national television. (Ross later offered a public apology, noting that she thought Kim "was beautiful and . . . didn't need to dress in that manner.") The incident solidified Kim's image of sexual fearlessness--and her career as a fashion trendsetter.

We've seen so much of her, and yet nothing at all. Who is Lil' Kim, really?

Talking to her, you're taken by any number of contradictions. She considers herself a devoted child of God, for example. "I'm not perfect," she explains. "I mess up. I'm not Miss Sanctified, but I believe in my Father. We have a really good relationship."

She has allowed powerful men to shape and exploit her sexpot image, but touts her own brand of feminism. "If you look at me, no man has really given me anything," she contends. "I got my own money."

She raps about the joys of fellatio, but likens herself to Queen Elizabeth, the so-called Virgin Queen of England. ("I watch that movie over and over again," she says.) Like Elizabeth, she has had an unhappy love life. "I had a lot of guys betray me," Kim says, "and she reminds me of myself because, toward the end, she really wanted a man. She was lonely. She didn't wanna be this strong woman that everybody portrayed her to be, but she had to be."

On one point the star is adamant: Lil' Kim is not Kimberly Jones.

Except: "Most of the things that I talk about [in my lyrics], yeah, they're true." In the song "Hold On," for example, "I talk about the pain of being pregnant and having an abortion."

"I talk about the things that women have gone through that they don't think I've gone through," she says. "Like fightin' with your man or losin' a man to death. Being alone. I talk about just bein' in the streets having no money and having to do illegal things to get the money."

All of which happened, too.

So, after one spends many hours with both Lil' Kim the rapper and Kimberly Jones the woman, the similarities between the two become as apparent as the differences. "We wear the mask that grins and lies," wrote Paul Laurence Dunbar, "with torn and bleeding hearts we smile."

It is not easy to remove the mask of Lil' Kim, which she wears as a brilliant defense against full disclosure. She doesn't want to show us all of the damage that lies underneath. Like many other black women, she has become so good at conjuring the mask--signifying at a moment's notice, for hire--that we no longer know where it ends. Or where Kimberly Jones begins.

In the June issue of Vibe magazine, there is a photograph of young Kim dressed in a neat school uniform: plaid dress, white blouse, knee socks. She is brown-skinned, with brown eyes and nappy hair, neatly pulled into a bun. She sits like a proper schoolgirl with her hands folded in her lap and legs crossed at the ankles, smiling and polite.

But inside, she feels ugly. She thinks of herself as too dark and too short. She has just moved to an all-white neighborhood in suburban New Rochelle, N.Y., where little blond girls tease her and confirm her monstrosity.

Her mother, Ruby Mae Jones, brought her to live there, at age 8, fleeing the ruins of a marriage. But Kim wants to go back to Brooklyn. She wants to go home, to her old neighborhood where little girls look like her. Even if it means going back to the home of her father, Linwood Jones, a former military man who enforced a brutal discipline on wife and children.

"There was a great deal of verbal abuse," she recalls. "And there was times . . . when my mother had black eyes. My father told people she had fallen."

Linwood Jones could not be reached for comment, and there is no record of his having spoken publicly about his daughter's career or her allegations of physical abuse. According to Kim, he did comment privately on her overtly sexual image, asking that she "tone it down."

After her parents' separation in 1983, Kim's life became increasingly unstable. At first she and older brother Christopher stayed with their mother, who relied on the kindness of friends for shelter--including the time spent in New Rochelle. But when options ran out, Ruby Mae Jones granted custody of her children to her husband.

"I was basically living out of the trunk of my car," Kim's mother explains over a posh dinner in a New York restaurant--a contrast made all the more striking by her fur coat and her gold-and-diamond-spangled hands. "And I didn't feel it was appropriate for [the children]. So I let Kim go to live with her father."

When he was away--sometimes for weeks, for reserve duty--the children were deposited with an aunt who was raising several sons of her own. "I grew up around . . . maybe eight guys in my family," says Kim. "I stayed with my cousins when my father went away. They lived in the projects."

"Kim had no sisters," adds Ruby Mae Jones. "She was surrounded by boys all the time. But she had such a strong personality, I never had to worry about her taking care of herself. I knew that she would be able to do that. From when she was like 2."

Despite the frequent absences, father and daughter remained on good terms during Kim's prepubescent years.

"We were very close," she recalls, "until I was about 13." Which is when Kim committed an egregious offense in her father's eyes: She liked a boy and agreed to be his girlfriend. Although the circumstances seemed innocent enough by Kim's account--the boy was 15, a schoolmate--Linwood Jones was outraged. Kim says he called her a bitch and a whore, "just like your mother."

The words had a devastating effect. "If he hadn't said what he said to me," speculates Kim, allowing the idea to play in her head for a moment, "I probably would have stayed a virgin until I was 21. But after that I rebelled."

Fights between father and daughter became more frequent--and violent, she says. On at least one occasion, Kim remembers, her morning wake-up call was a fist crashing into her face. At the age of 14, she packed a bag and hit the streets, wandering in and out of neighbors' homes. Lil' Kim has often described her life during those years as a procession of doing "whatever I had to do to survive."

