#intimate to sit down with someone and eat with them which as you all may know is exactly the kind of thing that misao is afraid of doing-

[anthromimicry]

oh, but imagining the potential for warmth and also perhaps some humor in the scenario that misao decides she wants to try to cook something for someone she loves while they're over is currently making my heart happy. like i'm not going to lie — misao has honestly not cooked a day in her life since she just simply never had the need to, being a jorōgumo and all, but she would want to at least try to show she cares for them by attempting to cook their favorite dish or something whenever they're over at her home. and this would still apply to her even if she ended up completely failing at it at first because one of misao's love languages is acts of service. thus, of course she would want to provide them with something as integral as food. but GAHHH, picturing it from misao's loved ones perspective is also equally as sweet to me, because them guiding her on what to do while reassuring her that it's okay? and them eventually just deciding to cook together because misao may or may not get overwhelmed by the fact that she has such little knowledge about what to do because she wants everything to be perfect is... idk. it can be either incredibly romantic, or make for a very wholesome platonic moment between her and another character, which i LOVE

[holdmytesseract]

moodboard by @chennqingg <3

Rules To Break

Jotun!Prince!Loki Laufeyson x fem!Æsir!Princess!Reader

Summary: Prince Loki of Jotunheim - son of King Laufey and heir to the throne is assigned to train a bunch of Asgardian men, in order to turn them into warriors. What happens when Odin's daughter, Princess Y/N crosses his paths in ways he would've never expected? While the Prince is completely unaware, the Princess struggles to keep up her several masquerades...

Warnings for this Chapter: Odin being the best father ever *coughs*, swear words, mutual pining?

Word Count: 2k

a/n: Okay... First things first. I split the originally last chapter up in two, so that means there's gonna be another chapter after that! 🥳

Divider by the lovely @fictive-sl0th 💚

Tagging: (Y'all in the comments again!)

Ice Flower Masterlist ❄ Masterlist

Chapter Four / Chapter Six

Chapter Five

Almost Four Months Later

You sighed, as you sat down on the windowsill with your book in hands, watching the birds fly by and the sun shining down on Asgard. You could see the blooming trees and flowers of the royal gardens from here. It was beautiful - if you were only allowed to go outside.

After what had happened at the training camp almost four months ago, your father was more than just angry. His wrath was so big, that he didn't talk to you for over two weeks. Your punishment was cruel. You weren't allowed to leave the palace - for at least a whole year. You had to stay in your room and were only allowed to come out for breakfast, lunch or dinner. It was horrible - and yet you had no other choice than to accept it. In the time you weren't eating, reading, sleeping or staring aimlessly out of the window, you were thinking... Thinking about the traitorous asshole which called himself prince Loki Laufeyson. You hated him for what he did. At least a part of you did. The other part was still reminiscing about the intimate moments you shared with him at that damn lake. You just weren't able to get him off your mind. He was always present – in some way.

A knock against the door of your chamber brought you back to reality. You looked up, "Yes?" and clapped your book shut. The door opened slowly, revealing your dear friend Estrid. She was carrying a tray with two small golden bowls. In one were nuts, in the other grapes. "I thought you could need something to eat, my princess." Estrid was your saviour. Your ray of sunshine on cloudy days. "Thank you." You smiled up at her, as she placed the delicacies on your desk beside the window. The young woman gave you a nod, and stayed for a moment, looking at you intensely. "What?" You asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Something is on your mind, I can tell. Or rather someone...?" Of course you told Estrid what happened back in the camp and the lake. She was your best friend after all. You sighed, defeated, rubbing the heels of your palms in your eyes. "I just can't forget him, Estrid. Even after four months, he's constantly on my mind, bothering me. I just don't know why..." The maid cocked her head, smiling. "If I may be so bold to say this, but-" "No, no, no. No. We already had this conversation – twice! I told you. I am not in love!" Your friend giggled. "Well, your mind can't seem to forget prince Loki... and the way you are denying it so vehemently, I think it's very clear that you are in love, your highness."

You just scoffed, shaking your head. "Why won't you just admit that you fell in love with him?" "Because I do not love him, Estrid, I-" You cut off your own sentence, averting your eyes; jaw clenching. "You what, my princess?" Estrid asked, stepping closer. "May I?" She gestured to the free space beside you on the little sofa. "You may." You gave her the permission to sit down beside you - what she did. "I understand you, Y/N, but I also don't understand you. Where lies the problem? Loki is everything your father wants as a future husband for you - as far as I'm concerned. He is a prince, future king. He's of status. The son of his closest ally. He's a warrior - a fighter. Why not give in to the love? Marry him." You swallowed at her words. Yes, you asked yourself. What even is the problem? Estrid wasn't wrong, was she?

"I-I don't know, I... I highly doubt that he feels the same." The maid placed a hand on your shoulder, smiling. "I highly doubt that he doesn't feel the same. After what you told me..." She said, standing up. "This sounds like a story of love to me." Her lips curled in another smile, before she left the room; closing the door silently behind her.

"And therefore, the next hunt is planned to be-" Laufey's eyes landed on his son's, who sat across him at the table. He was staring aimlessly across the dining hall, poking around in his meal. The king frowned. It wasn't the first time his son seemed to be very absent-minded. It happened a lot recently. "Loki." No reaction. The king balled his hand to a fist and slammed his fist on the stoney table, causing the prince to flinch. His gaze landed immediately on his father. "Have you heard a single word I just said?" Loki nodded, eagerly, "Of course, I-" but the critical gaze of Laufey silenced him. He knew. "Haven't, father. Apologies." The king shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is bothering your mind, son? You've been absent-minded all the time recently. Tell me - and don't say it is nothing!" Loki swallowed hard. He knew exactly what was bothering him. He hoped to hide it from his father, but it was no use. He couldn't. So why deny it longer?

"I..." Loki started, clearing his throat. "I am afraid I fell in love, father... And now I can't stop myself from thinking about her." Laufey looked at Loki like he had just seen a ghost; completely in disbelief. His son falling in love? A thing the king never thought possible. "You are what?" He needed to hear it again to truly believe it. "In love, father... I'm in love." The king blinked, still a bit taken aback. "Well, I'm surprised, but happy for you, son. I do hope she is of royal blood, though. Or well, at least of high status. I won't allow you to court a mere mai-" "She is, father." Loki jumped to interrupt him. "You even know her. Princess Y/N, daughter of Odin." Laufey's eyes widened. He definitely hadn't seen that coming. "Princess Y/N?" The young Jotun nodded. "Did you meet her on your trip to Asgard?" "Yes, but that is a story for another time. I have to go to her. I have to see her; talk to her. My heart is aching; in desperate need to see her." Loki closed his eyes for a moment as he paused, before taking a deep breath. "And... And I wish to marry her. Please, father." Laufey was still kind of shocked, but nevertheless gave his blessings. "You may - but this isn't just my decision. You have to speak to the Allfather; ask for the princess's hand in marriage." The prince nodded. "I will, father, I will. Do I have your permission to leave tomorrow morning for Asgard?" "You have my permission, son."

Loki wasn't able to find sleep that night. A trillion thoughts were running at lighting speed through his head; thinking through every possible scenario. What if Odin rejects me and won't allow me to marry her? What if I'm not enough for her in his eyes? What if she's already promised to someone else? What if she doesn't love me? But the signs have been clear, haven't they? Or did I read them wrong? What if she doesn't want to marry me? What if I screwed it up with rejecting her like I did?

His mind just wasn't able to settle down and rest. So, he tossed and turned; literally waiting for the morning to arrive. When it did, the young prince was up early, of course. Standing up with the sunrise, he prepared everything for his journey and visited his father, before he left.

"I'll be going now, father." Laufey gave him a nod, just having some breakfast. "Good luck, my son. Princess Y/N will be a good future wife and queen." Loki nodded approvingly. "She will. I'm certain of it." Taking a small bow, the prince backed up, on his way to leave, when the king held him back. "And son?" Loki looked over his shoulder, expectantly. "Yes?" "I'm proud of you. After every discussion we have been through… You, finding love is a true blessing." He couldn't help but smile at his father's words. "Thank you."

Not much later, Loki stepped out of the Bifrost, faced with the guard of Asgard - Heimdall. The Æsir gave him a nod and a bow. "I saw you coming, prince Loki." Loki winked at him. "I bet you did. Is the Allfather...?" "In the palace, yes." "Thank you." So, Loki made his way to the palace. After explaining to the guards that he was here to talk with Odin, they let him in and another guard accompanied him to the golden doors of the throne room.

"Prince Loki, son of Laufey..." Started Odin, as he laid his eyes upon the Jotun prince. "What brings you here on such a beautiful day? I hope nothing bad." Loki shook his head and got down on one knee, taking a deep bow, just like it was taught to him; upholding his good manners. "Rather the opposite, Allfather... I hope to bring good news." The king of Asgard gave the Jotun a nod, "Speak." looking at him expectantly. Loki swallowed and took a deep breath. Was that nervosity he felt? "I wish to marry your daughter, princess Y/N." Odin's expression changed. He couldn't hide that he was more than surprised. "You wish to marry my daughter?" "Yes, your highness." The king looked at the prince for quite a few seconds, literally staring him down, before he spoke up again. "Well... You are a of status - a prince, with good manners. A great leader and warrior, future king and the son of my greatest ally... How could I turn such an offer down? You may marry my daughter, prince." Loki couldn't suppress the bright smile which threatened to cross his face. So, he lowered his head in order to hide it. "Thank you, Allfather. I promise to be a good husband for her - but... I have got one more wish. Am I allowed to speak?" "Speak." "I... I don't want this marriage to be arranged." That was Loki's 'condition'.

Yes, he loved you and yes, his father and your father agreed to this, but he didn't want to force you into marrying him. If you didn't love him and didn't want this, the prince wished to accept your decision. Sure, he would be heartbroken, but forcing you to be his wife - to love him, wouldn't change a thing. Loki wanted you to be happy - even if that was the prize he had to pay. He would pay it in a heartbeat.

An almost high-pitched laugh escaped the Allfather's lips, as if Loki just said something scandalous. "You wish this marriage to not be arranged?!" Loki nodded. "Yes, my king. I beg of you." "Why?" "I want princess Y/N to be happy and not bound to a man she doesn't love, because..." The prince paused for a moment, took another deep breath. "Because I truly love your daughter. With all my heart." Once again, Odin just stared at him for a moment. "I owe you and your father. You trained my people to become excellent warriors. Therefore, I'll agree. If my daughter doesn't wish to marry you, she won't." Odin's answer took a load of Loki's mind. He was definitely relieved; took another bow. "Thank you. May I go and speak to her?" "Of course. After all, she is your future wife - perhaps."

That was, what Loki did. A guard led him all the way to your chambers. "I thank you. Leave now." The guard obeyed, bowed and turned to leave. Loki had to take a few deep breaths, before he was ready to knock on your door. Before he was brave enough to knock on your door. After all, a lot had happened between you and him. Not to mention that it was kind of his fault, that you were trapped in your room. He regretted it, but he also had no other choice back then and was hurt as well... Nevertheless, he had to talk to you and take a chance. Otherwise, Loki feared to die, because his heart was aching so painfully for you. So, he knocked; and when your delicate, sweet voice echoed from the other side of the door and told him to come in, a pleasant shiver ran down his spine. It was almost therapeutic to hear your voice again. Taking a last deep breath, the prince stepped inside.

[devildom-moss]

Maybe just some nice Lucifer x GN!MC domestic fluffy headcanons? Thank you so much!

Thank you for the request! I got you. These are a little messy and unorganized, but I hope you enjoy them. I have them based more in the future/original game when MC and Lucifer live together.

Lucifer x gn!MC domestic fluff headcanons

MC is in the habit of brewing coffee or caffeinated tea for Lucifer and bringing it to his study for him when they know he has a lot of work to do.

Usually, he stops working for a few moments when this happens and asks you to join him for a minute. If his work is especially distressing, he may ask to kiss you for a while or hold you or have you hold him – he just needs a bit of physical affection to go on. Otherwise, he just likes to sit and sip his drink with you. Chatting with you always restores him and sets him at ease.

Sometimes, he barely mutters out a “thanks” when MC comes by. He usually feels like a dick the next day and buys them something to drink or eat as a proper “thank you.”

Just imagine him walking up after one of your classes with a pretty frappe, or other ice blended drink and handing it to you in front of everyone. He’d kiss your cheek, tell you “thanks for last night” (with no concern for how that sounds), and offer to walk you to your next class/home. Meanwhile, Asmo’s whining about not getting a pretty drink and how unfair it is that Lucifer’s kissing you in public and somehow also trying to get more details about what you did to Lucifer last night.

He asks you to come to his room to listen to music with him at least once a week.

Some people go to spas, some order a good meal, Lucifer asks MC to just chill and listen to music with him. Maybe they cuddle, maybe something a bit more intimate – who cares? It’s his form of self-care.

He is ready to commit homicide if someone keeps him out late on nights when you are cooking dinner. Someone dares deprive him of a fresh-cooked meal from his beloved? Absolutely not. Okay, maybe if it’s an emergency or a demand from Diavolo. But he’ll always text or call to give a heads up and ask (because he knows he’s not in a position to make demands) that you save some food for him. If you delay eating so you can eat dinner with him when he gets home, his heart will practically burst with affection. Expect at least two “I love you”s and multiple kisses when he sees you. He’s down so bad.

Whenever he gets drunk before bed, he immediately looks for you when he wakes up. His hand searches his bed for your warmth. He knows he gets a bit affectionate when he’s drunk, so he instinctively expects you to be nearby.

If you aren’t there, he’ll groan and force himself out of bed. He’ll check his phone for messages from you and head to your room. If you’re in bed, he’ll crawl in with you until you get up (even if someone else is already in your bed, he does not care, and he is not alert enough to care. He just wants to hold you.). If you’re somewhere else, he’ll search the whole house for you until he finds you. Once he does, he’ll walk over to you – cool and calm, as if he hadn’t been searching for you – and hug you.

If you are in bed with him, he’ll pull you closer and lie with you until you’re ready to get up.

Every once in a while, he asks to shower with you – which is hard to do without getting caught. Even if his mind wanders to all of things you could get up to in that shower, he’s usually just content to be there with you under the hot water. A real shocker with Horny 2.0 over here.

Don’t tell anyone, but he adores washing your hair and playing around with it when it’s all soapy with shampoo. He has definitely tried to turn you into a unicorn and had to stifle his laughter. (However, if you shave your head, he will, instead, draw swirls in the suds like he’s trying to recreate Van Gogh’s Starry Night.)

If he walks into a common room and finds you sitting or standing with your back to him, he will sneak up behind you and wrap his arms around you. This fucker demon will just chuckle if he startles you. “It’s just me, my love. Do I scare you that much?”

If you really hate him sneaking up on you and tell him to stop, he will – kind of. He’ll call out your name in a low, sultry voice before hugging you.

Errands that he used to run alone become opportunities to be with you. Did Beel empty the fridge? “MC, would you mind going to the store with me later?” Did Lucifer wear out his shoes? “I need to buy another pair of shoes. I was wondering if you could assist me with that.” Did someone steal your favorite body lotion and now you’re all out? “I heard. I’ll figure out which of those idiots was responsible. Why don’t I take you shopping later? We’ll pick up a new jar. Maybe you’ll find a new scent you like, too.”

He loves when he goes out with you and shop owners or random people assume he’s your partner. He pretends to think that being referred to as your boyfriend is childish and stupid, but he’s endeared by it.

Lucifer has an “MC’s stuff” drawer in his room. It contains spare clothes and other items you might need if you spend the night in his room (bonnets, pillowcases, a mouth guard, a stuffed animal – whatever you need/want). He also has a jar in there that has your favorite candies. The drawer is magically sealed so only you or him can open it.

Lucifer always offers to do your laundry with his – without fail. It’s not just your clothes, either. He’ll offer to wash your bedding or towels or curtains. I feel like laundry and cooking are the only chores he enjoys.

Lucifer leaves gifts on MC’s bed when they’re out – especially if he thinks they’re having a rough day or have been having a tough week.

He hates when MC is on someone else’s team when playing any sort of group games. In part because he can’t figure out whether he should let MC’s team win to see them smile, or if he should crush them so he can show off a bit.

Hidden in the depth of his closet is shirt of yours that he borrowed once and refused to return. If you’re gone for longer than a week, that shirt becomes his new pillowcase so he can feel closer to you before drifting off to sleep.

Lucifer has – at any time – at least 3 bottles of Demonus hidden throughout the house. One of them is always in your room somewhere. You know about half of his hiding spots.

Even though he’s possessive, he still appreciates seeing you spend time with his brothers. He’s struck by your patience and affection for his precious brothers. It is endearing how well you’ve settled into his family. Likewise, Lucifer is adorable when he gets along with his brothers, and they dial back the drama and chaos at least 50%.

Lucifer loves when you give him a once over before he leaves the house or if you help him get ready. He likes letting you fix his tie or put cufflinks in for him. He enjoys your soft touch as you smooth out his collar or fix his hair. Asmo still gets to do his nails because of tradition, but he’ll let you do his makeup or pick accessories for him.

[yandere-fics]

♡ NSFW Headcanons ♡

♡ The City Version ♡

(It's not my best work but it's decent, lol.)

Content Warnings: Overstimulation, afab genitals(I don't know a better way to phrase this), fingering, oral(Reader receiving and giving), scissoring, exhibitionism?(sort of, not really), two dicks(dragon dicks lol), hallucinogens?.

