#Home Kitchen Benchtops

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Under the Mistletoe || OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x bff!fem!reader Summary: Sick of his friends pining for each other but two stupid to realise it was mutual, Logan sets about making sure they both get their Christmas wish. Warnings: pining, angst, fluff WC: 2.2k

“Hold up, let me find his spare key,” Logan said as he balanced his box on top of the one you already carried.

“Just use mine,” you said as you carefully turned. “Back pocket, left. Other left, dude.”

“My bad.” Logan grabbed the keychain and tried the ones that weren’t your car or letterbox keys. “He gave you a key?”

“Just so I can water the plants while he’s away, and make sure the stove is turned off.”

Logan laughed, turning the right key and opening the door. “He doesn’t even cook.”

You shrugged and followed him into Oscar’s house. “Doesn’t stop him thinking he’s left it on as soon as he’s at the airport.”

It was like walking into your own apartment, there was a home comfort to hanging your keys on the hook that had your initials and hanging your coat on the rack. Picking your box up again, you followed Logan to the kitchen and deposited it on the bench before grabbing two glasses and pouring you both a much deserved drink.

“This is why people don’t believe you are ‘just friends’,” Logan stated, chuckling when you rolled your eyes at him and continued to help yourself to the snacks Oscar kept stocked for you.

“Just shut up and hang the decorations before I overlook your usefulness.”

Logan returned to his box, unpacking the tinsel and bunting that you had bought. “At least you didn’t deny it this time.”

“We are definitely just friends, Lo.” You looked down at the crisp packet and muttered under your breath, “I’m not his type anyway.”

You didn’t notice Logan pause, but you did look up when he shoved his handful back in the box. “What?”

“What?” you echoed.

“What did you say?”

“We are just friends.”

“No, after that.” He leaned back against the kitchen benchtop and crossed his arms. “How do you know you’re not his type?”

“Because we are friends, we talk about these things,” you said with a shrug. “Can we not talk about this right now? He’s going to be home in a few hours.”

“We have time,” Logan said with a shake of his head. “What makes you think you’re not his type?”

You huffed in annoyance and grabbed the decorations yourself, taking them to the living room since Logan was going to be no help. “Because I’m not, okay. He likes funny girls. He wants someone he can have a laugh with to take his mind off work when he gets home. And pretty too, actually he said ‘beautiful’.”

“Okay…” Logan stared at you until you grew uncomfortable.

“And he's surrounded by models at every event.”

“So why isn’t he dating one of them then?”

“Because his standards are obviously high if they aren’t pretty enough for him. I don’t stand a chance.”

Logan shook his head and groaned. “Have you told him that you love him?”

“Of course I have, I tell him all the time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You gave him a look that warned him not to ask another stupid question. “I’m not going to risk our friendship when my relationships never end well. I’d rather be his friend forever, than an ex I never see again.”

“God, you are both so stupid.” Logan brushed you aside as you tried to jump and reach the hooks high up the wall. “Give me that before you hurt yourself.”

You watched on as he hung the tinsel around the room with minimal guidance needed and deemed it safe enough to leave him in charge. Oscar was fairly tidy, compared to the other men you know, but his pet hate was making his bed. He would always leave it unmade claiming he was only going to make it messy again that night.

You went upstairs and made the bed before seeing the laundry basket was overflowing. He mustn’t have had time to do it between his trip to Baku, the McLaren Factory and then his short trip home to Melbourne. That was why you were in his house, setting it up for another Christmas he would miss with his family. You didn’t want him to feel alone so you were bringing Australia to him.

You lost track of time when you found his whites mixed in with the colours and you tutted to yourself as you separated them to soak in the sink.

“You don’t have to do that,” Oscar said when he found you in his laundry, both the dryer and the washing machine working as hard as you.

“Hey, you’re home!” You dropped the clothes you were folding and threw your arms around him. His tired chuckle made your heartbeat a little fast as he embraced you back and buried his face in your neck. “How’s mum and dad? And your sisters? Did they like the presents?”

His head grew heavier as he leaned against you and nodded. “Of course they did, you always know what they want.”

“Not me, you,” you corrected as you brushed a hand over his messy hair. “You got them remember.”

Oscar pulled back with a shy smile. “I think everyone knows you are the mastermind. I would have just given them a gift card.”

You laughed at the truth as the dryer finished another load but Oscar took your hand and towed you out of the laundry. “I’ll do it later,” he stated. “Logan’s already got the tree up but there’s one thing missing.”

Your jaw dropped as you saw the living room had been completely transformed into an Australian Christmas so Oscar would feel at home. A pine tree sat in the corner of the room, needles scattered around the base from trying to manoeuvre it into place. Like the ceiling, green and gold tinsel snaked around the tree but it was the floor that caught your eye.

“The sand was meant to be in the pool,” you laughed as you pointed to the small children’s sized blow up pool still in the box. Logan had poured the bags of golden sand around the tree and the wooden floor now resembled a tiny beach.

“You know, that makes more sense,” Logan admitted.

You bit your lip but it did little to stifle the laugh and when Oscar’s deeper laugh joined there was no holding back. The three of you collapsed laughing onto the couch to embrace the beach themed room and you kicked your shoes off to dig your toes into the sand.

“It’s so weird to imagine,” you chuckled, the snow falling outside a complete contradiction to the scene inside. The central heating had been cranked up to its hottest setting and it truly felt like summer. “Christmas is for making snowmen and having hot chocolate by the fire.”

Oscar draped his arm over the back of your cushion and stretched his legs out after his long flight. “How about next year I can take you home to experience this first hand?”

You smiled at the idea but you couldn’t make that commitment by saying yes, even if you wanted nothing more than to make it happen. “Maybe, let’s just see what the year brings. Who knows, you might want to take your girlfriend home.”

He looked at you with a frown. “I don’t have a girlfriend, yet.”

“Exactly, yet.”

“Idiots,” Logan mumbled as he got up. “I’m getting a drink. You guys want one?”

You both thanked him and as he left the room Oscar patted your knee. “Star time.”

You grinned at the fact he remembered your favourite part of setting the tree up and his hands settled on your hips when you reached it. “I can’t be bothered getting the ladder out,” he said before he picked you up. You placed the glittery star on the highest point and adjusted it a few times more than necessary until Oscar laughed and eased you down. But his hands still remained on your hips. “It’s perfect.”

Logan returned and the moment shattered as you took your drink from him and cleared your throat. “Merry Christmas, my orphan friends.”

“Thanks for the adoption,” Logan chuckled. “If I can’t spend Christmas with my family it’s nice to at least have you guys.”

“That probably sounded better in his head,” Oscar teased before raising his glass too. “But he’s right, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Your cheeks warmed at the smile on his face and you were sure he felt it when he pressed a chaste kiss to one. A little frazzled, you tried to hide the effect he had on you and pointed to the mess on the floor. “Do you think we can build a sandcastle?”

“No, but I think we can build a snowman. Go put your coat on, I know you want to.”

You didn’t have to be told twice and Logan laughed as Oscar followed you to the backyard. “You two have fun, I like the heat more.”

Your breath misted as it hit the chilly air and you rushed to pull your gloves on, something you should have done before stepping outside.

“Here, let me,” Oscar offered, shoving his own in his pocket in the meantime. He took your woollen mittens and held them open for you before tightening the wrists and sealing the warmth that remained inside. “You look like a marshmallow.”

