#now my hands are BURNING from chopping the chillies which has never happened before?

[rragnaroks]

i just ate the best nachos of my entire life and guess what? i made them MYSELF

[oh-no-my-hand-slipped]

A new prompt for you! (Finally :3)

I'm picturing multiple couples or a family group (4+ adults) who share a cottage together in the middle of nowhere, living off the land. Winter is coming, bringing with it its chill winds and early dustings of snow. The people are hard at work every day, chopping wood and putting aside the last of the food for winter.

It's the worst possible time to get sick, yet someone does, coming down with a miserable, streaming cold and high fever. What do they do about it? How do the others respond?

Could have definite cottage core elements, or fantasy (since you're so good at writing that!) or contagion if you choose. Can't wait to see the results :)

It’s been so long since I’ve written a real, honest to god fic, so this will be my debut back into snzfucker favor!

Okay, okay, who to include in this house of contagion?

We need a soft healer boi that takes care of everyone before themselves, of course. A very strong, stoic, hardworking warrior with muscles of steel - but the same can’t be said for his immune system. A hyper comic relief (like if Scout from TF2 was in a fantasy setting) that insists he isn’t sick, but can’t keep back his sneezes long enough to prove his point. And, of course, a tall, thin scholar whose cold heart is only melted by his fever.

Adventurers packing it in for the winter and preparing for journeying in the spring, now only at most a few yards from each other and having shot immune systems from the exhausting work. Illness doesn’t have to travel far to infect…

Oh, this is gonna be good.

***********************

“Look look look! Otto, you’re not gonna believe this!”

Barlow skidded to a halt, almost tripping over his own two feet before regaining his balance. Otto chuckled.

“Alright, alright, que pasa? What is so exciting?”

Barlow fumbled with his cloak before pulling a shiny coin out of one of the pockets.

“I got this off a path when I was pickin’ berries! Must’ve been a merchant or something…”

Barlow’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“Or maybe a warrior! Ooh, or a knight! Definitely somebody with a cape.”

He flung the back of his cloak behind him and stood tall, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied grin. However, Barlow couldn’t keep the pose long - the frigid air made him close the thin burlap around himself again, shivering. Otto knitted their brow.

“You’re wearing your summer cloak,” they said, looking Barlow up and down. “You must be freezing, chiquito!”

Barlow waved his hand, as if batting away Otto’s concern.

“Don’t worry about it, doc. It’s gonna take more than a little wind to get me down.”

As if to prove a point, he spread out his arms and spun around, laughing at the many leaves he kicked up.

Otto would usually be charmed by the sprite’s antics, but their concern soon outweighed their amusement.

“Just make sure to change into your winter clothes soon, okay? I would hate for you to get sick.”

Barlow stopped spinning, coughing a bit as he caught his breath with chilly autumn air. His hot breath clouded around his face like smoke.

“Okay, okay,” he panted, “I’ll grab it when I go by the cottage. Forgot my basket anyway. See you around, doc.”

With a quick salute, Barlow ran off, cloak billowing behind him, still clenching the coin in a tight fist. Otto shook their head and sighed. They knew that Barlow just didn’t want them to worry - but that only made them worry more. The healer in them couldn’t help but notice red-tipped fingers, congested voices, and pallid complexions. Besides, with a harsh winter underway, a cold could very quickly rear its ugly head, turning into bronchitis, pneumonia, and even infect a person’s magic…

Otto took a deep breath. Their thoughts had run away with them - and now, more than ever, it was important to stay focused.

The doctor gathered up their scrolls, pulled their coat close, and started back to the cottage.

Perhaps a little tea would calm their nerves.

***************

“it’CHEW! CHEW!”

“Salud.”

“Ugh…thanks, doc. Snf!”

Otto looked up from his knitting to see Barlow rubbing his long, pointy ears with a pained look on his face.

“Do your ears hurt?”

Barlow put his hands in his lap. “No! Just, uh, a little itchy.”

Severin, who had been reading on the sofa across from Otto, hid a smirk behind the yellowed pages.

“Someone must be talking about you,” he drawled smugly. “Considering the way you conduct yourself, I’m not surprised.”

Instead of snapping back, Barlow still scratched at his ears. Severin slit his eyes and continued to read. He almost seemed disappointed.

“Could be thragweed,” Godric rumbled from a large wooden stool, rubbing his beard in thought, “but they usually shrivel up by the first frost. Didja see any three-leaved plants while you were out foragin’?”

Barlow shrugged, wincing as he rubbed harder. “Um…maybe?”

Otto frowned. “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself if you keep scratching like that.”

“S-sorry, I…huh-hold on…”

Barlow buried himself in his cloak, with only his mop of red hair showing.

“hit’SHEW! Huh…it’TCHEW!”

The sprite continued to let out sneeze after sneeze, his wrinkled, pink nose only showing when he needed to come up for air. Otto got up from their chair, and they were soon holding him by the shoulders to keep him from knocking himself over.

Barlow finally finished, snuffling into his sleeve. He looked up at Otto with bleary eyes.

“Sorry, doc, I don’d dow whad’s gotten into be…”

Otto hushed him with a gentle pat, using their free hand to feel Barlow’s forehead. They clucked their tongue.

“Oh, mijo, you have a fever...”

Barlow’s breath caught, and he coughed into his shoulder. “Nah, I…I’b okay, Otto, really. I’ll be…snrk…fide in the morning. Just gotta sleep it off…”

Otto smiled gently. “Well, you’re right about one thing. A good night’s sleep is exactly what you need. And maybe a little salve for your poor ears…”

Their hand still on Barlow’s shoulder, Otto guided the sprite to his bedroom, mumbled protests and miserable sneezes trailing behind them.

***************

Barlow’s fever never grew very high - his burning ears and nose, however, kept him up for most of the night. By the time morning came, he was too exhausted to even feign health. Otto had to put him back to bed, which was only met with pitiful murmurings.

“‘M fide, doc, I…hetch’CHIIIEW!”

“Pobrecito! You sound even worse than yesterday…”

“C’mon, Otto, I…”

“I don’t want to see you out of bed today, okay, cariño? You need to rest.”

“Nngh…”

Otto and Severin split the foraging work, since their respective jobs were mostly planning and budgeting the winter ahead of them. Godric promised to keep a good eye on the patient, but that didn’t lessen the doctor’s worry any.

“I wonder how Barlow’s doing,” Otto murmured, probably for the umpteenth time since they’d begun their work.

Severin scrutinized his severely pricked thumb. “Children always carry around such nasty things. It’s a wonder he hasn’t caught the plague instead of a simple cold.”

Otto froze mid-pick, and Severin hurried to correct himself.

“Peace, my friend. It is just a cold, after all.

He grimaced.

“One I dearly hope he keeps to himself.”

They both continued to fill their baskets with berries, wiping the frost off their shiny, black skins. However, Otto’s mind continued to race.

I shouldn’t have left him. Godric only knows so much. What happens if his fever spikes? I’m a healer, I’m not supposed to leave the sick behind. Should I go back? I should go back. No, I promised Barlow I’d get his foraging done. But I can’t keep a promise if he’s dead. What if he’s already dead? What if Godric’s on his way right now to tell me? What if I’m already too late? How will we bury him, the ground is too hard. Otto, your friend has died and all you can think about is how to bury him. You must be the most selfish -

“Otto.”

Otto snapped back to reality to see Severin giving him a fierce side-eye.

“It’s only a cold.”

Otto took a deep breath. “Right. Gracias. I…I lost myself, didn’t I?”

The afternoon went by in a quiet fervor, both of them trying to fill their baskets before the sun went down. With Otto’s quick fingers and Severin’s thin ones, it was an easy job, and the managed to get back before it got too dark.

Otto wasn’t two steps through the door before they were at Godric’s heels, wringing their hands and stammering through the worries that had built up through the day.

“Are you sure…how…did he…should I…?”

The warrior just chuckled and put a gigantic, calloused hand on the their head.

“He’s on tha’ mend, doc, on the mend. Sneezin’ his head off, sure, but gettin’ better.”

As if on cue, two loud sneezes interrupted them from one of the bedrooms, followed by a mumbled curse and a few wet sniffles. Godric shook his head.

“Been like that all day, poor tyke. When he wasn’ dozin’ off, tha’ is.”

Severin took a few scrolls out of his dragon-scale satchel.

“I understand you have a more…pressing engagement. Why don’t I take the calculations tonight?”

But Otto was already on their way to Barlow’s bedside, medicine bag in tow. Severin only lifted his eyebrows and turned on his heel, setting up the many notes he had taken and a few quills on the oaken table.

“Besides,” he murmured to himself, “I don’t want to get near whatever affliction that sprite’s come down with.”

*************

Barlow was scratching at his drooping ears, which were now covered in a red, peeling rash. Otto gently pushed his hands back under the quilt.

“I know it itches, but you need to try not to scratch.”

The healer took a small glass container out of their bag, dipping two fingers into the greenish-gray ointment inside. They began to apply the salve to Barlow’s ears, taking care not to put on too much.

“Tell me when you need a break,” Otto said.

Barlow nodded, eyes squeezed shut. After a few minutes, his nostrils started to twitch, and he held up a hand.

“G-gudda…huh…!”

He jerked forward into his knees.

“hit’CHEW! hhhit’SHEW! Uh…hut’SHIEW!”

Barlow snuffled into the quilt, and Otto handed him a tissue.

“Salud.”

“Ugh…sorry, doc…”

Otto put the cork back into the glass bottle and set it on the bedside table.

“It’s alright - most sprites have the same reflex.”

“No, I beant…for…”

Barlow bit his lip, his ears drooping even lower.

“For geddin’ sick.”

Otto put a hand on the sprite’s back.

“Oh, mijo…”

“I-I didn’d mean to,” Barlow whimpered. “I…I should’ve god by coat like you told be to…and dow w-we’re - hic - gudda starve…”

Otto hushed him, pulling Barlow into an embrace and rocking him slowly back and forth.

“We will be fine, mijo,” they whispered, their voice soothing Barlow into a sniffle. “We will forage until you are better, and not a day before. That is what friends do. They protect each other, they take care of each other, and they love each other like family. And that is how I love you. Like my family.”

Barlow hiccuped, trying to speak through his tears.

“Shhh, mijo…it’s okay…”

Otto wrapped the quilt tighter around Barlow and laid him down, pushing hair damp with both tears and sweat out of his face. The sobs quieted, then dissolved into shaky breaths. Before Otto even made it through the doorway, they could hear small, congested snores coming from the pile of blankets.

*****************

Scritch scritch scritch…scriiiitch…

Harried quill scratching filled the air as Otto entered the living room, putting on their tweed coat and wool gloves. They stretched out their arms.

“Buenos días!”

Godric lifted his coffee mug as a greeting, his famous half-smile dancing over his lips.

“Well, aren’tcha bright as tha’ north star this mornin’!”

Otto beamed. Barlow had slept soundly through the night, and he was still fast asleep when they had checked on him. Not a sniffle or a sneeze came from that room.

“Severin, I was thinking we could pick up acorns today,” Otto thought aloud, buttoning their coat. “There is a beautiful place in the forest…”

Silence. The quill scratching only grew more manic. Otto glanced up.

Severin was hunched over the table, writing madly on several open scrolls, only pausing to move a few beads on his abacus. Otto went back to getting ready. Sometimes it took a while for Severin to answer if he was engrossed in his calculations. He would respond when he got to a stopping point.

After about fifteen minutes of fidgeting with their scarf, though, Otto tried again.

“From what I’ve seen, we should be ready for winter in a week, maybe less. All that’s left is the dried vegetables and a few more logs for firewood.”

Again, there was no answer. But now that Otto was a little closer, they could see why.

Severin’s eyes were inflamed and painful, as were his gaunt cheeks. His long, usually well-preened hair was matted against his forehead, with stray hairs sticking up this way and that. Thin shoulder blades came together with each labored breath. Long fingers shivered around a red quill, leaving stray marks on the parchment.

“Mi sombro,” Otto breathed.

The shadowling blinked, raising his head stiffly. Pools of sweat, shaken loose by the movement, streaked down their face.

“I…couldn’t sleep,” Severin croaked. “Have I…have I been awake…?”

Godric looked up from his mug, finally noticing the sorcerer’s state. “Stars above, lad! Ya look like hell frozen over!”

The shadowling stared straight ahead, his breath coming in ragged strains.

“Could someone…please put out the fireplace…?”

Otto clucked their tongue, putting their hands on either side of Severin’s neck. His dark eyes fluttered shut, as if with great relief.

“Mm…”

“Ay, tu cabeza,” Otto cooed, putting their hand on Severin’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Severin finally looked down at the doctor. His tense gaze was now dazed, vulnerable - even afraid.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said again, hoarsely.

Otto rubbed their thumb on Severin’s feverish cheek. “I know, cariño. I know.”

***************

It took a lot more doing to get Severin to bed than it did Barlow. Not only did he insist he was perfectly well, only warm from the unlit fireplace, but that he had seen terrifying visions outside the window.

“Their eyes, doctor…they stared into my very essence…a…a beast of some kind…we’ll be killed…”

“Shhh, my love. It’s only a nightmare from your fever. You will feel better soon.”

In the end, the only way Otto could leave the cottage was by taking a small talisman Severin had in his cloak. They weren’t superstitious, but Otto wanted to do anything they could to put the sick sorcerer at ease.

Now with one less healthy person in the group, Otto rushed to get the last of the supplies for the cold winter ahead. The first snowflakes were beginning to fall, which made finding acorns that much more difficult. Before the sun reached its peak, the ground was completely covered in a thin layer of snow. But, for once, Otto’s anxiety was an advantage.

They plowed through every task as if their life depended on it. Another of their friends falling ill had kicked their healer instinct into high gear; whenever they were fatigued or sore, all it took was a few words of the healing oath to get them going again.

“From the monsters of the cave, of the sea, of the heart,” they whispered while peeling wild wolf onions, “I shall protect and provide for those who cannot.”

As morning turned to afternoon, the light flurry of the morning became a bitter gale that howled through the trees like a hungry animal. The world was silent except for the frigid wind - all the creatures of the forest knew well enough that the winter ahead would not be kind to them.

But Otto knew nothing of this.

And so they marched forward.

It was quite past dark when Otto returned to the cottage. Much to their delight, a fire was flickering in the fireplace, and a wonderful, familiar smell lingered in the air - a mixture of tender meat and spices.

As Otto had hoped, there was a pot of stew left over the flames. The broth still bubbled with warmth, and the chicken and vegetables gave off a heavenly steam. Their stomach suddenly felt very hollow.

They hadn’t eaten all day, had they?

With raw fingers, the doctor tried their best to use the ladle, which was as big as their entire arm and weighed twice as much. Gripping the handle with both hands, they brought the brew to their lips, taking care not to burn their tongue.

A beautiful, soothing flavor poured down Otto’s throat. They leaned their head back and closed their eyes, making sure to drink up every last tasty morsel. It was a long time before the ladle was empty again.

Once they were finished, the healer felt a heaviness collect around their eyes. Finally, at long last, they could rest. The cottage was fast asleep - and now it was time for Otto to follow suit.

Sleep came upon Otto too quickly for them to retire to their own bed. Like a hound after a successful hunt, they crawled onto the sofa and curled into a ball, dead to the world before their head hit the soft cushions.

*******************

Otto wasn’t sure how long they slept. They remembered bits and pieces of dreams, of words, or memories - but mostly a comforting darkness that lulled them into a deep drowse.

When they finally awoke, the first thing they saw was the flitting of the fire. The flame had all but burned itself out during the night. Otto rolled over, stretching and sighing with satisfaction. That was the best they had slept in several days.

They indulged themselves in a large yawn and shifted off the sofa, cringing from cold stone against their bare feet.

The cottage was still silent with sleep - not a thing stirred but the creaks and groans of the wooden beams. A frigid wind had picked up outside, and bits of snow swirled in the air.

How cold Godric must be this morning, Otto thought as they padded towards the hallway. The warrior was always up and working by first light - quite before anyone else was awake - but came back inside to drink some hot coffee and see how the preparations were going. Godric made a strong cup of coffee. One could smell it and be ready for a new day; that’s usually all most could stand without sputtering.

Today, however, there was no earthy aroma of it brewing. All Otto could smell was a hint of the stew they had eaten the night before - the husk of a beautiful, delicious dream.

The doctor peeked his head into Barlow’s room. The sprite was laying on his stomach, eyes closed and breath soft. Though they had been feeling better for the past day or so, Barlow’s nose frequently ran away with him, and was still very pink and sensitive. His upright ear twitched ever so slightly, but there was no sign of him stirring any time soon.

Severin, on the other hand, had fared much worse. Despite the many wet rags coating almost every inch of his febrile body, his breathing was still heavy and labored, and his eyes darted under closed eyelids. Bite marks covered cracking lips. Otto made sure they made little noise as they tiptoed from the doorway. Severin needed all the rest he could get.

Otto turned from his patients, a familiar heaviness weighing upon their heart. Such misery in what was supposed to be a warm season of reaping and feasting.

Perhaps it came back with them from market, or from the many travelers that take the nearby road into town. With how hard everyone had been working, and how many nights were left unslept…

Otto massaged the bridge of their nose, dashing from one possibility to the next, feeling more and more ashamed by how little they prepared, how stupid they must have been, how utterly selfish! They had been so busy with preparations that they had barely noticed that their journeymates were wasting away!

They could have done something. This was all their fault, wasn’t it? How could they be a healer if they couldn’t even keep the ones they loved safe?

Otto was roused from their guilt by the sound of harsh coughing. They peeked their head into the past two rooms, fearing that one of them had been awakened by their footsteps. However, both of them were still out cold. Or out warm, in Severin’s case.

No, the coughing wasn’t coming from their rooms, Otto realized. It was coming from the third bedroom - the one that they and Godric shared.

The door creaked open as Otto shuffled inside, already knowing the worst was yet to come.

“Doc? Is tha’ you?”

Godric was sitting up in bed, quilt wrapped around him, his chest heaving with another hacking fit. His cheeks were flushed with effort and fever. Otto went to his bedside, their heart dropping into their stomach.

“Real nice ‘a this cold to leave the healer last, eh?” the warrior joked before laying back down with a quiet groan.

Otto pushed the hair off Godric’s neck and felt his lymph nodes, which were not only hot, but terribly swollen.

“I can chop those few pieces ‘a wood, an’ then I’ll-”

“You are not getting out of this bed,” Otto said sternly. Then, with a kinder tone, “I know you want to finish your work, but you are very sick. You shouldn’t be out in the snow.”

“But how-”

“I will take care of it, cariño. Just rest.”

Godric opened his mouth to say something else, but just coughed and covered himself up with his quilt.

“Take care of yerself, doc,” he said before Otto went to check on the others. “There isn’t anythin’ I can’t do after I’m back on m’feet.”

***************

Between taking care of three sick creatures and the final preparations, Otto ran themselves ragged over the next few days. None of their friends were particularly hard to take care of - especially after Severin’s fever broke - but the heaviness of their heart continued to weigh upon them.

With no other options, they threw themselves into work.

If they chopped enough wood for an extra week, they chopped enough wood for two extra weeks. The larder was more than full. Their fingers and hands and back and everything else was sore, but they couldn’t stop for long without feeling their guilt gnaw away at them.

One frigid morning, Otto had taken to the axe, splitting wood and putting them in the shed to keep them dry. They had run out of pre-cut trunks a long time ago, so they started cutting sticks in half for kindling. Out of the corner of their eye, mid-swing, they saw a figure marching through the snow - lifting their foot high before stomping it down again with a crunch.

After a few minutes, Otto could finally see a pair of long ears fluttering in the cold wind.

“Barlow!”

The sprite grinned as he approached Otto, holding up a steaming container of something in his mittened hands.

“I got soup!” he called out, trying to move faster in the deep snow. “Godric felt a lot better today, so he wanted to try somethin’ new. It’s real good! Even Severin ate a whole bowl of it, so you know it’s gotta be great.”

Barlow sat next to the chopping block, and patted a mound of snow next to him. Otto sat down, wincing as their sore muscles twinged.

“Godric says we’re all packed up for winter,” Barlow continued as he handed Otto the food. “And we’ll even have stuff to eat in the spring, too.”

Otto didn’t answer, but tucked into the soup, not even blowing it off before putting the spoon in their mouth. Barlow thought for a little bit, then spoke again.

“Doc, Godric told me that we got more than enough food and wood to last through the winter. If you wanna come inside, we’ve got a checker game goin’…”

Otto didn’t respond, but they had started to shiver from the cold. Barlow took of his coat and draped it around Otto’s shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get back. Everybody’s waitin’ for us.”

Barlow took Otto by the hand and pulled them up, then led them back towards the cottage. Otto trailed behind like a quivering lamb, both exhausted and numb. They couldn’t think of much else than putting one foot in front of the other.

When the pair finally got back to the cottage, a warm, cozy scene awaited them. Severin was on the couch, doing needlepoint with half-open eyes and content look on his face. Godric was above the stove, stirring a pot and putting one seasoning or another into it. The fire was blazing in a lovely orange hue that painted the scene with a beautiful glow.

While Barlow went right inside and was greeted by the others, Otto stood in the doorway, weary eyes closed, soaking up the light and warmth as much as they could.

“Doctor?”

Severin was up now, his quiet wisdom regained. Before Otto could answer, the sorcerer started to remove their soaked outer layers with quick fingers.

“If Barlow didn’t bring you here,” Severin said, “you would have worked yourself to a frozen skeleton.”

Otto suddenly jerked his head to the side.

“het’TCH! TCH! TCH’UH!”

“Many blessings, doctor.”

Severin smiled and tilted his head.

“Many, many blessings.”

Otto sniffled, rubbing their nose with stiff fingers.

“Nngh…gracias. Just a little…heh…htch’CHU!”

“Aye, I don’ like tha’ sound of that,” Godric rumbled from the kitchen, turning his head to see the sickly healer.

Otto waved their hand. “Just a li-hih-ttle sdiffle…”

“One that is long overdue, I think,” Severin said, putting the last of their wet things away.

Otto was ushered in front of the fire, still at the mercy of his nose. With each sneeze came a chorus of blessings and, if need be, another handkerchief.

“That’s a real nasty cold, huh?” Barlow commented after a particularly forceful fit. “Even I didn’t sneeze that much.”

As the day came to a close, the group all gathered on the couch, listening to the wind howling outside and treating themselves to Godric’s famous roast and sweet apple tea. Otto didn’t eat very much, but the hot tea soothed their sore throat.

“Tank you for taking such good care of be,” Otto snuffled.

Godric chuckled. “Ya care so much about us, doc. It only makes sense that we’s care an awful lot about you, ‘specially when ya aren’t feelin’ well.”

“And after you tended so well to us, may I add,” Severin said, leaning his head back.

“Yeah!” Barlow agreed, not exactly as good with words as the others, but still just as thankful.

Otto, overcome, buried their face in Godric’s side and began to cry, letting out everything that they had felt in the past few days. They wanted to stop, they wanted to explain, but it was lost in desperate sobs and hiccuping. Godric held them closer to him while the others offered quiet support until the doctor quieted.

“There ya go,” Godric said, putting a large hand on Otto’s head. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Filled with comfort and warm food, Otto quickly dozed off, and the others weren’t far behind. The only sounds were the falling of fresh snow, the crackling of the fireplace, and the snores of deep, contented sleep.

And, as winter finally settled into Harbinger Woods, they all settled down for their long winter’s rest.

******************

Not only do I want to dedicate this to @perfectpaperbluebirds , who gave me the prompt, but also @sneezytomatosquish , who has been feeling emotionally and physically under the weather lately. That may have changed by the time this fic is finished, but I shall gift it to you anyway. You are one of my favorite creators, but I want to create something for you for a change. You deserve it.

Get well soon!

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Sleep and Other Things

Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, Grinding, Fingering (with them metal fingers babbbby), Oral (f), Mentions of Masturbation (f), Sergeant Kink, Praise Kink, Cockwarming, Light spanking, Sub/Dom, Hair pulling, Pining, Sexual tension/frustration, Language, Classic Tropes (I will not apologize), Fluff

Word Count: 11K+ (I really went on on this one I’m sorry)

A/N: It’s been TOO long since I’ve written for my bby I apologize

-

This sucks.

Royally, royally, royally sucks. 

And if you could choose from any supernatural powers at all known to man, you’d choose the power of sleep. 

Because for the past few nights, it just hasn’t struck you. You’ve tried everything you can think of: punching and kicking away at the bag in front of you in the training room until your knuckles started to bruise, drinking a nice, hot cup of tea, hell even meditation. None of it seemed to work in your favor, and you wanted to punch the force that was holding you back from a full night's rest. 

Please God, or you know, whatever is out there listening. All’s I’m asking a normal fucking sleep schedule, is that too much to ask?

The blaring flashes sting your eyes with every white, vicious transition of another rerun on TV. It’s the only light in the otherwise dark room, and it’s dimmed with the volume low so that every stupid little background laughter is dull instead of blaring. And judging by the big red 3:30 on your alarm clock, you’ve been awake for approximately ten hours with no hope of a fulfilled slumber. You believe this is your third night in a row. 

You sigh for what seems the hundredth time, flopping onto your right side and shoving your pillow under your arm. The soft fabric and the fresh smell of your favorite laundry detergent is doing nothing to soothe your mind and your body alike, but maybe keeping up the facade that it does will lull your eyes to remain shut and your brain silent; in the back of your mind, annoyingly, you already know that it will not work. 

“Fuck it.” You mutter to yourself and throw your covers off. The floor is slightly chilly against your bare feet, but not too terribly cold, and the compound is stable and quiet; more alone time for you, more time to watch the clock slowly tick by as yet another night—day you should say given the time—drags by thorough dark circles and irritable mood swings. 

The door is silent as you creek it open, though it doesn’t make one sound and you’re grateful for that. No use dragging everyone down with you. 

You’re not exactly sure on what you’re looking for, but it feels right to be where the food is. It’s a start, at least. The good news, too, about going to the kitchen is that it’s not that far from your room, a blessing to you now. 

The hallway is dark, too dark for you weak eyes you realize as you stub your toe on a corner of a wall. “OW—oH fuckfuck what the fuckity fu—”

“Shoulda paid attention, doll.”

You whirl around mid-tantrum, hopping on the uninjured foot rather ungracefully towards the raspy voice you recognize in a heartbeat. 