♡ Theanna is a pleasure dom all the way, she literally does not care about reciprocation at all. Just lay down on the couch in her office as she makes you fall apart on her fingers over and over and over again. ♡

♡ She eats you out so much that her breath probably smells like pussy, eww. That's a joke, she has breath mints and brushes her teeth, but still she does it very often. Probably has had papers and her desk ruined cause she was just so eager to get her mouth on you that she didn't care. ♡

♡ She does NOT do quickies, if she can't have you for hours then she don't want it, she'd much rather have you wait in her room for when she can have you. She says that but she'll also spend the whole day irritated because she hasn't had her fill yet. ♡

♡ She probably has sex with her clothes on like a freak lol. Sorry but being the crown princess requires lots of layers of official suits and fancy clothing which takes awhile to put on correctly(she makes her darling dress her in the morning cause if any maid tries to look at her she might flip out). Anyways the point is she can't take any more time away from work than she already does with you. ♡

♡ Elisha is from a more modern world and has lots of funds so she can probably pay people to make custom toys for her darling with her knowledge of them in her world. The darlings of the kingdoms were unable to sleep well once the inventor started mass producing them. RIP. ♡

♡ Despite the great amount of toys she has for her darling though, it's not even her favorite method. She has them in case her darling really really likes them but she never takes them out because by the time it comes for them, the foreplay was too intense and so she just wants to get down to business. ♡

♡ She's a fan of quickies, traveling means you got to go quick with these things otherwise she'd barely get to touch her darling. But she would love to settle eventually and when it happens, she'll release all that pent up energy on her poor darling who might not walk right for weeks. ♡

♡ Elisha fucking loves scissoring, it's just so intimate but it's a bit harder to do when you're traveling unless you want to lay down on the fucking pine needles. She can't handle much though but if she had the ability to handle more then she'd do it all day. ♡

♡ Abigail isn't the most dominant, but she's certainly not submissive either. You might be able to dominate her occasionally under the right circumstances. ♡

♡ She's a romantic so she wants you two to be able to bask in each other's presence in the comfort of her manor. She needs it to be in her manor, will not even touch you or think about it when you two are out and about. Not even in her office. ♡

♡ That's what makes it so fun to initiate things with her in places like her office. Just sit on her lap, suck on her neck so softly and sweetly and she'll be putty. This is the only time you're going to get to dominate her because she just feels too shy and dirty to do what she might normally do. ♡

♡ She can't deny her Sweetheart but gods, this feels so wrong. She can't handle it. Go ahead and dominate her as much as you want during this time, but be warned, a switch will be flipped once she's somewhere she's comfortable in. ♡

♡ Will invite you back to her office more, may or may not have enjoyed how wrong it was to do it in a semi public place. Be warned though, the more you do it, the more confidence she gains to touch you in public places. You might have created a huge problem. ♡

♡ Veronia is a forest dragon which means she has two dicks, certain dragons have different parts and it varies by category of dragon. ♡

♡ For someone who is so patient and mostly stays away from you unless you want to be near her, she sure has some dirty fantasies. She keeps it hidden but she sort of wants to wreck you. In the softest, nicest way possible. Not that you'll ever know though because she holds herself back so well. ♡

♡ She's a huge fan of blowjobs. You obviously can't suck both at once, she wouldn't let you even if you tried cause she doesn't want to hurt you. But if you ever got down on your knees in front of her, she would explode. It's like her deepest fantasy. ♡

♡ Be warned she has stamina so it might take awhile but rest assure, she will reciprocate. ♡

♡ The only way to make her fully go feral is to beg for both of her phalluses at once, like beg her to break you apart while wrapping your legs around her waist(or at least trying to cause she's a gargantuan woman). Still her restraint is very high so you'll going to have to coax it out of her before you finally get what you crave. ♡

♡ Bitch has magic. Like Elisha she can make toys, but hers are a little bit special. She saw Elisha's design and went like 'fucking bet' and so hers might actually make you see heaven, mostly because there's a magical compound in it that might be hallucinogenic. Sorry dear, she'll have to make a new version of the toy that doesn't do that next time. ♡

♡ She's another pleasure dom and she loves using magic on you. She can do anything you want with her magic. She would experiment on you for weeks if it was possible without breaking you. ♡

♡ Still she's always eager to figure out which spell will make you cum the hardest, which ones make you writhe and squirm, which ones make you faint because you can't go any longer. She prefers the ones that make you get really loud. ♡

♡ All you have to do is ask and she'll find a way to make your fantasy come true, why else does she have this magical knowledge if it wasn't for pleasing her soulmate in every way possible. She doesn't even need to physically touch you anymore to make you fall apart, though she still enjoys the classics. ♡

[wndaswife]

jane banner 💪

characterization headcanons: jane banner

character flaws

occasionally insensitive, impatient, acts before thinking and in spite of forewarning

childhood

she has always been stubborn, even as a child. one to be very close with her father and competitive with her siblings

cleaning habits

someone in my asks mentioned that jane seems like a stress cleaner, and i think that’s pretty accurate! one of her telltale signs of stress is also being very picky about her surroundings, projecting her distress into small details of the house and can very easily get overwhelmed by messes that seemingly won’t go away, may try and fix furniture or appliances and ends up leaving it more broken than it was before

cooking habits

cooks quick meals, so things she can bring to work or things she can easily prepare after coming home from long shifts. it changes once she begins seeing you, and she actively looks forward to coming home to cooked meals from you

coping mechanisms

she can neglect her emotional and mental state sometimes, and i believe that along with physical exercise, she takes up meditation and mindful breathing and other similar methods that allow her to just take a step back and relax. though she firstly resorts to methods that are fast-paced as the rest of her life like running or training

eating habits

because of her job, jane often eats just enough to ease any hunger. when you first begin dating her, you encourage her to eat more and telling her that eating healthy meals matters little when she doesn’t eat enough. she’s grown to really love having meals with you, sitting down and catching up and enjoying your home-cooked food, and has begun to see it as a very intimate time

enneagram personality type

3w4 maybe??? typing her is hard because i don’t think she was explored all that much in the movie, but i think her character struggling to find her place in the reserve and trying to make herself helpful through professional achievement while also trying to prove herself as useful kind of seems 3w4 to me, though im not entirely sure how she is outside of work

myer-briggs personality type

honestly this was probably harder than guessing her enneagram, but i think maybe she’s an INTJ. there was a lot of crossing out possibilities when i had to guess it, but an intj 3w4 is a highly goal-oriented person who can sometimes be a bit insensitive and stubborn, whose 4 wing can also explain jane’s struggle with her role as an outsider in the reserve. she might be driven by a fear of failure as she finds it reflects who she is as a person, which is why she kind of seems a bit slow to adjust to the opinions of the people of the reserve instead of just yielding and trying to figure out a better way to approach them

family

i think she’s close with her family! her mother calls her often to ask how she's doing and it's always a bit of a process to wave hello to all her cousins and siblings when she's put on a video call with them. they're probably the type of family who wears matching christmas sweaters, a holiday jane loves to visit them for as she lives a few hours away from them and can only see them a few times a year

guilty pleasures

she loves reality television and unwinds sometimes after work by catching up with the real housewives

hobbies

in her freetime, i see jane enjoying artistic things, maybe taking weekly classes irregularly for pottery. she likes photography and has a professional camera somewhere at home that she takes out with her when she’s able. she’s also a bit of a nerd when it comes to a specific movie or book series, maybe rereads or rewatches them during certain times of the year when she enjoys it best

insecurities

though it’s not something that’s always on her mind, it’s a bit of a looming fear in which she worries she may be incapable as an agent and can occasionally overwork herself to prove that she can carry her weight, though she isn’t very sure whose standards she’s trying to fulfill. conversely, jane also feels some insecurity in how much time she puts into her job, feeling that she isn’t giving herself enough time for her personal life. she's worried that if she spends too much time focusing on her job then there won’t be much of a personal life of hers to be concerned about

lazy day

lazy days are her days off during which she cleans her place from the busy days where she neglects to pick up after herself or leaves things a mess, does casual errands like grocery shopping, takes the time to make herself dinner rather than something she can just pop into the microwave like she normally does, and ends the day renting a movie with dinner and a beer

pets

has a fish she got because she thought her place felt empty and now feels strangely attached to it

regrets

at the end of missions, there are always things jane feels like she regrets a little bit — better ways she could’ve handled suspects, a more sensitive way to talk to families of victims, more care she could’ve put into things. but she actively tries not to let her regrets linger because she knows it’s part of the job. even so, she still carries a bit of each failure into her everyday life, hoping to learn from past mistakes

sleeping habits

she sometimes can sleep the moment her head hits the pillow because of how stressful her days are, but most times she can't sleep without thinking of the faces of victims or going over the details of cases. taking some melatonin and keeping her bedside light on helps her fall asleep usually

──────── ⋆⋅✧⋅⋆ ────────

[spidey-bie]

so we already know that he listens to black punk musicians like the Nova Twins and The Muslims...

but I also think he would listen to black artists of damn near every genre, more specifically stuff like rock, r&b, soul, and honestly even country bc 1. all of them were pioneered by black ppl and 2. he won't be constrained/defined by a single genre

he takes his interest in music vv seriously, consequentially he considers recommending stuff an act of care and affection and will analyze everything he knows abt you bc he wants to make sure you like what he suggests (kind of like how some ppl take gift giving very seriously)

all of this to say: he considers making a playlist for someone a very intimate thing and definitely makes one for you after yall get close enough

First of all may I just say sir that I must eat your brain at some point. Like UGHHHHHHH.

Of course he listens to all genres he doesn't believe in consistency. I wonder what he listens to depending on his mood tho. Does he listen to punk more when he's happy or does he use it to hype himself up when he's feeling down? (I feel like during his downtime his just sits while vibing to some Nina Simone or Aretha Franklin.)

TO HAVE A PLAYLIST BY HOBIE. Highest honor. Like all the time it takes for him to come to know you and the kind of music you listen to. Imagine him giving all the spider teens mix taps with music from his dimension. *Sobs*

Seeing how his dimension is set in the 70s he's literally in the middle of the Disco boom which is incredibly funny to me. Do you think he'd listen to disco? I doubt it NGL. It'd be funny to think about though.

BUT WAIT. I just thought about the Arachkids showing him their favorite music from their dimension. Miles shared his favorite R&B and Hip Hop artists while Gwen shared her favorite Pop artists. (Idk what type of music Margo and Pavitr listen to NGL.) And after learning about more modern artists he incorporates their music into his playlists and makes them each a whole new mix tape.

But yeah Funk, R&B, Hip Hop, and Jazz you like Jazz. I can definitely see him listening to all of these genres

[visityaratoday]

FAQ: Frequently Asked Questions/ preguntas frecuentes- Page 2

We received so many more questions than we could properly respond to in one sitting, so here we go for part 2. From immigration to some very intimate questions, we respond to them all!

Q: Is it true that everyone in Yara can fix cars?

A: Surely not everyone, but general car repair is a crucial skill to learn early in life when available cars are old and likely to break down. If you do need your car repaired though, please go to a mechanic shop. There are plenty around Yara.

Q: Where can i buy cigars?

A: You can buy cigars at local shops or from stands in public squares and markets. However, it is worth mentioning that many Yarans smoke Mexican tobacco as most of our tobacco fields have been taken over by the Viviro™ industry and may or may not contain a compound used in its production that may or may not cause your eyes to bleed and your brain to fry. Something to keep in mind if you are purchasing a souvenir for uncle Bob.

Q: I want to move to Yara. Any advice?

A: Yes. Stay home. No offense but most foreigners could not handle Yara full time. It’s all fun and games for a few weeks, but you would need to deal with hurricanes, shortages of every kind, the bureaucracy is a nightmare.. we’re not even talking about the housing crisis, the constant economic collapse. Honestly, a lot of Yarans are trying to get the f out of here you wanna come in?! You could always get a non paying job at an Outcast camp if this is truly your dream. They’ll take anybody. You don’t even need to speak Spanish. Otherwise, stay home. You are happy there.

Q: Can you go surfing?

A: Of course! Although jetskis are much more popular and readily available to rent and use.

Q: I want to do a Cruise, but I hate going on boats. What do you recommend?

A: Helicopter tours! - Check it out!

Q: Are there any hospitals? How is the healthcare?

A: We have hospitals and field clinics. Travelers may access medical services as long as they do not have a criminal record. People with a criminal history or history of civil disobedience are not entitled to receive care. (Doctors and nurses can actually lose their licenses and be thrown in jail if they assist you. It’s harsh, we know, but we don’t make those rules.)

If you do suffer an injury or fall ill while traveling in Yara and you believe you do not qualify for healthcare, you can find an unlicensed field clinic that may be able to provide care for a price. But keep in mind, those installations are not always the cleanest. They do what they can.

Editor's Note: Here is one such unlicensed "field clinic" doing what they can.

Q: What do I do if someone tries to sell me crap on the beach?

A: Whatever you do, just be polite. Those people are simply trying to make a living. ‘No, gracias,’ goes a long way. Or perhaps do consider parting with a couple of pesos. Consider it your gift to our beautiful country.

Q: Why is it raining? Isn’t yara supposed to be a tropical country?

A: Hello, hurricane season. We are a Caribbean island and do have a rainy season which spans from about May through November. If you were here in September or October, chances are you got rain.

Q: do they eat dogs in Yara?

A: NO! We do have feral dogs but dogs are not a source of protein for most Yarans in normal times. There are backwoods cantinas that prepare and serve coyote meat but this is not a dish we could recommend.

Q: Are there any vegan restaurants? What do you recommend?

A: Veganism isn’t quite as widespread or popular in our country yet. Meat and fish remain the staple diet in Yara out of necessity. We are unable to recommend any vegan restaurant at this time. Lo siento.

Q: Is Yara LBGTQ friendly?

A: This is always quite the touchy subject because I am obliged to say that “Love is Love” is not quite a thing yet in our country, not for lack of effort to change things on the part of many of our citizens. Same sex marriage is not recognized nor legal in Yara at least at the time this article was written.

That being said, there are some drag shows that the government sponsors in an effort to appear more progressive and open-minded. There is at least one known underground gay bar but we are unable to share its location in order to protect the privacy and safety of the Yarans that may frequent said establishment. All and all, LGBTQ+ travelers, with a bit of research and a lot - a lot!! - of discretion may yet find that Yara’s queer community is alive and well, if away from the public eye.

Q: I don’t speak Spanish. Can I still travel to Yara?

A: Most Yarans are bilingual as English as a second language is taught throughout elementary school. There are some bilingual signs and all public announcements are played in Spanish and in English. As for other languages, we know of a small Russian-Yaran community and perhaps a minority of multilingual people but we cannot make assumptions that any language other than Spanish and English will be widely understood.

Q: Can I speak to the manager?

A: If by manager you mean El Presidente de Yara, this is not something we would recommend attempting. Grievances could be addressed with the PDP (Protectorado de Defensa de la Patria) but this is not something we would recommend doing either.

Q: What’s the best sniper rifle?

A: We are in no way gun experts and do not condone violence of any kind.

Q: Why are all the clocks set to 6:13?

A: That’s an urban legend.

Editor's Note: ...

Q: Why are yaran chicks so hot?

A: Because it’s hot in Yara.

Q: Are the men circumcised?

A: Ehhh I haven't had the chance to interview every man in Yara to find out but from my brief compulsory military service where privacy is practically nonexistent, I wanna say, mostly no?

Editor's Note: Do we edit that one out? 

Q: Is it true that cockfighting is legal? Why are you so backwards and barbaric?

A: Whether cockfighting is officially legal is debatable. The authorities are surely aware of tournaments occurring, they just don’t care. It is in no way everyone’s cup of tea and it isn’t a national sport or anything, more of an underground thing. There are known fighting rooster breeders such as Álvarez Farm and Esmeralda Eco Farm but don’t go to that one. Just.. don’t.

Q: Can I get a refund if it rains?

A:¿Puedo obtener un reembolso si las personas me hacen preguntas tontas? The rainy season in the Caribbean runs from late May through November. Perhaps you would enjoy a nice vacation on the surface of the Sun instead? Book your tickets here.

Q: Are there any coconut trees in Yara? I once went to Fiji and was too afraid to leave my room because I have a phobia of a coconut falling from a tree and killing me.

A: Your call.

Go to: FAQ Page 3

Back to Content Index

[philtstone]

Bucky, 5

#5 -- barefoot in the kitchen so there were like 3 separate directions i could take this prompt and i cycled through a few of them before landing here -- one version got mostly written and then tumblr ATE it, which may have contributed to the sudden left turn into Big Angst territory -- and, basically, i am just throwing this out there and trying not to overthink it. the prompt is supposed to be bucky centric. for context, this ficlet is a direct follow up to this chapter of "all i wanna do is wash your clothes", in which an old hydra lab record of bucky's reconditioning process gets leaked onto the internet for 24 hours. i dont want to colour the fic in the wrong light but pls note this is rated a hard t and involves a pretty involved panic attack and mentions of dissociation and mild/momentary hallucinations. a lot of this thing attempted to be an exercise in show don't tell, which may have worked OR may have turned it into a collection of moments in a trench coat with no clear through line. sorry in advance for the angst, i am not a licensed mental health professional but do have a healthcare background, bucky is an unreliable narrator with specific opinions on and understandings of his issues, and i hope u enjoy. also, apparently without a shred of context i decided to really commit to the blade references? idk, it's almost halloween. <3

The difference between wisdom and paranoia, Bucky’s always said, is knowing when to leave the house.

Well — he hasn’t always said it. But in the past seven years or so, it’s definitely come up.

He’s not a recluse, is the point that he makes to Sarah, three days before the Trader Joe's Incident. It’s just you can never be too careful these days. By you he means she and the boys because if he is paranoid about anything it’s dragging his horrors into their already complicated life.

Sarah says for the tenth time (it is really the second time, but it’s been implied plenty), “You’re not dragging anything anywhere. I invited you in, baby.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Bucky mumbles, staring at the innocent salt shaker on the table like he’s trying to commune with it. “People do that with vampires and look where it gets them.”

“I thought Sam said that was a myth,” she says, buttering a piece of toast. “On account of the —”

“We agreed to not bring up that guy again.”

She grins sympathetically, and for a moment the surreal hell of their last week disappears. It is just Sarah and her cute cupcake-print pajamas (emblazoned with a cheesy sugar related pun across her breasts) and his own bare feet against the kitchen tile in the hour before bed.