You bent down and started to collect the snow needed to make the first ball and narrowed your eyes at him when he joined you a moment later, his gloves already on. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he smirked. “Marshmallows are cute.”

“Cute?” You wrinkled your nose and gently nudged him with your shoulder. “Now that’s an insult.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “To you or the marshmallow?”

“Uh, both,” you decided with a definitive nod.

“Okay, sorry,” he apologised and then bit his bottom lip as he stared at you over the growing snowball. “Marshmallows are beautiful and my favourite thing in the whole wide world. I love marshmallows.”

“Wow, weirdo, they aren’t that great.”

Logan had been about to ask if you wanted another drink but instead he closed the kitchen window. “Marshmallows, idiots.”

“Not bad for an Aussie,” you commented as you wrapped your arms around his waist and admired the finished product. “A shame you didn’t have a carrot in your fridge.”

Oscar pushed the cucumber nose in further to stop it drooping down before hugging you tighter. “Or a spare scarf, you must be freezing.” He pulled his own off one and draped it around your neck so yours could stay on the snowman. “Ready to go back in?”

You nodded reluctantly and let him go, following him into the warmth where Logan sat in the leather recliner watching Home Alone. “Nice to see you waited for the rest of us,” Oscar noted as he dropped onto the couch and pulled you down with him. 

“You know it word for word.”

“So do you.”

“I ran out of things to do,” he said with a shrug.

Everything had been seen up so you were confused by the statement. “What did you do?”

Logan didn’t answer as he tossed another handful of popcorn in his mouth before blindly pointing in your direction, but higher. You and Oscar looked up and found a small wreath hanging where a picture frame of the Albert Park F1 circuit was, woven into the greenery you spotted it - Mistletoe. 

“Dude!” “Mate!”

Logan laughed to himself and kept watching the movie. “You know the rules. Kiss or streak in the snow.”

“I don’t remember it being streaking,” Oscar commented as he turned to you.

You looked at him too, your eyes drifting down to his lips. You had spent countless daydreams imagining how they would feel against yours.

“Don’t overthink it, the rule needed changing,” Logan mumbled. “So…”

“It’s really cold outside,” you murmured as you dragged your eyes back up to meet his. 

“Way too cold,” he agreed with the smallest of nods. The air was pregnant with the pause before he exhaled and reached for you. His hand curled behind your nape and drew you closer, so slowly you weren't sure he was going to change his mind or thinking you would. If only he knew.

Your heart thumped loudly as you felt his breath on your skin and your hands found their way to his shoulders and ran along the thick muscles that climbed his neck. “Osc,” you whispered softly as you felt the warmth radiating off his lips but still they didn’t touch.

“Yeah?” he asked, the corners tugging up as he heard the need in your tone.

“Please...”

He pulled back just far enough to see the burning desire in your eyes and his thumb stroked your jawline. “Been waiting years for this.”

You couldn’t tell who moved first, but you both moved together, his mouth slanting over yours perfectly like they were made to complement each other. Your fingers tangled in his hair and you tasted the beer on his tongue when he slipped it between your parted lips with a deep moan.

Popcorn rained over your heads and you broke apart to glare at the very smug looking man responsible. “About fucking time! I love you, but you are both idiots.”

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 11

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n getting kicked out my house this week, got a new job, blah de blah. here's a chapter. oh, and a shameless self promotion, go read my skzflix fic leave? pretty please? it aint my finest work but i promise it's good?

previous | masterlist | next

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The door is already open when you arrive, inviting you inside. Like someone had known exactly when you'd gotten in the elevator, or sensed the moment you stepped foot in their hallway. Or this was just how they lived, the door open to invite each other in and out, though that didn't seem likely. You shut it behind you when you enter anyway, the creak and slam of the heavy door loud enough to alert the occupants of the apartment to your presence.

The sound of Changbin shouting over someone follows, drowning out the noise of the door. Everything is normal, then. 

The short hall by the front door is empty except for a pile of scattered shoes - you add yours to the line as you pass through, glimpsing a group of the boys sitting on a couch at the other end. It feels weird to stand there and see them at the other end, the way they've been for years before you came; your empty hands feel awkward, and your feet are too soft against their floorboards, and the closer you get, the more rowdy they become, their eyes so fixed to some game they're playing on the TV that they don't even notice you slipping into the room. You pause for a moment, listening to them howl as their game characters slip off the screen, and then continue on your way to the kitchen, your fingers twisting together restlessly before you.

Chan and Minho are there, sequestered away from the chaos erupting in the other room while they move between the benchtop and the stove, avoiding each other in a way that seems practised. The air is filled with the smell of food cooking, the steam rising from the bubbling pot on the stove warming the air in the small kitchen. Chan turns as he sees you out of the corner of his eye, smiles, and then points back towards the other boys.

"Out," he says, in a voice that brooks no argument; and you'd almost think that you'd broken some rule, except for the grin that eats at his face, amused at himself without even trying.

You stop in the doorway, hovering between the two groups. "I was just going to see if you needed any help," you say.

"Nope," he answers. "You're not allowed in here. Go and sit down."

You pull a face, one that must be funny if Minho glances away, a smile struggling to break through the blank face he's trying to pull. "I already physically kicked Felix out of here," Chan adds, a wooden spoon brandished in the air in warning. "I'll do it to you too."

Your hands come up, your feet backing out of the doorway, and yet, you can't help but laugh. You're feeling...relaxed, here, in a way you haven't since leaving Midnight those two months ago. Maybe it's because you'd spent those months grinding away at what seemed like an insurmountable hill of work, maybe because in the last week, the days that had passed since you'd walked home with Han and Chan, things had suddenly become easier within this group. The reason doesn't matter, you suppose, only that you know now that he's joking, and that it's something you can laugh at. That he's included you in the same joke he's used on Felix.

"Hey, hey, hey," a voice says behind you. "Watch where you're going. You have enough trouble walking forwards."

You turn on your heel, already rolling your eyes at the shit-eating grin on Seungmin's face. Funny, how easy it  to fall into cameraderie with him once you've broken the ice between you; only a day ago, it'd still felt like you weren't much more than acquaintances, until you'd made the decision to fall over on the way to their shared vocal lesson, the only thing Seungmin had ever reached out to offer to you.

Well, made the decision is a stretch. Falling over is too. You'd only stumbled over the sidewalk, and you certainly hadn't planned to make a fool of yourself. Maybe the story that Seungmin was selling was so convincing it was starting to affect your memory. He wasn't mean about it at least, for all that he was known to pretend to be mean when the opportunity arose; if anything, the last few hours of him spreading increasingly wild tales and the others relaying them back to you had been fun. Something different than the usual grind of your days, a joke that might stick around longer than the few minutes in which it's being laughed at.

In this moment, you stand up a little bit straighter and hope that your cheeks don't turn red. "I'm great at walking," you posture, and then struggle not to laugh at how preposturous you sound, your lips fighting against you as they curve into a smile. Something to work on, maybe, if you wanted to compete with his and Minho's deadpan humour. 

"Except for the part where you hit the concrete," Seungmin says, unaffected by the way your eyes crease and your mouth splits in two. "Then you're really bad at walking."

"I tripped," you insist, and you move forward as if to slide past him to get to the couch that the others sit on. He falls in beside you without hesitation rather than letting you pass by, a ghost at your side. "I wasn't even close to falling."

