Sex.
About sixty two percent of songs, TV shows, movies and even books these days are about traditional sex or any subject attached to the matter. These subjects can stretch to love, flirting, pick up lines, oral sex, pregnancy, and so on and so forth. In others words, sex is one of the most preeminent affairs of the 21st century, controlling manifolds of people without them even comprehending that it does so.
It was created long ago – in Christianity beliefs anyway – as a means to bind a woman and man who are profoundly in love with one another, in the most intimate way possible. It was also created to reproduce, and beget the madly in love couple with children of their own, as was God's wish (once again, this is the Christian belief).
These days however, society finds themselves clouded by a lust induced haze. So many women and men view each other as objects of sex, and even those who don't, spend a lot of their time in front of the mirror as their vanity guides how they present themselves. Everyone, whether they realize it or not, are victims to seduction and sexual temptation. Those little glances you steal at the hot guy that just walked past with his mates, or the girl in the pretty but short shorts who's innocently making idle chatter with you – all those little fleeting looks and thoughts aren't as angelic as you know or realize.
I guess that's why I've always been so fond of Steve.
Being from the 1940's, his thoughts actually are innocent and pure. Ask a dame out, tell her she's pretty – not hot, pretty – maybe move in with her, get married, and then have sex and kids. He is someone who would have sex out of love, not as a release of frustration, a way to pass time or simply because he likes the feeling of it.
Because he loves the woman he'd be doing it with.
Now don't get me wrong, there's nothing unlawful or immoral in my opinion about having sex as a means of enjoyment. In fact, I've had my share or it. I wouldn't say I slept around, and I certainly never did one night stands with strangers whose names I forgot the next day, but I'm not exactly inexperienced in the matter.
The point is though, some men and women are driven by erotic desires and lewd, smutty fantasies to the point where they nearly forget that the man or woman they're chatting up is in fact a human being; a human being with the capability to bitch slap your perverse ass should they keep their gaze glued to particular places on your body for so long that you may begin to question whether they remember where your eyes are.
Exhibit a) Michael Romano, aka boob gazer. Some people like star gazing, or even bird gazing... but no, he seems to enjoy the more profound, delicate things in life to gaze at. Breasts.
Maybe I should be counting myself lucky that it's not my rack and my ass.
"And who might you be sweet heart?" He lustfully asks, his threat of the protection racket against Mark momentarily forgotten.
I bat my eyelashes, tugging my light pink lips into a daring, audacious smile as I step away from him and emphasize the sway of my hips while I move to stand around the bar next to Mark. "Honey I'm about as sweet as dirt, but the name's Lilly."
"Well, Lilly," he says, tongue subtly peeking out and resting on his lower lip for a couple seconds "I wouldn't suppose I could get some fries with that shake?" And here I thought my ass would be free from his vulgar desires.
Well, he clearly needs to be bathed in holy water. Maybe read the bible a couple of times. I wonder if an exorcism would work...? Only one way to find out; call the Winchesters!
I judgmentally eye his startling white suit, bantering "And you're allegedly who, the milk man?"
"Babe, I'm your ice cream man, and you're my sweet tooth."
I snort, hip jutted out to one side and arms crossed condescendingly. "In case you haven't realized, this is a bar. You got ID junior?" Yeah okay, my response ain't that great, especially considering he's older than me. He doesn't know that though, and the makeup paired with the outfit I'm sporting makes me appear older than I really am. Doesn't being a girl come in handy sometimes?
The red head barks a laugh, clearly amused as he fishes out his wallet and smoothly responds in sultry tone "If you wanted my number baby, all you had to do was ask."
"Sorry to be the bringer of bad news kiddo, but I prefer my men old enough to shave."
"Oh c'mon doll, you're breaking my heart."
"You're not offering me your heart suga."
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not," he half concedes, expression taking on a more severe turn. "But now isn't really the time to discuss it. Why don't you be a good little girl and scurry back to your corner. If you're lucky, I'll drop by afterwards and we can continues this arousing conversation, kay?" He winks so self-assuredly, like he's convinced that his offer is appealing to the point that I'll drop everything I'm doing and pine for his ever precious attention.
Douchenozzle.
"Oh I would baby, I really would," my voice is verging mockery, with an indiscernible, scathing undertone behind it. "But you see... when you've got a problem with Mark, you've got a problem with me. I'm sure your protection racket can do without one business. Not like you really care about any of the businesses on this strip anyway, they're merely conveniently placed for your move in on Castellano."
With each word that flows from my mouth, Michael's face turns graver and graver, his plastic smile replaced entirely with a vindictive smirk. "You're one mouthy broad, aren't ya?"
"Gotten me into trouble more times than I can count," I sweetly admit, folding my arms over one another on the bar counter and nonchalantly leaning forward and over them.
The red head's eye twitches. "Keep going and I'll give the most trouble you've ever gotten."
A genuine laugh breathes from my lungs and out my mouth, a stray hair that had escaped my side braid sweeping in front of my vision. "What you're offering is even less than a walk in the park, Mr. Weasley."
"Last chance doll," he growls a warning, the air of brash arrogance still holding onto him for dear life. "Beat it, or get beat."
I subtly push Mark behind me, hand groping for one of his bottles of beer underneath the bar. "I thought you'd never ask."
In the time it takes for them to blink and register my response, I've already glided over the bar counter and swiped my leg to kick the semi-automatic hand gun from one of his body guard's hands, as well as smash the firmly gripped, cool neck of the beer bottle over the other one's head. Comically enough, as the fight breaks out, Ballroom Blitz by the Sweet blasts from the ancient Jukebox, turning the scene into quite a movie-esque moment.
