They Couldn’t See Pedro, But He Was There. - Part 2 Part 1 __________________ Thanks For All The Likes,

🟢 You are still a writer even when you haven't written in a while.

🟢 You are still a writer even when you feel like you aren't writing enough.

🟢 You are still a writer when you feel like your work isn't good.

🟢 You are still a writer when other people don't like your work.

🟢 You are still a writer when you aren't published.

🟢 You are still a writer when you only have works in progress.

🟢 You are still a writer if all you write is fanfiction.

Like Music?

IMAGINE: You’re fairly new to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters and thanks to past circumstances, you haven’t experienced much as other teenagers have. A certain speedster takes it in his own hands to solve your problem. WORD COUNT: 1,199 WARNINGS: N/A

The music washes over you as you start to dance. The crowd isn't wild as usual, but there's enough spark to start a wildfire. The lead vocalist leans into the microphone, belting out the next lyrics.

A singer in a smokey room. The smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can share the night, it goes on and on and on and on.

Cheering them on like the rest of the crowd, you continue to sway to the beat until someone grabs your waist.

"Having fun yet?" The owner of the arms asks you, their warm breath hitting your ear.

"Yeah, thanks for getting me out of that house," you reply, grabbing the hands.

Their palms are relatively soft, unlike the fingers which are rough at the tips.

"No problem Y/N."

You're turned around. Chocolate brown eyes stare down at you, full of warmth and pride.

"I knew you'd like it here."

A Few Hours Earlier

"So how are you able to control it?" You ask Hank as he leads you to the Blackbird.

"Awhile back, I designed a serum that briefly treats my genes. When it does that, it allows me to revert to my 'normal' form."

"That's amazing!" You exclaim.

Hank shrugs as if to say 'no big deal' before showing you a half-built plane frame.

"So, what do you need help with?" He points out to various spots and starts to explain the process.

"The jets need to be bolted; the previous ones weren't strong enough."

"The mainframe sitting on the processor over there needs to be re-tuned."

"See that wing? There's a certain section that must be welded up."

Already grabbing a few tools for the job, you're interrupted by a small 'whoosh'.

"Hey McCoy, what'cha doing?" You don't turn around, being too busy in gathering your needed equipment.

"Just showing our new engineer trainee the ropes."

After getting everything strapped to your vest, you turn around and face Hank, who stands by himself. "Wasn't someone just talking to you?"

Another 'whoosh' sounds this time right beside you. You quickly look to your right where a silver-haired man stands, sporting odd gear. Goggles sit on his forehead while clipped earbuds hang around his neck, connected to a SONY Walkman strapped to his belt.

"Yeah, that's me. You look very nice, why haven't we me before? I'm Peter Maximoff but guys around here call me Quicksilver. What's your name?"

He speaks so quickly; you have to ask him to repeat it. When you can properly hear him, you offer a hand.

"Nice to meet you... Quicksilver? I'll have to stick with Peter. I'm Y/N."

Peter smiles at the way you respond to him shyly but doesn't bring it up. "You new here? Never seen you around."

You explain how Charles stumbled upon you about a month ago and offered you a place at the school. You moved in only two weeks back. Hank had recently found about your knack with mechanical devices and technical skills.

Peter watches you the whole time you speak, listening carefully to everything you say. Once you're finished, he asks a random question.

"Have you ever gone to a concert Y/N?"

"No. Never had the time."

He scrunches his brown eyebrows in confusion before shaking his head. "You have really never gone to a concert before?" He looks you up and down, smirking broadly once he does.

"That won't do."

In seconds, you feel all the excess weight from the power tools gone. They're quick to reappear in a small pile at Hank's feet. Peter, out of nowhere, stands by your side.

"Sorry Hank," he starts, already slipping on his goggles. "Your little class with Y/N will have to be postponed. I am going to take her to have the time of her life."

Scrunching your nose up in confusion, you look at him. "Really?"

"Yes." He replies. His hand reaches for the back of your head as you speak.

"And how are you-"

Everything rushes past as Peter grabs your head and starts running. Next thing you know, you're standing in your dormitory.

"-Gonna do that?"

Peter knowingly grabs a small trashcan from the corner of the room and hands it to you. Quickly spitting up the little breakfast you had, you glare daggers at the speedster.

"Give me a bit of a warning next time."

"Oh, I will," he responds playfully. One second he's gone, but quickly returns the next with a small pile of clothes in his arms.

"Put this on," Peter says before tossing them at your face. Catching them with ease, you eye them curiously.

"What's wrong with what I have on now?"

"It's nice but you might want to be a bit more comfortable where we're going."

Agreeing to his terms, the fellow mutant waits patiently as you change, leaving the room while you do like a gentleman. Once you've finished, you call him back in.

"You have nice taste, Peter." You compliment, looking over your clothes in the mirror.

"Nah, you just make it look good."