"Everyone says that you fell though," Seungmin insists. "You think everyone would lie?"

"I think you would lie when you told everyone else the story."

Grinning, Seungmin strides out in front of you, leading the way around the couch so that he can stand right in front of the TV. "Move up," he tells Felix, who sits at the end of the couch, neck craned to watch the game the others are playing around Seungmin. 

His eyes slide from Seungmin to you, trying your best to stay out of the way despite having been dragged into mischief. "Y/N," he says, shifting over and patting the seat next to him. "You wanna sit here?"

A smile spreads out across your face. "I do," you reply, and slide past Seungmin to fit yourself in the small space he manages to make beside him. "Thanks."

"You said you would save my seat," Seungmin says, pointing a finger at Felix, who waves him out of the way. He sits on the arm of the chair instead, balancing precariously as he pulls out his phone.

"They kicked you out of the kitchen as well?" Felix asks sympathetically, one eye on the TV and the other on you.

You nod. "I was just going to see if they needed help."

"Yeah," Felix sighs. "I'm not even bad at cooking."

"I'm banned from the knives," Seungmin puts in without looking up.

You glance at him, staring intently at his phone. "Why isn't that surprising?" you question.

"Because he's Seungmin," Felix puts in. "Same way I know he's lying about seeing you fall over."

Seungmin sighs. "I didn't fall," you say, before he can decide which lie to seed this time. "I tripped. I didn't fall."

"It's no fun if none of you believe me," Seungmin grouses.

The game on the TV finishes with a fanfare that fills the whole room, drowned out only by the racous cries of cheating from the boys playing it. The sound makes you wince, leaning away from them; Felix's hands come up to cover his ears, his cry for help also disappearing under the noise they make. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbours were doing the same thing, or marching towards their door with pitchforks in hand. How do they even have neighbours, when they're capable of noise like that?

"They're going to get complaints again," Seungmin says, like he'd been reading your mind. 

"Hey, hey! Hey!" a voice calls over the noise, and you turn in unison to see Chan's head poking out of the door, the wooden spoon waving in his hand once again. "No yelling!"

"I'd say he looks like he's our dad, but he just kind of looks unhinged," Felix comments, only his eyes and the blonde hair that tufts up on top of his head peeking up over the back of the couch. The rest of him has slid down out of Chan's sight, like if he hides, he won't get caught up in whatever trouble the others are causing.

"He looks like my grandfather," Seungmin adds as the older boy disappears, making no effort to hide at all. "He was crazy too."

Felix grins, wild and wolfish. "He just keeps getting older."

"It's so sad he's going to die so soon," Seungmin agrees.

The noise dies down, the game switched back to a more neutral home screen as boys wander off this way and that. Felix shifts over, enough that you can give Seungmin a space on the couch - you think, for a moment, about making him go around to the other side, but Changbin is still sitting there, looking peacefully unbothered by whatever chaos Seungmin is surely capable of unleashing and it's much easier to just shift over and let him slump down in the corner than to set him off. It disturbs Changbin anyway, somehow; as Seungmin sits down, he sits up straight, leaning around Felix to look at you.

"Hey, Y/N," he says, drawing your attention over to him. "Where were you this morning? I didn't see you in the practise rooms."

"She left the room?" Felix questions, turning to stare at you like such a thing is unheard of.

"I was there for three hours," Changbin confirms, "and I didn't see her at all."

"I was tired," you say, trying to ignore the feeling of your cheeks turning red, "so I slept in. And I left the room twice today, actually. I went to a vocal lesson with him."

Seungmin nods as your thumb jabs towards him. "She won't be dancing tomorrow either. She fell over on the concrete."

You don't even think twice about reaching over to push him off the couch. It catches him so off-guard that he actually does fall, sliding right onto the carpet and staring up at you in disbelief. The other boys howl with laughter, loud enough that you glance back at the kitchen door to check if Chan is coming back.

"I'm glad you took the morning off," Felix says warmly, ignoring whatever Seungmin mutters under his breath as he drags himself up off the floor. "We've all been worried about you."

"So I've been told," you say. "I promise, I know what I'm doing."

"I trust you," Felix says, and there's a glint in his eye that says he's telling the truth. It warms you to your core, just as sitting here surrounded by these boys does, and the sound of Minho's voice calling for Seungmin from the kitchen. It's nice, to come into the middle of their group away from the stage or the dance floor and feel like you're just in the midst of friends, somewhere where you belong. It's nice to see how they live. You hadn't let yourself see this before, too tied down to practise and the dream they've achieved that you're still chasing.

"Seungmin-ah! Come and help!" Minho calls again, and then he can be seen at the door, waiting with an unnerving kind of patience. You're not sure if the smile on his face is supposed to be encouraging or threatening, and you don't really want to find out; mostly, you're just kind of glad that he's not calling for you.

Seungmin isn't bothered by it, dragging himself off the couch with a sigh that reverberates through the room. "Coming, old man," he calls across the room, and ignores the double take that Felix does beside you, his eyes growing wide. 

"Ai-e," Changbin says, the sound whistling through his teeth. "Is he crazy?"

"You want to go in the oven?" Minho questions as Seungmin crosses the room.

"You'd have to get me in it first," Seungmin says, and then yelps as Minho's arm wraps around his neck, dragging him into the kitchen in a headlock. 

"He's going to die," Felix says gleefully. 

"Winning the bet was not worth it," you agree, your eyes still on the empty doorway to the kitchen. No one emerges except Chan, holding a pot of whatever they've cooked for dinner and looking disturbingly peaceful despite the chaos he has just left behind.

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids @hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts @puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night @d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk @minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification @starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace @amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002 @hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff @splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit @jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @slutfortits @duhgurl @cheshireshiya @worcesheshestershiresauce @defnotfertilizedtoesw @rensahazard @greyyeti

[shellbilee]

Hey There Darlin' - Chapter 6

A Glen Powell RPF series

Thank you for all the love on this story! x

Glen

Glen is turning the heat on the stove down when he hears the doorbell ring, Brisket’s shrill bark ringing out throughout the house. He jogs down the hallway, scooping up Brisket on the way, aware that he’s already smiling even before he reaches the door. He lets out a breath and opens the door, feeling his whole body heat when he sees her standing there.

Billie.

She’s still dressed in her jeans and shirt from earlier, though her hair is now loose and flowing, framing her face in long soft waves. She looks beautiful.

Nugget is wagging his tail excitedly, happily panting from his spot at Billie’s legs, Brisket immediately scrambling in his arms to meet his new friend again.

“Hi again”

“Hey gorgeous” he says, loving the way Billie’s smile grows even bigger.

She steps inside and Brisket launches from his arms, Glen immediately reaching for Billie's waist and pressing his mouth to hers. He kisses her tenderly, his mouth firm but gentle against hers, her lips soft and plush and exactly as he remembers from only hours ago. His hands grab at her waist and her arms reach up to wrap around his neck, Glen only pulling away when he feels his lungs start to burn.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that again since the moment we left the restaurant” he whispers after a moment, smiling down at her breathlessly before bending and kissing her again.

It’s like he can’t get enough of her.

Billie bites her lip when they part - her perfect, plush lips, and Glen has to stop himself from groaning out loud, his grip on her waist momentarily tightening. 

“Me too” she replies with a shy smile, her cheeks now flushed a lovely pink, her fingers unclasping and sliding down his chest.