Using the curve of my shoes, I hook my feet around the tree-trunk like neck of the body guard whose gun I speedily kicked away, yanking him towards where I'm currently sat on the bar so I can seize his thick, bald head and smash it against the painfully solid wooden counter.
Oh, I see a man at the back as a matter of fact.
His eyes are as red as the sun.
And the girl in the corner let no one ignore her.
Cause she thinks she's the passionate one.
It seems the force was only strong enough to daze him, which thankfully comes in handy when Michael slips his gun out of its holster from his unsightly white suit and takes his aim at me. I slip off the counter top, using the dazed, bald body guard as a shield as Michael fires away, the idiot not even thinking about using a silencer to dim the sound. Great, let's just invite the police down to this little shindig; I'm sure Adelaide is going to have a ball bailing me out again.
I cannot take another one of her patronising speeches. I can hear them now... 'You can't be taking part in these perilous activities Lilly', 'You have an unhealthy addiction to adrenalin Lilly', 'You can't always be stealing my cereal Lilly, it's my cereal'. Okay, maybe the last one isn't a part of her regular prison rants, but it's still irritating none the less. I went down to the store to buy it for you, so yeah Addie, I can steal your delicious Lucky Charms! You want some more? Then go down to the mother freaking shops and get some!
I shove the guard – who's unfortunately wearing a bullet proof vest – firmly off me, brutally barrelling him into Michael a few feet away. They both tumble ungracefully backwards and through one of the atrocious, old tables; splinters of wood spitting everywhere with the collision.
Yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah.
And the man in the back said everyone attack.
And it turned into a ballroom blitz.
And the girl in the corner said boy I want to warn you.
It'll turn into a ballroom blitz.
Ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz.
The buzz of the moment – fragments of the music, the adrenalin rush and all – seems to have gotten to my head, because when I turn around to face Mark, the other guard who should be knocked out from the smashed bottle has drawn out his own gun and taken the shot.
The bullet lodges itself into the soft but toned flesh of my left arm, nearly reaching my shoulder. I bite back a feral hiss and kick down a table, taking a concentrated leap for cover behind it. I know it'll only last a few shots before its decimated, so I've got to think fast.
Think Lilly, think.
Remaining on the floor with my back sturdily against the table slowly getting obliterated, I tuck my feet closer to me and use my back leg muscles to fiercely push the table like a mobile barricade, flooring the guard before he's endowed a moment to react to the brusque, unanticipated offense. I immediately vault over the table with my good arm, bringing my knee to his neck on the floor and applying enough pressure to render him unconscious as he flails about like a fish out of water.
And the man in the back is ready to crack.
As he raises his hands to the sky.
And the girl in the corner is everyone's woman.
She could kill you with a wink of her eye
When his thrashing dies out, I stand up and face the last two only to be met with a ruthless punch to my jaw, instantly splitting my lip open in a scarlet spit of blood. Knocking Michael further to the side with the momentum from his strike, I mercilessly smack my right elbow into his nose, the satisfying crack resonating in my ears and managing to draw a content smile onto my face.
Ah, the fulfilled feeling of taking part in my absolute favourite hobby. That'll never go away.
I knee the mob bastard where the sun don't shine, inelegantly shoving him away to put some distance between us. Sparing the only guard left standing a fleeting glance; I have to shove down the imminent desire to break into laughter when I spot Brian taking an evidently involuntary piggy back ride on the man's back. Brian's eyes comically bulge when the man staggers backwards into a wall, pressing Brian between him the oak surface.
Throwing my attention back onto my own fight, I adroitly move to successfully block an incoming attack when an ear splitting shatter erupts over the back of Michael Romano's head, raining needles and pinpricks of glass everywhere within a two meter vicinity. I shield my eyes abruptly with my uninjured arm, only limply resting my arm back by my side afterwards to spy who had knocked the douche bag unconscious.
Assassin friend of mine, Jade Leiton – also known as the Viper – proudly stands above the comatose, mafia scum with an entertained, pleased and near animated glow about her, her slightly ruffled and comfortable appearance fitting in quite well with the bar's aesthetics.
"He seemed a little tense," she nonchalantly shrugs, a strangely playful air about her. "Thought he'd may like a drink." She smirks, a mischievous glint crossing her gaze as she carelessly tosses the broken bottle neck aside.
Yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah.
And the man in the back said everyone attack.
And it turned into a ballroom blitz'.
And the girl in the corner said boy I want to warn you.
It'll turn into a ballroom blitz.
Ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz, ballroom blitz.
I can't help but crack a grin, shaking my head loosely at my friend before me. "Well this is a bar," I say, my smirk beginning to mirror Jade's own. "It's probably what he came for in the first place. I think you deserve a generous tip for your services."
"Mmm, my thoughts exactly," she agrees, both of us casting Michael a brief, downwards glance. Neglecting the scuffle Brian and Rob are presently in as they attempt to bring down the final brick-wall of a guard, I curiously inquire from Jade "What are you even doing here?"
"I was in the neighbourhood," she flippantly supplies as an answer. "Heard you were having fun without me, so I thought I'd stop by and amend your little error. Normality though, Lillian? That's a colour I didn't think suited you, and it appears I'm right."
The guard teeters back and forth with Brian still fixed on his back in the corner of my eye, smashing through another table with a muffled 'oomph, how much do you weigh you bloody hippo?' blurting from Brian's mouth.
I concentrate back on Jade when Rob flies in to punch the lackey, furrowing my brows into a puzzled knot. "I don't know what you mean; I am completely and utterly immersed in my bland, normal and uneventful new life."
Her lips purse in an unconvinced line. "Really? Is that why you're starting bar fights with two-bit thugs off the streets just for your adrenalin fix?"