Fixing your shirt, you dare to ask Peter where you were going in order to hide your embarrassment.

"Have you ever heard of Journey?"

"The band?" You question. "A little. I don't listen to music so their songs are a mystery to me."

"I am trying to develop an interest in you Y/N. Are you trying to turn me off or something?"

This boy was definitely not going to make things easy for you. Feeling your cheeks reddening, you turn to Peter.

"I'm sorry. I don't usually have time to listen to music."

"Well, we're going to change that." He grabs your head once more before rushing off.

Several hundred miles later, the two of you stand on a grassy lawn, surrounded by a scattered amount of fellow teenagers and middle-aged adults, all in ripped clothing. A large stage is settled nearby where a crew sets up sound equipment.

"And now we wait."

-

And so, you did. As the band readied themselves for a performance, you and Peter got to know each other better. He had a twin sister named Wanda and along with his mother, they lived in a house full of stolen goods. He then adds how he once had broken into the pentagon and freed the man who supposedly killed JFK.

With every passing minute you talked, you feel more and more intrigued by him. It was nice, having a guy your own age to hang out with who actually let loose.

Then the lights dimmed down as the music started to pour out of the large speakers. It hit you like a tidal wave and you immediately fell in love with it. You started dancing and laughing, something you rarely did anymore.

As they started to play another song, you allow Peter to hold you from behind.

"This is nice," you tell him, swaying from side to side. "I never thought myself to be a rock kind of person."

You look up to Peter who gazes down at you with affection.

"We never think ourselves to be a lot of things but we're still here."

Things were really looking good now.

Can you please write an imagine where Gibbs’s significant other gets wine drunk and steals his shirts and dances around his kitchen in socks and sit on his counters and sway with him while he’s super amused and whispers in her earnd y? Please and thank you!!

I hope I did this request justice; fingers crossed you like it!

No one is going to see this but don’t be like me, go and take care of yourself lovelies!

PLEASE TAKE NOTICE OF THIS SASSY DUCK 🐥

It’s Ok

IMAGINE: Dating someone can get a little hard when someone doesn’t like your boyfriend. But you and Bucky can get through it, right?  WORD COUNT: 3.6k  WARNINGS: Trauma, a little cliché but hey you’re a teenager in most of this

"What the hell is wrong with you dad?" You spit at your father. "Bucky was hoping he could come over to the house one fucking time and have a civil conversation, and you had to ruin it!"

"I don't like that boy." He responded, crossing his arms as he glares at you.

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CARE? I LIKE HIM! HE MAKES ME HAPPY!" You retort angrily, quickly glancing out the window. You watched the dust continue to settle where Bucky had driven away.

"Hello, sir." Bucky greets your father, straightening himself the moment he saw the older man as walks into the house.

"Barnes..."

At that moment, you walk out of the kitchen. "Hiya, dad." You say nervously. He wasn't due home for another thirty minutes. He had caught you in the middle of preparing an enjoyable meal for the three of you.

"What's going on here?" He asked, zeroing in on your boyfriend.

As Bucky struggles for an answer, you step in. "We're making (Favorite Dish)."

"Why?"

"Well sir," Bucky begins. "Y/N thought it'd be a swell idea to throw a dinner and just have a friendly conversation."

Your father walks past the both of you, stepping into the kitchen and taking in the food being prepared. You and Bucky approach him nervously.

"I suppose."

Long story short, the dinner didn't go as you thought it would.

Your dad kept asking embarrassing questions, then bringing something up from Bucky's past. It was hard not to scold your father. Whenever Bucky got irritated or embarrassed by a certain subject, he'd reach for your hand underneath the table and grip it.

This happened a lot.

Bucky left quickly after the food was gone, giving you a small kiss on the cheek before leaving in his dusty old pickup truck Steve's parents lent him before they died.

"You didn't have to be so rude." You whisper once you finally calm down. "You know how Bucky is with his father and the army. Why did you have to bring it up?"

"Because a true man can handle the harsher things in life."

"You're just saying that because you want him to feel weak!"

Growing tired of this never-ending fight, your father shut it down. "Enough! I don't want to hear another word about that Barnes boy. I expect you to end things with him. He's a troublemaker." And that was that.

Or so your father thought.

You and Bucky would always meet up in town, spending the day together before you'd go your separate ways. Your father would get suspicious, but you'd come up with the cleverest lies and convince him otherwise. It wasn't until Bucky's twentieth birthday, several months after the dinner; your father finally connected the dots.

He dragged you over to Steve's apartment where Bucky was staying, hell bent on kicking his ass. You and Steve tried stopping them, but it was useless. Like beating a sumo wrestler with a twig kind of useless. It wasn't until Bucky showed your father an application to join the army. It stopped him from attacking Bucky, but terminating your relationship with him.