“Because he gave you the heebie jeebies —” she starts, indulgent, and he knows she is smiling like that because they both could not deny he was a handsome bastard and also dressed like someone of of the Matrix, which Bucky has not yet seen, all to say added insult to the injury of Bucky’s seventeen-year-old phobias materializing out of nowhere.

“Sarah,” he says, and Sarah sighs. 

“B. We’ve been over this. I’ll tell you if it gets too much.”

“And, and this isn’t … too much?” This, the twenty-four hours in which she and the world were intimately exposed to Bucky’s tenure as some cross between Frankenstein’s monster and those rats scientists used to experiment on before research ethics boards were a thing. Also, his tenure as a killing machine. But at least that wasn’t in the video. 

Sarah hasn’t seen it. She says so, and he believes her. 

“I still think you need to be careful,” he continues, before she can reply. “People will want — well there’s fallout, anyway, and people talk – they talk, and they know you. You have a business to be thinking of—”

“Here,” Sarah says, “eat this.” She holds the toast out to him. She’s already had to sit down and talk to the boys about it, in detail, because people talk. She canceled a trip to the hair salon because people talk. She compared it to the first week after her husband died even though that was not the same thing at all.

Maybe folks gave pitying looks, but no one had been invited to hear Big Cass screaming in pain.

“You’re not listening to me,” Bucky says.

“I am listening. I’m also noticing that you skipped breakfast.” 

So did she. And he can see the strain under her eyes. Bucky points this out with a mulish edge so she takes a pointed bite of the toast and holds it back out.

Sighing, he takes it. Peach jam drips onto his fingers. The golden yellow colour of its syrup looks orange oozing over the black plating of his knuckles.

“Don’t overthink it,” Sarah says. “My motives are selfish here.”

“What motives,” Bucky asks, confused.

“Making sure you eat, baby. I like a man with meat on his bones.” She brushes the crumbs off her fingers while he looks at her, overcome with a complicated fondness that doesn’t undercut his fear, “It’s been seven days. Give it another ten and there’ll be a new thing. That’s what all the kids are talking about anyway, micro trending.” She pauses, cups his cheek, makes known his cue to squeeze her hand tightly in his own – “Hell if I know.”

And that is, in many ways, a good way of summarizing it.

Resilience is a weird thing. Dr. Naimi talks about it like stretching, like his brain is some strange variation on Kamala Khan’s whacky superpowers. You stretch to make up for how unsafe your situation feels, and some people can stretch a lot more than others. Bucky is, apparently, one of those people – they still haven’t figured out if it’s a him thing or a serum thing, though Dr. N talks about them like they’re all part of one whole – which has pros and cons. Pros: his laundry list of fucked up mental health issues is real, but not institutionalized headcase real (they spend twenty minutes reworking his phrasing on that one). Cons: sometimes, that makes it harder for him to notice that the stupid little rubber band in his head is about to reach its limit. Which is not fun. For anyone involved.

Bucky’s working on it. 

Working on it doesn’t necessarily mean fully figured it out.

On Wednesday Sarah is working late because there’s some issue with the freezer and Bucky looks into their own freezer and realizes that everyone forgot to get groceries this week – it seems he and Sarah are both inclined to skip over basic tasks like breakfast and groceries when they’re overly stressed. So he considers his week, and how relatively muted his anxieties have been, and how generally, it hasn’t been worse than any other weird week. He’s been sleeping poorly and has to force himself to pick up Sam’s daily calls sometimes (Sam calling daily is a new thing, for sure), but he’s okay. He knows everything that happened happened a long time ago. He knows there are people around who love him, and he knows he’s pretty okay at keeping them safe. Staying in the house would be more paranoia than it would be wisdom, and AJ is at Ms. Gloria’s doing his homework, so he and Cass go to Trader Joe’s. 

At first, everything is okay. That is a sentiment that changes pretty quickly.

“Milk,” Cass reads from their list, quoting Bucky’s own notes somewhat theatrically to him as they stalk the yellow-brown toned aisles. “‘Whole, not the stuff that tastes like water’.” 

The routine of it should be soothing, but Bucky is having a hard time not noticing how many people are looking at them. Paranoia, his brain supplies. Sarah said most people would forget the video within another week. Except, oh, that second week hasn’t passed yet, and it feels like everyone’s eyes are physically touching him.

Bucky wheels them over to the dairy aisle and grabs the milk. The dairy aisle is cold, and the milk carton under his right hand fingers is cold. He hates the cold. 

“Ummm … Mom said to get the block cheese cause we’ll get more use out of it …”

“Mom’s right,” Bucky says loudly. Focus. Four more items. Then they’ll be done. There’s an unfamiliar couple standing by the yogurt, pointing and whispering in a way that makes it clear they’ve thought just little enough about him they haven’t considered his superhuman hearing.

He tries to refocus on the squeaky wheel of their cart and drown everything else out. Quite suddenly he remembers that the medical cart in that room squeaked too. He can hear it skittering away because his elbow smashed into it, five minutes before his arm was locked down again, squeezed tightly under metal clamps. He only just stops himself from grabbing at his arm to rip off the clamps, which are momentarily, horrifyingly real in his memory. Also, squeaking sounds an awful lot like whimpering (not really, but the connection’s already made), and he –

“Elbow macaroni,” Cass reads aloud, over-enunciating. He’s standing closer to Bucky now, swinging one foot in and out as he directs them. Bucky locks confused eyes with an old woman examining the frozen pizzas and she shoots him a sympathetic look.

He blinks to look away from her and they’re standing in the juice and drinks aisle. 

Cass is jogging a little to catch up to him and looks confused.

“Macaroni,” he repeats, even slower than before.

Fuck.

“Macaroni,” Bucky says. Hadn’t be been going in that direction? He doesn’t remember turning in here. It feels like the whole goddamn Trader Joe’s is buzzing with people’s chatter. “Okay.”

“I can get it,” Cass says. He runs away before Bucky can say no, the word a panicked thing caught at the back of his throat. He needs to keep Cass safe. What if someone approaches him? What if someone demands – 

No. They’re in Delacroix. People gossip but they won’t hurt a kid. Except other kids, maybe – Cass has a shiner on his cheek from getting into a fight at school. Because of the goddamn video. Kids kept talking about it like it was an action movie or something – would it look like that? To other people? Bucky never watched it but he remembers it, sure. Under his skin. In the cracks of his head. He’d have thought horror movie. Maybe. But then, those are a big craze these days. Kids like the adrenaline. They were big in his day, too, only maybe he was just a chump and didn’t get the same kick outta them as everyone else.

Becky thought vampires were thrilling, for example. 

You didn’t drag anything anywhere, baby, I invited you in.

Fumbling, Bucky grabs the nearest bottle of tomato juice and focuses on reading every word on the label to himself. Then he translates every word on the label into Czech. And then Spanish. Xhosa next. They don’t have a word for zingy and Bucky realizes he is muttering zingy out loud over and over again with a frown on his face and the woman standing in the aisle next to him is shooting him covert, alarmed looks. She’s – Bucky’s brain lags – music teacher? Isn’t she the music teacher at Cass and AJ’s school?

“Got it!” Cass says, skidding back into his line of sight. 

They still don’t have half the items on their list, but Bucky manages to say, “Okay, c’mon,” in his steadiest voice and steers Cass and their cart towards the checkout. In the line, Bucky grips the handle of their cart so tightly it begins creaking and Cass has to touch his elbow to let him know. Violently, out of nowhere, the cart handle is a human trachea. Bucky yanks his hands away and nearly knocks over the little display of sugar free gum.

A few of the small colourful packets scatter to the ground like hacky sacks amidst the gasps of surrounding shoppers; Cass gets to his knees to pick them up.

“Sorry – sorry,” Bucky mutters, barely hearing himself. The buzz is louder than ever and his heart has started pounding. He’s terrified that someone who is not Cass is going to try to touch him and he’s going to freak the fuck out. He needs to get down and fix this. No – he needs to go up to the cash so they can get out of here –

“Next,” says the cashier. It’s Emily, sweet kid, Bucky knows her, she always grins when he comes through the line. Joe Langston hired her ‘cause she had good penmanship and could write up all the colourful chalk signs like no other TJ’s in the county. She smiles at him, rings through the two cheeses. Then the milk. Then the macaroni. She falters, distracted by the people whispering behind him in line. Cass isn’t even trying to hide the way he’s glaring, chin stuck out, so Bucky grabs his elbow and pulls him over and around to his other side. “Hey –!” Cass starts, and vaguely Bucky recognizes them from some church function Sarah helped out at, middle-aged and light skinned and probably the most average people in the world, morally speaking, but they aren’t even trying to hide the way they’re looking at him. 

He needs it to stop. The words please stop nearly crawl out of his mouth and at the last second Bucky bites down on them, because they’re too much like – they’re just like when – his skin crawls, then prickles, then hurts outright, all the way up to the base of his scalp, and then it’s gone. He doesn’t understand it. He went to the tackle shop two days ago and people looked and pitied and shied away and it was nothing like this. Someone even said something inane like mad respect, dude, and Bucky had been able to handle it.

“Twenty-four thirty,” Emily says, turning the card reader towards him. Her uniform shirt is way too big even on her chubby frame and her eyelash extensions curl ludicrously up and down at him over freckled cheeks. The door of the management room on the other side of cash opens and closes and a larger figure walks over to them, framed by the too-colourful background of sunflowers and orchids, encroaching on Bucky’s consciousness. And those chalk signs, with Emily’s loopy script all over them. “You got your discount cards, Mr. Barnes?”

Right – Emily would remember, because Emily helped him set them up, and is going through her little routine like Bucky isn’t having a full-blown psychotic episode for the first time in months in the middle of the Trader Joe’s –

“Discount,” Bucky manages, even though it’s getting harder to breathe. He resists the urge to clamp his hands over his head, like that will somehow make things stop. This is the worst it’s been in ages. Maybe even never, here, in Delacroix. No – Sarah’s shed, one time. That was really early on. He had a meltdown in Sarah’s shed because it was too dark and something caught against his neck and that was somehow much stupider than this, so surely he’s grown, he’ll have to tell his therapist but the idea of calling feels like this impossible hill to climb right now and Sarah’s been doing so well living through this, all of this, like she is okay with it all, but she’s not, of course she is not, he notices how she can’t go through the day without touching him so many times and maybe that’s her own way of working through things and maybe she needs a therapist too and that would be his fault just like Cass’s goose egg is his fault and –

“If we can please afford our fellow shoppers some basic human dignity,” says Joe Langston’s deep, carrying voice, out of nowhere, over the top of Emily’s head. 

Oh. It was him who came out of the management room. Joe rarely snaps but there is a clear edge to his tone just there. The buzz of the check out line vanishes instantly. Joe’s standing, as usual, the tallest person in the room, both arms crossed over his wide torso above the slight curve of his belly. In the periphery of his blurry vision Bucky can sense the way one person’s mouth is opening and closing like a stupefied fish. Joe leans forward and Emily looks relieved.

He says, like he would say anything else,

“You payin’ with card or cash, B?”

“Card,” Cass supplies quietly, his teenaged voice a little raspy, when Bucky doesn’t immediately respond. “Thanks, Mr. Langston.”

“No problem, son. You let your uncle take his time.”

In the quiet, Bucky reaches into his pocket and fumbles with his wallet. His hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to tug the credit card out.

“Take your time,” Joe says again. He adds, more quietly, “You know what to take off, Em, you don’t need the discount cards.”

“Right – right.”

Bucky puts the little tags for the veteran’s discount onto the cheap plastic laminate anyway. 

In five minutes, they are back in the car. Once both doors are slammed shut around them, blocking out the world, Bucky puts his forehead against the tacky curve of the pickup’s wheel and takes as many long, shaky breaths as he can. His shoulders hurt and the back of his t-shirt feels damp with sweat. Slowly, the cacophony dies down. The truck’s solid beneath him, reminding him only of itself and nothing else. The inside of the car is warm, and that helps bleed some of the tension out of his frame.

Cass, in the passenger’s seat, remains totally silent.  

When his breathing has returned to normal Bucky sits up a little, elbows leaning against the wheel, and rubs a hand over his eyes, then his mouth, then up and into his hair. He can’t help but notice now, after everything, that he had strode into the Trader Joe’s in just a t-shirt covering his arms without even thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet but not hoarse. Somehow he was expecting it to be torn up and overused. It is instead the same as it often sounds, if maybe a little weak. “Cass. Buddy, I’m sorry, we’re gonna have to wait another couple minutes. I don’t think I’m okay to drive yet.”

Cass nods, his bony shoulders turned in, his knees pulling up so the heels of his sneakers rest against the dash. “It’s okay.” After a minute, he adds wisely, “Mom says Titi Joan once got into an accident ‘cause she was drivin’ over to whoop her ex-boyfriend’s ass, and she was so worked up she drove right into Mrs. Thomas’s pool.”

Bucky huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh; he has indeed heard this story. It’s a family classic, mostly because no one actually got hurt. He doesn’t bother to correct the shameless use of ass, and instead focuses on taking stock of his body. Everything seems to be functioning as normal. He has a mild headache, but his heart rate’s gone down, mostly. He’ll need a shower when they get home. Only after all of this does he say,

“Cass. Are you okay?”

Cass doesn’t answer at first, only tilts his head in a way very reminiscent of his mother. His sweet face has gotten pimply in the last couple months, and the bruise on his cheek swells purple beneath the dark plastic frames of his new glasses. Pretty soon Cass’ll be nearly as tall as Bucky is – maybe even taller. He’s seen old pictures, after all. 

“Yeah,” Cass says finally, shrugging. “You didn’t do anything too weird. Except when you forgot where the macaroni aisle was.” Bucky can’t help but smile a little crookedly even though the muscles in his face feel all wrung out. Cass adds, hesitant, “This was a brain thing, right?”

Bucky looks up at the ceiling of the car. “A little bit.”

“‘Cause sometimes people’s brains can freak out, like, without expecting it, if bad shit’s happened before. That’s what you told us, right?”

This time, Bucky raises two eyebrows instinctively. 

“Bad shit, huh?”

“Bad stuff,” says Cass, rolling his eyes.

Bucky inhales again, his chest filling and expanding with it. The car smells like coconut, like Sarah’s lotion really, and a little bit like fish. It always smells like fish around here. Even when it’s cold, it smells salty, and it was never like that before. His muscles are still a little shaky, but getting better by the minute. “Yeah,” he says aloud, to Cass. “Yeah, exactly. Cass –”

But Cass is already nodding. “Okay. Can I practice how to shift gears again while we’re waiting?”

Bucky unbuckles his seatbelt and motions for him to come around while he elbows the door open. The cheese is gonna get squishy in the back but there’s nothing else to do but wait. The air outside is fresh even as it's muggy, and his boots hit the gravel of the parking lot while Cass scrambles out of his own seat and walks around, making the truck groan a little on its raised wheels. He meets Bucky at around where the headlights are, on their way to switch seats. Unprompted, Cass wraps him in a tight hug, one that is just sudden and clingy enough it suggests comfort is needed more than comfort is being given.

Bucky hugs him back, presses his face down into the textured crown of Cass’s head, and lets him stay there for as long as he needs.

[fantoccia]

Okay just not even rewatching it again just going off what I remember.

Women are often seen as commodities and things to be ultimately pursued and eventually conquered and consumed. This often times leads to violence- all in the sake of what the man might think is love. Many times women in these situations don’t survive without a close support system or else sometimes they lash out in return and wind up killing the man who wronged them. Along the same vein, women who survive and escape abusive situations are more likely to find themselves in similar situations again, plus they may suffer from all sorts of mental problems after. They may become distrustful of men, some feel they need to be constantly on the lookout for the man who hurt them, some may feel they’re being watched or stalked by various men if not the specific one that hurt her. Some may even start to feel guilty for these feelings as well- not all men, after all. Give this guy a chance, he’s different from the other ones! 

I feel this is a story of survival and turning the tables on an abusive situation. In the beginning the women are stalked by that masked being, giving that constant feeling of being watched and pursued by some sinister force. There’s scenes of them dancing in a whole room full of masked people with such distant expressions on their own faces, feeling as though they’re detached and unable to partake in the festivities or like perhaps all these people are metaphorically wearing masks as well- surely all these people can’t be so happy and having fun while she’s the one that feels in such a way even in such a place. There’s scenes of her body withering, decaying, again representing her own feelings perhaps, how she feels about herself after dealing with such a thing. 

Then of course she is attacked and she can’t stand up to it, only asking why again and again and finally having the strength to say that love shouldn’t be violent. Her friend is the one that finally stands up for her and helps her get out of the situation- she found the support that she needs in somebody she can actually trust and it’s no surprise that it’s another woman, perhaps a woman who has seen all the previous events transpire or else had been in a similar situation herself. Women need to help and look out for other women, so on and so forth. 

THEN there’s everything else that happens after finally putting the man down. What better way to turn the tables on being something metaphorically consumed like some sort of product than to actually literally consume in return? Not to mention that it’s a perfect way to get rid of evidence. This all becomes an empowering event for the women, the part where the masked man pops up just one last time... only to disappear when she turns to face him. Perfect. The whole act of killing and eating the abuser is relieving, empowering, and just even pleasurable- there’s a part where the women are sitting naked together smoking cigarettes, usually a sort of cartoonish way of symbolizing when someone has just finished sleeping together right? You could argue sitting and smoking cigarettes can be a symbol of just pure exhaustion and simply being glad something is over with- which may also be the case of course- but if that were simply all it was then I’d think leaving them in bloodstained clothes would’ve conveyed that more accurately right? There’s something sensual in the moment there as well... or at least this can be seen as a moment between the two that may be the closest and most intimate they’d be together figuratively- they’re sharing in a murder after all. They’ve committed a hidden act together.