I pause, rummaging my brain for the right answer to her question. When I draw a blank, my mouth spurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Actually, they're organised crime members, otherwise known as the mafia or the mob. And you just knocked out one of the sons to one of the biggest mafia families in the city... so they're not exactly two-bit thugs off the streets."
She sighs, rolling her eyes and quietly muttering in French to the ceiling "Pourquoi me Dieu?" (Why me God?)
The fight seems to garner my attention once more, Mark having been added to the equation of the brawl while the song begins to fade out. Something about watching three grown men trying to bring down a Sasquatch of a criminal while he just stands there like a bear trying to throw a wolf from his back seems to be quite humouring, especially when said criminal seems to be wearing an expression akin to an exasperated mother attempting to put her children to bed.
"Do you mind waiting outside for a bit?" I plead Jade, momentarily fixing my gaze back on her as Mark picks up a bottle, yells a 'mighty' battle cry and quite literally jumps from a table into the fight. "I just gotta take care of a couple things... and make sure this bar doesn't get any more mafia-related attention."
She nods willingly, despite most likely wanting to have a few drinks or help finish the fight herself. "It's cold out there Glacé," she reminds me, using one of the old nicknames she used to title me with. "So don't take too long. Not all of us have cold immunity because of our ice powers."
I mimic her nod, observing her back as she waltzes towards the bar door, only briefly glimpsing at the brawl annihilating the rest of the room. Tiredly sighing, I find another couple beer bottles and grip the smooth, glass necks firmly, making my way over to the four grown men apparently incapable of finishing a bar fight themselves.
"Why me God?"
******
In spite of previously planning to go elsewhere with Jade to talk in succession of the bar fight; I'm quick to find out that Mark is adamant on me remaining here to 'patch my wounds' while offering some alcohol on the house. He's even more persistent when I give the Four Horsemen a call to ensure that the mess and expenses are taken care of, as well as an insurance policy that no organised crime families shall ever bother the bar again.
Holding the bullet shards that I had scarcely extracted from my flesh only moments ago, something from within begins to stir as the adrenaline from the scuffle subsides. A somewhat familiar, gratifying warmth shoots down my spine like a honey lathered lightning bolt, small tingles nipping at my fingers and draping blankets of satisfaction around my heart. I know this feeling. But where from—?
Thump.
I leisurely look sideways from my position on the bar stool, shaking my day dreaming thoughts elsewhere for the time being to spy Jade placing a first aid kit on the bar counter top, and a Johnnie Walker bottle with a couple of glasses in her other hand. "I come bearing booze and band aids. Which do you prefer, the Dora the Explorer band aids or the Hello Kitty ones?"
Arching a perfectly plucked eye brow, I size her up and playfully challenge "Go ahead and try to put one of those band aids on me – I dare you."
"So your mundane, normal decisions have stretched to your band aid choices as well," she half-heartedly jests, a more serious meaning underlying her tone. "Should've known."
"Yeah well, got to play the part don't I?" I respond, swatting her hand away as she tries to dab my gunshot wound with an antiseptic wipe. "Those things hardly clean wounds, you know that. Movies overrate them. And I can clean my own wounds thank you."
She huffs, a strand of her white streaked, black hair drifting in front of her face in her exasperation. "Yeah well the first aid kit doesn't exactly have a Hospital in here, and as for cleaning your own wounds, no. I would normally allow you because you're a big girl and have done it a thousand times before, but we need to talk. Here, hold this." She passes me the Johnnie Walker bottle, disregarding the glasses she brought in addition to it.
I flicker my gaze between her and bottle of scotch, inquiring "Why do you need this? You already have the antiseptic wipes to clean the wound."
Her flat, deadpan stare is enough to make me feel like an idiot. "I just thought you'd like a bottle of scotch to hold Lilly. I hear holding alcohol is very therapeutic, why don't you try hugging it and sharing your life problems while you're at it?"
"Hardy har har," I mock her, realising my stupid mistake. "It's for numbing my wound and my brain, I get it. I imagine you're trying to get more answers out of me through it as well."
She scoffs, unawarely mumbling aloud "She's been here all night, and she started a bar fight with high class criminals. As if I'd need to get a bottle of Johnnie Walker into her to get answers out of her. She's probably had enough booze to drown Mr. Mechanics McGee."
Unable to repress the amused snort at her evident nickname for Stark, I find my lips quirking up as I ask "You call Tony 'Mr. Mechanics McGee'? That's brilliant."
Her head whips up so fast upon the moment of my snickering that I'm surprised she doesn't break anything. "I said that out loud didn't I?"
"It's a terrible habit Jade," I snigger, finding the current topic thoroughly entertaining. "Gonna get you into a hell of a lot of trouble one day."
"Yeah well, trouble is your specialty," she shoots back, wiping down the last of my bullet wound, as well as the small cut on my lip, prohibiting them from mild infections and cleaning them from the spatters of dried and damp blood. "At least it was, anyway."
Tongue in cheek, I scrutinize Jade while she discards the wipes and rummages through the first aid kit, pulling out a small tube of Sulfadiazine cream, a cream which is primarily utilized for burns. I suppose it'll do for gunshot wounds as well. "If I didn't know any better, I would say that you don't approve of my choice for an average, apple pie life."
"I've got nothing against an average, apple pie life," she admits, dabbing the alarmingly cold cream on my arm. "But people like us? We don't get to have average, apple pie lives. I don't know why you would try in the first place, you clearly miss being with your Star Spangled boyfriend."
I place the bottle of scotch between my thighs, using my right hand to absentmindedly unscrew the cap off as I defeatedly respond "It's not like I can do anything about it; none of them remember who I am, Steve included."