It was hard for you to see him after that. He had already finished high-school, and it left you finishing senior year by yourself. Your father was strict with your rules about seeing Bucky, but he let it slide when it was time for him to go.

He had gotten accepted and now it was time for him and his squadron to be shipped out. Your father, out of what little kindness he had left in his heart, allowed you to say goodbye. It was hard letting him go. You broke down in silent tears the moment you took in his sharp uniform.

-

"Hey, doll." He smiled sadly; drinking in the sight of you. He didn't know when it would be the next time he'd see you again.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask him, grabbing his shoulders. "Is it for the money? Why? Why are you leaving me?"

Bucky gently removes your hands and holds them against his chest. "Y/N, baby. I ain't doing this for the money." He brings his lips against yours and kisses you sweetly.

"I'm doing this so I can prove to you, and your father that I can make something of myself. That I can be that guy who made a difference. That one guy who isn't labeled a troublemaker or a brainless oaf." He squeezes your hands encouragingly. "By the time I come back, I can prove to everyone here in this small little place, I can be the good guy. I can be the one to take care of you."

"But you don't need to do this!" You tell him, pulling your hands away to wipe your tears. "If anyone can't see how amazing you are, they can go screw themselves. I love you for the sweet man you are. You don't need to join the damn army to prove shit!"

"Y/N..." Bucky watches as you grow quiet. He wraps his arms around you and holds you close.

"I don't want to lose you out there," you mumble into his chest, most likely staining his uniform with your tears.

"I'll make sure he doesn't die out there," someone beside you says.

"Steve?" You say, lifting your head from Bucky's torso. "You're going with him?"

The short blonde smiles gently, watching as you pull away from Bucky to give him a hug. "Who's better than me to keep him out of trouble?"

"That's my line," Bucky says, drawing you into one last embrace. Your dad watches from afar as you two kiss goodbye.

-

Everything was all right at first. Every Friday, you would receive a letter from Bucky (And Steve!) talking about what had happened in the past week, not forgetting to mention how much he had missed you.

With the occasional joke here and there, he would always express his love for you in simple poetry. Then you would quickly send your own letter, equally expressing the love you shared and reminisced about the memories the two of you had.

For six months, things had gone smoothly. Then the letters slowly stop. For weeks on end, you wouldn't get a single letter. And when you did, it was quick and to the point.

Bucky and Steve had to go somewhere, and they couldn't send as many letters as they wanted to. Buck continued to say he loved you with all his heart, and he couldn't wait to come back home.

Weeks of silence had turned into months. It broke your heart to come home from school on Friday and receive no letters. Prom came around and you ended up going with your cousin, not wanting to ruin your relationship with Bucky just to have a romantic prom night. Graduation follows shortly after, and it saddens you to think you can't celebrate with James.

It's horrible. But then it happens.

Around the third week of college, almost three years after Bucky left, you came home to your father speaking with someone on your front porch. The soldier quickly spotted you approaching and ceased his conversation.

"Y/N?" The stranger questioned.

"Yes?"

"It's me!" The man carefully takes off his service cap and tucks it underneath his arm. "It's Steve!"

Warily glancing at the tall blonde, you think of ways to yell at him for being an asshole until you look into his eyes. The same blue beauties that belonged to your best friend.

"STEVE!" You're quick to engulf him in a hug but quickly retract. Blood roars in your ears as you become excited. If Steve was here, that meant Bucky was too.

"Where's James? I know he's hiding around here somewhere. If this is a ruse to scare me, I'll kick your ass, Rogers."

After looking around, you finally look to Steve, who at the moment doesn't look so excited. "Steve...?" Then you think of every horrible way a person could die in a war. None ease your worried mind as you ask your friend a single question.

"Is Bucky... Dead, Steve?" The gentle giant shakes his head but doesn't lose the solemn expression.

"No."

Your worry turns into confusion. "So where the hell is he?"

Your father, who you had forgotten about at the moment, spoke up. "We think it'd be easier to just show you..."

-

You stare through a large window. On one side, you stand with Steve and your father. On the other, a nurse hovers over a limp body lying in the hospital bed. She checks the respiratory ventilator and the tubes that go along with it. Once she finds everything in its place, she adjusts his IV line and leaves.

Walking out of the door, she catches your eye and gives you a sad look. It lasts only a moment until she leaves, but you know what just happened. She's seen this before. And it rarely ends well.

"How long has it been?" You ask quietly, returning your gaze to Bucky's figure.

"About a week." Steve replies, observing you. Your body tenses up as you close your eyes.

"What. Happened. To. Him?"

He explains how he and Bucky were traveling through Germany to pick up their mark holding government secrets when the train they were riding was shot at. Bucky had fallen out as he and the rest of the men started shooting back.

"It was a long fall." Steve choked out, letting out a few tears himself. "When the gunfire had stopped, we went looking for him. He lost a lot of blood when we found him."