I know I’m going on about that little specific bit but I guess it kinda sticks with me in a way. The whole film just feels like not only a story of surviving such a horrible event but a film about two friends realizing how close they are, how close they can be, how there is someone in your life that you can really trust even when the worst comes to pass. That you can really break down and bare yourself completely with a friend like this and be accepted.

There’s sooooo much going on tho lmao.

[sukirichi]

closer | gojo satoru x reader

a/n: aaah my first ask and it’s a request! thanks so much this is so kind and sweet of you 🥺 and here it is! I’m not sure if it’s exactly what you wanted but I hope you like it anyway! 

summary: in which Gojo has the need to be closer to you after a long day of hard work

pairings: jealous! Gojo x reader

warnings: none, other than this isn’t proofread! (This is just a fluffy domestic short fic!)

masterlist ! 

The best part about being the strongest jujutsu sorcerer isn’t the power (although Gojo basks in that too) but rather the fact that he allows himself to completely tear his walls down and be putty in your hands once he comes home from work.

Gojo would never say it out loud that the best part of his days is waking up next to you, pressing kisses in your still sleepy face and you whining for five more minutes, then watching as you wobble like a penguin to the shower so you can start your day. Although he doesn’t really ask much from you, his heart still swells every time you make him a sandwich, kiss it and claim that it’s “made with love” before he proudly shows off his ‘breakfast’ of the day to his students.

Even in work, he still thinks of you. It’s quite impossible for this man to stop thinking of you; you and him never left that honeymoon phase even after two years of marriage and a much longer time of dating.

He could be exorcising a curse then get distracted afterwards after seeing an Italian restaurant that he just knows you’ll love. Next thing you know, Gojo flicks his wrist and exorcises the curse in a flash before hopping into that restaurant to look at the menu. Loving is knowing; Gojo takes the time to see if the restaurant would be respectful of your allergies every time before booking reservations.

It’s no secret that this man is completely enamoured with you, if his sappy good morning kisses accompanied with light, teasing touches down your legs is not an indication already. Gojo is confident and feels safe in your relationship and he’s never the type to get jealous because Gojo is Gojo – who else would be better than him for you?

Or at least that’s what he used to believe, until he comes home with a bag of pumpkin spice bread for you, arms wide open and a “Darling~” about to leave his lips when he sees your current predicament.

Nanami is leaning against one of the chairs in your cafe downstairs from your home, the usual stoic man’s lips and cheekbones slightly raised in laughter as you tell him something about your day. Gojo can’t exactly understand the worse falling from your lips because he’s too focused on the way you’re leaning forward, eyes absolutely crinkled into half-moons while you share a strawberry tart with him. Gojo sees the cups of tea have already been emptied, meaning Nanami has been here for a much longer time than he is welcomed.

Gojo clenches his jaw. He’s told you many times you should get a bell so you’d know when a customer comes in, but now he’s thankful you’re stubborn and refused to have one because he can hide in one of the propped up tables and chairs hidden in the darkness.

He can’t help the sigh he releases. He’s late – like he always is.

You’re a regular human who isn’t able to see curses. You’ve only ever known about their existence ever since you started dating Gojo, but other than that, you’re completely unaware of how these things work. It doesn’t bother Gojo. In fact, he quite likes that he can be just a regular man around you, and he basks in the comfort of not having to worry about your safety if ever you were also like him.

He met you when you were just still a barista who helped your boss bake from time to time. Gojo was only a student then who hopped from one cafe to another in search of the best delicacy, but he got more than what he bargained from when he met the fresh-faced and bubbly young woman standing behind the counter whose smile was sweeter than the most sugary dessert you’ve ever made.

As the two of you grew older, Gojo supported you in building your own cafe since you’re so passionate about it and it’s been your dream since childhood.

He still remembers how you’d spend hours in the kitchen trying out new ingredients, so much so that you forget to eat on most days. Gojo is left with the task of literally hauling your ass up upstairs and force you to shower with him. You lie that you’re not really tired, but the moment his skilled hands roll the tension out of your shoulders, a contented and grateful sigh paints those lips he loves to kiss.

One of the things Gojo loves doing with you is taste-testing. He’s not around the house most of the time when you work since he’s a busy man himself, but on the days he actively chooses to annoy Principal Yaga and go AWOL, he’d sit obediently on the counter and let you use him as your own taste experimenting dummy.

When night falls and you’re just about ready to head to bed; satisfied and proud of another day of hard work, Gojo comes home early to help you clean up the cafe and prop the furniture so you don’t overstrain your muscles.

Or at least, he wants to come home early to help you. It’s just that he often gets carried away on his missions and stays behind a lot longer than he’d like because the world of curses is extremely demanding. After seeing that you probably already lifted all these heavy chairs and cleaned up everything by yourself even when you’re tired, and you still have the ability to smile and laugh like that in Nanami’s presence when he should be the one on the receiving end, Gojo is unable to fight back the twisting feeling that pools in his stomach.

Forcing a huge grin on his face, Gojo loudly smacks the paper bag in the table between you and Nanami, his hands resting on the blond’s shoulder who only groans at his presence. “Yo!” He greets, winking when your eyes gleam brighter now that your husband is home.

There’s no trace or hint of anything that could indicate you’re upset with him because he didn’t come home early. Instead, you bow and excuse yourself while picking up your cups and the small plate where remnants of your signature tart had been, and Gojo watches with longing eyes as you disappear in the back room.

Now that you’re gone, Gojo drops in your seat, takes off his blindfold, and glares at Nanami. “Nanamin,” he drawls out. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here – getting chummy with my wife, no less.”

Gojo knows he’s being petty and childish. Of course he is. This is Nanamin we’re talking about; the man is as frigid and stone and he’s as interested in romantic relationships as much as he respects Gojo Satoru. Plus, it’s you, and you have eyes for Gojo and Gojo only, but it’s also Gojo Satoru who’s mixed in the formula, and he’s not the least bit ashamed that he’s being immature right now.

Of course he’s jealous. Of course he’s possessive.

You’re his sweet, little wife – of course he doesn’t like it.

As if reading his mind but couldn’t be bothered to deal with him, Nanami slides an envelope across the table. “Ijichi took a sick leave so he couldn’t give this to you. I was tasked to hand it over to you instead so I came around. It’s not my fault you come home late and your wife insisted I have a short meal before I came home,” Gojo opens his to retort something stupid when you emerge from the back, pretty face tired yet still patient as ever.

“Leaving already, Nanami?” You smile up at him, hand slipping through Gojo’s bigger and rough ones. He doesn’t know why the gesture leaves him stunned, especially when you step close enough that he feels your heat on this sudden cold night. He’s so entranced by everything about you he doesn’t even notice the blond bidding his farewell.

Gojo watches as you turn to face him, smaller hands reaching up to caress his face. Now that his blindfold is gone, his hair falls down to forehead, your dainty fingers brushing them away from his eyes so you could marvel in its beauty.

Like a little kid, he melts into a puddle when you do that exact eye-smile he’s seen you do with Nanami, only this time, it’s reserved, private, and intimate.

Gojo shuts his eyes in the process, nearly stumbling forward, which he doesn’t really let happen with anyone because he’s the Gojo Satoru; strongest jujutsu sorcerer. But you don’t mind, you never do, and if anything it only makes you laugh when he pretends to be deadweight by collapsing into the crook of your neck.

“What a big baby,” you tease with your hand rubbing up and down his back in a soothing motion, all the tiredness and exhaustion from his day disappearing into thin air.

“Yes,” he concedes as he follows you up the stairs where you both change into your pyjamas and settle in for the night. “But I’m your big baby.”

The nickname makes you laugh, head thrown back as giggles erupted in your chest. You’ve already removed your makeup, hair down from your work hairnet and flowing in loose waves. Gojo stifles a gasp then, because you’re in his arms, in his bed, smelling like him, and you’re so soft, so free, so vulnerable and the way you lean into his shoulders while he rubs his cheek on the crown of your head makes him feel like he’s falling in love all over again.

He’ll never get tired of this – of you.

The mere thought of seeing you with someone else that isn’t him doesn’t sit well with Gojo. Now he understands why he’s so jealous and immature – it’s because he hasn’t wanted anyone or anything as much as he loves you.

He can’t imagine a life where he’ll wake up to his mornings without your limbs sprawled across his longer ones, or how he may never hear your sleep talks about birds and butterflies; which is utterly ridiculous, but because it’s you, he finds it adorable. Sometimes Gojo wonders how he ever even lived before meeting, but of course, those were days filled with nothing but him doing weird stupid shit.

Not that he’s stopped doing that, but now at least he’s doing those weird stupid with you.

And he only ever wants to share those with you, so he doesn’t and will never allow anyone else to take what’s rightfully his. You’re his wife, the love of his life, the sunshine in his mornings and the sunset of his beautiful dusk.

He doesn’t care if he’s petty – he’s got every right to be jealous because Gojo Satoru never shares what’s his.

When his mind races back to the way you smile for Nanami again, his hold on you grows tighter. You don’t complain when Gojo suddenly presses his lips into yours, a breathy moan blessing his ears once he finally moves on top of you. Gojo runs his hand under your – his – shirt, letting those talented hands of his roam upon the expanse of his skin like an artwork he’ll never get tired of looking at.

“Missed you,” he mumbles in between the lip-locking, leaning closer when your nails start to scratch his scalp as a way to soothe him from the night. Nothing about the kiss is hurried or fervent; rather, it’s calm and steady, slow and passionate, much like how everything he feels for you is similar to a calm, rainy day where he’ll stay in with a hot cup of chocolate.

You’re home – warmth and comfort – and you know you’re his just as he knows he’s yours, but it doesn’t stop him from kissing you like he wants you to never forget that.

You shiver when Gojo’s fingers tickle your ribcage, that spot always having been sensitive. Your husband swipes his tongue over your lips that still tastes like strawberries from your lipbalm, and he groans, falling forward when you allow him access into your sweet, sweet mouth. Meanwhile, you travel down from his hair into those broad, strong shoulders that always seemed like a fortress to you.

Gojo was so big and strong compared to you. There’s no denying he could easily break you if he wanted to, but he’s nothing but gentle – perhaps a little eager – when he holds you like this.

There’s no memory of how you end up on top of his lap that night with the covers barely strewn across your bodies, Gojo’s back pressing into the bed frame that’s witnessed endless nights of passion. His hands then run over your hips, squeezing it a little too hard until you rut against his hips.

“Hmm,” you moan into his mouth at the friction, while Gojo only smirks at your reaction. Even after years, you’re still so sweet, sensitive, and responsive – he just can’t get enough of it. “Satoru,” the way you say his name is so breathy, almost as if it’s a secret only the two of you should know, so he listens intently at your next words. “You’re a little needy tonight. Did something happen?”

“No,” he lies, smiling to himself once he sees your lips are red and bruised. He’s sure he looks the same, but your eyes are glossed over with love that he can’t resist you pulling you to him as if the space offends him. He trails his lips down to your neck to leave red patches of marks that claims you as his – not that the gold wedding band on your fingers wasn’t doing the job already.

Like the good girl you are, you tilt your head and allow him to do as he pleases. He sucks, licks, kisses and nips at the skin, all the while careful to not hurt you or push you over to the edge since both of you are too tired for the day to ever do anything.

Your head drops to the crook of his neck then, arms wrapped around his shoulders loosely as if you trusted him to catch you whenever you fall – and you know he will. He always will.

Later on, you grow sleepy at the way he starts to pepper kisses into your skin that addictingly smells like cinnamon and vanilla all at the same time. Gojo chuckles to himself at how peaceful you look in that moment, draped over him like a tiny puppy who lives in a world too big for themselves, but that’s not true.

You’re bigger than the universe itself, larger than the vast galaxies he held beneath those eyes, and Gojo finally stops being jealous.

There’s no need to be, after all, not when he’s the one you trust wholeheartedly to tuck you in bed while your soft breathing lulls him into slumber as well. Gojo flicks the lamp off with his finger, not wasting another second before he scoots closer, closer, closer until there’s no more recollection of where you begin and where he ends.

He stands corrected in his statement.

He’ll never get tired of this, of you, for you’re bigger than the universe itself and there’s still a lot of space between the two of you that he can’t wait to cross until your worlds crash and burn.

“Next time,” he promises before kissing your eyelids, “I’ll come home earlier.”

[toasterwords]

Irena was chosen by lot to be the lindwurm's wife, after it devoured the third and last of the princesses. Prince Viktoras came himself to inform her.

Convenient, she thought, that the lottery had drawn Irena, from the lower city, poor and almost kinless. An only child, her mother dead, her father old and feeble.

And the bride-price that the crown prince brought with him was enough to support her father in comfort for the rest of his days. Irena could take it and be free of this house, of the burden of his care, of watching him slip away as he forgot her face more and more often. Or she could be carried away by the guards the prince had brought, and leave nothing behind to help him.

She had no power here, and she was wise enough to know it.

Her father, sitting at the kitchen table, stared mutely as the prince set the money on the table in front of him. Irena had to pick the box of coin up herself.

"I need time to make arrangements for my father," she said to the prince.

"Of course," he said. "You have half an hour to prepare yourself before we depart for the palace. Be sure you do not go more than a house or two away."

"I won't make trouble for you," Irena said. "It would only upset him more."

She looked Prince Viktoras in the eye until he looked away, and it satisfied her, just a little, to know that he was ashamed. Then she took the fine enameled box that held her bride-price, her blood-price, and walked next door with it. Widow Simoniene made the evil eye in the guards' direction, but took the money and the key to the little house and agreed to look after Irena's father.

Irena went back home with a heavy step to say goodbye.

"She thinks she'll move in, and rent out the big house," Irena told her father. "She doesn't need all that space, now that her sons have moved away. You won't be alone without me."

Her father wasn't speaking today, and Irena wasn't sure how much he understood. But he held Irena's hand tightly, looking over Irena's shoulder at the guards in the doorway. Irena clutched it back for a moment, then pried her father's fingers off and turned away.

She didn't look back as she left him. Her father had taught her pride, and she hoped that he still recognized it.

***

The walls of the castle loomed around her like the bars of a cage. She was received in state, like she was yet another princess. The king and queen and courtiers seemed embarrassed by her dress, work-worn, and her braid, falling down her back for lack of pins. But if they had wanted her to be more presentable, she thought, they should have given her more than half an hour to put her affairs in order.

After a hasty formal greeting, she was ushered away from the royal family and put into the hands of a half-dozen maidservants. They spread out the three dresses and two petticoats that she'd brought from home, and began discussing how to refine them by the morrow. Irena was deposited into a steaming bath, with one junior maidservant to help her.

A knock came on the door while Irena was still bathing. The maidservant rose to answer it, and returned with a bundle of fabric in her arms.

"The Lady Astrauskaite has sent you some of her dresses," she said. "And says that you may have them altered if they suit you, or do what you like with them if they don't."

Irena knew the name. Duke Astrauskis' daughter. Betrothed to the prince who had come to collect Irena. The betrothal that had sparked all of the princess-eating in the first place.

Was it sympathy, that had prompted the gift, or pity, or condescension? No doubt she had been at the blighted reception. But without knowing who in the crowd the lady had been, Irena did not know if the fuss had led her to flinch or to sneer.

She did not know, either, if Lady Astrauskaite had wanted to be betrothed to Prince Viktoras. If it pained her to see other women eaten because the king wanted his heir wedded to her, and the lindwurm demanded to be given its bride first.

"Is there a way for me to speak to the lady?" she asked the maidservant. "To thank her?"

The maidservant hesitated. "A note would be most appropriate."

"I cannot write," Irena said. "Is there no way to speak to her in person?"

She wanted to know if this was meant as a kindness. It might be easier to have someone write a note for her, and go to her death pretending that it was. But she would wonder, and it would niggle at her, and she did not want to go to her wedding and her funeral wearing a dress given to her out of condescension. She might be poor, and she might be trapped, but she had too much pride for that.

"Not that is proper, just to give thanks. But-" The maidservant's eyes were sad. "You are not scheduled to dine with the royal family tonight, and Lady Astrauskaite is not either. There would be nothing wrong with one woman extending an invitation to another, especially if they were soon to be sisters-in-law."

"Then I would like to do so," Irena said.

***

Lady Astrauskaite was taller than Irena, and much plumper, which meant that the borrowed dress Irena chose to dine in had to be discreetly brought in with pins. The lady's hair was bleached yellow, and her complexion hidden with white powder. She looked as uncomfortable as Irena felt.

"Thank you for joining me, my lady," Irena said, with a very cautious curtsey. The pins in the dress pricked her if she did not move rigidly and with care.

"Please, don't," Lady Astrauskaite said, which made the face of the steward following behind her pinch unpleasantly. "We are future sisters. After tomorrow. And after my wedding, of course. So you can call me Rugile, as a sister would."

"Yes, my lady," Irena said, unable not to look at the steward's sour face. "Thank you. You may call me Irena."

The table was small, for intimate conversation, which only made the dinner more awkward. The food was splendid, soft white bread and creamy cheese and rich meat-packed soup. It sank to the bottom of Irena's stomach like stones.

Within two courses, Irena felt sure the dresses had been a kindness, because everything that Lady Astrauskaite said was kind, and without sneer. She asked after Irena's health, and after that of her family, and she seemed genuinely distressed to hear about Irena's father. She diverted them after that to light anecdotes, tales of tutors and horses and amusing court mishaps, and winced anew with guilt whenever Irena lacked the grounding to laugh at a tale.

After two whole courses, Irena cleared her throat. "My lady, what can you tell me of the lindwurm?"

Lady Astrauskaite went still, then set her spoon down, looking Irena in the eye. "What do you already know?"

"That the queen was barren for ten years, and she went to a witch to open her womb. And that because the conceiving was unnatural, so was the birth, and while one child came out healthy and whole, the other came out as a lindwurm. And that it is confined to the palace, and horrible to look upon. That's all that we in the lower city know."

"It's not so terrible, once you get to know it."

"Except for the eating its brides."