The root to your problem is sitting there—short, chopped dark hair, eyes that are sometimes grey and others times blue, like a storm and a ocean living and correlating together to create a beautiful color that you often dream of, and built, toned body hiding behind a black tank top and you’re going to assume matching sweatpants—with a coffee mug in his hands, sitting by the kitchen island and stifling a shit-eating grin as you wallow. 

Normally, you’d be very happy to see Bucky. Over the year that you’ve been on the team, Bucky has been nothing but kind to you, even after a rocky start to the friendship. As quiet and closed off as he is, you had managed to weasel your way into his circle; you leave him alone whenever you sense he needs it, not wanting to overwhelm him. Watch TV with him on the couch when it’s just the two of you; sometimes you’d barely say a word to each other at all, happy with the comfortable silence. He jokes around with you if you manage to burn another pancake or whatever concaussion you could scramble up or he’ll invite you to have drinks with him and the others—others being Steve and, despite the pranks and banters, Sam, and so, so much more. It’s as easy as breathing, just being with him, and the comfort and stability that you find in him never fails to put you at ease. 

But it’s like somewhere down the road something shifted. You don’t know when or how it happened, but when it did it hit you like a freight train. There’s a pull towards him when you catch yourself paying extra attention to the way his body moves, alerting yours with a sudden new and ferocious need; the daydreams that come from it are even better. The soft, barely there brushes as you pass by or the barely fingertip touch when you’re standing next to each other. The longing stares that makes you wonder if there ever could be more. There’s no denying that you can’t stop looking at him differently now, as more than just the friend you cherish deeply, but as someone who could become more than just. 

Sometimes, you even dream of his hand between your legs. 

What makes this even worse is that you’ll occasionally catch Bucky doing the same thing to you; he may be faster than you in oh so many ways thanks to his enhancements, but there are moments where you catch him looking quickly away and towards whatever was in front or next to him, eyes glaring like he’s—he’s scolding himself.   

“Sexual tension.” Wanda told you when you first explained your worries to her. “That’s what’s happening.”

You shook your head, laughing it off. “Nooo it can’t be Wanda. We’re just—”

“Friends?” She smirked. 

“Yes.” You defended. “Just friends. I mean maybe—maybe we’re just going through a phase, and everything will soon go back to normal.”

Wanda rolled her eyes with a smirk. “We’ll see.”    

Deep down, you knew that she was right. And that terrified you. Still does, actually. Why would you want to ruin such a good thing over what may be just a stupid, silly crush?

Now, exhausted, frustrated, and hopping around like a moron in the dark, the smug look on his face heavily annoys you more than ever. 

“Thanks.” You snarl. 

He puts his hands up in mock surrender, easily taking in your disdained mood. “Sorry.”

You finally let your foot drop back to the ground, your toe still stinging. Bucky continues to watch you as you limp towards the cabinets and reach for your favorite mug, setting it too harshly down on the marble counter before opening the fridge. 

“Try drinking tea,” he says. “It’ll be better than…Dr. Pepper.”

You shrug as you uncap the bottle and pour the sweet soda into your mug. “I’ve already tried that.” You mutter. “Nothing’s been working.”

You hear Bucky shift in his chair, hear the clicks of his metal arm as he stretches it out; he rarely does it when there’s too many people around, letting himself be free with the metal prosthetic. You feel special knowing that he’s comfortable enough to be free in your presence. 

“How long has this been going on?” He asks quietly. 

You lean your back against the counter and bring the cup to your lips. “Almost a full week now.”

You see him nod from your peripheral vision, straightening his back and taking a sip from his own up you didn’t realize he had until now; it smells like green tea, with a hint of something sweeter. Honey, most likely. 

You expect him to ask you more questions but he stays silent as you both take small sips of your drinks. Your eyes are heavy and your body is on the verge of completely slumping against the small space behind you, but you’re still too wired to sleep—okay, Bucky was right on the soda, but you’re not going to admit that to him. 

“Why are you awake?” You ask him. 

He just shrugs. “Same reason as you.”

That gets you to snort. Yeah right, buddy. 

“Tried sparring?” Bucky suddenly breaks the silence, causing you to jump from the intrusion. 

“Sorta.” You iffley say. “Still didn’t help me much…I really don’t know what my problem is.” Liar.

He hums softly. “Well,” he puffs as he sits up from the stool. “Let’s go then.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Really?”

For such a heavy man, it still surprises you when he walks silently towards you, so quietly that if you weren’t looking you’d had no idea if he was moving at all. The familiar smell of his soap overwhelms your senses as he leans in, his left arm stretched to put his cup in the sink. You can’t help but inhale the alluring musk, which causes a shiver to run through your body. 

“Sexual tension.” Wanda’s voice rings through your head. 

God he really does smell good and he’s warm...stop it! 

“So?” He scares you again out of your thoughts, and when you look up he’s close. He’s really close—well, closer than you anticipated for only putting away a dish. He’s looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher, but that smirk of his returns and your heart flutters at the close proximity of it. 

You set your now empty mug in the sink next to his with a sigh and nod your head. “Take it easy on me. I’m not exactly coordinated right now.” 

Bucky only chuckles, hearty and gruff, at your warning. “Whatever you say.”

You really like the way he says it. It sounds stupid, but you do. 

He leads the way to the training room, turning every now and then to make sure you’re still following—and that you don’t stub your toe again. 

“Turning the lights on.” Bucky warns you just seconds before the lights blare your vision, making you wince and blink against the onslaught. 

When you can finally make out the shapes moving around, Bucky is already standing in the middle of the mat, watching you with his signature smirk. You can’t help but give him a small closed lip smile of your own as you make your way towards him. 

“I’m totally gonna kick your ass.” You tease with a slight slur.

He grunts, face squished as he rolls his eyes playfully. “Yeah yeah, hurry up.”

“Don’t act like you don’t want to be here, Barnes.” You chide as you start to wrap your knuckles. “You’re the one who suggested this.”

“Doesn’t mean you gotta be a turtle about it.” 

You give him the best glare you can muster as he struggles to hold in his laughter. Your grimace deepens when they finally escape, and his face is really fucking adorable when he laughs like this; without a care in the world. That makes you stare at him longer than necessary as he recovers. 

“Okay I’m sorry!” He gasps, putting his hand up. “I’ll stop, I swear it.”

The scowl doesn’t disappear even as you start to adjust the strings on your sweatpants; tightening them. You know you look like a child right now with the way you’re stomping dramatically heavily towards the ex-assassin, but you’re too tired and slightly agitated to care. 

“Alright,” he huffs. “Just come right at me and don’t hold back. Think you can handle that, doll?”

You smirk despite yourself and prepare a simple stance; attack. “Sure, ice bucket.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch from the playful tease. What he does is pat his chest with a closed knuckle and says, “I’m waiting.”

You watch him, take in his posture and immediately go for the legs. You’re a good agent, not the best, definitely in need of improvement, but you’re good. What you’re sort of forgetting here, a habit with him it seems, is that he is. in fact, a super soldier. 

The air leaves your lungs with an oof as you land flat on your back. His hand, warm flesh that feels like is scorching your skin through your shirt, holds you down by your upper chest. You blink dumbly up at him as you struggle to catch your breath, your body jolted from its heavy, sleepless form. 

“C’mon,” he says your name disappointingly. “You know better than that.”

You roll your eyes and grunt, swatting his hand away and standing yourself up. “I don’t see the point of this.” You complain. “If anything, I feel more awake than tired.”

“Oh you know what the point is.” Bucky scoffs. “Stop complaining and fight me.”

“Fine!” You growl. 

The next charge at him, you honestly thought that you’d get the upper hand. Where he goes to block, you quickly change course and go for a punch. It all happens in a blink of an eye, and suddenly his metal arm is wrapped loosely around your neck in a lock, the other locking your wrists in his wide grip.  

“You’re not even trying.” He breathes in your ear. 

“I am.” You say through gritted teeth. 

He finally lets you go with a small chuckle. It makes you angry. “If you’re just going to keep laughing at me then I’m—”

Bucky lunges at you. Your body reacts on instinct and ducks away from his attack, bouncing on your feet to the other side. The muscles in his back strain as he runs his fingers through his hair, flashing you a grin as he turns around. 

“There ya ‘re.” His brooklyn accent runs thick through his praise. 

That praise—and it’s not like you’ve never heard it from him before, always in playful banter—raises goosebumps and there’s no way he doesn’t notice it. You fight the rush of blood flooding to your cheeks. 

“Here,” you try, bouncing around him and playfully trying to grab him, distracting yourself from your own confusing thoughts. “Just stand still and let me punch and kick at you until I pass out.”

He laughs with you and dodges your weak attempts with liquid ease. “Oh I’m sure you’d love that.”

“I would, actually.” 

“You’re jus’ bein’ a sore loser.”

“So what—” You grunt as he slides to his right and pushes your hit lightly away from him. “—if I am.”

You do this for some time, aimlessly throwing weak kicks at his shins as he teases you—you’re really fucking jealous at how he seemingly floats with each bounce to his dodges. You finally manage to knip him around the ankle, causing him to wince and curse. 

“Ha!” You cheer. “I bet that hur—”  

Bucky takes your short moment of victory to sweep around you and kick your legs out from under you. You land ungracefully yet again on the hard mat, but this time you quickly recover and loop your legs around the arm closest to you and pull him down with all your strength. He flips hard on his back, gasping as soon as he makes contact and now you’re the one laughing at him as you have the upper hand. 

“Well Barnes,” you tsk. “Looks like you’re losing your touch.”

“Don’t get cocky.” He warns as his hand flexes still in your grip. “Or else this happens.”

You blink and feel a harsh tug at the back of your neck. Everything is a blur as you feel yourself being lifted and flipped into the air, like you weigh nothing at all. Your eyes automatically shut and your body awaits for the hard impact. 

It doesn’t come. 

Bucky softens your fall by quickly rolling his body into yours and wrapping his arms around you, practically caging you in. Your hands reach for the first solid thing they can find, which happens to be soft skin and hard muscle. His legs cage yours between his, his hair lightly curled and there’s a strangled noise coming from somewhere and holy fuck he’s—

“You alright?” He asks, panting. 

Your breaths mix together as you stare into each other’s eyes. You hear what he says, the words playing through your ears but your brain doesn’t register the nerves to actually respond to him. It feels like you’ve never been this close to him before, not like this anyway. It feels… suffocating. In such a good, intoxicating way that you don’t want him to move. 

And then you realize that the reason why he must be asking that question is because he thinks you’re hurt; that strangled cry was from you. 

He shifts, just slightly to adjust, that gets his arms to tighten around you for a split second. Your jaw clenches as you struggle to hide the hitch in your breath and the pool of arousal flooding between your legs. 

“Y-yeah.” You finally answer, swallowing thickly. His adam’s apple bobs as he does the same, and that gets your body tingling with a familiar sensation that has your eyes widening. “I think I’m tired now.”

The second those words escape your lips you want to take them back. His eyes fall as he shakes his head and chuckles, looking shyly down as he sighs. He unwraps himself from you and holds his hand out for you to take. It takes you a moment, still reeling from—well from whatever the hell that was. 

Now it feels awkward. You both can’t keep your eyes on each other, looking anywhere’s else like it’s fucking interesting. You gotta stop this. 

“Than—”

“Can I—”

You both say at the same time. Bucky’s soft, harmonic—in your very humble opinion—chuckle joins yours and you shake your head to clear away the fuzziness clouding your brain. 

“Sorry, uh what were you going to say?”

Bucky hesitates, and there’s something in his eyes that tells you that he’s nervous. It worries you, and instinct takes over to walk to him and comfort him. 

“No it’s—,” he inhales sharply. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow, when you’re more…awake.”

“I’m plenty coherent, Bucky.” You scoff. “Just tell me. I’m your friend.”

He smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes; it goes without the same brightness that usually greets you and that makes your stomach drop and your heart clench with an uncomfortable grip. 

“I know.” He says softly. Then his eyebrow raises in a mischievous arch. “Need me to walk you to your room?”

This time it’s you who hesitates. On any other circumstance, you would’ve immediately said yes and that would be that; no awkwardness, no tension or—or whatever the fuck is going on between the two of you.  

“Um… yeah. Yeah s-sure.”

You curse yourself mentally and berate yourself to keep it together. The walk back is quicker than the walk to the training room, and a part of you is entirely grateful for it. Bucky stays close as he paddles softly through the hall until your door is in sight, and you’re standing with one hand on the handle while chewing on your bottom lip. Now what?

“Goodnight,” he says your name softly, so softly you can barely hear him. 

“Goodnight Buck.” You whisper back. 

He gives you one last smile and walks away, and as simple and normal as this is, it feels wrong. Like he shouldn’t be walking away, because there’s something obviously going on between the two of you and you have no idea how—well, you know one way—to fix it because you’re a goddamn coward and that smile isn’t the same smile he gives you.

You lean against your bedroom door as it shuts. Your eyes sting with unshed tears and the aching pressure between your legs is long gone, but the evidence of it sticks to your panties. Ignoring it, you hop onto your bed and fling yourself against your lush pillows, and the rest of the morning is spent with you staring at the tv screen overthinking every interaction you ever had with the man responsible for your turmoil, and fall asleep with frustration seeping through your veins.

When you come to, early afternoon you think, the ache in your pussy is too much to ignore and you cum with Bucky’s name a sigh from your ecstasy. It’s the first time you do. 

–

“You look…better.”

“Thank you.”

“So what was the trick?”

I masturbated thinking about my best friend. “Training. With Bucky.”

That gets her eyebrows rising up as she ahhh’s at you. “How are things between the two of you?”

“Good.” You feign. “Really good, actually.”

“Mhmmm.”

“I’m serious.”

“Just fuck already.”

“Wanda—”

“Seriously, I’m getting pretty sick of watching you mope around like this. You’ve got to talk to him.”

You sigh through your nose, throwing your head back against the couch cushion. “I know.” You groan. “It’s just—I don’t know how, you know? I mean, what if this ruins our entire friendship? I can’t…I can’t live with that.”

Wanda purses her lips and rubs your shoulder comfortably. “I know,” she coos. “But don’t think you’ll feel better getting it off your chest? How do you know that he doesn’t feel the same way?”

A pause. “No.” Yes. Another pause. “And no.” One more.  “How did this happen?” 

She understands what you mean when you say it in a whine. She opens her mouth and is about to reply when—

“Did what happen?”

You freeze, eyes going wide as Wanda stares back in equal horror; you also detect the glint in her green eyes that spells nothing but trouble for you. 

“She just agreed to have a movie night with Vis and I. My pick, which she’s still sulking about.” She throws in, so casually that you’re kind of surprised and impressed. “We were just talking about asking you to join us.”

You should’ve seen this coming. Really, you should have. It pisses you off. 

‘Calm down.’ Her voice whispers in your head, a skill she’s been working on. ‘I’m sorry, but this is for your own good.’

“Yeah?” Bucky says, all rich honey. “When?”

You roll your lips and force a smirk as you turn towards him. “Tonight, around nine.” If she was going to force you into this and pick the movie, you wanted to at least have some control over this situation. 

His eyes meet yours and the crinkles around them washes away the annoyance that was starting to build. He nods while shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and grins towards Wanda. 

“Alright. Pick a good movie, would ya?”

Wanda laughs. “I will!”

Your fingers twinkle in a wave as Bucky awkwardly waves back. Once you’re sure he’s gone and out of earshot, you nudge Wanda’s leg with your foot. “What the hell was that?” You hiss. 

“Oh hush,” she clicks her tongue. “I just gave you an opportunity, and who knows maybe something good will happen, and you’ll be thanking me after you fuc—”

“Alright alright I get it!” You stop her, a part of you still scared that anyone will just waltz in and hear. “I’ll stop complaining under one condition.”

“Okay.” She says suspiciously with narrowed eyes. 

“I get to pick the movie.”

—

Your legs hurt. 

Curled up crookedly under your blanket, back at an awkward angle as you stare at the moving faces and listen to the screams as they run through the forest. 

The Blair Witch Project has always been one of your favorites, and you figure there’s no sex, no nudity, nothing that could put you in a weird position with the man you can’t stop thinking about sitting right next to you on the plushy loveseat. Yeah, why not?

But of course, Wanda had to be Wanda, and insisted that the two of you lounge on the small couch while her and Vision take over the other, bigger one. As if they needed the space. 

Bucky, although, doesn’t seem to sense your discomfort, and if he does he’s kept quiet about it. He seems just as stiff as you are, but more relaxed and attentive. 

It’s been almost an hour of this. 

There’s a little giggle from the couple to your left, and when you look over you see Wanda putting her finger to her lips, shushing Vision as she holds in more of her laughter. 

Glad she’s having fun. 

Stop it. You’re doing this to yourself. 

You let out a soft sigh and shuffle to your right, closer to Buck as you gingerly uncurl your legs and sit them criss cross. Much better. You can pay attention to the movie better now that you’re more comfortable, so lost in the panic on the screen that you don’t hear him move but rather feel the brush of his thigh against your knee. 

Once you realize it you decide to ignore the onslaught of the electric shock rushing through your core—it’s embarrassing that a touch of his leg of all things gets you going. 

Bang!

You gasp and jump, gripping onto the first thing your flying hands find. It happens to be Bucky, naturally. 

“Sorry!” Wanda whispers yells. 

You roll your eyes with a loud, annoyed sigh and settle back into the loveseat. Your hands still grip onto his bicep, and it’s his subtle clear of the throat that brings your attention to it.

“Sorry.” You flinch and let go of him. 

“It’s okay.” He sounds off, a little dejected. 

You’re about to over analyze it—because that’s what you do best—when Bucky scooches closer to you and hands his arm up to rest on the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers barely reaching your shoulder. Willing yourself to relax and focus, you don’t notice the side glances he’s throwing you or the hushed whispers of your friend, who is no longer paying attention to the movie at all, but rather at you and Bucky. 

“We’re gonna turn in.” Wanda announces. 

Your mouth opens in a small o as you stare at her in disbelief. “Are you sure?” It’s hard to hide the plea. “It’s almost at the end!”

Vision gives you an apologetic shrug and mouths ‘sorry’ as Wanda drags him away by his hand. “Yeah, we’re sure. Don’t have too much fun without me!” Her accent thrums with pure tease and you can only blubber like an idiot while watching them disappear to their room. 

“Well,” Bucky sighs and shifts lower until he’s more comfortable. “Just us.”

“Hm.”

You don’t mean to sound so annoyed. You can tell it hurts his feelings because his arm moves back to his side, effectively putting more space between you. Your heart clenches at the fact that you’re the one doing this, no one else, and seeing him now, eyebrows furrowed and teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as his leg starts to bounce anxiously, makes you feel even worse. 

“I think I’m going to bed, too.” Bucky says. 

He stands up before you can say something, though you’re not exactly sure what you want to say to him; there’s so much and your brain is in too much of a scramble of self wallowing and fear that it’s hard to put them coherently together. 

“Goodnight.” He doesn’t say your name, or give you your smile. An awkward wave and heavy steps is all you get, and when they become more faint do you curse yourself and fight the stupid tears clogging your throat as you sit there in the dark. 

–

It’s been a week since that night. 

Wanda, much to your relief, has left you alone about Bucky, but you know with every look when he enters the room that she’s still thinking about it; still scolding you for not taking the leap of faith into what could lead to so much more.  To be honest, you don’t blame her; you’d be doing the same if you knew she’d be happy. 

This time it’s so bad that the rest of the team starts to notice yours and Bucky’s sudden thrift. Steve, bless him, has been the most frequent next to Wanda. 

“You know you can tell me anything Buck,” Steve’s voice rang through the empty room. 

This was the night after the movie incident. Restless once again, you decided to punch out your feelings and frustrations at two in the morning with the hope that you would be alone. You almost walked in on them, not paying attention, when you heard him. 

“I know.” Bucky said. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to happen. There’s nothing there.”

Your heart leapt in your chest and your stomach dropped. Somehow, you knew they were talking about you. 

“What do you mean?” Steve asked; you imagine he did so while crossing his arms.

A bang, followed by a grunt. “Nothing. Just as I said it.”

A stab deep in your heart with a jagged edge made your knees nearly buckle. 

“Buck—“

“Listen punk,” Bucky interrupted. “I know you’re just looking out for me and I appreciate it, but I don’t want to…I want—“

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” FRIDAY interjects robotically. “But I’m afraid Rogers has a call waiting for him and it’s very urgent.”

You heard Steve sigh and something moved or fell, but you hurried away before you could get caught. 

Ever since, you can’t get those words out of your head. They play over and over like a broken record, chasing you to insanity. 

Why oh why did FRIDAY have to say something?

It was like a sign from the universe itself. Whether it was good or bad, you weren’t quite sure yet.

Tonight is a particularly warm night, which you’re not complaining about, especially with Stark’s AC. It looks to be another night of staring blankly into space until you get tired of that; covers thrown haphazardly across the room, cool air breezing against your bare skin, a new set of dark bags under your eyes brewing. A typical night for you. 

This time you debate on whether you should move. It’s getting old, just sitting here but you’re too afraid of running into—well into anyone at this point. You just don’t think you have the energy for it. 

So you decide on sitting by your window and watching the cars drive by, lights flashing through the busy city. Count the stars that barely shine through in the dark sky, too many city lights blocking out the natural brightness. Finally, after several long and agonizing minutes, you throw on a pair of shorts and quietly open the door, peering at the hallways to the best of your ability without any light with ears straining to detect any type of sound no matter big or small, and once you’re satisfied that you’re alone you close the door and blink. 

Where to this time?

You could try the training room again, but the last time makes you hold out on that. The living room maybe? Kitchen? Game room? 

Suddenly it hits you, and you want to wack yourself on the head for not thinking of this sooner. Quickly tiptoeing back to your room, you grab the fluffiest blanket you own and wrap it around yourself. 

You usually prefer taking the elevator up, too lazy for the stairs, but it’s too late for that so, stairs it is. Thankfully, it’s not that many flights and when the first breeze of fresh, cool air hits your skin you immediately sigh and inhale deeply. The night is filled with miscellaneous noises of the common city, but after being here for so long you’re more than used to it. You can see the moon now, hiding behind slivers of a dark cloud, and to your right a gruff, 

“What’re you doing up here?”

It’s not unwelcoming, just a question out of curiosity. You turn to him, shocked to find him up here. 

“Uh.” You drawl, mouth hanging open as you think of something to say. “Well—well I…” Why is this so hard?

“Why are you up here?” You ask instead, wrapping the blanket tighter around you. 

Bucky shifts in the lawn chair—a cheap brand that creaks a little under his weight—and offers you a timid smile. “Don’t you remember?”

You shuffle through your memories, trying to understand the meaning behind his question. He’s patient with you, even shuffling deeper into his stance as you stare quizzically at him. What the fuc––oh. Oh you know what he’s talking about now. 

“Oh Jesus Bucky I’m––” you run a palm over your face in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to say sorry for,” he assures you. 

But you do. You do because he’s your friend, one of your best friends even, and with all of this going on, he deserves to have a good friend. 

So it makes you feel terrible that you forgot the quite frankly huge significance of this roof, and even more specifically the very spot he’s sitting in right now; this is where he goes when he has nightmares. When he wants to be alone. This is where your friendship started. 

You had snuck up to the roof in the middle of one of Tony’s parties, clad in a simple short blue dress and an armful of drinks and snacks for yourself. 

It wasn’t that you weren’t having fun, you were never one to turn down a good party. But that night you had just wanted a little alone time, and the roof was one of your sanctums of escape from the world and its responsibilities. 

Balancing everything awkwardly and praying that you wouldn’t have to bend down and pick any of them up, you finally twisted and pushed the door unceremoniously. 

It should’ve banged against something with the amount of force you excurted—out of pure annoyance—but instead it was stopped by flashy, shiny fingers, curled against the rim of the door with quiet clicks. 

“Fuck!” You gasped. “I’m sorry, didn’t know anyone was up here.”

Bucky stared down at you wearily, eyes full of surprise and wonder as he eyed you up and down, particularly taking in the overflowing variousity of items in your arms.     

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just needed…to get away for a moment.”

At this point you already knew how Bucky was with large crowds; you didn’t blame him for coming here, especially on warm summer nights such as this. 

“Yeah,” you repeated. “Me too.” You looked down at your feet, shifting your weight. “Do you… would you like to join me?”

He froze. The blood to your cheeks was prominent, you could feel that from the heat of it. You shifted again, lifting a foot to help shove a box back into your arms.

“Okay.”

You smiled then, bright and toothy. “Here,” Bucky said, reaching for the snacks. “Let me get that.”

That night was filled with nothing but small talk and laughter, and it was one of the best nights of your life in a long, long time. From then on, you and Bucky grew closer and closer until you started to dream about riding his cock until he screamed your name and you started to push him away. 

“Buck.” You sigh, shaking the perverted thoughts away. 

“Just come here,” he says, reaching his hand out. “I want you to see something.”

You hesitate, but only for a split second before you find yourself walking towards him. His eyes, grey tonight, bare deep into yours like he’s trying to see into your soul; to figure you out, more likely.

Once you’re within hand’s reach he gently tugs at your blanket and your heart skips a beat at the sheer…domestically of such a minuscule motion. He tugs again, gesturing with a tilt of his head to the armrest. 

“That chair is gonna break as soon as I sit on it.” You argue. 

“It’s not,” he defends gently. 

He still senses your hesitance and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Can I—?” He scrunches his eyebrows and carefully wraps his arm around your waist, guiding you to the left side of him. You let him guide your body until you’re half seated on his lap, legs practically curled over his thighs while his arm stays wrapped around you. 

The heat from his body is searing, even through the extra layers of fluff you have on you. His breath ghosts over your cheek, casting a whiff of something sweet and minty on his breath. The hard, metal muscles dig into your back, although not uncomfortably, but enough for you to have to fight the urge to rub your thighs together at the thought of his arm tightening around you as he pounds into you—

“Look up.” He suddenly whispers in your ear, husky and deep. It causes a delectable shiver to run down your body and your pussy clenches around nothingness. 

Keep it together. 

Bucky must mistake it as you being cold because he pulls you tighter against him, which for you only makes it harder to control your thoughts. Your heart pounds and your ankles cross to try and relieve the increasing pressure growing in your pussy; thank goodness you brought your blanket out here. 

You finally muster your eyes to follow his pointed finger and squint. “What am I looking at?”

He shifts a little more to the left. Closer to you. “There.”

You try to ignore the way his words literally hit your lips. A brush of his breath that feels like an imprint on your pink flesh and gets your mouth watering; you start to wonder what he tastes like. 

“That?” You stick your hand out to the pointed stars. 

“You know what that is?”