"And what? Sitting around starting bar fights is going to miraculously remind him of who you are?" Jade rebukes, her voice not too emotionally attached to the subject as she offers her outside perspective of the situation. "Look, your life is your life Lilly. I'm not going to parade in, smash a bottle of rum over a mob boss' son's head and tell you how to live it. All I'm going to say is that is this really what you want? And even if it is, is it what you need and what you deserve? Once an assassin, always an assassin. Or at least some kind of anti-hero – super hero kind of thing. Now stop talking and drink the damn scotch, I wasn't serious when I told you to hug and share your life problems with it."
My eyes inadvertently roll on instinct at her last comment, my detached yet genuine smile turning into a toothy grin. I always relish my times with Jade; for she's the most relatable, empathetic and perceptive person I think I've ever had the pleasure to meet. Either her or Andrea, but either way, as Jade said; once an assassin, always an assassin. I guess the industry has a way of inextricably bonding us on a higher level of understanding.
A comfortable silence settles for a little while as Jade begins to expertly sew the bullet hole shut, the rusty coloured whiskey managing to numb the pinching feeling of the needle threading through my skin. I observe her, brain fumbling for the right words to say. Fortunately, my fumbling is rescued when she breaks the silence with "Is there something on my face?"
I shake my head slightly, lips tugging up. "No, I was just trying to find the right words to ask something... but to hell with trying to be delicate with it," I decide, bluntly questioning "Am I broken, Jade? Has everything I've done and been through broken me? I can't tell anymore." By the end of it, my voice is low and dejected, a raw more vulnerable side peeking through my cold exterior, something I've never done around Jade.
She seems marginally put off by the sudden emotionally exposed state I'm in, yet it doesn't seem to shake her too much because within a few moments she's firmly but not aggressively responding "You're not broken. Sometimes there are just cracks and scratches. You don't toss your phone simply because it got nicked. You take it to get fixed. Sometimes you just can't fix yourself, and that's okay Lillian. Even if you were broken, it sure as hell won't last, or matter that you are. You let all these people, me, in for a reason. Don't make that reason meaningless." While her tone remains unshakeable, a sliver of affection seems to underline her voice. She cares for me, but doesn't want to baby or coddle me. That's something I can admire.
"Right," I say, clearing my throat and pushing down the sappy side of me that only Addie and Sam are used to by now. "Thanks, I needed that. And I'm sorry, that was a moment of weakness..."
"Hey, we all have them. Don't worry about it," she dusts it off, tying the little knot at the end of the thread to make sure the stitches don't come out. "Just... give me a little forewarning next time. I wasn't exactly expecting it."
I chuckle after taking another swig of the booze, admitting "Yeah, I kind of forget that Sam and Adelaide are the only two people who have grown accustomed to my mental and emotional state after the stay in Asgard. I'm not the same woman I was when I left here."
Light-heartedly but intently she disagrees "I don't know about that. I still see the same Lillian sitting in front of me; she's just got a few new battle scars. Some of which I can see, and others which I can't. Now give me that bottle, I deserve a little a whiskey after all of that."
Laughing, I pass her the decently sized Johnnie Walker's, admiring the stitch up on my left arm. "Not bad Leiton, though I wouldn't hire you as a doctor or nurse any time soon."
She snorts her amusement and agreement, taking a large gulp from the alcohol. "Hell, I would like to see you try and get me in one of those nurse uniforms. But go on; go ahead, I could use a good laugh."
I chuckle again, hopping off the bar stool as elegantly as I could and cracking both sides of my neck, ridding the stiffness residing there. Treading amongst the ruins of the bar fight, I manage to fetch my discarded black overcoat where Mark has so kindly placed it, draped over the back of a chair in the far corner. "You know," I speak up, trying to pull my ridiculous abundance of hair out from inside the coat I just threw on "I do love our little chats Belle, really, I do – but I think if I don't return home soon Adelaide may just yank out my intestines and use them as a skipping rope. Believe it or not, I'm rather attached to my intestines, and kinda don't want them to be used as skipping rope."
Her brows furrow. "You mentioned that name before... Adelaide. Who is she?"
I cluck my tongue, trying not to let my grin broaden too much at the perplexed look on her face. "My younger sister."
For several moments, her mouth opens and closes, almost reminding me of a trout. I don't blame her for being at a loss for words, it's not every day you hear that one of your assassin friends has a younger sister even though said assassin's mother has been presumed dead for over twenty five years. To be honest, I wouldn't even touch the subject with a ten meter pole if it wasn't me that was the assassin with the impossible sister.
Eventually, an amusingly defeated look flitters across Jade's face and she waves me off, announcing "You know what, I don't think I want to know how that happened. The Four Horsemen manage to screw up my brain enough as it is. Just promise me something Lilly?"
Now it's my turn for my brows to furrow. "Yeah?"
She loiters in the doorway, wearing the same mischievous smirk as she was when she knocked the bottle of rum over the red haired criminal's head. "Try getting into a bit more trouble; it is your middle name after all."
******
"Let's go get a haircut."
Startled, I stare up from my Kite Runner novel and blankly blink at Sam casually seated on the couch beside me. His eyebrows are nearly comically raised in question at me, and his entrancing verdant eyes are politely boring into mine waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry, what?"
"A haircut, you know, the thing where someone grabs a pair of scissors and changes or shortens your hair—"
"Yes I know what a haircut is," I lightly snap, eyes rolling skyward at Samuel's bluntness. "But why? Why so sudden—"
"Because if my hair grows any longer it's going to start curling," Sam interjects innocently, his eyes wandering to my own hair and judgmentally staring at it as if he's a fashion designer staring at a fashion catastrophe. "And your hair looks like Rapunzel got her hair dyed, and then proceeded to put it through a shredder. Too many split ends girl."
Once again; thank you world for Samuel Hemmings-Von Doom and his never ending abundance of bluntness.