Your shoulders steadily rise up and down as you attempt to stifle your cries. Your dad sees this and goes to comfort you. Just as his hand reaches your arm, you snap.

"YOU DID THIS! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN!"

Both of the men look shocked as you yell. Hospital staff glances at the three of you but don't make a move to stop it. They've all witnessed it before.

You bring your hands down on your father's chest, weakly beating him. "HE WOULDN'T HAVE LEFT IF YOU HADN'T PUSHED HIM TO DO IT!" Steve has to pull you away, but you don't put up a fight. The moment he grabs you, all the fight leaves.

"I'll take them home, Mr. L/N," Steve promises, pulling you into Bucky's room. Your father soon leaves, taking a quick glance at you before scurrying over to Buck before leaving. Maybe it was his fault.  

You don't notice him leave. Your only concern was Bucky.

You note the thin, straw-like tubes sticking out of his nose connecting and watch as his chest slowly moves up and down. You note the differences from when you last saw Buck.

His hair was longer and much stringier than before. He wore a trimmed five o'clock shadow that suited him nicely. He had a few light scars across his cheeks, but none that ruined his look. Gently running your fingers through his hair, your arm brushes against the left side of his body.

Something feels off. "What else happened to him?" You whimper.

Steve takes a deep breath through his nose and approaches his friend. His arm brushes against yours as he reaches for the edge of the blanket. He hesitates for a moment, before pulling the thin material back.

The lights shine off it for a second, blinding you momentarily. "What the...?" The metal prosthesis replacing his arm glints underneath the weak lighting. A red star painted on his shoulder. It matches its peer perfectly.

"He lost it in the fall."

The tears fall like rain as you reach out for Bucky. Steve rubs your back, but it doesn't calm you down much. Only James could help you relax. Finding your tears had somewhat subsided, you grab your boyfriend's flesh hand and squeeze it tight.

"Do they know when he'll wake up?" You croak, your voice scratchy from all your crying.

"Doctors say because of the blood he lost and the stress they put him through, it'll be four weeks at the most." You glance at Steve, showing him your red eyes before focusing on Bucky.

"I'll wait for you."

-

Turns out, you didn't have to wait long. Around a week after receiving word that Buck was in the hospital, he woke up. And you were right beside him when it happened.

The doctors allowed you to stay the past few nights while he recovered. Steve visited every morning and evening to bring fresh clothes and make sure you ate properly. The nurses greeted you in the afternoon as they changed the bedpan and checked his vitals.

While waiting for him to stir, you would talk about what happened. You knew things had changed with both Steve and Bucky.

They differed from the reckless young adults you originally knew them as. Steve was obviously bigger and taller than before, and Buck was more physically defined.

"They gave me a series of experimental drugs," Steve told you on the third day. "One doctor there took a liking to me and convinced the commander to 'work' on me. He gave me this special cocktail that he made from an assortment of chemicals and it changed me."

"What about Buck? Wouldn't you guys have given him a regular prosthetic? Why a metal one?" Steve watched as you played with Bucky's metal fingers, rubbing the cool knuckles as you watched him sleep.

"It wasn't actually us who found him first." He explained. "The Russians got him, patched him up. Hence the red star. We got him back by trading a prisoner we caught that was involved in one of our previous assignments."

You couldn’t imagine the pain he must have gone through. All alone with the enemy, spending his days behind enemy lines getting tortured. At least he was home, safe from the danger.

“It’s ok now,” you whispered, gently pressing a kiss to the prosthetic palm. “You’re gonna be ok.”

-

When he finally awoke, you weren't exactly prepared. Neither was he.

Bucky woke up gasping, unable to breathe. His lungs felt like they were on fire! He had been having a nightmare; he was falling from a great height. When he landed, these people found him and started experimenting on him.

They poked and prodded at him with knives and such. So much pain, so much screaming.

Falling back onto the bed, he drank in his surroundings. The smell of lemon disinfectant, the sight of colorless food, the feel of a paper gown. Bucky knew exactly where he was. Just to make sure, he glanced at his arm. The metal limb proved his theory.

"It's not a dream..." He muttered, closing his eyes. As he started reaching for the assist button, he finally noticed you, sleeping in a chair resting in the corner. "Hey, there doll." He called out softly.  

You stir, but don't make an intention to get up. "Get up doll." He says louder. This time, you open an eyelid. At first, you don't react. You calmly close your eyelid before you quickly reopen both your eyes.

"BUCKY!" You shout happily, jumping up from the chair. The soldier braces himself for impact.

Your arms are quick to wrap around his neck as you pepper his face with kisses. He stops the attack by grabbing your hands in his own and squeezing them gently.

You're slightly surprised he can move his prosthetic arm like his original, but you don't think about it too much. "Calm down. I'm right here. I'm with you." The shock turns into happiness as you cry.

"You're here, you're actually here!"

