#tongue and groove white pine

[greenriverlumber]

NOW AVAILABLE PREFINISHED AND UNFINISHED EASTERN WHITE PINE V-GROOVE, TONGUE AND GROOVE, AND NICKLE GAP!

[revolverthemes]

Transitional Family Room - Family Room Large transitional open concept ceramic tile family room photo with beige walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[magxit]

I have a house question for you. Did you install the lower paneling in your camper? If so, was it hard? I love the color you picked for it.

Yes, I used this.

https://www.lowes.com/pd/5-5-in-x-12-ft-Unfinished-Pine-Tongue-and-Groove-Wall-Plank-Coverage-Area-5-125-sq-ft/1000514519

The reason I did this instead of just painting the whole wall white is because the walls had a strip of chair railing wallpaper and it was so hard to take off and I couldn't paint over it. My BIL cut down the wall plank to cover up the wallpaper and we just nailed it to the walls but last year when I had all of that water damage it turned the bottom of the wood a dark brown color so I decided to just paint it and I added the little piece of wood trim on the top to finish it off. I also used the same wood on my ceiling in my bedroom. I will add some photos to show you. In the end it didn't cost that much because I was able to buy the tongue and groove in bulk.

[thewalkingcigarette]

When fall tumbled towards me, blowing at my cheeks and crisping my nose until the skin blossomed with a reddened hue, the air sucked through my lungs stiff and frozen, painted with the dying summer's last breath; I caught it between my teeth and crunched down on it as if it were a hardened candied apple.

The cold has a funny way of bringing itself to me, for I found it in all its manners so different by its contexts. I imagined the bone-cold chill that bloomed in air-conditioned hotel lobbies, safe oasis from the blistering vacation heat of asphalt-melting Phoenix weather. I imagined the endless shivers rippling from my insides when the dead of winter, silent as an evening in a slaughterhouse, slithered its way through my body as glittering, crystal confetti snow danced into piles of mountainous white. I imagined spring's slow, sleepy arousal at the tips of the Idaho month's March, when pale, limp patches of grass would be released from the weight of insurmountable, dirtied snow banks, flattened and morose; sections of winter's refusal to melt still hiding, tucked away under laborious, spindly arms of the green spiked Pine.

I went as far as to imagine classrooms, fingers tightened by a blowing, continuous, uninterrupted cascade of air that swirled around each student. The times I languidly, almost in a terrible, depressed trance, dragged myself to sad little public school bathrooms to run my hands under hot water, hoping to bring life back to my flesh, sensation back into every groove of my skin. I imagined mornings, where the sun would whisper lies through half lidded cream blinds, scattering a fuzzy, orange-tinted glow in excited rectangles on my grainy bedroom carpet, the teethy chill nipping at my knuckles with every attempt to begin the day, when the warmth of my sheets, my body, my sleep, yanked me desperately, an attempt to trap me in an Eden of unconsciousness and giddy, gleeful, perhaps delirious, dream-state. I imagined the still warm chatter of a cranky car, attempting with all its might to sap away the almost liquid feeling fever of black upholstery eating up the sun's incessant gaze, weakly smoothing over passionately sweating palms, arms, and thighs.

Yet, even still, now, the existence of an almost sweet, fond autumn season didn't dissuade me from being outside, letting this cold curl up around me, find a home under my coat and in my stomach. It tasted of warmth, strangely, a peculiar sentiment that contradicted itself, though only in language, for language fails it, and experience defines it. It tasted of pumpkin, smelled of cinnamon, felt on my flesh as scratchy, childish Halloween costumes. It stuck to my teeth and tongue like cheap caramel, it glued my hair back with purple, orange, and black shimmering glitter, it coated my fingers in vampiric white paste. It sounded like rattling plastic skeletons shaking on front door faces, sounded like children giggling in the dark after a triumphant conquest of door-to-door Trick-Or-Treating. It was a month, a time, an extended season of joy, life, self, change, and beginning. All these concepts which seemed to twirl down alongside the bright, bizarre flutterings of changing tree leaves.

[moderntimbercraft]

Our Reclaimed Wood Flooring (White Oak Flooring Wide Plank) is available in Hickory, Red Oak, White Oak, and Yellow Pine. Each piece brings a unique look, texture, color, and depth with distinct knots, saw markings and more.

[kahztiy]

Flash Memory: Vitrine of Consciousness --YD6~01 Lionel and Gavin injuries, in the guise of a grandfather

Cement-scorched cracked scars my purlicue’s mediate arch thumb and index finger digits, reminiscent of the bricklayer’s trowel in my grip, as I pressed the hinge pin through the button-holes, and another golden cufflink toggle clasp the sky-blue-white fine striated shirt’s doubled-fold cuff. and right hand with Jean’s engagement onyx ring, alongside her wedding band picked by the heel, the Italian-tailored shoe, to pose onto the plinth to mixed shoes underneath the lid to the cabinet. I fingered a shoehorn, slipping my foot inside, stepping onto the shaggy carpet, to slip into a horsebit loafers on to my other foot, raising my eyesight along the pants’ pleats. soft Irish dance feet around the corner from the dressing room mirror atop the three-tier tilt-out heeled-shoe storage, from a glance at my centered Windsor tie. I pricked ears across the double bed’s white Duco headboard. to the bush outside the awning window sashes against a sky’s white glow, to two birds’ wild romantic flutters and chirps. 

At the pace of a day to waste, with a glimpse fleeting, crawling out of bed, linen slender edge along the flipped back bedding, I spent thinking about the widowed geologist’s site visit. discarded Jean’s bedside sleek blanket and puffed pillow niggles, a biting, soulless chill. Past the ruffled frosted porcelain  lamp shade to her night table’s glass top, I lifted keys jingling at my fingers, past the gold mine dumps, shuttled in my Audi S Coupe to Springs. Near home, from the Impact of a crash, engines kissed, from which an angelic young woman dressed in an efflorescent white, stepped from her outlined lobe of a heart to mine. In the aftermath, out of the showroom, I drove a Champagne Audi, and likewise dating Jean, I loaned her a 411 Volkswagen. The angelic woman stands outside my side window, her shocked eyes reaching for my boys in the rear, after I surmised the backrests absorbed their impact. In the aftermath, I continued shuttling to the geologist, who ordered me to stop construction work because his wife had died. 

Light on my feet, out of the main bedroom, I’m minded toward a new start and oblivious to history’s wake, my speculation to a real estate market fall. opening bargain hunters, leading to two mortgage repayments, until Jean had no option but to follow me to a countryside suburb — dead silent, the corridor’s doorway spilling light, ghosted the plain white walls, the cradle of little boys’ growing fire to a stampede on a level-loop carpet. Lionel shooed his little brother, fearing his mother’s wrath, until up a few stairs, their steps fell silent. From the west wing long corridor, I’m walking Jean’s domain. The yellow glow, reflected by the low tongue-and-groove pine ceiling, I sensed the embossed ceramic tiles under my feet. To veer away from the north yard’s amber bullion glass door, adjoining through a wide doorway to the upholstered turquoise lounge furniture lost in space. I head for the shining telephone press button apparatus on a stool, in the lights of the south entrance door’s trio sidelights amber columns.

In a chill reigning silence, the telephone’s scattered rings, seeking openings among fluted columns and paneling, dissimulating plain icy walls. A decor I stole from an exclusive restaurant, and reminiscing scars, hence the drum’s rotating razor-sharp blades on the benchtop wood planer fingertip senseless shaving. The ringing runs like my little boys, past matching upholstered black Duco dining chairs huddling a diamond tablecloth, the west wing kitchen, a wild circle through the adjacent family room, emerging from the lounge, persistent searching for me, until reluctant receptionist’s fingers, brought the horn to my face.

I hung up the phone to a caller’s stern male voice. “There has been an accident. . .” Alongside, I pulled the solid door to the porch. Headed for my latest Red Audi to the fleet. With a bird’s-eye located the Stock Trader client, to track back mapping the Johannesburg highway’s overpass off-ramp. I reverse out of the carport, shift into forward gear, with a hand’s heel spin the steering wheel, to drive up the pan-handle driveway to the gates. engaged in Kelvin’s street, exiting the Wendywood side, to fine-tune the man’s voice echoing in my head, “Glenhove Road.” 

Ahead of the overpass hangs a dark blanket, as I’m soul-searching precognitive vibes. the asphalt splits at the grass off-ramp island. throttled to coasting to bright red traffic lenses. On hold, I’m destined to head across into Central Street. A translucent Caltex bubble steered me in the face. I’m holding my brain’s scattering imagination, peering along the concrete curb, the slender grassy median a novelty to the roadway blurring to a distant strobing blue dot. My foot pressed the throttle, pulling across the intersection, passing a canopy’s fluorescence flood a few cars on the driveway, uniformed figures attended by fuel pumps, in the changing angle found my bearings before the highway construction. Crawled into the clearing roadway with a topographic survey as a white red-striped ambulance, wails away from the stationary vehicle distancing in the prolongation through Houghton’s mansion toward The Wilds.

Across the median, I spared glances at Jean’s Toyota slewed, the tail fender impact kinked the corner lamppost. I’m driving in the tracks of the ill-fated charcoal car, to a grandfather’s shadow rising from the intersection’s asphalt. With the heel of my hand turning the steering wheel, by the abrupt-ended median, rotating the grandfather’s scene as I spared an eye on the bustling parametric around Jean seated in the bright ambulance’s tailgate. Beyond which, the grandfather steered across the oncoming lane, seeking his course through the thickets grown tight since the access inception of the inbound highway.  

I pulled up a distance past Jean’s Toyota along the curb, to alight the car, stepped onto the sidewalk, backtracking along the sidewalk, questioning. ‘_Where did Jean come from?_’ driving the boys to the Wendywood elementary school._’ I surveyed her father’s Toyota Cressida, the rear fender wrapped around the lamppost. I’ll pan a near-fatal scene, save for the concrete curb absorbing the rear wheel’s major impact. I step from the corner curb, heading toward Jean in a framed glow, tranquil on a throne. elegant crossed legs, lanky blond tied back in a ponytail. In my approach, raised lonesome eyes. 

 Schlepped with the burden of her mornings at the computer desk desolated account department, I paused. She said. “They have taken Lionel and Gavin away to the hospital.” Her downturn eyelids, accent drooping. “_’Our children! It’s not my fault what happened,_’ An old man just cut in my way — Can you get my purse out of the car?”

I turned away from Jean without visible injury midst examining paramedics. ‘_Me, of all people, she had provided the house number to call?_’  To arouse the Hydra of my mind, outreach over the suburbs, to hover in the Cape Dutch architecture’s vicinity to the Stock Trader, I extended with a wing. Through a hole high in the shy, reckoning to sight, Jean’s mother, in her family world, placed a ceramic teapot in the middle of the table. Onto a round table conversation, overhearing Jean says. “Ivan doesn’t love me anymore...” 

While Rachel abstained from meddling, William Whitehorn, Lionel and Gavin’s grandfather, soft-spoken, said. “Jean! Just do as necessary. . . I’ll help you. Don’t worry about money.” My Hydra’s sight volatilized, rolling the scene in my head, I stepped the curb, around the lamppost wrapped by the rear fender, gripped the unscathed door, ducking the door gape from the passenger seat to the dark footwell, found Jean’s handbag by the foot pedals. Free to spy. ‘_How far are you proceeding with your divorce?_’ I scrambled midst a cold chill, to fumble through Jean’s bag, to unfold a slip of paper. My mind’s Hydra to sight, the conference room. In Jean’s wake, the divorce lawyer, and son reassured his father, Barry Baskin, across the table. “This is a case. . . ‘_to reap the fruits_’ We have a blank check — Her father pays.” 

The paramedics swung doors closed to a pair of translucent windows, while I handed Jean’s handbag. I turned toward my red Audi, catching glimpses as the driver rushed for the flank, disappearing by the cabin. The van pulls away, the milky windows distancing, and left among the wrecks spread on the broad asphalt branching intersection.

Amid both forearms cast in plasters, Lionel sat upright in bed, and Gavin too, but stood beside his mother by the window light, amid a nurse on her way. I reflect the boys tossed, rough, and tumbled through the rear compartment of Jean’s Toyota, to a distracted glance over my shoulder, to an animation in the angle of the doorway outside the hospital room’s glass partition. A herd of stomping boots approached with wall-banging crates from the corridor. Turns out, a cheeky little blond girl scurried through the doorway into the room’s aisle, but unbeknownst, Aetheria permeates the internet. I’m called back to the television personality, Sybel Coetzee look-alike ash-blond mother, calling out. “We’re here with a television crew, for a Christmas Children’s program by the South African Broadcast Corporation.” from a bustling television crew. The mischievous blond head sunk behind the bedstead to Lionel’s bed. The camera operator freezes in the doorway, raising Sybel’s attention to Gavin. Sybel answers. “No, he can stay too.”

[jamessheen2022]

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Hillsdale Furniture is a leading home furnishing company that began by building quality bar stools. Today Hillsdale Furniture collections include hundreds of items for the bedroom and dining room, and the company still offers a wide selection of swivel, non-swivel, vanity stools and bar stools.

Hillsdale also focuses on producing stunning accent furniture collections as well as items for children’s bedrooms, the home office and home entertainment furniture. Discount Hillsdale Furniture collections are available online and in convenient central New Jersey showrooms.

Hillsdale Bedroom Furniture Collections

Whether you are looking for a coordinated bedroom set or something special like a day bed, a space-saving trundle and bunk bed, a platform bed or a canopy bed, you will find it in a Hillsdale Furniture collection. The Wilshire bedroom set features top quality construction with tongue and groove drawer bottoms, thick drawer sides, corner blocking and wood on wood drawer glides. English dovetail construction adds to the durability of each piece. The Wilshire Collection is highlighted by a multi-step, hand rubbed antique white finish and a blend of English Country and Americana design. Choose a panel or post bed in a king or queen size, a nightstand, an armoire and a dresser.

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Find bistro and pub sets, benches, dining room accent pieces and outdoor dining furniture in addition to dining room sets at Hillsdale Furniture. Innovative counter height dining sets with tall stools are now more popular than ever, along with more traditional sets like the Arbor Hill 5-piece dining room. The Hillsdale  Arbor Hill collection features a classic mission-style chair and symmetrical base table with an extension leaf and a chestnut finish. Decorative embellishments in oil rubbed bronze add visual appeal. Enjoy durable construction of hardwood and wood composites offset by fine veneers.

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[akuwoodpanel4]

The Basics of Wood Panelling

Wood panelling is a traditional form of millwork wall covering. It is constructed from rigid, interlocking components. Traditionally, it is made of wood, but it can also be made from plastic components. It is typically painted or stained, and it is ideal for interior and exterior applications. In addition to offering aesthetic benefits, panelling can be easily installed in a variety of settings.

In the Low Countries and the Rhineland, oak was the most common material for making panels. Later, walnut and poplar were used. But until the seventeenth century, oak was the predominant material for panel construction. Then, other types of wood, including pine and cedar, became more common. These wood species can last for several decades, and they are easier to maintain. Wooden panels are also great for exhibiting photography. Woodpanel

Wooden paneling can be a great way to spruce up any space. Just choose the type of wood that suits your style and use a leveling device to ensure even distribution of the panels across the room. The panels will create a more natural, earthy feel to your home. In addition to adding character to your room, wood paneling can also be attractive when used diagonally. White paint keeps the paneling clean and makes it look bigger.

The installation of wood paneling is surprisingly simple and fast. However, it's best to get a professional to do the job for you. If you don't have the right tools, you may find it difficult to install the panels. If you want to tackle this yourself, make sure you follow all the instructions carefully and use safety equipment. It's also a good idea to follow installation videos and tips provided by the manufacturer to avoid problems.

Wood panel manufacturing involves a variety of processes to create a high-quality product. The manufacturing process involves layers of wood veneer that are glued together in a mat. The veneered panels are often primed. This type of wood panel allows for easy application of paints and other finishes. There are also a variety of painting papers available.

The technique of oil painting on wood has improved over time. It is more stable and tolerant of humidity, and enables a high level of detail. The technique of oil painting also requires base processing, wherein the wood panel is coated with animal glue, a water-borne basecoat, or gesso. In some cases, a combination of all three methods is used.

In the past, wood paneling was almost exclusively made of pine or oak. However, during the 20th century, plywood was used to replace wood. This material was made by gluing thin wood veneers to the underside of a wood base. Other materials that were used as paneling included pegboard, vinyl, and hardboard. It is still possible to purchase solid hardwood paneling in architectural antique stores. However, it's not as easy to find a solid piece of mahogany.