"Yes." Lady Astrauskaite picked up her napkin, and began to twist it in her fingers. "It wasn't the witch's fault, you know. She told the queen to eat one of two flowers, and only one. Red for a boy, or white for a girl. And she ate the white first, but then she thought of her husband, and how he needed a son, and ate the red as well."

"And the queen told you this, my lady?"

"Yes. In confidence. The king would be furious if he knew."

There was a silent question in her gaze, asking if Irena would keep that confidence, and Irena nodded back. She knew of angry husbands and angry fathers, though her father had blessedly never been one. You never told them what you knew.

"She went back to the witch, she told me. After the lindwurm was born, and again, in desperation, after the second princess was wed and eaten."

"And what did the witch tell her?"

"The first time, that the lindwurm could only be made human if someone was found to trade their one skin for the ten it wore. And that of course was impossible, because who wished to be a lindwurm? The second time, she gave up another way, but it would require great courage from the bride."

She looked Irena in the eye. Another silent question, and again, Irena nodded.

"Tell it to me."

"As the queen told me that the witch told her, when you retire for the wedding night, you must have ready a tub of lye, and a tub of milk, and a stack of ten birch rods. And you must be dressed in ten layers of dresses. Then, when the time comes to undress, you must take off one layer at a time, and tell the lindwurm to shed a skin in exchange for each one. By the time you are both finished, the innermost part of the lindwurm will be exposed. Then dip the birch rods in lye, to beat it into the right shape, and bath it in milk, to give it a new skin. And last and most importantly, you must lie and embrace it the whole night through, as a woman embraces a lover."

"But there was the third princess before me," Irena said. "Did she not try this?"

"No," Lady Astrauskaite said, her gaze downcast. "I told her what the queen told me, and I had the tubs and the birch rods ready. But she had told me twice that she was not sure that she could embrace the lindwurm, that the last piece seemed the hardest. And at the wedding she tried to flee. The lindwurm gave chase, and she- she was caught and devoured."

Where had she thought to run, in this crumbling old castle? Maybe it had seemed less of a cage to a princess. But she'd been caught in it nonetheless.

"I will not run," Irena said. Clearly she could not. "And if the other choice is to be eaten, of course I will try the witch's spell."

Lady Astrauskaite smiled, worn and relieved. "The dresses I sent to your rooms should be enough to bring you to ten layers. I will bid the servants have the tubs ready in the marriage chamber, and the birch rods with them. They gave me no argument before, and will not now, though they might have looked askance at you."

Of course they would obey her. They hovered nearby even now; surely they'd heard everything. And surely they would snatch just as eagerly at a chance to be rid of the lindwurm.

***

Despite the hope that Lady Astrauskaite had offered, Irena could not sleep the whole night through. It was difficult to think about herself being eaten. But it was easy to think about her father waking without her, confused and distressed by her absence. Any explanation the Widow Simoniene made would confuse him more, or upset him if he could understand it.

Irena dressed herself in her ten layers, her own well-fitting dresses on the bottom, Lady Astraukaite's larger, more splendid dresses on the top. By the time she had put the tenth and last one on, the ones below padded it thoroughly, so that she seemed to fill it out the same way that a rich woman would.

The wedding was a thoroughly dismal affair. First there was a feast, tediously long, interrupted by faltering speeches between every course. Every speaker proposed a toast to the happy couple, and Irena, who had never had more than a single glass of watered wine in a night, had to struggle to keep her head from spinning.

She wasn't even seated close to her intended spouse, for the lindwurm had a table of its own, away from the grand one where Irena sat amid the royal cousins. Food enough for ten men went down the great creature's gullet. It was scaled like a snake in mold-colored grey, with stiff ridges along its spine. There were legs near the front end, powerful and clawed, and above that the head of a dragon.

Though the servants kept its table laden with steaming roasts and sweetmeats, it kept its eye on her, staring with unabashed hunger. Only when Irena met its gaze directly did it look away. No one else at the table seemed to acknowledge its presence. Nor hers, for that matter. Only Lady Astrauskaite tried to speak to her, and quickly was diverted.

If the feast was dismal, the wedding ceremony was more so. Prince Viktoras escorted Irena to the dais from one side of the hall, and the queen, pale-faced and stiff-backed, walked with the lindwurm from the other. The priest's hands trembled as he turned the pages of the holy book.

"Irena Kazlauskaite, do you take this-" He had to pause there, take a deep breath, and then continue. "-This lindwurm, to be your wedded spouse, your protector, to love and to obey?"

"I do," she said, and was proud that her voice sounded clearer and stronger than his.

"Lindwurm, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife, your helpmeet, to love and to protect?"

"I do," said the lindwurm. Its voice grated like stones rubbing across each other, and it still stared at Irena with nakedly hungry eyes.

She stared back, watching the restless twitching of its mighty coils, which could each trap a man within them, and the flex of its forelimbs, which had dragged its length effortlessly down the narrow aisle. It could tear the castle walls to pieces if it wanted to.

And why hadn't it? Trapped within these hallways, confined in rooms that must be entirely too small for it? For a creature so strong, the castle was no cage at all. Irena would have torn her way free and fled to the countryside long ago. She looked at the hunger in its eyes and felt an echo of it in her own heart, imagining how easily it, unlike her, could break loose from its prison.

Yet it stayed, pretending to princedom, dragging her into its farce of a royal wedding. She wished she could know why.

The priest finished giving his blessing. The young prince and the queen retreated, along with the trembling priest, from the dais. A forced, ragged cheer rang out from the assembled witnesses. She tore her eyes away from the lindworm's body, and saw it tear its eyes away from hers.

There was no glad chivaree for the newly-wedded couple, only a solemn procession to the top of an elegantly-appointed tower. It was well-furnished, Irena saw as they wound their way upwards, but the furnishings were all damaged, fabrics torn by claw and tooth, wood cracked and splintered by the lindwurm's terrible tail. The enormous bed was new-made, with fresh sheets, but she could see where it, too, had scuffs and scars on the bedposts.

By the fire, two tubs sat waiting. One was filled with yellowish lye, the other with fresh white milk. Ten birch rods lay in a neat stack between them. Irena glanced back at her grim escort, and caught sight of Lady Astrauskaite, who nodded to her from the rear.

Then they all left, and the door slammed shut, and Irena was alone with her new spouse.

"My wife," the lindwurm said, in its stone-on-stone voice, coiling up very near to her.

"My name is Irena," she said, looking up to meet the lindwurm's eyes. "As we are married, you may call me by it. And what am I to call you by?"

The lindwurm reeled back from her. "I have been given no name. I should have the mirror to my twin's, but they will not grant it to me, for the priests say a monster cannot be baptized."

Irena was trying too hard not to show her trembling to spare time for pity. But at that phrasing, she looked at the lindwurm anew.

"The white flower was to be for a girl," she said, remembering the tale Lady Astrauskaite had shared with her. "And the queen ate that one before the other. Your name should be Viktorija."

"Yes," the lindwurm said, drawing closer. "You know the tale. The misborn child of greed and folly, trapped in a shape that no soul desires."

Irena looked up to meet those hungry eyes, now closer to starving. "If you feel so trapped inside that skin, why do you not exercise what freedom you do have? If you do not want to seem so monstrous, you should not eat the women you marry."

The lindwurm turned her head away. "It is this form. In it, there are urges that I cannot resist. When I desire something badly enough, I am driven to devour it. I desired flowers, as a child, and I devoured the garden my mother planted for me. I desired books, when I learned they held knowledge, and I devoured the library when Viktoras took me to it. And I desire humanity, and the love that humans feel for each other, and so-"

"And so," Irena echoed. "I will tell you now, I may know a way to free you from that skin. But you must do as I ask, and it may hurt, very badly."

The way Lady Astrauskaite had spoken of it, Irena had thought that the key would be trickery. But she had not thought then of speaking civilly with the lindwurm. It was one thing to lie to a monstrous creature, one who would be a man and a prince at the end of it. It was a very different thing to deceive another woman.

"You do?" The lindwurm turned towards her with amazing speed, eyes wide, claws gripping the floor so hard they left grooves in the wood. "No matter how it may hurt, I will do everything that you ask."

"Then first, you must shed a skin."

The lindwurm sagged a gainst the floor, the joy going out of her. "It is not time for me to shed, and I cannot force it to begin. Even my own claws cannot tear this terrible hide."

Irena thought back to Lady Astrauskaite's phrasing. She would have to act as closely to the witch's words as possible, if she was not going to fall into the same trap as the queen.

"I will show you," she said, turning her back to the lindwurm and reaching for the buttons of the topmost dress. "I will remove this dress, and you will remove a skin in exchange for it."

The air prickled around her like there were invisible eyes in every corner. As she stepped out of the dress and turned back around, she saw the lindwurm shaking herself out of her skin. Only the uppermost of its layers, for it must have grown many to be so impenetrable; but the skin beneath it was less scuffed, and the ridges softer-looking.

"This changes nothing," the lindwurm said, and then she fixed her hungry eyes on Irena again. "But you wear another dress beneath it."

"And I will take that one off, too."

She watched, this time, as the lindwurm reached behind her head and fumbled with the ridge down the back of her neck, the same way Irena's fingers fumbled on her buttons. The skin fell away in one layer, head and forelegs and tail peeling off together. Irena could feel the magic, watching and listening all around.

And so it went, dress and skin, over and over another eight times, until at last Irena was standing naked in the center of the room. The lindwurm's skins, softer and more tender with each layer, were piled behind her. And she stood in front of that pile, a raw, skinless thing, pitiful and helpless. She was only vaguely human in shape, yet, with her face as long as a horse's and her lower limbs bound together by ropes of muscle and sinew.

She trembled and whimpered with pain at the wood of the floor and the heat of the fire, agony against bare and oozing flesh. But her eyes were still hungry, fixed fast to Irena. Hungry and full of hope.

Irena swallowed her disgust and picked up the birch rods, to dip in the lye. It seemed cruel, when just the air and the floor pained the lindwurm so terribly, but there was no other choice, unless-

Unless one was found to trade their one skin for the ten it carried.

She had not dwelled upon the witch's first answer, any more than the Lady Astrauskaite had, or the queen. For those who had power in their own right, only one of the ways the witch had offered seemed worth the dwelling. The way that let the lindwurm's shape, even now, be chosen and defined by another.

She could feel the magic even more strongly now. It prickled against her skin, nearly burning between her shoulderblades. If was as if there were buttons there, too, waiting to be opened.

Irena's own obligations were discharged. Her father was in safe hands, his dotage well-funded. All that held her in place now was the threat of force, the cage of the castle looming over her.

Behind the lindwurm, her skins lay on the floor in a thick and fetid pile. If Irena could step out of her own skin, and don those, no bond or obligation would ever tie her down again. For what walls, what force of arms, could hold the lindwurm?

Her heart full of hunger, Irena dropped the rods pressed her fingers against the back of her neck, to the place where the magic burned. But no seam or button came clear. The magic seemed to lean in closer, listening intently. It had waited, she remembered, for them to voice the exchange, each of the ten times before.

"Viktorija," she said, "will you make a trade with me? My one skin, for the ten of yours?"

"Yes," Viktorija answered, and her voice was small, and cracking, but full of joy. "I will make that trade with you."

Irena reached to the back of her neck again. Her skin came apart cleanly at her touch, without pain. She stepped out of it, as she had stepped out of the dresses, and cried out immediately at the feel of splintered wood on her skinless feet, and the draft from the fire against her skinless flesh. Viktorija was much stronger than she was, to endure them with only whimpers.

Walking towards her, Irena held her skin out, open all down the back. Viktorija reached out and took it, and it wrapped itself around her, splitting her lower limbs into two legs, remolding her face and her arms, imposing a woman's shape upon her formless flesh.

She stood, still trembling, and lifted up the first of her own scaled skins for Irena to step into. Irena felt her legs fuse together as they entered the tail, her flesh painlessly elongating to fill the space as the much-larger skin closed over her. Then the next skin, and the next, each layer of scales less tender, until the last one went on, and she was so encased in the lindwurm's armor that nothing in the king's whole armory could have broken through.

The skin closed, but the magic was still there, hanging in the air like a persistent damp. Irena felt her forelegs shaking, and her head was heavy; she looked at Viktorija, who was shaking too.

Stretching out her heavy coils, she fought exhaustion to wrap them around Viktorija. Then she crawled up onto the bed, pulling Viktorija up with her. Curled around her, on the soft, claw-shredded mattress, Irena fell swiftly and soundly asleep, embracing Viktorija like a lover.

***

They were roused in the morning by the creak of the door. The king and queen entered, fearful, and Prince Viktoras and Lady Astrauskaite walked in after, both downcast with concern. But they all looked in amazement at the bed, and who was in it.

Irena looked down at herself and Viktorija. Her own scales gleamed black, sleek and shining, instead of the mold-colored mottling that Viktorija had sported. And while Irena's own hair had been straight and dusty-colored, her skin weathered and her face thin, Viktorija was plump and noble-pale between Irena's coils, with a snub nose and a round face and chestnut hair falling in long curls.

"But," Lady Astrauskaite said, her eyes filling with tears. "The birch rods, and the lye, and the milk-"

"The witch's words were true. Here is your sister, my lady, Your Highness, and here is your daughter, your majesties. Last night she traded me her ten skins for my one, and we are both more comfortable in our new attire."

The king's hands worked at his sides, tightening into fists, then loosening when he looked again at Irena's coiling black bulk. "I would rather a daughter and her wife than a daughter and another lindwurm. I had been told you meant to save my child, but you have only traded for her troubles."

Viktorija was stirring now in Irena's coils, her eyes blinking open. She smiled at her family, and three of the four smiled back. Even the king's hard face softened.

"My father-to-be, be glad," Lady Astrauskaite said, sweet and coaxing. "You have a daughter, to please your wife with, and your son has a sister for the two of you to spoil. Irena has done this for us, as a loyal servant of the crown."

"Yes," the king said, drawing back his ire. He raised his gaze to meet Irena's eyes. "What do you want from me for this service?"

Irena unwound herself, gently, from Viktorija, then slithered off the bed. She dug her claws into the much-abused wood of the floor and gloried at her strength when it splintered and broke.

Her bride-price would keep her father fed for life, and she trusted the Widow Simoniene. There was not a feather's worth of weight upon her. "I want nothing but my freedom, Sire. And for you to treat your daughter well."

"I will make sure she is cared for," said Lady Astrauskaite, looking at Irena fondly, without fear. "For she will be my sister, just as I will still consider you."

Irena looked at her closely, trying to tell if there was any longing in her eyes. But there was only only relief and gladness in her, no appetite for claws and scales. And her hand was so firmly wrapped around the prince's that he was very clearly where her paltry human hunger lay.

"Yes," Irena said, to her and her alone. "Care well for her. She would have endured terrible pain to take this shape, and it would be wrong to let her suffer more now that she has it. As for myself, I will go into the countryside, and I will be free."

The king and queen stepped one way, the prince and his lady another, and Irena surged past them and through the open door. Winding her way down the staircase, she felt her tail bash against the walls, and delighted in the way they cracked with each blow. Half-walking, half-crawling, she emerged into the ruined garden at the foot of the tower and made for a gate in the wall.

It wasn't big enough for her full bulk, but that didn't matter. She pushed her head through, and thrust with her shoulders, and the masonry broke around her without even a strain of effort. Heart pounding more and more joyously, Irena slithered out through the hole she'd made.

The sky was blue above her, bright with morning sunlight, filled with the scents of earth and beasts and flowers. Irena paused for a moment to take it in, raising her head and twisting up and up on her own coils until she could see the rippling fields stretching away from the walls. As she lowered herself again, she saw a flock of birds in flight, winging their way over those fields towards a forest beyond.

Irena started after them. She would see what freedom tasted like, and savor it.

[lazyangeltreemoney]

Sunday is a Family Day

Oneshot Bodyguard AU

Description: You’re stubborn, annoying and hot as hell which seems to be an awful combo to mix with Bucky Barnes. However one day he realises he got you all wrong and now there’s a little kid in the mix that needs both of your help. 

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky x Rockstar!Reader

Word count: 7648

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, violence, blood, implied sex (no smut), enemies to lovers, child neglect, swearing, smoking, addiction.

A/N: really tried to keep this gender neutral, all the pronouns for the reader are they/them which is kind of important to me considering I recently came out as nonbinary. This one is pretty angsty. Sorry for the shitty description, hope you enjoy. P.S may do some more parts to this one. Also the gif is not mine.

Staring at your mother’s grave funnily enough wasn’t a pleasant experience. Funnily enough her death didn’t bring you anymore pain, but it did make the old pains ache a little more. Why did I think this would be a good idea? Stupid Barnes getting in my head.

“Why do you alway take Sundays off?” You asked him as he started getting dressed

It was almost cliche, sleeping with your bodyguard who could hardly stand you but it was easy. Certainly easier than committing to something real and besides it probably helped Barnes' job that he knew you on an intimate level. At least then even if you did piss him off he would have some reason to actually care about your safety, it would be a pain in the ass for him to find someone who fucked him as well as you did.

Either way, usually after fucking you and Barnes didn’t really talk. You figured it was probably because part of him didn’t want to acknowledge what had just happened, with him usually being so professional, but you were curious. The only day off he ever had was Sundays, on those days Steve would keep an eye on you instead.

“Sundays… are a family day, I spend every Sunday at my parents house for dinner.” He explained carefully, as if he’d revealed he’s deepest secret.

“Wow, who knew that deep down you were so rock and roll.” You snorted, he always was so serious.

Barnes clearly didn’t like your response.

“Family is all I have, but I get how you wouldn’t understand that.” He responded coldly and went back to finishing getting dressed in silence before leaving.

You rolled your eyes at him. Of course you didn’t see the appeal in ‘family dinners’ the only family dinners you could remember you’d much rather forget. Barnes had labelled you from the get go as a ‘spoiled brat and loose cannon that just so happened to be a mediocre musician’. He’d never heard you mention any family, he just assumed you’d either cut them off or they’d cut you off.