Your eyebrows furrow as you think. You’re not an expert in astronomy by no means, but you took a few classes back in the day, and somehow this piece of information resonates high and mighty in your memories. 

“No.” You say before you can stop yourself. 

He smiles again, that toothy smile that you love. “Cygnus. The swan, I believe. Mostly comes out during summer months and it forms this triangle,” he traces the stars. “See?”

And that is why you said no. The way he describes it, giddy and excited because he learned something new and he’s telling you…you hate yourself even more for the way you’ve been trying to avoid him. 

“It’s beautiful.” You murmur. 

Bucky hums in agreement. Your eyes scan for any more constellations, but you can feel him staring at you. You want to look down, your neck is even starting to strain from it, but you just… 

He says your name. It comes out a whisper, and he sounds… scared. You slowly, very slowly, look down and find a swirl of gray and blue. Facing him like this makes you realize you’re closer to him than you thought; tilt your head a little down and you’d be kissing him. 

As if he read your mind, he licks his lips and, unconscious or not, you start to lean forward. 

This is it.

Bucky’s leaning up and holy shit you’re about to—

“Hey, lovebirds!”

The both of you jump and turn towards the intrusion, you with shock and Bucky, a murderous glare. Both his arms are around you, as if to shield you from the outsider. 

“Emergency meeting.” Tony smirks. “I don’t like it either but,” he shrugs. “Duty calls. Let’s go.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches out of your peripheral vision, and you find yourself filled with the same agitation because fuck you were so fucking close. 

“We should go.” You tell him, like it’s not obvious that the moment is already ruined. 

“Yeah.” Bucky grits out.

You miss the safety of his arms as soon as you leave them. 

–

This time you find him on purpose. 

You start by going to his room. It’s late, but not too late this time. You knock softly against the door once, then twice and wait. 

“Bucky?” You call out softly. 

A sharp, defined meow answers you back from the otherside. You grin and give the knob a try, twisting it open slowly as you glance around the room. 

“Buck?” You try again. 

Alpine, Bucky’s white feline, greets you with a purr and rubs against your legs. You bend down with a coo and pick him up, scratching his head as he closes his eyes and continues to purr. 

“Where’s your daddy?” You whisper to the cat.

He meows like he understands you, making you chuckle. The cool floor feels nice against your bare feet this time, a nice contrast to the heat flaring through the summer air. Alpine settles himself in your arms as you search for Bucky. Everything is quiet, no signs of anyone up and moving around, and you start to wonder if Bucky is up on that roof again when you walk by the kitchen. There’s a dark figure by the corner of your eye, but you don’t register it until Alpine starts squirming and you do a double take. 

“Hey.” You put Alpine down. 

Bucky nods at you and follows Alpine with his eyes as the cat rubs up against his owner, adding an arch to his spine. 

“I was looking for you.” You explain when Bucky doesn’t say anything. 

“Hmm.” He hums nonchalantly. 

You nod, because you don’t know what you want to say now that you have him and twindle your fingers together. This is… a lot harder than you expected it to be. 

“Soo,” you start out. “How… are you?”

He shrugs. “‘M alright.”

Okay. You got that out of the way. Now let’s—  

“Let’s go to my room.” 

He’s whizzing past you before you can even blink, Alpine in tow. It takes you a moment before your muscles move and you’re following him. Your heart thuds wildly against your ribcage and you take a deep breath when his door comes into view. 

Bucky has always been in a state between organized and messy. Most days you can’t even call it an organized mess, it’s more separate if you can make any sense of it. You’re reminded of this as soon as you walk in, stepping over a t-shirt and combat boots. “Sorry, sorry.” Bucky mumbles as he quickly ducks down to pick them up. The rest of his room is about the same, but it’s not too bad to make a big deal of. 

“Can’t really sleep.” He offers an explanation. 

“Ah.” You nod. “You got my problem now.”

He smirks mischievously and it shamefully sends a wave of blazing arousal through your body, ending at the pulsing ache quivering in need. 

“It seems I do, doll.”

Is this—is this a double entendre? Is Bucky messing with you right now? Enjoying the way you’re trembling with a hold that’ll give everything away? 

If so, he’s doing a fantastic job.

“So,” you clear the lodge in your throat. “S-so do you want to, uh, train? Like last time?” Okay, that might not be such a good idea—you won’t be able to control yourself then, you’re positive of it—but you genuinely do want to help him, so you’re willing to fight your animalistic pulses for the sake of your friend. No that—that doesn’t sound right. Just calling him your friend. Now, it’s leaving a distaste in your mouth.   

He sits down on the edge of his bed—dark covers that match the aesthetics of his personality—and plants his elbows on his knees as he, dramatically you have to add, thinks thoughtfully with a slight pout to his perfect lips. 

“Push ups.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Alright?”

“But I’m gonna need a little help.”

He leans forward, just a bit more, and—and maybe it’s just your uncontrollable imagination—his eyes are dark and blown wide. 

Okay, your pussy is throbbing now, the pulse achingly worse in your clit. “O-okay.” You lick your dry lips. 

His smirk widens and stretches to put his cup onto his nightstand, making his shirt pull up, showing you a sliver of chiseled abs on his toned stomach. 

Holy fuck. You’re not going to make it. 

Bucky catches your eye before he gets down on the carpet, the muscles in his back straining deliciously and mouth watering as he stretches his legs out and holds himself up by his palms. 

“Sit on my back.”

“Wha—” You sputter with a slight giggle. “What just…just sit on you?”

“On my back, yes.” Bucky teases and glances up at you. “It’ll tire me out faster.”

It makes sense. Logically. And he does have more of an immunity than most. But you just can’t help but feel that this is part of a game of his, thinking of any and every way to torture you and watch you squirm in your helpless state. 

You’re silent as you take short steps towards his crouched form and place a hand steadily on his broad shoulder. You check on his face, still as lucid and beautiful as ever, and carefully settle your weight atop his. 

“Good?” You ask. 

“Yes, so you can relax sweetheart.” He says without a strain. So you do as he says, sitting more comfortably on him and crossing your legs. 

He bends his elbows and leans down, your fingers automatically gripping his shirt to gain more balance, and pushes himself back up at a steady pace, barely a noise coming from him. Each time he moves you feel his muscles stretch and tighten beneath you; you have to bite your lip to stop from digging your nails into his skin.  

Alpine watches as Bucky continues the workout, all the while you’re sitting on him wondering just what you’re supposed to do other than sit here, anything to clear your head and appease the burning ache coursing through you.

“Say something.” He grunts.

“Like what?” You scoff despite yourself. 

“I don’t know, talk about anything.” Up, down. A heavy breath. “Count for me then.”

“I don’t know how much you’ve done already.”

“Ten.” He answers immediately. Up. Down. “Eleven.” Up. Down. “Tw—“

“Twelve.” You interject with a mimicking tone. “Thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…sixteen…”

Up. Down. You highly doubt he’s even breaking a sweat right now as your body hobbles on the muscles of steel. Up. Down. A tick, sounds like from a watch, sounds lowly in the room, but to you it sounds like it’s echoing loudly through your ears. Up. Down. You need to tell him. Up. Down. 

“Alp,” Bucky sighs annoyingly. 

You look over and see the white glob bend its head down by Bucky’s wrist, and when Bucky leans down the cat boops his nose against his and sits. 

“Oh no, c’mon.” Bucky complains. “Move.”

He tries to sweep Alpine away with one arm but you’re moving too, not holding on to him and when he leans most of his weight onto his left side, your body goes with it. 

“Woah!” Your hands fly wildly as you attempt to grab onto something. That something happens to be soft and you mistake it for his shirt and pull. 

“Hey—shitmhm!”

You freeze. He does too. 

Did that…did that just happen? 

The air is thick, so fucking thick, you’re not sure if you can breathe properly under the weight of it. 

Now what the fuck do you say?

“Um are you—” you’re breathless, like you’ve been the one doing the push ups. “Are you okay?”

He still keeps his stance, Alpine long gone by now towards his bed most likely. You don’t care about that right now. All you can think about is how his arms flex as he keeps you up and how you can see his jaw tick; it shouldn’t turn you on, but that groan does nothing to help you as it echoes through the air silently. 

“Buc—”

There’s a tug on your calf and suddenly the room is a blur. You feel yourself being pulled down and flipped onto your back, and again you brace yourself for impact but it’s—it’s just the soft carpet, and he’s leaning over you, legs between his now open ones with a dangerous look in his eyes that you can’t tear away from. A bead of sweat dribbles down the tip of his nose until it drips down onto your cheekbone, but that’s not even enough to break the spell you’re currently in. It breaks Bucky’s, however, because he curses and wipes the small line from your cheek and wipes the front of his face with an open palm. 

You should say something. A word. Just something. He turns back to you and just…looks at you. And you look back. Breaths mix together, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and there’s a battle waging in his mind, you can see that in his eyes; they’re barely recognizable now, no blue or gray. 

“Can I kiss you?”

It takes you a second to register what he said. It’s soft, so fucking quiet and gentle that it pierces straight through your heart. Your stomach erupts in nerves and your legs tighten together on their own accord, pussy fluttering at the question. 

Bucky waits patiently, never once moving a muscle. You lick your lips and that’s when he moves, a flicker of his eyes and a part of his lips. 

You don’t answer him with words. You don’t think you can trust your voice enough to. Don’t think at all, actually. Instead you nod and wait with baited breath as he nods back, leisurely, and starts to lean in. It’s tentative, careful but eager. You never take your eyes off his, only when you feel the soft press of his lips against yours do you indulge yourself. 

The kiss starts off slow. Barely even a kiss, just lips against lips. You crane your neck up and back a little and press harder against him, making him moan softly in the back of his throat and shit that’s one of the most beautiful sounds you ever heard; you need to hear more of it. 

Sensing your eagerness, he presses back and kisses you like you’re sure he did back in the 40’s, slinging every gal and wooing them with just a wink of an eye. His tongue traces the outline of your bottom lip and you open your mouth with a gasp, inviting his curious tongue into your warm crevasse. He sighs at the taste of you, swirling his tongue with yours in a fight you know he’ll win. Your hands lift up and wrap around his shoulders, pushing him down on to you. He presses down on your knee and you spread your legs for him to settle in between.

“Why—” He breaks the kiss, a string of saliva connected to your lips trailing along as you whine from the loss. “Why did we wait so long to do that?”

You giggle, deep and low and he joins in with his own, harmonizing perfectly. “I don’t know,” you say. “That’s sorta my fault, I guess. I just—” you look away shyly. 

Bucky places two fingers underneath your chin, prompting you to look at him. “Didn’t want to risk our friendship.” He finishes for you. 

You nod. Your chest feels lighter now, a new sense of…of an increasing, raw excitement growing inside you. He must feel the same way, too, because he swoops back in for another kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. Your arms flex as you hold him still, running your hand up the nape of his neck and into his locks, gripping a handful of it to stable yourself. Bucky moans again and drops his hips into yours, where you feel the hardening outline of his cock through his sweatpants, grinding purposefully against yours. 

“Bucky,” you gasp, moaning when his lips trail down your jaw and stop at your neck. 

“I’m so sorry we ever waited this long,” he groans into the skin, planting a kiss on your rapid pulse. “You’re so fucking beautiful, малышка.

You don’t understand much Russian, but Bucky has been trying to teach you on and off and this one you understand; babygirl.

“Fuck.” You moan. He sucks a mark on your neck and bites down on it, making you whine and arch your back into him. He pushes back down, and his cock feels impossibly harder and you know he can feel your hot, dripping cunt, too. 

“Please,” you don’t know what you’re begging for. “I-I need…”

“What?” He asks sweetly. When you continue to sputter at him, he gives a hard thrust against your clothed cunt. 

“A-ah fuck.” You keen. 

“Tell me what you want.” He orders. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you. C’mon.”

It feels like you can’t breathe. He hasn’t even been inside you yet and you’re already on the edge, chest heaving and thighs quivering with the anticipation. 

Bucky suddenly drops down to his forearms, leaving a searing kiss that has you whimpering for more. “Want me to taste you?” He whispers huskily. “Like I dreamed?” His hands slide under your shirt, skimming against your sides. Your breath catches, caught in your throat as your skin breaks out in goosebumps. “Kiss that pretty pussy of yours? Fuck you with my fingers? Get you alll—“ He palms your breasts and pinches your nipple; you bite down on your lip hard, indents digging sharply through the tender flesh. “—nice and wet for my thick, fat cock? Would you like that, doll?”

Would you like that? You’d fucking kill for it. 

“Yes!” You moan loudly. “Oh please Bucky, please.” 

Bucky loves to see you beg. His dick twitches in response in his pants and you dig your nails into his back. 

“Okay baby,” he says against your open mouth. “Get on the bed for me, legs spread.”

You don’t hesitate as soon as he lifts off you. You crawl on the bed with shaky limbs and lay on your back on his pillow; it smells distinctly Bucky, filling your senses with fueled desire. 

Bucky looks at you like you’re fucking treasure. Like you’re the sun, the moon, everything to him, and it makes you blush and flutter under the intensity of it. You hold your arms out with a slight pout. 

“Please?”

He huffs a chuckle and reaches behind him to pull his shirt over his head. Your mouth waters at the beautiful specimen before you; you want to kiss the faint scars that littler his body. He pulls down his pants next but keeps his boxers on, the outline of his hard cock prominent and strained through the fabric; if it’s bothering him, he’s doing a pretty good job at hiding it. 

Bucky crawls towards you, slow and with a curve, like a predator capturing its prey. You reach out for him and grab his shoulders, pulling him towards you for a kiss. His lips, slightly chapped but otherwise soft, move against yours in perfect synchrony, as if your bodies are already so in tune with each other. He breaks the kiss, diving back to lick your top lip, and slides the palm of his hands back up under your shirt, this time pulling the fabric with him. You help him slide the shirt off and throw it casually across the room; your nipples perk under his wandering and trumpeting gaze. 

“Fuck, doll,” he whispers. 

Before you can react he leans down and envelopes your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around the perky bud. You gasp and hold his head to your chest while his hands grip down on your hips, hard enough to where you know there’s going to be bruises. He bites down on the bud, causing you to roll your hips against his and your toes to curl. 

“Bucky.” You whisper, just because he’s all you can see and feel and smell…

He lets go of your breast with a pop and trails his kisses down the valley between your breasts and to your stomach, stopping at the pant line. 

“Yes.” You say before he can ask. “Please, Bucky. I need you to touch me.”

“I already am, sweetheart.” He replies innocently. 

You don’t want to argue right now. “James.”

He laughs and dips his fingers inside the waistband, the cool metal making you shiver. “You know,” he says as he drags your pants down your legs at an agonizing pace. “I kinda like it when you say my name like that.”

You chuckle, but it comes out weird and without much air. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He bites your hip bone, making your hips jump and your pussy clench. “James.”

Keeping your eyes on him—somehow, you know that he wants you to keep watching him—Bucky licks the very same spot he just bit and catches his teeth on the lining of your panties, pulling back and tugging at the flimsy fabric. The act alone almost makes you cum. 

You moan lowly and lift your hips to help him pull them down your legs, kicking them off once they’re at your ankles. 

“Jesus.” He murmurs, his breath hot against your pussy; if it weren’t for his broad shoulders, you would’ve closed your legs to relieve the pressure. “You’re fucking dripping, baby. Did I do that to you?”

You swallow and open your mouth, but no words come out. It’s like your brain is short circuiting, cut off from oxygen. Bucky grimaces and slaps your thigh with his flesh hand, making you cry out. 

“Answer me.”

“Y-yes.” You stutter. “Fuck, Bucky yes, only you.”

He grins and kisses the top of your pubic mound, gripping your thighs tighter and scooching closer to the bed. “Gonna taste you.” He whispers, almost as if he was talking to himself rather than you. 

You wiggle your hips impatiently, waiting for him. You think he might slap you again if you continue moving, so you will yourself to relax and…and wait. Because he can’t stop fucking staring at you, and kissing everywhere but where you want him the most and it’s so frustrating you’re going to cry. 

“Pl-EASE!”

His hot, wet tongue slides up the strip of your folds and settles around your clit, circling the sensitive bundle. You preen into his mouth and clutch at the bedsheets, already writhing against him. He immediately throws an arm—his right one—over your lower stomach and pins your hips down, preventing you from moving an inch away or towards him; you’re completely under his will. 

Bucky explores the velvety slit of your pussy, humming all the while like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. The groans that are escaping you doesn’t sound like you, doesn’t feel like they’re coming from you, but they are and it finally catches up to you—James Buchannon Barnes, your friend, best friend, your co-worker, is eating your pussy like there’s no tomorrow. 

“Oh fu—” He nips carefully at your clit. You can’t focus. Not on your words, your surroundings, nothing but Bucky and the sensations he’s bring you. Every lick and suck on your pussy has you keening into his unbreakable hold, whining and clutching the sheets until you’re sure you’re going to tear right through them. This is too much, way too fucking much but you’re so close, so desperate for him, that you’ll—

He slurps lewdly and loudly, making you throw your head back and choke on a moan. “Bu-Bucky I—I need…”

He pulls back just slightly enough to say, “I know.” And he shifts, getting ready to switch arms. 

No. Oh no no no no. 

Your hand darts out and stops him. Gulping, you wordlessly place his flesh arm back on your stomach and reach for his metal fingers. Bucky’s eyes widen as soon as he figures it out and stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head. 

“R-really?” He asks indubely. “You want me to—Jesus baby you—fuck.”

“Please.” You whine. “I can take it.”

He—he snarls and buries his face back into your weeping pussy, attaching his lips around your clit. You gurgle out a low curse and feel his cold fingers prod at your gaping entrance. 

“You sure?” He asks cautiously. 

“If you don’t I will literally—OH!” One thick, wide finger breaches through your hole and slides into your cunt with ease, curling as soon as he’s knuckle deep. Your body spasms, like you’ve just been electrocuted, and your fingers curl in his hair. 

“Taste fucking delicious,” he begins to babble. “Sweet like candy. Nevr’ gonna get enough of it, doll, never.” He pumps his finger in and out of you, curling each time he slides back in, brushing up against your sweet spot. After a few pumps, he dips another in, stretching you. 

“Bucky I’m—” The coil in your lower stomach tightens, your pussy fluttering against his fingers painfully, but in a way that’s everything pleasurable. “Oh fuck I’m gonna c-cum.”

His lips are around your clit again, fingers pumping faster now to the point where you can hear the squelches from your cunt, and without any warning he sucks. Hard. 

“Fuckfuckfuck.” It comes out of you without preamble, mindless babbling that doesn’t even make sense at all. Your thighs cage his head, shaking and quivering as your orgasm approaches. “I’m g-go-gonna—” Your pussy clenches harshly around his thick digits and you’re gone. White flashes behind your eyelids, a numbness searing through your entire core as you shake and gush around his fingers, and a strange sound emanates through the room again; you don’t have to question who it is. 

Bucky works you through your release, moaning and lapping at everything you have to give him. Eventually you come down when it becomes too painful to bear and you push his head away from you. Giving your clit one last kiss that makes you whimper, he stands up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking down at you all the matter. 

“You did so good, baby.” He praises you; you shutter, legs jumping slightly as your body flexes. “Gonna let me fuck you? Huh, babygirl?”

You’ll let this man do anything to you. Your limbs feel like jello, but find enough strength to keep your legs open and open your arms invitingly to him. He makes a show of pulling his boxers down, your eyes following the patch of dark hair and bulges at the long, thick cock that slaps against the hard plains of his stomach, precum smearing from the red angry tip. Next time—and you really fucking hope there will be a next time—you’re going to put him in your mouth. 

“Like what you see?” There’s more of that cocky, playboy Bucky Barnes you’ve heard so much about. 

“Yes.” You answer honestly. “Kiss me.”

The bed shifts slightly and creaks under his weight as he crawls towards you and locks his lips with yours; you can still taste yourself on his lips, sweet and tangly. The tip of his head brushes against your clit as he lays down on top of you, hot and smearing more of his precum across your stomach. 

“Fuck me,” you moan into him. 

Bucky groans lowly and you reach down to grab his cock; it’s hot, thick enough to where your fingers don’t reach and pulsing in your hand. “Shit.” He hisses, hips stuttering in your grasp. 

Nex time, you’re going to tease him, too; give him a piece of his own medicine. You would now, but this has been a long time coming and you’re tired of waiting, so you line him up at your entrance and keep your hand on him as he slowly pushes in. 

He moans your name the same time you moan his, looking down to watch himself sink into your warm depths. He stops when he’s balls deep, and you feel so full that you’re positive the tip of him is about near your cervix. 

“Bucky.” You wiggle beneath him. “Move.”

“I got you, princess.” He croaks. “I got you.”

Pushing himself down on his forearms, Bucky pulls out painfully slow, his dick already wet and slick with your juices, and pushes back in. You roll your hips into his thrusts, taking him deeper. Every single muscle in his body flexes under your touch as you wrap your arms around his back, rolling into you with perfect thrusts that hits a spot deep inside you. You're too wired, too engrossed with the fact that it’s him, that your still overly sensitive pussy clenches around his cock. 

“Baby,” his voice presses sweet and deep in his throat as he gasps. “I’m not—fuck I’m sorry I-I’m not—”

“It’s okay.” You tell him breathlessly, pressing your forehead against his and giving his lips a quick peck. “Just fuck me, Bucky. Use me, like I’ve dreamed of.”

Bucky chokes, eyes wild and neck red, and pulls almost all the way out until the tip is barely in and thrusts back in harshly. You cry out and dig your nails into his bare skin, leaving angry marks in their wake. He grabs your leg and hitches it over his hip, bringing his arm back down to wrap around you. 

“You ever touch yourself thinking about me, doll?” He grits. “Huh? Have you?” 

How—oh Jesus fuck how are you supposed to answer that when he’s fucking you so deep that you can barely remember your own name. Your pussy clenches in answer to what he already knows, and that gets him to grind down at you; the curls of his hair brush heavenly against your clit. “Yeah, you have, haven’t you?”

Pleasure rips through as his hips meet your harder and faster, the slap of skin against skin becoming louder and louder, as is your cries, but you don’t care if the whole fucking world hears you. 

“You’re tight,” he gasps, closing his eyes. “How are you s-so fucking—fuck tight?”

You don’t know if he really wants you to answer that, but the only thing you can do is bring him down to kiss you again, clashing teeth as you moan and cling to him. He breaks the kiss and buries his head in the crook of your neck, breathing heavily. His arms slide back down to grope your ass cheeks and lift your lower half up to meet more of his heavy and hurried thrusts. 

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he warns you in a moan. 

You kiss his neck while your hand slides down his back to grope at his ass—as if you can push him even more deeper inside of you—and you lick his earlobe, tugging at the end with your teeth until he shivers. 

“I want you to cum,” you whisper seductively in his ear. “Sergeant, please.”

Sergeant. Sergeant. You have no idea where it came from, but as soon as the words leave your mouth he growls and starts to plow you, fingers digging into your flesh as his hips snap into yours. 

“Shit. Oh fuck babygirl I can—I can’t.” His rhythm falters, your pussy fluttering and clenching around him, trying to get his cock to say within you after each delicious drag against your walls. He whines—a pitiful, deep whine that resonates throughout the shocked nerves—and you can’t—

“I’m cumming.” You manage to break out. “B-buck—fuck.”

Your ankles cross around his waist, and it takes his teeth in your neck to have you cry out onto the ceiling as your pussy pulses around him, sucking him in and clenching until your muscles feel spent and sore. 

“Oh God,” Bucky whimpers and it sends another wave through you, making him sputter and choke as his hips slam into you unevenly. “Shit shit, fuck.”

“Please baby.” You encourage softly. “Cum.”

He abruptly pulls out, your protest lodged in your throat as you feel the hot, thick ropes of cum spurt out onto your stomach. 

“Fuck, fuck.” Bucky continues to gasp, his hand flying to his weeping cock and fisting it. 

You moan as a few more land on your chest, painting your body with his pearly white cum; you know it’s over when he starts to slump. Without a second thought, he pushes back into you. “Bucky.” You can only say in slight confusion and pain.

“Sorry, I’m sorry I just—“ he winces as his hips connect with yours again. “—just wanna feel ya. Too good.” He slurs. 

He kisses you then, slow and unhurried unlike earlier. This kiss says so much more in its language, lost in the dance of your lips. He trails his lips up to your forehead and places the softest and faintest of kisses there before settling on your chest. 

You hum and rub his back soothingly. You’re both sweaty and sticky—Bucky doesn’t seem to mind this fact as he presses himself closer to you—and your body is satisfyingly numb and exhausted. Finally exhausted for what seems like ages. 

Once the haze evaporates from your mind, questions start flying: what does this mean for you and Bucky now? When and how do you tell the others? What does this mean for missions? What does—?  

“Stop thinking.” Bucky mumbles, voice covered by the breast he’s laid his head on. “Too loud.”

He’s right. This time, it can wait. 

You smile and whisper an apology, snuggling deeper into the hug. You try to get comfortable, but the sticky evidence is drying uncomfortably on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you sigh. “We gotta shower.”

You feel his nose squint. “Few more minutes.”

You fall asleep before those few minutes are up.

Tags: @scarlett-berserker​, @justlovetoreadfics​, @lil-baby27​, @mando-vibes​, @beepbeepyabitch, @that-void-witch​, @im-the-music-whore​, @certifiedhunter​, @softpedropascal​, @domino-oh-damn​​, @okaydacre​, @lemongrove​, @appreciating-chase-brody, @iwontforgettheapplepie, @mybabyboytony​, @olyamoriarty, @pcrushinnerd​, @elusive-ivory​, @dizzydazed​, @bluejeancntrygrl​, @dadzawas-eyebags​, @moonstruck-witchy @our-mrlangdon, @parody-the-emi​, @evalynanne​, @purplewaterbird​, @vikingqueen28​, @tedpicklez​, @blunt-cake-yes​, @agoldin​, @lustriix​, @readsalot73​, @kateb013​, @eupphoriaaa​, @imalovernotahater​, @everything-lost-and-unsaid​, @dlmafa1, @hoodedbirdie​, @drunkenliterary, @fioccodineveautunnale​​, @fangirlfree​, @amarvelousmandalorian​, @ironheart-hanako​, @sando-rann, @meganoid1997​, @adikaofmandalore​, @cahooter​, @charliepeaceout, @dreamgirl-67, @phoenixhalliwell​, @acrylics-and-sunshine​, @sunkissed-winter​

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Paul Higgs: Baby Daze

Tomorrow I will return you to your regularly scheduled whump programming. Today... this is what wanted to be written.