They smile at each other and eventually separate, Glen closing the door behind them as the dogs take off down the hallway.

“Your house is incredible” Billie breathes, looking around when they step into the expansive open plan living area, Glen watching as she scans the room around her, “This makes my place look like a studio apartment”.

She looks back up at him with a smile and Glen feels his chest tighten at the sight.

He chuckles, his hand brushing the small of her back.

“Drink?”

Billie raises one eyebrow and tilts her head as she looks at him, “Only if you’re having one?”

He smiles as he walks into the kitchen and sets about pouring them both a glass of pinot, Billie walking over and running her hand over the black marble benchtop.

“Smells amazing too. What’s for dinner?”

Glen winks conspiratorially. “It’s a surprise. My specialty”.

Billie grins adorably as she sets down her bag. “I’m excited”

He walks around the bench and hands her the glass of red, tapping his glass against her in a cheers. 

“Want a tour?”

Billie nods enthusiastically. 

“Of this mansion? With that view?” she says gesturing dramatically over to the glass doors that line the whole side of the house - the outdoor deck and luxury pool sit in view just outside, an expansive, stunning view of the Hollywood Hills just beyond it, “Absolutely I do”.

Glen laughs and takes her hand, leading her down the hallway to show her the rest of the house.

Ten minutes later, awe is etched all over Billie’s face. 

Glen is in awe too, except it’s got nothing to do with his house and absolutely everything to do with Billie.

How can anyone be so utterly adorable and so God damn sexy at the same time?

He can't think of anything he wants to do more than pull her to him and kiss her until his lips are sore, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips, to taste her on his tongue. 

The house tour is basically torture - it’s even worse than their workout this morning, something Glen would have previously believed was impossible until just now. He can’t stop his brain from picturing himself taking Billie on every available surface in his home.

The way she’d look bent over the back of his black leather couch, his hands running over every stunning curve of her naked body. 

Or the way she’d look lying spread open in the middle of his bed with her head thrown back, as he licked between her thighs like a man starved. 

Or the way she’d look pressed up against the stone wall of his luxury shower, water dripping down her luscious frame as he drove into her again and again and again.

Billie is all but oblivious to the sinful thoughts running through his brain, Glen struggling to listen and respond appropriately to her comments about each new room he takes her through.

Fuck.

Every part of him is already hoping she'll stay the night, but he knows he's being forward. After all, he's only known her for forty-eight hours.

But still.

The way her ass looks in those jeans? The way her ass would look out of those jeans and instead spread in his hands as he bent her over?

My God.

Glen manages to hold himself together and eventually they finish at his favourite spot in his house - the lounge on the outdoor deck that overlooks the pool and the rest of the expansive yard. 

Glen instructs Billie to take a seat while he goes to check on dinner, Brisket and Nugget full of seemingly boundless energy as they run chaotic laps of the grass chasing one another. 

When Glen returns outside minutes later, he can't help his smile at the sight he’s greeted with. Brisket is standing on Billie’s lap, his little tail wagging furiously as he looks down at Nugget in front of them, while Nugget stands on the floor barking at his tiny friend to come down and play. 

Before Glen can open his mouth to comment on the scene in front of him, Brisket launches himself from Billie’s lap and sprints down the deck, Nugget tearing off after him and giving chase onto the manicured lawns below.

“Dinner should be ready in about forty-five” Glen says when he walks over to Billie and sits down on the lounge beside her, stretching one arm out along the back of the couch. 

“Can I help in any way?”

Glen scoffs and Billie laughs and shakes her head, clearly knowing her answer without him even saying anything.

She shifts on the lounge to face Glen, tucking her now bare feet underneath herself, her phone slipping off her lap in the process.

It's then that Glen notices there’s a video playing on her phone, his brow furrowing as he picks it up and inspects the screen.

“I didn't know there was a game on today?” Glen comments, instantly recognising the video as a sports channel.

Billie laughs and shakes her head, reaching up to tuck one side of her long hair behind her ear.

“There isn’t. It’s Aussie rules, from back home” she explains, taking her phone from Glen and looking down at it almost wistfully, “Football. My team is playing”.

“Do you want to put it on the TV?” Glen asks, gesturing to the enormous TV mounted on the wall of the outdoor deck area.

Billie frowns and looks at him oddly, causing Glen to let out a laugh.

“I have every sports channel available Billie”.

Her face softens then, her teeth flashing in a gentle smile.

“Of course you do” she says with a chuckle, shaking her head in amusement, “But no, it’s ok, I don’t want to force you to watch a sport you know nothing about”.

Glen scoffs for the second time in two minutes. 

“Don’t be silly. I love sports” he says as he suddenly sits forward and reaches for his own phone, unlocking it and scrolling through to the TV app, “Besides, I wouldn’t say I know nothing about it. I got to stand on the Sydney stadium when I was in Australia. The SCG I think it was called?”.

Billie laughs as the TV starts up, Glen leaning over to double check the channel from the video on her phone, “I wouldn’t exactly call that knowledge of the game”.

Glen grins and shrugs, clearly unphased, putting his phone down on the coffee table in front of them when the game starts playing on the screen. He leans back on the couch and stretches his arm along the back, this time his hand finding Billie and pulling her back into him.

“You’ll just have to teach me the rules then”

She smiles gorgeously up at him - that same fucking smile that's blessed his nearly every thought for the last two days, and Glen feels himself melt.

“Thank you” Billie breathes, shifting beneath his arm, reaching up to cup his cheek and pulling his face down to hers in a gentle kiss.

He smiles when Billie cuddles into him, the sweet scent of her peachy perfume filling his nose, his arm draped across her front giving her a soft squeeze.

Billie's fingers wrap around his and Glen looks down at their intertwined hands, feeling a wave of contentment wash over him at the sight.

He lets out a silent sigh and relaxes back into the couch, holding Billie's body against his as they watch the screen together.

---

“He’s holding him!” Billie nearly screams at the TV, throwing her arms up into the air in exasperation, “How do you not call that umpire!?”

The play continues without intervention from the referee and Billie drops her arms dramatically, muttering curses under her breath and running her fingers through her hair.

Glen can't help the way he's grinning at Billie, loving how fired up and passionate she is about her team. She's exactly like he is with his Texas Longhorns. 

“Holding him?”

Billie turns back to look at Glen, her previously angered expression instantly softening. 

“You can't hold another player and block their attempt at getting the ball” she explains, making quotation mark signs with her fingers when she says hold, “So like if the ball was coming to you, I could try and bump and contest with you, but I couldn't say, hold your arm down and stop you from trying to mark the ball”.

Glen shakes his head and laughs.

“This sport has so many insane rules” he says, taking a drink of his wine, “And I still can't believe the players don't wear any protective gear”.

Billie laughs, sitting forward on the lounge and reaching for her own glass of wine on the coffee table.

“The tackles aren't nearly as rough as they are in NFL though”

“Are you kidding? That guy almost took that other guy's head off before”.

Billie chuckles and taps her fingers against her wine glass before taking a sip. “Yeah but that wasn't allowed either. I'd almost guarantee that he'll be written up for that and get at least a one week suspension from playing”.

“They should at least wear helmets to protect their heads”

“They can wear helmets, but they're not a full on one like the NFL players would wear. They're not hard, they're made of a moulded foam material so I'd call them more of a head guard than a helmet”.

“Crazy”

Billie laughs again. “They wear mouth guards though. Gotta protect the teeth you know”.