You tried to think no more of Barnes' comments but come Sunday your mind just kept wondering. You glanced at the clock while you practised on the guitar, it read 12:01pm. About lunch time, are they just sitting down? Is Barnes carving the turkey? Are there little kids screaming and refusing to eat their vegetables? Is he laughing? Does he feel loved? Your head went on and on asking all those questions but then it got worse.

You began picturing Barnes taking you to one of those family dinners he talked about. How he’d drive you out into the suburbs, his hand on your thigh the whole ride to help your nerves. How he’d introduce you to his mother and how you’d help her cook. Maybe sneak a whiskey with his Dad and bond over telling stupid stories about Bucky Barnes. Of course Bucky would never do that, you were a convenient fuck and nothing more. But either way, your head was beginning to see ‘family’. Maybe Sundays should be a family day.

So here you were now, stood in front of pretty much the only family you had left. You kept rereading the words marked on her grave.

Catherine L/N, Beloved Friend and Loving Mother, you will be missed.

 And your heart ached at the fact that nearly every word on it was a lie. Not even the cold autumn air brought you comfort as your arm began to heat up, a dull ache from the memory of the type of woman she really was.

You could see that the grave was crumbling slightly, it had been almost six years since she passed. Moss and weeds were beginning to take over the patch of land. She didn’t deserve any kindness from you, not even now. She was the reason you kept people at arm's length, the reason why ‘love’ would always be such an alien concept to you. However you couldn’t stop your hands from beginning to pull away at the weeds or try to scrape off the moss. She always wanted to look pretty. It was her no. 1 priority, you were certain you were no.50 or so.

Maybe it was the fact that you had spent most of the afternoon daydreaming about Barnes' probably perfect family, but this certain visit to the grave made you feel shitter than you had done in a long while. So much that you wanted to try and find the nearest bar as you headed out of the graveyard. Screw all the promises you’d made to yourself, to Tony, to even Barnes on occasion, sometimes the genes just run too hard to deny.

However the second you pushed open the door to the bar you were reminded of the last person you’d ever made a promise to. You remembered their adorable little face and button nose. Could I really do this to her as well?

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Monday came around, you’d successfully convinced yourself not to go on a bender but the headache in your head felt like you’d gone on one anyway. Barnes was waiting for you outside by your car. You knew the second he saw you he would be cold and grumpy while listing off your schedule for that day. However there was something more important than any meeting or recording sessions that needed to be done today.

You meet Barnes outside and as you’d predicted he instantly started listing off the hundreds of things you were supposed to get done today. He was talking to you in his ‘no arguments voice’, mainly because over the years he’d seen how much of a pain in the ass you could be first hand. Always wanting to negotiate your way out of some meeting or wanting or missing an annoying interview.

“And then you’re going to Radio 1 headquarters to give an interview,” Bucky continued on.

“Barnes, there’s something else I need to do today-” You tried to begin, He ignored you and continued listing, “At the interview Stark told me that you need to mention the upcoming tour-”

“Barnes I’m serious, I’m not just slacking off for once-”

“Yeah right,” He scoffed.

“Bucky please… this is a family thing.” You finally admitted hanging your head.

You never called him Bucky, he insisted it was a name only his friends or family got to call him, which you were neither. Bucky watched you carefully, he hadn’t even started arguing with you but you already looked almost defeated. He could even see under the makeup that you looked tired, they’d been up all last night. But it was more than just defeat in their eyes, they looked scared, almost remorseful. This wasn’t the Y/N he knew, his Y/N would be energetic, demanding and never vulnerable.

Bucky sighed before reaching towards the sat nav.

“Where to?”

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About an hour's drive later they’d reached a house just on the edge of the suburbs. At a first glance it seemed nice enough, white fence, brick house, hedges in the garden; but Bucky was trained to look past a first glance. The grass and hedges were clearly over growing along with ivy around the house. The windows hadn’t been cleaned in a while along with the gutter being clogged up.

The car on the drive was flashy but it was messy. There was a cigarette tray on the dashboard and fast food containers littered inside. The most damning sign to Bucky was that all the curtains and blinds in the house had been drawn closed even though it was mid morning. However he found himself glancing over to Y/N, trying to gauge their reaction.

Y/N felt sick to their stomach. This wasn’t how this place was supposed to look, there was meant to be swings or slides in the garden. At least a carseat in the car or flowers in the garden.

  Surely this isn’t where they put Claire? You’d spent all of last night trying to research where social services had placed your half sister. You’d told yourself you were doing the right thing when a detective appeared at your doorstep holding her. She’d already had one L/N fucking up her childhood when she was barely four, she didn’t need another, you told yourself. But it was beginning to look like you’d done that anyway.

You took a shaky breath and headed towards the front door. You gave it a good hard knock only for the door to fall open. It made an eerie creaking noise as it swung open.

Before Bucky could object, Y/N marched in only to reveal more of her worst fears. There were empty liquor bottles that littered the floor. The house stunk of smoke and other unpleasant aromas.

Y/N continued through the house and found the garden. It was as unkempt as the rest of the house but Y/N did find one perfect thing in it… Claire. She was a lot older than when you’d last seen her, probably around 10 now, but you’d know that face anywhere. To your surprise she recognised you. She’d looked up from playing with her dolls and saw you standing on the edge of the garden. Her little legs seemed to not be able to get up fast enough as she practically launched herself at you.

“Y/N!” She called happily and wrapped her arms around your legs.

Bucky watched the scene and was beyond confused. Who the hell was this kid? Was she Y/N’s? How could a kid be left alone in a place like this?

“I knew you’d come soon,” Claire announced happily as she hugged your legs tighter.

You looked down at Claire and wanted to earth to swallow you whole, you wanted Satan himself to stab you in the heart and torture you forever. It was all the conformation you needed, I’m truly the worst person alive. However you could berate yourself later, right now you had to be strong for Claire. You kneeled down to her level.

“Claire, are your parents home?” You asked.

Claire shook her head.

Great, just great, those monsters left her alone.

“Okay, well then you’re coming with us, okay, it’ll be like a holiday.” You tried to explain to her.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. You couldn’t surely be suggesting kidnapping? This was insane and illegal. However it was clear you deeply cared for this little girl, it did make sense that you would want to take her away from this place. As he tried to think of some way to do this without being arrested, he saw something that broke his heart.

Y/N rolled up the sleeves on Claires shirt, he could recognise those marks from anywhere, cigarette burns on her arm, along with ugly yellow bruises. He could see the look in Y/N’s eyes, it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It was a pure rage that she was clearly trying to hide only for Claire’s sake.

You grabbed Claire's hand and started to lead her out of the house when the front door opened. It revealed who you recognised to be Claires “parents”. From the pictures they looked like a perfectly average couple, but they looked nothing like they did in the photos now. Both you and Bucky could smell the booze off them from the second they opened the door. Of course they took notice of you holding Claire's hand and Bucky standing next to you.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” The ‘’Dad’ yelled.

“I’m here making sure Claire never see’s either of you despicable people again.” You spat at both of them.

“YOU’RE NOT TAKING HER ANYWHERE.” The ‘mother’ screamed pathetically.

“Oh yes I am, because I can clearly see where all the money I sent you to spend on her is really going, so unless you have some pretty good lawyers I’d shut up and let us leave.” You threatened, you had more than enough evidence to get their custody taken away.

However, that seemed to be the final straw. Before you could do anything the father lunged towards you with his fist. Lucky for you, Barnes was a damn good bodyguard and had been itching for a reason to punch this guy.

He quickly stood in front of you and blocked the ‘dad’s’ fist, before throwing a solid punch of his own. One that landed the ‘dad’ straight onto his backside.

“I’ve got half a mind to break that hand of yours clean off so that you’ll never be able to raise it to someone ever again… the only reason I’m not is that I’m certain that KID has been exposed to enough violence.” Bucky threatens darkly.

After that the ‘mother’ quickly became a quivering wreck. Bucky nodded contently that she wouldn’t try anything and grabbed your hand to lead you and Claire back to the car. It was weird, Bucky had grabbed your hand numerous times, leading you away from the press, to an event and had saved you from danger more times than you could count, but this felt different.

You’d placed Claire in the back seat of the car while you sat in the front with Bucky. As he drove, he glanced into the rearview window, Claire was fast asleep. Now seemed like a good enough time to finally ask some questions about what the hell just happened.

You were a wreck as Bucky drove back into New York. Everything you tried to do to keep her safe, to try and keep her away from you because you were so certain that you would fuck her up in some way just like your mother had done to you. All of it was for nothing, whether you were there or not, you still managed to screw up her life.

Bucky pulled you out of your thoughts however.

“Mind telling what happened back there, mainly so I have something to tell Stark so I can hopefully keep my job?” Bucky asked.

“Claire is my half sister,” You began with a sigh, “six years ago my mother died and seeing as I was the only family the police could track down, Claire was placed into my care… However I was a wreck, I still am. I told myself the best thing for Claire was if she could forget about the family she came from… so I got Tony to take over, to find her a good home. I would send letters and money… but then you got in my head and for once I’m glad you did.”

Bucky was suddenly reminded of the conversation he’d had with Y/N after they’d… well you know.

“And don’t worry about Tony firing you, the second I see him I think I’m going to kill him.” Y/N stated flatly.

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Bucky saw first hand that you meant it. When you arrived back at your apartment they all saw Tony pacing in your living room looking pissed off, but it was nothing compared to the sheer rage you had inside you.

Tony stopped pacing and looked up at the three of you when he heard the front door open. Instantly he went charging towards Y/N and Bucky was worried he’d have to punch someone to save Y/N for the second time today.  

“Where the hell have you been huh? Do you know how many phone calls I’ve had to make to save your career in one afternoon-” He stopped suddenly when he saw the young girl hiding behind your legs, “is that Claire?” he asked in a much calmer and almost scared tone.

“Yes. It. Is.” Y/N gritted between their teeth, “Barnes, can you take Claire into my bedroom, please.”

Bucky nodded and wordlessly picked up Claire.

The second the door closed behind him he heard a loud whack and knew that he should probably put on some cartoons at full volume.

You’d kept your anger buried down for long enough and it now erupted like pompei. You slapped Tony, hard, harder than you think you’d ever hit another person in your life.

“OW!” Tony yelped as he fell backwards.

“You promised me,” You began quietly and darkly, “you promised me that she would never have to go through any of the shit that I went through and what did I find… CIGARETTE BURNS ON HER FUCKING ARM STARK!”

“Look, it’s not like I vetted the parents myself- social services-” Tony fumbled over his words trying to defend himself.

“I don’t care, I trusted you with the only family I have left… and you’d think that after everything you witnessed with me that social services don’t know shit okay.” You continued to scold.

Tony slowly got on to his feet. It was clear that no matter what he said, you weren’t going to forgive him. So he decided to move onto damage control.

“I’ll contact some lawyers, get you full custody of Claire and I’ll take care of the damage done today.” Tony explained.

“Good,” You huffed, “And then you can tell Pepper that she’s got your job.”

“You don’t mean that.” Tony scoffed but from the look on your face you most certainly did.

Without saying another word you headed towards your bedroom before you felt the urge to slap Tony again. You entered your room to see Bucky had thankfully grabbed some headphones and put them over Claire's ears while she watched some cartoon on your ipad. Bucky had Claire in his lap and his arms wrapped around her. He had his own headphones plugged in and was watching the show as well, almost as animatedly as Claire was.

You watched the scene before you and felt as if you’d had the wind taken out of you. The words Tony said were suddenly taking effect, ‘you’ll have full custody of Claire,’ but you didn’t know anything about kids. Bucky was sitting with her right now and seemed to be hanging out with her so effortlessly, you on the other hand didn’t have a clue how to be around her.

Bucky looked up and noticed you stood by the door. He gestured for you to come over and sit with them. You crawled onto the bed and placed your arms around Claire and snuggled up next to the other side of Bucky. This was a first for you and Bucky, sure you had been intimate before but once the sex he practically jumped off of you, as if he couldn’t get away quick enough. However it somehow felt natural and comfy, like the most comfortable pillow in the universe. Even more to your surprise, he wrapped his free arm around you.

Claire seemed more than happy to have you watching the cartoon with her. She animatedly started listing her favourite characters and all of their powers. You smiled and nodded, wondering how despite everything she went through she was still a happy smiling kid… and not a wreck like you. She quickly became engrossed in another episode which is when Bucky took the opportunity to whisper to you.

“I think we better take her to the hospital, get her arm checked out and the rest of her.” He whispered softly.

You nodded, not having any more strength that day to say anything else. It was probably one of the few times you were happy for him to take charge.

“And we also should talk later… about, well about everything.”

You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out how that conversation would probably go. You figured it would be something like “yeah it’s fun when we fuck but with the kid involed it’s too much and you’re clearly now too much of a mess for me, something about professionalism etc.”

However you weren’t scared about Bucky breaking things off, you had bigger fears inside your head.

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The doctor visit went as expected. The second they saw Claire they wanted to have words with you and Bucky separately and away from Claire. You hated being apart from her but knew that it had to be done. Once you explained the full story to them they were quick to let you back with Claire. They wrapped up her arm, thankfully it didn’t look infected but they still disinfected all of her wounds to be safe.

She sat on Bucky’s lap while you held her hand to comfort her through the stings. She kept squirming and the doctor was clearly getting frustrated that Claire wouldn’t sit still. You’d think that someone who worked with kids would have a bit more patience but clearly not.

“Claire sweetie how about this, if you’re a big brave girl and sit still for the doctor then we can get ice cream on the way home.” You offered.

The words ice cream clearly had an effect on her. Claire took a deep breath and nodded enthusiastically as she stuck out her arm again. The doctor mumbled a quick thankyou and was finally able to disinfect the final wound.

You smiled at Claire and praised her for being ‘the bravest girl in the whole world’. Bucky even ruffled her hair affectionately, which is when you caught him looking at you. He looked at you in a way he’d never looked at you before. Usually he had two expression’s when it came to you, pissed off or lustful, this however was new. It was soft, he was even smiling. No matter what you told yourself, you found yourself smiling back.

You finished up at the hospital. They gave you some stuff so that you could re-wrap Claires arm at home. Barnes drove the three of you to what was, quote, ‘the best ice cream place in the city’. You soon arrived at a diner and found yourself a booth. As you did you heard a few people whispering amongst themselves.

‘Is that really Y/N L/N,’ ‘Don’t be stupid, probably just a look alike,’

‘It looks just like them though’.

You decided to try and pay them no mind, right now you were out with your family. Wait, shit… did I just include Barnes in my ‘family?’. You tried to push that thought to the back of your brain, right now your focus was on spoiling Claire.

A waitress came over and asked you all what you wanted.

“What’s the best ice cream that you guys make?” You asked, nudging Claire slightly.

The waitress could tell that you were obviously trying to hype things up for Claire and joined in.

“Well I think the only ice cream worthy of this little one would have to be our triple banana sundae split,” She winked.

“Well how does that sound Claire?” Bucky asked.

“That one, that one pleaseeeee?” Claire chanted.

The waitress chuckled at Claire's excitement and wrote down the order. She took your and Bucky’s order as well before heading off. Claire was clearly already buzzing with excitement about the ice cream. You figured that back in that house she probably wasn’t spoiled often, if ever, that was going to have to change. Which also reminded you of the hundred of things you’d have to get ready for Claire. Such as her own room, her toys, school stuff, childcare, the list was endless, but you supposed that you had to start somewhere.

“So Claire, what would you like your new room to look like?” You asked.

As nearly all ten year olds do when they’re bubbling with excitement, she practically vomited the words at you. She was a ball of pure energy, animatedly talking and drawing on the back of the menu about her dream bedroom. You planned on following her instructions to a T. However as you tried to listen intently, you noticed Bucky get up and head towards your waitress.  

She was clearly giggling at something he’d just said and he handed her a piece of paper. Was he really giving her his number right in front of you? Your head wanted to be rational, Barnes was technically single, he could do what he wanted. But your heart was never good at being rational, it was impulsive and petty and right now as the waitress was laughing with Bucky, it hurt. It hurt in a way that no rationalisations would explain.

Barnes soon came back and sat with you again. You couldn’t help the sour face you had put on, thankfully Claire was too engrossed in drawing her room to notice it.

“What was that about?” you whispered to Bucky.

He glanced at Claire, almost double checking that she was too busy drawing to pay any attention to what she was saying.

“I was just telling the waitress to see if she can have any low sugar ice cream and to put extra fruit in it, I come here a lot with my nieces and nephews, she was laughing because she noticed how I pull the same trick on them.” He explained quietly so Claire wouldn't hear.

“Oh” you muttered, it was all you could say as you dropped the sour face.

“Wait… were you jealous?” Bucky asked with a teasing smile.

“No, of course not,” You defended yourself a little too quickly. But Bucky’s teasing smile didn’t go anywhere. This was very weird to you, usually you were the one doing the teasing and pushing his buttons, not him pushing yours. You rolled your eyes at him and decided to end this conversation.

“So Claire, how’s the bedroom coming along?”

Claire started happily explaining the room to you and Bucky and you both listened happily until she said something that made you nearly choke on the ice cream.

“And I want it next to your guys room,”

“WHAT?!” You immediately coughed, and probably a little too loudly.

“The room I was in earlier, it was yours and Bucky’s right? He’s your boyfriend” Claire asked far too innocently for you to try and find a response. “He knew where everything was and there were some of his clothes on the floor.” She continued on.

Before you wanted the earth to swallow you up out of self hatred, now you wanted it to swallow you up out of embarrassment. What the hell were you meant to say? You didn’t exactly fancy explaining the term ‘fuckbuddy’ to a ten year old. Bucky, however, saved your ass, like he always does.

“Of course it can be near our room, kid, I don’t wanna miss out on any tea parties.” Bucky replied happily, but not without shooting you another one of his teasing smiles. You were quickly realising why he was nearly always pissed off at you now that the show was on the other foot.