I stiffly crane my neck to check the time on the little bird clock leisurely hanging above the scarfs, weapons and coats rack. 1:45pm. I wish I got more sleep after last night's fiasco, but it's kind of hard to sleep when your younger sister is shouting in your ear so loudly that she wouldn't need a microphone at a concert.
Tip: Elmo ear buds work wonders when you wish to block out all annoying younger siblings.
Decidedly bored with sitting around and doing nothing, I flicker my gaze back to Sam and indifferently shrug a single shoulder. "Don't see why not."
Three months of living here in the Big Apple and I still can't stand the mother hugging traffic. Where's an alien invasion to clear the streets when you need one? Idiotic father, can't time extra terrestrial invasions for crap.
An agonising forty minute cab ride later – which included Sam and the taxi driver singing 100 hundred bottles of beer on the wall from 1000 instead of 100 – and Sam and I are finally traipsing around Times Square, the hypnotic and almost overwhelming buzz of life blaring out at me from every angle. The vibrant blue sky lights up the streets and all the people on it while their assortment of clothes blur together, like a giant multi-coloured sea.
Abruptly, he flings his arm out to point at a shop and nearly thwacks me in the goddamn face while he's at it. "There! That hair salon has your sense of humour Lilly."
I spare the salon a glance and can't muffle the snort when I read its name. Curl Up and Dye. Sounds like something my grandmother would come up with if I ever had one. "It's like it was made for me," I humour him, cracking a smile when practically prances over towards it. If he was a horse at an equestrian dressage, I would've given him a 10/10.
The salon is homey, but still has an air of professionalism about it. There are only another two people seemingly getting their hair cut and dyed at the moment, so hopefully the wait won't be too long. A skinny, short woman who appears to be in her mid to late forties instantly meets Sam and I at the door, her frizzy long blonde hair revealing her brown regrowth at her roots. Her smile seems to be infectious, and despite wearing the face of someone who has seen and been through a lot, an aura of optimism just radiates off her entire body. Her eyes skim over my busted lip from last night, but she otherwise ignores it, keeping to her own business.
I like her already.
"Hi, I'm Jo. How can I help you?" Jo kindly asks, revealing her Welsh accent as she addresses the question to both Sam and I.
"We've got a very serious dilemma," Sam gravely responds, yet his near playful tone betrays him. "My hair is about to be as long as her sister's, and her hair hasn't been cut in a couple centuries so it has more split ends then there are galaxies in the universe."
Half-heartedly glowering at my sparky friend, I sulkily mumble "It's not that bad..."
"Still better than mine, and I'm the one who's a hair dresser for a living," she shamelessly admits, playfully grinning at the two of us. "But we'll treat like family here, and attend to all your hair's desires. Come, I'll have Taylor cut your hair while I get you," Jo points to me perkily "all to myself."
Jo spends about twenty minutes along just washing my hair at the basin – yeah, I have that much of it – and afterwards, all I do is blink and I suddenly find myself in a salon chair, staring at myself dazedly through the glistening, spotless mirror.
"Have you always had it long?" she asks, skilfully pulling a comb through my hair to rid it of all its mangled, wet knots whilst we contently converse.
I don't even hesitate with an answer, my rich hazel eyes intently observing her through the mirror. "Yeah, but it hasn't always been layered."
Jo's lips purse, returning my intent stare with one of her own. "How do you feel about short hair?"
Without even meaning to, my eyebrows involuntarily shoot up to my hairline. "Short hair? Well... I've never really given it much thought..."
"You cheekbones are relatively sharp, and you have the perfect face shape to pull off a layered bob. Wouldn't it be nice having something different if you've had it the same way your whole life?"
I shrug, feeling marginally out of my element with all this. "It would be a tad more practical... you know what? Go for it. Do what you see fit. Just don't shave it all off or I'll shave one of your eyebrows off while you sleep. Only one."
My eyes bulge like a squeaky toy at the impish grin she sports on her lips, even after my colourful threat. "I only do that to the annoying customers."
Sam ends up having to wait for me for half an hour after this 'Taylor' guy trims his hair into quite the attractive quiff. As each strand of my infinite hair glides to the salon floor, I feel as if I'm cutting away the last of my ties to Asgard, the dead ends of my hair representing all the dead memories I'm severing from my old life. Beforehand, I would've tried to embrace this whole 'new me' thing, but all I can hear is Jade's words from last night ringing in my ears.
"I don't know about that. I still see the same Lillian sitting in front of me; she's just got a few new battle scars. Some of which I can see, and others which I can't."
Am I still me? Was I actually strong enough to endure and survive everything that happened on Asgard? Or did it all change me? Can people even change? I certainly never thought so, I've always thought people can be altered to a certain extent, but not changed per say. Asgard gave me some food for thought about that though, and I don't know if I still hold onto that belief. But even if I did, was what happened enough to drastically change me? Jade seemingly didn't think so.
As Jo finishes off the final touches of straightening my hair – having already cut and dried it – I can say that I am very impressed. It feels a tad odd seeing so much of it gone, but so much weight has been taken off that it almost feels like I have none at all.
The straightened, layered bob has been purposefully ruffled a little to give it that 'I woke up like this' look with a sexy edge to it. My hair ends a couple centimetres below my chin, the parting in my hair having been moved over more to the right so my light and dark amber strands slightly sweep over my face elegantly. Damn, I should've cut my hair short long ago.
A wolf whistle slices through the air and into my ears, and upon glancing in the mirror, I grin to see Sam standing proudly with his hands crossed securely over his chest. "I'm sorry; I'm looking for my friend Lillian Nightshade. She's kinda short, bossy and has hair messy enough to rival Merida from Brave. Have you seen her?"
"Yeah, she's getting a buzz cut over in the far corner," I flippantly respond, excitedly running my hands through my now finished, silky smooth hair.