"I am," Bucky responds, softly running his thumbs across the back of your hands. He removes one to cup your cheek. "You got more beautiful than the last time I saw you." His grin somehow stretches wider as you blush. "How the hell did you do that?"

"You're imagining shit, Barnes."

Bucky's large brown eyes take in your worn face, and he worries. Then he calmly slides over in his bed, mindful of all the wires and tubing, and pats the cleared area.

"Lay down with me, darling?" Bucky asks politely.

The way he asks and the sudden urge to sleep overcomes you, you can't say no. He lets go of you, allowing you to climb in next to him. His arms are quick to ensnare you once more, pulling you into this warm sanctuary.

"Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. Then we can talk."

"You sure?"

The long-haired brunette smiles down at you gently, softly kissing your forehead. "I promise. I ain't leaving again for a long time."

-

The hospital was reluctant on letting Bucky go after a week of him waking up. Both of you had a sneaking suspicion they wanted to check out his new arm, but you luckily got him out of there.

Against the wishes of your father, you had started seeing Bucky again. It differed from before, I should add. He wasn't the same solo rebel you had grown to love.

He was more self-conscious about his figure now, always wearing jackets even when it was warm out. But his caring attitude stayed the same. Buck still loved you with all his heart. Your father still had a hard time accepting this.

You had moved out of the house a couple months after Bucky woke up, and the two of you bought an apartment together. To celebrate, your father had invited you over to have a nice dinner. After being convinced by Bucky, you had accepted.

The dinner started off smoothly. Then you excused yourself to go to the restroom. After washing your hands, you reached for a towel, only to find there was nothing. Not wanting to ruin your new shirt, you carefully leave the bathroom to grab a dish towel from the kitchen. To get over there, you needed to pass through the dining room.

As you approach, you suddenly hear your father speaking in a hushed tone.

"The game's up, Barnes. You're back home now. You don't have to put on a show anymore."

"It's not a show, sir," your boyfriend replied truthfully. "I love them."

"So why are you here then?" Your father demands. "If you love them so much, what are you trying to prove? Why do you need to seem like you're this perfect boyfriend?"

"Because I left them!" Bucky seemed to shout in a hushed voice. His voice drops to a harmless whisper: it's so soft you have to strain your ears just to hear.

"I left them all alone. I made Y/N suffer through hell and back because of a decision I made. I left so I could seem like a better man to you, but apparently it didn't!" He exclaimed quietly, not wanting you to hear.

"But thank God Y/N was still here for me. I honestly thought they would get fed up after waiting years for me, but they didn't; unlike you, they had faith that I was coming back to them, dead or alive. So now I'm done trying to please you, to stand up to your ridiculous standards. I thought me appreciating your child would be enough for you, making them happy, was enough, but apparently not."

His speech immediately gets you all riled up; there's an urge to yell in your dad's face. You hear a fork clinking against a plate before your father clears his throat. The action makes you wait.

"So you'd do anything to keep my little (Nickname) safe?" He asks Bucky seriously, clasping his hands together. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was staring your father straight in the eye, clenching his own hands.

"Sir, I don't think you understood me at all." He looks to the direction of the bathroom before looking back at your dad. "I'd die if that's what Y/N wanted me to do. If it made them happy, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

There's silence until it's broken.

"Then I guess you can continue the relationship with my blessing."

It's then where you make yourself known. "Hi, guys!" You say cheerfully, pretending you hadn't eavesdropped on their conversation.

"What'd I miss?" You continue taking your seat next to Bucky. He smiles as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. He quickly presses a kiss against your lips before looking to your dad.

They share a look. "Nothing much, darling."

You never ask about the conversation, figuring it was none of your business. But honestly, it didn't matter. Your father finally accepted Bucky, Bucky loved you, and you were all happy.

It didn't matter what other people thought about the two of you anymore. Bucky was safe at home with you. That's the way it was meant to be.

HOW TO SURVIVE A HEART ATTACK WHEN ALONE Let’s say it’s 6.15pm and you’re going home (alone of course), after an unusually hard day on the job. You’re really tired, upset and frustrated. Suddenly you start experiencing severe pain in your chest that starts to drag out into your arm and up into your jaw. You are only about five miles from the hospital nearest your home. Unfortunately you don’t know if you’ll be able to make it that far. You have been trained in CPR, but the guy that taught the course did not tell you how to perform it on yourself..!! NOW HOW TO SURVIVE A HEART ATTACK WHEN ALONE… Since many people are alone when they suffer a heart attack, without help, the person whose heart is beating improperly and who begins to feel faint, has only about 10 seconds left before losing consciousness. However, these victims can help themselves by coughing repeatedly and very vigorously. A deep breath should be taken before each cough, and the cough must be deep and prolonged, as when producing sputum from deep inside the chest. A breath and a cough must be repeated about every two seconds without let-up until help arrives, or until the heart is felt to be beating normally again. Deep breaths get oxygen into the lungs and coughing movements squeeze the heart and keep the blood circulating. The squeezing pressure on the heart also helps it regain normal rhythm. In this way, heart attack victims can perhaps buy precious time to get themselves to a phone and dial 911. Rather than sharing another joke please contribute by broadcasting this which can save a person’s life! Be prepared and become part of the solution. Get your free next-of-kin notification card today. Click here: https://www.InCaseOfEmergencyCard.com/