Wood panels can be a great way to add a beautiful texture to your room. They can also provide some insulation to your home. This makes your home warm and comfortable during the summer months and cool in the winter. It's also a great way to reduce your energy costs. You can get wooden paneling in different sizes and colors, depending on your needs and budget.

Another option is tongue and groove wall paneling. This type of wood paneling is easy to install and has a tongue-and-groove connection between the boards. This allows the panels to fit together snugly. Using this type of paneling will provide a natural, relaxed look to any room. In addition, tongue and groove wall paneling will complement modern designs.

The popularity of wood wall paneling increased significantly during the Tudor era. Tudor monarchs prioritized comfort and relaxation over security, and paneling was an integral part of their architecture. During this period, oak was the most commonly used material for paneling walls. In addition to oak, Tudor paneling also included carved decoration and linenfold patterning. It also gave Tudor homes their unique appearance. So, when choosing wood paneling for your home, it's important to choose the right material.

Another popular option for paneling is beadboard. This type features evenly spaced grooves and can be installed on full walls or partially. The standard width of beadboard is 1.5 inches, but beadboard can also be custom-made to fit a particular room. There are several different styles and materials to choose from, and the price of beadboard depends on the quality of the wood.

[mantrabay]

Rush Amid The Rapids Published 30

Original Version on Poetry Nook under my pen name

MyNAh_27

Inspired and edited by my wonderful sister Jay Pallen

“Must I always be posting transactions and extracting trial balances?”

I said to myself, Landon Croaker, an accountant, adjusting the padded compartments of my backpack as I rambled up a ragged winding woodland path.

A granite strewn gulag odyssey that’s second nature to me now.

There was the usual green stew of ornate plants with enthralling names that fascinate the tourist.

Ancient Fir Clubmoss which grows into a chalice like shape

as beads of moisture drip sluggishly from its toothless emerald surface.

St Patrick’s cabbage, a dessert

spoon’s mirror image with thick leather leaves and zig zag veins.

Hapless Fraochan and whort shrubs whose symmetrical fruit pendants are just waiting to be plucked.

To say nothing of that most prickly bane,

those nasty nettles that have one scratching endlessly.

Oxalic acid scald that triggers spasms rippling over bare skin.

I brought my notebook with me.

It was spiral bound with a shifting, shimmery, hologram motif emblazoned on the front.

Observations were logged for future reference.

Closet novelist or bard perhaps?

Maybe one day.

The natural word is driven by a multitude of forces.

It seemed as if we are all marionettes in a chain, both manipulator and manipulated, Svengali and slave.

Rainbow trouts extracting energy from water vortices by means of slalom action.

Hornet’s pigments as they harvest solar waves for flight or excavation.

Fern clad Sessile oak trees with hard shelled acorn progeny suggesting motion of a different kind.

Birds pirating said acorns to a vernal grass plot for seamless cycles.

Canopies of lattice branches that springboard every creature under the sun.

Those boughs with the brittle snap at taut intervals that plant a sting in one’s ear.

Shrieks from a stunned squirrel leaping in the arc of a trapeze with blue jay alarm signal in tow.

The non-stop rustle from rabbits under slender stalks, and overarching foliage across burrowed hidey-holes.

Puffball clouds and brown dust spores sprung by microscopic raindrops.

Echo chamber habitat in open foetal sesame hostile to human intruders.

A wastrel I was within the wilds and the elements were miffed by this tactless troll through their terrain.

I was getting close to that place where my friends, a husband and wife team lived and ran a fringe publishing company.

These partners had a similar office in town.

They carried their high octane business drive into this secluded spot.

Urban and rural life was their forte initially.

Their penchant for capturing niche markets and spotting trends was legion.

The couple resided in a cherry wood log cabin with tongue and groove cladding and a pine timbered roof lantern peering pensively into the maze-like river down below.

This dwelling was perched at the side of a mountain.

The mountain itself had a surreal sweep about it as it apexed towards the sky piercing spectra colored cloud balloons.

Like a watchtower it sat silently in sinister observance.

Sunlight gestated in the sky as I trekked forward.

A primeval heave juddered beneath the rumpled insoles in my footwear as they oozed sweaty squelching noises.

Insights like fumaroles coursed through my veins in blood red bursts.

Within this raw canvas a universal pulse, a oneness exists.

A fallow deer suddenly appeared.

It was of the chestnut coat and white mottles type.

The deer looked furtively at me with startled eyes deep in its skull as if it knew something I didn’t.

They have their own badinage and intuition that goes with it.

Within minutes it vanished.

A swarm of flies choose my face as target practice.

A virtual non stop kamikaze buzz.

Flies, the spooky whistleblowers on the solitary hiker with grazed cheeks as collateral damage.

The sweat brought on by my laboured trudge didn’t help.

Despite this onslaught I stopped to tie my braided lace bespoke boots.

Anticipation drove me on irrespective of the sweltering heat.

It was if I had survived some endurance test.

The clothes on my body were wringing wet but still I had broken the back of the journey.

Though I sometimes felt it had nearly broken the back of me.

Heading onwards the

urban spirit still had me somewhat in its spell.

Sleep busting motorway drones going beep beep, cone shaped traffic markers as hard plastic cordon, the rapid rail transit system with it’s clickety-clack cadences, sonorous horn signals from departing cruise ships.

There is the other side of the equation in these surroundings.

Chambered cairns, those passage tunnels from the past that act as stone markers for the venturer.

Platform mounds whose ribboned cracks and gouges play host to strongly rooted Chasmophytes.

The leaves softly hinted at a lurking silhouette as the log cabin became dimly visible.

“Hello, there. Fancy seeing you here.

Welcome back.”

Chelsea, in a quaint croaking baby twang that mocked distance.

“Oh …You frightened me.” Landon said.

For a moment I nearly toppled over but miraculously kept my balance.

Chelsea dashed towards me with a note of concern that soon turned to mirth.

“A bit worried there Landon but never fear.

It’s great to see you.

What a surprise!

But then we like surprising people too as you’ve learned by now.”

I paused and replied.

“How could I ever forget? It's the unexpected that adds spice to this life business and others too!”

Landon sardonically.

While catching up we spied a crestfallen black crow struggling to take flight.

It eventually did.

“Like people at work or in other situations.

They can find it hard going.”

Chelsea observes.

“I always find this a haunting spot.”

Landon briefly.

“Indeed. You sound tired.”

Chelsea replies.

“We’ll change all that. We’ll change everything about your life now you’re here.”

The ramifications of that comment would soon unfold.

Was there a shadowy presence stalking us or am I hallucinating?

“The last time I was here we talked about the possibility of children.

Any decision yet? Indeed we have been having this conversation for some time.

You could always adopt.”

I continued.

“Don’t have to do that.

Got my husband and he’s got me.” She said.

“We’re both kids at heart.”

Her voice trails off with a sad tinge.

“This location seems ideal but there’s school and….. other factors.”

Chelsea hesitantly.

“Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a bit of thought.” Landon in reply.

At this point Croaker sensed Chelsea’s unease and didn’t press the point.

“Hey, what’s this?” Croaker cried as two apples landed at his feet.

“Yahoo. You two.”

Chesney, Chelsea’s husband shouted before climbing down a tree with infant zeal.

“It’s been so long.

Doesn't time fly?

Going back to our childhood the days have been an endless sprint.”

Chesney again.

“These sudden appearances are very well coordinated.

Is there a hidden hand or something deeper?”

Landon mused as we all continued apace.

While walking it dawned on me how dewy-eyed this couple were.

They also cut thin, bony almost adolescent figures despite their thirty something vintage.

One could say they were reflections of each other in every sense.

Entering the cabin shortly afterwards it seemed like something from a children’s storybook.

Cartoon mosaics hanging precariously from their fool’s gold borders, zip purses with smashed purple bead inserts, and shredded comic strips in tiny bundles.

Plush stuffed toys with sewn outer fabrics as well but for whom?

“Ever since my first visit I’ve sensed a saga shrouded in the deepest mystery.

This cover up.

An untold tale.”

Croaker on reflection.

“Hey Snap. What are you thinking?

What’s accountancy like these days?

A game of noughts and crosses.”

Chesney’s barb evokes laughter.

“Nothing ever really changes.

The usual stuff, low risk profiles, investment hazards.

It’s a world I drifted into but is there a way out I wonder?

How about you?

Still building this publishing company in paradise.”

Croaker once more.

“Publishing is odd at times. It’s almost as if you are becoming the stories submitted.”

Chesney observed.

“Children's stories and fantasies are beginning to do well for us.

Themes linked to birth and regrowth which we’ve always had a thing about are also gaining interest.

All those manuscripts but am I boring you?”

He asked.

“Not at all.

It gets me away from the staid accountancy world.”

Landon tactfully.

A salad of roasted lemon, fennel fronds and pomegranate was served with zesty citric juices to accompany our discourse.

Guacamole dip based on chunky avocados, signature relish blobs and tortilla chips rounded off this fare.

Slants on various topics passed blithely from our lips.

Our enthusiastic voices filled the cabin adding an extra dimension to this haven from that Trojan horse we call the daily plod.

After our meal we placed the Royal Stafford dishware in the washing machine.

Chelsea’s phantom figure scurries outside with Olympic speed for whatever reason.

A flambeau wouldn’t have been out of place.

It was so redolent of the suddenness about.

A cocoon descends around Chesney and Landon as they become rapt in each other’s company.

Unfortunately Chesney had this habit of being swept up by his own conversations.

Against caw and pipe rook vocals in the background I quizzed Chesney about the urban country rift.

It seemed that even tranquil timberlands so-called have their own stressors.

“See those creatures slumped awkwardly on fragile twigs?

They can sense pending discomfort such as weather changes.

But can they really cope?”

Chesney pondered.

“Don’t know if you can really escape the man-made pressures of city life.”

A querulous tone from Chesney this time.

“Maybe these divisions are rubbing off on one another.”

Landon archly.

“Thud…… an incredible sound.

What was that?”

Chesney shook as he commented.

Chelsea walked in the door.

“Oh dear .. let’s say a homing pigeon.

Always up to that kind of nonsense.

They’re a strange breed.”

She said smugly.

“Very strange indeed.”

Chesney out loud.

A strained silence ensues as Chesney and Chelsea exchange glances but one could guess from their scrunched up expressions what they were thinking.

“Was that really a homing pigeon?”

Landon wondered and maybe Chesney too.

A circus of the wilds continued to intensify outside as species vies with species in a fanfare of egos.

Chirpy robin red breasts at the window,

wing scraping crickets in high chorus on a Vulcan steam curtain.

Horseshoe Bats that weave around rainbow shafts with aplomb.

Such delights as Daddy long legs with their cancan dances on sodden green patches.

“Excuse me …..ring a bell.”

Chesney diverting Landon’s attention from the goings on outside with a broken fragment.

Landon bought this autumn crocus crystal vase for them both on a previous sojourn.

It slipped from his hands in a butter fingers incident and predictably shattered.

From memory Croaker uttered the words “my lasting gift” as it fell.

Cackles all around but frustration for Landon.

“It’s an hilarious keepsake after a fashion.”

Chelsea opined.

“Oh, thank you I think.”

Said Landon.

The hours passed with this and other anecdotes.

We both decided to retire.

Landon saw Chesney furtively remove what looks like a letter from a ring pull drawer.

“Just an old bill.

Must shred it.” He said.

“Why would Chesney even explain that?

His face is red.

How curious.”

Croaker thought.

Shuffling to his allocated bedroom Landon did notice kids gadgets dangling over cube modular storage units.

Pink salmon quilted eiderdowns, pillows with children sleeping under moonlit skies, and Milky Way throw blankets completing this idyllic scene.

The night passed uneventfully.

There were some noises in the kitchen as early morning approached but I was too tired to notice.

Having woken sluggishly Croaker walked into the dinning area.

A sense of foreboding, an ominous ghostly silence filled the room.

The strangest happenings seemed imminent.

Landon grappled awkwardly with the claustrophobia around him.

It was rudely disrupted by the shrill chatter of the chestnut-sided warbler - Induna of the morning cacophony.

An oak hook tip moth added charm to the proceedings with its zoom and flutter acrobatics.

“I’ve the creepiest feelings about this morning.

Doubt if I’ll jot these presentiments down.

Not very promising for one who toys with the idea of being a writer.”

Croaker reasoned while casting a suspicious eye on everything.

“Buzzz ……Buzzz ....Boing.

It’s my old phone’s text tone.

My boss.

Wonder what he wants?”

Landon to himself.

“Dear Landon,

When you return I would like to speak to you about your future with this company.

At the moment I can’t go into further details.

As it involves a lot of interested parties a wide ranging discussion would be in order,

Regards,

Tom Wright

Managing Director.”

Landon’s worst fears now confirmed.

“What am I to make of that?

Just how serious is this or is there another …. what is this in front of me?”

A letter from Chesney and Chelsea.

“Hi Landon,

We had to leave quickly.

Just one of those things.

Help yourself to whatever largesse there is.

Don’t know how long we’ll be.

You can hang around of course or leave if you like.

Don’t break anything !!

Ha ha,

Ches and Chels.”

Incredible!

Between the text and the letter who wouldn’t be alarmed?

Landon limped outside to an ear splitting din and a mist laden detritus that merged into pockets of streams steeplechasing each other.

A slimy frog vaults and casts a damp viscous oil spray in Croaker’s direction into the bargain.

Something ….a shadow.

Was there someone following me?

“This has been the most peculiar visit I’ve ever had.

Intrigue seems encoded in it’s every aspect.”

Croaker’s anxiety growing.

A tap on the shoulder followed by a crystal shard landing near his feet.

“The vase remember ?

Don’t take yourself so seriously ……..there’s something we’d like to discuss with you.”

Chesney said pointedly.

“An Agatha Christie mystery novel has nothing on the twists and turns of this trip.”

Landon frets.

“We’ve been mulling over this, Chelsea and I.

Your presence is an extraordinary coincidence.

Do you have this sixth sense about some higher force at work?”

Chesney quizzically.

“We’d like to offer you a job as an accountant as there is a vacancy here.”

Chelsea this time.

Landon now shivering with the incongruity of it all.

“Don’t you know by now we love to jumpstart even our closest friends?

This post is

tailor-made for you and you’d be foolish not to snap it up.”

Chelsea once more.

“I’m sure your current boss will understand as our paths have crossed over the years!”

Chesney stated.

Croaker’s head was now in a spin.

What a bizarre comment but he said nothing.

“You like writing don’t you Landon?

Well, you did the last time we spoke.

There are plenty of stories around here.

Who knows, there might even be a role for you as judge and editor.”

Chelsea opining.

“Maybe those diary entries weren’t a waste after all.”

Landon hoped.

“Didn’t you go to an awful lot of trouble just to offer me a job?”

Croaker queried.

“Neither Chelsea nor I do things the conventional way.

We’ve been building up to this for quite some time.”

Chelsea with Chesney nodding.

A carousel of thoughts flashes through Landon’s mind at this juncture.

He walked in a trance struggling with everything that happened.

“What was in Chelsea’s large sports bag I wonder?”

Croaker thought.

“Let’s go for a swim, Landon.

I’ve got swim trunks for all of us.

Last down to the river is a nerd.”

An unsurprising dare from Chelsea.

We glide over spiked brambles, severed logs, twisted stumps and every jagged tooth rock shape imaginable.

Herculean feats were performed.

Because Landon was in a state of shock he got the wooden spoon.

Chelsea tossed a nylon mesh swim trunks at Landon as everyone duly changed.

Something slipped out of Chesney's pocket without him or any of us knowing.

It was that letter Chesney removed previously and read as follows.

“Dear Chesney and Chelsea,

As your doctor I regret you won’t be able to have children. It’s with a heavy heart I share this with you.

There are many reasons for this...”

The rest of the letter was creased and illegible.

It was subsequently swept to the river’s edge underneath a Crested Iris by a slight breeze.

Meanwhile, we were all breast stroking with abandon with the occasional breather as well.

“You can make up your mind, Landon at the end of this swim whenever that is and wherever it is taking us.”

Chelsea chuckled.

“Things really aren’t all that different around here bar the setting.

Even the speed.”

Once again Chelsea spoke as she circulates in the eddying stream.

“Let yourself go, Landon.

Be that rush amid the rapids.

Maybe it’s a different cage but still.”

Chesney, a toddler’s echo to this mind boggling denouement.

We all started off again as we follow each other downstream.

“Awh, the child within!” Cries Chelsea before heading off.

“An opportunity of sorts, an escape of sorts. I’ll probably accept this bizarre offer.”

Landon to himself as he swam.

At that moment the mountain looked down imperiously upon us all as the stray deer suddenly reappeared from nowhere.