"Thanks. Oh, and can I get your number?"
"Sorry, I've got a boyfriend," I cluck my tongue "and honey, there's no way you can top him in bed."
By that point Sam has lost it, his joyful, entertained laughs vibrating happily around me. He lifts a finger to wipe a stray tear, pushing out a barely audible sentence. "You – You never did it with Steve, did you?"
I hum wistfully, toying with the ends of my fresh hair as the memory surfaces from the nether regions of my mind. "No, but we were close once."
F L A S H B A C K
Glancing over his shoulder as he impatiently forces me backwards, I stammer "I, uh," I clear my throat "I do believe breaking noses is my hobby—"
The back of my knees meet the bed, bending them and inducing me to fall onto it, Steve in no way shy of climbing on top. The determination mixed with the flare of desire in his eyes only makes my chest tighten even more, but me being the nervous chatter box I am....
"Any particular reason you kissed me out of the blue? Or is this 'catch Lillian off guard with an ambush of kisses day'. If so, remind me to stay far away from Johnny and Stark."
His hot breath on my exposed neck is like a lightning bolt lathered with honey has just struck my spine, his wandering hands not helping whatsoever. "We have been interrupted too many times. Never do we have a prolonged moment alone, so now I'm creating that prolonged moment, with the aid of Jarvis."
I light-heartedly grumble towards Jarvis "Traitor."
His light finger tips skim my clothed hips, and even with the jumper separating his calloused fingers and my warm skin, sparks fly around the area where he made contact in ecstasy. His soft yet passionate lips find my neck, working their way across my barren skin.
I swallow hard. "I-I'm not complaining—"
I can feel his smirk growing against my neck. "Am I making the great Nightingale stutter? A good year and a half ago you made it your life goal to make a fool of me, and we despised each other's very existence. How the tables have turned."
A shiver tauntingly progresses through my skin. "Don't interrupt me Rogers. I will break your nose again."
The playful essence begins to hang in the air, Steve pausing with his shower of kisses on my neck to chuckle, his nose brushing against my collar bone. "Your bark always was incredibly rough, but not as much as your bite."
I smirk. "That's debateable, but you have no idea how rough my bite can really be."
The idea simply has him frozen in his tracks, allowing me enough time to turn the tables and flip him over so his back is now against the lush mattress. I swing one leg over his torso, cheekily straddling his waist which is actually a lot harder than it sounds considering the amount of muscle the man owns.
"I do have one final question though...."
He almost whimpers in anticipation. "Quickly."
I slowly rub my hands up and down his chest. "Did Stark give you a quick twenty minute prep on how to seduce, charm and kiss me?"
He pauses. "To be fair it was Stark and Johnny."
Never have I smiled as greatly and as happily as I do now. "That's my Captain."
Our lips collide with a flurry desire and lust, but what scares me is that spark of something more. For so long, ever since we've first me, anything between us has been on some level lust. I mean I was definitely checking him out back in Auburn, Alabama when I could see his toned and well-built muscles through the ice, and he flushed like a school boy caught with his father's playboy stash when he watched me subtly change over the monitors at the HYDRA building. But this.... This spark is something new. Completely new.
It's more than euphoric. It's like an entire country has lit every firework they own within my very stomach. Like every bad memory is held at bay just by the simple touch and caress of his tender hands friskily skimming any patch of bare skin available to him. Yet even now, he is a gentleman and is reluctant to move my jumper up even by an inch. That feeling though, the spark. Everything around us doesn't exist – as cliché as it sounds – and all that there is, is the two of us and this bedroom, and Heaven Almighty I never want to leave.
"Lillian," he whines, my teasing lingering kisses not moving from his jaw line. Devil take me that was delicious. Wait – what did I just think? Maker of all things Holy what have I become? Delicious? Really?
My nails claw in a rough yet pleasurable way as they move under his tight top. Every time he wears his tight shirts – or you know, shirts in general – the lighting finds some way to frame him like a God from legend. Not like my uncle or father – ew, no, I am not thinking about family during this – but one that I actually find overly alluring. But damn, that lighting does wonders, and for the things I can't see, well... that leaves room for the imagination.
For Christ's sake I am so dirty. I deserve a good reality slap—
Catching me off guard, he finds himself in the dominant position as he flips me onto my back once again, his legs hooked around mine as he straddles my waist with complete ease. Well, that was a reality slap as good as any.
Taking my actions from beforehand – when my hands slipped under his shirt to drag my nails down his bare chest – as a sign to do so, his own hands slyly slip under my singlet and jumper, the contact with my skin causing all breath in my lungs to disappear. Oh, I see how he wants to play. Who can catch the other off guard the most eh? Well, we'll see about that.
I lean forwards in a haste of desire, yet when I make contact with his lips I do so slowly, the taunting earning an almost-whimper from him in return. Ever hear Captain America whimper? Well you should, because dirty me would say it's delicious. Normal me would probably laugh and never let him live it down.
Smirking into the kiss, I delicately slip my tongue into his mouth, and if that doesn't catch him off guard then skilfully winning dominance with certain.... Tongue manoeuvres definitely does. I can see Stark didn't prepare him for that one. What can I say, the French invented many a great things. Want to know more about them? Ask a friend of mine, Jade Leiton. She's French after all.
"Oh God Lillian," I manage to elicit from Steve in a strangled moan, smirking even more when I briefly break away to say "Please don't refer to my uncle or blood father during pleasurable activities, it's rather a turn off."
"Miss, I apologize for interrupting but if I don't then Mr Stark and Mr Storm will with two Stark phones prepped for filming. I thought you would prefer not having you and Mr Rogers eating each other's faces off trend across the internet." I would yell at Jarvis, but I really don't want me 'eating Steve's face off' to go viral thank you.