CW: Teen pregnancy, some crass language surrounding said pregnancy, brief gun reference, some organized crime references

Approximately eighteen years before Tristan Higgs became another casualty of WRU…

-

"Well, look who’s here! Billy Higgs’s boy, come to see us after school, then?" Sean Malley claps him on the back and Paul nearly stumbles forward, just barely catching himself as he crosses the threshold from the sun-warmed walkway with straggly weeds growing stubbornly up through the cracks into the chilly shadowed warehouse. His sneakers scrape along the ground, but he stays standing.

He's hardly even as big as a stick compared to his dad's work buddies, all older guys with thick muscled forearms and sleeves rolled up to their elbows. He’s never had much muscle on him at all, but then his dad didn’t have much in old photos either. Maybe he’d get some as he got older, if he worked here. If they let him. "How’s things, hm? Keeping your grades up?”

Paul smiles, a slightly strained expression. The smile is automatic, it’s what everyone expects with small talk. At school he mostly doesn’t even bother with it, but with his dad’s friends… well, a smile’s polite. Right? Friendly. 

He tries to look more friendly. He needs them to say yes to what he’s about to ask for.

“They’re fine,” He says, squinting as his eyes adjust to the change in light. “Same as always, A’s and B’s.”

Mostly B’s, but they don’t need to know that.

“Good, good.” Sean slides an arm around his shoulders, jovial as always. Paul tries not to be visibly uncomfortable at the touch. Everyone is always touchy, in the world, and he’s never liked it much. Except with Ronnie, but… that’s different. “So, talk to us, Paulie. What's got Billy’s boy mucking around here at the Garden with the old-timers?" 

It's not actually much of a garden, unless you count the dandelions in the sidewalks and the bits of scraggly grass along the edges of the pavement as your rows of plants. Instead, the big warehouse stretches wider than two Walmarts, chopped off into pieces by the standalone temporary walls inside that don't reach the ceiling. 

The ‘Garden’ is a place where things happen that no one with a badge is ever supposed to see. There's shouting, good-natured calling out of sums and figures and code words Paul doesn't know, bouncing and echoing in a constant chaos of sound. Metal scrapes, an odd clicking Paul vaguely recognizes but can’t quite place until he thinks of his dad cleaning his guns now and then at night, carefully putting them back together once he’s done. 

All that noise lays heavy like a blanket over his skin. He pushes past it - he's got a reason to be here, and he won't let Ronnie down. He can’t let her down.

"I'm here to work," He says, going for strong and loud. He doesn't change expression when the men around him laugh. 

He doesn't think their laughter is meant to be unkind, and besides, he doesn't really care if it is. These men have all known him since he was born - if anyone’s going to give him what he needs, it’ll be them. "My dad told me I could pick up some shifts this weekend as a lookout, that you pay cash at the end of the shift, right away. That I could get a couple hundred if I’m good at it, maybe five if I do some running, too.”

"Oh he said that, did he?" Sean meets eyes with Cilly, whose real name Paul has never learned. He isn’t entirely sure anyone here has ever given him their real legal name. Not even Sean. "Will might've let the family know first before he sent his boy here, hm? 

"Well, it's. It's important I get cash. Um. Fast. I just spoke to him, probably he'll call you in a bit thinking he's giving you a warning." Paul tries for another smile, and hopes it's warm enough. A bit of coppery strawberry blond hair falls over his green eyes as he looks hopefully from man to man. 

He's not even eighteen yet, but really, isn't that even better for a lookout? He knows where they do their business, he knows who to watch for, and he doesn’t look like he’s one of them at all. He's paid attention, sat up at night making maps of where they work and what they do. He knows they’ve gotten into business with WRU, even, the big Facility up in Berras has been sending people down here now and then. He’s good at this sort of thing. He knows he can do this. He’s going to make a living at this one day, and everyone starts somewhere.

He just… has to convince them. These men aren't unreasonable, and they're family. Well, sort of. In a way. In that they all commit crimes with his dad. And some of them actually are real family, although he’s not always sure exactly who.

"What d'you need cash for that can't wait for your parents to come back from Florida, then?" That's Cilly, scratching idly at a red spot on his face, sipping a mug of hot tea like they're at a kitchen counter and not a fold-out table by a warehouse door. The others all have takeout coffee cups, but not Cilly. 

Paul's mom buys him new mugs on all her vacations. A gentleman among thieves, she said once. 

Nah, Paul's dad had said. Just a thief. But he puts on airs for you. 

All the more reason to show him my appreciation, Bill. 

The mug he’s drinking from now was one of Paul’s mom’s presents to him. It has a little palmetto tree on the side and Nothin’ Could Be Finer written in swirling script. It came from a trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina when Paul was seven. 

He hated that trip. He never liked sand. Or the ocean. Or the noise of all the people everywhere in the street. He would have been happy with a book on the couch in the condo if they’d have let him stay there. 

"They're not in-"

"Think they're in Georgia," Conor pipes up, the oldest with hair gone nearly gray, cousins to the real boss, a man Paul has met maybe three times and knows only as Mr. Sondheim - which isn’t even a little bit his actual name. 

Conor makes Paul’s skin prickle, the way he thinks maybe a cat feels when it sees a mean-looking dog across the street. Paul's dad came home once with blood he had to wash off his hands and a shirt he had to throw out. When Paul asked, he said only, Conor's temper is going to get someone who matters killed one day. Too bad his grandson's as bad as he is. "Aren't they?"

"Nah," Sean says, shaking his head. "Florida. Definitely Florida."

"Actually," Paul starts. "They're in-"

"I thought Texas," Cilly says, almost thoughtful. He interrupts Paul thoughtlessly, and Paul’s face colors a little with embarrassment. He feels like the odd man out in a conversation meant to be about him. 

"They went to Alabama," Paul finally says, soft. Thinking no one’s listening, but they all look at him then. That's worse than when they weren't paying attention at all. He never meets any one person's eyes, instead focusing on Sean Malley's forehead, a spot that'll look like eye contact without having to be it. He's never liked having to look too many people in the eye. 

Or anyone, actually. 

"Ah, all right then. Alabama. Well. What couldn't wait for them to get back from Alabama, Paulie-Wol?"

No one's called him Paulie-Wol since he was eleven - and he hated it then. He blushes even darker. He's always been easy to make blush, and they laugh again. It's a little meaner this time. He has to not care. It’s important not to care, so they’ll let him work. 

Paul Higgs straightens his narrow shoulders and pulls a crumpled but of paper, shiny on one side, out from his back pocket. "This is why. I need money. Fast. For this."

He can't help how his voice dips, hushed, almost in awe. Sean is the first to take the little piece of paper, eyes widening in surprise at what he sees, before he hands it to Conor, who whistles through his teeth. Cilly takes it next, with a soft exhalation that's either curse or prayer. 

With this group, it could be either. Or both. Paul’s dad always says God doesn’t care overmuch about the difference.

"You're a bit young, aren't you? To need money for this?" Sean asks, and he's… concerned, Paul thinks, and he tries to square himself up even taller. “What’re you, Paulie, fifteen?”

"S-seventeen. It’s-... we didn’t plan on it, Sean, it just happened." This time when his face stays red, heat burning under the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose, they don't laugh. All their smiles are gone, too.

They've gone serious, these men who aren't quite blood but might as well be. They aren't laughing at or with or because of him. They look worried about him.

"Paulie," Conor says, shaking his head. "Paulie, you know better than this. Don't they teach you how to make sure this shit don't just happen? Thought we’d stop having teenagers knocking each other up once we got past the eighties.”

"They did. I had a whole health class where we-... but it doesn’t matter, it still. Happened, okay?" The absolute last thing he wants to do is talk to these old guys about Ronnie, and why, and when. If they ask him he’ll melt into the floor, and die, and just be dead right here and now.  

“So, when you say you need money… Are you looking to drive her up to Berras?”

“No, that’s not... We talked about it, but she said she already thought about it and made her decision. This isn’t… Don’t look at me like that. I like her decision. I’m happy.”

“You are?” Sean blinks, surprised.

“Yes! I'm happy, so don't tell me I fucked up, because I did. I know I did, but… but I talked to Ronnie, and we have a whole plan and I need money for my plan. And just. Look at it.”

Sean glances back down, taking the paper back, smoothing it out. Shiny on one side, it's a printed black and white image, a smeary blur of monochrome shades. Unmistakable in its center, more or less, is a gently rounded blob of white, topped with another and with other little blobs coming off its sides. Labeled along the top is Baby Botham, 14 weeks 3 days. 

“Botham?” Sean asks, head cocked to one side.

“That’s… that’s Ronnie’s last name. She, uh. She didn’t tell them… Because we’re not married.” Paul squares himself up again. “Yet. We’re not married yet.”

He tries not to think about Ronnie crying on his shoulder about how her parents and her sister had screamed at her when she told them, that no one was talking to her and they might throw her out, like this. His throat will close up if he does, in hurt for her, and in anger. 

His own parents he’d just told on the phone today, heard the long silence on the other end. Whispers that didn’t quite carry through the line. Then his mother had said, brisk and no-nonsense as always, So what does Ronnie want to do? We’ll help however we can. Will she need somewhere to stay?

“You’re not married yet,” Cilly repeats, not with derision, just with a kind of flat uncertainty. “You’re seventeen, Paulie. Little young to be talking marriage, don’t you think?”

“Well, we’re talking it, anyway,” Paul says firmly. “And don’t tell me it’s stupid. We already made our minds up.”

“Well, far be it for me to question your judgement,” Sean deadpans. “Since you’re clearly making excellent decisions already-”

“I got married at sixteen,” Conor points out. “Wife and I been married forty-two years this December, too. Sometimes it works out.”

“Different world, different times,” Cilly counters, and Conor has to nod in agreement to that. “Lots of those didn’t work out either, now did they? Besides, kids got options now we didn’t have back then.”

“Ronnie doesn’t want those other options,” Paul says, forcing his voice to be loud enough to carry, surprising all three men, who give him a new kind of look. Maybe even seeing him as nearly a man and not a kid, just for the moment. “She doesn’t. I never told her to do or not do anything, we talked about it, and she knows what she wants to do, and I agree with her. Ronnie and I want to get married, and we’ll need somewhere we can live when-... when the baby comes. So I need to start making money. And I want-... I need some fast, this weekend.”

Cilly’s expression goes cold. “Don’t tell me your folks are making you find a place that fast. I’ll take Billy to the woodshed myself if he’d be such a bastard to his own kid when things get tough-”

“He’s not,” Paul says quickly. “They’re not. Mom and Dad aren’t-... but they get it, they’re helping us. It’s not for an apartment, not yet. It’s so I can buy her some stuff.”

"This is a serious thing," Sean says, and he rubs his thumb over what Paul is pretty sure is his baby's head. The blobs are all sort of odd to look at, but… he's pretty sure that one's the head. It’s where he would put the head, if he were designing a person, anyway. "But I can see you’re quite the serious young man, now. What sort of stuff are you lookin’ to buy, Paulie?" 

Paul swallows, nervously rubbing his palms along the seems on the outside of his pants. “I… I don’t know. What do you buy someone who’s pregnant? I thought, like, baby clothes? Or a crib?”

“No, no, no.” Sean shakes his head. “You can’t just get her baby stuff, not this early. You are not starting with a crib, Paulie. You got nowhere to even put one yet.”

“Then… what do I buy?” Paul looks from man to man. “I’ve never known a pregnant person before, not anyone I cared about.”

“You were around for my wife’s last pregnancy,” Sean says, mildly offended.

Paul shrugs. 

The three older men look at each other, and then sigh nearly as one. Someone pushes out the fourth chair from the fold-up table and Paul sits, each of the other men sitting in turn. Sean picks up his phone and dials. “Hey, Don. Let everybody know we’re off-limits for the next couple hours, ‘til lunch. Yeah, Billy Higgs’s boy stopped by. He’s sniffing around for some lookout work this weekend. Find him some decent jobs for me, will you?”

Paul starts to smile, and it’s genuine this time. Sean hands him back the little picture of the blob that will become a baby, his and Ronnie’s baby, and he tries not to crumble it fully in his hands, worried his sweat will smear the ink. She’ll get another one in a few weeks, said her doctor told her it’ll look more like a person, then. Less like a weird frog. Or like a really, really bad painting.

“Thanks, I’ll owe you.” Sean hangs up the phone and grins, leaning on his elbows on the wobbly little table. The sun shines warmly through the open warehouse doors on Paul’s back. “All right. Between the three of us, we’ve got, what, ten kids?”

“Yeah, but five of those are all Cilly’s,” Conor points out. “And mine stopped bein’ kids decades ago.”

“Yeah, but babies don’t change, and they don’t need much. You need a pen and paper to write things down, Paulie?”

“Write… write what down?” 

“What you’re gonna spend your money on, for your girlfriend. You don’t just show up with baby clothes, kid, you gotta go all out. Let’s talk date, let’s talk gifts for this Ronnie, let’s talk it all out.”

“What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” Cilly says. “They all get that book, right? Isn’t that the one?”

Sean snorts, derisive. “Don’t get her that, not this early. That damn book had my wife in fucking tears telling her everything that could go wrong. We need to think of a happier book than that.”

“Well, call your wife and ask her what she’d want, then.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You should!”

“She’s liable to start planning a damn baby shower if I do. You know how Christa is about little ones.”

Cilly grins. “Think she’ll make those deviled eggs I like for the shower?”

“Cilly, for God’s sake, we found out about this five minutes ago.”

“Right, but... deviled eggs.”

Paul takes a deep breath, and sits back in his chair. “I’ll remember, whatever you say. I promise. I don’t need to write it down. Just tell me what I should get her, what I should do.”

“Right. Well, then.” Sean spreads his hands. “Let’s talk gifts.”

-

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump  , @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump ,  @whump-tr0pes  @downriver914 @vickytokio @whumpiary @orchidscript @moose-teeth @nonsensical-whump

[liliesoftherain]

Still Remember

Pairing: Tenya Iida x Reader, Hinted Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

Genre: Angst, Angst to Fluff?, Healing

Summary: You still remember how it all happened.

A/N: Hey guys! This is for my MHA & Readers discord server collab! Hope you enjoy, the prompt was rejection;-;

Masterlist for the works coming out tomorrow!

You still remember how cold it was that evening.

The way your breath made visible as little white puffs, or how the frost clung to the sides of the dorm building. You weren’t wearing the proper jacket to be out in this kind of cold, yet here you were, facing harsh winds instead of being snuggled into your cotton sheets. 

You still remember the scolding he gave you.

The way he pursed his lips at the poor excuses that flew from your mouth, how he scolded you for not taking better care of yourself. He brought his hand up, palm open as he lightly tapped your head, faking a chop with a chuckle leaving his lips at your embarrassed expression. He shrugged his sweater off, and you did all you could to fight him on it, but the words failed you as soon as you saw his smile.

You still remember how the polyester felt upon your skin.

The way it engulfed your frame was comforting, the warmth instantly thawing your frozen features. His smell lingered on the fabric, filling your senses, and instantly soothing all of your worries. Iida had grabbed your wrist gently, rolling up the pooling sleeves so they rested above your hands. You blamed the cold for the roses that bloomed along your face.

You still remember how that was the past and how the past meant nothing. 

That one moment had taken over your mind, thoughts on a constant loop as you laid awake. Even when asleep, your dreams were taken over by soft smiles and warm zip-up sweaters. However, no matter how much it had meant to you, you were sure it was nothing more than a kind gesture to him. 

You still remember every day after.

Iida wasn’t a touchy person, so the little things he did made an impact on you. The way opened your doors, the way he spoke to you with a smile, the way he took it upon himself to make sure you were taken care of, the lingering touches and caring stares had to have meant something to him. It couldn’t have just been a kind gesture, there had to have more meaning behind it.  Right?

You still remember the day you confided to someone about your feelings.

Bringing your crush up to Mina was probably not the best idea, not with the way she schemed. Yet you had to get it off your chest, the dam was threatening to burst at any moment you feared, and you’d rather spill the news on your terms rather than through word vomit. She helped you through it all, pushing you in the right direction to get it off your chest and out into the open. Which was what planned to do, the longing glances and minimal conversations weren’t cutting it anymore. You wanted the late-night talks about everything and anything, the company you could provide each other, the warmth of his sweater again.

You still remember the day you decided to risk it all.

You told Mina it was the day, that enough was enough and you had to let him know no matter the outcome. She was ecstatic of course, wishing you all the luck before practically shoving you off to track him down. You wanted until later that day, when most of your classmates were training or in their rooms before the last meal of the day. Iida was on dinner duty, currently alone in the kitchen as he prepared food. Midoriya, who was supposed to be his partner for the night, nowhere in sight. You greeted him casually, heart fluttering at the sight of his smile. A million thoughts passed through your mind, all regarding the brilliant boy in front of you. 

You still remember the hurt of his rejection. 

As soon as the words slipped from your mouth, the smile you grew to love was instantly gone. As soon as the silence stretched you knew it was all over, and you desperately tried to take back the words you said. 

“(l/n)..”

The way he said your name broke your heart, just that one word and that was it. Any hopes of you together were shattered, all you could do was bow your head and mutter a small apology. His hand came out to you, yet he instinctively took it back, only whispering an apology of his own. You step back, unable to look him in the eyes, before turning around. Stepping out of the kitchen was no better, running straight into a chest. You look up to see emeralds full of pity, belonging to none other than Midoriya himself. You bite your lip harshly at the stare, shoving past him as he makes no effort to stop you. 

You still remember the tears.

Rushing to Mina’s room that night was the only conclusion you came to, not wanting to be alone. You didn’t bother knocking, and slammed the door open, having startled the occupants inside. Your attention locked on the person you needed most, and you ignored the others who watched as you rushed into her arms. Your cries were soft-- no ugly sobs, no breathless hiccups, just burning tears trailing down your cheeks one by one. Her arms surrounded you, rubbing your back in hopes to soothe you. The tension in the room only grew thicker as a gruff voice spoke out;

“Who the fuck made you cry.” 

You still remember her in his sweater.

A week after the incident, you stepped out of the dorms to run. To run from your pain, your feelings, to run from it all. It wasn’t fair he got to walk around as if nothing happened, you were determined to get there too. Just as you finished stretching, you look up and felt yourself freeze. It was spring now, the chilly nights turning more and more comfortable as time went on. A light throw-over was all that was needed, so why was she wearing his sweater now?

The sleeves were rolled up past her hands, just like they were for you. The fabric practically swallowed her frame, just as it did to you. The rubies on her cheeks shone brightly, the pearls of her teeth sparkling just as much. She looked happy.

It hurt, the way the weight on your chest doubled, and you felt the air escape your lungs. She saw you and waved, stopping in front of you to talk. You couldn’t hear the words she spoke, too focused on the way her light brown locks rested along his collar perfectly. Or how the color complimented her large, round eyes. She looked good, in his clothes, and yet all you wanted was to be the one in his sweater. 

You excused yourself, leaving with a light jog before sprinting away, running away from the image of her bringing a crisp sleeve up to her dainty mouth--

A mouth you’re sure he’s explored. 

Finally, for the first time since it happened, loud and painful sobs escaped your lips. 

You still remembered watching them together till the end.

You had finally graduated U.A., going off to an agency had been easy enough. The days were long and challenging, but you lived for the distraction. It was getting better, the pain in your chest growing smaller each day you spent apart from the couple you used to live with. The awkward air between both of you never fully went away, and you lost a once close friend. 

Even so, you were learning how to be happy with yourself.. Feeling proud when you have to work alongside one of them, and the squeeze of your heart dulls with each visit. 

You still remember waking up and he wasn’t the first thing on your mind.

The day had started like any other, and you almost didn’t notice how your thoughts hadn’t drifted towards the hero. A tear of happiness fell from your eye as you realize, and at that moment you knew it was possible. That it was possible to forget, it was possible to move on, it was possible to love someone other than him.

You still remember loving another.

Finally, your thoughts lingered on the man who only thought of you. Your arms wrapped around a man whose embrace was meant for you. Your eyes trained on the man whose fiery red gaze only sought to find your frame. You felt peace, and you were glad it was him who was there with you every step of the way. 

You still remember a lot of things,

and you wish to never forget them. They have made you into who you are today, and without them, you wouldn’t have been able to find the brilliant sun behind the clouds. As you lay in your lover’s warm embrace, you know you would go through the heartbreak all over again just to find him. 

In a way, you suppose you were thankfully for Iida’s rejection. Without that, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have been with the love of his life, and you wouldn’t have been able to marry yours. 

Sometimes fate has a funny way of working; a seemingly never-ending current dragging you to the bottom, trying to drown you in its lies and pain. Only to have you stop struggling and raise you back to the surface, right into the shores of warm beaches and breathtaking sunsets. 

You will live to see another beautiful day, as long as you remind yourself the murky waters won’t last forever.

[boxoftheskyking]

Something Good, Part Twelve

I decided to end the chapter here for the moment because it got kind of long

Also there are only like 3 sets in this piece because we are on a BUDGET so everything happens in the laundry yard. Sorry take it up with the finance department

In which there is a Party (Also self-worth doesn’t come from rich people)

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven

Engagement celebrations are not traditional in Gusu, but they are in Qishan, and the husband’s family are responsible.

“So, basically, His Excellency is demanding the Lan Sect throw him a party,” Wei Wuxian says. “That sounds like Wen Ruohan.”

“Oh, yes, Wei Ying,” Wang Xiaolu teases, flicking water at him from where she’s kneeling on the paving stones. “You know everything about the noble houses! You are so worldly!”

“Aiyah, Lulu!” Wei Wuxian starts chasing after her with his broom.

“Children!” Madam Xiao shouts, wagging a gnarled finger at them.  “You will have plenty of time for nonsense once the celebration has come and gone. I may not know everything about the noble houses, but I will not be the housekeeper that lets dust collect on His Excellency’s hem.”

All of the disciples are practicing a demonstration for the honored guests, so their lessons stretch late into the evening. The little ones seem delighted to be in classes with their older cousins and siblings, taking their roles very seriously even though they’re mainly tasked with holding supplies and staying out of the way.

Wei Wuxian tries to steal time here and there to watch them practice, giving them giant smiles and exuberant applause for every skill performed. Lan Wangji stands next to him, and Wei Wuxian could swear he sees the corner of his mouth twitch. Every time it happens he cheers louder.

But the result of all the cleaning, cooking, and other preparations is that Wei Wuxian barely has any time with the children. He makes sure they’re fed, washed, and in bed by nine, but there’s very little play time. 

He’s hemming some new robes for the Sect Leader—he’s still quite proud of his new sewing skills, so he’d begged Lan Biming for the job—when Lan Wangji stops by the laundry yard.

“Wei Wuxian.”

“Hey, Master Lan! Check out these stitches. Have you seen anything straighter?”

Lan Wangji actually comes over to crouch next to Wei Wuxian where he’s spread out on the ground, carefully lifting the fabric and looking intently at the fresh hem.

“It is very fine work.”

“Thank you!”

Lan Wangji stays crouched next to him for a moment, saying nothing. Wei Wuxian carefully ties off his thread and folds up the robes before turning to him.

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Are you just visiting the laundry yard to get away from the preparations? I imagine Lan Qiren is as demanding as ever.”

“Uncle is— This is the first major event held at the Cloud Recesses since the ambush. The first under Lan Xichen’s leadership. Everyone is taking it very seriously.”

Wei Wuxian salutes him, the effect somewhat ruined by the way his trousers are riding up on his legs, his knobby knees sticking out.

“I wonder, if you have time, if you could take the junior disciples to the back hill for a while this afternoon.”

“To see the bunnies? Of course! Are they finished with rehearsal?”

“Uncle would like to continue working with everyone, but I think it would be best if the younger ones departed for a short while.”

“They need a break, huh?”

Lan Wangji nods.

“I’d be delighted! Just let me get these robes to Master Lin and I’ll be over.”

Lan Wangji is, as usual, correct. As soon as they leave the main compound, half of the kids go absolutely wild, running and screaming and rolling down the hill.

“Hey, watch it! You’re not wearing your play clothes today, and the Grandmaster will have all the hair off my head if you get grass stains on your nice robes!”

Lan Ting flops down into the grass. “Wei-qianbei, will you please cover me with rabbits? I am so tired and my brain is so confused, I just need to be covered with rabbits.”

Wei Wuxian laughs and straightens the boy’s robes over his legs. “Feifei, Yixian, come help me catch some rabbits to bury your cousin.”

He sits down in the midst of them all and lets himself enjoy the shift in energy. He likes the other servants quite a bit, and they like him more than they used to, but it’s nothing like being in this crowd of wild, chubby-cheeked troublemakers.

Lan Jingyi comes up behind him and leans against his shoulder. “I miss you, Wei-qianbei,” he says and he tucks his arms around Wei Wuxian’s neck.

“Ah, Jingyi, I still see you every day.”

“But not all of the day.”

“No, because I have work to do. Don’t you want to be proud of the Cloud Recesses when all the other clans come to visit? It must be sparkling clean! It should be as shining in the sun as if a fresh layer of snow has fallen over the whole mountain!”

“But you’re my Wei-qianbei, and I need you to play with me.” 

Wei Wuxian hauls him over into his lap. “How about a nice cuddle now instead?”

“Okay. Can you cuddle me and I cuddle a rabbit?”

“Yes, of course.”

All in all, it’s the nicest day he’s had all week.

The day before the other sects are to arrive, Lan Wangji comes back to find him in the laundry yard where he’s wolfing down dinner, grateful for ten minutes of quiet. It’s going to rain, which makes him rather resent the time he’d spent mopping down the entry stairs. Half of his hair is falling out of his topknot and whipping around his face, getting into his bowl, striping chilli oil across his cheek.

It seems unreal that the day is almost upon them. He has been carefully not thinking about what will happen when the sects begin arriving, trying to keep his thoughts blank and focus on cleaning this stone, chopping this turnip, carrying this child. Nothing beyond.

“Wei Wuxian.”

“There’s no one else here,” he says, with his mouth full.

“Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan.”

Surprisingly, Lan Wangji comes over and sits next to him on the bench. He’s warm, noticeably so in the chill. On a normal day, he thinks that would hold his attention; he’d be hyper aware of the solidness of Lan Wangji’s shoulder, how he warms Wei Wuxian’s arm down to the elbow. But today his mind is empty, wind whistling through.

“Wei Ying. Tomorrow the sects arrive. It will not be the largest gathering, but all of the leaders will attend. That means Wen Ruohan. And also Jiang Wanyin.”

Wei Wuxian shoves in another mouthful, nodding.