She peddled drugs for boyfriends. Worked odd jobs in department stores. And had sex with the men who housed and fed her. By the time she met up-and-coming rapper Biggie Smalls at the age of 17, Kim was, by her own admission, desperately in need of protection.

Biggie, who at age 19 was a 6-foot-3, 300-pound drug dealer who had already done nine months in jail, signed on for the job--bringing Kim into the fold of what everyone called the "B.I.G. family." There was Sean "Puffy" Combs, who had been working day and night to launch Biggie on his emerging label, Bad Boy Entertainment; Mary J. Blige, whose success as an R&B artist had also been strongly influenced by Puffy's hand; Damion "D-Roc" Butler, Biggie's friend and security guard; and "the boys"--James "Lil' Caesar" Lloyd, Antoine "Banga" Spain, and Money-L, who would later become members of Junior M.A.F.I.A. (Masters at Finding Intelligent Attitudes), a rap group Biggie hoped to launch on the momentum of his own success.

"She came from the streets," says 22-year-old Spain, who lives today, along with several of the other "boys," in Kim's New Jersey mansion. "I could relate to her 'cause my mom sent me to the city when I was, like, 13."

It was at Wallace's behest that Kimberly Jones assumed the role of Lil' Kim--a vulgar-mouthed emblem of what had been dubbed "porno rap." Following Biggie's lead, the young protege exploded onto the hip-hop scene as the lone female member of Junior M.A.F.I.A. at the age of 20.

Almost immediately, Kim became the showcase of the act. They were like "peanut butter and jelly," says Voletta Wallace, Biggie's mother. "Kim and Christopher were the same voice."

And that voice was determined to push the limits of gangsta rap, a genre whose biggest selling points were unabashed violence and uncensored sex.

By the mid-1990s Biggie Smalls and his crew were at the top of their game. Biggie's second album, "Life After Death," would eventually sell eight times platinum, and with the release of her 1995 solo debut, "Hardcore," Kim arrived in her own right. But the good times were not to last. Kim loved Biggie and hoped to be his wife, but he married and then quickly separated from R&B artist Faith Evans (who would also become the mother of his son, Christopher). There were rumors that Evans had been having an affair with rapper and longtime Biggie rival Tupac Shakur. One Biggie music video co-starred Kim as the defiant and loyal mistress.

Amid the lovers' quarrels and sexual betrayals, tragedy struck in the early hours of March 9, 1997. Following a Soul Train Music Awards party in Los Angeles, a still-unknown killer approached the passenger side of Biggie's GMC Suburban and unloaded seven rounds into the rapper's head and body at close range. Both Lil' Caesar and Damion Butler were unharmed as they ducked down in the back seat. Puffy, who was driving his own Suburban in front of the target vehicle, rushed to Biggie's side reciting psalms. But Christopher Wallace was dead at age 24.

Since the loss of her mentor, Kim's allegiance has remained eerily well preserved. In the immediate aftermath, she and the Junior M.A.F.I.A. boys stayed in Big's New Jersey condominium--where, according to Kim, she shared her slain lover's bedroom with her would-be mother-in-law, Voletta Wallace, and T'yanna, Biggie's daughter from a previous relationship.

In an article for People magazine, a mourning Kim posed for the camera draped in Biggie's shirt, coat and hat. Even today, more than three years after his death, she often refers to her "big poppa" in conversation and lyrics, and even credits the rapper as a posthumous producer on her new album. The bond seems unhealthy, as even Kim's friend Blige noted in an interview: a "kind of co-dependency with someone who just isn't here anymore."

It took Kim four years to release her second album, which had been held up due to conflicts with her label, the theft of material by bootleggers and her own creative process. Meanwhile, Kim's marketing machine hummed along, patiently building her image despite a lack of new releases.

"She's brilliant," says Michael Elliot, president of Source Entertainment. "I mean, here's a woman who [hadn't] had an album out in years and she's a presenter at award shows, and a successful model. She's found a way to market herself and, at the end of the day, she's a businesswoman."

"I think she's a feminist in a funny sort of way," says John Dempsey, president of MAC cosmetics, one of many packagers that hold up the Kim image as a bold new form of sexual expression. "She speaks like a man would speak."

Her fans agree. "She doesn't care what anybody has to say," says 19-year-old Teena Marie Schexnayder, a Los Angeles psychology student and aspiring singer. "She's a bad girl . . . doing whatever she has to do to survive. She's deep. I love the stuff she talks about."

While '80s female rappers like Queen Latifah and MC Lyte embraced "womanist" images, combining ancestral and gender consciousness, Kim provides a very different social commentary for young black women and men. The message behind Lil' Kim is, in fact, heartbreakingly feeble.