Steve growls – a sound that is positively delectable – as he reluctantly pulls away, rolling onto his side with ragged heavy breaths. My own breath is doubtlessly the same, my lungs being absolutely greedy as they beg for more air. With my back to the mattress, and my elbows propping me up, I breathlessly pant "Thanks Jarv. Remind me to bug or tamper with their phones later. I actually have a friend – eh, acquaintance – who can probably help with that."
He sounds almost amused. "Of course Miss. Mr Stark and Mr Storm are down the hall, followed by a snickering Agent Barton. Would you like me to give them a five second head start for running or do you prefer to murder them instantaneously?"
I chuckle sinisterly, briefly throwing my head back. "I always did love a good chase."
"Very well Miss. Ten seconds it is."
F L A S H B A C K O V E R
After paying Jo – with a generous tip – for her services, Sam and I spend the next couple hours aimlessly wandering around Times Square and the streets encompassing it. And trust me, when you leave the daughter of Loki and the son of Victor Von Doom to their own devices within the frantic streets of New York City... weird shit goes down. I even got a belly button piercing.
Yeah, turns out I'm one of those people.
What surprises me the most though, is that somehow Sam managed to talk me into getting a tattoo. I don't even know what happened, one moment I'm peacefully enjoying one of the world's greatest wonders – otherwise known as a Starbucks frappe – and then the next, I'm standing in an edgy tattoo parlour while Samuel freaking Hemmings is talking to the equally edgy looking tattoo artist about tattoo designs for himself and moi.
I'm telling you, it's last night's hammering hangover. That, or something fishy was spiked in my heaven-sent frappe. Trust a Von Doom to take advantage of you in a vulnerable situation though.
"A tribal looking black rose is what I'm thinking," Sam's voice wiggles its way into the abyss of my brain, tearing my attention away from my internal conflict/ranting. "Or a nightingale, you know, the bird. Not the Skyrim character."
"What about you?" I unabashedly interject, monotone voice dragged out into a slightly interested drawl. "Gonna get a Pikachu or a lightning bolt? Hell, get one of Pikachu using lightning bolt."
After all the time we've spent together, Sam is unfazed by my sarcasm. "Well, I'm feeling pretty Divergent-y today, so I was thinking about how I've been a HYDRA agent and even a SHIELD agent for a short time, and have decided that I'm going to get the HYDRA logo on my left shoulder blade and the SHIELD logo on my right. Similar-ish to how Four had the five factions."
"That could get you into a lot of trouble if either agency sees you with the other's logo inked on your back," I thinly caution, toying with the undone belt of my stylish black trench coat. "And unlike Four, you didn't grow up in either of them, didn't grow attached to them. So why do you really want them?"
The tattoo artist had voicelessly left the moment we began talking, but in that moment, as Sam's careful stare locked onto mine and threw away the key, did I truly feel as if it was only the two of us in that room. "Because I feel as if it gives a face to both sides," he placidly murmurs, eyes downcast as if he's ashamed for admitting it. "Good and evil. Light and dark. Yin and Yang. The lines between them all seem to blur these days, and even though there are nice and cruel people in both agencies, our experiences with them lay out quite clearly which side is good, and which side is bad. Something I'm finding hard to differentiate at the moment."
He perks up a little, and even the artificial lights in the concrete, cold room seem to become a little livelier. "Besides," he continues, back straightening a little "who says I didn't grow up with them? I never told you this, but my mum was actually a HYDRA agent when she had me, so even after she resigned, a bunch of her HYDRA friends used to frequent the house and spend time with her and I. They were nice people, just bad intentions."
"Must've been hard," I sincerely console with a gentle expression, hastening to elaborate before he jumped to conclusions "ageing and being told what's deemed 'good' by your teachers and friends, while your mum and her friends had another entire meaning for the word."
"Yeah well, I can't say I had it that bad," Sam admits, carefully choosing his words. "Especially after I met you. I mean, no offence, but having grown up in an orphanage must've been trying. I imagine the nuns that took care of you would want nothing more than to dunk you in a tub of holy water now."
I suppress a flinch. Sam said nothing wrong, he's a jesting, light-hearted guy. I obviously take no offence to that. It's the mention of my childhood and the pang of guilt that follows it that makes me want to curl up into a little ball and scream.
"Ah yes," my father's voice haunts my ears like a ghost, even though it's actually Thanos who's doing the talking.
"Speaking of childhood and pasts, did you ever tell any of them the truth about your past? Does anyone know but the good Director and Allison?"
How did he know? I painfully ponder. How did he know that my entire childhood is a lie?
"Yoo hoo, Steve and Bucky are marrying and they've asked you to be the maid of honour!"
"Hmm what?" I splutter, literally taken aback as the middle of my back meets one of the shelves whilst I stagger from more internal turmoil.
Sam grins, an all knowing look sparking – yes, that was a pun – in the depths of his emerald irises. "Oh you would like that wouldn't you? Your two would-be suitors marrying one another so you could just pop in on the weekends and—"
"Another word, and I'm telling Adelaide that you were the one who threw out her favourite flannel just so you could make room for your damn Game of Thrones collector's item t-shirt."
He gasps dramatically, an aghast look of pure horror paling his face. "You wouldn't."
"Honey, I was an internationally acclaimed assassin and mercenary at the age of sixteen who can also create and manipulate two of the four elements and am the daughter of the God of Mischief and Lies," I satirically sass back, even going to the lengths of clicking my fingers in a cliché manner. "So do not test my patient ass."
"Have we made a decision?"