“Are you—” Lan Wangji sighs, frustrated. Wei Wuxian chews and lets him think.

“Is there an assignment,” Lan Wangji says, slowly, “that would make the next few days easier for you?”

Wei Wuxian swallows, wipes his mouth. “How do you mean?”

Lan Wangji glares, slightly. “It will be best for everyone if you are out of the way of Wen Ruohan, to avoid any unnecessary disruption. But if you’d like to see Jiang Wanyin, you could—I don’t know—tidy the guest rooms where he is staying.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“If I want to see him. If I can see him.” Wei Wuxian puts down his bowl. “Is— Do you know if my sister . . .”

“I don’t. I haven’t heard who is attending.”

Wei Wuxian nods, looks up at the sky. It starts to rain, spitting down on him.

“I will instruct Lin Biming to assign you wherever is easiest,” Lan Wangji says.

“Probably best if I keep out of the way, don’t you think?” Wei Wuxian closes his eyes against the rain. When he opens them, Lan Wangji is gone.

---

He ends up on dish duty, which is fine. He’s only crossed paths with visiting servants so far, and most of them don’t give him a second glance. 

He’s clearing the tea service from a private meeting room when he sees Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian is inside, and his brother walks by the open door. He’s in his customary purple, but with a golden sash which seems to pay homage to Lanling Jin. Wei Wuxian sets his tray down silently and moves to the door, watching him as he turns into another pavilion.

He seems thinner than Wei Wuxian remembers, his jaw possibly sharper. My, Jiang Cheng, is Shijie not feeding you?

When he’s out of sight, Wei Wuxian sinks down onto his heels, leaning against the wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. I thought I’d feel it, he thinks to himself, trying to drown out the buzzing in his ears. Shouldn’t I be able to feel it when he’s near? Shouldn’t he feel me?

But he doesn’t rise, chase after him, call his name. He breathes until his hands quit shaking, then he gathers up the tea tray and goes back to the kitchens.

He manages to stay safely out of the way for the first two days, but on the third he decides to risk discovery to watch the children perform their demonstration. He sneaks in the back of the crowd, head tucked down and hands occupied with the small kettle of tea that is his excuse for being there in the first place. He can’t quite relax without being in danger of burning himself, but it’s helpful to remain alert.

Wen Qing is seated near Wen Ruohan, shimmering gold headpiece and even more intricately embroidered robes than usual. Jiang Cheng is at the side of the room farthest away from the door, seated with Jin Zixuan and Jin Guangshan. Jin Guangshan leans over and says something to him, and a polite smile flashes across his face. It looks unnatural. Wei Wuxian shifts so that he’s blocked by another servant. Yanli is not there.

Wen Qing looks around as the disciples enter and catches his eye. She’s made up in a way he’s never seen before, looking more like a delicate flower than the solid oak he knows her to be. She gives him a little smile before turning back to watch the children.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t honestly pay a lot of attention to the demonstration. It’s not that it hurts, he tells himself, to watch young people reveling in their spiritual power, tossing it around like it’s nothing, like it’s never-ending. It’s just that he’d rather watch his children, see who stands properly still, who’s fidgeting, who misses their cue and has to scramble across the stage. Normally he’d cheer and whoop and shout out each name, but he just claps politely and grins at the ones who spot him.

After the demonstration, it’s time to serve more tea. He tries to be clever and serve some low ranking member of a minor sect who may not recognize him, but he gets turned around in the shuffle and ends up standing beside Wen Chao. After the first pour he doesn’t look up, but Wei Wuxian feels himself begin to sweat, like an animal stuck inside a trap in the moment before the net pulls tight. They’ll need to pour at least three more cups to cover all of the toasts.

The first toast, proposed by Wen Ruohan, is dedicated to the hosts in Gusu Lan. The second—Wei Wuxian’s hands only shake a bit as he pours—goes to the happy couple, Lan Wangji and Wen Qing. Lan Wangji has taken his place with the other members of his sect following the demonstration, so all eyes scan across the room between him and Wen Qing. Wei Wuxian braces himself, but their gazes just slide over him.

For the next toast, Jin Guangshan speaks up.

“Honored sects, it is Lanling Jin’s great happiness to announce the engagement of my son and heir, Jin Zixuan, and the sister of our loyal ally, Jiang Wanyin. The wedding will take place in one year, and will bind Lanling Jin and Yunmeng Jiang together in the bonds of family.”

He nods to Jiang Cheng, who straightens. “Yunmeng Jiang is honored to join with Lanling Jin, and my sister is blessed with a fine husband-to-be.” He looks around, awkwardly, then finishes with “We are very happy.” He even smiles.

The handle of the kettle creaks in Wei Wuxian’s grip. How dare he, he thinks. They won’t even say her name, like she’s just an object, or an animal changing ownership. Like she’s a treaty to be signed.

He pours the last cup, and his hands shake, sloshing tea over the side.

“Aiyah, you fool!” Wen Chao yells. He yanks back his sleeve and glares up at him. So does everyone else.

Wei Wuxian freezes and stares down at the ground, hoping they just see the grey uniform and topknot, no one worth noticing.

“Wei Wuxian,” Wen Chao says at top volume, anger transforming into delight in an instant. “Of course it would be you. Look, this demon tried to burn me.”

The room explodes into noise, murmurs and scoffs and whispers and even a few bursts of laughter. Wei Wuxian can’t help himself, he looks up directly at Jiang Cheng. His brother’s eyes are fiery, jaw clenched and hand on the hilt of his sword. For a moment the rest of the room fades away and Wei Wuxian almost speaks, almost says his name. Jiang Cheng looks away.

Wei Wuxian feels an insistent hand on his elbow and lets himself be tugged backward.

“Come on, Wei Ying,” Lin Biming says in his ear. “Give the kettle to Xiaolu and go.”

The kettle is gone—he doesn’t notice it happening, just the sudden absence of weight, and then suddenly he is outside under grey sky with his hands pressed hard against his middle. He doesn’t realize he’s not alone until he feels hands on his shoulders.

“That’s it, breathe. You’re all right, boy, just breathe.” Lin Biming tugs him gently down the walkway until the uproar from inside fades into nothing more than rising and falling tones.

“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian forces out, all air.

“No, don’t worry. It’s all right.”

“I just wanted to see . . . I wanted to . . .”

“I know, it’s all right. I should have protected you.”

Wei Wuxian looks up, startled. Lin Biming’s red face is all concern, and though his features aren’t the same, he looks so much like Uncle Jiang it’s difficult not to lean in and rest his cheek against the man’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to—”

“That’s my job, to protect you all.”

Wei Wuxian gives in and hugs him, earning a small grunt of surprise. It’s like hugging a tree trunk, but eventually he feels a gentle pat in the center of his back. Despite everything, it does actually make him feel better.

Lin Biming leaves, flustered, and Wei Wuxian wanders somewhat aimlessly back to the kitchen. He feels naked, like he’s been stripped in the middle of Caiyi Town, left standing on his own with nothing between him and the wind.

Time passes, somehow. People move around him, shifting him gently into a corner so they can clean the dishes, start preparing dinner. A few folks pat his cheek, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, squeeze his shoulder. Part of him—most of him—feels it like embers inside him, like something that will become a warm and comforting fire when he can pull the lid off and expose it to air. 

Dinner is served without him. He stays in the laundry yard, grateful to find a torn bedsheet on the line that’s been left for later. He stitches as the sun goes down, slow, deliberate, each stitch exact in length and straightness. It’s almost becoming hard to see when Wen Qing finds him.

“Jiang Wanyin asked me if I knew where you were,” she says, evenly.

Wei Wuxian tucks the needle into the fabric and joins her where she’s leaning against the stone wall.

“To make sure I stay out of sight, I suppose. Out of trouble.”

“He wants to see you.”

“What are you doing, talking to strange men at your own engagement party? Have some shame, Lady Wen.”

“Wei Ying.”

He turns and rests his forehead on her shoulder. “I can’t. I can’t see him. I can’t.”

“How long has it been?”

“He was at the trial. I can’t face him after that. You don’t know what it’s like, watching him just sit there—”

“Watching the people who are supposed to be my family sit in silence while Wen Ruohan decides my future for me, separates me from my brother and everyone I know to fill a role I never wanted and don’t belong in? Clearly I have no idea what that is like.”

Wei Wuxian groans. “I know. I know. I just can’t. The way he sat there and talked about Shijie, like she’s nothing. I expect it from Wen Ruohan, not from Jiang Cheng. Before— When we were together he hated Jin Zixuan as much as I did. Now, he announces their engagement and he smiles? Truly, anyone can be bought.” 

“He does what he has to do.”

“So do you, but you don’t smile about it.”

Wen Qing shoves him off her shoulder. “I’m clearly not performing as well as I thought. Wei Ying, you have to understand. Wanyin and Yanli had nothing when the Jins took them in. Jiang Wanyin approves of Jin Zixuan because he protects her.”

“He doesn’t protect her. Jin Guangshan and his money protect her.”

“He protects her from Jin Guangshan.”

It takes a moment to hit him, then he hits the wall. He doesn’t notice he’s done it until the skin on his knuckle splits.

“Fuck!” he punches again, smearing a line of blood across the stone. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” As he strikes again and again, a thin stream of black smoke emerges from between his fingers.

Wen Qing grabs his arms. “Stop it!”

“Fuck!” he shouts again, fighting her. But he’s not strong enough; he couldn’t overpower her if he wanted to. Not without Chenqing, not without summoning more than he can handle. “Fucking useless,” he breathes, dropping his forehead against the wall, hard.

“It’s all right. She’s under Jin Zixuan’s protection, no one will touch her.”

He whirls on her. “What about those that aren’t? Would I be protected in Lanling? Someone like me?”

“You’re not really Jin Guangshan’s taste.”

“Wen Qing.”

“There’s nothing to be done. Someday Jin Zixuan will take over and things will be better.”

“That’s not good enough. I hate this. I hate this. I didn’t know it would be like this. I never thought the power mattered, but to just sit and watch— ”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“Wei Ying, what’s my fucking name? Of course I know what it’s like to be powerless, to sit and watch. But we don’t sacrifice ourselves if there’s no chance of success. We don’t waste our lives on battles we can’t win.”

“Fuck.”

“Calm down, all right? Sit down, come on.”

Wei Wuxian leans against her side and breathes, eyes closed. Lifts one hand on an inhale, breathes out, pushing away. I am glad for . . . I am grateful for . . . I have . . . I . . .

It takes a few minutes, but his heart rate slows, the red recedes from the corners of his vision. His hands are clear, no black smoke.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“She shouldn’t have to marry him just for that. That shouldn’t be enough.”

“Everyone pays for protection, Wei Ying. Even you.”

“You mean serving the Lans? That’s not payment.”

“Not people. Are you saying there wasn’t a cost? For feeling powerful again, feeling whole?”

Wei Wuxian nods. “It never felt whole. It just wasn’t empty.”

Wen Qing pulls a jar of salve and roll of bandages out of her bag and starts treating his hand.

“Even in your engagement robes, you’re always ready.”

“Wen Ruohan can make me what he wants on the outside, he has no power over anything else.”

Wei Wuxian grins at her, then hisses at the sting. “Ah, Wen Qing, it may not be your first choice, but I am so glad you are here. And that if you have to marry someone you don’t want to, it’s someone in Cloud Recesses.”

Wen Qing ties off the bandage but keeps a hold of his hand. “It could be worse.”

Wei Wuxian gasps in mock indignation. “You’re marrying Lan Wangji, and that’s the best you’ve got? It could be worse?”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes, but stays with him and watches the shadows lengthen. 

“I need to go back,” she says finally, rising and brushing off her robes. “Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen will be playing music tonight. You’ll be able to hear from outside. It may do you some good.”

“I do miss music,” he says, walking her to the entryway. “I really could play. Remember? Those weeks we were together, you’d work and I would play?”

“You’ll play again.” She gives him half a smile and leaves. 

He goes back to his torn sheet, folding it neatly until he begins to hear a guqin—faint, but pure, calling him out of the yard, pulling him along like a tide.

Part Thirteen

[willow-salix]

(Fluffember Prompt : Picnic)

Day 5 of Isolation on Tracy Island 2.0

“Are you going to eat all that yourself?” Gordon asked as he sidled up to me in the kitchen. I was making noodles, nice, simple, stir fried noodles, a little bit of chicken, some veg and a sweet and sour dippy sauce. Lush.

“No,”  I answered. There was clearly far too much for me to eat alone, I had a Space Hubby around here somewhere… or possibly up there somewhere, it was hard to tell.

“Oh, cool, can I ha-”

“No.”

Cue the pout, the epic Gordo pout. I am immune. I never thought I would ever be able to say that, but I’ve grown stronger, more able to resist the bottom lip of doom. Just about. I remember that I tried that once with John, and his exact words had been “Don’t even try, that won’t work on me, I’m immune, I have two younger brothers.” I’d thought his confident speech had been all bravado and false hope, but he might have actually been telling the truth, my pouts rarely worked on him and the ones that the terrible two dished out never did. Was my man secretly a god? I mean, I thought so, I’d seen him with his top off, but maybe, just maybe he had hidden talents. Hmmm…

“You’ve got that look on your face again.”

“What look?” I asked, needing to clarify his meaning so I could decide if I needed to be insulted or not.

“The one you get when you’re staring at John or that guy from that old TV show, the Scottish one with the time travel.”

“Jamie Fraser is the most perfect of men, he is the ultimate in husband goals, he is…” I trailed off and shrugged. “I obviously have a thing for hot redheaded men.” 

“Urghh,” he made a face similar to the one that Scott made when Alan shoved his shoe under his nose last week. Like he wanted to throw up but wasn’t sure which way to aim.

“Why are you in here anyway?” I asked. “Was it just so you could bug me and judge me? I’m busy here, I’m trying to cook.”

He snorted, a scoffing little noise that was quite rude.

“What now?” I sighed.

“Cooking isn’t that hard.”

“Oh really? Then why is it that barely anyone in this house seems to be capable of it? It’s not just a case of grabbing some random ingredients, tossing them in a pot with a prayer for luck and you’re good to go.”

He declined to comment and wandered off without another word. I should have been terrified, but my bean sprouts were trying to burn so I pushed it aside to worry about later. That was my first dumb move.

My second dumb move was to actually leave the comfort of the couch and John’s recently vacated warm spot.

“What the everloving crap was that?” I yelped when a loud crash sounded from the kitchen below us. I poked John gently when he failed to react. “Did you hear that?”

“Since I’m not deaf, it would have been impossible for me not to,” he casually swiped something away on his tablet and started reading again.

“What did they do?” 

“And since I do not, in fact, have the ability to see through walls, I don’t know.”

“Go and find out.”

You’d have thought I was asking him to go shopping with me again.

“I don’t think so, you go.”

“They’re your brothers.”

“You’re the one that cares.”

“They’re your brothers,” I repeated.

He gave me that look of his that promises retribution as I rolled sideways to let him get up, rolling back to steal his spot the second he moved. I dragged his blanket over my knees (I’m feeling chilly today) and stole his tablet to watch videos on as he walked away. 

I got so engrossed, having fallen down a hole of cute hamster videos, that I didn’t realise for a full twenty minutes that John had failed to return. I had sudden and very detailed visions of my poor boy hogtied and left baking in the sun or some such nonsense. I unwrapped myself from my blanket burrito and started my very slow and reluctant walk towards the kitchen. 

“What are you doing?” I yelled the second I rounded the corner, entered the room and saw the scene before me. They all froze guiltily, including John, who was at that very second groping blindly around in the pantry. And when I say blindly, I mean it literally, he was wearing a blindfold that by the looks of it, had been made by them tying my shawl around his head. I don’t know what they were thinking, if anything I’m a little surprised that I’ve never seen smoke coming out of their ears when their two remaining brain cells rub together to give them an idea.

The other idiots were all standing around in various places, standing guard over small piles of produce like dragons over their gold. 

“What the hell is going on in here? And how the hell have you roped him in?”

“Hang on, he’s got twenty more seconds yet,” Alan told me, clicking a button on his comm again. “Go!”

John resumed his digging around, knocking over two jars of mustard and an open packet of pasta which poured out like a carby waterfall. He ignored it.

“Gordon?” I turned to the likely culprit.

“Why are you picking on me?” he asked innocently. "Why do you always assume it's my doing?" 

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that you had nothing to do with this?  Whatever this actually is.”

“We’re having a picnic,” Virgil told me.

“It’s blindfolded kitchen shopping,” Kayo elaborated. I switched my glare to her, she was involved, I could tell, mostly because she still had one of her workout head wraps around her neck and had her own pile of goodies on the counter in front of her.

“It was Scott’s idea,” Alan piped up, throwing his brother under the bus. “Time!”

John dropped the item in his left hand, retaining the one in his right and backed out of the pantry. He pulled off his blindfold and gathered up his treasures, a bag of donuts, a can of whipped cream and in his hand a tin of spaghetti hoops.

“What was Scott’s idea?”

“Well, when you told me that cooking was easy-” 

“I said no such thing. I told you that it wasn’t as simple as just bunging some ingredients in a…” I trailed off, I could already see where this was going and I wasn’t impressed.

“Exactly, throw some ingredients together and make food. Easy.”

“Not easy,” I insisted.

“So I happened to mention it to Scott, who said that he agreed, you can make anything if you’re creative enough-”

“You should not be learning from the Grandma Tracy school of cookery!”

“The rules are simple,” Gordon continued as if I had never spoken. “One minute to select three ingredients, all of which must be used in the finished dish. You’re allowed to add two more ingredients to aid the construction but that’s all. You can do whatever you want with what you have, be as elaborate or as simple as you like. You must taste your own dish, as does everyone else when everything will be shared as a picnic.”

He looked so damned proud of himself, the little snot.

“How did the rest of you numpties get involved in this?” I sighed, knowing I was beaten. No one answered me. Giving up, my blanket nest calling me, I retreated towards the door.

“Do you want to join in?” Virgil asked innocently.

“No, I really don’t.”

“Do you not have as much faith in your cooking skills as we do in ours?” Alan teased. 

I paused in the doorway.

“Dare you, unless you’re scared,” Kayo threw in, just to stir the pot.

“Dammit!” She knew exactly what she was doing, I can NEVER resist a dare.

“Gimme a blindfold.”

Alan tossed me his, which I think was a football sock, but I didn’t want to look at it too closely, I just prayed it was clean. I tied it around my head and Scott checked to make sure I couldn’t see anything. I don’t know what he did, because obviously I couldn’t see anything, but it made a few of them snigger, so I’m obviously suspicious.

Alan started the timer and I groped my way around the table to the fridge.

“Forty-five seconds!”

Crap! This was actually pretty stressful. How did you pick something without seeing it? I decided to stick to one place and hope for the best, open the fridge, feel around, grab some bits, done! Right?

Easier said than done when you have recently gone shopping, the fridge is packed to bursting and you can’t tell what anything is.

“John! Grab this!” I demanded as Alan happily started counting down from twenty as my time ticked away. I grabbed something small and weird, no idea what it was and tossed it over my shoulder in what I guessed was his general direction, hoping he caught it.

I fumbled around and selected something round and cold, that I hoped might be a tomato and held that out too, then in desperation I yanked out a random box just as Alan called time.

I pulled off my blindfold and looked at the things John was holding for me, which turned out to be an apple and a tiny radish. I was holding a carton of eggs. Could have been worse.

“Let the food prep begin,” Gordon declared. “No helping each other.”

Sighing I got to work. Obviously, eggs would be my main ingredient, I cracked four into a bowl and whisked them together. 

“Do we have to use all of the ingredients we picked out?” I asked.

“Yes, every one.”

“No, I meant do I have to use the entire apple or the entire box of eggs,” I clarified.

“Oh, no you don’t, it just has to have them in there.”

“Cool, OK, and we get two extra ingredients of our choice?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.” That was me sorted then. I grabbed a grater and shredded a quarter of the apple and less than an eighth of the tiny radish. I wasn’t a big fan of those spicy little buggers, I don’t like pepper and they definitely have a peppery quality to them, but I was hoping the sweetness of the apple would balance it out.

I opened the fridge again and selected some cheese which I shredded and some ham, chopping it up quite fine. That would do.

I set a pan on the stove top and waited for it to heat up.

“Do I get to use any kind of oil or something to stop my food sticking?” I asked.

The ringleaders, Gordon and Scott, looked at each other, obviously indulging in some kind of non-verbal conversation I wasn't privy to before making their decision.

“Yes you can,” Scott graciously allowed.

“Thank you.” I dumped in a generous knob of butter. Quickly I sloshed the eggs into the pan, and fluffed them up a little with a fork before I turned the heat down a bit and let them sizzle.

I glanced over at Alan who was constructing something with jam and a pile of cookies. Scott was wrestling with a can of tuna and Gordon was opening a carton of custard.

I sprinkled a little of the apple on top of the egg, then a tiny dusting of radish, followed by a large handful of cheese and ham. I eased the sides of my omelette away from the pan, making sure it wasn’t sticking and checking it was cooking.

John, I noticed, was doing something weird with a lettuce leaf that he had procured from somewhere, it was not one of his blindfolded items so he must have gotten it after. He had the leaf stretched over a small bowl and was spooning a tiny amount of the tinned spaghetti into it. Sometimes I wonder why I agreed to marry into this family. I must have been drunk.

I carefully folded my omelette in half and turned the heat off, letting it rest and continue cooking a little.

“I’m done,” I declared, turning around to survey the chaos that had become our kitchen. Oh the humanity. I would NOT be cleaning this up.

Alan, it transpired, had blindly chosen cookies, cheese slices and curry sauce left over from some McDonald’s nuggets I got a few weeks ago, bringing them and other goodies with me in the space elevator. His extras appeared to involve pilfering a few of the McVities digestive biscuits that I’d brought from home the day I arrived that Kayo had chosen in her blind scrabble around the snack cupboard. 

He’d proceeded to make a weird stacked thing he was calling a cookie burger which consisted of a cookie base, a layer of jam on top of that, the digestive and lastly a slice of cheese with a drizzle of curry sauce on top.

Gordon was constructing something very elaborate, involving a bowl and lots of layers. His random items appeared to be the custard, half a vanilla sponge cake and a tub of left over chili. My mind was boggling. 

Scott was hacking at a rather stale looking half loaf of bread that John said he found in the rarely used bread bin, I don't know how he'd managed to open the bread bin without seeing it, but apparently he had. He'd also blindly chosen a can of Tuna and a packet of fruit gummies. 

Virgil, the adorable chonk, had managed to choose a package of cocktail weenies, a tin of peaches and a few sticks of celery. He had stared at his bounty for a good few minutes, before giving up and wandering over to the pantry. He'd stared into that too, like he was looking into a black hole or contemplating the mysteries of the universe. 

Eventually he'd chosen a pie crust from the baking shelf and had begun to assemble his creation. He tipped the peaches into the pie dish, chopped up the celery and cocktail sausages and dropped them in on top. He'd looked around, rather desperately I thought, and reached over to steal John's can of whipped cream, squirting a generous amount on top of his frankenpie and called it good. 

Kayo appeared to have more sense than the others, she had been the one to find my stash of digestive biscuits and, after Alan had liberated a few, proceeded to crush them into crumbs which she lined the inside of a bowl with.

"What are you making?" I asked, because it didn't look too awful. 

She continued to construct her…whatever it was…adding some cake pilfered from Gordon, some grated carrot mixed into cream cheese that was one of her chosen extras and topping it all with strawberries. It kinda…vaguely…could be a cheesecake, if you tipped your head to the side and squinted. 

I turned to John, my man, the one that I was supposed to trust with all my heart and soul…he was…I don't know how to describe it. He'd taken the donut and hollowed out a little bit more from the middle hole, then he'd gathered up the sides of his lettuce leaf/ spaghetti hoops thing and had made it into a little parcel, twisting the end closed. He then popped that inside the hollowed out donut. I have no idea why. He'd finished by decorating the top with whipped cream and sprinkles. What was it with them all thinking that whipped cream was the answer to all their problems? Because three of them had done it so far. 

Gordon had sprinkled in a handful of peas, actual peas, on top of his custard layer, then added cream on top. I honestly don't know. 

Scott had moved on from his bread and taken some of John's lettuce, insisting it was his first, and put a leaf on the stale bread and topped that with Tuna and sweetcorn, which actually had the potential to taste OK. Time would tell. He'd used the fruit gummies to decorate the plate with, I'm not sure if that counted but since he and Gordon seemed to be in charge I assumed it was allowed. 

I slid my omelette onto a plate and vaguely wondered if I should grab a few sick bags before the picnic portion of this weird event started. 

They all looked incredibly proud of themselves, why I had no idea, no one should be proud of the mess they had made, this was not food, this was barely a step up from mud pies in the yard. 

They all took their food offerings and trooped outside, setting up camp on one of the picnic benches near the edge of the beach and settled in. 

One by one they presented their masterpieces. Here are the reactions.

SCOTT’S

“This bread’s hard, very hard,” Alan said.

“It’s very fishy,” Gordon said, although we don’t know if it was a bad thing or not.

“Not bad, I could eat it if I had to,” Virgil allowed.

“I don’t like the sweetcorn on it, it keeps rolling away,” John frowned. He was always a bit funny with tinned sweetcorn anyway, he prefers it on the cob.

“That isn’t just hard bread, that is rock bread,” Kayo complained.

“It’s edible, with fresh ingredients I’d eat it again,” I said, trying to be nice. Honestly it wasn’t that bad, I’d definitely eaten worse over the years.

“It’s almost exactly like the subs we made in college,” Scott said, popping the rest in his mouth and chewing happily. He’s weird, that one, he pretends he’s not, he offers the illusion of being the capable, responsible older brother, but it’s all an act.

ALAN’S

“Erm…” Scott hedged, spending at least a minute turning the thing in his hand looking for a way to attack it.  

“I don’t know what to do with this, Al…” Virgil was even less sure.

“Give it here!” I had less issues and snatched it away from Scott. I ripped off a bit of the curry sauce topped cheese slice, licked the sauce off the cheese, popped the cheese in my mouth then took a bite of the sweet stuff. It was hard to get my teeth through all the layers of biscuit, but I managed it. It was actually OK, separating it was the way to go. “That’s actually quite nice.”

John copied me exactly, because I’m the sensible one although he’d never admit to that. “You’re right, it’s not bad.”

 “Wimps,” Gordon bit straight through it, cheese, curry and all. Then he gagged.

Kayo took the cheese off her’s, ate the sweet stuff first then finished with the cheese, an unconventional method but it wasn’t like any of this was normal. She made a noise that could have been approval but could just as easily been a whimper of surrender.