Maybe that deer did know something after all.

Quite a few things perhaps!

Photograph and piece all my own work @mantrabay

I appreciate in advance everyone on Tumbrl who considers and rates this post

[watermelonlipstick]

Hot Blood

This was written as a request for an anon who asked:

hi! i was wondering if you could write a dean fic where he’s with the reader in their car and hot blood by kaleo comes on, the reader sings along, their voice is really good, and dean realizes he’s in love w the reader

First of all, great song! I hadn’t heard a ton of Kaleo before, but I’ve put them into my rotation so thanks for the recommendation! I hope it’s okay that I took a few liberties with the format because it felt right with the angle; it’s from Dean’s point of view so the reader is in third person. 

Title: Hot Blood

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1251

Summary: Hearing the reader sing along to Kaleo makes Dean realize his feelings about her are a lot more complex than he’s ever realized. 

Warnings: swearing, pining, fluff, sexual frustration?

            “The fuck is this?” Dean asks as she turns up the radio.

           “The band’s called Kaleo—you’ll like them, they’re from Iceland!” she yells, starting to groove and hum along as the volume starts pounding through the speakers. She doesn’t hear when he repeats her—Iceland?

           When she starts singing along to the radio her voice is somehow not what he expected—lower? Higher? He can’t even really tell, but that wasn’t the thing anyway, it’s that she’s…haunting. That’s it. The song is up tempo, the kind of rock beat he can tolerate even if it’s a poor facsimile of the greats, and that’s the crux of the hypnosis as she sings. Somehow, even howling along to a repetitive chorus, wind blowing the hair back from her face with the window of the Impala cracked a few inches, sides of her thumbs tapping the drumline out over the thighs of her jeans, it’s like she’s chanting a spell, triggering that deep-primal interconnectedness of a particularly vicious exorcism or bit of creation magic.

           Maybe that’s just the closest he can get to placing it. The shock of how fucking good she is notwithstanding—and she is seriously good, makes Dean think of Janis and Chrissie Hynde and maybe even Joni Mitchell who he knows is a genius even if he might never admit it aloud—appreciating a killer singer never makes Dean feel like this, like he has to consciously focus on the road after the hundreds of thousands of hours he’s driven in his life for the way his brain wants to forego everything else on earth for that fucking voice.

           Thank God for the bridge or Dean might’ve missed the turn, nothing else on the miles of wheatfields surrounding them he could even pretend to be distracted by but her. As it is, he takes it a little tight, and she smoothly reaches a hand through the open window to brace herself on the doorframe as the Impala carves out some rural dirt. Momentum shifts her a few inches across the leather toward him, sweet-salty shampoo and cherry chapstick scent of her dusty in the dry late summer afternoon wrapping him up like a boa constrictor, like tentacles, and he’s gotta immediately stop that connection because tying this moment to his Japanese erotica is going to fry his brain so bad he might actually have to pull over.

           “See? I knew you’d like it,” she half-howls over the radio, laughing like nothing in this world matters except whether Dean’ll listen to some dumb song for her, and the sliver of tongue that catches the glisten of sunlight as she does is making Dean feel sort of queasy the way he did at 16, snuck into a bar with his dad as a reward for a hunt gone well and trying his best not to stare at the soft swells of the bartender’s body as she shook a tumbler of Vegas bombs, winking at him from across the room. John had made some half-joke about being careful with girls like that and Dean knew he was just being confronted with his son growing up, but he’d heard him loud and clear—a girl like that will drive you crazy, make you eat yourself up with want from the inside out. In that bar he’d been grateful for the low lighting and high top table to shield the physical weakness of his want but he’s a grown ass man now and he thinks maybe going crazy wouldn’t be so bad, maybe he could throw Baby in park and all the good karma he’s ever racked up would bless him in that moment, let him taste that tongue catching tiny sparks of sun beautiful and dirty and impossible to resist like a diamond from the dark mine of her mouth, feel that fucking voice vibrate under his fingertips as he tangled himself into the brambles of her.

           And then the bridge is over. She’s turned the volume back up and is pulling exaggerated rock star faces as she sings to him. It takes a second before Dean realizes smile you fucking idiot and is sure he’s grimacing, hopes that the sunny day is enough to cover the flush he can feel in his cheeks and what the fuck is wrong with him? She’s not a siren, not some fuck-you-so-good-you-don’t-care-if-she-boils-your-bunny chick across a smoky bar, those jeans aren’t magic and in fact they were washed with his, ‘I don’t want to do a whole load, just let me throw my shit in with yours’ while she sat on the laundromat counter in worn cartoon pajama pants. That tongue—fuck, her tongue, why does this fucking song have so many “L” sounds in it—is the same one that sticks out round and juvenile like Charlie Brown’s when she’s reading something complicated.

           When the song ends Dean’s white knuckling the steering wheel like he’s in a tropical storm and he can’t help but feel relieved. Back to the safety of his tapes, who would never try to pull whatever black magic bullshit that was on him. He takes a deep breath and promises himself to get laid at the next chance he gets lest he seriously fuck up like some hormone-stupid teenager. She’s put in a Chicago B side and he says a silent prayer because that’s exactly the kind of soft-sappy he needs to counteract this. Enough even that he trusts himself to confirm that it’s over, that momentary frenzy nothing but a blip of testosterone fueled by her disclosing a hidden talent. Maybe he can even compliment how well she sings without sounding like he wants to crawl inside her.

           He almost does a double take when it’s still—like that, filter of unbelievable need unmoved from any part of her and he wants to fucking eat her alive, let her flay him open and wear him like a coat if that’s what she wants and he knows he is so fucked.  She’s turned down Chicago to tell him something cool Sam figured out about snow spirits and yeti mythology the other day and it’s all he can do to focus on the right times to make vaguely affirmative noises or smile, because he’s trying to work out in his head how he’s going to be able to keep his brother from reading on his face how bad he’s got it the second they walk through the motel door. For all he knows Sam is going to say some slick shit about how he’s happy Dean’s finally figured it out for himself, the fucking know-it-all.

           It takes a second for him to catch it when she asks him a question, and she looks a twinge concerned when he doesn’t respond right away. Gonna have to do better than that, dumbass. “Sorry, what?”

           “You feeling okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

           Not if I can help it. “Yeah, sorry. Just, ah, need a sandwich or something, I’m starving.”

           She throws her head back into the seat to laugh and a million coins pouring out of a Vegas jackpot couldn’t sound more precious. “We ate like an hour ago!” She shakes her head teasingly back at him, wide smile beaming like a dentist’s ad. “I fucking love you, dork.”

           He knows it’s not what she means, but he lets the words make his blood run hot.

-

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Victorian warehouse conversion by architect Mark Lewis.

The expansive kitchen stretches along one wall for nearly 20 feet. The cabinets were made from salvaged pine floors.

A tiled pantry doubles as a wine cellar.

Lewis wanted to preserve the sense of space and light.

A floating shelf of steel and salvaged floor joists serves as a partition. He further defined the living area with homey tongue-and-groove paneling painted blue.

The bedroom is a pretty blue and white.

A walled-up elevator shaft was a surprise discovery. Unearthed during construction, it was transformed into a closet with built-in drawers and its original battered wood doors.

The bathroom is lined in Metro White subway tile.

The rolltop bathtub is cast iron and the outside was painted.

The shower has a wood-trimmed glass wall & a waterproof wood floor.

I’ve never seen anything like this- an old-fashioned toilet of the sort seen in English country houses, but it actually flushes.

And, this looks like tongue & groove paneling, but it’s cast concrete with wood graining.

https://www.remodelista.com/posts/mark-lewis-interior-design-hoxton-square-london-loft/

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Ours

Extremely late and I’m EXTREMELY sorry!😭 @bluboothalassophile happy belated EVERYTHING! And just thank you so much for being the incredible friend that you are!!!! 🥰You know what this is 😏and I hope you enjoy because this is the first of three parts. Three just seemed to fit... I had a ton of fun writing it and hopefully it’s not rubbish.

-----------

It took time and patience with an unpracticed key guided by an unsteady grip. A petite, pale girl caught her lip between her teeth, a tiny grunt escaping as she finagled with the door.

"Raven, is that you?"

But she was starting to get used to this.

There was a concluding click as the key's metal ridge caught the groove in the last lock of the six panel apartment door. When it opened, in wandered a wearied Raven Roth.

And Raven would have liked to think she wandered in gracefully, but she knew she was dragging. It was impossible not to while wearing shoes so abhorrently impractical they should have been illegal. So violent was the aching in her heels, that by the final stretch of half-block, they were nearly numbed. Gods and her back—it was practically killing her.

If she was being honest, Raven felt like something one of those city sweeping trucks scraped off the sidewalk at four-thirty in the morning. One could only hope she didn't look like it.

"Roy," Raven winced, eyelids squeezing shut as she spoke. "I'm alive—but barely."

"Jay?" Roy called out from somewhere in the foreground. "Where are you?"

As expected a low, disembodied grunt ushered out in lieu of a response.

"Didn't you hear—Raven's back!"

The door slid closed and a gust of air entered the foyer behind her, carrying with it the heady notes of brown sugar, nutmeg, and melted butter. And like a Pavlovian response, she forgot the discomfort and led herself up by the nose. Spine straightening, legs lifting, then posture rising. It was like her whole being had been revitalized in an instant. Who knew the promise of a home-cooked meal could do that? A wistful smile steered into her face as Raven thought about how evenings after work used to transpire.

Weeks ago, one foot in the door usually meant bra optional. And flattening into a decompression on the couch was a non-negotiable.

Needless to say, a welcome like this one would never not catch her off guard.

"Something smells like you've outdone yourself again," Raven spoke loudly over the faint sounds of sizzling, curiously craning her neck and sniffing the air distractedly.

And then Roy appeared. He was peering out into the foyer, red hair bleeding out against the backdrop of a white walled interior. "Dinner will be ready soon," he supplied and beamed at her. The brightness faded in increments as his deep pine eyes floated downward and he took what she was holding.

"Again?"

"Yep." Raven gave a single solemn nod and Roy let out a dramatic sigh.

"But it's Friday. Those bastards..." he muttered in disbelief and Raven smirked. Suddenly, he inclined his head toward the other room and inhaled suspiciously. "Do you...smell that?" Roy went rigid in realization. "It smells like I forgot the flip."

"It smells like...that one's Jason's," Raven corrected.

Red eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Right." He marched back briskly toward the kitchen, only pausing to point at the heavy bag full of file folders teetering on her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me and Jaybird all about...that."

"Yes, please." Raven let out a huff, lower lip quivering. "You're an angel..." Roy winked at the pout topped by pleading purple and disappeared.

"The irony," a low drawl called from just around the corner. "Are you always such a sight for sore eyes?"

It was Jason walking over with arms out as wide as his grin. Even without the sarcasm, his aura and footsteps were distinct—a dead giveaway. They were oddly as heavy as they were silent.

"Whoa…" he looked as concerned as Roy had moments ago. "Or are you just sore?" Strong, steady hands removed her bag from her shoulder. "That's better." Raven rolled her stiff arm muscles.

It was a relief, to hand off her burden for a moment, to no longer be dragged down by the weight of her work—and the world.

"How was our day?" he pressed like a man who knew the answer.

"Rough—and long..."

Quickly Jason knelt down, hand reaching out for her calf. "I've got you, Princess." And Raven placed a balancing hand on his shoulder while he undid her shoes, a grateful half-smile stitching across her face.

"Come, come."

He took her hand, twirling her around past the living room to deposit her right onto a stool next to the island. "Sit. Harper's making crepes." Jason pulled her stool close and spun it around, so he was faced with the back of her.

"Take it from me, they'll help with the tension. Of course... I also believe in a hands-on approach." Jason then cracked his knuckles—mostly for effect, because boy did he know what he was doing. His hands slid up her arms, to her shoulders and worked them over, then dug into the surrounding muscles with his fingers and kneaded hard with his thumbs.

"Mmm..." Raven's tension began to ebb and wane. "Well, that helps a little..." Jason turned up the pressure a few more degrees while his breath grew heated on her neck.

Aroma clouds were wafting around their heads, while Roy flipped another crepe in slow motion. And in an instant, Raven was transported to some sort variant of a Jason and Roy spa she didn't know she needed.

"Okay, that helps a lot." And she moaned in spite of herself. All her stress was melting away, turning into liquid and evaporating off of her, faster than the French butter Roy was melting on the stove. He tilted the bright red crepe pan in all directions, getting an even gloss of sweet, golden goodness in every crevice. And Jason's hands continued to manipulate each one of hers, until all the tightness in her upper body unknotted itself.

"Hmm, where else—where else? Ah." Jason's rough hands took hold of the chevron patterned lace covering her ankles and he began to massage away. "Did I tell you, how much I like these stockings?"

Raven seemed not to hear him. "Harder," she whispered. His knuckle pounded gently down her arches, then ground fixedly into her heel and, painstakingly along the sides. By the time he took her other foot into his lap, she was practically cooing. "Did I tell you how good you are at that?" The tip of Jason's tongue edged over the corner of his smile.

Gods.

"That really is a shame..." he said and Raven lifted her head towards him in question. "About your day? How rough and hard it was..." His hand was lowering, slowing, but lingering. "Normally when you put those two adjectives together... It could be a good thing."

"Okay...!" Roy had come over suddenly with his spatula proffering a piece of crepe, still steaming hot from the pan. "I'm testing something out tonight, so I've added a special ingredient to this batch."

"Oh good. Raven did have one of those days. She could use some..." Jason pantomimed a flippant gesture. It could have been taking a long drag or it could have been—

"Not that kind... A different kind of special..." Roy shot Jason and Raven a long once over. Something in the way he said special made the air around them begin to bristle with titillation, anticipation. "A few drops of...lavender extract..." His voice dropped another octave. And he began to blow on the bite while Raven and Jason watched his full lips. It seemed cooling the steam from the crepe had an opposite and equal reaction. As if each breath was fanning the flames rising between them, like a bellow into charred embers in the hearth of a fireplace.

"Let me know what you think of it." Gently, he fed her piece from his fingers and Jason leaned his face close to hers, like he was attempting to steal it straight from her lips. Just before the point of contact, Roy clicked his tongue playfully.

Almost like he was calling him off.

"If you want some you'll have to wait." Dazedly, Raven blinked at Roy. He shook his head of chin length crimson hair, half of it was up in a bun with the rest hanging in his face. "I'll be back with the rest." Teasingly, Roy waved the spatula like a stake to ward off his dark-haired, undead roommate.

"Jason..." The brunette inched nearer to her at the sound of his name. She kicked his stool with her foot so it swiveled further away. Ultimately, it only caused him to move even closer. "Aren't we in rare form tonight?" she sighed.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jason insisted bemusedly, doing his best to appear impassive. "I'm always like this." He examined her wrist with his forefinger and thumb. "As for you... That office of yours must be working you damn near to the bone. Did you somehow manage to get tinier, Raven?" The left corner of his lips curled up.

She tore it away and glared at him, aghast. "Insufferable, patronizing," Raven muttered under her breath, nursing her wounded forearm. "Ass."

"But this ass speaks the truth," he raised an eyebrow loftily. "If you would just join our firm..."

"Your firm?" Purple orbs narrowed to slits. "Just because you guys are mercenaries for hire—"

"Mmm... We really prefer the term 'vigilantes,'" Jason punctuated with air quotes. "Actually, from a branding perspective, it's Heroes for Hire™—Roy's got a whole...thing..."

"Whatever you're calling your 'backwoods operation'." Raven's air quotes didn't disguise the disdain in her voice. "The point is, I like my non-profit just fine... And I am not tiny."

"Alriiight." Roy arrived with a huge ceramic serving dish full of crepes with powdered sugar dusted on top. "Eat them while they're hot. Raven..." He slid a plate over to her. "Eat up."

"I thought I would always get the first bite," Jason teased. Then quickly lunged forward, stopping short of Roy's smirk, hip cocked toward his. "What've you got for me, Harps?"

On a delay, the redhead drew back, as if he just remembered Raven was in the room. "Don't be greedy, Jay," he said at last.

The ebony haired man, raised an eyebrow, but began to unload fresh food onto his plate. Once every inch of real estate was covered in crepe, Jason started to attack with his fork.

"So, when have I ever been greedy?"

Was that besides the fact that his plate was loaded up with most of the food the archer had just cooked? And besides the fact that he hadn't really helped?

But then... neither had Raven. Unless licking the batter and 'testing out' a crepe or two counted.

"Well, Raven's barely eaten a crepe and you're drifting into seconds. Where's your hospitality? Shouldn't you share with our guest?"