Our heads whip to the intruding voice so fast I'm shocked we don't get whiplash, identifying the source of the sound to be the sketchy tattoo artist from before. Sam, in spite of being flustered, politely clears his throat and replies "Yes, actually, I have. Lilly?" He turns back to me, a pinched look of warning flashing across his features in relation to our previous topic. "I'm sure you'll come to a decision within the next half hour or so. Until then, I bid you good day."
I scoff as he struts off, and even the tattoo guy rolls his eyes tiredly. Glimpsing half-heartedly back at some of the offered templates, I start to fervently mull over possible options in my head. It doesn't take too long for me to come to a conclusion, or should I say, two conclusions.
Hopefully Addie doesn't have too much of a heart attack.
******
"They're actually pretty cool."
This time, I fail to reign in the wash of gobsmacking surprise at Adelaide's comment of appraisal, her fingers gingerly running over the tattoo on the inside of my left forearm. I was in a somewhat humorous mood, and got 'Trouble is my middle name' written in cursive there in the form of a couple waves, three feathers to represent the nightingale feathers surrounding it. Whereas on my right shoulder blade, I went with Sam's 'expert' advice and got a kinda tribal looking black rose, another reminder of the good old days. It's a shame how I can no longer grow black roses, but even if I ever went back to my old ways, I'm sure Addie would grow them for me.
"Wait so you're not going to chop off our arms and cut out our eyes and use them as tennis rackets and tennis balls?" Sam cringes, using the lounge as a barrier between Addie and I in the open kitchen and himself in the spacious, connected living room.
Adelaide frighteningly seems to actually consider the proposition for a moment, before fortunately deciding on "Hmm don't feel like it. Try me again on Tuesday."
"You should've seen the place Addie," I chuckle, neglecting Sam behind the couch who looks like he may just faint from glee. "Total dump, and the guy himself with super shady. He turned out to be quite nice though, especially after he stopped trying to be daunting upon seeing the bullet wound in my left arm."
"Those kinds of things do tend to put people off," she clucks her tongue, abandoning me on the kitchen stool to continue making the homemade pizzas. "Just try not to piss off any more mafia men, or get shot by them for that matter. I don't want to have to start dumping bodies in dumpsters and lakes just so your ass doesn't land in a jail cell."
"Yes mother," I drone cheekily, earning a look from Adelaide in return. "Commissioner Walker would take care of me in there anyway," I wave off her worries, kicking my feet up to rest on the kitchen island counter. "He would ward off any ruffians and thugs who came my way. Maybe even sneak me in a Kit Kat bar from time to time. Oooh, maybe his wife would bake me an apple pie. She's good at baking those. Gotta ask her for her homemade vanilla ice cream as well—"
Knock knock knock.
A deafening silence befalls the room; Adelaide, Sam and I frozen where we stand and sit, or in Sam's case, where he squats above the couch. Sam spares us an alarmed look, loudly whispering as if he was out of a cartoon "Was that the door?"
I roll my eyes, quietly roasting "No it was Santa coming through the chimney, of course it was the damn door!"
"Maybe they're girl scouts selling cookies," Sam reasons, a feigned expression of hurt having flittered across his features at my outburst. "Or Stella selling girl scout cookies."
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
All three of us jump at the abrupt slamming of someone's fists against our door, and I would've laughed at Sam's face if it wasn't such a serious moment.
Just kidding, I laugh anyway.
"Well someone is an impatient little bastard," Sam mumbles, slouching into the couch and making no further advancements towards the front door. Adelaide and I quirk our right eyebrows in unison, Addie prompting Sam "Well aren't you going to get the door?"
Sam pouts, shaking his head childishly. "They're being demanding and rude. I don't do business with rude girl scouts."
"I've got it," I huff out a laugh, my short hair fluttering into my line of sight at the act. I slyly slide out from between the kitchen stool and island bench, taking long, measured strides across the room to meet the door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNO—
"What do you want you impatient little fu—" My sentence catches in my throat, along with my breath. I had flung the door open halfway through the relentless knocking, and what I spy before me now is enough to make me want to run for the hills screaming and cry out for joy at the same time.
"Hey Shady, nice place you got here," Tony Stark casually quips, peeking over my shoulder and pointing behind me. "You don't happen to have a bathroom, do you?"
And the man in the back is ready to crack as he raises his hands to the sky~
God I love that song. Thank you Suicide Squad trailer for reminding me how much I love it.
Anyways, my friend Maddie - or as you know her purpleshadow14 - helped me with her character Jade Leiton's intro bit, and the whole 'You're not broken. Sometimes there are just cracks and scratches...' was a comment from her in an earlier chapter, so all that jizz goes to her.
*applauds*
Btw, in case you're wondering where that video of me answering questions is, I thought I'd let you know that I decided to move it to a further date because there weren't that many questions asked BUT I've got another idea for now. Seeing as how FFTE is less that 100k reads away from a million (I know I know, I've fangirled so much that I've run out of fangirl juice), I thought that I'd do one of those live stream things where I can talk to a bunch of you guys at once or something. Idk what app or website you use for that, and I have no idea how any of it works, but if you guys would like that (or if you have a better idea on how to celebrate 1 million reads) then let me know below! Cuz it's so hard finding the time to reply to comments (even though I read all of them) so it would be nice if I can repay the favour by talking to you face to face (through a computer XD).
Oh, and the little argument between Lilly and Michael was inspired by my all time favourite fanfic called "So, Harv Walks Into a Bar" which can be found on fanfic.net and Archive of Our Own. It's a Harvey Dent aka Two Face fanfic and asdfghjkl even if you're not a massive Batman fan, this fanfic will literally consume your life until you're nothing but a quivering, sobbing mess begging for more Mack (the OC) and Harv. I deeply suggest you read it (heads up, the Archive of Our Own version has a smut scene or two, but that's quite deep into the book).
Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx
~T.L