Virgil took the whole thing apart and ate everything separately, one piece at a time, declaring it to be, “Not bad.”

Scott glanced at me with that look in his eye that said he was about to do something stupid… He reached for the curry sauce pot… 

“Scott, no!” I warned him.

He ignored me to tip the rest of the curry sauce on top of the cheese and threw it in his mouth. Immediately he let out a noise that sounded like a mixture between a gag and a burp. He chewed frantically then swallowed. We waited to see what would happen. “Not deadly,” was his verdict.

VIRGIL’S

“I’m sorry, no, I’m not eating that,” I told them, flat out refusing.  “I’m semi allergic to peaches, they give me migraine headaches and I’m not risking it. I’m out.”

“I’m excused because she can’t eat peaches and I won’t risk cross contamination,” John said, leaping on my statement as a way to get out of it.

“That’s a flimsy excuse!” Scott accused, he knew it, John knew it, we all knew it. John didn’t care.

“You’re just mad that you can’t use it,” John said, squeezing my leg under the table in thanks for my weird kinda-allergy. I patted his hand in solidarity.

“No one has to eat it, I did my best,” Virgil winced, knowing that his was likely to be the most disastrous yet.

“I’m in!” Gordon declared, picking out a cocktail weenie and dunking it in the cream before popping it in his mouth. He chewed frantically as he scooped up a spoonful of pie crust, peaches and a slice of celery and shoveled that in after the weenie. He kept chewing, his face registering at least six different emotions, none of them pleasant before he finally swallowed. “It could have been worse.”

Kayo copied Gordon and picked out a weenie which she ate first, on its own.  That’s where she got smart, washing it down with a mouthful of water before continuing. She spooned up some pie, peach, celery and cream concoction and tasted it. “Not bad like this, the celery is a slightly weird addition, but it can be ignored.”

“I feel sick,” Alan said, having shoved a large mouthful in. 

Scott, the brave boy that he is, shrugged and cut a whole slice, lifting it carefully to his mouth.

“He’s a madman…” Alan whispered in awe.

“A brave man…” Gordon added.

“A stupid man…” I sighed.

Scott bit into it, chewing slowly, rolling it around his mouth. “It’s fine.”

I stared at him in utter shock.

Virgil nibbled on a corner, made a face and pushed it away. “No.”

GORDON’S

“What the heck is this?” he of the iron stomach and nuclear powered taste buds asked.

“It’s that thing they did in that show,” Gordon answered, yet Scott still looked bemused, as did we all, blank faces all round.

“Which show, babe?” I felt the need to ask.

“The one with the friends in the coffee shop.”

“You mean ‘Friends’?”

“If that’s what it’s called,” he shrugged. “It’s a meat trifle.”

Cue horrified gasps all around.

“With a few modifications, obviously, since I had to use chili,” he hurried to explain, although it was anything but reassuring.

John pushed his fork into the center of the dish, looking more and more scared the deeper it sank.

“Don’t eat it and just say you did,” I side whispered to him, worried about his stomach since he usually lived on simple and non perishable food in Five.

“I heard that!” Gordon accused as he spoons up a big bite, determined to prove it was edible, and chowed down. “Huh…” he kept chewing, “not bad…”

“Not bad?” Scott goggled. “Are you serious?”

“The chili is good, the custard is good, the cream is nice, the peas are a bit weird but overall it's OK.”

Virgil was the next brave soul to scoop up a tiny forkful and I did the same getting the smallest amount I could onto my spoon, mostly trying to get just custard and cream, although I think I did spot a lurker pea in there.

Kayo and Alan both scooped up a spoonful and shoved it in their mouths, obviously figuring that getting it over with was the best way to tackle it. Kayo spat hers out instantly, Alan managed to chew and swallow his. Virgil got his down but there was a fair bit of gagging.

“It tastes like a foot,” Alan declared.

John took a small bite and reacted almost like a cat with a hairball, his body shuddering, neck stretching as he silently gagged. I handed him a tissue and he gratefully spat it out, sagging against me as if he was about to die.

I looked at Scott, who nodded in return and dug out his own small amount. “On three?”

Scott nodded and began the count. “One...two...three!” We both stuffed our spoons into our mouths. Scott made a face but managed to get it down, my plan had worked and, while the pea was indeed lurking and rather weird, it wasn't that bad a bite and I swallowed without issue, pleased to have survived.

MINE

“This doesn’t look too bad,” Scott said assessingly.

“How dare!” I gasped. “Cheek of it, it looks tasty.”

Virgil cut himself a small portion, being cautious, since everything else has been questionable at best, downright disgusting at worse. 

Gordon cut himself an actual slice, a godsdamned slice of my omelette and lifted it up like he would a piece of pizza then wondered why we were all staring at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused. John just shook his head in utter despair at his dingus brothers and cut a more sensible sized bite. 

“I’m sure it will be edible,” he says diplomatically, it’s never good to insult the wife’s cooking even when it is so obviously crap.

Alan, disaster child that he is, cut a bit with the side of his spoon like a damned savage and spooned it up.

Kayo helped herself to a small fork full and got ready.

I reached over and broke a piece off of Gordon’s mega slice. 

“OK, good luck my friends,” I offered as I popped the eggy weirdness in my mouth… it was interesting. Nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be, the cheese and ham had mostly drowned out the spicy kick of the radish and the apple had added a weird sweetness to it, but at least it was edible if not to my tastes. I managed to chew it and swallow without choking.

“That’s oddly nice,” John said, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. 

“Well, you are the person that likes baked apple pieces on your pizza,” I shuddered in revulsion at the memory of his birthday meal.

“What a man chooses to put on his pizza is his own business,” he told me.

“Not when it’s that weird.”

“It’s no weirder than pineapple on pizza.”

“He’s right,” Scott interrupted, “this is strangely OK.” He took another bite to make sure.

“I don’t like it, it’s too sweet,” Alan said, making a face. “ I like sweet, but not mixed with savoury like this.”

“I agree,” Virgil said, setting his aside, “it’s too sweet, but you did your best.”

Gordon didn’t say anything, but he was steadily munching through his piece, I watched him, oddly fascinated.

“It’s edible, that’s all I can say about it,” Kayo told me, which for her was a compliment.

“Well? Verdict?” I asked Gordon when he eventually finished.

“I don’t know. I don’t like it or dislike it, it just is.”

“You’re being philosophical over a weird omelette?” Scott laughed.

“Had to happen some time.”

“How? How did it have to happen?” John asked, utterly bemused, looking like his brain was going into a meltdown. “Who says to themselves ‘one day I will have to say something deep and meaningful about a randomly concocted omelette’? How do you even assume that?”

“I never say never,” Gordon shrugged, not caring to explain any further. Personally I don’t think he knew what he meant either but was just brazening it out by that point.

JOHN’S

I picked up his donut creation a little gingerly, because I saw what he’d done to it and I was wary. He obviously saw my hesitation because he lent closer to help.

“Just be careful with it and follow my instructions,” he whispered in my ear under the guise of being romantic.

One eyebrow rose in response...I mean, what do you say to that?

He continued, still whispering. “Bite down gently and try to avoid the sack,” he dropped a kiss on my neck before sitting back in his seat. Smooth, boy, very smooth. My other eyebrow lifted to join its sibling.

“I’m just trying to help,” he assured me.

“You’ve said that before.”

“And you listened then and look how well it turned out,” he said as if that was all the proof I needed.

I heard a snigger from Gordon who was obviously eavesdropping. 

“I was referring to the fact that you often use the excuse of just trying to help,” I sniffed.

“Oh...well…” he tried to look innocent but failed, flashing me one of those devastating grins that just melted me on the spot. “Just taste my damn donut.”

I debated the wiseness of listening to him but decided that, as trust is supposed to be the cornerstone of any good relationship, I should probably pay attention.

“OK, here we go,” I bit down carefully, right at the edge, trying to measure the distance between where my teeth were and the no go zone. I think I brushed the edge of the lettuce leaf but managed to stick to just the donut which, though ever so slightly stale, was still good.

“That’s nice,” I allowed, trying to keep my cover as I passed the donut over to John who took a bite in exactly the same way and therefore stayed safe.

He passed it on to Kayo, who had been watching us intently, studying our moves with her usual mix of suspicion and calculated plotting.

 “You’ve got some cream on your lip,” I was told and sat still while he wiped it away with his thumb.

“What do you think, Kay?” Scott asked. 

Kayo, having executed a perfect bite from the other side of the donut nodded before passing judgement. “Edible.” She was now fully on board with our trickery and would never rat us out as she passed it innocently on to Alan.

Alan, trusting baby that he is, bit blindly into the donut, hitting the lettuce sack which exploded, squirting spaghetti hoop juice into his mouth.

“GAAAH what the…” he yelped, gasping in shock, dropping the demon donut with its hidden core of evil.

Scott picked up the donut, the spaghetti sauce now leaking out freely and soaking into the dough. Uncaring he takes a bite. “Not gonna lie,” he mumbles around his mouthful, “it's not great.” 

Virgil relieved him of the donut and studied it from all sides. The artist in him wants everything to look appetizing and pleasant the whole time, this did not. “This looks hideous.” He nibbled a corner. “Disgusting,” he declared, offering it to Gordon.

Gordon reluctantly accepted it and bit down carefully. He chewed, swallowed and shook his head. “Nope, gross.” 

KAYO'S 

Kayo pushed her bowl over quite proudly. “Dig in.”

It didn’t look that bad, and since I’d seen a lot of what she used I knew the ingredients wouldn’t be that bad when mixed. Hopefully it wouldn't be the obnoxious assault to the tastebuds that some of them had been. 

I slammed my spoon  confidently into it and scooped out a mouthful, popping it in my mouth before I could back out.

“Humm…” I chewed thoughtfully, what did I actually think of it? I couldn’t decide so I just spoke my thoughts as I so often do. “It's quite nice. I mean, biscuit, cake and cream cheese is nice, I don't really like the carrot mixed in but it doesn't ruin it to the point of being disgusting. I like the strawberries, so I guess it’s a win.” 

John followed my lead, digging his spoon in. “That's pretty good.” 

“I really like that,” Scott dipped his spoon in for some more. “The carrot is different enough to not bore me but the rest is normal enough to make it nice.”

“It's too sweet for me,” Virgil said, putting his spoon down after his first taste. 

“I'm not liking the carrot but the rest is good, I could eat it,” Alan said, his usual aversion to vegetables or anything healthy rearing its ugly head. 

“It's all good. I don't mind the carrot either,” Gordon said, agreeing with Scott. 

Kayo, obviously emboldened after using us as test subjects, risked tasting it herself. “Not bad.” 

Well, we've tasted everything,” I said, glugging down some of John’s water in an attempt to cleanse my tongue a little. “Was there an actual point to all of this?” 

Scott and Gordon both shrugged, not that I was that surprised, there is never much point to anything that any of these idiots do when bored.

“Not really,” Scott admitted. 

“I wanted to prove you wrong,” Gordon told me, “and I think we did.” 

“How? How did you? Some of this was disgusting, it clearly didn't work. How can you honestly think that you proved my wrong in any way, shape or form?” Seriously, the mind boggles with these guys. 

“It showed that it can be done,” Gordon insisted.  

“It shows nothing!”  

“Just let it go, love,” John soothed, obviously trying to save what little sanity I have left.

“You joined in!”

“So did you,” he countered.

“I give up!” I yelled, throwing my hands up in frustration. “It’s like talking to monkeys, you’re all mental.” I climbed awkwardly off the bench and headed back to the house.

“So, did I win?” I heard Kayo ask as I rounded the corner, leaving them alone. 

Stupid competitive Tracys! I should never have left the sofa, hell, I should never have left England. I knew this would be a mistake. I’d be insane by the end of it.

I stopped off in the kitchen to make myself a coffee, hoping it would take some of the taste away. I grabbed a few abandoned cookies and a non Johned donut and retreated to the sanctuary that was the couch and my blankets, which would be lonely without me.

I settled down, retrieved my book (I’m re-reading Outlander, which might be contributing to my Jamie Fraser love right now, all the best husbands have J names, fact) and got comfy, might as well make the most of what little peace I’d get before the chaos found me.

“Move over.”

I stayed where I was, maybe if I ignored him he would go away.

John, being John and refusing to be either insulted or put off by my rejection, simply lifted my legs and settled in their spot, dropping them back down over his lap.

I looked over my book at him as he reached for my coffee cup and gulped down half its contents. He offered me the mug and I put my book down to take it.

“Thanks,” I said because what else could I do? I sipped the coffee then put the mug down on the little table next to the couch and picked up my book again.

John took that as a sign that he was welcome to stay and started making himself at home, stealing some of the blanket and shifting to stretch out beside me. I moved over to make room, letting him settle his head on my chest as he found his tablet among the cushions.

OK, maybe there were a few good reasons to be here instead of alone at home, but I’ll never admit it outloud.

[mnemememory]

let’s talk about

“Quick, how do you make sex noises?”

Beau blearily pulls the phone away from her ear to squint at the too-bright screen. “…Yasha?”

“Beau, I don’t have much time,” very-definitely-Yasha says. “I have to be in the recording booth in ten minutes, and –”

Beau shakes her head and sits up, scrubbing her free hand across her scalp. Jester is snoring peacefully across the room. Beau has the insane urge to throw something at her. She needs someone awake to tell Beau if she’s dreaming.

“Sex noises? Recording…? Wait, weren’t you married?”

“Zuala was ace,” Yasha says. She doesn’t sound quite as stoic as she usually does when she says her deceased wife’s name, which means she is either very drunk or very desperate.

“What about porn?” Beau says a little hysterically, struggling to come to terms with the concept of Yasha having never had sex, ever, not once. Yasha was just – very sexy. Impossibly sexy. Unfairly sexy, is what she was.

“Beau, focus,” Yasha says. “Sex noises.”

Beau is still kind of stuck on – well, the beginning, really.

“Why did you call me?”

Yasha clears her throat. It sounds absurdly loud in the quiet room, the only real sound being Jester’s obnoxious snoring and the rattling of their half-broken heater pumping out lukewarm air into their chilly dorm room.

“Well,” Yasha says, in a way that suggests that she is picking her words very carefully. “I have…heard…from some people…that you are very good at –”

Beau yelps. “You are never allowed to talk to any of my exes again.”

On the other side of the phone, Yasha is practically radiating awkwardness. “Are you going to help me, or should I start Googling?”

Beau shakes her head and takes a moment to press her face into her pillow and question the existence of a higher power. Then she comes up for air and says, “Okay, okay, okay, what do you need to know?”

Yasha lets out a tired breath. “What does it sound like?”

Beau works her teeth together. “Do you want, like, a reference, or –?”

“I have under seven minutes to sound like I know what sex sounds like,” Yasha says. “I definitely need a reference, I think.”

There is a fairly large difference between acting out a sex scene alone in a sound booth with a director on the other side of the glass and – well, over the phone in her bed with her roommate on the other side of the room. Beau thinks she does a fairly good job with the material she’s given, though.

“Keep it high and breathy,” she says. “Um, try not to groan too much, guys don’t find that sexy –”

“Guys,” Yasha says, flat.

“Well, that’s the target audience, so that’s who we’ve gotta perform to,” Beau says, a little stung. She moves on before she can really let that fester. Seven minutes is seven minutes, after all. “Hitch your voice a little, like this –”

Yasha listens on the other side of the phone as Beau demonstrates what she thinks is the best acting that she’s ever done in her life. There is improv, and then there is being woken up at three AM to be asked to roleplay sex, but like, not in a fun way.

“Okay,” Yasha says after a minute or so into the heavily scaled-back lesson on What Sounds Sexy over a mic. “Let me try.”

Beau is about to listen to Yasha make sex noises. She either did something really good in a past life, or she did something really bad.

“Okay,” she says, and hopes that her voice doesn’t come out too strangled. Professional, Beau, be professional. Beau can totally be professional. Professional is Beau’s middle nam–

Nope, nope, nope, cannot be professional. Beau bites down on her lip, hard, and makes a strangled sound into her pillow.

Yasha cuts herself off. “That bad?”

It takes Beau a minute to recover. “Maybe a little softer,” she says. “Use your whole diaphragm. Don’t be afraid to put your back into it.” And then the presses her face back into her pillow and begins to once again attempt manual suffocation.

Yasha clears her throat and tries again.

Beau rolls onto her back and sounds to five. “That one sounds better,” she says. “Maybe don’t sigh so long, chop it up a little. Do you have any dialogue you need to say?”

Yasha gives a muffled snort through the speaker. “Just a few different names,” she says. “Originally my character wasn’t a romance option, but –”

Beau grimaces. “Yeah,” she says. “Do you have to do many takes? Try again.”

Yasha tries again.

“No, you need to be a little more forceful with your breathing, maybe a little loud – wait, where are you?”

There is a telling pause.

Beau closes her eyes. “Yasha, where are you practicing?”

“You don’t want to know,” Yasha says.

“Yasha.”

“You don’t. Want to know.”

Beau punches her pillow and checks the time. “Okay, one more, but this time throw in a name or two so we can get that pitched right as well.”

“I signed a nondisclosure contract,” Yasha says.

Beau grits her teeth. “A name, Yasha. Any name. People talk differently when they have sex. Like – imagine the other person as someone seeing you at your most intimate and vulnerable. That’s going to change how you see them, right? It’s totally the same as changing your pitch if someone is in a high-stakes situation.” It’s totally not the same, but Beau doesn’t have time to start panicking over this for Yasha when it’s obvious that Yasha is panicked enough about this herself.

“Okay,” Yasha says. She clears her throat again. “Okay, okay.”

“Take a deep breath,” Beau says. “And just start from the beginning.”

Over the phone there is a series of short gasps, followed by a breathy, “Beau.”

Beau killed someone in a past life. Beau killed multiple someones in a past life.

“That’s good,” Beau says. Her voice comes out as slightly high-pitched, but hey, she’s trying to keep it cool. Nice and cool. Calm, even. Beau is the dictionary definition of calm. “You’ll get some direction from whoever you’re working with as well, but those are the basics.”

Yasha starts to say something, but then stops. After a few seconds of torturous silence, she says, “Thanks, Beau. I have to go now, but I’ll call you later to tell you how it went.”

“Okay!” Beau says. Her voice doesn’t sound right.

Yasha hangs up. Beau blinks into the darkness and contemplates all of her life decisions.

From across the room, Jester throws a pillow somewhere in the direction o Beau’s bed. “I thought we agreed no phone sex on weekdays?”

Beau grabs onto the pillow and hugs it for dear life. “That wasn’t phone sex,” she says.

“It sounded like phone sex,” Jester says. “Was that Keg? Were you having phone sex with Keg?”

“No!” Beau says. Her face won’t stop burning. Yasha had sounded very, very good at imaginary sex. Beau is going to die. “That was not Keg! That was Yasha! And we were not having phone sex!” Unfortunately.

Jester’s voice changes. “Oh, it was Yasha?” she says. “That’s okay then. You can have phone sex with Yasha if you want. Do you want me to leave the room?”

Beau screams into Jester’s pillow.

“Well,” Jester’s voice turns sly. “I can stay, if you really want.”

“I’m going back to bed,” Beau says. “And I’m going to pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“Wait,” Jester says. “Does that mean that you and Yasha are dating? Beau, Beau, I need to know. I have a bet going on with Caduceus –”

“Goodnight.”

[theashofwkm]

Long Live the Queen (Long Live, Part One)

Summary: In which the Queen faces her punishment for the treason she committed against the King. Medieval!au

Prompt: Goretober, decapitation

Warnings: character death, infidelity mention, beheading, execution, blood mention.

Note: day seven!! a full week, wow. who’s surprised that I’m still here?

———

Water drips along the walls, pooling in the dip along the side of her cell. Settled on the hay, in her filthy dress, Celine stares stoically through the bars marking her a prisoner and at the guard watching her cell.

Admittedly, her head feels lighter, without the circle of jeweled gold sitting on it. Ruling a kingdom was no easy feat. Account for the fact that her husband cared more for his throne then he did for her, and it was awful. Lacking in any actual freedom, she feels more herself then she ever has before, in a dirty cell waiting for her execution.

A squeak comes from her right and the guard smiles when she flinches. A scolding, biting statement sits on her tongue, a retort of how she was royalty, used to silk and lavish bed quarters with servants at her beck and call then she was to wet, dirty hay and vile rodents. She’s a prisoner however, no longer Queen, so she swallows her ire.

She does tilt her chin up in indignation, sending the guard a haughty look he ignores. She has no power here. Not anymore.

But that’s what happens when one commits high treason against their king and country.

Infidelity. An unforgivable crime, when you were a Queen married to a King. She’d slept with a Kingsguard, a general. Maybe, secretly, she’d fallen in love with him. Publically, to the people, she was a traitor, not deserving of having a head upon her shoulders since she obviously didn’t use it during her affair.

To her husband, the king, she was an unfit ruler and all of her kind words she said to him in private, when they needn’t be kind, were false. She really had cared for him, at the start. It’s not her fault that his love for her had faded, turned to the kingdom he was leading. He loved the people. It made him a good king, but it also made him a terrible husband.

At the start, she had believed that it was possible for one to be both. A good ruler and a good spouse, and they were, for a while. Until the kingdom pulled him away and he turned to a mistress, instead of the wife in his bed. Leading her to turn to the general.

General William Barnum. He was so easy to care for, so easy to fall in love with. She thinks that she should regret sleeping with him, their affair. Sitting in a cold cell, disgraced, she doesn’t.

If she had the chance to do it again, she’d make sure they were more discreet. Their affair was only treason because they were caught.

Footsteps lead another guard to her cell, one with kind eyes who changes shift with the other. Waiting until they’re alone, he steps up to the bars.

“Queen Celine,” he greets nervously, bowing his head a little.

She laughs. “You needn’t bow,” she says, tone hard and bitter. “My reign is over.”

He flushes, stammering our his reply, “I know. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you.”

She stands, grime caked on her filthy skirts. Stepping to the bars, she presses her face to them, inches from the guard. “In a few hours time, I will lose my head. What could you possibly offer me?”

“General William is yet to face his own execution. He’s in the prison, facing punishment. I was,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “I could deliver a message to him, if you had something to say.”

Celine blinks, pulling back. “A message?”

The guard nods grimly. “Yes.”

“Why would you do that?” She squints suspiciously, scanning the guard for a clue to his identity, if he was one of her king’s trusted, perhaps. He seems familiar, but not like the kind of man her husband keeps close. He’s young, boyish behind the palace-issued clothes, the bit of grime smeared on his cheek, jacket hanging awkwardly off his shoulders. He’s a child, practically, new to the palace and new to war.

“General Barnes was, well, an inspiration. I worked under him and he was kind. It would be an honor to assist him one last time.”

His eyes glint from the torch burning beside the door, unshed tears. Celine nods, lips pursed. “It will only go one way, I assume?”

A shuffle of his feet. “It would draw suspicion if I were to do it twice, and well...” He looks at her in pity. “There’s not enough time for me to deliver something the other way around.”

That’s right. Her execution was at dawn and light was beginning to peer through the tiny, barred window. An hour left, if not less.

“Fine.” She nods. She’s already facing a beheading, can practically feel the blade on her neck with how close it is. There’s nothing for her to lose. “Tell him... tell him to remember the stables. He’ll know what it means.” Her eyes sting, words trembling as she tells the boy her coded message.

The boy’s face softens, at her show of weakness. It’s her first, since acending to the throne with her new husband at her side. Queens didn’t show weakness, but she wasn’t to be a Queen for much longer.

“Is that all?”

Jutting her chin out, she turns her gaze to the rough walls. “Yes,” she says, “that’s all.” Other words burn in her throat, a direct message, no coding or secrets, but they’re words she can’t say. Not even with her death in sight, her execution on the horizon.

She turns to the back of her cell and lowers herself to the floor, fighting for her composure. The uneven jagged rock digs into her back. The guard steps back to the opposite wall, resuming his position, and they wait.

Harsh, synchronized footsteps break their bubble of silence, their waiting. These guards are tougher, not young boys, but hardened men. Loyal to the king and country without fault.

Celine stands, taking on a dignified posture, like they’re here to escort her to a banquet and not her execution. Hands folded before her, demure, she stares as they dismiss the boy and pull out a string of keys.

The lock clicks, door swinging open and the men walk in, roughly grabbing her arms and dragging her to the hall. The floor is damp, under her bare feet, chilly.

“There’s no need to be so rough.” She tugs against their tight grip, bruises blooming under their fingers.

The one on her left laughs, tightening his grip. He grins, mocking. “No reason not to be,” he says, foul breath blowing in her face.

Her nose wrinkles, at the smell of his breath.

They drag her along, their grip still bruising in strength and she tells herself it’s for the power. Normally, they wouldn’t be allowed to touch her with a single finger, and now, they could grip as tight as they pleased. They find joy in manhandling a Queen, a woman of higher stature.

It doesn’t dull the throbbing any, but it helps to keep her composure. Just because she was facing the block, didn’t mean she had to throw away her façade. She was known for being coolheaded, rational. She’d die the same way she lived.

Scuffing footsteps of the boy guard follow. The door from the tower cell blows open, thudding loudly and announcing her presence. She pulls her chin up, eyeing the people in disdain as they boo her mussed appearance.

The steps to the block are few, but daunting nonetheless. The steps creak under the weight of their bodies, and they lower her to her knees before the guillotine.

Finally, she raises her gaze to meet with the King’s. He’s lounging on the makeshift throne, a smile tugging at his mouth. He’s proud to get rid of her, but she sees the bruises under his eyes. The hard clench of his fingers on the arm, the unease in his gaze.

He was a weak King, a good one, but only because he’d had a strong Queen at his side. Without her cunning, his reign would falter, weakened to his level. His precious country would turn against him. He’d regret this moment, one day. She had saved their country, had improved the life of the people. He had benefitted from her smarts, her orders. Soon, he would burn from her death.

His mistress sits on the arm of his throne, his arm wrapped around her. Celine hides her disdain, the repulsive look begging to be released.

Tightening her expression, she stares down the man who was her husband. Who had whispered words of love to her, in private, when there were no ears listening for scandal. Her husband, who was smiling as she kneeled, knees digging into the wood stage, hair a mess, dress dirty. Smiling with his arm wrapped around his mistress, the other half of his affair, the girl who got her own bed chambers for his convenience. Smiling as she was going down for a crime that was illegal only to her.