Glen shakes his head. “I swear you Australian’s are just on another level”.

Billie chuckles and slides back on the couch again, sitting back beside Glen. He wraps his arm around her as she does so, pulling her back into him and giving her waist a gentle squeeze.

“I wouldn't say another level” Billie replies with a soft chuckle that makes Glen's insides warm, “Perhaps just tough?”.

She grins and winks one gorgeous eye at him, Glen grinning back in response.

“My worst injury when I used to play, back when I was in my early twenties” Billie says suddenly, sitting up and turning to Glen, pulling aside the collar of her shirt and exposing her golden collarbone, “I got tackled by this girl and she just crunched me underneath her. Dislocated my shoulder and snapped my collarbone in half”.

She points at a long white spidery scar on her collarbone and Glen does his best to pay attention, trying his hardest not to notice that she's just given him a now near uninterrupted view of her cleavage. His brain almost short circuits as he eyes the swell of her left breast, the hand that was previously holding Billie now gripping at the soft material of the outdoor lounge.

“Part of it came through my skin. Honestly it was the most sickening sound, I still get shivers thinking about it” Billie explains, looking down at her shoulder and back at Glen.

“The sound? Not the pain?”.

Billie shrugs. “I remember it hurting, but the sound is what really haunts me”.

Glen just shakes his head.

“See? Another level”.

Billie drops her head back and laughs, her eyes crinkling and her cheeks bouncing in a way that Glen finds adorable. He smiles at her, his eyes dropping back to her scar.

He reaches out and runs his fingers over it, feeling the thickened, bumpy ridges that are still somehow soft beneath his touch. He swears he sees Billie shiver then, and all at once he has to fight the overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss along her scar, to run his tongue across her collarbone.

Before he can actually do it though, the beeping of the kitchen timer stirs him from his thoughts. His hand drops from Billie and she readjusts her shirt, Glen instead putting down his wine glass and hauling himself to his feet.

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do?”

Glen nods.

“I'm sure darlin’. You stay out here with the boys” he says looking down at Billie, gesturing to the lawn where Brisket and Nugget are still chaotically chasing one another.

“You can let me kiss you though” he adds with a mischievous smile, loving the way she grins back up at him.

“That I can definitely do”

His own grin grows and he bends to kiss her, cupping her cheek and pressing a gentle kiss to her waiting lips. He winks at her when he pulls away, making his way into the kitchen and leaving Billie outside with the dogs.

—

Billie

“You don’t need to help me with dishes Billie”.

Billie ignores his words and pushes past him in the expansive kitchen, earning a deep chuckle from Glen.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

Billie laughs this time, unable to help her grin.

“Nope, I’m just a good dinner guest” she fires back as she bends to put her plate in the dishwasher, looking up in time to see Glen’s face split into a wide grin.

They’d just finished dinner - an amazing dinner of Glen’s apparently famous Texan pulled pork tacos, sitting down outside on the outdoor lounges as the sun had set over the valley in front of them. Billie had been in love from her first bite, almost moaning out loud when the spicy smoky flavours hit her tongue, both Nugget and Brisket sitting close by on guard for any dropped pieces of food. 

She stands up and holds out her hand, Glen reluctantly passing her his empty plate for her to stack next, along with their dinner cutlery. He steps around her and moves to the sink, setting about cleaning the dirty stove pot. For a moment Billie can’t help but smile at the domestic-ness of the moment, of something as small and simple as doing the dishes together.

“On another note though, that was amazing” she says when she stands back up again, moving to lean against the marble bench, her front facing Glen beside her,  “You really are a man of many talents. Acting, running, cooking. Is there anything you can’t do?”.

Glen chuckles, his hands soapy with dishwater bubbles, the overhead lights of the kitchen highlighting the planes of his face covered in the smallest amount of stubble. For a second, Billie finds herself wondering how his face would feel beneath her fingertips. Beneath her fingertips, and against her skin.

God.

“I can’t touch my toes”

Billie can’t stop the bubble of laughter that escapes her throat then, covering her mouth with her hand to suppress the sound.

“Really?”

Glen nods his head earnestly. “Really”.

“I stand corrected then. Acting, running, cooking, but most definitely not a gymnast”.

They both laugh and Billie grins happily, looking up when Nugget and Brisket come bounding into the kitchen. She bends to pat Nugget, smiling at his goofy, golden smile, standing up again and turning to Glen as he rinses the pot and rests it on the drying rack beside the sink. She rests her hip against the marble bench top, folding her arms across her chest as she looks at him.

“Seriously though, dinner was incredible Glen. Thank you so much for inviting me tonight” Billie says, watching as dries his hands on the dish towel.

The smile he gives Billie then makes her want to melt into a puddle on the floor, right there on the luxurious kitchen tiles.

“You’re welcome Billie”.

Her name in his voice makes her stomach flip flop, just like his stupidly handsome smile. Never mind her heart rate that suddenly goes through the roof when Glen steps towards her, her breath catching in her throat when his hands find her waist.

Billie can’t help it when her eyes flicker to his lips, his stubble covered jawline, his soft, sandy hair that’s messily slicked back. She feels his eyes search her face, soft and pale green, the colour making her want to stare at them forever.

All at once her mind is empty except for how much she wants to lose herself in Glen, and then as if he can hear exactly what she's thinking, his hand is snaking up her back and coming to rest on the side of her jaw. His eyes move to her mouth and she feels herself exhale, and all of a sudden Glen's lips are on hers, tender and wanting, and delicately coaxing hers apart. 

Billie lets him take the lead, lets him deepen their kiss, feeling like putty in his hands as he all but steals the breath from her throat. His lips move against hers, a delicate dance of push and pull, his fingers moving to her hair and holding her head in place. She feels his free hand slide down her back and then finds leverage on her ass, her feet suddenly leaving the ground as she's lifted onto the bench.

The marble is cold against her thighs, even through the denim on her jeans, but she barely registers the feeling as Glen's tongue suddenly finds hers. She can't help the soft moan that falls from her then, the sound having a clear effect on Glen - his fingers tightening their hold and his hips pushing her legs apart so that his front is pressed against hers.

Billie feels herself slipping. She's losing herself, feeling almost entirely consumed by Glen and his mouth. His kiss feels like heaven, a delicious, intoxicating feeling that she just wants to drown in, his scent, his taste, his feel, completely overwhelming her. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her fingers gripping desperately at the nape of his neck as he kisses her over and over.

She can’t remember the last time she felt like this. And all they’d done is kiss.

Just when she thinks she can’t possibly slip any deeper, any further into the blurred fog of hedonistic want, Brisket’s shrill barking pierces her ears and she feels Glen’s lips suddenly slow. She’s instantly aware that her chest is heaving, lungs burning from being temporarily oxygen starved, Glen’s own breath heavy as he pulls away and rests his forehead against hers. 

Her lips tug into a smile at his tender action, her hands slipping down to cup his face. He smiles back at her with that soft, handsome grin that she’s quickly learning is classically Glen, bending and kissing her once more before pulling away and turning to look at Brisket at his feet.

He’s wagging his tail furiously, looking up at his owner standing beside him, letting out another high-pitched bark that’s almost insistent and tapping his two front paws.

Billie grins and raises one eyebrow, tilting her head as she looks at Glen, now standing with his hands on his hips and looking down at Brisket.

“I assume that means it’s dinner time?”.