"I can be hospitable..." He chuckled. "I'd rather just...share our guest."

Roy shot him a warning glare on his way back to the stove. Jason shrugged before closing in another crepe and filling his mouth with another forkful.

"You're amazing," Raven deadpanned.

"Aren't I? But I've got nothing on the food. I have to say, this is the best batch by far," he announced. "Roy, do you have any more of those blueberries you got from the farmer's market over the weekend?" Jason started to smirk at Raven. "Or strawberries? I know how much you enjoy them."

"Try the table," Roy yelled over his shoulder, mild irritation edged in his tone.

"Well..." Raven shrugged, her expression coy as she reached over for the blue container. "They are in season..." There were few things that could enhance Roy's crepes, except fresh berries. Raven puffed out her cheeks as she rifled through an almost empty berry basket. "And... there are only three left... You sure helped yourself," she accused heavily under her breath.

"I didn't see your name on them," Jason returned. "So it was fair game, like anything else in this apartment."

Raven folded her arms. "I thought Roy got them for me, didn't you Roy?" He glanced up at her as he moved around the open kitchen.

"Sorry, we're low, Rae," Roy said regrettably. "I should have picked up more. You'd think after a couple weeks, I wouldn't still be acclimating to having an additional mouth to feed. What can I say?"

"Yes, we're very sorry." Jason pinched her stocking-clad leg, eliciting a gasp.

Raven cut knife-sharp purple eyes at him before the redhead came around to her stool. Roy wiped a hand across the words Banging Redheads & Banging Brunches printed in a large black font on the apron.

Probably a Christmas gift.

And one for which Jason must have been responsible.

He ruffled the purple strands at Raven's crown with his spatula free hand. "I hope that's okay."

"Don't be ridiculous." She brushed the strings fastening the charcoal colored apron and tugged. "Now go take that off and come eat with us." Roy planted a kiss on the top of her head, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"Hmm...I guess I could have blueberries..." Raven mused. "Now that I think about it, they'd really compliment the lavender. I don't know that strawberries would in the same way."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Jason took a small sip from his cup, eyes trained on her through the glass. "Or have you ever considered...both?"

With a startling scowl, Raven looked up from the melted whipped cream atop the remaining crepes on the granite counter. "Have you ever considered why I like Roy more?" She retorted. "It's this."

"Really?" And Raven pushed his stupidly handsome, smirking face away from her own. "Little bird, don't tease," Jason moaned, dragging out the last syllable. "I promise to be good, I'll share—I certainly don't mind sharing with Roy." She rolled her eyes, popping a blueberry in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Jason was mostly euphemism on a good day, but this was different. He'd been dropping these odd hints all week. But Raven told herself it was another unexpected caveat about living here. She didn't think she should breach the subject or even read too much into them.

After all, she was only crashing with Jason and Roy for a little while longer.

This was purely temporary, until the super in her building got around to fixing the circulation unit in her water closet of a studio. Or that was what she told herself at first. She was quickly growing accustomed to the perks of living with them.

Being spoiled was... Well, it was nothing short of wonderful.

Gone were the days of scrounging up sad boxes of cereal for breakfast, schlepping together leftover takeout for lunch, or unearthing bags of nearly expired popcorn for dinner. Roy and Jason worked out a ton and ensured their fridge was always stocked. Even on the off-chance that it rained and the farmer's market wasn't open in the park so they could do locally-sourced organic.

That, and they could actually cook.

At a moment's notice, Roy could whip up an amazing French toast, or a hearty stew. If they were feeling wild he'd make them breakfast for dinner or vice versa. Even Jason's most experimental chili recipe could be redeemed by a few generous grates of cheese or a dollop of sour cream.

And clearly business was great, because their apartment was fantastic. It was spacious, but had all these homey touches, like a handcrafted breakfast nook Roy and Jason built together.

But tangible things aside, Raven found she actually didn't mind the company. So gone were the days of being alone.

The moments where he wasn't an insufferable tease, Jason loved attending their two person book-club. They talked books, trashy to classic and everything in between, often punctuated by an impromptu neck or foot rub.

When Roy wasn't working out, planning a job, or doling out heaps of domesticity onto her and Jason, he was a hopeless romantic. He reinvigorated Raven's secret love of rom-coms. But he also liked to learn from her. So he played chess, scrabble, even backgammon, and once in a while they were able to rope in Jason for monopoly. Roy was a very graceful loser at board games, but he was amazing when he got his hands around a deck of cards. And Raven was finding, she had a lot to learn from him.

But Raven's favorite nights were the ones where they could all just be. Listening to something old or indie in the background and talking until the three of them simply passed out.

The apartment just felt full—of fun, of food, of friends. Of laughter and love.

It was a wonderful life, but it was a shame it wasn't her life. Raven was a realist, she knew she'd have to go back.

But for now, she was going to enjoy every single second of it.

[orionwhispers]

Feels Like Home // Bucky Barnes 🍂

(a/n- ok holy shit ive finally finished my first bucky oneshot. its long as fuck but im so so happy with it. pls let me know what you think. i have lots of requests and peaky stuff coming up as well. love you guys SO much) probs loads of mistakes but its 12k words and im exhausted lol. (also this is inspired by the song feels like home by bea miller and jessie reyez. highly recommend)

warnings: slow burn, friends to lovers, HEAVILY implied smut, so much fluff your dentist will kill me, angst and canon level violence. 

Bucky Barnes had thought a lot about death.

He thought about it often during the war. Wondering if perhaps a bullet would pass through his gut as he ran through the trenches, or a bomb would explode under his feet as he walked across the battlefield. It was everywhere he looked, his fellow comrades bandaged and bloody, the nurses in the infirmary tent smelling of saline and strong, sweet, copper.

He thought about it more than anything with Hydra. Wishing that the torture would send him over the edge, pleading for the sweet release that death would give him. Thinking that what was waiting for him on the other side surely couldn’t be worse than what he was already dealing with.

Even when he moved into the tower, and into a routine with people who understood and trusted him, death had followed him for so long that it was like a friend.

He always thought his death would be something violent; something carnal and savage, almost poetic for him to die the same way that he had lived.

But who would have thought his demise would have been at the hands of the sleepy eyed, honey lipped, gentle girl that made him coffee and brought him raspberry donuts?

You turned his world upside down on a Thursday. He remembers it well, and thinks back to that autumn morning like it’s a picture he keeps in his wallet or a well thumbed book next to his bed. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are - he could be in battle, bloody and bruised, or five thousand miles away from you on a mission in the depths of some town he doesn’t know the name of, feeling himself start to crumble - and the thought of you is enough to steady him, your light luring him back to rationality, his girl.

His sweet girl.

He owed it all to you, and the way you changed his life on that rainy, dreary day and made him realise that home wasn’t a place, it was a person.

The compound was quiet. The Avengers all in a state of limbo; exhausted from hours of travelling, the ghost of bruises and cuts on their knuckles and blood under their fingernails. But more powerful than anything: the red hot relief to finally be back in the tower after two weeks.

The rest of the group fell into their own routines, their own little grooves that they had mastered over the however many years they had been saving the world. The showers were turned onto the highest setting, the smell of Sam’s ridiculously expensive mango shower gel and Nat’s deep, woody body scrub lingering across the floor. Comfort food was made in the kitchen, the throaty sound of laughter and bare feet on the tiles as popcorn sizzled and snapped on the stove. Blankets were draped across the sofas, mugs of hot chocolate and cans of sweet, dry beer passed around and over tangled limbs.

It was something they needed - something they craved. That comforting, warm feeling of family, something so trivial and domestic that it was enough to dull whatever they had been faced with, that for the evening they could think of terrible rom coms and laughter and teasing, rather than civilians dying and the smell of blood and the sound of gunshots. For those stolen moments of happiness after days of heart ache and exhaustion - it was enough.

Well, it was enough for almost everyone.

Whilst the others were arguing over the remote and whether peanut M&Ms were better than chocolate, Bucky was in his room with the lock bolted, methodically cleaning his weapons with surgical precision. He had been at the compound for almost six months, and despite the amenities and luxuries that came with his new home, he felt anything but comfortable.

He liked the people he lived and worked with - and most of them liked him too, but that didn’t do anything to dull the ache in his skull and the uncertainty deep in his gut. After so many years of not being in control of his own mind and body, of having his thoughts and feelings altered by people who saw him as nothing more than a weapon, he was struggling to adjust to his new life.

Amongst all of the chaos though, he had Steve.

The familiar sunshine haired boy that helped ease the storm. His best friend, his brother. The once scrawny teenager that he would follow to the end of the world, all guns blazing, no questions asked. Deep down, he knew that the golden boy was perhaps the only reason he was still at the tower, blending in with all the rest of the wonderful, shining eyed superhero’s around him, making him stick out like a sore thumb.

He knew they thought he could change, but he wasn’t so sure. Sometimes - like the times when he found himself grinning at something Clint said in the back of the jet, or when Nat patted his shoulder in thanks when he covered her in battle, or when he sat on the roof with Steve, talking about faded memories of pin up girls and Coney Island, he felt like perhaps he could be the man Steve thought he was. But then he caught sight of himself in the reflected surfaces of his bathroom, or felt the ricochet of his gun against his shoulder or the blood coating his hands and dripping down into his boots - and he remembered that sometimes people just don’t change.

He listened to the rain as he folded away his weapons that day. Listened to the way the patter of the water muffled the noises of laughter and playfulness coming from the lounge and dissolved into silence. It was too early to retire into bed, and besides, after a mission like the one they had come from sleep wouldn’t be on his mind for a while, his body was still racing with adrenaline.

Then, amongst the patter of raindrops and mingle of voices, he heard something.

A commotion in the hall. His body was finely tuned to pick up anything out of the ordinary, and he could hear the magnetic whir and clang of the elevator as it reached their floor. Everybody was crowded in the living room, which meant it would be somebody from outside the inner circle, and usually that would send cold chills down to his spine, but for some reason this time it didn’t.

Ghosts. Premonitions. Fortune telling. All a load of horse shit to him. He might have been to space and been frozen in time and met some really, really, bizarre people - but there were some things he just didn’t believe in.

Until that rainy day.

It was like a magnetic pull inside of him, when he wanted to lock himself away and not speak to anyone, something inside of him made him want to get up and join the rest of the crew in meeting the stranger.

Even before he saw your face you had him, hook, line and sinker.

So he begrudgingly got to his feet and stood in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame, metal arm out of sight. Steve glanced at him quickly with his eyebrows raised but he ignored him, focusing his eyes on the elevator as it slowly started to open.

Tony looked up suddenly as the doors opened , furrowing his brow at the semi circle of avengers watching him intently. Rather then question it he rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly and stepping forward, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Gather round, gather round, circus freaks. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Because Tony’s personality took up almost the entire room by himself, he had to step to the side for everyone to even get a glimpse of who he was talking about. They waited patiently, with crossed arms and gentle smiles as you stepped out of the shadows.

Bucky felt himself freeze.

You looked so... scared. Not in the traditional sense, not like you were terrified of them or fearing for your life, but the kind of alarm that always trudged through his blood, the feeling of unease and instability, as though you didn’t really belong.

Everybody fell into their roles the way he knew they would. You were young, probably not much older than the Parker kid, and that was why Nat and Steve stepped forward instantly, very protective of you before they even knew your name.

Your hair was mused and loose, eyes wide and lips puffy, as if you had just woken up. You were dressed all in black, baggy clothes and no makeup, your fingers interlocked, your rapid heartbeat pulsing in his ears.

And for some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Everyone, this is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” Tony said, one arm resting gently on your shoulders, pushing you forward.

Bucky had to stop himself from saying your name aloud, wondering why he wanted to taste it on his tongue.

As everybody spoke, introducing themselves with just enough reservation to make you feel comfortable, your eyes met, and his heart stopped. Your eyes were more white than not, a little glossy and swimming with uncertainty, and he felt the urge to do something, anything, to make you feel even a little bit calmer.

The feeling was so foreign that he stepped back, tearing his gaze away from you, suddenly unnerved. He didn’t miss the way you exhaled, and he pretended not to notice the way his body seemed to pine for the warmth he had felt when your eyes met.

Bucky heard him whisper to Nat, his usually sardonic voice dripping with genuine concern. “Keep an eye on her, for me, please.”

And although he knew Tony would never ask that of him, he knew that without a doubt, he would.

—————————————————————-

Those next few days, you stayed hidden in your room - which just so happened to be opposite his own.

Despite that, he never saw you. Not even once.

You weren’t at any team meetings or debriefings, you were never nestled in one of the chairs in the lounge, never sat on the balcony watching the sunrise or slicing up strawberries and grapes in the nook in the kitchen.If it wasn’t for the small, barely there noises you made every so often, he would have thought you had left.

Through the vents he could occasionally hear the whine of your door and the gentle sound of your footsteps at midnight darting to the kitchen. Sometimes he heard Wanda speaking softly to you, so kind and gentle that he could even hear the anxiety leave your voice for a little while. He’d hear Tony’s loud and obnoxious knock in the middle of the night, the two of you leaving for the lab under the cover of darkness.

Bucky hardly slept. It had never come smoothly to him, slipped through his fingers too easily like grains of sand. He used to train to block out the noise, attacking a punching bag until all he could hear was the steady thump, thump, thump of his knuckles. Steve had taken him running whenever the nights got too long or too loud, sweating out the frustration he felt as they darted through the streets at midnight, but now he found another way to pass those hours in the dead of night.

There was something oddly comforting to him about laying upright in his bed, reading whatever novel somebody had leant him and told him was a classic, listening out for the shuffle of your footsteps from the other side of the hall. He remembered what it had been like for him when he first moved into the tower. He knew how hard it was, moving into a space that wasn’t your own.

So now he found solace under the breeze of his ceiling fan and the slow drip of that one leaky tap that he still hadn’t fixed and the low hum of whatever sitcom you were watching vibrating through the walls.

He liked to make sure that you were safe. You were obviously scared of something, or someone, and it made him feel better that he was keeping an ear out for anything out of the ordinary. He told himself that it was for the benefit of the whole tower, but that didn’t explain the ease he felt in his chest when he finally heard the quiet, even snores coming from your room, and the way that it made his own eyes start to close.

The next time he saw you in the flesh was almost a month after you had moved in.

He was in the lounge with the rest of the avengers that had slept most of the morning away, Sam nursing a cup of vanilla coffee and Steve watching the news as he made some kind of bizarre and disgusting protein shake. Bucky sat on the sofa with his back ramrod straight as he did the daily crossword, something about filling out the empty boxes comforting him.

It was a rare free day and he had slept in a little longer than usual, only falling asleep after he had heard the squeak of your bed frame and the whir of your fan flittering in his ears. When he had woken up your room was still, and he assumed you were still asleep as he headed out for his run, but by the sound of your voice in the stairwell you had obviously slipped out unnoticed, and he couldn’t help feeling impressed.

He perked up instantly when he heard you. He listened to the soft way you spoke against the sharp click of Pepper’s heels against the floor, his eyes darting to the doorway as he heard you approach. He saw the girls first, the three of them flanking you like a security detail. Wanda and Natasha at your sides, Pepper walking slightly ahead; gesturing with her jewellery clad hands as she spoke to you.

You faltered as you stepped forward, eyes widening like a deer in headlights as you noticed the boys watching you from the other side of the room. Sam awkwardly removed his hand from where he had shoved it down a cereal box, waving kindly with lucky charm marshmallows stuck to his fingers. Steve - ever the gentleman - gave you his classic golden retriever smile, greeting you as though you were an old friend.

You relaxed a little at that, and Bucky felt himself deflate. He would never be the most warm and welcoming person, not anymore, and he wondered why that bothered him so much when it came to you.

Pepper gently placed a hand on your shoulder, and you leaned into her touch like a cat. “Boys. You remember (Y/N).”

You looked up, waving a hand that was hidden by your oversized sweater sleeves. “Hello again.”

A shy smile. Big eyes. A voice like melted chocolate. Bucky felt fourteen again.

He wanted to say something to you, but he couldn’t get any words out. Pepper was on a mission though, perching her hand motherly on your shoulder and escorting you forward. “Right. The lab. This way!”

Bucky’s gaze followed you all the way down the hall, not stopping even when you faded into nothingness. He turned slowly, feeling Steve and Nat watching with matching smirks on their faces, their eyes flickering with childish glee.

He scoffed.

“Shut up.”

———————————————————

As the weeks passed, Bucky hardly caught a glimpse of you. He didn’t even realise he was searching for you, his eyes just flitting over the empty chair at meal times or trailing through the gym, wondering if he might make out the bounce of your hair or the curve of your lips.