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Soon enough the day was drawing to a close and it was Claire’s bedtime. You put her down in the room opposite you. You’d gotten her some toys and books during the day to try and make the room more kid friendly. She was settling down in her pj’s and cuddling a teddy that she’d affectionately named ‘Bucky’, much to your amusement.

“Alright, I think it’s time for bed,” You suggested but she instantly started shaking her head. “Claire, I’ve read you three stories, you’ve had cookies and milk, it’s time for bed.” You tried to insist but that didn’t work either. “Alright, how about this? You can pick one more story for us to read but then you have to go to bed?”

That seemed to spark something inside her. She looked around the room and pointed to a ukulele that was hanging on the wall.

“Could you sing me to sleep? I used to fall asleep listening to you on the radio, usually because my parents were yelling too loud… it was like you were in the room with me.” She asked softly.

How could you ever say no to that?

“I’ll sing you to sleep every night if you want.” You replied with a sad smile and got up to pick up the ukulele.

Bucky was in the kitchen, putting away the cookies and milk you guys had before when he heard the strings of your ukulele being plucked.

“I’m lying on the moon, my dear I’ll be there soon,” your melodic voice began to sing.

It echoed throughout the apartment and Bucky couldn’t help but follow it. He found himself standing just outside of Claire’s bedroom. You were sitting on the end of the bed and singing Claire to sleep. Your voice being the sweetest lullaby he’d ever heard in his life. As you strummed the last chord Claire was softly snoring.

You looked up to see Bucky standing by the door, his mouth was hanging slightly agape. You silently got up and headed towards him, closing the door behind you.

“Who’s mediocre now?” You asked sarcastically and sauntered towards the kitchen.

Bucky watched you go and was reminded of the first time he ever met you. And he suddenly realised how wrong he’d gotten you.

He’d been dragged to your apartment by Steve. To be completely blunt, he was pissed. He’d told Steve that he was done babysitting rich, spoiled brats and yet here he was. After studying your case file, he already figured out that we're probably going to be the worst of them all. Despite all of his complaining, Steve dropped him off in front of your apartment and drove off before he could run away.

He walked into the lobby and met the one and only Tony Stark, Y/N’s manager. “James Barnes, I believe, nice to meet you.” Tony held out his hand and Bucky shook it firmly. “Hey, where's the cheese burgers I asked you to bring?”

It was 10 o’clock in the morning.

“I couldn’t find a place that was open, also I’m a bodyguard, not a butler.” Bucky replied.

“Well you better be, because I’m hiding behind you if we’re going up there empty handed.” Tony laughed and led the way to the elevator.

They quickly entered your apartment and Bucky was already assessing all of the security risks while Tony tried to explain how it would be best to handle you. Apparently food would be crucial and you didn’t handle authority well. Bucky was certain that he would change that.

However as they walked around your apartment, you were nowhere to be seen. There was absolutely no trace of you… except for the trail of clothes leaning to the bathroom… and a distinct singing voice coming out of it.

“You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.” You sang.

Bucky found himself almost entranced by your voice. It captured him, almost worse it was distracting him. Tony however just rolled his eyes and banged on the door.

“Y/N come out, you knew this was the time you were meeting the new head of security!”

Your response to this was just to sing louder.

“I need you baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby-!”

Tony continued to bang on the door until you finally opened the door, once the song ended of course. Thick steam rolled out of the room, it was clear the shower had been steaming hot and on for a while. You had one towel wrapped around your head and one that was wrapped around your body.

“Enjoy the show boys?” You asked with a teasing grin.

Tony sighed, “James this is Y/N, Y/N, James.”

You walked over to him and held out your hand. Bucky shook it cautiously.

“Well, I’m waiting,”

Bucky looked at you confused. “Did you enjoy the show?” You repeat yourself.

Bucky wanted to be honest, tell you it was the most magnificent thing he’d ever heard. But then he remembered everything he’d read in your files and how any compliment would go to your already enormous ego. So he put on his best poker face.

“It was mediocre.”

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Putting all the pieces together, he realised he had been such an ass. You weren’t some spoiled rich kid, in fact you were almost the complete opposite. Life had dealt you one of the shittiest hands possible and despite all that you did everything to make a life for yourself. He had heard some of the things you’d yelled at Tony.

‘You promised me that she would never have to go through any of the shit that I went through,’

Bucky had seen a few scars on you from when you and him had been together. He never brought them up but he had a pretty good idea how you got them. Jesus christ, no wonder she ever brought up her family.

He headed towards the kitchen. You were finishing up the work he’d left when he got distracted by your singing.

“Here, let me help you, I should’ve finished it anyway.” Bucky spoke and tried to jump in.

“No I should do it, besides I thought you’d be glad that I’m finally doing something myself.” Y/N remarked.

Bucky sighed and scratched the back of his back.

“I owe you an apology, I shouldn’t have assumed that you were- well,” He stumbled over his words, not wanting to repeat all the insults he’d thrown at them before.

“Spoiled, lazy, never worked a day in their life, good for nothing-” Y/N began to list off casually as she wiped the plate clean.

“No- never good for nothing.” Bucky interrupted, feeling strongly.

“Right, good for a quick fuck,” Y/N responsed, again in a calm and casual tone.

Bucky hated it, hated how he knew that they weren’t even mad. To them, they were just stating the facts. Bucky wished with everything in him that they would realise how wrong they were.

“Y/N, you’re so much more than that… but right now you need to have confidence in yourself for Claire,” He began.

He walked over to you and lifted your chin up delicately to look at him.

“You told me that you thought that the best thing for Claire would be for her to forget about you but look at you with her today, you’re a natural.” Bucky tried to encourage but it just caused you to look away from him.

“For one day, Bucky, and even then I had you helping me all throughout it... I don’t know the first thing about family, or how to raise a kid… you know last Sunday I nearly broke my sobriety,” Y/N admitted, the shame beginning to consume them.

Bucky looked back at Y/N in shock, he didn’t even know that Y/N was an addict. Sure they never drank but he figured that was so they could keep a clear head while performing.

“It’s in my genes, I grew up around it thinking it was normal, it wasn’t until Tony pulled me out of there did I straighten my shit out… don’t you get it, I’m impulsive, I fuck you because it’s just another way to drown my sorrows… I fuck you because hate is the closest thing I’ve ever known to love-” The words you were saying were now just vomiting out of you, so fast that you couldn’t even stop them.

“That’s not true,” Bucky argued quietly, “I don’t hate you.”

“Even if that’s true… everything else I’ve told you makes it clear that I’m going to ruin Claire, just like my mother ruined me.” You sighed.

Bucky looked at you sadly, there was clearly so much that you were battling, that you had been battling for years that he completely didn’t notice.

“You’re mother was alone and in a bad place, a bad state of mind, you’re not.” He tried to assure you.

“How so?”

“You’re not alone, you’ve got me for starters.”

“Right, so what, we suddenly go from hate fucking to trying to be a little family.”

Bucky brought your face up to look at him again.

“Wouldn't be the worst place in the world to start” He offered and tried to take your hand.

This was possibly the third time Bucky had been weird with you today. This time he looked at you like for the first time in his life he was being vulnerable.

“Or how about a fresh start? We start over, I’ll be there for you and Claire no matter what, even if things go south between us, even if you hate my guts, I’ll be there.”

You pondered his offer. It reminded you of the first time you met him, of the song you sang.

You’re just too good to be true.

What Bucky spoke of was something so unknown to you. Unconditional love, one where even if you trip and fall or hit rock bottom there’s people to help you back to the top. Something like that surely had to be nothing but fairytales. How in one day could Bucky pull a 180 on you? How could he go from hating your guts to wanting to be involved in all of your mess?

It made no sense, except maybe he didn’t hate you?

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You were desperate to escape this after party for your show. You’d been drinking just plain coke and telling people it was vodka and coke but everyone around you was getting drunk and trying to get you to join in. It was reminding you too much of your childhood, it was too tempting, it felt like somewhere between a nightmare and a dream.

To your surprise Bucky seemed to pick up on how uncomfortable you were. Almost wordlessly he grabbed your hand and led you towards the balcony. With the doors shut behind you the party suddenly felt a world away. The fresh air had never felt so good in your lungs… well that was until the all too familiar smell of smoke ruined it.

You looked behind you to see Bucky was smoking a cigarette. The warm orange embers that glowed everytime he took a puff might as well have been the fires from hell itself. There were too many memories, too many scars left on you due to those filthy things. To your surprise again, Bucky noticed how you still looked uncomfortable and stubbed out the cigarette.

This was weird. He’d been your primary bodyguard for nearly a year now and usually the two of you seemed to do everything you could to piss each other off. You pushed his buttons and in return he pushed yours. So for him to do something to make you comfortable was very odd.

“Sorry, let me guess, you can’t be around cigarettes in case it ruins your precious voice?” He huffed

That was certainly an easier explanation, so you just nodded. “You know I’m confused, I figured you’d be the biggest party animal out there, biggest rockstar of the century or whatever they claim you are nowadays.” Bucky continued.

“Think whatever you want about me Barnes, but for a bodyguard you’re pretty un-fucking-observant.” You huffed back at him.

You wrapped your arms around yourself after that, rubbing them up and down. Barnes might’ve not noticed that you didn’t like parties before but he could notice that they were cold right. He took off his blazer and wrapped it around your shoulders and pulled you slightly closer to him. He always ran warm, figured that would warm you up in no time. However, what he didn’t expect was to like the way you looked in his clothes, or how he liked how you smelt; or the way you seemed to fit in his arms.

“Still pretty un-fucking-observant?” Bucky asked, echoing your words.

“Thankyou.” You muttered, feeling slightly uneasy from how close you were to him.

“No problem, I wouldn't want you to get frostbite, that would probably be a pretty quick way to get fired.” Bucky jokes, it might’ve been the first time he tried joking with you.

You chuckled slightly at him and enjoyed his warmth. How the hell was he so warm? It was December and snowing and yet he was lighting a portable fire.

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The first time you fucked was three months after. You were walking home, with Bucky trailing behind you while you were holding hands with some stupid movie star. He was a jerk, you’d decided that pretty early on, even more of a jerk than Bucky could ever be but you were working on the soundtrack for his movie. Tony along with Jerk’s manager thought it could be a good press opportunity.

So you walked towards your apartment holding hands purposely for the paparazzi. The only thing Bucky was enjoying out of this was the fact that he knew you were putting on your phony smile.

The second you got into your house you dropped the jerks hand and instantly felt like you needed to wash it in hydrochloric acid. Bucky began to check that the security system was keeping the paparazzi out when he heard ‘jerk’ talking to you.

“I think we fooled them pretty good, don’t you,” God, even his voice gave him away a sleaze-bag.

“Yeah, especially the fact that you kept grabbing my ass and I didn’t break your hand off!” You yelled at him. “Oh please, I think you enjoyed it.” He smirked and you wanted to be sick.

“The plan was to get some rumours flying around you that you’re dumb movie got some buzz, not to make them think I’m some fucking whore!”

“Well if the shoe fits, and besides we’ve got some time to kill before my limo gets here,”

That was it. Your fist went flying for him, unlucky for you, this jerk saw it coming and caught it.

“Good, I like it when they're feisty, see we’re a perfect match.” He went to shove you up against the wall.

It all happened so fast. One minute he was shoving you against the wall and you were squirming out of the grip. This next he was on the floor and Barnes was on top of him, both of his fists colliding onto Jerks face, until he nose was bloody.

“You ever fucking touch them again and you’re dead, you hear me?” Bucky threatened.

“You can’t do that to me.” the jerk groaned.

“I just did, and if you don't leave right now, you won’t be leaving in a limo, you’ll be leaving in a body bag.” Bucky spoke darkly as he got up.

Unsurprisingly, The jerk got up as fast as he could and ran out of the apartment. Once he was gone, Bucky looked up towards you. You were shaking slightly, your eyes were wide and your fists seemed to be so tight that your nails were digging into your skin. Bucky quickly walked over to you and gently tried to take hold of your hands.

“Y/N, it’s okay, you can relax, he’s gone, he can’t hurt you anymore… I’m sorry if I scared you.” Bucky spoke softly.

You slowly let your hands relax and Bucky quickly interlocked them with him. They seemed to fit perfectly, almost too perfectly.

“I will say you sure know how to pick em’” Bucky chuckled lightly.

“I didn’t pick him, I’d pick anyone in the entire universe over him, hell I’d even pick you over him.” You argued.

“I’m honoured.” Bucky replied dryly.

You laughed at his remark. Bucky felt a small amount of pride inside him that even in this scenario he could still make you laugh. It was possibly the first time he saw you laugh up close and he decided it was possibly his second favourite sound, second to you singing.

“Urm Barnes… you’re still holding my hands.” You pointed out.

“I know,” was all Bucky could think to say, “I know and I like them there… unless you want them somewhere else?”

“What happened to your professionalism?” You shot back with a teasing smirk.

“I just beat up a guy for you and sent him out of your house bleeding… if I last a week I’ll be lucky.” Barnes did have a point.

So you were brave for once. You leaned forward and kissed him and he kissed you back. He moved your hands so that they were now above you and he kept them there with one hand and while the other began to feel up your chest.

You ended up in your bedroom, naked, breathless and lying on top of him. This could’ve been where  everything  worked out, where you got your happily ever after… but you always were your worst sabator.

“This should’ve never happened.” You spoke quickly as you pushed yourself off of him.

“What?” Bucky asked, confused as ever.

“You heard me, let’s just forget this ever happened.”

But it did keep happening, however the next time he fucked you he was angry. He was hurt and wanted to take it out on you, so you let him. It probably explained why afterwards he tried to make it so that he was always the first to leave, so that you wouldn’t be able to hurt him again. You and him went back to pushing each other’s buttons and pissing each other off but at least now when it became too much you could fuck the anger out of each other.

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He never hated you, you just broke his heart. You broke his heart once already because you were too scared of him doing the same to you. And right now you were scared that he could do the same thing again.

“Okay.” You replied softly, almost so softly that there was almost no noise along with the word.

“Okay?” Bucky echoed, desperate to hear you right. “Okay.” You spoke again, nodding this time.

Bucky smiled, one of the most genuine smiles he’d had in a long time. This could work, his little family. Unconventional, broken but perfect little family.

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

[rachelillustrates]

Aaaaand upon this most recent rewatch, more thoughts on "This is Happening:"

- During the tea scene, Stede watches Ed while he is sipping his own tea twice - first as Ed is taking his first sip (its hard to catch, but even though we seem him from behind at 3/4 angle, the direction of his eyebrows indicates that he's gazing upwards) and then as Ed is about to take another sip, having already said its perfect - praising Stede's care of him, while he is looking at the cup and not him. Stede also looks away halfway through, like to avoid getting caught at it, should Ed look over at him again. That's.... extremely sensual and intimate. On top of the fact that bringing someone their morning tea made that perfectly (especially when you are barely dressed) is incredibly intimate already, at least from my perspective.

- It's just striking me SO HARD this time how very dramatically romantic it is that at the prospect of Ed leaving, Stede can't focus on anything else except how to get him to stay, even with one of his own crew in trouble (sorry Swede. And I know that's not necessarily healthy behavior but damn if I don't love it in fiction). Also, we don't see Stede in any blue in this episode, at all. With that being identified as his false power color, this whole time - except for the first appearance of the breakup robe, which makes its debut in the very first conversation we see about them separating (other than the murder plan) - he is in tones MUCH closer to gold, his actual power color (extra significant, btw, because this is the episode where the orange symbolism starts - and gold/yellow + red, Ed's true power color, make orange). So we're seeing him in the closest to his full confidence, with that symbolism, that we've ever seen him. He doesn't understand why yet, obviously, but the prospect of Ed leaving fills him with so much panic that he immediately focuses ALL his faculties on getting him to stay. "I may have no idea about this yet, but I like this guy SO MUCH that I want him by my side for every moment of the foreseeable future, and I am gonna make him see that he can still have adventure with me, and he doesn't have to go." JESUS. That's obvious in the text, first and foremost, but that level of detail just backs it up SO MUCH.

- I was confused before about Ed's "Is he always this highly strung?" comment to Lucius, BUT Stede has just been given control of his own ship and crew back. Other than the fuckery in the previous episode, he's been following Ed's lead the whole time they've actually known each other. So he hasn't seen Stede in charge yet, not really - especially since at the time of the fuckery, he was focused on his own angst about having to kill him. Which, obviously, Stede can be a lot. Is a lot. But he still is so drawn to him, that he follows, and can't help but share in some of the excitement of the adventure - the moth, their banter while they were eating - even before Lucius clues him in, even with how uncomfortable he is on land (which there has been some excellent meta about already).

- I think that the fact that both Stede and Lucius point out that Ed is massively intense and could learn how to relax is really important. The fact that Stede is dragging him around on a very chill adventure in relation to what adventure usually means to him could easily be played as just a joke, warming of course, still, to the fact that Stede did this for Ed. But with them including that, with others asserting that at him, we get another layer of how Stede helps Ed - he is not used to softness. As much as he appreciates it in Stede, he doesn't let himself let his guard down and just be, unless he gets to vicariously through someone else (taking in Stede's wardrobe and library) or if there's a plausible excuse for him to (learning aristocratic ways in order to steal Stede's identity, thus still fulfilling the aggressive, hypermasculine, violent role in the end). And they move right from that assertion into them sitting down for lunch, and having the Bar & Grill banter, which is just so soft and lovely (and establishes how much hangry impacts Edward, lol). So he becomes open to that softness, at least for a moment, after it's reflected back to him that yes, it is okay to let your guard down for a minute, to just be and try to enjoy the experience. Which, of course, Stede has been trying to show him as a good thing by setting this up in the first place (at least subconciously, since any adventure with Stede is going to include that level of relaxed care, naturally), and by pointing out things like the silk moth.