Glen clicks his tongue, shaking his head in an almost annoyed amusement. 

“You’d assume right. God forbid it gets past seven-thirty and he hasn’t eaten yet”.

Billie laughs and jumps down off the bench, bending to pat Nugget - who’d since taken a seat beside Brisket, and was watching his new friend with curious interest.

“I suppose that means you’re hungry too then hey?” Billie asks, smiling when Nugget’s head snaps to face her at the word ‘hungry’. 

Billie grins down at her golden fur-child and chuckles. “C’mon bud”.

She walks over to her bag and pulls out the kibble mix she’d packed earlier, Nugget following happily behind her, drool already starting to form on his jowls.

“Another wine?” Glen asks when Billie’s walking back inside, having taken both the boys outside to feed them on the backyard deck.

She notes that there’s a soft country music song playing in the background now, a candle burning on the wooden coffee table in the centre of the room. The lights are dimmed, shadows thrown across the space and broken by a soft glow from the lamp in the corner.

Billie smiles, reaching up to run her fingers through her long hair. 

“I shouldn’t. I have to work tomorrow”.

Glen laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a no darlin’”.

She exhales heavily, grinning as she flops down onto Glen’s luxurious black leather living room couch.

“Okay but this has to be my last one or I won’t be able to drive home”.

Glen chuckles, low and deep, the sound making Billie’s muscles squeeze. She can’t help but think for the thousandth time how handsome he is, watching his muscles ripple beneath his tight shirt as he walks over to the couch, two red wines in his hand.

“Maybe that’s my plan”.

Billie shoves him playfully as he sits down beside her, causing Glen to chuckle again.

“You know you can stay if you want to” he adds, passing her a glass.

Billie shoots him a look and Glen lifts his hands innocently. “No no, not for that reason, I’m just saying, you’re welcome to stay”.

Billie smiles inwardly, taking a sip of red and feeling her chest flush. She wonders idly if it’s to do with the wine, or the fact that her brain suddenly can’t help but imagine what would undoubtedly happen if she stayed the night. Either way, she struggles to keep her thoughts in line for a moment.

She tips her head back against the couch and sighs softly, turning to look at Glen beside her. 

“As much as I’d love to, I know I have a crazy day tomorrow since I took Friday off for Rufus” she explains, swearing she can actually feel the fibres in her body protesting the moment she says that.

“Do you have a busy rest of week?” Glen asks, shifting closer to her on the couch and making Billie smile when he picks up her legs and drapes them over his lap.

She nods, explaining that she has a couple of athletes doing qualifiers this week, so it won’t necessarily be busy, but it will certainly be a full on week. She tells him about Hayley, one of her favourite clients, a seventeen year old junior getting back to her first gymnastics meet following a dislocated shoulder.

“Do you always go to their events?”

“It would be impossible for me to do it for all of them, but for the ones that I can, I try my best” Billie says, taking another sip of her wine, “ But I've been working with Hayley for the better part of a year, so I definitely don't want to miss hers”.

“When is it?”

“Thursday lunch-time” Billie explains, already looking forward to her late morning start.

She looks over at the dogs, the two apparently having run out of their seemingly endless energy, now snoozing peacefully on the grey living room rug.

“Do you have set hours at work or is it all over the place?” Glen asks, his free hand falling to Billie’s left knee.

She can’t answer him for a moment, too caught up in the way her skin is suddenly burning from his touch, even through the material of her jeans. She looks down at his hand and swallows, her brain conjuring the image of his hands on her skin without clothes and temporarily blanking her thoughts.

Fuck.

She clears her throat, gripping her wine glass tighter.

“Ah for the most part it's the same, but occasionally it's thrown around when there's games and events for me to go to” Billie answers, looking back at Glen and loving the way he’s watching her face so intently, “Generally Tuesdays and Fridays I start early and finish early, whereas Mondays and Wednesdays I start later and finish later. Thursday is usually my paperwork and mentoring day so they’re always a bit more low key”.

“What about you?” she asks after a beat, taking another sip of red, “I imagine you have absolutely no routine to your schedule and every week is different? I have no idea how you deal with that” she adds, shaking her head with a smile.

Glen laughs and says that he’s used to it after all this time, and that he has a relatively quiet week coming up - a couple of meetings with his agent and publicist, and a photo shoot later in the week. He adds that most of his projects have finished filming and that his next press tour isn’t for a few weeks yet.

It’s then that it dawns on Billie that this is the first time they’ve actually spoken about his work, and she can’t help but notice the gaping difference between their two lives.

“What project is the press tour for?”

“Twisters”

Billie tilts her head. “As in like Twister, the tornado movie from the nineties with Helen Hunt?”.

Glen nods, “That’s the one”.

“I used to love that movie. I didn't know they were re-making it” Billie says, eyebrows raised in surprise, looking down when Glen moves his hand to her foot.

“How’d you get this scar?” Glen asks suddenly, changing the subject, running his finger tip along her left ankle, “Another football injury?”.

Billie shakes her head and smirks. 

“Nope. Worse”

Glen looks back at her expectantly. “I'm not sure you can get worse than your collar bone coming through your skin darlin’”.

Billie chuckles, tilting her head as she looks back at him.

“Stung by a jellyfish when I was eight”.

Billie can't help the laugh that escapes her when Glen's eyebrows shoot up in shock.

“A jellyfish?”

“Specifically, a box jellyfish”

“Wait, can't you die from those?”

Billie laughs again. “You absolutely can”

Glen just stares for a moment, and Billie swears she can see his brain searching for an appropriate answer to say back to her.

Instead he just shakes his head and takes another sip of his wine, looking back at her with an expression that she can't help but grin at.

“Like I said earlier, you Australian’s are literally on another level”.

Billie just laughs and shrugs her shoulders, Glen looking back at her scar and running his fingers along the deep purple lines on her skin.

They settle into a comfortable silence then, the soft background music the only sounds in the room, and Billie realises how content she is. More content than she expects to be with a guy she's only known for forty-eight hours. A guy who happens to be absolutely gorgeous, and also just happens to be an A-list celebrity.

If someone had told her last week that she’d be on a couch with Glen Powell, drinking wine with her feet in his lap, she’d have flat out laughed in their face. Billie smiles to herself, letting out a silent breath, looking down at her almost empty wine glass.

“I suppose I should probably go. I need to get my ass into gear for tomorrow”

Glen bends forward to put his now-empty wine glass on the coffee table in front of them, turning to look at her with a gentle smile.

“Again, you know you are more than welcome to stay”

Billie chuckles. 

“As tempting as your offer is Mr Powell, respectfully, I must decline your sleepover proposal” she says, finishing her own wine and nodding her thanks when Glen takes her empty glass and puts it with his, “This time anyway”.

Glen looks at her with one eyebrow raised, the sudden mischievous glint in his sage green eyes nearly making her moan out loud.

“This time?”

Billie shrugs her shoulders innocently.

“This time” she answers quickly, offering her own mischievous grin and loving the way he looks back at her.

Billie swings her feet out of Glen’s lap and stands up from the couch, fully aware of the way he’s suddenly staring at her ass as she stands in front of him. She walks over to grab her bag, the movement stirring the dogs, Nugget suddenly standing and stretching out his front legs.

“So when can I see you again?” Glen asks when she’s finished putting on her shoes, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush to him. 

For a split second Billie wonders if her breath will ever stop catching in her throat every time she feels his hands on her body.

She reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck, bending to press a quick kiss to his waiting lips.

“How about Wednesday? We can grab a drink? Or, you and Brisket can come to mine for dinner?” she suggests, her gaze flickering back to his lips when he wets them quickly with his tongue, “I finish a little later on Wednesday but… I don’t have to go in until midday the next day”.

She knows the insinuation hits Glen immediately, feeling his grip on her waist momentarily tighten. Her own muscles squeeze deliciously and suddenly she has no idea how she’s possibly going to wait until Wednesday.

“Wednesday’s perfect”

Glen grins down at Billie and for a second she forgets how to breathe, threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck as he bends down to kiss her. His mouth is insistent, his tongue quickly finding hers, their kiss tender and heated as if they both know what’s inevitable at their next meeting. 

Eventually they part, and Billie silently sucks air into now her starved lungs, feeling her chest heave as she gazes up at Glen. His lips are parted and his eyes are almost glossy as he looks down at her, and in that moment Billie's almost certain that his thoughts mirror her own.

She bites her lip, her fingers gripping tighter in his hair, the corner of her now swollen lips tugging into a salacious grin.

Wednesday cannot come quick enough. 

---

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TAGLIST:

@angclvings @auntiegigi @friedchips94 @memories-in-bw @maeleelee @jessicab1991 @bellaireland1981 @queenslandlover-93 @itsjustkhaos @kneelforloki @djs8891 @lovemesomevesey @entertainmentgirl80 @buckysteveloki-me @stankface

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: the premonition (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, angst no comfort, graphic wound description, blood/gore, graphic descriptions of stitching, religious punishment (lashings), cults, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, visions, horror, bucky barnes has issues, bucky barnes is a dick, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: this was supposed to be longer but i've decided to spilt it into two parts, so sorry you just get angst but the next part will have more comfort/fluff. i'm not super happy with this chapter but i didn't intend for it to be a stand alone part, so it's a lot of doing and not much feeling/reflection lol. i just wanted to get this out because i'm going back to studying full time (as if the first degree wasn't bad enough lol) so the next few weeks might be a bit quiet. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

There was a large, white wolf in your kitchen. 

You didn’t remember descending the stairs of your small flat or your bare feet leading you into the cramped kitchen. The wooden panels felt cool against your soles, and dust glittered in the air. A short candle flickered on the dining table, illuminating the beast.

It was huge, towering over your benchtops and oven. Its shoulder would have easily reached your waist. Its stark, white fur was matted and stained, covered in ash and filth. In the dim light, you could see deep gashes beneath the pale strands of hair, dripping fresh crimson blood. The blood pooled on the floor, creeping into the cracks of the wood.

The wolf panted, taking hard, shallow breaths that rattled its considerable mass. Its pink tongue dripped pink, a mix of blood and saliva smeared along its yellowing teeth. You could’ve sworn it smiled as its lips pulled back, revealing large, pointed canines. It let out a deep, thunderous growl that vibrated through your chest and rattled your small, latticed windows. 

You found yourself unable to question the absurdity of it. A wolf. In your home. 

Your home had been heavily warded for weeks, if not months. After what had happened… it was the only way to keep out prying eyes and scum. Bucky’s boys would walk up the stairs, quivering as they reached for their hands to post a letter, knock on the door, or pick the lock. They would try with all their might, only to be filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. They would run, tails tucked between their legs. Not even Natasha Romanoff could make it past the threshold. The redhead who dripped with malice, who could make men sweat with fear with just a single look… too afraid to even leave the pavement. 

Your feet don't touch the floorboards as you float forward, ignoring the canine's raised hackles. You look into its big, blue eyes and understand it is in pain, in danger. Your fingers spread, splaying out across its forehead as you run a hand through its matted fur. Ash catches under your nails, and blood stains your skin.

Another reason it was absurd to find such an animal in your home was because wolves were extinct. You had heard tales of these beasts in old folklore—frightening stories to tell children at night, fairytales, and such. Some speculated that these creatures might have roamed the land before the forests were cut down to make way for cities and civilization. Perhaps, out in the wilderness, deep in the forests away from Sootstone and the city of Blackstone, such animals could still exist. Maybe even across the seas, in far-off lands still being explored.

“I fear I’m in a dream, friend.” You murmur to the wolf, touch sweeping to cradle its large, bleeding head. “It’s probably best for us both to wake up.”

The wolf blinks its large, blue eyes at you. Its panting is still ragged, blood sticky across your floors. Deep in your soul, you knew it was a warning. A calling. 

Someone was in danger. 

It is a loud clattering downstairs that startles you awake. 

The sharp clanging and dinging of pots and pans ring through your small abode, as if someone had knocked them from your dining table. In your bleariness, still tangled under your sheets, you blindly search for a candle and match. 

The ruckus below continues, with chairs scraping across the floors, cabinets rattling, and a distinctly male voice muttering all types of obscenities. Your intruder seems to have impulsively walked into your home, knocking over all of your possessions. 

The dream, the premonition—it must have distracted your mind. You could feel your wards were down, the peaceful bubble that had once safely cocooned your home was shattered. The remnants of its invisible wall crunched beneath your bare feet as you thundered down the stairs in your nightgown. 

It must be one of Bucky’s messenger boys. The poor lad must have gotten lucky when he pried open your door and stumbled in just after the ward had fallen. You’d noticed how Bucky’s dogs worked like clockwork; at least three times a day, his boys would try to deliver you a message. You had never intended to find out what that message was. You highly doubted it was an apology, likely just another summons as if you were his pet to call and dismiss as he pleased—

As you rounded the corner into your kitchen, you were met with a sight that made your blood run cold. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh, was bleeding and dishevelled in your kitchen.

His face was swollen and mottled with deep purple-black bruising. Dried blood crusted along his temple and brow. His hair, usually neatly slicked back, was now a tangled mess, laden with ash and filth, sticking out in all directions. Gone was his usual suit jacket; instead, he wore a simple white button-down shirt, now barely recognisable beneath the grime. It looked as though he had been dragged through a sewer, with mud and filth clinging to his skin and clothes.

Amidst the caked-on mess, fresh blood seeped from multiple wounds on his back, staining the already dirty fabric with a deep, alarming crimson. Each breath he took seemed laboured, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. He lifted his head to look at you, offering you a haunting grin. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, a puffy, dark mound overshadowing his battered face. His bottom lip was split wide open—a deep, jagged tear. Despite his condition, there was an unsettling glint in his one good eye, a spark of something unbroken within the wreckage of his body.

“Your wards were down. Didn’t think you were home.” The gangster wheezes, and his legs give out. 

One of his hands reaches out to brace against your dining table, but his skin, slick with mud and grime, causes his hand to slip, and he plummets forward. In an instant, you rush to his side, grasping the man just before he crashes face-first into your hardwood floors. His weight is staggering—almost too much to bear—as you wrap your arm around his middle, muscles straining as you let out a grunt of exertion. With effort, you manage to push him back into a sitting position. Exhaustion radiates from him as he leans against you, barely able to hold himself up. Your candle has been knocked to the floor, wax dripping onto the floors. 

The flame snuffs itself out, and the two of you are cast into darkness.

“What’re you doin’ here, Barnes?” You mutter demandingly. He responds with a weak chuckle, the sound rough and hollow. His head lolls to the side as he struggles to lift his chin, trying to meet your gaze. In close proximity, the stench on him becomes unbearable—an acrid mix of raw sewage, mud, and the metallic tang of blood. 