Please I need this

Rare Variant Cover

Pairing: Jason Todd / AFAB Reader

Fandom: Batman (DC Comics)

Word Count: 3100+

Tags: SFW, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Pre-Relationship

Synopsis: Your first meeting is inside a second-hand bookstore. Jason leaves the store in a rage and it’s all your fault.

You had been leaning against the counter with your arms crossed for over half an hour, silently following the young man with your watchful gaze. The first time he entered your store, he greeted you with a kind smile and you in turn answered with a typical friendly shop assistant's welcome. Since then he had been browsing through the rows and rows of books stacked in every nook and cranny of the room.

Most of the time you knew at first glance why someone entered your second hand bookstore and what they were looking for. It was a fun little game you played with yourself. What genre did they prefer to read? What kind of book did they want to buy? What were their favorite tropes?

Collectors looking for coveted first editions of rare classics; thrifty shoppers who wanted to experience exciting literature for a small price; walk-in customers who strolled into the store out of sheer curiosity after standing in front of the window for several minutes; library staff who tried to buy back destroyed copies of their inventory, even if they were long out of print.

After several years of selling books to avid readers, you were able to assess most of the customers who entered your store. This one was different. You just couldn't figure him out. This man looked like he could crush Superman with his thighs. He was wearing full biking gear sans the helmet, explaining the motorcycle in front of the store. He was about your age. Definitely not a teenager anymore, but it was hard to gauge exactly how old. Mid to late twenties, maybe.

He looked like a thug. Anyone would forgive you for your suspicion after he stepped into the store, clad in leather from head to toe. It wouldn't be the first time you had been mugged. It was Gotham, after all. You had seen your fair share of robberies. Why someone thought it was a good idea to rob a bookshop though, you still couldn't explain.

In the end it was the way the stranger handled the books, convincing you that he was most likely more harmless than he looked. Every time he pulled one book from the shelf, he supported the spine with one hand and turned the pages gently, cautious of never wrinkling the paper. Every single book was treated with almost loving care, as if they were living beings with heart and soul.

If he started a discussion about literature with you now, you would be convinced that this was a dream. A man this good looking sharing one of your favorite hobbies and appearing to be a gentle giant? Impossible, right?

So you should also be forgiven for your suspicious stares turning into rapturous glances.

His back was turned your way while he browsed through one of the shelves. The black leather jacket emphasized his broad shoulders. He turned to browse the shelf at his back, facing your direction once more, and you marveled at his face. Strong cheekbones and the chiseled jaw of a Greek god stood in stark contrast to full, soft lips and large, round eyes. The latter was the first indication that he was possibly younger than you had initially though. Perhaps in his early twenties?

You were aware that you shouldn't ogle your customers like this. But it was late, you were tired and there was a waking dream walking through your store. Of course you stared. Maybe you had fallen asleep on the counter?

"Excuse me?"

The voice snapped you out of your thoughts and you looked up, somewhat taken by surprise. The handsome book lover was standing right in front of the counter. When had he come so close? The wooden floorboards throughout the store creaked, it was an old building. How had you not heard him move?

Had he caught you staring? You quickly put on your friendliest customer smile and asked, "How can I help?"

He looked at you intently for a few seconds, then returned your smile.

"Do you also sell international literature in their original language?"

His voice was pleasantly dark and raspy. A strong Gotham accent originating most likely from the poorest parts of the city. Customers from Park Row were unusual here. Your store wasn't located in the expensive districts of the city, but most Park Row residents wouldn't waste their money on public transport to shop here.

You knew the stock by heart, but it had been a long time since anyone had asked for non-English literature. It was less popular with most collectors. Another reason why the young man caught your attention. There was rarely an opportunity to sell the less sought-after items. An interesting change from your usual business.

"We have a small selection. Is there a particular language you're looking for?"

The man leaned against the counter and even through the thick leather of his jacket could you see his biceps flex. Be still, heart.

"I would prefer something in German. But French, Italian or Arabic would also be fine."

You tried to hide your surprise. Was he serious? Could he really speak all those languages?

"I can think of a few titles," you said, already going through the stock in your mind, and directed him to follow you with a quick wave of your hand.

The store wasn't big, but each of the shelves was almost bursting at the seams, filled to the top with books. It was no surprise that he hadn't discovered any suitable books during his foray through the store. You steered purposefully towards a shelf at the back of the store and pointed to a place slightly above you, out of your reach.