- Also, even though Ed is complaining the whole time, Stede never once backs down in his confidence about this being a good idea. Which, you know, inflexibility being potentially problematic, BUT the fact that he doesn't try to change himself to make Ed stay is just ❤️

- The extent to which Ed has no idea that his feelings are reciprocated, just..... gawd. Obviously we've seen so much of how he feels already, the fact that he knows he is attracted to Stede both in body and heart, but even though we the audience can see Stede giving back just as much (again, even though he himself doesn't understand what that is/means) Ed is blind to it, which says SO MUCH about how much love he's been shown before and what he thinks he's worth, deep down. No wonder what happens later happens, on so many levels *flails and screams incoherently for a few minutes*

- That said, his absolute pivot as soon as Lucius tells him that yes - Stede likes you back, you idiot, is the absolute most adorable thing oh my heart.

- Also, it's not noted in the captions but after Ed says the thing about pirates always burying stuff at the base of trees, and Stede says it just feels like he's patronizing him, I'm pretty sure Ed softly says "I am" in a resigned fashion!! Just before Jim asks them what the fuck they're doing.

- Stede obviously gets a little okay a lot distracted by the petrified orange, admitting openly that he didn't want to give it to Jim (and thusly wanted it for himself, and wasn't going to give it to Ed, either), but a) that tracks, with how he treats Stuff in general, and b) I was really struck by how desperate he looked after he told Lucius "treasure is the real treasure!" Usually, he seems like more of the type to agree that the time spent with your loved ones (his crew, Ed) is the valuable thing - but he's so skewed by having to make the treasure hunt Impressive, the idea of that being essential to keeping Ed there, that the idea of it ending with nothing is just... nope.

.....(plus, Ed's the one who realized it wasn't a rock after all. Washed it off, found its real worth, and having done so gave it right back to Stede. So what really makes it a treasure, hm?)

- Obviously all these notes are Blackbonnet focused but I also have to point out that after Jim tells Olu that they're going to go finish the job, and Olu tells them to be careful, bops their hat, and walks away, Jim fucking presses their lips together in a manner like one would after sealing a kiss - which they didn't get to have - and shakes their fucking head. AAAAAAAAAH WTF.

- Also Olu is gonna be an incredible son in law. Jesus.

- AND, getting back to our main idiots in love, we end the main plot of the episode with Stede and Ed relaxing in their cabin, Ed reveling in how good the brandy is and just chilling, there, with this man he has Feelings for. As much as he started the episode planning on moving on, looking for "the next adventure," all he's acted like he wants to do is relax and be with Stede. Hmmmm, sir.

- AND AND, the co-captains discussion/establishment - Stede seems slightly hesitant, with an "uh, well," bringing it up, but mostly confident, like he knows where he's going with this and continues to be sure of himself, like he has been this whole episode. And when Ed is the one to say "I suppose if you found the absolutely two perfect people..." Stede's eyebrows raise and his expression is very "Hmm. Us." without even saying anything right away. And for Ed's part, he's not looking at Stede for most of that exchange, he looks like he is really thinking it through for the first time - after all, he didn't understand the extent to which Stede enjoyed his company until that afternoon, so before, any idea of pushing against the status quo was (as usual) out of his wheelhouse, and didn't spring to mind at all. I think he gets it the moment that they both say "co-captains" at the same time, finally look at each other, and clink glasses.

- BUT THEN they look away from each other again, still absorbing that new revelation. So as much as I want to believe that they agreed, in that moment, that that's what they are, I think they would have needed one more conversation in order to really make that pact. And of course, Calico Jack's arrival derails that flow, immediately.

(Gods, what would it have been like if that hadn't happened? If they had got there naturally, and moved forward, without the interruptions and angst?)

....someday I may stop being completely unhinged about this show, but it's certainly not today 🍊☠️💕

[mayaflowerxs]

hi there! can you do nsfw a-z for hendery? thank you! <3

NSFW Alphabet w/ Hendery

Warning: Smutty!

A/N: Thank u for the request hope you enjoy!

Aftercare:

He’s alllll for aftercare. Even if he’s not there with you and are doing phone sex he still does it. He’s asking you if you’re okay, to go get cleaned up, get some rest, eat and take a few minutes to yourself. If he went too hard on you he tends to stay with you whether it’s on the bed cuddling or just flat out following you to make sure you’re not having a hard time walking or doing any other activities that’s requiring you to move. Your safety means the world to him so even when you tell him you’re fine he won’t stop budging. At one point I can see him brushing you off and sending you to the couch or bed while he cleans and fixes the place up.

Body Part:

Not really a body part but he loves your hair. He loves tugging your hair just as much as he loves his being tugged.

Cum:

In any hole really. Hendery is just a sucker to see you full of him. He doesn’t like it splattered on you because he’s convinced it’s being wasteful and he may or may not have a breeding kink 😶

Dirty secret:

He has an oral fixation. Like the dude is literally in love with eating you out and sometimes it can get too much for you when you two get intimate. He can’t help it he loves it so much but won’t show it because he thinks you might get annoy of him constantly attacking your pussy :( so when you two do get handsy he seriously does not hold back at all. If he gets to a point where he has you practically sobbing then so be it but he’s not going to back off until he’s for sure done with you (if that’s what you’re into)

Experience:

I see him as experienced. Had a partner here and there and definitely went past making out. But oh boy they just didn’t hit the way you do. Everything he always wanted to try out was with you which is why it’s all the more special. Because you’re so accepting that he grows more and more confident in pleasuring you.

Favorite position:

Definitely doggy and cowgirl. He needs to be in charge. Now when you’re in cowgirl he never once has you think you’re in charge. I see him as one who’s very dominant behind all that goofiness. He’ll have you leaned down on his chest, an arm around your neck and the other around your waist as he relentlessly pounded into your fucked out cunt. Not holding back until every last drop is deeply stuffed in.

Goofy:

Okay he’s definitely goofy in the beginning. He’ll crack a hole here and there and overall just make it all the more comfortable. But as soon as the first moan leaves one of your guys mouth he’s inner dom comes out and no more Hendery now you’re face with Kunhang.

Hair:

Honestly it’s one or the other. No I’m between he’s a pretty confident man so he won’t worry whether he still keep it nice and trimmed to bare. If he wants to leave it as is he will and same goes for you. He literally does not mind what you do with your girl down there as long as he’s stilling tapping it it’s literally all that matters to him smh.

Intimacy:

The only time there’s real intimacy is if you two have been away for a long time. Missing you so much just as has him wrapped around you the entire time. And when you two are climaxing he’s pressing kisses to your shoulder, temple, lips anywhere silencing telling you, you did a good job and he loves you so so much.

Jerk off:

Oh yeah. He does it quite often. The boy literally is a puppy who grew attachment issues. He tends to miss your touch and presence and eventually that longing turns into sexual frustration that he just can’t tame. Kinda surprised how he still hasn’t been caught cuz of how often he does it especially since he shares his room. He loves to jerk off with you, so phone sex is a must.

Kink:

The biggest breeding kinker. Bondage. Those are his go to but he’s up for anything. Nothing is ever a routine when it comes to him he always has to try something new, nothing to big of a new but just something to spice things up. So things like choking, he grew fond of that as well. He also tried using ice but it only irritated him because the ice wouldn’t stop sliding down so that was a big turn off for him which only resulted in him taking out his frustration on you, annoyed that it didn’t work out to well but hey you didn’t mind. You got fucked by a frustrated Hendery that’s a pretty win win for you.

Location:

Okay hear me out, Hendery is literally in denial when it comes to this. But the man can literally do it ANYWHERE. Just with the right amount of edging and or sexual tension is why gets him to snap. Usually when his mind isn’t going fuzzy and he’s not in a lustful state he won’t even think to the idea of taking you in a public restroom. Or fucking you in the car in a parking lot filled with other cars. But as soon as you begin to tease him or whisper him how much you need him he slowly starts turning into the dommy man you oh so love just like his regular self and before you know it you’re coming back home with a slight limp.

Motivation:

How lost you get. You will be minding your own business but won’t notice how every move you’re making is a bit more seductive to Hendery’s eyes. He snaps as soon as you flash him that ‘innocent’ smile at him and that’s when he has you pinned. He also loves how confident you get, when you’re in the mood you don’t hold back. Already on a mission to tag Hendery’s whereabouts and pounce on him. Seriously ends up falling more in love with you when he’s all of a sudden gets dragged away from his activities and pushed onto a surface to lay or sit on. Biting his lip as you begin to attack him in kisses. Yeah he’s a goner right then and there.

No:

Honestly Hendery says no to anything he considers not that fun or interesting. Like the ice, won’t ever do that again what a waste of time and ice.

Oral:

My god YES. He loves you sucking him but usually he gets impatient because he’s the one who wants to eat you out. Might get a bit selfish because you like oral too so he might take up your time just so that he gets to work on you. The boy literally loves eating pussy he can go for hours and not get tired. Though eventually it gets too much your hands are pushing at his head and legs desperately trying to shut, hot tears running down your cheek by how sensitive you’re getting. Close to seeing spots.

Pace:

He has a good pace. Not too fast or slow, doesn’t stop often nor does he pound into you continuously without break. He knows exactly what pace to go which is right in the middle of it all which is what gets you to cum hard. His pace reflects on his thrusts and stamina and when all three come together he gets his baby happily pleasured which is all that matters to him.

Quickies:

Into it definitely. Hendery is overall a sex addict. That’s the truth. And the thing is he does good when you’re not around, for some time. But once your in view, in arms length or just the mention of your name is an instant click in his brain to desperately fuck you to tomorrow. Always before practice, after concerts, before grocery shopping. Hell he might even drag you to the bathroom and fuck you while you two were in the middle of shopping. He’s all for it and he’s not ashamed of it.

Risk:

Doesn’t give a fuck. Quite frankly he wishes someone catches you two in the act. Just the mere thought already has him climaxing so hard. Just seeing the shocked face of someone catching him fucking you balls deep is probably a deep desire of his. Like I said earlier this man can fuck you anywhere and won’t care who can see.

Stamina:

This boy has such a high sex drive he’s learned how to keep a high stamina. Hell even after you two are finished he still might have some energy he still needs to let off but never acts upon it because he sees how tired and worn out you are he just no longer has the heart to keep you going. You already did so much for him his needs can wait.

Toys:

Yes! I see Hendery as secretly kinky so using toys is a must for him. He’ll mostly use them to edge you on, yes he might like using them but he will never have a toy make you cum. If anything only he can, not even a toy shall do that to you. I also see him as the type to have lots of phone sex with you and have you use them but as soon as you’re close to cumming he’ll demand you to get rid of em and use your fingers to finish you off.

Unfair:

It’s a 50/50 for him. Usually he likes to tease you but not for long. He’s not the biggest fan of not giving you what you want.

Volume:

I feel like he’s one who’s kinda shy to show you his sounds of pleasure when you first go out but the more he gets comfortable and the more you reassure him he gets more vocal. Now that doesn’t mean he’s the loudest mf, I feel like he is only ever loud when he hits the spot to the point where his fingers are practically leaving a bruise on you by how good it feels. But other than that he’ll most likely grunt and have heavy breathing. Sweat running down his forehead which is what gets you going and have you get him to grunt louder when you either ride him faster or squeeze around him.

Wildcard:

When he plays video games with the boys he tends to have you on his lap throughout the game. Cock warming is his absolute favorite. He treats it like a challenge. How long can he have you on his lap without fucking you and usually it lasts around four rounds until he’s saying goodbye and fucking you from behind. Letting all his sexual needs on to you who is currently shaking his desk top like crazy.

X-ray:

Feel like he’s a bit over average. I feel like he’s more long than girthier but doesn’t mean it’s skinny as hell. Don’t get it twisted the boy be packing no doubt.

Yearning:

The man craves for you literally all the time. The only time he doesn’t yearn for you is if scheduling is kicking his ass and he’s too sleep deprived to even eat properly. Even then he might make it up by having lazy sex with you as soon as he wakes up. You guys have sex pretty regularly, if anything it’s a lot than regularly. You must have some nice working birth control because man with all these rounds and you’re still not knocked up. Only making it a challenge for Hendery to succeed in. And let me tell you once he challenges himself he most definitely succeeds.

Zzz:

Hendery is either or. It’s either he’s so worn out of his energy he falls asleep or he still has some energy left and uses that to clean up and yourselves. Usually because of how much he puts you through you’ll be the one knocked out so he’ll probably distract himself by playing the drums or doing what Hendery usually does.

[eaucian]

★ in his arms

impt. kuroo tetsurou x m!reader

sum. kuroo’s a ceo and you’re his adoring husband. during a meeting you try and give him a bj, get horny, and though the meeting eventually ends, he still has work cause he’s the boss. you end up in his lap, dick in your ass, and are desperate for him to finish. he says to wait until he’s done with work, so you do; like the good husband you are 🥰 our little kuroo here, couldn’t wait though

wc. 1,127 (1.2k)

w. teasing? kuroo may get a little rough — basically cock warming — do these count as warnings i-  — bottom!reader

n. um, don’t look at me like that. i have committed no crime i- anyways, *clears throat* here’s this, i hope you enjoy it lmao. its a christmas present babes. and i swear i totally stole this from a request i saw while browsing tumblr, but i don’t remember where i saw it so, oops? i hope i feed you well~

It started out simple, really.

You found Kuroo in his office, a meeting of stereotypical rich old men on his monitor’s screen and a serious look on his face that meant business. 

But you? You just wanted some intimate time with your husband.

So, you snuck into his office and found yourself underneath his desk, and even though the moment felt like something you’d never find yourself doing, you trailed your way up his legs, hearing how his words stuttered slightly when he spoke. 

You were doing that to him; and you hadn’t even begun with the fun. 

Quickly, you made your intentions obvious by unbuckling his belt. He had just come home from work, he should’ve been paying attention to you, not working extra. 

Though you slowly undid his belt, placing it somewhere next to the floor of his desk, he kept himself collected. Speaking when someone asked a question, or when he was prompted to. 

After successfully going through the first parts of your small mission, you started the work of pulling down his pants. Unzipping them agonizingly slow. 

And there was what you came for. His dick was already half hard through his boxers. The sight only made you more determined. 

You made no noise, didn’t say a single word, simply worked with your hands. You palmed him through his boxers, he didn’t look down at you once.

Though when the time came to at least pull down his boxers for you to see what you came for, he did place a hand on your shoulder. 

A hand on your shoulder, which pushed you towards his crotch. 

This was certainly going to be fun.

You started at the base of his dick. A slow movement, you licked up only using your whole mouth only when reaching his head, before repeating the same action. Playing around, that was what this was. Either way, it would be entertainment for you. 

But before you knew it you found yourself in his lap, his hand was resting on your bare ass keeping you from moving at all while the other one was moving around along with the computer’s mouse. 

The meeting was long over, but Kuroo’s eyes were still fixed on his computer screen.

You had stretched yourself with the pure intention to get Kuroo in you, he had said, “Eagar are we?” With his signature shit-eating cat grin. He said it before pushing his own dick into you, moving a few luxurious times, before demanding you wait for him to finish his work. 

It was his choice, his wish, and you would certainly hold it out patiently. 

You knew he couldn’t though, he was weak when it came to you, weaker when it involved your body. 

So there you were: sitting in his lap, legs spread wide over Kuroo’s own, and his dick resting in you. You were hugging him, your head settled comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, simply taking in his scent. 

Even if he had gone to work, showered, the whole nine yards, he still smelled like home. Like him. You thought that if you weren’t exactly getting your normal sex at the moment, you at least got him.

You waited, what felt like forever, until you could feel him squirm beneath you, you may or not have been slowly falling asleep. It was comfortable, what were you to do when there was no movement, nothing to be screaming about?

You could tell he was getting restless. His hand began roaming, moving along the span of your thigh and back. He continued rubbing at that stretch of skin, down the side of your thigh only to retrace his steps and go back up to your hip. 

You shifted on top of him, changing which shoulder you rested your head on, giving his neck a peck as you did so. You could feel his skin warm beneath you. 

Oh how incredible you felt.

Between you, the fabric of his dress shirt was rubbing against your own dick. The small amount of friction there was enough to keep you in the exact state of mind for this moment. 

To be exact, the moment where Kuroo would snap. 

And that moment was right about now.

He stood from the chair, holding you up and steadying you with his hands cupping your ass.

And oh did that sharp movement do wonders for you. That abrupt stand only had you biting down on your lip to keep quiet. Were you enjoying this?

Absolutely.

Did you want Kuroo to know you were enjoying this?

Hell no.

In record time, he was in your room, holding your hands up above your head and pulling out to the point of being almost all the way out, only to thrust, hard.

“Kuroo… ” you moaned on a particularly hard thrust, only making him growl. Only making him pick up his pace, moving his hips into you at a speed that made it hard to breath. But felt, amazing. 

“You,” he began, doing the same as before. Pulling out to the tip, leaving you painfully empty before thrusting in. “Are so much trouble,” he said every word punctuated with one of those thrusts that felt too good to be true. 

You were seeing stars, all that came out was a scrambled sound that could’ve been any word in the English language. Indecipherable.

And he kept it up, he kept that incredible pace while sucking on sensitive spots of your neck, surely leaving you littered in bruises.

The words were all a mix of affection and something else that ignited a spark in your arousement. Everything he said seemed to make you feel hotter, make you feel like this would be how you died. 

Fucked out and euphoric.

You felt yourself go over the edge, the moment you came feeling his grin against your collarbone, he shifted slightly only to whisper in your ear, “Good boy.” 

His pace quickened as you felt him come inside of you. And if possible, it added to your euphoria.

He leaned down, kissing your lips so many times they couldn’t even be counted. 

He pulled out of you, actually pulled out this time, and cradled you for a few minutes before standing and going to your bathroom. 

You had barely noticed he left before he was back already, a towel in hand which went to your ass, cleaning his cum. 

He was awfully gentle for just having fucked you to the point where another round was gladly welcomed, you just, you know… had to rest for a few minutes.

“I love you,” you told him, making grabby hands at him before taking his face into them instead. You kissed him, gentle now. 

He chuckled, kissing your cheek.

“I know.”