Not that he had been thinking about your lips. He definitely hadn’t been thinking about your lips.

You had piqued his interest though. He thought of the way he had been when he first moved into the tower, and knew that the first few weeks were always the hardest. You spent the majority of the time in your room, occasionally leaving for Tony’s floor or the lab, but always hiding in the night and the shadows, falling just out of reach before he got lucky enough to see you.

Fortunately, there were enough recon missions to fill his days. He found distraction in snow capped mountains and dry, dusty deserts, searching for old HYDRA bases or intel that might have been missed. His mind was filled with coordinates and strategy plans, and that worked for a little while. Until the jet landed and he found himself wondering if you would be there with the rest of the team welcoming him back, and every time he was left feeling a quick, pang of disappointment when you weren’t.

Eventually though, things started to look up.

At three in the morning, like clockwork, he began hearing your door squeal as you opened it, and then the sound of sock clad feet padding through the hallways. The first time it happened his heart leapt and he jolted upright, convinced that something bad had happened. He didn’t relax until he heard Natasha speak, voice crystal clear despite the early hour.

“You ready?”

He soon discovered that Natasha had taken you under her wing, and was helping you spar at the times you felt the most comfortable - when the rest of the building was asleep. He knew he wasn’t the only person who was curious about you, wanting to know if you had any powers, and Nat had stopped Steve from asking a million different questions about you.

He didn’t want to make you retreat once again, so he left it alone.

Eventually, you started sleeping in, getting more comfortable and leaving your bed much later than before. The others still kept their distance, entering the gym just as you were leaving, drenched in sweat and smiling. The first time that Bucky saw you smile like that was after a run with Sam, and he swore his knees almost buckled at the sight of you, wide eyed and sparkling like a diamond, sucker punching the air right out of his gut.

It was just about dawn when he next saw you, the sun barely risen, the compound bathed in a golden, ethereal light. No matter how many early mornings they had had, the kitchen still smelt like triple shot espresso and cans of red bull every day, sleepy eyed avengers mumbling and grumbling as they fought over who got to use the coffee machine first. Bucky smiled smugly across his mug of instant grounds that Sam had so tastefully called, “disgusting cheap crap,” as his $3 coffee capsule got crushed once again.

Steve made some quick joke as he towelled off his hair from his shower, but his words crumbled into TV static when Bucky saw you coming off the elevator. You were limping, just a little, but enough to make his heart thunder in his chest. You were smiling though, wide and happily. As bright as the full sun, and Bucky wanted to stay in your warmth for a little bit longer. Natasha held onto you as though you weighed less than a newborn baby, and the two of you stumbled towards your room. Before you disappeared you shot a small and hesitant smile at the boys, one that pierced through Bucky like a steel bullet.

He wanted to keep quiet but he couldn’t. Not after he had seen you.

“You don’t think Natasha is being to hard on her?” He said finally, clearing his throat in an attempt to sound nonchalant.

“Why do you care?” Sam had asked, halfway through a breakfast burrito that was dropping more food on his shirt than into his mouth.

“Camaraderie.” He quipped.

“Camaraderie my ass. Remember that time I almost broke my leg sparring with you? You made me walk myself to the clinic.”

“That’s because you were being whiney and dramatic.”

“Oh? Well I’ll tell you what I think. I think that Mr Barnes here is - ”

“Alright. That’s enough.” Steve said finally, cutting the conversation short, knowing exactly where Sam was going with his thoughts and not wanting to put his best friend through any embarrassment about his... interest in you.

Sam gave him a glare that said that the conversation was definitely not over, but Bucky ignored him, his eyes trailing the hallway you had walked through, his belly aching and flipping from the way that you had looked at him, filling him with a warmth that didn’t dim even long after he had fallen asleep that night.

——————————————————————-

Things really started to change at midnight. When the sky went black and turned into a blanket of obsidian and twinkling stars, that was when both of you came alive.

The nightmares were back, and they were bad. Blood. Metal. Rust. The pain that felt as though his bones were snapping one by one. Gasping for air. Sweat. Fists. Gunshots. No longer could he stay asleep listening out for you, his body didn’t want him to feel comfortable, safe, whatever the way you made him feel. He wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of something as sweet as you. He was not a man that deserved good things, and he knew he certainly didn’t deserve you.

The compound was so big and he felt so small in his bed. Sometimes he swore he could feel the walls closing in, even though he knew his quarters were more than triple the size of some of the hellholes he had been trapped in. He needed space. He needed air. And that was what led him to wander the hallways like some kind of spectre as the city roared and thundered and thrived below him.

The rooftop had always been his favourite spot. Tony loved using it for parties, setting up a bar and filling the hot tub with champagne and hiring some idiot to blast stupid music that made Bucky want to smash his head against a brick wall. But it was often just used by the team, swimming laps in the pool and laughing under the summer sun, strawberries and wine in the spring and late night swims in the rain in the winter, making Clint jump in the frozen water naked after he lost a round of poker.

It was one of the rare places that Bucky felt truly safe. Out in the open air, watching the water sparkle teal under the stars, the city so big and beautiful, lights flickering and horns blaring. He came up when things went bad, losing himself in the noise and the ice cold air. He often pulled a chair out to the edge, drinking a beer that had no effect on him but somehow made him feel a little bit lighter, just watching the world go by.

He hadn’t been up there in a while. The nightmares had stopped for a while, incidentally the same time you arrived, but recently they had started to trickle back in, like rain at the end of summer.

He was in a pair of flannel pyjama pants and a henley with far too many holes in, cradling a mug of cocoa with a shot of dark rum as he stepped off the elevator, stopping suddenly when he noticed the outdoor lights shining brightly. He knew that everybody else was asleep, and his field instincts kicked in quickly, until he noticed the soft lilac hue of your satin pyjamas glistening under the moon.

Perhaps he should have left. He knew that you liked to keep your distance and God, did he understand that, but his feet seemed to stay cemented to the floor. You were luring him like a ship to a lighthouse, beckoning him to follow you, and who was he to resist?

You were bent over a row of plants and flowers, watering them from a buttercup yellow can, your fingers stained with mud. You moved gently, tentatively fondling the leaves and petals and clipping away any stray stems and weeds. He watched you with curious eyes, amazed at how something so simple could show so much about your character. After so long of not seeing you he felt lucky to catch a glimpse, and he didn’t want to do anything to scare you off.

That was, until his foot caught the edge of one of the sun loungers.

For a trained assassin, he could really be a dumbass sometimes.

You looked up quickly, eyes as wide as dinner plates, your face just starting to flush. He held up his free hand, all the air leaving his lungs like a balloon. He stepped back to leave you in peace, but then he heard you softly say:

“Wait.”

So he did.

You looked nervous but enchanting, with your mussed hair and fluffy slippers and long eyelashes. You smiled timidly, but warmly, and looked at him. Really looked at him. And something about that made him feel truly seen, for the first time in a long time.

“Bucky, right?” A pause lingered in the air, he was suddenly face to face with you and somehow all of his words dissolved into the night air. You mistook his turmoil for something else, and straightened up, the trowel in your hand spilling dirt onto the floor. “Oh I’m so sorry. Do you prefer James? Or...”

“Bucky!” He said, almost shouting, and then calmed himself down. He could feel a blush rising up his throat from his outburst, but if it meant you would look at him the way that you were, then he would happily embarrass himself forever.

A moment passed, the stars overhead round and full despite all of the pollution in the city air, and for once Bucky didn’t find them the most beautiful thing he had seen.

“What are you doing?” He asked before he could stop himself.

“Oh, um.” You were a little flustered, the apples of your cheeks rounding and your lips twitching up, like you were laughing at a joke he so desperately wanted to be a part of. It was infectious. You were infectious, and the ice cold assassin felt the frost around his heart start to thaw.

“Tony got them for me.” You said, barely meeting his gaze. “After everything.” You stopped awkwardly and cleared your throat. His interest was piqued but he knew better than to probe you, instead letting you ramble. “He thought it would be good for me to have something to take care of. Something to look after, you know?”

He nodded.

“It’s not much, but sometimes coming up here and watering them just takes my mind off of things, you know?” You said, somewhat absentmindedly. He watched as you stroked the petals, pushing your finger into a droplet of water on the leaves. He wasn’t much of a gardener but he recognised a few of the potted plants. Forget me nots, African violets, buttery yellow primrose and icy purple orchids. You had other things too, sweet mint and thyme and rosemary, and budding stems of strawberries and blackberries and tomatoes.

It was amazing how much life you had grown along the usually industrial looking balcony. It was rare to see something thrive amongst the smoke of the city,

“I like it up here too, it’s peaceful.” He said, looking out at the skyline and smelling the crisp, cool air.

You mistook his honesty for an annoyance at breaching his personal space, and held your hands up apologetically. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” You were about to make excuses and leave, not wanting to upset the very handsome man who had occupied far too much of your brain anymore, but he stepped forward and said quickly:

“No! In fact, I er - I think I like it much more now.”

You smiled, and oh boy, did Bucky know he was done for.

———————————————————-

Bucky started to like the nights.

After the first midnight meeting it somehow became unspoken for the two of you to meet up on the rooftop. Bucky never wanted to overstep or make you feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to see you again in the privacy of the twilight, the moonlight casting gold flecks into your eyes.

It should have been awkward. An ex HYDRA puppet and a girl with a blurry past that had just joined the biggest crime fighting organisation in the world should have found it hard to open up to one another, but somehow that didn’t happen.

You both kept the conversation light, the silences were warm and comfortable, and everything felt bizarrely natural. You’d often be preening your plants and Bucky would be sat on a lounge chair, reading a book and sneaking glances at you. You talked about the city, he told you how much it had changed since the 40’s, and you told him about the crappy apartment with no heating and a nest of owls you lived in before Tony took you in.

Family never came up, it was a subject you danced around and Bucky respected your privacy. He told you about his though, it slipped out accidentally when he saw you preening foxgloves the colour of ripe and juicy plums - and how they reminded him of the ones his mother once had in the window box of their kitchen. Somehow the memory hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, and you expertly swerved the conversation onto something else. It lingered in his mind for the rest of the night, only dimming when he came home from a workout the following morning and saw a little vase filled with purple petals and a book titled “Caring For Foxgloves” left outside of his door.

His smile didn’t fade the whole rest of the day, even through Sam’s relentless teasing.

He remembered you talking about your favourite cafe off campus, and the white hot chocolate and raspberry donuts you would kill for, and took an hour detour from his running route to pick them up for you both to share later that night.

It was amazing, how this girl he only knew through the sounds from his wall was now sitting with him in the early hours of the morning, talking to him like he was a real person and not just some shitty science experiment. You exchanged books, giving him ones that you thought he would enjoy, and he devoured them in less than a week, finding traces of you between the pages.

The two of you never sat right beside one another. You knew his past and you were cautious not to overwhelm him, always leaving generous inches and metres between you both. For the first time in a long time Bucky didn’t want somebody to give him space, he craved those moments when your fingertips would brush as he helped you pot a plant, when your thighs would touch as you leant over him to watch the stars, when he could feel your warmth orbiting him like a planet.

He used to loathe the night time, but now, he spent the whole day aching for the sun to set so he could be with you.

Eventually, as you grew closer with him, you also grew closer with the team, and soon you were joining them sporadically for movie nights and “Friends” marathons and training. You mainly stayed with Wanda and Nat, the two girls sparring with you and showing you the ropes and coming from a place you could understand the best, but you always ended up back next to Bucky - and he loved it.

The rest of the team noticed too. The way that you brought Bucky out of his shell and he helped you to feel grounded. Steve instantly saw that the smile on his best friends face was wider than it had been in fifty years, and he enjoyed watching the two of you together, happy his best friend was happy.

Bucky felt his own change, too. He was no longer a blushing, stuttering mess around you, (well, not completely. He was still a wreck when you smiled at him, or laughed, or did basically anything) but he had found a comfortable middle ground in your friendship, the two of you able to tease and joke with each other like old friends. Finding ways to talk the whole night and day away, watching the sky turn from obsidian to sweet purple and then milky blue, both of you wondering how you had managed to once again miss an entire night quicker than a snap of fingers.

He knew that he was in deep when you got cleared for your first mission.

He remembered waking up, running with Steve, drinking coffee and making eggs, all whilst pretending he wasn’t looking over his shoulder waiting for you every few seconds. Sam came in with a smug smile and stole a slice of toast, buttering it until it was dripping and eating it in seconds, his brow furrowing a little as he watched Bucky.

“What?” Bucky asked, shooting him a curious glance.

“Aren’t you gonna say goodbye to your girl?”

“She not ‘my girl’.” Bucky said through a mouthful of coffee, hating how the words made him feel.

“Oh, right. Of course not. It’s not like the two of you don’t spend every second of every day and every night together, and it’s not like you’re totally head over heels -”

Bucky decided it would be easier to just cut him off, taking his frustration out on the eggs he was now whisking a little too hard. “Why would I say goodbye to her?”

“You didn’t hear?”

He shook his head, suddenly feeling a million tiny needles prickle his skin.

“Bruce signed her off. She’s heading to Madrid with Nat.”

“She’s what?”

That was all it took for him to leave, Sam watching him closely and smirking to himself. Not noticing until it was too late that the pan had started smoking, and the smell of burnt eggs wafted through the air, and Sam was left alone to grab the fire extinguisher and coat the meal in clouds of white foam.

Bucky stormed through the halls, he wasn’t quite sure what his plan was, his mind felt like a bowl of alphabet soup and he couldn’t quite place his anger or frustration, but that didn’t stop him from tearing through the rooms with a face like thunder. He found Tony in the conference room, finalising the mission plans and murmuring under his breath. Bucky feet moved him forward before he could even compute it.

“You signed her off?”

Tony exhaled loudly, and with obvious frustration spun round on his three hundred thousand dollar shoes.

“I was wondering when you would pitch in your two cents.”

“Do you think she’s ready?”

“Yes I do.”

“What if -? What if something happens? What if something goes wrong? What if - ”

“It won’t.”

“What if it does?”

“Look, Barnes. I know you and (Y/N) have been getting on well, and I know that she’s opened up a lot because of you -” He paused, mulling over the distaste in his mouth. “... As much as that might irritate me. But you don’t know what she’s like on the field, she’s brilliant.”

Bucky didn’t doubt that for a second, but his blood was as cold as ice. Missions went wrong all of the time, even a simple recon with Clint ended up with them both littered in bullets, and the mere thought of that made his head spin. He had no real reason to be so overprotective of you, but he truly couldn’t help it, everything in him was screaming at him to keep you safe.

“Are you even sure that...”

“Bucky?” He felt like a scarecrow shoved in a pool of mud, stuck straight and stiff as you said his name and rendered him totally tongue tied. He wondered how much you had heard, and he felt like there was an ice cube trailing down his spine.

“Aha! There she is! Superwoman!” Tony said, clapping his hands together, always knowing how to diffuse the tension.

He turned around and felt his heart jack hammer in his chest. He could see Nat, but his eyes totally passed over her, because you were there: your hair tied up and back from your face, subtle makeup with long eyelashes and syrupy lips, a black and powder pink tactical suit that fit and hugged every curve and bow of your body. His brain totally let him down, short circuiting at the mere sight of you. You looked so happy and healthy and glowing, and also like you could knock him out with a single punch - and good god would he let you.

“Bucky I was erm, I was looking for you. I wanted to say goodbye.” You clasped your hands together, appearing so sweet and shy, a total contrast to the femme fatale you portrayed.

“Natalia!” Tony said quickly, and for once Bucky was grateful for his interruption. “Come and look at this strange bird with me.”

All of you knew it was quite possibly the worst fake distraction ever but you ignored it. Nat just rolled her eyes and followed Tony to the balcony, but not before wiggling her eyebrows at Bucky.

You moved forward tentatively. “I wanted to tell you this morning but I couldn’t find you.” You weren’t quite sure why you were so cautious and apprehensive, desperate to speak to him. You had been travelling and fighting for as long as you could remember, you had spent many years alone and entered the battlefield countless times - and yet, that morning as Bruce gave you the all clear, the only person you wanted to see or speak to was Bucky.

“I was running, I’m sorry.”

You smiled, and it made him smile. “Well I’ve found you now.” You stepped forward, Bucky inhaled air so sharply it almost sliced the back of this throat. “I wanted to say goodbye, and that I’ll see you soon.” You paused, then blinked up at him almost cheekily. “Would you do me a favour? If you have time? Could you water the plants for me?”

He grinned, toothy and white. “Already on it.”

“Goodbye, Bucky.”