"Here are the non-English books we currently have in stock. I could get a step stool-"

You had already noticed how tall the man was, but now that he stood right next to you, with him being able to read the spines of the books you could barely reach, you truly realized his height. It should be intimidating, with him almost looming over you. You just thought it was hot as hell.

When you looked up to meet his eyes - blue-green like the sea and just as deep - you also noticed his smug grin.

You stopping in the middle of your sentence seemed to tell him exactly what you were thinking. Embarrassed, you cleared your throat. His grin only grew, showing a hint of teeth.

"Thank you, a step stool shouldn't be necessary," he said, amused, only slowly averting his gaze from your face to scrutinize the old books in front of him.

He stretched out his hand and ran a finger over the spines of the books. Every now and then he pulled one out before pushing it back in disinterest.

"Are you looking for a present?" you asked.

You just had to know. Maybe he wasn't interested in books himself and was just looking to buy a present. You hoped that he wasn't here for a present.

"No, I'm looking for myself."

The answer came after a brief moment of hesitation. He gave you a cold sideways glance, then turned back to the shelf. Any friendliness drained from his voice. Did you say something wrong?

"If you need any help, you know where to find me," you said, giving him a nervous smile and pointing towards the counter.

He met your eyes once more, it felt almost scrutinizing. Without his smile he was intimidating. Nothing hot as hell about a man that looked so annoyed, like he would curb stomp you the second you opened your mouth again. 

"Sure. I'll let you know if I need you."

Crude and tight-lipped. That was definitely the end of your conversation.

For the next thirty minutes, your full attention was almost exclusively on the stranger. Only when another customer had a question were you able to focus on you work. Every time he caught you staring, you averted your gaze in shame.

"I'd like to pay," said a voice to your right.

You flinched and your head jerked to the side. There was Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, standing right next to you. He had a look on his face that rivaled your annoyance-levels when you were just about to close the store and someone entered anyway. He placed a single book on the counter. You asked yourself once again, how he managed to approach you without you noticing. How did he manage to evade the squeaky floorboards?

With one hand on your chest, you laughed breathlessly. "What are you, a ninja?"

His cold expression gave way to the slightest of smiles. His change of mood gave you whiplash. What was his problem? Were you the problem? Maybe he just suffered from resting bitch face syndrome and his mood-changes only seemed so extreme because he had a wonderful smile?

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

You waved him off and scanned the book. Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. You had tried to figure out his taste in literature, but nothing about his person screamed Sturm und Drang to you.

"I always try to guess what my customers will buy. I was really unsure about you, but I certainly wasn't expecting this!" you said with a genuine laugh. The man was a real surprise. In a positive sense.

Instead of responding to your statement, the corners of his mouth turned downward once more.

"Do you have any older literature? First editions?" he asked. Hard change of topic, but okay.

You nodded in reply. Most of your books were on the younger side, but occasionally you came into the possession of older first editions. Not the kind of books you had to pay a fortune for, but expensive nonetheless.

"I have a few first editions, but I store them elsewhere. The storage conditions in this building are not suited for brittle paper. You can tell me if you're looking for something specific or give me your email address and I can send you a list of what I have. But first editions can be quite expensive, are you sure you're looking for something like that?"

There was no reply for a few moments after you finished your sentence. You looked up at the man, confusion written all over your face. Anger burned in his eyes. Surprised, you took a step back.

"What's your fucking problem? I don't understand you. First you stare at me like I'm trying to steal something. Which, okay, it's Gotham. I don't exactly look friendly. I can understand being cautious. But then you start to undress me with your eyes, only to call me stupid the next moment? Then you stare at me like that. Again! Following up with claiming I'm what? To stupid to understand Goethe? Laughing at me? And now you assume I'm poor. Why? Because of my accent? My appearance?"

He slammed a hundred dollar bill on the counter. "Fuck you and your prejudices."

With those sharp words, he grabbed the book, left the store and rode off on his motorcycle with a roaring roar.

He left behind too much money for a single book and a trembling shop assistant. What the hell just happened? Well. Maybe Sturm und Drang suited the stranger just fine after all.

---

You were convinced that you would never see the literature-loving stranger again. Gotham was big and he would never voluntarily set foot in your store again. Still, you wished you had a chance to apologize.

You really screwed it up. At first, you didn't understand why he suddenly snapped at you, but it had been over a month since his angry escape and you had spent enough time thinking about that day. Your behavior, even if unintentional, had been an absolute disaster. He had misinterpreted your every question, your every action. You had never meant to offend him, but looking back, you could understand why he had taken it the wrong way.

And there he was. In a BatBurger across the street. He was sitting at a table with several people, chatting animatedly. You met him again by pure chance.

You could walk away. Let him enjoy the rest of the day with his friends in peace. He looked so happy, with a slight grin on his lips, leaning back and relaxing as he listened to the rambling tales of another black-haired man.