Staring in his eyes, she speaks, her final words. “You broke your vows first,” she says, tone flat and unforgiving, head raised and not lowered to the blade’s path. The guards push at her shoulders, trying to stop her from speaking. She continues. “And one day, you too, will burn for your sins.”

He’d turned from her before she turned from him. He drove her here, to the chopping block, to her death. She never would have strayed, if he was still hers. That’s what she’s telling him, and that’s the reason behind his bruises and unease. He knows what she is, what she does for the country. His doom is imminent and he knows it. It’s just a matter of time.

Face twisting, he orders the guards to get her in position. She smiles as they grab her hair and push her down. She’d gotten on his nerves, bringing up his infidelity, how he’d done it first. “You led me here!” She screams, her final cry an accusation.

Curved scoop of the guillotine, her neck sits, face turned to the floor of the stage and her words burning in the air. They will remember her, how she’d damned the King in her final moments, blaming him for her crimes. She will be known for her role in the kingdom, and they will know how it fell after her death.

She will be remembered.

Rope cut, blade singing, blood splattering, her head rolls. The crowd cheers and roars in approval. Her husband doesn’t smile.

———

Masterlist

Leave a like if you enjoyed this, please!! I’d like to keep writing for you guys, but it’s kinda disheartening that these aren’t doing well since I like some these quite a bit. Also, yes, another series starter. I know. One shots aren’t my thing, okay?

TAGGING: @pleaseletthisjimbetaken @electricprincess888 @berrie-b @mackenziplier @gerardwayslips @risiskifi @cawestad @theinvisiblespoon @californiakxng @just-another-starfish @superawesomeamazingname @moonstonefox12 @bones-and-tomes @am-i-heaven-or-am-i-hell @itsbumblebunnybee @noisyfreakpersonlover @nightmarejim @schuyleryette @withjust-a-bite @statictay @muraae (tags are open)

[daryljdugdale]

OLIVE HARVEST !

One of the things TC and have been most excited about during our first couple of months in the cortijo is the olive harvest. We have always loved olives a main stay of our diet for the past 30 years of our relationship. TC would often buy big vats and mix them with garlic and chilli getting them out for festivals, holidays and big gatherings. We were also big fans of organic olive oil in our cooking and salads ect. However we never once thought we would have the opportunity of harvesting our own!

The opportunity was both exciting and frightening, apart from enjoying the tastes we have absolutely no idea of the process or the challenges! We have 87 olive trees in our grove spread over three terraces. I say we have 87 trees but I have never been able to count them without losing the number, I’m relaying on my friend Dave who assures me he has walked around the land and counted every last one of them!They share their space with a bountiful of other fruit and nut trees including pomegranate, lemon, clementine, quince and almonds. But the olives remain the king. Seeing the green olives turn to black and grow ever bigger is fascinating. I didn’t realise before but green and black are the same olive just at different stages of growth. It is the green olives that hold the most oil by all accounts.

Clearly with a total lack of knowledge but lots of enthusiasm we needed some one to help and guide us through our first olive harvest. Our inquiries included asking the previous owners what they did in previous years. A number of names and phone numbers of people who would consider helping were given to us. Now as you can imagine 87 trees is a lot of harvesting and something TC and I would have struggled to do by ourselves so we were more than happy to get options. Out of all the names Kerrie came forward and agreed with her crew to help us harvest. Kerrie is a six foot German cyber punk who lives down the track in El Morrion an area of Órgiva leading to the river that hosts predominantly an ex travelling community. There are some wonderful benders, yurts, wooden and stone buildings all put together in what appears a haphazard but clearly a very skilled way. They are mostly off grid with solar connections and various creative ways of collecting water from the river. A robust and innovative community who are as friendly as they are skilled. Kerrie has harvested our land for the past three years this would be her fourth so she knows the trees and she knows her olives. Every year after the harvest she travels to Germany and sells her oil in artisan markets producing a broad range of richly infused oils and olives. She is the perfect person to help us in our inaugural year. We meet a couple of times before the harvest begins to talk through the process and how we divide the fruits of our labour. Common practice here is if you own the land and you have people harvest for you they get two thirds of the crop and you get one third of the crop. TC and I are more than happy with this arrangement as trying to do it by ourselves would I’m sure prove both time consuming and potentially a disaster as we have no idea.

Harvesting varies in terms of when it starts and is dependant on the previous 8 months of weather. This year people began harvesting mid November. The harvesting will go on well into the new year. After scrutinising our crop Kerrie decides the date of our harvest will begin on Friday 7th December and will last three days with an appointment set for the mill of Monday morning. She agreed to talk us through the process and then introduce us to the miller and the process before handing us over our oil. The exciting thing at the beginning of the harvest is guessing what your haul might be. Common practice would suggest for every 10kg of olives harvested you would in a good year get 2 litres of oil. It’s around a fifth but some years less depending on how the weather has impacted on the growth of the olives. This year people were already complaining of the poor yield and the less than usual conversion to oil, some were getting around 12/13% conversion. It had been acknowledged this year the weather has been cooler, wetter and less conducive to a bumper crop. Also and what I didn’t totally appreciate is the olives alternate years in terms of good crop poor crop. Last year was an excellent crop so coupled with the poor weather expectations were low. Again for TC and I this was nothing but interesting, we would be happy with just one litre of our own oil!!

So the 7th December came and we were all set for the beginning of the harvest. We were busy that day as well as our son visiting, TCs sister and my parents were due to visit for the weekend. So all hands were on the proverbial pump.

Kerrie arrived 8.30 am sharp on Friday with a crew of three and off we went.

The harvesting process is not particularly complicated and no doubt refined over thousands of years. It begins by surveying the trees and selecting those abundant in fruit but also the right size of fruit. Trying to guess which may have the most oil in them. Once determined a series of nets is lain on the ground then we begin to stroke the branches with what look like huge hair combs. Gently persuading the olives to fall onto the nets. Once the easy fruit has been gathered you resort to huge sticks which you then bang the trees with again encouraging the olives to fall to the nets. It’s almost like a good guy bad guy approach!! Once you have got as many as you can from the tree the olives are carefully gathered from the net and placed in plastic containers and put in piles. What I didn’t fully appreciate is how labour intensive the process is. Our gang of olive harvesters did not shirk, they worked until light fell 6/6.30 every night starting at 8.30 in the morning as soon as the sun had risen. We fed and watered as the weekend progressed joining in the striking and banging of the trees and also the pruning.

This is a part I didn’t totally appreciate, every year the trees need pruning to support better health and better harvest for the future. Some of this pruning can be done whilst harvesting and the more thorough pruning, chopping down branches ect takes place after the harvest. This process can and in our case will take weeks. But to reflect on the fact you are preparing the trees for next years harvest is exciting and feels even closer to nature.

After three days of harvesting and probably two thirds of the trees harvested we take our booty to the mill. This process is also quite complicated. First you make an appointment then you show up to complete the paper work before you deposit your olives in the big vat. The timings for appointments are always provisional as you can imagine some rock up without appointments and the mill may have to stop for a period as they’re working flat out for 3 months. Patience is definitely a virtue in these circumstance. Kerrie is the perfect teacher taking us through every stage explaining and illustrating what takes place.

At last we get a final weight we have harvested 812 kg of olives, slightly under the tonne we were hoping for but then again everyone was down on their crop. The olives produced 165 litres of extra virgin organic oil I’ve oil of which we get a third 55 litres. We are so happy with our harvest and the oil tastes absolutely wonderful. On the first day we bought some fresh bread and sat around the kitchen table dipping our freshly baked bread into our own olive oil !! Yum yum.

Having harvested two thirds of the olives there is more to be done. Now we have the techniques and knowledge we will plough on harvesting the remaining trees. We will take some to the mill for harvesting and also will keep some for jarring. This process of producing eating olives rather than having them for oil is time consuming and usually takes two months of brining and constantly changing the water. However we’re very keen to be able to produce different flavoured eating olives with various infusions of chilli lemon garlic ect. In addition we have 87 trees to prune back. This involves use of a chain saw and other cutters. The branches need shredding of their leaves, those branches big enough will be chopped down for next years kindling and fire wood and the rest will be dragged to the front gate for the goats to munch on, twice a day they pass by, the remaining branches are then burnt. Apparently in Franco’s time leaving the branches for the goats was outlawed all waste needed to be burnt!! The rules for burning are complex, you need to get a fire certificate form the town hall and then you are only allowed to burn from 8.30 in the morning until 2pm in the afternoon and not on windy days. This can only happen from

November to March. As you can imagine there are lots of fires particularly at weekends!!

So as we sit here with a week to go until Christmas we have experienced our first harvest of our own olives. We have 55 litres of extra virgin organic oil, we are prepping eating olives this week and we continue to prune the trees, burning the rubbish after the goats have eaten the leaves and chopping the remainder for next years fire wood. We genuinely couldn’t be happier and despite all the potential risks of doing what we have done......... it’s all paying off and we are having a ball.

Just for those interested we will be coming back to U.K. mid February for my next planned CT scan and will be bringing our olive oil back with us to sell. Orders already coming in so if anyone would like some pm Tracey and we’ll arrange your order. Best get back to the land and continue to hone my chain saw skills !!!

X

[angst-king]

the sacrifices we make

(Tw: violence again young teens, homophobia,& swearing. I do not own the cannon bnha characters only the children. No quirk AU) 

Azori was focused on chopping vegetables and making sure the kitchen was running smoothly. "Eh yo hows that meat coming along?" he asked towards the older man next to him, who'd checked the skewered meat. "Its doing well sir, its done." Azori grabbed the plate needed for the specific dish and handed it to be plated and served. Then going back to his chopping, that was until Katsuki came in. "Oi Az, your friends should be here in soon, while your out think you can handle the scrubs outside for me?" Azori had finished up on the task and washed his hands. He smirked and put his hands on his hips. "You know I can papa" He then heads towards Katsuki who ruffled his hair sweetly "here's you phone, love ya kid." "Love you too papa" the whole kitchen then snickered and 'aawhed~' jokingly earning a blushing 'jealous?' sign from both males. Katsuki traded off with Azori, when he was out the door Katsuki picked on what ever needed to get started. While cooking Tetsutetsu looked to Katsuki. "oi Katsuki..I don't mean to undermine or tell ya how to parent but...do ya think its a good idea for Azori to handling the 'scrubs' out there?" Katsuki with out thinking much about it answered "Hell ya I think it allows him to toughen up, show that he can handle things. He knows how to fight I wouldn't let him do that if he didn't know how to fight." Tetsu nods  "I mean that makes sense, plus he seems a lot like you so of course he'd be able to fight. I guess seeing that he's in the same relationship you're in...and I've heard what that can entail especially for kids." Katsuki nods as he understands his friend's concerns "I..I can see where you're coming from, Azori has gotten into a couple fights, and he knows that because of who we are that there will be dip-shits out there. He's never really been attacked by an adult like what Eijirou and I have gone through but I'm sure that if he did. He could handle it, he's hella strong."

Walking out of the restaurant Azori sees his friends, he hurries over and jumps onto his boyfriend. "Hey guys!" He smiles while hugging his boyfriend Jasuma sweetly. "hey dude, how was work?" Asked Makuyama who had his arm around Amilia "It was fine a little tired but fine. Wanna walk chill in the alley like usual?" Suggested Azori who rolled up his sleeved of his uniform, it was a bit chilly out but since he was in a hot kitchen it felt great to him. "sure I brought some food anyway" Mentioned Maku who holds up a bag of treats, so Azori leads them over to the alley way they always hung out at which was right next to the restaurant. There was a bench out there seeing as some of the employees of 'the dragon' did like to spend their brakes out there. Taking a seat on the bench Jasuma sat in Azori's lap then giving him a sweet kiss which was returned and was giggled at by Amilia. "You're such a softies Azori" Azori 'tched' and rolled his eyes "so I've been fucking told." Maku chuckles before shoving a meat bun into his mouth. "mm yummy, also aren't you hot in that dude?" The hungry boy asked, one foot on the ground the other rolling his skate board back and forth. "Hell no, that damn kitchen's an inferno, this is perfect." Confirmed Azori who was holding Jasuma, Maku hands Azori a meat bun and some spicy sauce. "Here I know that you like your food murderously spicy." Azori gratefully takes the meat bun "thanks Maku" Azori quickly devoured the meat bun as soon as it was covered in sauce. Jasuma just looked at him concerned "I don't see how your body hasn't like imploded on you babe." Azori only chuckles "I grew up on chili powder and a spoon full of hot sauce, my body's just used to it." Amilia sipped on her bobba tea while having Maku in her lap, she snuck her hands up his belly shirt, her hands were cold which made Maku shiver. "baby what are you doing?" He whined trying to get away from cold hands, Amilia giggles an kisses him shortly. "That's what you get for wearing a belly shirt and those shorts, Makuya~" She continued to pepper his neck with soft kisses, Azori would do the same to Jasuma while the other was on his phone showing him stuff.

It wasn't long when foot steps came close to the alley, the group was laughing, cuddling kissing, dancing around just being teens. They were messing around kissing on the curve of the side walk when, a group of older men came. They glared down at the four teens who were sitting on the curve kissing. "the fuck you kids doing?" Stopping, Azori wiped his mouth and looked up "Kissing why?" Seeing the teens, two boys they sneered. "Gross fucking fags like you should burn in hell" Maku stood up and helped Amilia up holding her hand "That's your opinion, no one's getting hurt over kissing ya know." He replied while folding his arms which raised the belly shirt, the older men chuckled "The only ones getting hurt'd be you fags for being disgusting on our turf" The leader growled and shoved Maku backwards, he was caught by Amilia and Azori quickly intervened. "Look its public fucking property, we can do as we fucking please. Now shove off" Azori growled back with gritted teeth "yeah we don't have to leave anyway" protested Jasuma who was holding onto Azori's arm, but that was what broke the camel's back. Next thing they knew they were being chased into the alley from the curve. Though some one managed to grab Jasuma with a murderous grip. "o-ow crap let go!" He yelled, Maku kicked up his skate board into his grips and then wacked the adult int eh back of the head which just made him mad. Jasuma was dropped but now Makuyama was being choked and throttled. It was all a blur for them all from there things were getting crazy Azori was screaming at one of them to get help. Being the closest to the door, Amilia made a disappearing act and snuck in.

Finding herself in the washroom, she sees a young woman loading it and she hurried over. "I need help please!" Amilia pleaded panting, his lip busted, the woman looked worried. "what's going on hun?" "pl-please call the police help us, m-my friends are being beat up." the woman immediately stopped what she was doing and grabbed Amilia by the arm and leads her through the kitchen. In the kitchen were hard working chefs, then seeing the large tuff of blond hair Amilia looked relieved. "Kat we've got a problem we need you now" Demand the woman, before looking up Katsuki answered nonchalantly. "what is it now?" Amilia spoke up "we need help Azori's fighting all on his own!" Hearing this the whole kitchen looked to the young girl, Tetsu quickly grabbed a clean frying pan and Bakugou's expression changed to a very serious look. Putting down the knife Katsuki looked to his crew "I'll need two more to come with me now! Grab a frying pant or something lets go!" Ordered the ash blond, Amilia moved out of the way but was told by Katsuki to come with him. Her own body was full of adrenaline so she wasn't feeling the pain, she was handed a meat mallet and they headed out the door. "Mr Bakugou should I call an the cops?" "yes get on that now!" The door is opened and his eyes shot wide, his fits formed but still a shadow of guilt cast over him that it overfilled him with rage. There he was fighting just like Katsuki and Eijirou taught him, fighting around to protect his friends who were on the ground injured and limp. With out thinking Katsuki rushed into the fight to help his son, coming in with just his fist he launched a line drive straight to this guy's face. Azori who was running on rage and adrenaline straight to the head looked to Katsuki with a smirk, Katsuki couldn't help but wince seeing the bruise on his kid's face but. That didn't stop them both from hauling off with the kitchen crew by their side.

After the dust cleared the cops came, Katsuki was panting looking down at his son proudly when finally Azori's rush came down to a crash. "P-papa!" He whimpered out before his knees buckled and he went down, though not with out being caught by Katsuki. "Azori!? Zor!..Zor wake up!" He cried out to his now unconscious son, surrounded by limp bodies and cops come over to take stories. "Oi boss th'kids's not wakin' up!" Called out Tetsu who was trying to wake up Makuyama. "shit" Katsuki muttered under his breath, when the cops came to Katsuki realization over what just happened overwhelmed him.

[mamtabhutani]

Reimagining the Beetroot as a Burger!

Hi, It’s nice to be back!

A lot has happened in the last 2 years. We are still in Chandigarh but life has moved on. Middle age arrived some time back and has been accepted with grace. Most of our experiences are now being arranged on the shelf labeled “Yesteryears”. But just how much time had changed became obvious by the freaked out look on my children’s faces when I told them that in our younger days, we would often freak out with our friends, while listening to our favourite bands!  I was corrected and updated with the current meaning of the slang. Although I am open to change, but am also not one to lose my ground so easily. I researched and I quote, “At the first Mothers of Invention concerts (around 1966), audience members were invited to "freak out!” which meant to express themselves freely, be it through dancing, screaming, or letting a band member spray them with whipped cream”.*  We never got anywhere near the whipped cream, but “freak out” we did!  

While still on words, another one that’s gaining popularity is the word “Reimagining”. It all started with my daughter’s project on “Reimagining Doctor-Patient communication” and now everyone seems to be in the mode – from reimagining the future to marketing strategies to teaching pedagogies to simply one’s own life! Not one to be left behind, I decided to tackle a vegetable that has always escaped our kitchen – the beetroot, and reimagine how it could be included in our diet other than as salad.

Beetroot is being heralded as a superfood, a nutrient-rich food considered beneficial for health and well-being. During my weekly visits to the Chandigarh Apni-Mandi (farmer’s market where vendors come from nearby villages to sell their produce), I have seen many people buy beetroots but I have never done so. The trigger to buy some and try a dish came from Twinkle Khanna’s Instagram account. She had thrown up a “What’s in your dabba today?” challenge to a few celebrity friends and one of them was carrying a beetroot cutlet!  The wheels were set in motion and I thought of a clever way of camouflaging the cutlet in a bun  & voila, the beetroot burger was born.

So, must thank Mrs. Funnybones for this one and dedicate it to all the young supermoms who could do with some superfoods!

Beetroot Burger

Ingredients (For making four burgers): • Beetroots - 2 medium sized • Potatoes – 4 medium sized • Paneer/Cottage cheese – 50 gms. • Green chillies – as per taste • Coriander – a few sprigs • Lettuce leaves – a few • Onion rings – 4 nos. (pre-soaked in water so that they lose some of their pungent taste) • Besan/Gramflour – 2 tablespoons • Salt to taste • Pepper to taste • Olive Oil – 2 tablespoons • Burger Buns – White/Brown/Multi-grain/Wheat Bran (I chose the latter)

Method:

1. First, a note about buying beetroots. Avoid beets with soft, moist spots or shriveled, flabby skin. The taproot, which extends from the bulbous part of the beet, should be slender. Try and pick equal-sized ones so that they will cook evenly. If the leaves are attached, they should be crisp and dark green. The leaves can be discarded though! 2. The first step in preparing the cutlet is to boil the potatoes and the beets. Both should be boiled separately with the skin on. Before removing them from the pan/pressure cooker, take a knife/fork and prick the vegetables. If they feel tender, then remove them from the hot water and leave them to cool. 3. Once they have cooled down, remove their skins and mash them well.   4. Meanwhile, grate the cottage cheese and chop green chilies and coriander finely. 5. Next, dry roast the besan on a tawa/iron griddle or any flat non-stick pan that you have till its light brown. Please ensure that it is roasted on a slow flame, otherwise it will burn soon. 6. Now, in a large bowl, add the potato & beet mash, cottage cheese, the greens, salt, pepper and blend well. 7. Add the roasted besan little by little, till you feel that the cutlet dough does not have excess moisture and will bind well. 8. Grease your palms a bit, take a handful of the dough and roll it into cutlets about half an inch in thickness. The size of the cutlet should be such that when you bite into the burger, you get its taste in each mouthful. 9. Heat a non-stick pan, grease it with a little olive oil and shallow fry the cutlets till you can see a slightly golden brown crust beginning to appear. 10. Flip its side to get a similar golden brown crust. 11. The texture of the cutlet should be soft and melt-in-your-mouth. That’s why I prefer to add besan and not bread for binding the dough. 12. On another pan, heat the buns. You can butter the insides of the bun for extra taste (and of course, calories!) 13. Once the ingredients are ready, all you need to do is arrange the layers in the burger bun. 14. Take the bottom layer of the bun, place a lettuce leaf, then the beetroot cutlet, an onion slice and top it with the top layer of the bun. For those who don’t like eating raw onions, you can replace it with cucumber. 15. The Beetroot Burger is ready and it is best eaten with tomato ketchup.

Bon Apetiti!

*(Credits: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Freak_scene)

[jamesnovakwinchester]

SBLW - Day 1

Benny

Despite the fact that it was Sam’s idea to invite Benny to move into the bunker after they returned from Purgatory together, things are still chilly between the two of them, to say the least. Not that Benny didn’t make an effort to thaw the ice. 

After a year in the trenches with him, he knows how Dean can be and he knows he’s heard nothing but good things about Sam from him. So he’s willing to overlook the original animosity between himself and Sam. After all, Sam and Dean are a rare kind of hunter to let a vampire live, let alone be making room for him in their home. So he made himself right at home in the bunker’s kitchen, whipping up the rich Cajun foods his mamma used to make and baking pies in every flavor in hope of one of them striking Sam’s fancy. 

He tried not to feel disheartened when Sam only picked at the food he cooked and never went for dessert. Benny knows he’s a good cook. He hasn’t eaten real food in a cool century, but judging by the pornographic sounds Dean makes as he eats his third helping, Benny thinks it’s safe to say he hasn’t lost his touch. 

It isn’t until Dean finally takes pity on Benny and tells him how his little brother prefers “rabbit food” to the heart attack inducing meals that Dean would reminisce about when they were in Purgatory together that Benny thinks he can start making some headway with the little Winchester. He knows it’s absurd to think of Sam Winchester as little, but still recovering from the toll of the trials, he is no longer the intimidating figure Benny thought of him as after their first meeting. 

Benny asks Sam to take him to the farmer’s market the next day. He feigns ignorance about where to find one and even pretends he can’t understand how to use the GPS on his confangled new cell phone with the too small buttons that Dean insisted he get. Sam looks a little suspicious, but he’s never been outright rude to Benny so he gives in. 

Benny’s attempts at making conversation on the drive there are met with grunts and one word answers. Sam seems lost in thought so eventually Benny gives up and they lapse into heavy silence.

Sam

Sam knows he’s being a bit irrational. He’s never been the type of hunter to overlook the existence of good in monsters. Dean is the one who usually sees things in black and white. Things have just felt so… upside down since he got back from Hell. After the demon blood, after being soulless, he just wanted to do good, to be good. To be worthy of Dean’s love. To not fuck up again. But it seems that’s all Sam does. 

Things are so tangled up in Sam’s head these days, like his mind is still fatigued from the trials, that it’s hard to tell what hunter morality he’s supposed to follow now. Trying to work out whether he should trust Benny to have his back on a hunt or whether he should bar his bedroom door at night seems like a Herculean task. Benny used to kill to feed, but now he doesn’t. If killing people means Benny should die, does that mean Sam should, too? The answer to that should be easy, but it’s not anymore. There are things… The things Dean said to him. Benny has been more of a brother to me this past year than you’ve ever been. And then there are the trials and everything they meant. You’re a monster, Sam– a vampire. And there is Amy, always Amy. No matter how hard you try, you are what you are. You will kill again. And the constant fear in the back of Sam’s mind that none of this is real. You gotta believe me. You’ve gotta make it stone number one and build on it. And Amy who didn’t ask to be a monster, and Jacob who didn’t deserve to lose his mother. You can be pissed all you want, but quit being a bitch. And, and… It doesn’t matter, in the end. Keeping his distance from Benny, from everyone really, is for the best anyway. Lucifer is probably playing a trick on him and any minute now he’ll wake up and–

“Sam, Sam, SAM!!!” He comes to to Benny shaking his shoulder, horns blaring behind them as the light they are standing at has turned green. Face burning in embarrassment, Sam drives the rest of the way to the farmer’s market under Benny’s watchful gaze. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, cher?” Benny asks for the fifth time. The term of endearment makes Sam’s cheeks burn for a different reason, although he can’t say what that is. 

“Yeah, Benny, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“You always start hyperventilating when you’re lost in thought?” Sam doesn’t have an answer for that, but considering he could’ve gotten them both killed, he decides to be nice to Benny for the rest of the day.

Instead of going off and doing his own thing, Sam dutifully follows Benny around the farmer’s market as he purchases red onions, various kinds of peppers, mushrooms, beets, spinach, clementines, and fresh goat cheese from the vendors Sam recommends.

Against his better judgment, Sam finds it cute that a big bear of a man can be so serious about picking mushrooms that are the perfect ripeness. 

Dean

The last thing Dean expects to see when he comes to the kitchen for his pre-dinner refreshment is Benny cooking something that smells delicious on the stove. Wait, no, he sees that a lot these days and he loves it. But seeing his brother in there with the vampire is a surprise. 

Sam’s at the table chopping stuff up and hmming along to a story Benny is telling from his vampirate days about his coven taking over a Caribbean rum-running boat during Prohibition. He’s not saying much, but Dean can tell the history geek inside Sam is giddy at getting to hear a firsthand account. 

Seeing Sammy hunched over a cutting board, that cute line of concentration between his brows as he carefully chops beets (beets?) reminds Dean of the serious look on Sam’s face when he used to do his physics homework as a kid. Cooking has never been Sam’s forte, but he’s making an effort. For Benny. 

Dean feels a pang of jealousy at the thought of his friend cozying up to his brother, but he beats it down with a stick before it can turn into something ugly. Sam deserves better than that from him and Sam deserves a friend. So does Benny, but Sam will always come first because, y’know, soulmates or whatever. Without letting his presence be known, Dean quietly heads back to his room to give them more time to get to know each other.

When Sam comes and gets him for dinner, Dean’s pleasantly surprised to see his little brother eat more than his usual few bites of the vegetarian quiche and spinach and beets (beets!) salad Sam and Benny made together that afternoon. And he’s even more pleased that he doesn’t have to eat that shit because Benny made him country fried steak and mashed potatoes.