He put his hand on your shoulder, and he swore he could feel you melt into his touch, or maybe that was his knees buckling at his stupidity and the way that you were looking up at him. He wanted to say a million things, but instead he settled for: “Goodbye, (Y/N). Be safe, okay?”

“Of course.”

He watched as you packed your things and headed to the jet, the rest of the crew coming out to say their farewells and wish them luck. His eyes were trained on you as you spoke to Tony, nodding your head as you listened to him. He felt Natasha sidle up next to him, her hair shining copper in the sun.

“She’ll be alright, Barnes.”

“I know. But - ”

“I’ll take care of her. Promise.”

“Thank you, Nat. Good luck.”

“Don’t need it!”

Three hours later and he was in the gym, punching out his excess energy. The bag was splitting at the seams, and sand trailed sadly onto the floor. Bucky ignored it, his hits getting harder and faster, his blood pounding in his ears. Since you had left he had taken to pacing the floor and biting his nails down to the wick, hovering over Steve as he spoke to Nat through her wire. He only left when he realised that he was driving everybody else crazy with his obsessive twitching and marching, taking out his frustration on whatever he could rip apart with his fingers.

“Tony’s going to kill you if you break anymore punching bags.” Steve said from behind him, his voice echoing around the dark room.

“Hmph.”

He couldn’t stop. His hands were red raw and his knuckles were scraped but they would heal soon, and he’d go back to tearing them up all over again, anything to get rid of the adrenaline and nausea that had been swimming in him since the morning.

A minute passed. And then two. And then three. He exhaled, pausing, his hands midway in the air. He was about to say what he had always known, right from the second your eyes met that crisp autumn day, and Steve was the only one he could confide in.

“I think I’m falling in love with her.”

Steve hardly even blinked, just clapped a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting, his brother.

“I know.”

Because of course he did. He knew it from the way Bucky smiled, the way he was lighter, brighter, like you had made him switch on and appreciate the little things around him. He had seen Bucky doe eyed and loopy over hundreds of girls back in the day, he knew how he got, but this... this was something bigger, magnetic, the clash of two electric people.

There wasn’t much Steve could say, he was great at saving people but not so good at the more personal side of things, he still turned into a puddle when Sharon looked at him. Instead he laughed, his teeth white as snow and his eyes playful and teasing. “You got it bad, dude.”

Despite everything Bucky smiled. Because yeah, he did.

————————— ————————————

You came back from the mission unharmed and euphoric.

And the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Bucky still tracked mud across all of the carpets and tapped his feet mindlessly for the entirety you were gone, but he was getting better. Steve had even bought him a joke present of a pear shaped and scented stress ball, but Bucky had ripped it in half when there was gunfire in the background of your coms, followed by an apologetic “Sorry!” from Sam. Bucky had then poured all of the tiny fruit smelling beads under the duvet in Sams bed, and then put all of his toilet paper on the holder backwards, knowing how annoyed he got about it.

Every time you came back you were exhausted and elated and beaming, and after having a nap and a shower you spent the rest of the day with the team, but the nights were reserved just for him. You grew even closer together. Steve had watched from the rooftop doorway gobsmacked one evening when he had left his phone up there, watching the way you two interacted, the way that he curled into your touch, never away from it. You got electric shocks when your fingers touched, you would blush when his knee playfully nudged yours at something stupid somebody had said at dinner, and you found yourself falling asleep to the image of chestnut hair and ocean eyes. You had crushes before, but this was all consuming, the kind of thing that made your stomach erupt in butterflies and your eyes turn into hearts.

You were worried that it might be one sided, but Bucky was totally, completely, smitten.

He watched you. Noticed the way that you smiled and laughed and tucked your hair behind your ear. He thought of the girls in the forties, with their painted lips and curled hair and immaculate clothes, and how you blew all of them out of the water, even in just your flannel pyjamas and bunny slippers. The coil in his belly when he looked at you reminded him of being sixteen and holding hands at the pictures, but that had just been a flicker, and this was a forest fire.

The first mission with the rest of the crew was when things went sour.

He got to see how you acted first hand. The way that you were quiet in the jet, but smiling strawberry red, taking in all of the orders that Steve meticulously laid out, your eyes wide and eager. He watched you as he helped Nat set up the guns and stock the ammo, the way that you toyed with the knife in your boot, the gears in your head turning and working on something he was desperate to discover.

He hadn’t been on a mission with you, not only because they way you looked in your suit and the way that you grinned would have led to him inadvertently getting a bullet in his head, but because from what he had heard, your fighting styles were totally different. Your powers and your skills were a mystery to him, one that he badly wanted to solve, but you kept that side of you hidden and guarded with barbed wire, and he respected that.

You were paired off with Sam. Nat with Clint. Bucky with Steve. Wanda with Vision. It was a simple mission, there was some intel locked in a safe of a seemingly abandoned factory in the south of Russia. Tony had discovered the place crawling with hidden members of a gang that specialised in human trafficking and organ farming, and he needed what was hidden below to help blow it out of the water.

It was going to take a lot of skill. There was no doubt that the enemies would be heavily armed, possibly even with illegally manufactured weapons, and all of you had to keep your heads straight the entire time. He had wanted desperately to be paired with you, to keep his eye on you, (not that you needed it) but he knew it was out of the question. Instead, as you all split up a few miles away in the woods, he grabbed your hand quickly and rubbed his finger across your knuckles, looking at you intently, his eyes swimming with sincerity.

“Be careful.” He said, his gaze locked on yours.

You smiled. “Always.”

He stuck his middle finger up at Steve’s smug face as they headed towards the factory.

Things were going well. As well as they could be when they were covered in blood and sweat and surrounded by the sound of gunfire and cracking bones. Nobody had been hurt so far, the coms quiet as the pairings cleared their sectors and worked their way down to the basement. Bucky had just pushed the last man over the railing and onto the concrete floor below when he heard the crackle of panicked voices in his ear, his eyes darting to Steve.

“Shit! Fuck!”

“Sam?”

“It’s (Y/N)! Fuck! One of them took her!”

“What?” Steve said instantly, switching straight from solider to captain, immediately alert.

“There was too many, it was an ambush!”

“Sam just stay there and - ” Steve tried to keep his voice steady and level, but it seemed as though the walls were closing in. To make matters worse, he saw a blur of black in his eye line, and watched helplessly as his best friend tore down the stairwell, his footsteps a clap of thunder. “Fuck! Bucky!”

Bucky knew that he was going to get one hell of a lecture and probably some six week course in impulse in the force, but all that he could think about was you, his blood was ice cold, his body numb and his brain conjuring up a million different pictures of you that made him feel sick to his stomach. He leapt over the bannister and landed haphazardly on the floor, his gun cocked and ready. His eyes were nothing but jet black pupils, scanning for your face through the halls.

He knew that you and Sam had been working through what used to be the laboratory, and that was on the other side of the building. His legs and arms moved almost mechanically, determined to get to you as quickly as possible, taking out anybody that stood in his way. He could hear Steve calling from behind him, and the sputter of the others in his earpiece, but his focus was on one thing. You.

The men were big and brawny and mean. Tattooed arms and shaved heads and gold teeth. Bucky shredded through them like they wore nothing. He flung them over tables, threw them through doorways and dragged them up by the roots of their hair. They were strong though, laughing at him through coffee stained teeth, loving his anger and desperation.

“Where is she?” He snarled at one particularly vicious thug brandishing two assault rifles.

“Who? Your whore? Dead.”

He snapped his neck like it was nothing but a twig.

He ran from room to room, his boots squealing across blood and stray bullets, his breath as ragged and sharp as glass. Everywhere was empty. Rows of vials and big glass cylinders and cages for animal testing, there was nothing, the place completely ransacked and bare. He hissed, getting ready to fight his way through another floor until he heard exasperated grunts and the clash of metal from a small room off to the side.

He skidded into the doorway with his rifle up at his shoulder, his finger right on the trigger, ready to shoot somebody’s fucking head off. Instead he paused, his mouth agape and his hands lowering, the whole room standing still. There was a freezer. Probably for samples and test tubes and whatever crazy fucking thing they kept in a place like this, but they had used it as a cage, the handles tied with thick copper chains and padlocks. Sam was using the butt of his gun to smash his way through, and they were old and rusty and starting to crumble easily, and Bucky watched helplessly as he finally busted in, clouds of ice puffing around him.

Bucky didn’t know why he couldn’t move. Couldn’t help. But his feet were as heavy as cinder blocks, and his heart was thundering in his ears. There was a small squeal, broken and half hearted, void of anything other than exhaustion, and then the smell of tears and blood, followed by sweet mint and wildflowers. Unmistakably you.

He wanted to run forward and scoop you in his arms, press your head against the crook of his neck and get you far, far away from this place, but he couldn’t move, and so he watched as Sam tugged you into him, running his fingers through your hair, cradling you like a child, soothing you as you cried hot, wet tears into his suit. And Bucky wished with everything in him that it was him instead.

He stayed back as you flew home with Sam. He kept away when you were in the hospital with Bruce, lurked in his room when you went over everything with Tony, locked himself away when you confided in Steve. He felt as though he had failed you, no matter what the others said. He felt as though he had let you down, and the noise you had made when Sam tugged you from the depths of that tiny little box, it played in his head like a warped record, haunting him and his dreams.

For a week he kept to himself. For a week he ran a different route and trained at a gym down by the water. For a week he took his motorbike out to a shitty diner in the bad part of town and ate soggy pancakes instead of having dinner with the team, for a week he did everything he could to not see you, thinking that would ease what you had been through, but instead it left you feeling torn and hurt and completely alone.

Tony made him come in to test out a new reloading system and so he reluctantly snuck down to the figuring range under the cover of darkness. He allowed himself to get lost in the sounds of carnage and the smell of metal, until he heard soft footsteps from behind him.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You seemed so sad, and that made his heart clench.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

Silence. That had never been awkward between the two of you, ever, and yet now it was so thick you could cut through it with a knife.

You wrung your hands together, your eyes flitting around the room, never quite landing on his face. That hurt. After a moment you cleared your throat, using the toe of your sneaker to kick up dust from the floor. “Do you - do you know? I mean, has anybody said anything to you? About me?”

He shook his head. “No.” There had been a million times when it was on the tip of his tongue to pry the truth from Nat or Steve, but his respect for you was stronger than his need for answers.

He felt his stomach flip when you finally blinked up at him. You looked as though you hadn’t slept and he knew he looked worse. You were still so beautiful though, looking so young and angelic under the harsh lights and surrounded by all the weaponry. Like a powder pink rose amongst giant, violent thorns.

Unable to stop himself, he blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

“You said that.”

“Not for avoiding you. For letting you - For not being there for you.”

Your mouth was open, brows furrowed as you took in what he said. “What?”

“I should have helped you.” There was desperation in his voice, and he turned to face the targets rather than look at you, not wanting you to see him so weak.

You were silent for quite a while. It was difficult for you to digest his words, like swallowing glass. You had been under the impression that seeing you tearful and cowering and broken had scared him off, had made him look at you differently, but now you knew that he blamed himself. “Bucky...” You said, biting back emotion. “Its not your fault.” Your tone was definite. Strong. You wouldn’t let him feel guilty for something he had no control over.

He brushed you off, shifting his weight, turning playful. “Yeah I know. It was Sam’s.”

You rolled your eyes.

He clicked his tongue. He set the gun down on the table and turned to face you fully, his eyes solid and unwavering. “I am so sorry you got hurt.”

“I wasn’t - I.”Finding the right words was hard. You had so much you wanted to tell him but no idea how to, the sentences sticking to the roof of your mouth like peanut butter. “It was just...Can we? Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“The roof?”

“Yeah,” You smiled, and Bucky swore even the strongest industrial lights couldn’t even match your spark. “The roof.”

Under the stars and above the city as the cars raced and the sirens blared, you told him everything. Growing up as a lab rat, twisted and moulded by scientists and pumped full of chemicals. You told him of finding your powers and being forced to use them for vile things you couldn’t even repeat, and when he heard the tremor of your voice and saw the gloss on your eyes his whole body vibrated and turned a shade of red that it was almost black. You told him how the people that created you had wanted you back, and how Tony had saved you from being taken again, how you owed him your life.

He wasn’t good with comfort. He wasn’t good with words. He was good at tearing people apart limb from limb and shooting them from distances and breaking their bones like they were toothpicks, but for you, he would try. In a move so unlike him that it felt as though he might have been brainwashed once again, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close.

You froze at first, but eventually thawed and melted into him, grateful for his touch. You had wanted to be close to him since the first time you met but you held back, and now everything felt right, like the missing piece of a puzzle slotting into place. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he gave someone a bear hug, his nose buried in your hair, his fingers locked around you, desperate to keep you safe. Perhaps it was way back then, a time of uniforms and alleyways and candy floss and city smog, a time he used to long for with everything in him.

But now the memories of the past didn’t even compare to what he felt when he held you.

———————————————————

Everything came to a head on the first mission you had alone together.

Two months passed. Two months of subtle touches and shared smiles and inside jokes. Two months of rooftop laughter and midnight meetings and eating ice cream straight from the tub as you sat under the stars. Two months of utter, dreadful, aching, slow burning, and it was driving everybody else crazy.

Mostly Sam.

“I’m just saying,” Sam had murmured to Steve over chocolate eclairs one morning as they watched you teach a wide eyed, love struck Bucky how to play Mario Kart. “Can’t we just lock them in a room? Force them to kiss?”

“No.”

“It’s just so gross.”

Wanda flicked a grape at him, smiling cheekily as it bounced off his nose. “It’s sweet.”

He cocked a brow and tilted his head, his eyes filled with mild disgust. “Is it?”

Steve flicked through the files in his hand and licked whipped cream from his fingers. “He’s happy. Leave him be.”

“He’s a dumbass.”

“They both are.” Natasha interjected from behind them, wiping sweat from her brow and pulling off her boxing gloves. She was monotone and her face was straight, but even the black widow couldn’t bite back the smile she had as she watched the girl she now thought of as a sister and the once murderous, unbeatable assassin arguing about blue shells on the sofa.

The first mission you had been assigned together was in a small town in the Midwest somewhere. There had been unusual sightings in an airfield in the middle of nowhere, and a fugitive from Germany had been spotted in the bars that bordered the little village. Tony didn’t want to send too many people and blow the cover, just your powers of manipulation and telekinesis to apprehend the subject, and Bucky for added strength and precision.

Initially Tony was hesitant on pairing the two of you together, but there was no denying that you both worked brilliantly together. You understood one another on a level that nobody else did.

Bucky didn’t get nervous before a mission. In fact, he hardly felt anything. He spent the hours in the jet preparing himself and his weapons, going over maps and plans until they were drilled in his brain. But as the two of you took off, you with your rose blossom lips and eye watering suit and soft laughter, Bucky felt a warmth coiling in his stomach.

Apprehension.

You were staying at a cheap hotel a few blocks from the airfield. Tony had thought of everything and booked the two of you in rooms the opposite end of the hall from each other. Three floors apart. Bucky had slipped the receptionist a twenty for the room next to yours. For protection, of course.

Working undercover could be mind numbingly boring. Hours sat in a parked car in the dead of night, freezing to the bone as you watched an apartment from the bushes, trailing a suspect for days on end - but any time with you was a blessing for Bucky, even if it was sat behind the wheel of a cheap car with painful seats and broken heating.

The mission was a quiet one at first, you’d spotted the subject and had been following him, but all he seemed to do was eat crappy diner food and watch hours of cartoons. You both remained a safe distance but you managed to eventually bug his apartment when he spent the evening at a strip club. Tony and Steve updated you often, they had intercepted his phone calls and learnt that he was sending out a shipment late one night, and the two of you needed to stop it before it reached the air.

The rain was torrential when the two of you left the hotel. You smiled secretly to yourself as you walked through the slick streets, noticing how Bucky always made sure you were on the side away from the road, and how he moved so that you never got your feet in puddles. You were in the middle of nowhere following a criminal who spent far too much time eating potato chips and watching Rick and Morty, and yet you struggled to think of a time when you had been more content.

It meant everything to you.

Staying up late to listen into his apartment, Bucky buying practically the entire vending machine, the two of you pigging out and talking about nothing. You had breakfast at diners and communicated at night through knocks on the wall. Whenever you were out and the air was ice cold, Bucky would always move in close to you, his arm brushing against yours, his body your own personal heater. He wanted nothing more in those moments then to pull you into him and warm you up some other way, but instead he kept his eyes fixed forward, and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled.

You arrived at the airfield at midnight. The moon was high and the sky was dark and you both had to crouch low to be avoided by the overhead lights. You saw the suspect speaking to someone on his phone, and not long after a large white van pulled up towards him, the driver getting out and opening the boot.

“That’s it.” Bucky said pointing at the wooden crates. His voice was right by your ear, and you tried to ignore the way you shivered.“You ready?”

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Always.”

What happened next was mostly a blur. The two of you kept your heads down and your hands on your weapons, the pounding of the rain disguising your footsteps. You made it across the tarmac with Bucky covering you, his eyes alert and prepared for any imposing danger. You lifted your hands, ready to snap your fingers and apprehend the man rooting around the boxes, but before you could even feel the warm buzz of your powers through your veins, six men leapt out from the back of the van, guns raised and smoking.

“Fuck. Fuck! It’s a set up.”

Without even a second thought, Bucky pushed you aside. His body totally covered your own, and he hissed and swore, firing back at the bullets rapidly charging at you. You swung your hands and fought back, sending out flickers of fire and air, setting one of them alight and watching as he howled in pain. Bucky shot at everyone he could, sharp pierces right in the skull, always one hundred percent accurate, but his brain was whirring a mile a minute. He was trying his best to keep his eyes on you, his only goal was to make sure you were safe.

It wasn’t like he thought you were weak - far from it. He had seen you out on the field, been knocked on his ass from the aftershock of your powers more times than he could count, and he knew he had no real reason to be so worried but that did nothing to stop the prickling feeling across his skin like a million tiny little flames at the thought of you getting hurt.

You were determined to keep him safe as well though.You tossed back bullets and threw your knife through the air, smiling as it slashed through on of them, leaving him crumpled and crying on the floor. The two of you worked well together, playing off of each other’s attacks and combining your skills to get as many of them down as you could. Right when the last man hit the floor, you exhaled, and Bucky allowed himself a soft smile, looking beautiful and bruised in the middle of a rainstorm.

“Are you alright?” You heard him say, but his voice faded into static in your ears. Behind him one of them had struggled to his feet, blood spurting out from his neck, his face filled with nothing but venom, his eyes wild and vicious. You didn’t even blink, thrusting your hands forward and sending a wave of power through the air.

But it was too late.

He had already lifted his gun, a ripple of bullets flying towards you both. You leapt in front of Bucky, pushing his head down and trying to soften the impact, but his hands curled painfully around your waist, dragging you onto the floor and under him. The bullets missed the two of you by centimetres, piercing into the airplane behind you both. Your surge of power had knocked the man back and he was down once again, his body now pale and lifeless. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, and Bucky’s. He was fully on top of you, warm and solid and absolutely seething, his chest rising and falling above your own.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Bucky...” You inhaled, trying to get him to calm down and look at you but he merely shook his head, his body vibrating blood red.

“No. We’re leaving. Now.”

———————————————————-

After the ambush, it was too risky to return to the hotel, and so Steve sent out coordinates for a safe house an hour away. The ride there was completely silent. You didn’t even try to speak or diffuse the tension, you could practically feel Bucky’s anger, and the steering wheel had even started to bend from his grip.

The safe house was a small cottage. The only heat was from a tiny wood burner in the lounge, and the only food on the shelves were tinned peaches and cans of custard. Everything was oddly cosy. Pink knitted throws and round plush cushions and mismatched sofas, dried lavender tied to the wall and exposed brick and white, ceramic milk jugs. In any other circumstance you would have been happy to spend the night, but Bucky’s sour mood was quick to dim your spark.

You sighed as he threw his duffel bag onto the table, angrily heading to the sink and twisting the tab, exhaling loudly at the thin dribble of water that came out.

“Bucky.” You started to say, but he held his hand up as a warning.

“No.”

“Yes!” You snapped, needing him to understand you. “You have to listen to me.”

He dismissed you, too overcome with annoyance to even process your words. You could have died tonight, and you were acting as though it didn’t matter. “You were a goddamn idiot out there.”

“No I wasn’t!”

He slapped his hand on the wooden counter, a slap ringing through the small room.“You jumped in front of a bullet -“

“You almost got shot Bucky!”

“You almost got shot.”

“It was what was best for the mission.”

“I don’t give a fuck about the mission! I only care about you.”

“What?” Your voice was soft. A whisper. You could hear everything around you, feel him before he even stepped forward. Your breathing was shaky, adrenaline spiking through your body. The man you were in love with looking at you desperately and longingly, as though there was a physical ache inside of him.

He shrugged, because what else was there to say? He was looking deep into your own eyes, wanting to drown in them. His face was stern and hard and he was pissed, and yet, strangely, none of what had happened seemed to matter. He stepped towards you, his gaze running across your figure, looking for any cuts or bruises one of those fuckers might have left on you.

“Are you hurt?” He said finally, his face millimetres from your own.

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed you. His hands went up and into your hair, his chest pressed against yours, his lips were warm and soft and hungry, ready to devour the one thing he had wanted since the very first time he laid eyes on you. You melted into his touch and he smiled. The kiss got more intense, teeth clashing and hands under sweaters and his body rolling against yours. You moaned in his mouth and he bit your lip and your pulses synced and raced and leapt. This was six months of pure longing and frustration and the need to portray everything that had gone unsaid for far too long.

It wasn’t long before you ended up on the floor. You were both too greedy and touch starved to even stop or make your way upstairs, you both needed the other like air, like addicts desperate for another hit. His lips were all over every bit of skin he could find, you lasted like sweat and cinnamon and vanilla and he swore he would give up everything he had if he got to feel you like this, whining and writhing and grabbing him, tugging him closer and kissing him like an angelic little devil.

He had once been a Casanova. He had once made ladies swoon and mothers blush and fathers clench their fists. Then he had been shattered, rebuilt in a way that wasn’t quite right, his body used for torture rather than pleasure. And yet, with you, the rain pelting the windows and your bodies intertwined and your lips tasting like summer strawberries and everything that he had ever dreamed of - he felt whole, for the first time in a long time. The noises you made were sinful, and his thoughts were nothing but you,you,you, the girl he had fallen in love with through the sounds in the wall and with the flowers on the roof, the girl that occupied his brain more than anything else.

Everything was too much and not enough, his head was buried in your neck, your legs were around his waist, pulling him tighter, urging him to go deeper. He had dreamt of this moment for a long time. He had imagined a candle lit dinner and red roses and awkward touches and itchy dress shirts, he wanted everything to be perfect, because you deserved the world. But in the living room of a safe house in the middle of nowhere, covered in sweat and blood and surrounded by thunder and clashing furniture seemed oddly magical for a couple with roots like yours.

After, you were cradled in the crook of his arm, with your hair splayed across his bare chest. Bucky was having a hard time controlling his rapid pulse and heavy breathing because holy shit he had just slept with the girl of his dreams, but one look at you under the moonlight looking ethereal and exhausted and everything else just dissolved into wisps or smoke.

He wanted to tell you in a better way, but he just couldn’t keep it in any longer. His brain was fizzled with pleasure and dizzy with euphoria, and he just wanted, needed you to know everything.

“I’m in love with you. I have been since I first saw you.”

You froze. After a beat, you buried your face into the flesh of his chest, your soft laughter tickling his abdomen, his fingers trailing loosely across your spine. You smiled like a child, looking up at him with big eyes and heart shaped lips.

“God. We’re both idiots. I’m so in love with you too, Buck.”

He grinned, and he felt like his heart might tear in two.

—————————————————————-

You arrived back at the compound with interlocked fingers and matching grins and Sam nearly collapsed with relief. Tony almost went into cardiac arrest.

For the first time in fifty years, happiness followed Bucky wherever he went. Things were easy, light. You were his. You crawled into his arms at the end of a bad day and you laughed into his shoulder and you held his hand and kissed him and killed him and resurrected him all at the same time. He had never felt home in this modern world, and now he looked forward to each day and whatever strange and inane adventure the two of you would end up on. The anvil that had been crushing his heart for so long had started to lighten, and he owed it all to you.

Still, there were hard days. When he woke up slick with sweat with eyes wider than the moon and an urge to wrap his hands around something, or when you thought of the past and became consumed by the memories, tears falling down your face before you could stop them. He got jealous, and he had multiple stern talks with Steve about “not threatening the interns just because they speak to your girlfriend,” you could be stubborn, take on more than you needed, return from a mission with a limp you tried to hide, one that eventually led to an argument about your reckless choices. But nothing ever lasted more than a day. You were always there for one another, with open arms and gentle smiles and the unconditional love that people would kill for.

He had been in a million different situations where he felt like he was drowning. Like something was pulling him under the depths, crushing his lungs and shattering his oesophagus. But nothing compared to how he felt around you. Nothing could match the way you consumed him completely. the electricity that coursed through his veins when your fingers brushed against his, there was nothing quite like the way his heartbeat would slow when you were around, the way that he suddenly felt warm and full whenever you laughed.

He had spent so long alone. He had spent so many years fighting a war he never signed up for, and he was exhausted. He was starved of attention but terrified of exposing himself, and he lived with a chain link fence around his heart. Your soft voice so soothing, the sweetness in your eyes and the innocent bat of your lashes disarmed him better than any soldier ever could. There was something about you - something magnetic, magical.

Your sweetness went straight to his brain. One look at you and his mind dizzied, a sugar rush that only you gave him.

Whenever somebody asked where he was from, he thought partly of Brooklyn, of his mother and Steve, of cobbled streets and dog tags and ink stained newspapers. He thought of darkness. Of being moulded and reshaped deep down in the depths of bad places, of iron and rust and metal, his hands coated in blood.

But mostly, he thought of you. Safe and warm and sweet and so good. How expensive mattresses and dim candles and hot chocolate didn’t make him feel half the way that you did. How you grounded him, calmed him, made everything feel light and coated in sunshine when he had spent so goddamn long being frozen.

So when somebody asked where he was from, he thought of you, because you were home.

[absentsdream]

* you know juniper rothschild, right? they’re twenty-five, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, one and a bit years? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to siren 042 by lala lala like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole unending expanse of forest coming alive with dread, a loneliness corroding the soul as acid ; splinters in the plush muscle of the palm circled by a blush of irritation ; at the true centre of a tarnished crucifix pendant, a worn pit thumbed from habitual nervousness thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is february 2nd, so they’re an aquarius, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

AESTHETICS.

bloody nose and a split lip to match, ladybugs crawling over the hand, heavy morning fog, creased linen, reading a novel until two a.m., nearly-empty diners, tarnished silver, words kept silent on a bitten tongue, dull sunlight, half-melted novelty candles, pitched ringing in the ear, tattered comics, ivory, nineties sci-fi television, chlorine drying stiff on the forearms.

CHARA INSPO.

carrie white ( carrie ), tender branson ( survivor ), sara sidle ( csi ), annie landsberg ( maniac ), iris ( the student ), toru watanabe ( norwegian wood ), abby ( blood simple )

BACKGROUND.

bethany ellis grows up an only child in manchester, new hampshire. free time is spent cycling around town to pick strawberries from the front garden of a house down the street, becoming lost in state parks over the weekends where pine needles roll underneath her sneaker soles; everything a young girl does. with two loving parents, it is an idyllic childhood.

her parents were happy for a little while. sucked neck-deep in debt from identity fraud, it had slipped their grasp as quickly as it had come about. they did an about-face nearly overnight. classmates signed her a goodbye note before relocating to an odd little commune some ways out of a town up north when she is nine.

she’s now home-schooled, taught more domestic skills than science. she struggled to accept the change; while she wanted to learn about physics and literature graced by the hands of long-dead poets, she was taught to sew until her fingertips were pricked with blood, to take out stains from clothing to the point her hands were raw and angry, and memorise bible verses until they were the only thought left in her head. she would often act out, much to the embarrassment of her parents. too young at the time for any real punishment, they bore the brunt of it at times where she couldn’t see it.

RELIGIOUS FANATICISM TW initiation is on her sixteenth birthday. there’s many details of it she refuses to let known. for some time, the commune stays in the realm of town speculation and wild rumours, a potential church fundraiser for the baptists who think everyone needs salvation, before another girl her age, battered and bruised, manages to flee through miles of forest into town and the sheriff’s department catches wind. 

POLICE TW she’s almost seventeen when torchlight winks through the gaps of the barn’s ant-ridden wooden beams. it’s not a full moon that night. disoriented and huddling with other children on the far side of the barn as the adults chant and float across the dirt floor in a trance, there’s a deafening noise as the rusted iron grooves of the door is forced open and police pour in. many are taken away, her parents included. she’s gifted a crisp new manila folder. in it, a new identity. juniper rothschild. TW END

a family in the middle of nowhere, nevada, take her in. the caseworker overlooks the fact a crucifix graces the wall above her bed’s headboard. they’re nice enough, but to the point it makes her stomach turn. as soon as she’s old enough to, she leaves. 

desperation pushes her far enough to apply for college in new york. there’s one place generous enough to take her, hardship bursary and all; the other is the community college some ways west in carson city. the decision isn’t difficult. but the cold of the city settles into her bones in a way she never comes to accept. eventually, after a grueling engineering degree that tests her organisation limits she moves south. north carolina is warmer. the sun on her face at the pier in irving makes her forget life isn’t as hollow as it often appears.

TRAITS & QUIRKS.

wears long sleeves on the hottest day of the year, and lives in a hoodie, jeans and tattered converse to the point others question whether she’s a glitch in the matrix

makes a conscious effort to cover up, avoid being seen altogether. she’s grown familiar with the idea to draw as little attention to her as possible

following her swim and water polo team years in college, she’s now a junior swim coach for the high school. swimming lets her centre herself

guarded and distrustful. won’t divulge in her family history easily, and keeps the odd urge to journal hidden under lock and key beneath her mattress

lives in a fairly run-down beach shack along dorado road, she thinks the several rats in the roof that call it home are her pets. she talks to them through the ceiling

reading and writing are not easy things for her. numbers come a lot more naturally, with a natural aptitude for it. because she knows she’ll never hold a full time job in her current state, she’s a part time cadd technician at a boutique architecture firm in charlotte

naturally a blond, she rigorously dyes her hair with the cheapest box dye available. it’s fried to death and resembles straw more than actual hair

in more extreme measures to be someone else, her voice has been trained to speak lower than what it is

was dead certain about being a lesbian in her teens, got pissed off when she ended up dating a boy at twenty-two.

paranoid. like, the government is listening into conversations via robotic birds in nearby trees, paranoid. she thinks she’s probably right.

has a gun she bought from a dodgy shop in texas whilst on family vacation in her underwear drawer

almost always reeks of chlorine

horny for class warfare

has a thing for drew barrymore

thinks online mbti quizzes are a military-designed hoax designed to control the masses 

WANTED PLOTS.

cryptid hunting buddies. she’ll pack the coffee thermos, u bring the sandwiches

a previous, fleeting relationship. someone juniper used as an effort to feel more anchored in irving but soon realised it was ugly for her to do people dirty like that :/

she’s fairly lazy, so a person who often sees her like clockwork at cutie’s for midweek dinner

literally anything. let’s plot baybee !

[heli0s-writes]

“let me walk you home.”

for @that-damn-girl​, with Bucky. It got longer than expected-- and a little bit steamier than expected. 1.7k words. Smitten, pining, shy Bucky.

[28 WAYS Masterlist // Prompts]

When Bucky finally returns to Wakanda, it seems like nothing has changed. 

Five years of oblivion, one year of grieving, and he finally pulls himself together enough to visit the country that made him whole.

The fields are lush. The city, animated. The people, kind. The royal family is expecting him, still full of easy care for this broken boy. T’Challa sends his best to accommodate The White Wolf even though Bucky had refused to be treated with so much attention.

In response, and with some cheek, the king assures him his new accommodations are even more luxurious than before and Bucky thinks it must be Shuri’s doing.

No, Bucky smiles to himself, nothing has changed. It makes him feel steady and safe again, like both his feet are on solid ground and not slipping off another train.

Until he disembarks and steps down from the ramp where the sun catches in his eye a little, makes him blink out the afterimage of its bright glare. When he’s finally able to see the figure at the edge of the landing pad, the Earth rocks with a tremendous lurch.

You stand comfortably at the end of the ramp, fingers linked in a loose weave, eyebrow quirked at him.

Six years but you’re just as he remembers. Lopsided mouth a little lifted at one corner, forever affixed in a state of watchful amusement. Your deep amethyst gown is free-flowing and beautifully patterned, arabesque lines curving against the arch of your thighs when you turn from the jet. It dips low in the back, and he can see the glisten of shea rubbed over the grooves of your skin.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you greet over your shoulder, “Welcome back to Wakanda. Let me walk you home.”

Undoubtedly Shuri’s doing.

-

The Golden City is resplendent. Against the backdrop of sky-spiraling towers and illuminated technology, you are a singular beauty to behold. Bucky feels cracked open in all the ways he used to be: unstitched, untethered, barely holding on in a light breeze.

“Remember this, Sergeant?” You ask, leading him forward, pointing down a pathway, “Didn’t the children corner you once?”  

“Yes,” he remembers.

“And the mandazi cart? Didn’t you prefer the cinnamon sugar topping best?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies quietly, “Just a little. Not too sweet.”

“I remember you didn’t like anything too sweet.”

And the shudder that follows sends his blood straight to his head.

Bucky’s knees feel like they could give out as he coughs with a stammer, shoving his hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes scuffed up with dirt. Anything to distract himself from the memory of a mid-morning bruise growing on his collar and the subsequent teasing from Shuri.

A bite. A scratch. The way your face looked with the hot white streak of sun falling in your open mouth. Bodies still encased in free-flowing cotton, but it was enough to sear his entire being. That pretty, perfect, picture of you on his thigh.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He coughs again.

  You keep on coolly, stepping side to side and avoiding the crowd with ease as if your comment didn’t mean a thing. As if it didn’t trip him up almost physically through the street.

“Have any plans while you’re here?” You ask innocently, stopping at a booth of flowers and browsing through orchids. Daisies and irises peer back at you, beckoning your touch. Bucky reaches into his pocket, buys a violet that matches your dress with the intention of – he doesn’t know, tucking it behind your ear? Six years later and he still doesn’t know what to do with you.

But, of course, it’s been six years for you, and only one for him.

His stomach drops at the thought of a separation only oblivion can create between two people so damn close to a beginning. An irreconcilable distance of time that will never align and how could he be so naïve to think nothing has changed?

“No,” he replies a little dumbly as your hand jingles with change. “No plans. Just…” A melancholy look at the way you turn from him.

“Missed it?”

“Yeah.”

 The stroll continues. One violet in his hand, two Calla Lillies in yours. You turn them round and round, pressing your nose to the spathes, letting their soft points flick over your lips. He feels forgotten altogether until he hears your tepid voice, shaded with the slightest of sorrows.

“They’re a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. I thought it was fitting; you do look reborn, after all.”

Bucky runs his hand instinctively through his hair—cut short now, and he’s still trying to get used to it. His throat constricts. He suddenly aches all over.

“Thank you,” he says finally, after a long while. “For, uh, walking me.”

“We’re not there yet.”

“I just meant—”

“I’m teasing, Sergeant.”

Up the iron stairs you ascend, looking back at him every few steps with a grin. At the door, you pause, both hands coming together to grasp onto the waxy stalks of the flowers, turning them again. “Hope my teasing didn’t offend you?”

“No,” Bucky replies, watching the way you unlock the door deftly, reaching inside to turn the light on for him. “… I remember you liked to tease.”

The smack of the blooms against his chest is abrupt and it takes him by surprise when you laugh sharply.

“Oh! Is that right? What else do you remember?”

He stutters, a little eager, a little hesitant. “I remember—” a thick swallow and you trace the motion of his throat with gentle eyes, walking backwards, hanging your hopes on the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Bucky presses his lips together.

“I remember us.”

“Yeah?” You take the violet and cross into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the counter and placing the flowers inside, going quiet. “Remember us doing what?”

He’s no good at this— this game. This cat and mouse tension of your provocation. The heady atmosphere of growing closer together but somehow drifting further apart. Every question is a challenge, a play for something from him—an admission? An apology? A funeral?

You call him Sergeant. You hardly look at him. But then you stand, hip jutting, palms flat on the counter, chin on your shoulder and just the sweet shock of your profile is enough to cut him clean through.

“Lots of things.” Bucky steps on the eggshells because he might as well crush them now. 

Reaches the small of your back with his hand, palming the straight column of your exposed spine and counts all the goosebumps that break across your skin. Flesh on flesh, his lips on your shoulder and then neck. He remembers this. Remembers the way you sigh and lean into him. Remembers the heat. Remembers his heart, stitched back together by your loving fingers.

His right hand slips through the open space of your dress. All five warm fingers splay out, gripping your side and curling over your lower ribs. And god, he’s trembling head to toe, feet so unbalanced now he might fall completely.

Your head leans back onto his shoulder, weight of it holding him down, “You’re shaking.”

With a slow turn, you face him, fingertip trailing up his neck and along the curve of his throat to his chin. Tilting him up to the ceiling, you press a blazing kiss onto his neck, “Am I making it better or worse?”

He doesn’t mean to do it—or maybe he does, but the speed of it surprises even Bucky when he lifts you by the thighs and places you on the sink counter. He cuts off your sharp gasp and turns it into an exhilarated moan, presses your chest to his with frantic hands, nudges your legs open to nestle himself in between.

And hell, the way you feel in his arms—delicate but full of fight, softly pulsing with the strength he’s always admired about you—it feels safe. Steady. The kind of stable that’s always been taken from him too soon.

It’s been six years—or one—or whatever, and his entire being is vibrating with the magnitude of a catastrophic earthquake, but Bucky can’t be bothered to care about any of that now. Your mouth is open, tongue sweeping over his, teeth playfully nipping at his bottom lip, and it dashes away all his good sense.

When he breaks away, he’s overly aware of his erratic heartbeat and swollen mouth. Kissed tender, and it takes what’s left of his breath to see that you match him just as well. You lean forward again, and he meets you for another two, three, five kisses. He loses count after a few more, eager and fumbling and dizzy as he peppers them over your cheek, down to your collar.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warn, hand tugging him away by his hair, “Bite me and I’ll kick you out.”

Bucky pauses and snaps upright, confused at the statement and the way your eyes sparkle with amusement. Knowingly, you nod to the space behind him, “I live here, Bucky.”

“What?” He mutters. It takes him a minute, but he finally looks around and notices the simple decorations. The well-cared for plants, the soft blanket over the couch, the mug of coffee with a stirring spoon stuck inside. The small plate of—his heart skips a beat—half-eaten mandazi with cinnamon sugar on top.

“Oh, god.”

Bucky presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, doesn’t know if he might laugh or sob. Maybe both.

Still in the hold of his one hand, you twist halfway, moving the glass further in case either one of you might knock it over. The spathes of the lilies turn idly to look at him, draped over the tufts of violet petals. Two stalks in perfect symmetry. Symbols of resurrection for both him and you.

Smoothing the shorn chestnut strands gone a little awry from your grip, your eyes search his face, memorizing his lines. All things of his old and new.

“Welcome back to Wakanda, Sergeant.” Your mischievous mouth finds his again, holding him steady with familiar sweetness, “I missed you.”

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​ @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave​

[livingcorner]

Transform Your Kitchen with a Fresh Coat of Paint

DAVID A. LAND

Are you building a new house and planning your dream kitchen? Or maybe you’re craving a fresh, new look for your existing kitchen. It’s true what they say: The kitchen is the heart of the home. It’s where you and your family will spend lots of time, and where your guests will likely end up congregating. It should be a space that feels inviting and relaxing and also delivers the style and personality you want your home to reflect. Do you want a light and airy kitchen? A happy and whimsical space? Or a cozy, rustic kitchen? No matter the look, your starting point should be in establishing the color palette. An all-white kitchen will always be a classic, timeless look, but don’t be afraid to bring in some color, even in a small kitchen. The paint color—even the exact shade of white—you choose for the walls will instantly set the tone.

You're reading: Transform Your Kitchen with a Fresh Coat of Paint

One of the ways to make the biggest impact is to paint your kitchen cabinets. Whether it’s painting a dark wood a bright white to lighten your space, or taking white cabinets to a deep, saturated hue that creates a warm, cozy kitchen, or even a new coat of a bright yellow or blue to add a punch of personality, changing the color of your kitchen cabinets will instantly transform your room. (If you’re planning to go the DIY route, read this article for tips on how to paint kitchen cabinets. Yes, even laminate cabinets!) For even more inspiration, check out some of our favorite kitchens for many more kitchen decorating ideas, including kitchen island ideas, hardware inspiration, lighting, and even some ways to use wallpaper.

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Pale Blue and White

This blue and white combination brings us all the cool, calm coastal vibes in this kitchen designed by interior and textile designer Heather Chadduck Hillegas.

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Blue-Black

This moody hue is making us crave a rainy day indoors with a cup of tea while bread bakes in the oven. It is the perfect dull blue that still feels warm and rich.

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Historic Blue

This timeless blue is be a part of Benjamin Moore’s historic collection. It feels traditional but fresh in this kitchen designed by Grace Mitchell, especially off of the copper and bronze lighting.

Get the look: Kitchen cabinets: Philipsburg Blue by Benjamin Moore

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Green and White

The white walls of this kitchen designed by James Farmer feel fresh and bright off of the rich green cabinets and pair perfectly with the natural wood shelves and oven hood.

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Dark Teal

These dark cabinets work beautifully off of a bright white marble sink and earthy green tiles.

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Gray and White

We love gray in any room and especially in this kitchen designed by Sara Davis. The soft gray cabinets pop against the dark brown wood floors, creating a modern yet simple combination.

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Canary Yellow and Blue

Read more: Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan – Wikipedia

Look no further than the classic yellowware bowl for proof that blue and yellow make for a timeless country combo, as seen here in this 98-square foot galley kitchen that features canary-yellow cabinets and quilt-like cement tiles. The petite 20-inch range maximizes cabinet space in the small kitchen.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color: Honey Bees by Sherwin-Williams. Backsplash Tile: “Tangier Primero” by Villa Lagoon; wayfair.com

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Pure Black

When homeowner Bailey McCarthy moved into her century-old Texas farmhouse, the wall were a boring beige and the cabinets, which vary in height, were white. “Painting everything black seemed like a good way to make the cabinets blend in with the wall,” says Bailey. She balanced the dark statement color with butcher block countertops and brass hardware and lighting.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color: Pitch Black by Farrow & Ball

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Soft Taupe

When you want to add little color but don’t want it to overwhelm, look to a soft taupe. The appealing neutral adds a warm, but airy, swathe of color. It’s a color that also pairs well with stained wood cabinets.

Get the Look: Kitchen Cabinetry Paint Color: Smoky Ash by Benjamin Moore

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Bright Blue

One Kings Lane designer Sarah Blank opted for a calming blue for the shelves, brackets, and walls, of this kitchen, lending more cohesion to the space.

Get the Look: Cabinetry and Wall Paint Color: Lulworth Blue by Farrow & Ball

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Sunny Yellow

Designer Alison Kandler and homeowner Jenn Chiarelli found the perfect sunny shade for the kitchen island in Jenn’s bright California farmhouse by pulling paint chips of colors that simply made Jenn feel happy. Then they found ways to incorporate the hues into the kitchen to create a look that is as colorful as it is cheerful. The black woven stools add a grounding element to the candy-colored space.

Get the Look: Island Paint Color: Tropical Moss by Dunn-Edwards Paints

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Gray Green

Designer Heidi Caillier chose a soothing green—that is a little bit gray and a little blue—for the Shaker-style cabinets. “It changes with the light,” Heidi says. “It also feels traditional to me, which is what I really wanted.” The color pairs particularly well with soapstone countertops and unlacquered brass bail pulls and knobs. Six-inch terra cotta hex tiles add distinct richness to the artfully layered kitchen.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color: Oil Cloth by Benjamin Moore. Hardware: unlacquered brass bail pulls and knobs; classic-brass.com.

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Off-White

When you have a lot of natural wood in your kitchen, pure white walls can feel too stark, especially if you’re going for a rustic kitchen look. Instead, choose a warm white that has just a touch of gray in it for a color that complements wood tones and works well with other warm neutral colors.

Get the Look: Wall Paint Color, Fleur de Sel by Sherwin-Williams

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Turquoise Blue

You couldn’t pick a better blue than the color of the original paint found on these salvaged tongue-and-groove boards. The turquoise tone compliments the buttery-yellow appliances, knotty pine floors, and barn wood cabinets to create a charming rustic farmhouse-style kitchen.

Get the Look: Appliances: bigchill.com

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Pure White

There is nothing more timeless, yet completely fresh, than an airy all-white kitchen. The look works especially well with kitchens that have varying textures (both literally and visually), such as the shiplap planked walls and open shelving in this dreamy kitchen, which keep an all-white space from feeling stark and sterile.

Get the Look: Wall and Cabinetry Paint Color, White Dove by Benjamin Moore

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Washed Turquoise & Buttery Yellow

To give her kitchen cabinets a slightly weathered look, Jolie Sikes of the Junk Gypsies first coated the cabinets with blue interior oil stain, then used a rag to apply and partially rub off a layer of wood stain. “Embrace color,” says Jolie. “Just because kitchens are utilitarian rooms doesn’t mean they should be quiet, sterile, or boring.” The buttery walls, combined with the natural wood stain on the windows, trim, and beams, create a warm backdrop for the room’s bold cabinetry and accents such as Jolie’s barstool mix—a pair of swiveling red tractor seats plus a vintage vinyl-covered number.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Stain: Aquarius by Sherwin-Williams plus Provincial Wood Finish stain by Minwax. Wall Paint Color: Canyon Cloud by Behr. Wood Trim Stain: Pecan by Minwax

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Read more: Hell’s Kitchen: What Happened To Head Waiter Jean-Philippe Susilovic After Season 12

Bright Green

In her South Carolina home, homeowner Lauren Northup looked down for her color play. Taking her color cue from the grass green floors at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, she choose to paint the kitchen floors a striking green. “Blues and greens mean rest, home, and happiness to me,” says Lauren. “This color on my kitchen floor is a good balance with the bright white walls and cheerful checked curtains.”

Get the Look: Floor Paint Color, Arsenic by Farrow & Ball

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Sky Blue

In their cozy converted schoolhouse project, designers Jason Oliver Nixon and John Loecke of Madcap Cottage looked outside for the kitchen’s color inspiration. They removed the small room’s drop ceiling and installed tongue-and-groove rafters, now swathed in a dreamy shade of sky blue—a design trick seen on Southern porches. “The color draws the eye up,” says Jason, “which makes the room feel like it stretches to the sky.”

Get the Look: Ceiling Paint Color, Blue Ground by Farrow & Ball

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Crisp White

Don’t feel badly if you’re a bit picky. Marsha Ahearn, the owner of this summer retreat in Martha’s Vineyard, painted her kitchen with a 50/50 blend of two shades to get her ideal white. It’s the perfect backdrop to let your brightly colored accessories pop.

Get the Look: Wall Paint Color, 50/50 blend of China White and Linen White, both by Benjamin Moore

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Cheery Yellow

This sunny kitchen proves there is no such thing as too much of a good thing. Its Shaker-style cabinetry, as well as its walls and those of the adjoining breakfast nook, are all awash in a bright and cheery yellow. Glass cabinet fronts and white trim, fixtures, and appliances add a punch against the solid color and help keep the space feeling light.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color, Convivial Yellow by Sherwin-Williams

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Forest Green

Most people opt for white in the kitchen, but this rustic kitchen is bathed in moodier hues. The paneled cabinets are painted in an earthy forest green while the fir beadboard is a golden brown—giving the 75-square-foot small kitchen a jewel box feel. An ivory apron-front sink offers a burst of brightness.

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color, Mohegan Sage by Benjamin Moore

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Celadon Green

In this Massachusetts beach house kitchen, the Wood-Mode cabinetry is painted a pretty celadon green that is crisply set off by a white subway tile backsplash. It’s a pairing that brings a kitchen pretty color without overpowering. Cape Cod artist Tim Dibble custom-carved the kitchen’s slate apron-front sink to incorporate local icons: a windmill, whale, lighthouse, and the word “riptide.”

Get the Look: Cabinetry Paint Color, Coastal Plain by HGTV Home for Sherwin-Williams; lowes.com

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Bright Yellow and Blue

There’s nothing more appealing than a blue-and-white kitchen. And you can’t beat a yellow kitchen for a happy setting. We say combine the two for a true win-win. This Kentucky kitchen proves the point beautifully with its pairing of a warm blue-and-white quilt-patterned tile backsplash and a light and bright yellowy-green painted island. White wall cabinets and butcher block countertops keep things balanced.

Get the Look: Tile Backsplash: Snowflake in Azul; cubantropicaltile.com. Island Paint Color, Sweat Pear by Benjamin Moore

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Pale Pink

If you want to bring some color to your kitchen, but aren’t quite ready to fully commit, keep the backgrounds timeless and white, and then turn to appliances and accessories to add punches of color.

Get the Look: Wall Paint Color, Ultra Pure White by Behr. Refrigerator, SMEG; wayfair.com.

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Kitchen

source https://livingcorner.com.au/transform-your-kitchen-with-a-fresh-coat-of-paint/