Sex, she believes, is a commodity. It is a way for a woman to earn money--and, in her view, respect. She learned that lesson on the streets. As for the women selling their bodies, "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Money is power," says Kim, and "a lot of women out there are just givin' it away." Kim aims to change that. As she raps in her new single "Diamonds" (sung to the tune of Diana Ross's "I Want Muscle"):

"She says she wants a man / To buy her a Lexus Land/ Well that's all right for her / Still it ain't enough for me / I don't care if he's young or old / Just make him very rich / I want diamonds / This p---- ain't for free."

Is this really feminism?

"I'm a feminist because I love women," she ventures, graciously asking her interviewer to correct her if she misunderstands the term. "And I feel like, in this rapping game, men have been bashing women for years. But some women overemphasize that feminism word. And some of them are very male-bashing. I'm not a male basher."

In her collection of images titled "Women," photographer Annie Leibovitz captures something of the inner sorrow of Kimberly Jones, a black girl who covets blue eyes and blond hair. Juxtaposed with the image of a gloriously dreadlocked Toni Morrison, who is seen looking into a wide expanse of clouds and possibility, Kim appears small and helpless against a wall of color that threatens to engulf her--her nipples visible beneath a trashy net T-shirt. In this image, we see more of Kimberly Jones than Lil' Kim: the real woman who has masked private suffering as public defiance.

"She's just like every little abused girl that I knew growing up," asserts Asha Bandele, a poet, author and critic who is attuned to hip-hop culture. "I do not believe that Kim is in control of her image because there's nothing powerful about it, nothing rounded, nothing human. It's a caricature. Just like when you see a male presenting himself as only a gangsta. . . . We're so much more complicated than that."

But if it is icon status we're shooting for, Kimberly Jones is the real deal. Closer in spirit to Monroe than Madonna, she is a genuine enigma, which is precisely why she intrigues us. The same little girl who remembers jumping into the middle of a fight between her father and older brother (taking a chair across her stomach in the process) became the grown-up Lil' Kim, who prefers "big poppa" lovers because daddies "don't let nothin' happen to their baby girl."

"Kim needs to ask herself what she's selling," says Voletta Wallace in her Jamaican-accented, no-nonsense way. "When my son was here, that's all you would hear: Kim and Christopher [saying], 'Sex sells, sex sells.'

"But . . . when you look at Kim, the strength is there. The beauty is there. The talent is there. And she needs to let [the world] know . . . they need to see a human being. She needs to find her inner self and see what she has to offer."

At the Gazelle Beauty Center and Day Spa in Manhattan, I have requested a private room in which to interview Kim. I am trying to get closer to the real woman, to get behind the mask. But it is a busy day and there are constant interruptions from other clients (who include guests on "The Montel Williams Show"). Nevertheless, Kim and I enjoy a lunch of Caesar salads, as well as joint manicures, pedicures, massages and facials.

We are two sisters drinking herbal tea now, and Kim is relaxed, makeup-less and wearing a cozy white robe and paper slippers.

Unanswered questions have been nagging at me. Kim is like so many other women, it seems to me, who have grown up with trauma. And yet there is no talk of the long-term effects. I decide to put the question of sexual abuse to her plainly. She tells me that yes, something did happen in the home of a relative when she was a girl, but she doesn't want to get into the details. She has never talked about this before. She doesn't want to dwell on the pain. I am saddened by her admission, and the fact that so many years later, she is still so clearly devastated.

And I am saddened that even here, in a place for relaxation and nurturing, she is unable to divest herself, even for a few hours, of the blue contact lenses and blond wig.

"Think about it," she confesses when I ask her to talk about her experience of skin color. "The girls that [men] dated when I was younger were light-skinned and tall. I'm short and brown-skinned. And I always wondered . . . how do I fit in?"

Did she ever overcome the feeling of being ugly?

"I really haven't," she admits. "Honestly, though, I think being Lil' Kim the rapper helped me deal with it better. Because I got to dress up in expensive clothes, and I got to look like a movie star or whatever. I think doing photo shoots and seeing all the people respond to me has helped. [But] I still don't see what they see."

can't help but think of Kim as standing on a precipice, making a great leap toward transformation. In recent years, she has expressed a desire to tone down the raunch and express more of "who I really am." There are rumors that she was wary about spreading her legs for the photo shoot for "Hardcore," and she herself has said she would have rather done four sexual songs instead of seven. "You get tired of certain images," she explains.

So what's stopping Lil' Kim from showing us more of Kimberly Jones? "It's hard," she says. "Because in our world, the rap world, you have this thing called selling out. You don't want people who liked you for doing a certain thing on your first album to not like you for not doing it on the second album. So I have to stay in that realm."

Yes, there are market forces pushing her to stay in the same place, but the market is also a fickle lover and people tire of what is too easy to predict. "Notorious K.I.M." started out at No. 4 on the Billboard album chart, but has slipped to No. 35.

"How much more of her body can she show?" asks Ramon Hervey, manager for R&B artist Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds. "From Madonna to Prince, everybody has to re-create themselves at some point."

"I see the strength in her," Mary J. Blige says of her friend. "All she's gotta do is let go of the fear."

Source: The Washington Post

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