Sam and Benny being in a room together for longer than fifteen minutes starts to become a regular occurrence. Sam starts trusting Benny to watch his back on hunts. When Sam and Dean are shooting the shit and having a beer, Benny starts joining them with a blood bag of his own.  When Dean and Benny are making magic happen in the kitchen, Sam shyly asks them what he can do to help. Seeing how well the three of them work as a unit eases the last of the wariness Dean had about Sam and Benny’s growing friendship. And seeing Sam come to life again after the trials makes Dean want to nurture their relationship.

A few weeks after their first trip to the farmer’s market, Sam comes up with the idea to start their own herb garden, saying it’ll be helpful for not only spells, but also cooking. Dean refuses to participate in anything that requires digging in the goddamn dirt like a dog, but he can’t deny it’d be useful. The bunker is so off the beaten path, it takes a good thirty minutes of driving to get to a grocery store, which is a pain in the ass in a pinch.

When Sam and Benny come inside after a few hours of planting their newly purchased seeds, sweaty and covered in soil, Dean can’t help but quip, “You lovebirds have fun getting down and dirty?” Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean doesn’t miss how his cheeks pink up. 

Benny, on the other hand, rises to the bait. “A gentleman never tells, brother.” And he fucking winks at Dean, like that’s a totally okay thing for him to do. 

Dean doesn’t think much of it, however, until a few days later when he comes back to the bunker after a night with a gorgeous brunette with a fantastic rack that he met on Tinder. (“Shut up, Sam, my profile picture fucking rocks.”) On his way to the shower, Dean makes a pit stop in the kitchen for a post-breakfast snack. This time, when he sees Sam and Benny in the kitchen together, locked in a deep kiss, Dean has no qualms about making his presence known.

“All right, all right, keep it in your pants when I’m around, kids. Sammy, go put on a shirt, you’re indecent!” Sam smacks him in the shoulder and starts lecturing him about privacy, Dean, ever heard of it? while Benny grins, cheeky and proud, with his arm around Sam’s waist, and Dean knows they’re gonna be okay. 

-SBLW anon

[kpopfanfictrash]

Control (II)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Mark

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 4,403

Summary: On a night out with your friends, you accidentally text the wrong number for advice. The guy on the other end of the phone is abrupt, harsh and kind of an ass - but he also happens to be right. Which explains why you keep texting him. Right?

Mark: Hey, are you up? [Tuesday, 10:37 PM]

Mark: … Y/N? [Tuesday, 10:45 PM]

Mark: Okay, I guess not [Tuesday, 10:55 PM]

It’s been five days since you last texted Mark.

Five days you spent staring at your phone, watching the texts roll in and refusing to reply. Then, watching as his texts stop. After all, there’s only so long a person can talk to no one.

The moment Jen showed you Mark’s picture, you knew this needed to stop. It wasn’t just because Mark was good looking – although holy hell, was he. The article Jen found was one after a local fire, where he rescued a child from a burning building. When you saw that, you actually groaned out loud. He was a freaking Prince Charming. Perfect.

The photo for the article was taken right after the rescue. Mark’s hair still sooty, slightly damp from the fire hose and beaming. Crouched beside the little kid, holding his attention while the paramedics checked his breathing. Mark’s jacket was off (god knows why), leaving his rather impressive biceps on full display. That, combined with his smile, the kid, the water – well, it’s enough to make a girl weak.

All this aside though, the reason you stopped talking to him was because you recognized him. After one look at the photo, you somehow felt you knew him. Of course, Mark Tuan. Mark Tuan – that sarcastic, cynical, good-hearted man you knew. This was him, he was real and that terrified you.

Which is why you know this is for the best. Continuing to text would only ruin things with Jake. It shows just how far things have gone that you feel vaguely guilty about this fact. You shouldn’t feel concerned about refusing to text a complete stranger. You shouldn’t feel compelled to apologize.

An unsent log of texts builds up in your phone.

Y/N: So there’s this guy on the train with three picture frames, one rug and a vase. Jackson? [Monday, 5:56 PM]

Y/N: Do you think there’s an alternate universe where peanut butter and chocolate don’t taste amazing together? [Tuesday, 12:07 PM]

Y/N: A guy in my meeting just said Meninist in an un-ironic way. Hold me back before I punch him [Wednesday, 3:38 PM]

Y/N: Am late, forgot my gym bag and my taxi just covered me in a puddle. Tell me something good Mark, please. [Thursday, 9:07 AM]

Your thumb brushes over your keyboard as you re-read this last text, reluctantly shoving your phone into your pocket. A sigh escapes your lips. Really, you should send this text to Jake. Things are going so well between you and you do text, just not like this.

Jake: Hey, what time did you want to do dinner tonight? [8:50 AM]

You: 7:00? [8:52 AM]

Jake: K, sounds good! [8:54 Am]

That’s not even an exaggeration. Those are the last three texts you exchanged. Jake is making you dinner, something you always wanted your boyfriend to do. You sigh. In most ways, Jake is perfect. Thoughtful, kind, attentive. Everything about him is by-the-book.

Pulling your phone out of your pocket, you type another text. 

Y/N: Why can’t I be happy with what I have? [9:10 AM]  

This goes to your saved folder as well.

The train you’re riding slows to a stop, letting you know you’re close to Jake’s stop. Walking up the station steps it’s chilly, flurries starting to spiral around you as you near the street. Despite the chill, you smile. You’ve always loved the city in winter. Especially now, with the snow fresh and white. Fluffy on the sidewalks to crunch beneath your feet as you walk. Sticking to your eyelashes and making you squint.

Jake’s apartment is the last on the block. He lives in one of those fancy places with a doorman and foyer, the floor shiny enough to see your reflection. You unwrap your scarf as you enter, trying not to feel too bad about tracking in snow from outside.

The bellman smiles, more from duty than anything else. He waves you past him, recognizing from earlier visits and you frown. Has it really been that long since you the two of you started dating? 

When Jake opens the door, he’s all smiles. Your stomach flutters as he kisses your cheek, arms wrapping around your waist as he backs you into his hall. Jake kicks the door shut.

“Jake,” you laugh, squirming free. “At least let me take off my coat.”

“Fine.” He grins, nodding towards the hallway. “But I need you back in sixty seconds because that’s when I start to miss you.”

Still laughing, you disappear towards the mud room. Yes, a mud room. That’s how large Jake’s place is. Once there you tug off your coat, hanging it and your scarf on a hook to step from your shoes. When you go to place your purse on the floor, you notice your phone light up.

Mark: Did I do something wrong? [7:04 PM]

Your fingers itch, reflexive. After a long moment of staring, you shove your hand into your pocket. You can’t text Mark back. Even though you want to. Even though the sight of his words sends a pang of sadness that you really don’t understand.

You force yourself to turn away, moving down the hall and into the kitchen. Jake smiles at you when you enter, looking up from the cutting board. “Have a seat,“ he says, gesturing loosely to an already poured glass of wine. 

Hopping up onto the bar stool, you take a sip. Watching him as he cooks for you. Jake’s hair flops casually into one eye as he bends forward, chopping tomatoes and onions. His hands are quick and even, pushing them off the side and into a bowl.

“How was your day?” he asks, interrupting your thoughts.

Shrugging, you take another sip. “Okay. Yours?”

“Good.” Jake turns to dump the bowl in his skillet. “We’re running into another test in a new market and there are a few…”

You nod, listening to him ramble on about work, fees and tests. To be honest, you wish Jake would talk about something else. You talk business every day at work - at home you want to relax. Unwind. Talk about other things.

You don’t know what else to talk about with Jake, though. After an entire month of dating, you still find yourself censoring the things you want to say. Trying to seem smarter, prettier, cooler than you are. You wonder when that will stop.

After dinner you help to clean, edging around Jake as he washes. Trying not to show your flush when he brushes your waist. You’re too aware of him. Your heart thuds as you place bowls in the lowest cabinet, shutting them away and standing. It crosses your mind that you haven’t heard Jake in a while.

Large hands touch your waist, making you jump. Laughing as you turn around in Jake’s arms. He smiles, pleased by your laughter and bends his head to nudge his nose against your cheekbone. Slowly, his lips brush one corner of your mouth.

His kiss is soft, hands pressing you closer. Sliding around your waist when he pulls you to him. Like always, you find yourself unable to think straight. These moments are when you’re most comfortable. When you don’t have to talk, don’t have to worry about how you’re coming across.

All you have to think about are his lips on yours. You sigh, turning your head to one side when he starts to kiss down your neck. “Mark.”

Jake stills. Slowly, he lifts his head. “Mark?” he repeats.

Staring back at him, panic courses through your veins. “Mark… eting meeting. Tomorrow, in the morning. I just remembered.” Your smile is awkward, too forced as you hope he’ll just accept this. 

Jake seems confused still but when your hands pull him down for another kiss he relents, pushing his hands through your hair. 

A sickening sense of dread fills you. You don’t know why you said that. You weren’t thinking about Mark…. Were you? Squeezing your eyes shut, you shove that uncomfortable thought from your mind. 

Jake and you continue to kiss, the two of you moving into his living room. Falling back on his couch as he pulls you forward. Your fingertips smooth through his hair, arching your body against his.

Again, Mark’s face again comes to mind.  When Jake’s hands slide to your back, pushing his lower body upwards you find it suddenly very hard to breathe. Jerking backwards, you place a hand between the two of you.”Wait,” you pant.

Jake’s hands fall from your body, his own breathing ragged. “Is everything okay?” 

Nodding, you avoid his gaze. “Everything is fine. I just – that meeting tomorrow. I should probably go.”

“Oh.” Jake pauses. “Right.”

Silence falls. Made all the more awkward when he looks at you but you’re too cowardly to meet his gaze.

“Right. I better go.” Rolling off him, you pull down your top to stand.

Jake stares up at you, slightly in awe. “Did I…” Shaking his head, he moves to stand quickly from the couch. “Never mind.” 

At the door you lean in to kiss him goodbye. Freezing, at his still confused expression. “What?” 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, the question so similar to Mark’s that it knocks all the air from your lungs.

“Of course not.”

“Okay.” Jake gives you a searching look. “Because I was going to ask if you wanted to stay the night. I just … thought we were moving forward, Y/N.”

Your throat constricts but you nod. “We are. Moving forward, I mean.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re running away?”

“I’m not running,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

Jake’s gaze flickers. “Your foot is halfway out the my door, Y/N.”

Casually, you step back inside. “How literal of you. I don’t know, Jake,” you sigh. “I’m just not ready for that.”

“No?”

“No,” you say, staring up at him. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” Jake says, chewing his bottom lip. “Then I’ll wait.”

In your mind, you know exactly what he’s not saying. I’ll wait - but not for long.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you frown, stepping out into the hall.

“Goodnight.”

Later that night you’re in bed. Jake’s frustration, though annoying, is warranted. This isn’t the first night you’ve said no. Nor is it isn’t the first time the two of you have been hot and heavy only for you to just bail like that. 

Who knows why.

Maybe you know why. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’ve grabbed your phone.

Y/N: Hi. [11:08 PM]

Only instead of sending this to your saved folder, you press send. Then you wait. After over an hour, your phone goes on your bedside table. You lower your body into your sheets, pulling your blankets up your chin. 

Ding. 

Mark: Oh. You’re still alive, then. [12:10 AM]

Fingers scrambling, you type back. 

Y/N: It would appear so. [12:11 AM]

Mark: Are you going to explain? [12:12 AM]

Trust Mark not to bullshit.

Y/N: … if I say no, would you still answer? [12:13 AM]

There’s a pause.

Mark: If I said yes to that, would you be scared you away again? [12:15 AM]

Sitting up straight, your heart hammers in your chest.

Y/N: No. [12:16 AM]

You pause.

Y/N: Hey Mark? Is it weird that I haven’t spent the night at Jake’s yet? [12:17 AM]

On the other end of your phone, Mark starts to type. Then stops. Five whole minutes pass by before… ding.

Mark: Wow. I, uh… don’t know what to say. [12:22 AM]

Y/N: I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know who else to talk to. I can’t seem to stop running away. [12:23 AM]

Y/N: Not that it’s your problem. [12:23 AM]

Y/N: You’re just…. the only person I wanted to ask. [12:24 AM]

Mark: Well gee, don’t I feel special. [12:25 AM]

Y/N: I shouldn’t have texted you. I was trying not to…[12:27 AM]

Mark: Then why did you? [12:28 AM]

Your screen blinks back at you. Why did you text Mark? You could have asked Jen. Could’ve called your mom. Really, any number of friends, co-workers or self-help books could have helped and instead – you texted Mark.

Y/N: I guess I just wanted to talk to you. [12:29 AM]

Mark: Why did you stop talking to me? [12:31 AM]

Y/N: I don’t want to tell you. [12:32 AM]

Mark: Tell me.[12:33 AM]

Y/N: No. [12:33 AM]

Mark: If you don’t tell me, I’m sending Jackson over with all his home goods and you’ll never see your floor again. Much like the current state of my kitchen. [12:35 AM]

You snort despite yourself. Jackson sounds like such a character. You really want to meet him. Almost as much as you want to meet Mark. Which, if you’re being honest with yourself … You bend your head to type.

Y/N: I stopped talking to you because I saw your photo. [12:37 AM]

Mark: I don’t know whether I should be insulted by this. [12:38 AM]

Y/N: I wanted to concentrate on dating Jake. [12:39 AM]

Mark: Yes, but what does this have to do with my photo? [12:40 AM]

Y/N: Nothing. It doesn’t. [12:41 AM]

Mark: 😏 [12:42 AM]

Y/N: Forget that bit about the picture. [12:42 AM]

Mark: Impossible. Now I know you saw my photo and became so hopelessly enamored you felt it necessary for us to stop talking in order for your relationship with Jake to succeed. I understand. Carry on. [12:44 AM]

Mark is being a smug asshole. 

He’s being a raging jerk. 

He’s being – completely accurate. As you stare at his text, suddenly things start to fall into place. The picture you’re seeing looks very, very bad.

Y/N: That’s not what happened. I saw your face and was so concerned by your overly large head I decided to stop stroking your ego [12:45 AM]

Mark: You think I’m hot [12:45 AM]

Y/N: Wrong [12:45 AM]

Mark: You think I’m sexy [12:45 AM]

Y/N: Delusional, maybe [12:46 AM]

Mark: Well now I have to go look at your photo [12:47 AM]

Y/N: Wait, what? [12:47 AM]

No answer.

Y/N: Mark? [12:48 AM]

Y/N: MARK. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. GET BACK HERE [12:49 AM]

Mark: Huh. [12:50 AM]

Your pulse slows, jagged against your ribcage. What does huh mean?

Mark: You’re very pretty. [12:51 AM]

Staring at his words, they start swim before your eyes. 

Y/N: You think I’m pretty? [12:52 AM]

Mark: Yes. [12:52 AM]

This text brings a wave of fear. One which crashes over you, pulling your fingers away from your phone. You have a boyfriend. You’re dating Jake. You shouldn’t be texting Mark, listening to him tell you you’re pretty. More importantly - you shouldn’t like it. 

It occurs to you then that you’ve never been this affected by something Jake has said. Never felt so lost and out of control by the words he tells you.

Y/N: … Mark. I’m dating Jake. [12:55 AM]

Mark: Then why are you texting me? [12:57 AM]

Y/N: I don’t know [12:58 AM]

Mark’s ellipses blink back at you, indicating that he’s typing. Minutes go by before your phone dings again. When you open the message, you gasp.

Mark: Fine. You want help? Jake is boring. Completely predictable and you’re bored. It’s why you keep running - you don’t want him. You want someone to keep you guessing, to keep you on edge. Someone to kiss you when you don’t expect it, text when you don’t ask, make every day more exciting. That guy is not Jake. [1:01 AM]

Anger surges, hot and unreasonable within you.

Y/N: Not Jake, huh? you type, sitting up. Then who? I don’t see anyone else offering to date me. I don’t see anyone else making me feel that way so if not Jake, then WHO? [1:04 AM]

You fall back, exhausted. Suddenly, you feel like crying and you’re not sure why.

Mark: If there’s no one making you feel like that, maybe I was wrong. [1:06 AM]

Though you respond, Mark doesn’t text you back for the rest of the night.

Y/N: Mark? [1:10 AM]

Y/N: I’m sorry for texting you. [1:16 AM]

Y/N: Mark, I… never mind. [1:45 AM]

The rest of the week passes by . Each moment crawls, longer and longer until you find the weekend. Slumping into your chair Friday morning and pushing your cereal around on your spoon. Silently sulking when Jen drops her purse beside you.

“Morning!” Jen smiles, sitting down.

“Morning.”

“Hm.” Jen eyes you. “Let’s try that again. Morning!”

Your glare, over the top of the orange juice, could cut glass. “Morning!”

“Better. So,” Jen leans back, buttering the side of her toast. “What’s gotten you in this funk?”

“What funk?” you grumble.

“The funk you’ve been in for the past two weeks.” Saying this, Jen’s hand freezes. Her knife hovers a good six inches over her butter. “Oh my god,” she breathes, turning to face you. “Oh my god, that was around the time you stopped talking to Mark.”

Frowning, you shovel another bite of cereal into your mouth. “So?”

“So,” Jen hisses, setting her toast down. “You’ve been moping like someone died. I thought maybe things were going poorly with Jake but no…. It’s because you’re not talking to Mark.” 

Beneath Jen’s unrelenting gaze, you find yourself needing to look away. “I don’t care about Mark,” you say.

“I didn’t ask you that.”

Once again, you find yourself blushing. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, shaking your head. “We’re not even friends anymore.”

Jen tilts her head to one side. “Why not?”

“He was an asshole.”

Snorting, Jen resumes buttering. “Because you’re so cuddly?”

“He told me I don’t like Jake,” you glare, crossing your arms. “He said Jake is boring and I need more.”

“Well,” Jen says, looking as through she’s struggling to hide her grin. “I hate to be the one to say this, but Jake is boring.”

Your mouth drops. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Y/N.” Jen lets out a laugh. “Jake is smart. Smart, cute and good. But the guy has no personality! Everything is either work or business. Even his relationships are color-by-number. You can do better.”

“Have you felt like this the whole time?” you squeak, just barely managing to get the words out.

Jen shrugs. “I mean, if you like him then it really doesn’t matter what I think. I’m just not so sure you like him.”

You groan, sliding lower in your chair. “Why do people keep on saying this to me?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Great,” you mutter, shoving your bowl away from the edge. “I’m so glad everyone realizes this but me.”

“Who’s everybody?” Jen asks, curious.

“Nothing.” Picking up your purse, you sling it casually over one shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay Jen?”

“Okay.” Then she pauses. “Wait, tomorrow? I thought you were getting dinner tonight with Jake.”

“Yeah. Then I’m spending the night.”

Ignoring the expression of shock on your best friend’s face, you leave.

“More water?”

The waiter hovers, offering to refill your glass. You nod, allowing him access as Jake stares intently at the menu. A small furrow reaching his eyes as he reads. You tap your fork on the table, still trying to convince yourself you’re doing the right thing.

Catching your stare, Jake smiles. “Do you know what you want?”

The question throws you. “I- I think so,” you answer.

“Really? What?”

You open your mouth, about to answer, when there’s a sudden flurry of motion at the restaurant’s entrance. Someone in a black pea coat steps inside. Someone who has dark, floppy brown hair. Someone who argues loudly with the host, gesturing towrads the back of the restaurant.

When then the host moves, bending to pick something up off the floor, you meet the gaze of the man behind him.

Mark. His expression quickly changes when he sees you, smiling politely at the host and clapping him on the arm. You watch when he points in your direction, the host following his finger to shrug before he also steps aside. 

Mark Tuan walks into the restaurant.

Mark. 

Mark is walking towards you. Towards you and towards Jake, who sits blissfully oblivious on his side of the table. 

“Mark,“ you say, staring as he comes to a stop on the edge of your table.

Jake looks up, slightly confused.  “Mark?” he asks, gaze moving sideways. Something like understanding dawns on his features. “Mark.”

Mark nods, though his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “Y/N.”

His voice is deeper than you thought. The way he’s looking at you… you can’t seem to look away. “What are you doing here?” you ask.

Instead of answering, Mark faces Jake. “Would you mind giving us a moment?”

Jake bristles, offended. “I don’t think so.”

Mark shrugs. “Okay, then. Whatever you want.” He turns back to you. “Y/N. I didn’t say everything I wanted to say the other night.”

“The other night?” Jake sounds alarmed, leaning around Mark. “What’s he talking about, Y/N?”

Mark looks vaguely frustrated. “I thought I asked you to give us a moment.”

“And I thought I said no.”

“Huh.” Mark frowns. “No wonder you haven’t stayed over at his place yet.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “What – you told him that?” he gasps, shaking his head. “Who is this guy?”

“I told you, Mark. Not very bright, this one.” Mark jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

You know you shouldn’t laugh at this, know this moment is anything but funny but something about Mark’s tone - so flippant and deadpan - makes you want to grin. An instinct you quickly shove aside.

“Mark,” you groan, staring up at him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“So you keep saying.” Mark’s eyes gleam. “And yet you haven’t asked me to leave.”

Jake stands at this, his chair scraping violently on wood. “Okay. I’m going to give you one minute to explain who you are.”

It’s then that you realize the people around you are staring. Mark glares back at Jake, seemingly nonplussed by the fact that Jake is several inches taller than him. Just by his glare and the way he’s standing though, you get the feeling that Mark would win in a fight. He has that look in his eyes.

“Okay,” you sigh, pushing your chair back to stand as well. “You two. Outside. Now.” 

Scooping your purse up in one hand, you march from the restaurant. Once outside you face the two men, folding your arms tightly over your chest. Your breath freezes in the air before you as you struggle to repress your shiver.

Mark sighs, unwrapping his scarf to drape it casually around your neck. You look up in surprise, struck by how close his face is. His index finger grazes your collar as he pulls away and you shiver - this time for an entirely different reason.

“Thank you,” you say. 

Jake glares at the two of you from where he stands. “So who is this?” he asks, looking livid. “Is this…” Here he hesitates, an unreadable emotion on Jake’s face. “Is it his name you said the other night?”

Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “The other night?”

Your face must be tomato red. “Jake,” you sigh, closing your eyes. 

You’re not really sure where to go from here, though. Most rational thought flew out the window the moment you met Mark. 

It’s then you realize that your choice has been made the second Mark came through that door. Maybe before that. It’s been staring you in the face this whole time - you were just too blind to see it. 

“Jake,” you repeat, opening your eyes. 

Your resignation must be clear because Jake looks shocked. His hand is trembling as he raises it before him. “Save it,” he says, eyebrows drawing together in disbelief.

“I need to speak with Mark,” you plead. “For just a second.”

Jake laughs, the sound unpleasant. “If you need a second, I think we’re done here.”

“What?” you repeat, confused. “Just like that?”

It’s strange, though. Faced with Jake’s rejection, you expected to feel hurt. Expected to be upset. Instead you feel fine. What’s more is that, instead of sadness - your feelings are tinged with noticeable relief.

Jake nods, face shuttering. “We’re through.”

Slightly dazed, you nod through your shock. “Okay.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?” Jake gasps before getting a hold of himself.  “I mean, fine.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Whatever. Have a nice life, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry,” you insist, stepping forward to say more. Intending to apologize further but Jake shakes his head.

“I should’ve just fucked the blonde at that bar.”

And then Mark is there, lunging forward and raising his fist. You jump before him, pushing his chest to keep him at bay. “Stop!” you grunt, clutching his jacket. “Just stop!”

“Apologize,” Mark growls, glaring at Jake over your arm.

Jake opens his arms wider, laughing. “You both are crazy. Go on, do whatever you want – I’m fucking through.” Turning on his heel, he pushes his hand through perfectly tousled hair before disappearing into the night.

Mark’s eyes follow. “What a prick.”  

“Mark.” Finally, you turn back to him. Unable to stop staring at his face. “Why are you here?”

For the first time tonight, Mark looks uncertain. His gaze moves to yours, sliding down to your hand still clutching his pea coat. “I wasn’t honest,” he says.

Noticing his gaze, you let go of his coat. “No?”

Mark nods. “No. Or I was honest – but I didn’t tell you everything,” he admits, sighing. “You make me excited, Y/N. You surprise me, you make me laugh. You don’t know how hard this month has been,” Mark says, taking a step closer. “I watched you fall for another guy. I watched you be happy with another guy.”

“I tried to to say that if you were happy, I was happy. But you weren’t,” he says, partly in question. “You weren’t happy and I wondered why I was pretending in the first place.”

Staring back at him, the thought of Jake grows further and further from your mind. Not physically - mentally. It’s hard to remember his presence. Not with Mark so close. Not with his hand sliding to yours, intertwining your fingers with his against the cold.

“I ignored how much I liked you,” he says, “ignored how I was falling for you.” Mark’s gaze is intense, lighting your veins on fire. “But I couldn’t ignore it once you started to pull away from him.”

“Why.” You lick your lips, which have gone suddenly dry. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Mark smiles. “You were with him,” he says, gaze moving towards where Jake has disappeared around the corner. “I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Okay. Then what changed your mind?”

“Your friend, Jen called me.”

A groan escapes your lips. “Oh, god.”

“She told me you were unhappy. That you’d been moping ever since you stopped talking to me.” A strange light appears in Mark’s eyes.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?” Mark tilts his head. “Because I was kind of relieved, to be honest.”

“Relieved?” Your heart thumps wildly. “Why?”

Mark slides his hand to your palm, staring as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “I’ve been moping too. Ever since you stopped talking to me.”

Somehow, you’re a step closer. “Mark,” you breathe. His lips are mere centimeters away.

“Yes?” 

“I thought I was supposed to play hard to get.”

Mark chuckles, and you feel the ghost of his breath on your lips. “Don’t listen to me,” he smiles. “I’m a cynical asshole. You should just tell me exactly how you feel.”

“Mm,” you say. watching him come closer. “Mark?”

“Yes?” He stops right before your lips.

“I want you to kiss me.”

When Mark’s lips touch yours, you find yourself wondering why you hung on to Jake for so long. As your arms slide around his neck, mouth molding to his, you suddenly realize what you were missing. 

Everything.

Mark’s hands tangle in your hair, lips eager as his other hand finds your waist. His tongue darts forward and you open your mouth, allowing him entrance. Mark’s lips are hot, needy and a sudden want spirals up from your core.

It was never like this with Jake. Kissing Jake was exciting but only because kissing is exciting. Jake had a nice body, a pretty face but that’s it. With Mark, every touch, every graze means something. He’s here, present and affected by you. Mark isn’t afraid to gasp into your mouth, yank you closer, whisper he wants you.

And when you whisper back that you want him too, he’s not afraid to smile. “Come on,” Mark whispers, taking your hand in his.

[Master List]