You should walk away, but your guilty conscience has been gnawing at the back of your mind for over a month. Even if he raised his voice at you, you wanted to at least try to apologize.

Your legs started moving without permission. You crossed the busy street and pushed open the door to the BatBurger before fear could catch up.

With sure steps, you moved towards the table. God, the people were all absolutely gorgeous. Did the handsome stranger only have even better-looking friends? A gathering of models, perhaps.

Halfway to the table, several people of the group lifted their heads to look at you. A mix of friendly but suspicious glances. The latter was the least you expected of residents of Gotham.

When the handsome stranger raised his head, however, his expression darkened abruptly. Understandable, but intimidating. You swallowed your growing fear and came to a halt in front of the group.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" you asked. A quick sideways glance at the other people at the table, "Alone?"

Everyone's eyes wandered back and forth between you and the man. The attention only fueled your nervousness. Instead of getting up and following you or telling you to get lost, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared you down with a cold gaze.

Even though he was sitting and had to look up at you, you felt tiny.

"Anything you want to tell me, you can tell me right here."

You swallowed, anxiety rising in your veins. All eyes were on you, scrutinizing you with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

"I'm sorry!" you said in a firm voice, a little too loud for the small room. Before you could lose your courage again, you began your rambling explanation.

"I didn't understand why you were so angry at first. Honestly, I still don't quite get it. All I know is that I hurt you and I'm sorry! You have to believe me that wasn't my intention. The whole situation? A huge misunderstanding! Granted, at first I kept an eye on you because you looked like trouble and I've been mugged several times. So yes, that was a prejudice on my part. But after that, I was just trying to make small talk! I was staring at you because you're smoking hot and you like books. I thought I was dreaming. I mean, where else would I find a man like that? You're just totally my type and then I make such an ass of myself. I've been meaning to apologize to you since the incident and then I happen to see you just sitting here and now here we are. And, well-"

You looked around. Your heart was pounding in your throat. Everyone stared at you with wide eyes. A tall, black-haired man stifled a laugh, holding a hand over his mouth. A blonde girl inconspicuously held a phone above the tabletop and filmed you. The unknown stranger sat in his seat with his eyes wide open, mouth agape as if he wanted to say something but didn't know what. The situation couldn't get any more awkward.

Throwing your last sense of shame overboard, you focus your gaze on the stranger. This was your last and only chance. What could possibly happen? He snaps at you?

"I owe you ninety-three dollars and five cents. That's a lot of BatBurger meals. Or a couple cups of coffee. Maybe dinner for two at a good restaurant? You could explain to me in detail all the wrong things I've said to upset you, so I won't say them again."

You felt the blush rise to your face, refusing to look at anyone else at the table except the handsome stranger. He, too, was bright red in the face, his lips moving as if he was trying to form words that just wouldn't come.

A few moments passed. Neither he nor his friends said anything. The entire room was silent. Your sense of shame won the silent battle. 

"Okay, got it. Sorry for the interruption!"

You turned on your heel and left the restaurant with quick steps.

That was by far the most embarrassing thing you had ever done. A rejection wouldn't even be that big of a deal, but the embarrassment of being watched by an entire group of friends while getting rejected? Suppressing your tears, you tried to escape as quickly as possible.

You didn't get very far. Just a few buildings down the street, a loud voice called out behind you: "Hey, just wait a minute!"

You recognized his voice immediately and quickened your steps. Whatever else he had to say to you - it couldn't be good. Just a few seconds later, he passed you with a short sprint and came to a sudden stop in front of you. You had to halt in the middle of the pavement, earning a few rude comments from pedestrians in turn. The stranger snarled at a few of them, before turning to you, a concerned expression on his - sadly still extremely handsome - face. 

"Sorry. You just caught me off guard. Let's try this again, all right? My name is Jason. And you are?"

Confused, you look up at him. You definitely hadn't expected that. Hesitantly, you told him your name.

"Hi," he said, followed by your name. Each syllable carefully accentuated, as if he was trying to taste the letters. Your name sounded so enticing from his lips. The warm smile he gave you afterward made your heart flutter.

"I'm incredibly sorry for screaming at you. Whether I was right or wrong, I should never have raised my voice. I overreacted and took my frustration out on you. Totally out of character for me. I was having a bad day, you hit a few sore spots. I should have come by again to apologize, but I assumed you wouldn't want to see that crazy customer again."

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, embarrassment written all over his face. You marveled at the splotchy flush on his cheeks. He was just as uncomfortable with the whole situation as you were. It was kind of endearing.

"So, getting back to your offer," he mumbled hesitantly, "a dinner to talk about everything would be good. Really good. Fantastic, actually."

Everyone had prejudices, you of all people knew that. Getting to know the handsome stranger would hopefully clear up some of yours. You were confident that your date would turn out just fine.

Coming to you soon...

Daydreaming about my book:

Writing my book: