#America's Cup Fever

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [3] - Working Overtime

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 Please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: It's a skill to remain calm in stressful situations.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, mentions of sex, explicit language

Word Count: 4137 (why is each chapter getting longer, ✨help✨)

Masterlist

“Do you ever see yourself in something like this?”

You pressed the phone between your ear and your shoulder while waiting for the assistant to put you through, and shoved the mini sandwich into your mouth to chew vigorously. It was Sam’s nephew AJ’s birthday party, and of course Bucky was here, which meant that you and his team were here as well. You weren’t complaining; you admired Sam, Sarah was so lovely, and Cass and AJ were probably the sweetest kids you’d ever met.

The only issue was that Bucky had cleared out his whole day so now you had to move his schedule on top of the meetings he already had. You had started working at 5 a.m. today, already had four Red Bulls and three cups of coffee on an empty stomach, so needless to say you were starving while your heart tried to climb out of your chest.

And for the record, your heartbeat had nothing to do with the fact that for the last half an hour, you were trying to ignore just how good Bucky was with kids, letting them hang from his vibranium arm to entertain them. You stole a look at him as he pretended to run from the kids with water guns, making them giggle excitedly as they went after him.

“Um….” You trailed off and swallowed your bite, dragging your gaze from Bucky to grab another mini sandwich. “I don’t remember the last time I watered the cactus on my desk. I don’t think I’d be very successful with—hi Ms. Miller! Thank you so much for agreeing to take my call, I know how busy you are.”

Kelsey smiled when Bucky grabbed AJ to throw him over his shoulder with a monster roar, AJ’s laugh echoing in the garden as they started chasing Cass together.

“Is this what baby fever is?” Kelsey wondered out loud and you covered your other ear so that you could focus.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes would really appreciate it if we could move it to another time—absolutely, Friday 3 pm works for us. It’s a family thing—yes, it’s Captain America’s family but you know how close Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes are, his family is Mr. Barnes’ family too. Mm hm. Thank you so much again, have a wonderful day!”

You hung up and popped the mini sandwich in your mouth, then eyed the cup in Kelsey’s hand.

“Is there caffeine in that?”

Kelsey held it out of your reach. “It’s mine, go get your own from the kitchen.”

“Sharing is caring—”

“I don’t share my caffeine,” she told you and you heaved a sigh, then made your way to the kitchen, your eyes still glued to the phone. Sarah and her friend Emily whom you had met before were in the kitchen and you smiled at them.

“Hi.”

“Hi there,” Sarah said. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, I just came to see if there’s any coffee— just one moment please,” you said and pressed your thumb on the screen to send Paul a voice mail. “Paul! Hey, I talked to Miller, she’s fine with Friday 3 pm, which means you need to move the interview to 4:30 at least. You can contact Ryan, he’s on good terms with Caleb and has a soft spot for Bucky, he should be fine with it. If he’s not available, I’ll make a phone call to Tim, but you need to let me know in half, okay?”

You sent the voicemail and sent a quick text to Caleb, then lifted your head from your phone to look up at Sarah.

“Sorry. Um—I was wondering if there’s any coffee left, please?”

“Sure thing,” Sarah said with a small smile and filled a cup for you, then handed it to you.

“You’re an angel,” you said and your phone buzzed in your hand. You took a look at the text, then typed in your response while Sarah tilted her head to the right.

“You look a little jittery.”

“Oh yeah, I had four Red Bulls and this is my fourth cup of coffee,” you said and Emily raised her brows.

“It’s barely noon.”

“I started the day at 5 am,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee and Sarah shook her head.

“You need to take a break.”

“I’ll take a break when we put Bucky in DC,” you said. “Oh fuck. That reminds me, I still haven’t asked Kelsey for the latest poll—”

“I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen you without your phone in your hand,” Sarah mused and you sent a text to Kelsey, then looked up from your phone.

“Hm? Oh!” You let out a laugh. “I don’t remember either, to be honest with you. I hang onto this thing halfway through sex.”

Sarah and Emily exchanged glances and you made a face.

“Sorry,” you said. “TMI. I just, I barely have friends outside work and we talk about everything so it became a habit. I’ll need to take classes like that one Julia Roberts movie, did you guys watch that one? It was—”

“You have your phone in hand during sex?”

“Halfway through, and it’s not that weird,” you said with a nervous laugh. “My boyfriend works like 100 hours a week, so we managed to minimize the time while maximizing the effect. It takes us like 5 minutes, and then we both check our emails.”

 “Oh you poor thing...”

“No, I’m totally fine with it!” you said in a rush. “It’s a great arrangement because, I mean obviously if it’s sex vs work, it’ll be work. Sex can wait, work just doesn’t.”

“I barely know you, but I know that you need to dump that man,” Emily said. “I bet I can find someone for you.”

“Don’t worry, I already have someone in mind for her,” Sarah muttered to her with a knowing smile and you scoffed.

“No no, thank you so much,” you said. “Max and I have been together for years and like I said, our expectations match.”

“Don’t get me wrong but if you’re this tense every day, those five minutes aren’t doing much,” Emily pointed out and you took a deep breath.

“I’m a tense person in general,” you said. “Has nothing to do with anyone. I lost spelling bee when I was in first grade and then it turned me into this as a grown up.”

“Can I see your phone?” Sarah asked and you handed it to her, but your eyes widened when she put it in her pocket.

“Sarah?”

“Go socialize.”

“What?” you exclaimed. “No no no, you don’t understand, I need my phone—”

“I’ll give it back to you after half an hour. Go eat something, drink something healthy,” she said, taking the coffee cup from your hand, making you gasp. “There’s orange juice. Take some time for yourself, and I’ll give it back to you.”

“But…” you started but she walked out of the kitchen with Emily and you threw your head back, then rushed after her.

“Sarah! Sarah I can’t just go cold turkey, I will have withdra—”

“What is going on?” Bucky stopped you before you could walk past him and you looked up at him, then at Sarah who stepped out of the hallway into the garden. Your brows pinched together in frustration and you let out a breath, fanning yourself with one hand.

“I think I’m having withdrawals.”

“Over what?”

“My phone, Sarah took my phone!”

Bucky frowned. “Why?”

“Because I hold it while I have sex,” you said. “Do you think you can get it from her?”

He gawked at you.

“You hold your phone while—”

“Okay, everyone needs to stop making that such a big deal!” you snapped. “It’s more of an emotional support thing, it’s not like I check my emails during sex, I check them right after!”

“Alright, let’s just…” Bucky gently steered you out of the hallway. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, still fanning yourself. “Is this how alcoholic people feel?”

“I don’t think they feel it within the first minute, Birdie,” Bucky said and you rubbed at your eyes.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“No.”

“But listen, what if—” You pointed at him. “What if something goes wrong at work?”

He looked almost amused. “I’m standing right here,” he told you. “What would go wrong?”

“Your dick pics come out.”

“Impossible,” he said and grabbed a glass to put it in your hand. “Drink this.”

You looked down at the clear liquid, then shook your head.

“I can’t drink vodka, Bucky, it’s AJ’s birthday and I’m literally working—”

“It’s water,” Bucky deadpanned and you paused for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders and took a huge sip.

“Emily said I look tense,” you said, barely aware of the pout on your lips. “Do you think I look tense?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t look tense!” You hissed through your teeth and motioned at Sam who approached you and Bucky. “Let’s ask Sam, he’ll be honest. Sam, do I look tense?”

“I’ve never seen you not tense.”

Bucky let out a chuckle at the look of betrayal on your face. “Told you.”

“Sam, can I borrow your phone?”

“Do not give her your phone,” Bucky said and Sam’s eyes darted between you.

“Do I want to know what’s going on?”

“Sarah took my phone because for some reason she thinks I’m tense.”

“And how much caffeine is in your system right now?” Sam asked and you scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in the air.

“Four Red Bulls, three and a half cups of coffee. I’m totally fine.”

Sam turned to Bucky. “If you keep doing this to her—”

“I swear on my ma’s grave that I’m not doing anything,” Bucky said and you had to bite back your smile at the old Brooklyn accent that slipped through. “She refuses to listen to me. I sent her out of the office three times the other day so that she could take the rest of the day off, and each time she flat out said no and went back to her desk.”

“I was in the middle of going over your speech for the press,” you defended yourself. “I wasn’t going to just go home.”

“At least this way I can keep an eye on her,” Bucky told Sam while you sipped your water, looking up at him.

Bucky in casual clothes never failed to impress you. Yes, he could pull off a suit like no one else, but the fact that he could look this handsome with little to no effort, just with a t-shirt, leather jacket and jeans, had to be studied at schools in your opinion.

You opened your mouth to speak but as if on cue, sirens started going off and you frowned.

“Is that in my head or does anyone else hear that?”

Everyone’s phones started beeping and vibrating, multiple ambulances and police cars wheezing by, and both Bucky and Sam checked their phones while parents went to their children to get them inside.

“There’s been an attack,” Sam said, his eyes darting on the lines on his screen and Bucky nodded, his jaw tightening.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait, what?” you exclaimed while Sam ran to Sarah who was assuring Cass and AJ that everything was fine despite the worried look on her beautiful face. “Bucky no, it could be dangerous—”

He was already walking away from you. “Stay with Sarah.”

“But—”

“Stay with Sarah!” His tone held none of the softness it usually had for you, instead it sounded like an order, making you furrow your brows. The stern light in his eyes melted away when he took in your puzzled expression and he licked his lips, then stepped closer to you.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice low. “I just need to know you’re safe, alright?”

“Buck, let's go!” Sam called out as he grabbed his shield and Bucky took off his leather jacket, his vibranium arm gleaming under the sun before they both ran out of the garden in the direction of sirens.

You could swear the whole garden was spinning around you as you stared at the road, then turned your head when someone gently touched your arm.

“Here.” Sarah handed you your phone. “Call your boyfriend, I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

“Thanks,” you said, fear twisting your stomach. “Sarah, he’ll—Bucky will be fine, right?”

Sarah gave you a calm smile and squeezed your arm in an assuring manner.

“I think you’re forgetting what he used to do before he got into politics,” she told you. “This is what he and Sam do best. They save people.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat and nodded your head, blinking back the tears.

“If he—” you started but stopped talking when your phone started buzzing in your hand, Max’s name flashing on the screen. “I’ll be right back.”

You walked away from her and answered the phone. “Max?”

“Babe, hey. You okay?”

“Yeah!” you said. “Yeah, I’m at Sarah’s house. You?”

“At work,” he said. “Can you see anything from there?”

You walked to the fences, then shook your head.

“No,” you said. “Do you know what’s happening?”

“They’re saying there are multiple people injured, they closed down a street,” Max said. “Do you want me to pick you up after I’m done?”

“No, stay where you are,” you said. “Don’t go outside until it’s clear out—” You took a look at the screen when your phone beeped. “My mom is calling, I’ll text you.”

“Okay, see you later,” he said and you hung up, then answered the call.

“Mom?”

“Oh thank God, your father and I have been so worried!” Your mother’s voice reached you. “Are you okay, sweetheart? You’re on speaker by the way.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, then nodded as if she could see you.

“Uh, yeah! Yeah I’m safe.”

“See, this is why I do not want you in New York,” your father said. “That place is a goddamn madhouse, something happens every day.”

You closed your eyes, familiar anxiety churning your insides.

“I mean honestly honey, what is wrong with here? Why did you have to move there?”

“Sweetheart, while I was on my retreat, I talked to Leah. Do you remember Leah?”

You rubbed your temples. “Mom...”

“Well you see, she says she can add you to the list for the next one when you—”

“I’m not going to go up on a mountain to listen to my inner thoughts and scream at the sky around bonfire, mom,” you cut her off and she heaved a sigh.

“But it’d be good for you! You are too tense.”

“What’s with everyone and saying I’m tense?” you asked, your voice going high-pitched. “I’m so relaxed!”

Fine, maybe screaming into a phone didn’t exactly prove that you were relaxed.

“Your boy seems to be doing well in the polls so far by the way,” your father commented. “Too much idealism, that one. DC isn’t exactly New York, did you tell him that they will eat him alive the moment he steps a foot in that congress?”

“He’s been around for over a century and broke through decades of brainwashing,” you said, your voice defensive for some reason. “I’d say he can handle a couple of politicians.”

“Oh do not talk about politics around me!” your mother said. “You know what it does to my nerves—Hannah? Hannah can you get me a Xanax please?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“I uh….I gotta go guys, it’s work,” you said. “I’ll call you though, love you.”

You hung up before they could say anything else, and Kelsey grabbed your arm, waving the phone in your face.

“Bucky!”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Is he okay?”

“Yes and the internet is going crazy,” Kelsey said and you took a look at the screen, a shaky recording of Bucky stopping a huge chunk of a wall from falling on a small girl while Sam pulled an elderly man out of the car, firefighters and medics running around. You let out a breath as you watched Bucky carry the small girl to her mother, then go back to rip the door off a bus to help the people trapped inside.

“Holy shit,” Kelsey muttered. “I think he just won the election.”

Somehow, the election had become the last thing in your mind as you watched Bucky on the screen, a warmth dripping inside your chest but you swallowed thickly, then tried to smile.

“Right,” you rasped out. “Yeah. It’s good optics. Or something.”

                                         *

It was indeed an attack but thankfully, there were no casualties. People were lucky that Bucky and Sam moved as quickly as they did, and apparently all the news channels and people on the internet agreed with you.

And Kelsey was right.

There were multiple videos of Bucky saving people all over the internet, and you were sure you had read thousands of comments by now. After things got calmer, you had decided to go back into the office to get your mind off things and throw yourself in work, but needless to say, it wasn’t working.

At least your phone was back in your hand.

And you were sitting on the office floor.

You sniffed and reached out to put another paper on the floor, then changed it with the one on its right. You scribbled a footnote at the bottom of the page, still holding your phone tightly in your other hand, but your head shot up when you hear the door open and someone stepped into the bullpen.

And as if on cue, your heart started beating in your throat.

“Hey,” you managed to rasp out and he tilted his head.

“What are you doing on the floor?”

“I ran out of space on my desk,” you said. “And I’m trying to decide on the order of these meetings, so…”

Bucky lingered in his spot only for a moment like he was trying to figure out how to react, then cleared his throat and approached you to sit on the floor as well.

“You don’t want to be home after today?”

“I’m fine, Max is probably working anyway.”

“Birdie—”

“But hey, you’re back,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “From your—your superhero stuff. Kels has a point, you’ve just won the election.”

From the clueless look on his face, it was clear that Bucky had not thought about that.

“What?”

“You haven’t checked social media?”

“You know I don’t do that.”

“Well, everyone is impressed with your heroic actions, a lot of journalist want to—”

“It wasn’t a heroic action, it’s the least I could do.”

“That makes it even more heroic.”

“And I’m not going to use it to win the election.”

“All your opponents would.”

“I don’t care.” Bucky shook his head. “No one should use helping the people in need as some sort of PR bullshit. It’s what everyone should do.”

“I figured you’d say that,” you murmured. “Well, it doesn’t matter if you want to use it or not, people are all over it. I think I watched like a thousand thirst traps of you since the afternoon.”

“What’s a thirst trap?”

You bit back a smile and grabbed a paper on the floor, then put it on top of the pile.

“That leaves out this press release then,” you muttered. “You should still talk to a journalist we trust, about what happened.”

“No.”

“Bucky, there’s nothing wrong with addressing—”

“They will turn it into a PR stunt if I do,” he said. “No.”

You heaved a sigh and grabbed the file on your left to shuffle through it, taking out a couple of pages as you sniffled again. His eyes found the crumpled tissue beside you, his gaze softening while you nibbled on your lip, forcing yourself to focus.

“Are you okay?”

The nod of your head wasn’t even convincing to you, so you weren’t really surprised that he didn’t believe you. You dared steal a look at him, your cheeks warming when you did so you lowered your glances to the phone in your hand, your nail pushing at the screen protector.

“Were you scared?”

You could feel the tears threatening to burn your eyes so you blinked fast, pursing your lips and shaking your head.

“Does your family know you’re safe?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. “They called.”

“That’s good,” he said gently, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “They must’ve been relieved, huh?”

“I think so.”

“They’re okay? Back home?”

“Okay is a stretch but they’re—they’re them, I guess,” you said with a small laugh. “My dad and I fight every time we talk, and my mom can’t handle it. She can’t handle much, to be honest. That’s why she keeps going on these spiritual retreats and popping Xanax like candy.”

Bucky hissed in a breath. “Ouch. Sorry.”

You waved a hand in the air.

“Don’t be, it’s expected,” you said. “It’s such a cliché. How does that old song go? My daddy’s rich, my ma is good lookin’.”

His head shot up in excitement, a hopeful light glimmering in his eyes and the sight was so sweet that you couldn’t help but smile, your stomach doing a happy flip.

This right there, this was Bucky.

Bucky back in the 1940s, the guy who you saw in black and white pictures with the devilish charm and carefree grin, this was him.

“You listen to Billie Holliday?” he asked and you nodded your head fervently, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah! And Ella Fitzgerald too!” you said, pride laced in your tone. “I know all their songs. My grandfather had this huge collection, he had a bunch of signed records too, he displayed them on—”

“Babe?” Max’s voice cut through your rant and you turned your head, a frown pinching your brows together. You grabbed the papers and Bucky stood up, then offered you his hand to help you up. A warmth shot from your fingertips to your whole body the moment you placed your hand in his, your eyes locked in his, your heart leaping but you forced yourself to pull your hand back as the footsteps came closer before Max appeared in the doorway.

“Max?” you asked, trying to ignore the tingling in your hand. “What are you doing here?”

“You mentioned you’d be here, and I figured I could pick you up after today,” he said. “It’s been a weird day. I talked to your mom, she’s very worried.”

Right.

That was normal. He was your boyfriend after all, and you had no business feeling this warm and fuzzy around Bucky, who was your boss and also was not, in fact, your boyfriend.

Max shot you a look before giving a tight lipped smile to Bucky and you snapped out of your daze, then cleared your throat.

“Right. Um—Max, this is Bucky. And Bucky, this is Max,” you said. “My boyfriend whom I—whom I love very much.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

You had no idea why you felt the need to add that detail. Discomfort churned your stomach as soon as the words left your mouth but you swallowed the lump in your throat, plastering a lovesick smile on your face and grasping Max’s upper arm to squeeze it gently. Bucky held your gaze in his, his expression unreadable as he turned to Max who held out his hand.

“Hello Mr. Barnes,” Max said as Bucky shook his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise.”

“We should go,” you said before Max could say anything else. “It’s been a weird day, like you said. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bucky?”

“What’s the rush?” Max asked with a laugh and you shook your head, grabbing your purse and the files off the desk.

“No rush, just want to be home.”

And have an existential crisis.

“But—”

“Have a nice night Bucky!” you chirped as you all but dragged Max out of the bullpen, stepped outside and made your way to the car. Max got on the driver’s seat while you buckled your seatbelt on the passenger seat, and he turned to you.

“That was weird,” he commented. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nibbled on your lip, turning your phone in your hand as he started the car, then waved a hand in front of your eyes.

“Babe?”

You took a deep breath, then forced yourself to smile.

“Sure,” you said and slipped a little to lean your knees on the dashboard, your hand still warm with Bucky’s touch. “I’m fine. Just a long day.”

Chapter 4

[nekoannie-chan]

A cold winter, warm love

Title: A cold winter, warm love.

Fandom: Marvel, Captain America.

Ship: Pre-serum!Steve Rogers X Reader.

Word count: 446 words.

Square: 9 “Brushing away their hair”.

Rating: Teen.

Summary: You take care of Steve when he's sick.

Major Tags: Steve is sick, fluff.

Additional tags: My entry for the @fandom-free-bingo Maritime May Edition.

Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.

@saiyanprincessswanie

My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my writing skills in English. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.

I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in other languages (I translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this). I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here make dividers that anyone can use; mine is not this type, so please look for the other people's dividers. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.

Add yourself to my taglist here.

My other media where I publish:  Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter. 

If you like it, please vote, comment, and give me feedback to improve my skills and reblog.

Tags: @sinceimetyou @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @navybrat817 @real-fbi @caplanbuckybarnes @hallecarey1 @nana1000night @talia-rumlow @alexxavicry @azulatodoryuga @endlesstwanted @patzammit @kmc1989

Brooklyn, 1937.

Snow was falling in the streets, and from the window of the small room you were in, you could see the flakes accumulating on the rooftops.

You didn't know exactly when he had started feeling ill, but when you found him that afternoon in his apartment, you knew it was serious.

“Steve, why didn't you tell me sooner?“ You cried softly as you placed your hand on his hot forehead.

Fever.

He was lying on the bed, his eyes narrowed with discomfort, but he still tried to smile.

“It's nothing... just a cold.“ He mumbled as if the very act of speaking cost him.

You snorted and shook your head. You knew he was lying.

Steve had been used to pretending he was fine for years. That he didn't hurt, that he didn't have trouble breathing, that he wasn't affected by his illnesses. But you knew the truth. And you weren't going to let it go this time.

So, you decided to stay.

You went to the kitchen and made a cup of hot tea, then helped him sit up in bed, draping an arm around his shoulders to support him.

Steve slumped against you with a tired sigh, his head resting on your shoulder out of sheer inertia.

“You don't have to stay, you know,” he murmured.

You smiled slightly, running a hand through his tousled hair.

“Of course I have to stay. Who else is going to take care of you?”

“No one,” he confessed softly.

How many times had Steve Rogers been sick, alone in this small room, with no one to stay by his side?

Without answering, you simply hugged him tighter.

After a while, you gently laid him down and took a brush from his nightstand. His blond hair was disheveled and sweaty with fever.

With slow, delicate movements, you began to run it through his hair, gently untangling it.

Steve, who looked half asleep, let out a low sigh, his body relaxing completely under your touch.

“This feels good.” He murmured, his eyes closed.

You smiled.

“You should brush your hair more often, Rogers.“ You joked, running your fingers through his locks to separate them carefully before sliding the brush back in.

Steve didn't respond right away. But when he did, his voice was a barely audible whisper.

“I like it better when you do it.”

You didn't say anything. You didn't have to.

You just kept running the brush through his hair, your other hand gently stroking his cheek, making sure he was comfortable.

And when, finally, his breathing deepened and you knew he had fallen asleep, you kissed his forehead tenderly and whispered,

“Sleep well, Steve.”

[seriouslysam8]

What's the favorite fic idea or plot you've gotten from a reader

If I’m being completely honest, right now, this fucking one-night stand Hinny where Harry’s a healer and finds out he has a kid years later. I’ve been thinking about it all day and even made a mood board instead of writing what I’m supposed to be writing.

Check it. Sirius never goes to Azkaban and takes Harry to America. Harry never goes to Hogwarts. Never meets the Weasleys. Voldemort never comes back. At 19 and going through Healer training, he and Sirius go to Wales on holiday. Maybe Remus’ dad died and they’re there to help him out. One night they go to a pub where the Holyhead Harpies happen to be celebrating the new recruits. It’s a Muggle pub so nobody is bothered. Harry meets Ginny and they hit it off immediately. Drunk and having the hots for one another, sleep together. Harry goes back to America. Ginny starts taking training seriously.

She’s pregnant. Keeps the kid. Only knows the father’s first name and assumes he’s a Muggle since nobody knows what Harry looks like as an adult.

Two years later, Harry sees Ginny is a raising star on the Harpies. He remembers her from that night but doesn’t think much of it. He’s a pediatric healer in America afterall.

Two more years pass, Ginny makes the English team for the World Cup that so happens to take place in America. Ginny’s kid gets really sick, high fever and the whole shebang. She takes him to the wizarding hospital. Harry walks in and stops dead. A small 3 year old with messy black hair, bright green eyes, and glasses looks up at him miserably. Harry can’t move. Ginny can’t move.

Dun. Dun. Dun.

[gremlin-girly]

Kinktober Day 30

Cowgirl

Alt Title: Sick Day

Pairing: Steve Rogers x f!reader

Tags/Warnings: SMUT, dub-con(just in case), hand jobs (brief), cowgirl, needy Steve (a warning), dry humping (also brief), touch starved Steve, p-in-v, cockwarming, petnames (baby, sweetheart, doll), praise & degradation (good boy/bad boy), teasing, subby Steve, dom/sub vibes, cock bulge, orgasm denial (for Steve)

Not beta'd

Summary: When you think Steve is sick, you go overboard to take care of him. It isn't until Natasha accidentally lets it slip that super soldiers can't get sick that you realise that you're being played....

A/N: Had this in my drafts since I was sick ages ago. A little "disbelieving" in terms of plot but y'know what? It's smut who cares?

Banners by @/cafekitsune

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It started with a sneeze.

Nothing serious, just a bit of dust. But the way you'd fretted over Steve made his heart melt.

"You feeling okay?" You ask, pressing the back of your palm to his forehead. "You're warm."

Steve's cheeks went rosier. He couldn't help it; around you he was such a mess. So sweet, so caring. Anytime you were around he felt like a kid with a crush. The big, strong Captain America was a blubbering fool who couldn't quite manage the confidence to ask you out. But with your hand against his head, the look of mild concern drawn on your face, he finds that he's unable to let the moment go.

"A little under the weather." Steve lies, earning another narrowing glance from Bucky. "But I'll be okay."

"Hrm." Your lips press into a thin line, disbelieving his white lie. "Want me to make you some soup tomorrow? Bring you anything? I think you have a fever coming."

Your hands cup his cheeks and Steve forces himself not to melt into your touch. God, you're hands were so soft. They still smelled of the bubblegum soap you kept in your room.

"Nah, I'll be okay. Don't go out of your way." Steve shrugs, still not pulling away from you. He can feel his eyes becoming half lidded and the urge to wrap around you and hold you tight is becoming harder and harder to ignore. He'll be thinking about how your soft hands feel against his cock in his room later, when he fucks his fist to the thought of you being being so gentle with him.

"I insist." You say firmly and then your features soften to a smile. "I can't have Captain America sick on the job. Not when I can help."

Steve doesn't fight you on it, secretly relieved at your insistence. Any excuse to spend time with you is a good excuse. He smiles at you and makes plans for you to visit the following day after work.

Once you're out of earshot, speaking with Tony about when Natasha would be returning from her mission, Bucky pulls Steve aside and gives him a suspicious look.

"What was that about?"

"What was what about?" Steve asks innocently, sipping at his beer.

"You know what." Bucky looks over at you and then back at Steve. "Pretending to be ill to gain pity points."

Steve rolls his eyes. "It's not pity points." He says defensively. "I think it's a good chance for me to test the waters."

Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve. "Uh huh. Sure pal but when this blows up in your face I get to say I told you so."

🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️

A sick day turned into days.

Steve had been trying all the tricks in the book to make himself seem sick so that you would spend more time with him. Everything from dipping the thermometer into hot water to spraying himself with water to look like he was sweating from a fever.

And you believed every moment of it.

To the point that when Steve had mumbled about struggling to sleep you had joined him under the guise of wanting to make sure he was okay. You'd stroke his hair and hold him close, checking occasionally that he was fine and if he needed anything. You set timers for all his meds, ensured he drank plenty of fluids and ensured he had enough to eat.

All the while one healthy Steve Rogers happily napped next to you.

Steve was addicted to how you cared for him, so gentle and loving, and it made his cock ache uncomfortably when he was pressed up next to you with your hand in his hair, reading some book whilst waiting on one of the timers. There was something so domestic about it, something he wished he could share with you. With his face buried into your side, he drowned in the scent of you; imagining all sorts of scenarios like how you'd react if he buried his face between your legs while you read and he lapped at your cunt like a man starved.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep up the lie but he did know he had to make a move soon.

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When you're making your second batch of soup in the kitchen when Nat appears to make herself a coffee. She flicks the switch of the kettle and leans against countertop next to you, peering into the thick, red depths of the soup. Nat had been away on a mission and today was her first official day back. Although she was physically present, you always filled her in on the latest on day two, when she was able to focus more after a day of relaxing.

Nat raises her eyebrows at you as you continue to stir. "Who's sick?"

"Steve." You answer simply, raising the spoon to taste.

"Steve?" She laughs. "He can't get sick."

"I know that's what I said." You smile as you place your spoon back into the pot before adding a pinch of salt, watching it swirl under the wooden spoon.

Your thoughts were muddled by Steve. You had insisted to care for him because you were crushing on him hard, however, you hadn't expected the last few days to be torture. The cuddling had been blissful but you didn't really know how to bring it up to him that you could feel him get hard next to you, or how much your pussy ached when he'd grind against you subconsciously. You'd had to squeeze your legs together and wait until you could slip back to your room and relieve yourself to thoughts of him buried between your legs.

When he was better, you'd make the move to ask him out or take his secret to the grave with you.

Your thoughts are broken by Natasha's chuckling as she comes closer with a stray piece of bread, dipping it into the soup.

"No, not like that. He literally can't get sick." She clarifies, nodding in appreciation as she munches on her soggy bit of bread. "The serum keeps him pretty much perfect. Good soup, by the way."

Your mind promptly unmuddles as you turn to look at Nat with wide eyes.

"What?"

"Uh oh." She grimaces. "I've said something I shouldn't have haven't I?"

"Nope." You say, popping the 'p' with an evil grin. "You've said exactly the right thing."

Your days have been wasted feeding and cuddling a healthy supersoldier, when all he could've done was ask for your company. You were going to have some fun.

🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️🌡️

You followed your routine as normal. Bringing Steve soup and bread and sitting with him while he ate, before snuggling down in the covers of his bed against him and running your hand through his soft golden locks like you had done countless times before.

"You're forehead isn't as warm today." You comment lightly, raking a pattern into his scalp gently making Steve sigh happily. "Maybe you're finally getting better."

"Maybe." Steve mumbles quietly, feigning a cough. "I hope so."

With his eyes closed, you smirk, unable to comprehend the theatrics of it all. The theatrics that you fell for.

"I don't know what I'm going to do when I'm not needed anymore." You tease quietly and feeling bold you press a soft kiss to Steve's forehead. You feel him stiffen and shift his legs slightly; you know that your plan is working.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks. There's an edge of panic to his voice as he peeks up at you with sweet, puppy-dog eyes that beg you to stop talking about such a thing. Like he can't bare the thought that this entire charade he's managed to pull of for three whole days has to end.

"Well," you shrug. "You won't need me to look after you anymore so... hey, is it hot in here? Do you mind if I take this off?"

You gesture to your soft sweater, fanning your face for the drama.

"No, go ahead." Steve says a little dejected, sitting up slightly to let you remove it. He was trying to think of ways to prolong his "illness" but being a super soldier, three days was already pushing it and he didn't know how much longer Bucky could keep up the lie for him. Apparently, Tony already had his suspicions - as did Banner, so he needed to think up something better. Maybe a training injury? Or a mission gone awry?

Steve's too pre-occupied whilst you remove your sweater but as he rests his head back onto your chest when your sweater fwumps against the floor, he sits up at an almost ninety-degree angle. He's almost too scared to look down at you but when he does, his cyan blue eyes almost jump out of his head.

You're in your bra. Just your bra. No tank. No tee. Just a lacy, red number that cups your tits so well Steve thinks his brain might explode.

He fights the urge to curse out loud and tears his eyes from your chest to your face, the sudden tightness in his pyjama pants unbearable. You're smiling sweetly up at him which only makes it worse.

"You okay?" You ask, trying not to let your smugness get the better of you. "C'mere. Lie back down."

Steve nods wordlessly, following your instruction. Your hands go back to brushing through his hair and you snuggle down beneath the covers next to him, so close that his straining cock brushes against the softness of your thighs. Steve's eyes flutter and his cock twitches desperately against you as he breathes in the scent of your skin. Your cleavage sits in front of him and, even though he's trying hard to focus on literally anything else, all he wants to do is pull your tits free and bury himself between them; kissing, licking and sucking every inch of your soft, warm skin. He knows that, by now, you know he's rock hard and it's driving him insane; his cock is too big to ignore and the stickiness of his precum has already started to make a cool, wet patch against his pyjama pants.

"You know," you say slowly, rubbing your thighs together as you try to quell your own need, making Steve hiss almost silently. "I was speaking with Nat earlier."

"Mmhmm." Steve manages, trying not to move his hips into yours and gently fuck your thighs. God, you're right there taunting him in your bra, melting his brain with no care in the world.

"Yeah, we were talking about you and how, y'know...." your voice lowers, "You never get sick."

Steve's brain is too melted to pick up on your words instead pressing his forehead against your collarbone, half buried into your neck and mumbling a breathless "Uh huh."

"Apparently, this is new." You continue, your lips brushing his temple. You've never been this close and he only wants more; his greed getting the better of him. "Everyone's worried about you, Stevie."

Drunk on your touch, your closeness, Steve presses his lips against yours, his hips moving against yours on pure instinct. You gasp softly, not expecting him to break so quickly. Soon one strong arm is beneath you as he peppers kisses to your face and neck, the other around your waist and pulling you flush against him so you can feel every twitch of his cock through your leggings.

"Steve," you huff, red flush brewing along your chest and neck. "You can't kiss me I'll get sick."

"Please," He murmurs, nipping along your jaw and squeezing you. "'M not sick. I'm sorry just - please - I need you."

"Not sick?" You try to feign shock but you can't hide your grin. "You lied to me, Stevie?"

One hand in his hair scratches his crown softly but the other trails freely down his torso to his waist, dipping between your bodies to grasp at his hard cock. Steve's eyes flare wider and a gasp of surprise breaks into a quiet groan of need.

"I'm sorry." He half whines. "You just took such good care of me I didn't want it to stop."

"It doesn't have to." You whisper, squeezing his cock gently, making Steve rut his hips upwards with a curse. "I can always make you feel good. You just have to ask."

"Oh, fuck - I can?" Steve gasps out as your hand slips beneath his pyjama waistband to grip at his cock flesh on flesh and start to pump him slowly.

"Uh huh. Do you know what it was like knowing you were so hard and I couldn't do anything to help?" Your purr, pressing another kiss to his forehead. Steve's eyes flutter. He feels like he's living out one of his fantasies and his cock twitches against your palm.

"Do you know how hard it was to try and be a good person, trying not to take advantage of my poor, sick sweetheart when all I wanted to do was ride that fat cock to kingdom come?"

At your filthy words Steve groans loudly, his eyes glassy with lust when they meet yours but struggling to stay focused when you pump his cock faster.

"'M sorry, baby." He half mumbles through his haze, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. Seeing him like this, so whiny and needy, hadn't even came close to how you'd imagined him all those nights in your room. And you loved it all the more.

You release his cock for a few seconds to quickly shimmy out of your panties and leggings, before throwing a leg over him and hovering over his leaking cock. The heat the pours from your core is red hot, and Steve's hands go to your hips as you waste no time easing yourself down onto him. He looks up in half lidded bliss as you perch on his cock, biting onto your lips to turn a long moan into a loud hum.

Steve curses when you start to grind your hips against his and you give an evil giggle before you plant your hands either side of his head and start to ride his cock to kingdom come as you'd wished.

For once in his super soldier enhanced life, Steve can't keep up. Your hips smack and grind into his at a feral pace, your pussy squeezing his cock so tightly he was sure he was drooling from the pleasure.

Every ridge of your walls brushed against the sensitive tip of his cock and Steve was struggling to stop himself from cumming, pawing weakly at your hips to slow you down.

"Baby, fuck - oh Jesus Christ -" Steve's eyes roll when you alternate your pacing to roll your hips, sending his cock deeper and you both moan in time. "Don't do that 'm gonna cum."

You grin viciously down at him milking him a few more moments before stilling entirely.

"Who said you were cumming yet?" You say sweetly, tilting your head at him and Steve pants, his brain racing to figure out what you mean. You cup his cheeks in your palms, leaning forward to capture his lips in a deep and passionate kiss.

"You made me wait three days." You murmur against his lips before sitting up to your full height, wiggling your hips emphatically on Steve's cock to give the impression you're getting comfortable. Steve bites down onto his lips, watching you straddle him so well he can almost see the outline of his cock against your abdomen. His brain is foggy with lust and he goes to move his hips but you click your tongue and he stops, watching you with dawning understanding.

"I want you to feel how good my pussy feels. How wet I am for you...And know you could have had this at any point if you had asked."

Steve groans. "I know. I'm stupid. I should've said. I'm sorry."

"You should be." You sigh. "Now, count to ten slowly and I might reconsider making you wait all night to cum."

"Shit - no!" He pouts but doesn't dare move. Taking a breath he let's out a shaky "one."

You wait until he gets to five to grind your hips into circles, making Steve's eyes flutter. He almost, almost, breaks his concentration with counting but his desire to fuck you, to finally fuck you, wins out. At ten, you give him no room to think, slamming your hips into his relentlessly. Steve can barely keep you in place, the pleasure is too much and alongside your praises he's convinced he's made it to Heaven.

"Such a good boy following orders," you coo at him. "I made the right decision to take good care of you."

"Yes." Steve hisses. "Takin' such good care of me doll."

You take his large hands from your hips and interlock them in yours before pinning them either side of his head, leaning down to kiss him. Steve could easily flip you, or fold you, but he doesn't and that's what makes the entire performance even more rewarding. The super soldier beneath you let's you fuck yourself stupid on his cock, let's you use him until you cum. Your pussy squeezes him tight as you milk his cock and Steve seems almost ready to pass out with how hard he's breathing.

"You holdin' out for me?" You tease, nibbling just below his ear.

"Y-yeah." Steve puffs, trying to force the desperate ache to cum away.

"Good boy." You purr to hear him moan again, positively elated to keep him on the edge like this. You wait a few more moments, waiting for when you're about to cum once again before giving him the command. "Cum for me."

Steve stutters are cut short by your lips on his; swallowing every moan and gasp he offers you as you milk him dry. His arms wrap around you and hold you close when he finishes emptying inside you, kissing your salty sweat-ridden skin as you come down from your highs.

"How did you find out?" Steve finally asks, breaking the silence. His fingers trail patterns over the expanse of your back and you shiver as you giggle.

"Weren't you listening? Nat told me you never get sick." You peek up at him with a smirk and he chuckles sheepishly.

"I was a bit... distracted." He clears his throat. "Do you think I could get away with one more sick day?"

You raise an eyebrow at him and he hurriedly adds, "Just one! I swear!"

"Just one?" You poke at his chest playfully.

Steve shakes his head, giving you a quick kiss. "Okay, maybe more than just one. I have to make up for lost time don't I?"

[adobealmanac]

Appalachian Traditions from my Father

My dad and his relatives came from the Netherlands, however, when they arrived in America they settled in the Appalachia's. Many of my relatives on his side still remain in those mountains, and thus, continue practicing the rich traditions of one of the oldest mountain ranges. Here I will document some of those old-fashioned remedies and superstitions:

Remedies:

To cure a fever take a bulb's worth of garlic, and a few layers of the largest onion you have on hand and wrap them in a cloth as if you were rolling up dough to cut fresh linguini. Sinch each end with a piece of twine. Take a hammer and with all your rage beat the cloth into a pulp. Once the contents are sufficiently mashed tie the cloth around the wrists, right over the pulse. Leave the poor man's poultice in place until the fever reduces. It should take effect in around an hour.

Headache bandages were one of my great-grandmother's go to remedies to enjoy during a nice warm winter night after a long day of hard work. It would take away any symptoms of a sore head swiftly. First, grab one or two paper bags and cut them widthwise into long, thick strands of brown paper. They should be long enough to stretch across the front of your forehead and onto the sides of your temples. heat up some apple cider vinegar so that it is warm but not hot. Drench the strips of paper in the vinegar like you are making paper mache. Then, apply the strips onto your forehead so that it is thoroughly covered and pat them down with a washcloth. Cover the strips with a headband or bandanna so that they do not drip onto your hair or face, and leave in place until the soreness is gone.

Throat salve is a cozy drink we used to make to sooth a soar throat. First, combine the juice of one lemon with a cup of water. Boil the lemon water on the stove. Once it is boiling add a tablespoon or two of honey depending on your own preferences. I typically add two as it cuts the sourness of the lemon, plus the honey is good for you. Boil the mixture until it is all combined and serve hot in a mug. You may garnish it with a lemon slice to make it feel fancy.

Sunburn Soother is a simple thing to make. Begin by picking some fresh sage, and lavender if it is in bloom from your garden. Get about two cups of water boiling, and add the herbs. Boil it until a strong tincture is made. Make a similar tincture out of black tea too. I usually leave both boiling until there is just a bit of liquid left in each. Get about a cup of fresh aloe (or bottled, either works so long as it doesn't contain alcohol) and combine it with your tinctures. Once thoroughly mixed apply to the sunburn liberally as needed.

Vicks Vaporub is a cure all as my granny says. Got a cough? slather it on your feet and cover them with socks before going to bed. Anoint yourself with Vicks while doing the sign of the cross to cast out and protect from evil. Congested? Rub it under your nose and on your chest. Going near a decaying animal carcass? shove some in the openings of your nostrils to prevent that god awful scent. Need to fake cry at your enemies funeral? Dab some of that good ol' Vicks Vaporub underneath your eyes. It can even be used to oil a squeaky door. If you don't have a jar that is older than you and somehow still full, go buy one on amazon! Vicks is the gift that keeps on giving.

Superstitions:

Minding your own business is a powerful thing in the dusk draped skies of the Appalachian forests. Whether you hear your name called out on your evening walk, or seeing your neighbor walk to his barn late at night, keep your head down. It don't involve you now, does it? Whether you believe it's a cryptid out there ready to strike, or the moonshiners up to their hobbies, leave them be. Live and let live is the word of the wind, and thus is the virtue of Appalachian life.

Is your ear itching? That means someone has spoken your name. Pay attention to which ear is tingling. If it is your right, they are speaking truthfully about you. They may even put in a good word. However, if it is your left, they are spreading gossip and speaking ill of you. If this is the case, carry a sprig of rosemary on you until five days have passed since the last tingle of your left ear. This will protect you from any ill will sent your way.

The pillows of the dead often contain a wreath of feathers known as an angels crown. Often, it is believed that they signify your loved one being allowed into heaven. However, if you find one in the pillow of a living soul it may signify that their time is near. That is why it is so important to fluff your pillows each night, as you want to break up any budding wreaths before they lay claim to your life.

Drinking alone is never acceptable. Whether it is tea or scotch, be sure to pour a little out on the ground to quench the spirits. I always keep a small clay figurine by the kettle to give a drop of tea to in the morning. Drinking without offering some to the nearby spirits could upset them.

Iron nails can be strong protective amulets. Whether you nail them into the corners of your bedroom or fashion a cross out of them, they provide strong protection against malevolent spirits and evil forces. Superstitions around iron from Appalachia are quite similar to those spoken about in my post the magic of scissors.

Witches marks are said to protect your home from malicious spells and witchcraft. They can be easily fashioned out of sticks by making a five-pointed star with sticks and strings. Place this above the entrance of the home to ward off evil.

While many of these superstitions and remedies are shared around the world, my dads family from the Appalachians continue to practice these folk practices, and thus they remain a strong part of the culture in such an isolated and harsh environment. Many folks from the Appalachian mountains continue to practice folk healing and magic due to the isolated nature of many parts. They take care of their own, you know? The mountains provide a unique environment where the woods truly have some unique powers. While I myself do not reside in those hills, my ancestors on his side did and I continue to practice their ways to connect to them and their homeland. I fondly remember my trips to visit family in the region and the unique culture that fosters there.

[sachermorte]

a cup full of water cannot cover the entire world.

even if you spread it especially thin. even if it's an unusually large cup, like the character-themed monstrosities in pastel glitter plastic one gets at movie theaters and amusement parks or the united states of america taken as a whole. this is due to the fact that water is made of atoms, which under most circumstances in our day to day lives cannot be divided* and the fact that even though the number of atoms in a single cup of water is exceptionally large, the atoms are very small and very close together.

even if the cup of water were to ignore all polite professional guidelines of surface tension, a monolayer of water would not likely meaningfully affect the surface it is resting upon. it would not be wet or even particularly noticably damp at all. you might know it was there, but no one else would, and it would neither help nor harm anyone but you, who would be down one perfectly good cup of water with very little to show for it.

and the thing is that the entire world needs water. the entire world is in desperate need of rain, parched, droughted, withering. people on all sides are screaming and crying for the need for water. begging you for a cup. a drink. a mouthful. just one.

you too, are thirsty. terribly, desperately thirsty. the fact that there are other people who theoretically need the water more, does not change the fact that your tongue sticks fast to your dusty jaws, that your head swims with fever. you carry a thirst that nothing can follow save for death.

it may be true what you tell yourself, that every wretched suffering thing alive needs water more than you. that by taking even a single drop from your own cup, you yourself have somehow condemned them to death, to their bones drying in the heat haze under a blinding white sun.

but you have only one single cup of water. one single solitary cup of water. and one cup full of water cannot cover the entire world.

this is a metaphor.

*although on some days I hold a secret suspicion that I've come very, very close

[firstelevens]

Woodsmoke and gunpowder for the wip meme?

woodsmoke and gunpowder is an AU that I've been percolating on ever since I wrote this prompt fill where Sam accidentally summons a demon (or??? is perhaps tricked into doing so??? 👀) and that demon is one Bucky Barnes and then he's just...stuck hanging around Captain America until they figure out how to dismiss the summon.

The title of the doc is entirely down to me being like, you simply cannot have a demon smelling of brimstone in your house, all the time. What if there was a carbon monoxide leak? You'd never know. So then I honed in on this as the distinctive scent of our summoned demon for Lore ReasonsTM.

This excerpt is long-ish so I'm putting most of it under a cut.

Sam has the tiniest hope that last night might have been some kind of fever dream, but it’s immediately crushed when he enters his kitchen and finds Bucky sitting at the table and sipping coffee from Sam’s favorite mug. His hair sticks up in all directions, the shoulders of Sam’s LSU sweatshirt just a little bit big on him, and if Sam wasn’t profoundly aware of his hellish origins, the rumpled morning look might be kind of cute. “Good morning, Captain,” says Bucky, without turning around. “There’s coffee, if you’d like some.”

Instead of bothering to ask how Bucky knew he was there without looking, Sam cuts a glance over to his coffee machine, which has very clearly not been turned on yet. “Uh…”

“Not in that thing,” Bucky says, with a dismissive little flick of his hand. “In here.”

As Sam rounds to the other side of the table, he sees the French press that he’d forgotten he owned, half full of coffee that admittedly smells pretty great. “You’re an analog kind of guy, huh?”

“Something like that.”

When it’s clear that no more conversation is forthcoming, Sam pours himself a cup of coffee and moves towards the fridge to start on breakfast. He almost drops the eggs when he hears his front door swing open, wondering first if Bucky has decided to just walk back to Hell, but then Sarah calls out a good morning and Sam freezes where he is.

He’d forgotten, what with last night’s surprise guest, that Sarah was supposed to come around to pick up the party supplies, and a whole entire demon in his kitchen hardly seemed like the kind of thing that he could just not mention and hope she didn’t notice. Before he can wrack his brains for a cover story, Sarah’s footsteps stop abruptly at the threshold to the kitchen.

“Oh,” she says, after a long moment of stunned silence. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize my brother had, uh, company.”

“Sarah,” says Sam, closing the fridge door and ignoring his instincts to crawl inside and hide there until she’s gone, “it’s not–”

But Bucky is already standing up and holding out a hand to shake Sarah’s, and Sam has the distinct feeling that he’s going to hate what’s about to happen here. “My name’s Bucky,” he says, with a winning smile. “I’m a friend of a friend; Sam was nice enough to let me stay while I was in town. Your brother’s kind of a serial do-gooder.”

Sarah’s eyebrows raise higher even as she shakes his hand, and Sam knows she’s taking in the sweatshirt and sweatpants that are so clearly his. “I’m Sarah,” she says, smiling back at him. “And with all that good he’s out there doing, I can’t believe my brother wouldn’t mention that his friends had such nice friends.”

[abiiors]

here to request some ross hurt/comfort but like reader comforts ross…i feel like he’s always the big guy who everyone leans on but sometimes he just needs to be taken care of it could be like sick!fic or really anything idk god can you tell i wanna baby the fuck out of a grown man sorry if this isn’t specific enough or you’ve already done it before ily bye

a/n: this is so so so so tremendously sappy and sickly sweet, and also ridiculously tiny. hope you enjoy!!

cw: none

wc: 1k

ross can feel his head throbbing to the beat of the music. pounding, incessant headache that won’t go away no matter how many times he’s rubbed his eyes or drank water or tried one of the myriad of other things you always recommend, and yet, nothing. 

he know why it’s happening too—he has gone from europe to america and back to the uk in a span of ten days, subjected himself to shitty airline food and even shittier coffee. he’s exhausted; absolutely weary at this point. and listening to the same song on repeat isn’t helping. there’s no way he’s useful to anyone at the studio like this, when he’s just so prone to snapping. 

so ross silently picks up his coat, shoots the sound engineer a message and makes his way to the car. 

—

his house smells of jasmine and lemon verbena—a sure sign that you have just left the shower, walking around the house, rubbing your favourite body butter into your skin like you always do. it calms him a little but the headache is still there. if anything, it’s gotten worse in the last twenty minutes. 

“ross…?” your confused voice gets his attention. 

ross smiles at the sight of you, almost drowning in his giant jumper. your hair, still wet from the shower, is held loosely on top of your head with a clawclip. it’s a welcome sight. 

“don’t feel too hot,” he frowns, lip tugging downward. “just a headache, love.”

your frown mirrors his as you make your way to stand in front of him. ross watches your face screw up in concentration, placing the back of your hand on his forehead. “no fever,” you murmur and look up at him. 

“what’s wrong?”

“just a headache,” he repeats, “nothing to worry about. it’s been a long week. just wanna nap.”

your confusion melts away, giving way to a soft pout. “aww, baby,” you coo at him and ross almost melts. the jasmine and lemon scent hits him now that you’re this close. it’s mellow, soothing. he closes his eyes and breathes it in. 

when he opens them again, your face comes into view, except this time there’s a little smile pulling at your lips as you take a hold of his hand. 

“come on,” he feels a tug; you, trying to drag him to the bedroom, “i have just the thing…”

he doesn’t protest, silently following you through the house and into the bedroom that still smells of your various skincare products. there’s a little wet splotch on the bed—no doubt from you sitting there in your towel, scrolling through your phone as water from your wet hair drips onto the bed. ross smiles at your little embarrassed giggle that’s followed by a barely audible “oops”. 

“sit,” you instruct, watching his face for any signs of pain. 

he hides it well, or tries to at least, only wincing when a particularly sharp twinge of pain slices through his temple. he should have had another coffee but now it’s too late for that. unless he can plead you to make him a cup. 

but he’s fairly certain he’d rather have you here than getting a cup of coffee. 

“close your eyes.” and so he does, curious about why he hears a little laugh in your voice but he follows the instructions obidiently when you tell him to scootch back and get comfy against the pillows. 

he waits, resisting the urge to peak when he feels the bed dip below your weight, when he feels you getting closer and sitting right in front of him. and oh how grateful he is for that. because a moment later, he can’t help but let out a soft moan as your fingers run through his scalp. 

he hears a small giggle. “that sounds like it feels nice.”

“mmm, it does–wow.” he can barely bring himself to finish the sentence as your fingers press against all the achy points in head; untangling the knots and getting rid of his hair tie that might just have been half the problem. he sighs happily. 

“c’me here, baby,” he opens his eyes to grip at your waist and pull you onto his lap—the closer, the better. “perfect.”

once you move around to settle yourself, you’re back at it again, this time adding a hair brush to the mix. ross hums contently, enjoying the way it feels, enjoying the tension that slowly leaves his body and how his limbs get heavier. 

through half-lidded eyes, ross stares at your focused face—the little crease between your eyebrows, tongue slightly poking out and he can’t help but press a small kiss on your jaw. 

his beard must have tickled because you let out a sharp laugh. 

he takes advantage of it—of your head thrown back—and presses three kisses down your neck in quick succession, savouring the little giggles. 

“oh, you’re a menace!” you tease. 

he grins back, stiffling yet another wince at the sharp pain in his head. but you still notice it anyway.

“how about we nap…” you offer, setting the brush aside and getting off his lap. he has half a mind to protest this decision but then he sees the offer on the table—you laying down just enough for him to snuggle into you and squish his face into your tits. that’s it, the final comfort. 

“perfect,” he mumbles, closing his eyes once again. ross snickers when he hears you whisper something that suspiciously sounds like god, you’re such a man. but you don’t move. instead you go back to threading your fingers through his hair. 

as his eyes grow heavier and heavier, ross realises how much he’s looking forward to this, proper sleep for the first time in a long time. and how he plans on being lazy with you all day once he finally gets rid of this headache. 

[swallowedbyfandom]

He genuinely never understood why his siblings's watched him with such bewildered eyes throughout Penelope and Debling's courtship. Why they all looked really to bundle him off at a moments notice at her wedding ceremony or why his mother looked so wistful at the wedding breakfast. He didn't understand why mother cried so hard when Penelope moved away or why she was so defeated when Pen wrote to announce her pregnancy. He didn't understand it until the summer of 1817.

In the summer of 1817, Earl Debling had to travel to the Americas for business. Over protective husband that he was, he worried about leaving his wife during her delicate condition with their twelve month old daughter, without emotional support for what would amount to almost ten months of time. His family and surrounding neighbors were still getting over a winter fever outbreak that he worried could still be contagious, so he arranged Penelope's and little Agatha's stay with Violet and the Bridgerton clan in Aubrey Hall.

He is standing with his family on the steps of their ancestral seat, to greet Penelope and her family while his sibling's chattered on excitedly. His first thought upon seeing her after two years is that she has always been radiant, but motherhood has truly turned her into something ethereal. Her husband gently lifts her out of their carriage and Colin can clearly see the gentle curve of her second pregnancy showing already.

God, Colin nearly cries when he sees how happy his mother and Pen are to be reunited. Really he and all his siblings watch misty eyed how his mother tearfully cups Penelope's face and whispers," Welcome home, my darling girl." while complimenting how wonderful motherhood looks on her. Penelope just melts into mother's arms babbling about how much she missed her and her excitement to share her daughter with her. Then he and his siblings watch as James grandly introduces Mother to their little Miss Agatha Violet Debling. Penelope looks so proud handing her little girl over into mother's arms as James just watches her indulgently, while gently supporting her small baby bump.

Dinner that night is a lively affair the entire family is at Aubrey hall this year. The Bassett and Stirling families included as Pen had written to Francesca warning her about the outbreak of Winter fever and she recommended they visit England for safety while the outbreak was ongoing. Frannie had confided in mother that she and John have been trying to start a family since they first married and were struggling to conceive, so she had written to Penelope for support and advice. That Penelope had always been something of a big sister to her but these last two years had cemented it. Pen had been her support system of candid advice and hilarious gossip to keep her spirits up. So they thought it best to retreat to Aubrey hall and leave Kilmartin in Michael's hand's until the outbreak passed.

It had warmed his heart knowing how even if Eloise and Pen's relationship never quite recovered, Pen still maintained a close relationship with the rest of his family. Personally he thought Fran and Pen's personalities suited better anyway. It helped that their estates were only an hour and a half carriage ride away and that John and James were such good friends they were able to visit each other at least once a month. Perhaps it made him disloyal but he understood why Penelope never trusted Eloise again. She forgave her but she didn't forget all El's betrayals. Pen treats El as a distant childhood acquaintance. Penelope is all polite formal civility and It drives El crazy, but she took things too far and has to live with the consequences.

He realizes he is in love with Penelope the second he lifts her daughter into his arms. He looks upon on a tiny perfect little face that is the exact replica of his dear Pen and feels his whole soul cry. He can suddenly see it so clearly, all the missed opportunities, that led to this moment. This glorious, perfect miniature of his beloved friend held in his arms should have a head of wild chestnut curls instead of the head of golden curls she has. He has been in love with Penelope for years and everyone in his family knew it except him. He finally understands all the looks and the whispers his family exchanged in 1815 and after. They were all waiting for him to realize the fact that he helped marry off the woman he was in love with.

He handed off the love of his life to another man, to another family. He can see now how much his entire family missed Penelope. His blindness deprived his siblings all of a beloved family member they had all counted on. He can also see now that Pen is seated here with his family once more he also deprived her of the comfort and love she has always found among the Bridgertons. He knows James has a minuscule amount of remaining family. That illness and bad luck has reduced the once great Debling family to only James, Pen, Agatha, his elderly mother and infirm elderly aunt.

Penelope had written to mother that her and James hope to fill their estate with half a dozen children at least. She loves him and the life they are building but she gets lonely sometimes out in the Scottish countryside so far from all she has known. He knows Penelope hoped to marry into a large family so her children could grow up with an army of cousins and family around them. Were he not stupid she would have that.

Later that night after everyone is in bed he sits at his Father's graveside and cries his heart out. He allows himself just this one night to wallow in grief for the life he gave up unknowingly. It hurts because watching her with her husband he realizes that she was in love with him once. Once but no longer, she moved on. He claimed he would never court her and broke her heart, so she let him go. His strong, clever girl learned to love again. He is the dumbest bastard in the world.

Truly James is a good man, who treats Pen like the queen she is, so he can make his peace with it. Tomorrow he will comfort himself with Penelope's joy and the knowledge that he has the next ten months to spend with her, Agatha and his family. He will get to witness her bloom with new life and meet her newest child while they are still a newborn. Yes he is sad but he will not be selfish with Penelope. Her happiness comes first.

He spends the next six months watching his family and Penelope reveling in mischief and chaos together. He watches everyone fall head over heels in love with little Agatha, who Penelope calls her little dragon flower. He wraps himself up in the happiness of all the babies and toddlers at Aubrey Hall.

He watches entranced one day as Penelope sits on one of the loungers with little Edmund in her arms fast asleep on her bosom. His mother sits across from her on a rocking chair with Miles in her arms listening with a gentle smile on her face as Penelope sings a beautiful French lullaby. He had no idea Pen had such an angelic voice. He notices after that Daf is passed out on the sofa with Aggie napping and Fran is fast asleep with Belinda. Kate is passed with Agatha and Newton on a chaise. He wishes he had Benedict's talent for sketching to capture this idyllic scene, perfectly.

He hides away with his brothers and the children when the combined hormonal, pregnancy barrage that is Penelope at eight months, Francesca at seven months, Kate at six months, Daphne at five months becomes too overwhelming. Their mother's euphoric crowing about all her new grand babies can be heard non stop, Eloise hilariously, has taken to hiding away from all the females on the estate and insisting that Portia Featherington was correct all along and pregnancy was in fact something you can catch. She had declared that Penelope is clearly fertile enough to have infected all of Aubrey Hall with it.

Overall it is the liveliest Aubrey Hall has been since their father passed away. He soaks it all up in glee. He blushes with guilt when Agatha's and Miles' first sentence is "where my biscuit?" Then he spends a week dodging Kate and Pen's killing rage, over the knowledge that he had been sneaking the children biscuits, while his siblings mock him mercilessly over the debacle.

Little Thomas James Debling is born in Aubrey Hall on the first of January 1818, with a full head of wispy strawberry blond curls that looked like dandelion fluff. Colin spends that night once more seated at his father's Gravesite weeping with heartbreak. He had heard his Pen crying out for James in fear during her labors. There had not been any correspondence from James in the last 3 weeks they were all worried about it. Aubrey Hall usually received post from him at least once a week and yet there has been no word for almost a month. Ant and John had been making subtle inquiries but they didn't want to worry Pen or Fran so far along in their prenancies are they.

Their peace is shattered 4 days later when Michael shows up at the break of dawn looking exhausted and full of grief. Penelope was already awake from nursing little Thomas so she received him first. They all rush from bed to find Penelope collapsed into Michael arms keening and wailing a familiar bitter melody. Mother looks so stricken by it all seconds before she mobilizes everyone into action.

James much like Ant was paranoid about dying young so the estate and all legalities pertaining to it are already taken care of. Penelope Anne Debling becomes the Dowager Countess Debling at age 21. The slew of legal protections in place for Penelope and the children are to be finalized once Thomas's birth records are filed.

[themculibrary]

Sick Tony Stark Masterlist

and the tough guys tumble (ao3) - CSHfic, VSfic steve/tony T, 18k

Summary: “You’re not getting better, are you?” Steve asked, reaching out to stop him.

“No, I’m not.”

What-if in which Tony doesn’t just simply reboot to get rid of the Harvester at the end of Captain America and Iron Man: One Night in Madripoor.

Arc Tremors (ao3) - MountainRose T, 125k

Summary: Tony's light had flickered out in the aftermath of the fight with the Chitauri, but his team was there and, hey, he'd just been to space, give a guy some slack. The next morning they accepted, but when he collapses weeks later, they're not going to let him brush it off again, and neither is JARVIS.

Babysitting Clint Barton (ao3) - SailorChibi steve/tony, clint/phil T, 7k

Summary: Clint came to terms with his daddy occasionally babysitting Tony a long time ago; sometimes it was even fun. What's a lot less fun was admitting that he might need a babysitter when his daddy's away too.

It helped a bit that Tony was feeling just as sick and little, even if he refused to admit it until he wet his pants while sneezing.

emergency contact (ao3) - whumphoarder G, 4k

Summary: It’s not that James disliked his roommate, it’s just that they didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.

Or, in which fifteen-year-old college freshman Tony Stark needs a ride to the ER and James Rhodes is too responsible for his own good.

In the Company of Friends (ao3) - DarkestSight (Daylight) T, 6k

Summary: Tony wakes up feeling like crap and finds himself longing for the time he lived alone and it was a lot easier to get a simple cup of coffee.

i think he knows (ao3) - twenty3 tony/stephen T, 7k

Summary: “You’re going to be fine,” he repeated. “But I need to give you something that’s going to make you even sicker. Your body needs to purge the spores, so you’re going to get sick to your stomach. A lot. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but I swear to you, it’s going to get better. Do you understand?”

All Tony really understood was he was sick, and Stephen was going to help him.

He didn’t really need to know anything else.

“I trust you,” Tony replied.

Tony gets sick after a mission. Stephen takes care of him. Rhodey notices a few things.

it only hurts (when i breathe) (ao3) - Ocean_Born_Mary steve/tony T, 6k

Summary: Tony could see the mass of scar tissue built up around the reactor, could see the little pieces of shrapnel in his lungs, and he wondered, even now, how he was able to Not-Breathe so well with his heart and his ribs and his lungs all squished out of place.

Me through Him to You (ao3) - sahiya bucky/steve/tony T, 18k

Summary: “You’re sick, you need someone to look after you. This mission could take a couple of days, and I want you in one piece when I get home.”

Tony sighed. “Why do you care?”

Steve’s mouth twisted unhappily. “I hope that’s the fever talking.” He stepped closer. “When I get home,” he said, so quietly that Tony didn’t think even the nosiest of their nosy friends could hear it, “we’re going to talk, all right? Until then, please let Bucky look after you. Consider it me looking after you, through him.”

moderate to severe (ao3) - reona32 steve/tony G, 7k

Summary: Jarvis just thinks Sir would rest better in his own bed. It goes downhill from there.

of rescues and rashes (ao3) - Codee21 tony/stephen T, 2k

Summary: When Tony Stark-Strange doesn’t come home from an Avengers meeting one day, Stephen gets worried and decides to go after him.

Of course, what would a rescue mission be without a screaming toddler?

One of Those Days (ao3) - kerravon G, 21k

Summary: The arc reactor, despite being a technical marvel, is quite invasive. There have to be side effects to its presence in Tony's chest beyond the now-resolved Palladium poisoning. The team are about to find out just how debilitating it can be. This would be easier if Tony didn't feel the compulsion to hide the fact that he's sick. Misunderstandings all around, especially given Stark's reputation.

presenteeism (ao3) - Veldeia steve/tony T, 9k

Summary: Tony thinks piloting the armor remotely while letting the others believe he’s wearing it is a good plan, until he realizes he’s not hung over, but actually quite ill.

Steve thinks something’s off with Tony today, but he has no clue what that might be, and since Tony says he’s good to go, they’ll proceed with the mission anyway.

(Basically, that trope where Tony is sick but is too stubborn to admit it, with a slight twist. Fill for my Stony bingo prompt “armor”.)

shut up (ao3) - InkDippedFingertips tony/stephen G, 1k

Summary: Tony is sick and Stephen had his own way of handling him.

sick days (ao3) - aven_garde bucky/steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: Tony gets sick and Steve and Bucky take care of him. Cue worried cuteness.

thank god for natasha romanov (ao3) - roguewidow97 G, 1k

Summary: Tony gets a migraine before the Maria Stark Foundation Gala but tries to power through anyway. Natasha helps him when he can’t.

the arc ain’t all that (ao3) - MountainRose bucky/steve/tony G, 4k

Summary: Tony doesn’t know why they make such a fuss.

the new (new) normal (ao3) - copperbadge steve/tony T, 9k

Summary: Tony has a thing about germs. Steve understands it a lot better after seeing him sick. Though he could still use some help understanding why he’s so annoyed that Rhodey’s the one who got to bring Tony soup….

the tchotchke cha cha (ao3) - Arukou steve/tony T, 7k

Summary: What started off as one impulse buy souvenir snowballs into a constant flow of knickknacks from all over the world, and Steve is starting to wonder if it’s more than just Tony being nice.

urgent matters only (ao3) - humanveil tony/stephen T, 1k

Summary: “The internet says he’s dying,” Peter says, glancing at his phone screen and skimming the search results. “Something about ca—”

“I’m not dying,” Tony interjects, cutting Peter off before he can finish. “It’s just a headache.” He sits up, sends a glare toward the kid. “This is why you’re banned from Google.”

you’re not dying (ao3) - tonystarkssnipples steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: Steve comes home and finds a sick Tony curled up in bed.

[midwestbramble]

Anemone Folklore

Anemone spp.

Ruled by ♂

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Contents:

Overview

Folklore

Uses in Witchcraft

Safety Notes

Conclusion

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Overview

Anemone quinqufolia (the wood anemone) is native to Europe and has many closely related cousins in the Americas. These flowers are also known as “windflower.” One of the earliest plants here, flowering May through August, and smallest of the woodland anemones with flowering stems growing to only about nine inches tall. A basal leaf develops after flowering in the spring and the outer leaves being so deeply cut that the casual observer may think it’s a five parted leaf instead. Each stem has a single flower on top with four to nine white to purplish sepals, having no true petals. The sepals are narrow ovals surrounding a knob covered in stamens and pistils.

A common variation found in North America, Anemone canadensis, flowers a few weeks later and grows up to two feet tall. It prefers moist soil appearing in thickets and open areas. Leaf bracts part way up the stem and are without petioles, unlike the wood anemone. The solitary flower is white and sometimes tipped pink or lavender. It also has no true petals, and the sepals measure 1 1/2 inches across whereas the wood anemone is only 1 inch. This makes this anemone look more cup-like than the star shaped flowers of the wood anemone.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Folklore

-The Death of Adonis-

In the tenth book of Metamorphosis, Ovid recounts the tale of Adonis’ death. in the tale, any time Adonis is not spending in the underworld with his adoptive mother, Persephone, he is spending with Aphrodite and the two are thought to be madly in love. One day, Adonis is pierced by the tusk of a boar he is hunting. Aphrodite, hearing his moans, rushes to his side to try to help. Unfortunately, she is too late and through her grief she creates a flower from his blood, the anemone.

-First of the Year-

According to The Folk-Lore of Plants, the Romans believed the first anemone of the year was helpful to prevent fevers if gathered while saying “I gather thee for a remedy against disease.” Recorded along with this information is the English ballad originating from this idea: “the first spring-blown anemone she is in his doublet wove,/ To keep him safe from pestilence wherever she should rove.”

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Uses in Witchcraft

Anemone is a wonderful plant to use to protect those you love from harm. Make a charm bag to put in their pocket, sew into the hem of their clothing, or add to dressed candles for workings to that aim. May also make a good offering for the ancestors.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Safety Notes

Wood anemone (the species mostly found in the wild here in North America) has a chemical that can severely irritate the skin, stomach, and intestines. Do not take by mouth or try to make salves or oils with it.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Conclusion

Even the smallest of flowers may be helpful in certain situations. Anemone's simple beauty can hold so much meaning in the right contexts. How will you work with this plant?

References:

Wood Anemone on WebMD

Images

Title image made on Canva

Death of Adonis (1684–1686) by Luca Giordano.

[wanderingthedesertalone]

Corona Alone a Diary Revisited: An American’s Experience of the Covid Lockdown in Mumbai 

Lockdown In Retrospect

Mediocre Graces: In any case, by the end of the Pandemic, I had somewhat been restored to good graces, not that I was ever greeted in Anand Nagar(8) at least with the Atithi Devo Bhava(11) spirit, I got on the good side of the local gang and befriended a Muslim woman who sells fish in a roadside stall, but it was too late, lonesomeness and faithlessness in humanity had grabbed a hold of me. Sadly, I am no longer able to speak to the fish merchant. She married, her husband is conservative and doesn’t allow her to speak to men.

On Lonesomeness: It’s worth noting that many endured the Corona epidemic in complete isolation. According to The Wall Street Journal, 35.7 million Americans, including myself, lived alone (Byron) around the time of writing the first journal entry. However, not just did I live alone, I was an expat, I lived alone in Mumbai, India. Regardless of the negative stigma that goes along with living alone, solitude never bothered me, in fact, ever since I was divorced, in 2012, I’ve preferred to be alone. Besides, I could always grab a cup of coffee and talk to strangers, I have the gift of gab when needed, but the double-whammy of isolation and becoming a pariah had pushed me to the brink of insanity. I’ve come to believe that those things that don’t kill us make us weaker and since the Covid outbreak I’ve become impatient, nervous and have lost faith in humanity, as I’ve already said.

Too Much Fluff: In all, the NPR article is woefully misguided and simply tried to make a buck off of Covid lockdowns, like so many other news outlets were doing at the time. A better story would’ve been on those who live alone before the Pandemic, whether for reason of mental health, a willful solitude or social ineptitude, that chronicled each persons’ descent into madness; I despise fluff journalism, maybe because it reminds me of the way that Bollywood paints India as an endless serene landscape of humorous follies in love that can easily be overcome when it’s something else all together, not easily, or that I would like to, put into words. This isn’t just fluff, there’s comedy for sure, there’s humor in all tragedy but there’s a reason for sharing the gritty details of lockdown in India, I feel it’s important to share these stories lest we live them again! In the past year, I’ve filled 6 volumes with recollections of lockdown, I hoped to get them published by a newspaper, that failed.

Diary Excerpts and Commentary

A Note to the Reader: The following excerpts are from the journal of an expat living in Mumbai (recorded between Feb 2019 and Feb 2021), during Covid lockdown(1). Dates have been replaced with titles because, unless indicated in commentary or prose, they’re irrelevant:

It Begins: There’s a few cases of Covid in China and other places but I’m not too worried, this will have as much effect on me as the 2003 SARS outbreak(6), there’ve been many such scares in my lifetime. Besides, I caught the virus from a wedding party in Sri Lanka, it was like the Flu, high fever, mild delirium and a little trouble breathing. Interesting thing about Sri Lanka, all of the land and wealth seems to be in the hands’ of the Nords, the locals have very little and the price of food is like that of America or Europe. Also, airport authorities took a child’s Queen Conch shell away right before boarding, she was clearly enamored by her seemingly magical wave machine. After they took it from her, she cried all the way back to Mumbai.

The Flasher: A few Covid cases have been confirmed and I’m beginning to feel like an unwelcome guest in a foreign land, an unusual notion in a land where the locals say “Atithi Devo Bhava(11).” Typically, Indians are hospitable, on my travels to the South they were, of course, taxi drivers tried to scam me there, but cabbies the world over are a special breed of scum, you should’ve seen the way they took me to the wringer in Hong Kong, hospitality is a source of national pride here. This afternoon, there was a knock on the door, it was my landlord. I found myself baffled by what he said. I opened the door and he began to speak, timidly and slowly in broken English: “there’s been a complaint,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “A man is walking around outside naked.” “Oh, I see. Thanks for informing me,” I said and shut the door, believing that he was telling me of a dangerous predator lurking among this slum’s numerous tightly knit alleys at night. Later, I came to find that the landlord was attempting to tell me that the neighbors had accused me of going on moonlit strolls in the buff, I was the predator. I was shocked and enraged when I found that I was, according to gossip, a flasher, but consoled myself by telling myself that none of this is the landlord’s fault, he just wants to prevent other tenants from rioting. People are scared and looking to point a finger at an invisible assailant. This will be forgotten quickly and my name restored, I guess it’s not contradictory to be both hospitable and two-faced. Why do I care about my reputation in a slum? I don’t want any trouble.

Last Days of Freedom: Worry has set in, even chain restaurants no longer accept cash, not from me at least, I tried to buy something to eat with good ol’ paper money at McDonald’s and they refused to serve me. Worse luck, as the Chinese say. I’m working on a project here and I’m paid in cash, so credit isn’t something I have access to. This doesn’t just affect me, a large portion of the population is paid, untaxed of course, in cash and most likely doesn’t have a bank account. Also, everywhere I go my temperature is taken.

Days of Optimism: Lockdown began, I went to get groceries for the 2 days that we are told we must shelter in place and plan to go to bed early. There was hoarding and ransacking of shelves at the local grocer, but I’m sure that it’s just hysteria and this whole thing will end soon. Another interesting thing happened at the store today, two women got in a fight over the last box of cookies, the first woman, a pudgy mother with a bad attitude towards everyone that I had had the bad luck of having a few encounters with before, used to admonish me saying “smoking is a bad addiction,” I wagged my finger and said “sugar is a bad addiction,” laughing my way out of the store. It was the first time I’ve laughed in days, I’ve been in a daze, everything is quickly changing and feels so dire. The fowl woman, she lost the battle and the box of cookies. A word about change, I’m often told that nothing changes in this little hamlet and I believe it. It’s hyperbole, things change here, but slowly, there’s digital gadgets for sale, but there are also oxcarts that sell food and other remnants of the past. It’s not that nothing changes, It’s that time seems to go by slower here, like the locals heartbeat at a slower pace. I always feel rushed but they take as much time as the seasons.

Two Days In: The two days passed, but lockdown continues, the food I bought didn’t last. Even worse, I wasn’t informed that lockdown part 2 had begun without the first installment ending, I slept through the grocery shopping time, 6AM. I snuck out for an evening walk despite lockdown, 2 interesting things happened on my covert walk, I saw many others outside as well, they all spoke of the cow that wandered into the open air temple that’s adjacent to my apartment complex, some are feeding here, even the Muslims, having taken up many of the folk traditions of the Hindus they live among, agree that a sickly heifer wandering into the temple is a good omen, the other interesting thing, The Green Eyed Lady (an Indian with green eyes) made me some Khichdi(24). There were also Chinese in Haiden, Beijing, a district home to many Russians, who have green eyes. Isn’t genetic splendid? In any case, the woman asked me if I had eaten, usually more of a salutation than invitation here, I said “no,” so she brought me a bite to eat. The food supposedly heals the sick.

Big Changes in a Little Town: Since implementation of the Janata(5) Curfew, many continue to sit along alleys in large groups or participate in sports, not wearing masks(4). Yet, as I walk enroute to purchase groceries, these intrepid individuals say “here comes Corona” and cover their faces with their dupatta(7) or a handkerchief. This change of attitude towards me is, although slight, I’ve always had my fans and detractors here, is palpable. Maybe it’s just my nerves. Before lockdown, I sometimes played Teen Patti(19) with neighbors at least, never understood the rules though. Anyway, the shelter-in-place decree will be lifted on Passover, this must be a good omen, not that I sincerely believe in such things, I think to myself and reiterate my resolution to weather the storm in Mumbai. One concern about the transmission of Covid, Indians don’t have a sense of proximity, they always crowd.

One Good Deed: The endless bad news has left me exhausted. A few thoughts before bed, having lived in other parts of Asia and meeting many people from Europe, India is like America in one way, heterogeneity. It’s a type of melting pot, not a melting pot of strangers from far off lands but a mixture of old kingdoms, who have their own languages and cultures, forced under one, possibly too small, umbrella. Adding it up, Indian society, due to its long history, caste system and numerous religions is exceedingly complex, for example Muslims created the first free public institutes of higher learning, yet in some regards they’re treated like would-be separatists (Khurshid). Thinking about the day’s event, I sit on the small broken cot that’s my bed, I have to get this fixed soon, it’s interesting, the cost of handwork is very cheap here, in the US, anything that artisan might do is expensive and it’s more cost effective just to throw the old away. I’m reminded of this Chinese woman I met in Beijing, she told me “I’m not Han(23).” “Interesting, which ethnic group do you belong to?” “I’m Miao.” “Is there anything unique about the Miao?” “We don’t eat dogs. All Chinese people are the same, we are one people, the only difference between Han and Miao is that we don’t eat dogs.” I was teaching adult English at the time for extra income. India is more like America than China or Europe, diversity is endless.

Anand Nagar Has a New Song: The decree wasn’t lifted. Another day, thousands more Covid cases and locals have begun to shout “go home Corona!” Despite the taunts, I’m staying where I am. I don’t have much of a choice, there aren’t any flights anyway, the airports, in a panic, have shut down, everything, with a mere 2 day warning, has come to a grinding halt. I guess this isn’t merely more sensational media. Besides, the situation is becoming bleaker in the US and airports are havens for communicable diseases, they pack people in, from all over the world, like sardines. Have you ever seen the projected distribution of an epidemic? It all starts with airports. Resolute that this virus will blow over, I buckle down for the Summer of Corona in India.

Foreigners Have it Too: Nothing good has come from lockdowns so far, it has fostered hysteria, mob mentality, greed and anti-foreigner sentiment. This “City of Dreams,” has become a nightmare! The nation has fallen into the clutches of fear of contracting the virus from a foreign national. Hysteria, I tell you! I only hope that this all ends soon. Despite an anti-foreigner hysteria, according to The World Health Organization there are a total of 1637 people infected by Covid-19, a mere 49 of which are aliens(3) (The WHO). Yet, the locals blame it all on Tablighi Jamaat(13)(BBC), why not? Trump is calling this outbreak “The China Virus.” The borders have closed, looks like I’m staying here for a while, I didn’t plan on leaving anyway. Besides, there’s talk of easing restrictions. Back to the human condition, I had always been considered an outsider here, I had always been greeted with mocking and mistrust, to some degree, but there were those who accepted me. The first day I arrived the children called me names and adults mimicked the way I speak with derisive tones and gestures, I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery? I despise epigrams, I really do.

Nostalgia for Slightly Better Days: Before lockdown, there was a woman with a fish tattoo on her arm who often invited me to play cards but I shied away from her after neighbors had told me that she “accuses people of rape to blackmail them for money.” I don’t usually listen to gossip but wanted to play it safe. Other than that, I was at least invited to weddings, funerals and dances during the Graba(22) celebration. Funny story, the first year I refused to dance, a man jokingly told me that if I dance with a girl I have to marry her. I didn’t actually believe him, I’m not that gullible, I’m just not fond of Indian music. Back to the present, it’s not the time for nostalgia, although I can’t think of a better pastime right now, maybe if foreigners in India practice social distancing, unlike the locals, they won’t catch the virus and the stigma will dissolve. The other night I went for a walk just to break the monotony of watching time go by and hoping the world would heal. This morning, I was again accused of perverse behaviors by my landlord. I wasn't walking the alleyways naked, but I am being watched. On the walk, locals barred the alley and told me “no foreigners allowed.” Yet, they daily gather to play Cricket while sentinels watch for cops so that they can quickly disperse.

There’ Gestapos In This Movie Too: I guess I should mention something good too. Lockdown has caused a sort of hush here and now daily I can hear the sound of an infant being bathed through the one tiny window my studio apartment has. Through the 4 foot square aperture I can hear the infant laughing as warm water rushes over it. I now hope that things will return to the way they were before, just subpar not “holy crap the world is on fire and we are all going to die!” A combination of police and concerned citizens, working with the police, now stand along the main road with bamboo canes in hand. They remind me of stories my grandfather told of the Gestapo. Both are poised for violence. The police, they resound the sentiment of the concerned citizens, ridicule the foreigner. Now, I usually get an escort, something that is only afforded to me, to stop “roaming” as I go to get essentials. There are now dots painted on the sidewalk, we are supposed to stand on them to ensure social distancing, the locals don’t obey this. If I do the same, I’m informed, thwack would go the cane. I’ve begun to see in black and white, not metaphorically but literally, I feel as though I’m watching a movie about a distant authoritarian time. The brutalist architecture(24) is reminiscent of Russia and North Korea, it doesn’t take much imagination for the arabesque attributes to obscure. I haven’t slept much.

Building a Wall: This hamlet is bluffed by a river by a river on one side with a small foot bridge for crossing into Neilam Nagar. The police have blockaded the entrance to the crossing and are building a wall to, I believe, keep the several hundred thousand impoverished residence of this hamlet trapped like mice on a sinking ship. I truly fear the wall, perhaps it’s because of my education, having been forced to read the line ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall(20),’ throughout school, it’s almost a national anthem. Walls and golf courses have always seemed as despicable things to me. Neither the rich nor the influential politicians are suffering the same as we are in the slums. They play golf in their gated communities…

The First Stone Tossed: As the situation in India worsens, so do the jeering. Now, a few individuals throw rocks at me, a tactic usually reserved for thwarting the region’s menacing wild dogs, as I venture into the ever more dangerous streets at the permitted time, 6AM, to get essentials, in an attempt to diffuse their frustrations over the region’s spreading epidemic. Yet, returning to the political quagmire that is America keeps me hopeful that sheltering in Mumbai will become easier. Rocks tossed or not, I’m staying in place. Oddly, despite not eating much, I’m gaining weight, it must be stress. Supplies have run thin, some are hoarding and there’s talk of a 2 week prohibition on supply trucks entering Anand Nagar.

Insomnia: Depression has set in and money has mostly ran out. Immediately before lockdown, I was given a promotion but as of yesterday, the company I worked for has permanently shut their doors. I’ve just now realized that I haven’t left my house, let alone gotten out of the broken cot for days. I look at the clock, it’s 5:50 AM, the allotted time for shopping. Getting groceries at dawn isn’t a matter of waking at dawn; I haven’t slept in days either, just sat on this cot watching time go by. Insomnia is starting to take a toll, I’m beginning to hallucinate, time has lost all meaning, at times days go by in minutes yet other times, minutes last for a small eternity. It has been days since I’ve had a face to face conversation with another human.

Home Invaders: Somewhat dazed, I sit on my bed contemplating the meaninglessness of time when there’s nothing to do. Jolted from my daydream-like state, there’s a pounding sound on the door. The sound is getting louder. I hear shouting. The words come into focus, “foreigner, we’re coming in! We’re breaking the door down,” says the unfamiliar voices. I spring to my feet and bolt the door. The pounding becomes more and more rapid and fear takes a hold of me. But then I hear a familiar voice, the voice of my neighbor, she shouts something in Marathi and the marauders leave. I fall into a sleep and don’t wake for 2 days. Food was cut off for 2 weeks, I had to get a bite to eat from the Hanuman Mandir(18). They handed out plates of rice and lentils.

Vigilantes: Days go by and panic worsens among residents of this Mumbai chawl(8). Due to rising fears, vigilantes begin to safeguard the streets from “roaming.” These sentinels attempt to impose restrictions of their own device on me: they inform me that I am not permitted to walk along certain roads because they are afraid that I carry the virus, this happened once before on a late night walk but now it’s the norm, although I’m merely in search of a store to buy necessities and wearing a mask. In the end, these vigilantes won’t cause a reduction in hanging out on the street, this I know, but a few of this slum’s inhabitants get to feel empowered because they are the new sheriff in town. I guess we all need a whipping-post and there’s good among the wicked, a local temple and a few individuals are handing out grains to the needy. We are all needy here. At this point, the lockdown has gone on for months.

The New sheriffs in Town: Currently, there’s two police along Mumbai’s backstreets, those who were given authority by the Mumbai Municipal Corporation (MNC) and vigilantes. Feeling harassed and completely rejected by society, loneliness takes hold of me, I begin to search for a way out of this “city of dreams,” maybe returning home while a buffoonish leader (Trump) who makes a mockery of the US isn’t so bad, I think to myself. All things considered, it’s nearly impossible to abide by laws set by both the government and a hysteric mob anyway.

No Payment Until April: At least I have a roof over my head, I think to myself, an article in Aljazeera, Foreign Tourists Face Hostility in India Amid Coronavirus Panic informs that an Israeli woman was evicted from her home in Goa due to locals fear of contracting COVID-19 and others were forced out of their hotel (Purohit), I can go a day without milk, but not without a bed, not to mention, the police had recently found tourists living in a cave because they are trapped in India and have ran out of money (NBC). I haven’t yet been evicted, but am also out of funds and live under constant threat of eviction. Rent payment is suspended until April (Delhi High Court). I lay on my broken cot, I will try to get it fixed on the black market, and continue to doom-scroll taking note of the day’s death tally and searching for any sign of things getting better. Passover has passed but Covid hasn’t.

Nobody Goes Home for That Price: I do some research and come to find that the US Department of State is offering “repatriation flights,” these flights carry a $2000 price tag (a promissory note for the aforementioned amount must be signed before boarding the plane) and a random port of arrival is where I’ll end up if I choose to return home through the ever so benevolent government, how can anyone pay this price during a Pandemic (this thing has been upgraded to a Pandemic, how lovely words are). Upon arriving at this port, the returning expat must find their way home through barricades and the threat of being infected by Corona (Genter). I harden my heart and again resolve to weather the storm in Mumbai. Besides, if the promissory note isn’t paid, I will be banned from international travel. I’m a Digital Nomad. I travel, work at an incredibly low rate and can only afford to survive in developing countries.

August’s Heat: The death toll jets upward and 75 degree angle, it’s updated daily. While bombarded with an endless stream of bad news, jeering has morphed into threats of violence, sleep is still a rare occurrence, heat rash has caused the parts of my body covered by clothing to become as freckled as Little Orphan Annie, I’m as poor to boot, my field of vision is filled sprawling geometric patterns and my temper is quick.

Worse Than the Daughters of Temperance: As the situation thickens, stores begin to deny me service. A shopkeeper refuses to sell me certain items that are in stock and we aren’t barred from sale, I have just been informed that liquor and tobacco have become contraband. The more than nagging need to satiate addictions during lockdown aside, this proprietor allows Indian nationals to purchase products, but denies me the same goods. He’d have me starve to death! I, like all outsiders, have become the face of a faceless virus that has ruined lives, in fact “Muslims were initially blamed for the spread of infection (Siddiqui),” a group that is no less a part of India than Sikhs(10), yet, like Jews anywhere in the world, are perpetual outsiders. All things considered, this is mass hysteria! Nobody I know has died from Covid yet. A sampling error? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I sit in my room without a breeze (I don’t have A/C) and ponder what society has come to, Freud’s mob mentality.

They’re Trying to Starve Me Out: That shopkeeper has changed his mind, I returned to him to buy groceries but he yelled “go away foreigner white face.” He then insisted that a clerk not give me an old box, although I was carrying a heavy load and had no tote. The hypocrisy of people here is an in the face classism, a rule for me and a rule for them. The Covid cases are increasing exponentially! So are my headaches. They’re not headaches as much as a feeling that every nerve ending in my body is being prodded with a needle and the inside of my brain shrinking. Now, I sit at home alone, the rats scurry across the floor, the heat comes in waves, time stands still and there’s nothing to laugh about, Covid cases are in the hundred thousands and the death toll is staggering as well.

Befriending the Gang: August’s heat, insomnia, constant dread and lack of nutrition are getting to me, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. Even local pharmacists have begun to convey a fear of me and insist that I have a cough when I go in to ask for something for heat rash. Unlike the grocers, the pharmacists sell me goods, but with great hesitation and suspicion in regards to my presence in this chawl. Finding tobacco is now the chief task of every day. It’s sold on the black market, along with chocolate, alcohol and meat, at exorbitant prices. So, like a heroin addict, I slink up to a back alley leant-to and buy a pack of smokes. It’s just like buying illicit drugs: there’s an obligatory period of making small-talk, ambiguity over whether or not the man actually has tobacco, razzing, phone calls and scurrying about to find it. In the end, I walk away with cigarettes at European prices and a dirty feeling.

Suicide Among Death: Lockdown continues and most in this chawl have lost morale. The neighbor sent her son over to tinker on my electric piano. She told me of what has been dubbed The Flower House Girl. A young woman hung herself from rafters due to endless confinement to her home and the bleak picture of tomorrow that the daily news paints. What a shame! I had wondered what the fire department was doing on the main street. They took her out of the third story window with the truck’s ladder.

Another Year Another Onion: Did I mention it’s a New Year? I didn’t even notice that the year had changed, the date passed unceremoniously and with festivities. Again, the police have rebuilt the wall that surrounds this chawl, tightening the perimeter, I’m not sure if it’s to keep Covid out or us in. In any case, food has scarcely made it through the makeshift wall and news is that food supplies will be cut off for 2 weeks, again. In any case, that which makes it in is mostly sequestered by the gangs, anyhow. It’s that I’ve got the most onions mentality(12). Despite rarely eating, I continue to gain weight. Speaking of onions, there are now over nine million confirmed Covid cases and farmers are protesting the price gouging of seeds, stating that “We are the ones who have provided food, milk, vegetables when the whole country was in lockdown, we were still toiling in the fields. It is the government” not gathering in New Delhi “that has put us at risk by introducing these laws during Covid (Hollingsworth et al).” My heart is with these brave men and women and if I had the strength I would be beside them. All things considered, despite the news and friends’ proclamations that a new year brings new hope, this may be an onion of a year too.

The Walls Close In: Yet again, the police have reduced the circumference of the wall. I feel claustrophobic or like I’m slowly, very slowly drowning. I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come. I hear the rats fight over the last morsels of food in this chawl, when I wake, there’s inevitably a rodent corpse on the footpath in the ally that leads to my house. Food has been cut off for 2 weeks. I gave the last of my supplies to a family, in total it amounted to a pound of rice and a pound of lentils. Now, the cot is less of a fishing net with big holes and more of an empty frame. I lay on the floor instead, will I be able to get somebody to fix it, I don’t know. I have to get my family to send money first.

An Altercation: We are now allowed an evening walk, so I venture out to the usual chants, a ragtag team of would-be thugs follow me. A wave of exhaustion washes over me and my pace slows to a crawl in front of the BJP(14) Office. As I cross in front of the office, beneath the flag, a scrawny slum-bastard walk up and says “are you British?” “I’m American,” I reply. “I hear they call you Hari(15).” I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks. “What of it?” “More like Harry Potter.” “I guess that’s funny,” I say and try to walk away, but he grabs me by the collar and takes a swing, he misses. I return the blow, my fist makes contact with his face. My heart is racing. I fear an all out retaliation when, like roaches from beneath rot-wood, members of the local gang emerge from the alleys and come to my aid. I had been buying tobacco from them, at highway robbery prices for weeks, and so it’s in their interest to act as my vigilante guardians, in some regards, the gangs are better than the police, or at least their corruption and self service is laid out on the table for all to see, where the cops are supposed to protect and serve, protecting and serving often isn’t the case here, it comes down to ethnic and caste schisms.

Two Deaths and a Ghost: It’s another day and the death toll has spiked again. Feeling that I escaped death and death being the only thing the news reports on I begin to wonder, had I been killed by a mob, would my death have been reported as a Covid death? Is the death toll real? There’s a little hospital in this chawl, it’s certainly not inundated with the dying and morticians don’t walk the streets singing “bring out your dead,” as they did during the Black Plague of 1665. In fact, of the 3 who purportedly died in Anand Nagar, one was an elderly with Emphysema, the other was a suicide and the last one, I saw him walking down the street the other day, risen from the grave as by some Covid era miracle. Truth be told, he had gone back to his family home and returned. Not an easy task, much like during the Holocaust, traveling papers are required to go anywhere, there’s not even any trains, minus a few for displaced workers. A combination of lack of food, a growing mistrust of the government’s intention with regards to lockdown and dire times brings these lyrics to mind: My wife fixed up a tater stew/ We poured the kids full of it/ Mighty thin stew, though/ You could read a magazine right through it. Always have figured/ That if it’d been just a little bit thinner, Some of these here politicians/ Coulda seen through it(21).

Are the politicians duped or am I? What about herd immunity? I feel like I’m living in the Dust Bowl, except there’s no storm of dust and the sky isn’t black. The enemy is invisible. Or, am I the enemy? So much for relativism.

Police and Indians: On another outing, again attempting to purchase essentials, those things that whether for sustenance or pleasure, an invisible hand has decided that I may indulge in, I find that even local authorities seem misinformed about the number of foreign nationals in India with Covid. Recently, police stopped me for questioning and informed me that “foreigners are the cause of Corona Virus.” After looking for a quarantine stamp on my hands several times and not finding one they insisted that I run back home and followed me on motorcycles. This was witnessed by several locals who cheered the police on. As the police resounded sentiments of this chawl’s inhabitants, it reinforced negative feelings. I didn’t eat that night. The days following the police harassment, locals continued jeering me by saying “the police will come and hit you,” while mimicking the thwack of a cane on their posterior. Not just are they misinformed, they’d like to see me hung.

Read the Sign: In case you feel incredulous in regards to my claims about placing a stamp on the hands of foreigners and the police’s blindingly Orwellian allegiance to the BJP, the party who blamed Covid on Muslims and foreigners, The National Library of Medicine has this to say about it: tourists who arrived in India from affected countries were put in quarantine for 14 days in their port of arrival, their “left hand was stamped with ink” to maintain the date and time of their home quarantine, “a move that could risk assault, due to stigma towards Covid suspects [foreigners].” Individuals violating the quarantine can be penalized via Indian penal code Section 188, 269 and 270 (Siddiqui). The police, like the locals, are looking for a whipping-post and have a draconian view about foreign nationals in India during this crisis, what a hoot it would be to cane them. Bollywood is no “City of Dreams,” in fact, misinformation abounds here, signs, obviously posted by Conservative and nationalistic Hindu Vegans, reads as so: ‘Ways to avoid Covid/ Don’t eat meat/ Don’t smoke/ Don’t talk to foreigners.’ I no longer see the good that I jotted down in an earlier journal entry. Also, tired of the word “misinformation,” not sure who gets to decide what’s misinformation, although I myself used it in this entry, just tired: days crawl by and the feeling of isolation causes a pressure on my cranium and a meaninglessness to all things.

Mending a Bed: Despite having become a pariah, I was able to get the cot fixed, for a small fee, a tailor was willing to come over, and work against the law, they despise me, but like money enough to look past it. The work doesn’t look great, it’s rigged. Most everything here is rigged. I’m never sure if this is the ingenuity of a race of impoverished people or the result of an attitude that declares good enough is good. In the end, most everything is a hodgepodge of corrugated steel, broken bits of wood and rope with exposed electrical wires that run through water and the elements in general. I’ve always said, if the manpower here became a collected force and decided to stop pollution, get the rivers clean, enforce something like an ADA, demand fair housing they would be an unstoppable force. Instead, they divide themselves along ethnic schisms.

A Pickpocket: Food has returned to the stores and shopkeepers are serving me, but I was pickpocketed at the register. I took my wallet out to pay, right before my eyes a man reached in my wallet and took a 500 out, it was the last of the money I had. I came home empty handed. For the first time since my divorce, I broke down and cried. Now I sit wiping my eyes. Is all hope for humanity lost? I cannot answer. Besides Covid, there’s so much political turmoil! It looks as though there won’t be a smooth transition of power this time.

What I’ve Learned From the Steppenwolf: I’m concerned for the nation’s migrant workers, other visiting foreign nationals and those who descend from Mizoram and Assam, these individuals may be more prone to the psychological effects of loneliness than myself. Culturally, Indian life centers around an extended family, whereas I’m more akin to Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf. All in all, it’s tough to live overseas in the best case scenario and down-right depressing when you’ve become public enemy number one. But, as I said, I have a tough enough skin to survive this, but there are those who’ve been cannibalized by their own society. Anyway, lockdown should end in 3 weeks, the infection rate is on the decline. We are now aloud out in the evenings and I have taken to sitting with friends in front of the Rukhmini(16) Temple. It’s like the opening line of a joke, a Jew, a Muslim and a Hindu… Among us, there’s a Muslim, a Jew, a Christian and a Hindu priest. All in all, I need them not, but it’s nice to have some companionship, even if there’s little communication. I have returned to good graces.

Family Matters: Although I feel alone, I’m not jealous of India’s family structure. Locals often ask me about my family, casual things like “how is your mother?” “I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with my family very much,” I respond. It’s a matter of privacy and staying out of gossip. Here, grown men never grow up, they are fed and coddled by their mothers. I had recently met a man who can’t cook for himself, nor wash his own clothes and still occasionally sleeps in bed with his mother. Speaking of men, spouse abuse, along with drinking, is on the rise. It’s not uncommon to see and hear it. Too often, after dark, I witness, when I sneak out for a walk to break the munatiny, men hitting women by the open air temple that my house is adjacent to. Speaking of temples, Hanukkah recently passed. I lit a makeshift menorah, but even that gave me little joy. As for now, the best thing is drinking chai by the little Rukmini temple.

Down With the Wall: The wall has come down! Lockdown isn’t over, but the wall has come down. Alas, air travel has returned, the government has announced “air bubbles” and I’m returning to America. After everything, I was never again treated as more than a second-class citizen in that chawl but it matters not, I’m leaving! In the end, the locals’ reaction to me and the psychological impact of the loneliness, their words and actions heave upon me, have caused deep scars. On a more disappointing note, all local newspapers have declined to publish my recollections of lockdown. An earnest question, were we fed false dichotomies, ones that stated wear a mask or everyone dies and get the vaccine or everyone dies, just for some political experiment or agenda? It’s just odd that after the farmers protested the Covid number began to decrease.

Integrity Intact

No Amnesty for the Wicked: One might say, you’ve survived the worst, why bring this up at all? Isn’t it time for amnesty? I feel the answers to this was best put into words in the video Pandemic Amnesty: Do you Forgive and Forget and so I will summarize what the author said, “there were things that happened that there needs to be a recognition of, and there needs to be a public apology. There needs to be a promise that this never happens again. There needs to be people who actually pay for their behavior, potentially criminal behavior. […] Until the people who did harm admit that they did harm this kind of thing will just keep repeating itself. […] Some people were victims, other people were perpetrators, and then there [were] also enablers (Wand).” For instance, The Deccan Herald reports that there have been “attacks on people from India’s northeastern region […], suspecting them of being carriers of the virus.” Assaulting your own people is like cannibalism, that’s all there is to it! As it was written in the newspaper, apart from being called “Corona” or “Chinki(9)” India’s [Asiatic] people were spat on and forcibly quarantined, despite showing no Covid symptoms, all because of their looks and an ignorant fear that anyone who looks different are the root cause of the Pandemic. Also, they were denied entry into their apartment complexes, evicted, merely threatened with eviction or forced out of restaurants to make others comfortable and none wanted to share transport with them (Karmakar). Of all things, it’s not time for amnesty.

Ignorance isn’t an Excuse: There needs to be punishment for these wicked deeds! There’ll be no retribution for foreigners who suffered in India, but locals, those from minority communities, who had just days before lockdown been upstanding citizens, deserve retribution and possibly reparations. There those who died from the virus and those who died at the selfishness and ignorance of mankind, for those who died by the hand of man have this to say: “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time ( Elie Wiesel).” Ignorance, for good reason, has never been, nor shall it be an excuse for breaking laws and committing atrocities. The Atlantic is wrong in their assertion that we should just forgive and forget (Oster). Perhaps, in the name of healing, it’s time to forgive, but should never forget!

A Clear Conscience: During The Covid Outbreak, I may have lost my mind, found myself in complete isolation and on the brink of starvation at times, but at least I kept my dignity. I threw no stones and attempted to obey the laws, even those that actively brought hardship into my life. I defended myself when needed, I live by the adage “walk gently and carry a big stick.” As for the war of the ethnicities in India, I guess it’s none of my business, alone, I can’t defend the minorities. And in regards to retribution for the wicked, my hands are also tied. However, I won’t give amnesty, not in my heart. Forgetting and moving on, as Oster’s article suggests (Oster) is, to reiterate, akin to allowing the cycle to repeat again. In the end, my travels have provided me with armor to protect against cabin fever, I’ve endured hardships and loneliness in remote villages of Nepal and have been “the stranger” in the metropolitans of Hong Kong, Bangladesh… But there are those among the Indians whose identity and self-worth come from a tightly knit family and friend structure, many of which took their own lives due to isolation. Others starved to death because of lack of income and others died due to the rejection of medical services. Luckily, I was not immune to the effects of isolation, but well insulated from the threat of Corona by a chawl that exists off the radar and societies’ fear of foreigners, local inhabitants keep me at arm’s length and so, I didn’t catch the virus during lockdown.

Notes

1: The views herein are not the of WTDA but the author. At WTDA we publish a variety of news, depending on what we deem to be an interesting story at the moment.

2: At the time of writing, Covid hadn’t yet been declared a Pandemic.

3: Citation no longer available at The World Health Organization.

4: The author of this journal wants it to be known that they don’t, nor did they ever, believe that masks are/were an effective way of preventing Covid-19 but were forced to wear a face covering by Indian law. At the time, they obeyed the law.

5: Public.

6: Hyped media, having no real effect on the life of the author.

7: A long scarf worn by Indian women.

8: The Marathi word for neighbourhood which is colloquially used to denote a slum.

9: North Indian slang for India’s Asiatic population.

10: A religion that combines attributes of Islam and Hinduism and originated in India.

11: Guests are G-D.

12: In 2019, due to flooding, there was an onion shortage. An entrepreneur had been hoarding onions. At the time, not only did he declare that “onions are the new gold” he purportedly sold the onions for 3 times the market value. To the author, it serves as a symbol of the selfish psychological state that caused some of the worst aspects of Covid lockdown.

13: A 3 day Islamic spiritual event in India’s capital hosted by a 100 years Islamic Missionary Movement. Due to the cases reaching over 300 after the event, the meme was coined: China is the “producers” of the virus, and Muslims are the “distributors.”

14: A political party, of which Prime Minister Narendra Modi is the leader of. Every neighborhood has a BJP office.

15: A common male name in India and regional pronunciation of the Anglo name Harry.

16: The primary wife of the Hindu G-D Krishna.

17: The name of the slum in which the writer lived during lockdown.

18: A temple in the slum in which the foreigner lived during lockdown. The temple is dedicated to the monkey G-D, a deity who helped Rama in the Hindu epic, the Ramayana.

19: A poker-like card game in which the players make melds with three cards.

20: Mending Wall by Robert Frost.

21: Talkin’ Dust Bowl Blues by Woodie Guthrie.

22: A dance form native to the west Indian state of Gujarat, performed in October to honour the Hindu Goddess Durga. It is also celebrated in Maharashtra. People gather on the streets, dancing in pairs of men and women where they rhythmically click sticks together.

23: The largest ethnic group in mainland China, about 91% of the population.

24: A South Indian dish made of rice and lentils. It’s a comfort food that’s supposed to aid in healing.

25: Brutalist architecture emerged during the 1950s in the United Kingdom, among the reconstruction projects of the post-war era.These buildings characterised by minimalism and bare building materials. They are commonly seen today in old Soviet Union countries and Central Asia, reminding many of totalitarianism.

[ao3feed-sambucky]

and if life is pain then i buried mine a long time ago (but its still alive)

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/cWMzYgO by yeehaw_my_beebaw “As he prepared the cups of coffee, there was some shuffling from the bedroom and a soft thump. Curiosity piqued, Sam poked his head into the room. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t his partner curled up on the floor, flesh hand pressed to his mouth as he choked on ragged breaths. ” or Bucky doesn’t know how to be a sick person and Sam is just trying his best. Now featuring nightmares and feverish delirium!! Words: 2242, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Captain America (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers (mentioned), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Helmut Zemo Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers (past) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick Character, Sick Bucky Barnes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Some Fluff, Fever, sicktember 2023, multiple prompts used, Delirium, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Feels, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, No Beta, Infection, Injury, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Whump, Sam Wilson is a Saint, sam wilson is just really great imo, I like hurting my comfort characters, it makes me happy, Literal Sleeping Together, Domestic Boyfriends, but angsty, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/cWMzYgO

[howieabel]

Vladimir Mayakovsky 1927

Good! (fragment, chapter 14)

Over those          whom  sleep eternal claimed that lean,          harsh winter                      spread                            a pall. What  are words!               Words                    are lame! On the Volga sores                  I refuse                          to dwell. Of a string of days                   I choose                           to speak, akin    to a thousand others,                         bleak, pushed on         by the years,                      oarsmen eager, not over-fat            nor               over-meagre. If ever       something of worth                         I wrote it was all         the  fault of a pair         of eyes-                  bottomless skies, my  beloved's eyes. Huge  they are, round, dark brown, with a speck            of hazel, coal-hot,        blazing. The  phone's gone                 stark-raving mad, an axe's        blunt edge                  striking the ear:                                   wham! Round  the huge brown  eyes -                             pads: hunger's        to blame. Doctor's orders: for the eyes            to be able to eye       the world,

heat the place, put greens          on the table. By their curly green tails -                            behold!- I'm holding           two  carrots                      crunchy. They're not           for my  stew: I'm taking them to my sweetheart,              for her                     to munch. Boxes of sweets               and flowers                          freely I handed  out,              but                 I recall that those carrots                  plus firewood                 (half a billet) were    the most precious                     gift                         of all. Thrust under my arm                   are damp pieces of wood:                    knobby sticks,              eyebrow-thick. Face puffy, eyes-splits: it's    malnutrition. Greens and care -                  eyes clear. Bigger than saucers,                   they eye                           the Revolution. Easier for me             than for most             (it's no boast!) Because I'm Mayakovsky.

I sit and chew a fresh piece of horse flesh. The door whines. My kid sister. "Hullo!" "Hullo!" "Volodya, listen, it's New Year's tomorrow. Got some salt             I could borrow?" "A pinch,         Wet  too. Here,     let's divide it in two." Wading  through  snow,                      fighting fear, with an        "Oh, dear,                  how'll I keep on my feet!" Olga  stumbles along the icy,        three-mile long                       Presnya Street. Home    to salt her potatoes                        she hastens. Frost     walks          beside her, grows fierce,             inches closer,      tickles             and  pinches. "Gimme it!          Isn't that salt                         you're hiding?" Home at last,             and didn't lose it. But how  use it? To  her fingers              it's frozen fast. Behind  the wall               shuffling feet. "Here,  wife,            we gotta eat. Trade  my  coat              for millet,                        will ye?" Look  through the pane- it's snowing again. The snow  falls, covering all. Soft its step,            yes,               and  light. Moscow's         a cliff,               bare                   and white. Snow lies         in banks                 and drifts. Of forests         the skeleton clings                           to the cliff. Daybreak.         Into the sky's thick shawl the sun,        a louse,               crawls. December's late dawn,                     worn out,                              shivery, hangs     over Moscow                like typhus fever. Storm  clouds vagrant to fat lands migrate. Wrapped  in haze, its chest sticking out,                    America  lies. What  is it doing? -                    Lapping up coffee      and cocoa               by  the cup. Into your face,               thick as the snout of a good-sized pig,          than a round tray rounder, from  this hungering land of ours                                I shout: My love       for my land                  is boundless!

You can forget             when                 and where you stuffed          your craw                   and your belly,                                  but the land        you hungered with                         you can never as long as you live and breathe                               forget!

[bippity-boppity-whump]

Whumpril Day 28 - Inexperienced Caretaker

When Sam is ill, Joaquin goes all out to help him. A little too much maybe.

Sam was going to have to make a note to not let Joaquin take care of him next time he’s ill. The kid couldn’t sit still for more than two minutes, constantly checking up on Sam to see if he needed anything or if he could do anything. 

All he had was the flu for god’s sake and the kid was acting like it’s the end of the world. 

Sam had spent two days in bed with a fever whilst being achy, sore and unable to breathe through his nose. Admittedly, the first two days were alright, Joaquin kept his water topped up and left him medication. He also cooked for him to save him the trouble but it all fell apart the moment Sam tried to do anything on his own. 

“What do you need? Water? A cup of herbal tea? Some soup?” Sam did a double take from the sofa. 

“Soup? What am I? Eighty years old? I have the flu, Joaquin. I’m not going to die.” Joaquin sighed as his shoulders dropped a little. 

“I know, I just don’t want you doing too much. You’ll make yourself feel worse, you know.” Sam chuckled. He had said the exact same thing to Joaquin when he was in recovery after Celestial Island. 

“So is that what this is about, revenge? For all the times I didn’t let you get up and do things?” Joaquin smirked in response. 

Sam remembered the kid trying to do anything and everything behind his back. He would come up with the worst excuses like how he wanted the window open when Sam was sure he just wanted to try walking on his own. 

“No, no, no- Okay, well maybe a little but you shouldn’t be cooking or doing anything heavy until you are feeling better. We need Captain America at his strongest.” Sam chuckled before a bad coughing fit took over. 

Joaquin rubbed his back as he sat up to get more breath in. 

“Can I get you anything? Do you want some medication-?” 

“Joaquin-” Joaquin turned away from him, reaching into the box of medications, tissues and other assorted bits he had put together. 

“Do you want a tissue-?”

“Joaquin-” Sam watched as he turned back again and grabbed at something else in the box. 

“What about some vapour rub on your chest-?” Sam grabbed Joaquin’s arm as his fingers were dipping into the pot to get some of the product. 

“Joaquin, I don’t need you to do anything, okay?” Joaquin withdrew his fingers from the pot. “All I need you to do right now is let me sleep, alright?” Joaquin nodded, replacing the lid on the tub and moving the box off the sofa to let Sam lay back down again. 

As Sam laid down, he realised his cup of water was empty. 

“Joaquin?” The kid damn near took the door off the hinges as he came back into the room. Sam simply held his glass up at him with a smile.