“Trust me, I don’t wanna be here either, doll.” Blood gurgles in his mouth as he laughs. You scowl at him, shoving him away so he leans up against the leg of your table. You get to your feet, glancing down at your now filthy nightgown in disgust. 

“You’re really that disgusted by me?” You say under your breath. Your words catch the attention of the gangster, whose amused expression falters. 

“What gave you that impression?” He asks. You frown hard, wavering near his feet as you assess the best way to get the hulking man off your floor. His stocky frame, well filled out with muscle, is almost twice your size. It would be a task to lift him yourself

“Last we spoke. You called me a whore.” You remind him. You don’t meet his eye as you crouch down, wrapping one of his arms around your shoulders. Wrapping one of his heavy arms around your shoulders, you place your hand on his back, feeling the heat of his blood seeping through his shirt. His weight is staggering, and you can feel every ounce of it pressing down on you.

He doesn’t reply to your claim. You can tell he is somewhat floored by your confession, surprised that you are still upset. Gritting your teeth, you start to push upwards, immediately feeling the strain in your thighs, calves, and back. His body is like dead weight, almost completely limp except for the occasional twitch of pain. Every muscle in your body protests, but you dig your heels into the floor. The gangster grunts beside you, and when you look over, you see his jaw ticking. You’re unsure if it’s from the pain or your words.

With one final, desperate push, you feel his weight start to lift. He lets out a pained groan, and the muscles in your legs quiver. Using every ounce of strength you have left, you manage to get him onto one of the dining chairs. He flops backward with a sigh, the chair creaking under his weight, and he winces in pain as his gashed back meets the hardwood. You step back, panting heavily, and take a moment to catch your breath. His emotions are hard to read under all the swelling, bruising, and blood that mar his face. 

“So much for an apology.” You dare to say, words dripping with bitterness. The gangster finally peeks at you through his swollen eye with a disapproving look, his gaze hard.

“Apologisin’ is bad for business,” he says, his voice rough but earnest. “But I can admit when I am wrong. And I was wrong for sayin’ that.”

His words catch you off guard—a rare moment of humility from the hardened criminal. But the walls he’s built around himself are quick to rise again, and you can see the familiar defiance creeping back into his gaze. You don’t linger on it.

You suck in a sharp breath, angling your head as you try to process the situation. “Is one of your boys wanderin’ about nearby? I can get a message to Steve—”

“No.” He interrupts, his voice rough and strained.

“No?” You echo. 

“I had a… let's say a run-in.” He replies, his tone clipped. “The street’ll be crawlin’ with ‘em, lookin’ for me. Best my boys lay low.”

“A run-in with who?” You press.

“Does it matter?”

“You’re gonna bleed to death if you stay here.” You retort, your eyes narrowing as you assess the severity of his wounds.

“You’re a witch.”

“And?” You snap back, folding your arms defensively.

“Heal me.”

You pause, head tilting in disbelief as you look down at him. “Heal—? Gods, you know I’m not a healer—”

“I never said it had to be good. Just stop the bleeding.” He presses.

“I’m not your pet witch, Barnes. You can’t summon me at your leisure.” You snip. Magic was broad in its uses, of course, but your speciality was never any type of healing magic, and Bucky knew that. You had always been one foot between the living and the dead. Your skills lay almost entirely in the territories of spirits and chaos magic. You knew how to look—how to feel—through the veil and channel it’s energy. What you did not know were healing charms, herbs, and potions.

Bucky leans forward, wincing in pain, and looks at you with a seriousness that catches you off guard. “You must know how it’ll look if my men find out that I bled to death in your home?”

“Are you threatenin’ me?” You ask, brow quirking. The gangster has a scowl across his face.

“No. I’m askin’ you.” His dark eyes peer up at you through bloodied lashes. Thick clumps of copper have hardened around the strands. “What do you want? Double your rate? Triple?”

“I’m no healer.” You repeat and let out an irritated sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you waver in place. Hesitantly, you approach the filthy man, taking his face in your hands as you delicately analyse the damage. You can feel his throat bob as he swallows hard. “Just… don’t get your hopes up.”

You withdraw your touch, the skirts of your nightgown swirling around your ankles. You blindly fumble around your kitchen, locating a match for the candle that was still discarded on the floor. “You would’ve been better off going a few streets over to Isolde Briarwood. I’ve heard her potions are the best in the lower districts.”

The gangster contemplates your words. “I needed discretion.”

Smoke fills your nostrils as you strike the match, lighting the candle once more. You frown as you look over at Bucky. He looks even worse in the dim lighting. The cold, wet filth must have been sinking into his bones. You notice how he shivers. “I suppose you’re right. Isolde has never been known for keepin’ her gob shut.”

Bucky snorts.

Your gaze sweeps over to your narrow stairs, a pang of worry in your gut. “Do you think you’ll have enough strength to climb the stairs? I have a fire goin’ up there, and I’ll need to boil some water to clean those wounds before they start to fester. I should ‘ave enough coal to last us a couple hours—”

“I’ll be fine.”

Bucky hauls himself to his feet. You gape at him as his strength seems to momentarily return. A part of you wonders if the fall had all been for show, a reason to get you to touch him, but you notice his movements are slow and laboured. Every step seems to take a monumental effort as he pulls himself up the first stair. His hand grips the bannister tightly, knuckles white. 

You follow closely behind him, holding a candle in one hand, its flickering flame casting a soft, warm glow on the dimly lit staircase. Your free hand hovers near his back, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The light dances across the walls, illuminating the stains on his shirt and the sweat glistening on his brow.

"Easy now," you murmur, your voice soft yet steady. 

Bucky nods, his jaw set in determination, but you can see the exhaustion in his eyes. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps, and each exhale sounds like a painful rasp. You can tell he's using every ounce of his willpower to keep moving forward.

As he reaches the fourth step, his leg buckles slightly. You immediately step closer, your hand pressing gently against his back to steady him. The contact is brief, but you can feel the heat radiating from his feverish skin. You knew your hand would be bloodied when you withdrew it.

He grunts in response, a sound that might have been a chuckle under different circumstances. His hand slips on the bannister, and for a moment, he teeters dangerously. You instinctively move to support him, your arm wrapping around his waist.

"Why is your house so damn cold?" Bucky grumbles, his voice strained.

"Coal boy didn't come," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. “And we both know the Warrens aren’t particularly known for holding warmth.”

"Shit, doll," he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. "If I survive this, I'll buy you a new flat."

You try not to think about the possibility of him dying in this situation or the implications of such an offer, focusing instead on the task at hand.

You can see the effort it takes for him to lift his leg and place his foot on the next step. As you reach the halfway point, he falters once more. This time, his leg gives out completely, and he collapses against you. The sudden weight nearly knocks the candle from your hand, but you manage to keep hold of it, the flame sputtering wildly.

"Whoa, easy," you say, your voice gentle but firm. "Lean on me. We’ll make it."

He nods, his head hanging low. You can feel the tremors running through his body, the sheer exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him. With a deep breath, you adjust your grip, taking more of his weight onto yourself.

"Okay, Barnes, here we go," you say, steeling yourself for the final push.

Together, you take the last few steps, the candlelight guiding your way. Each movement is slow and measured, the stairs creaking under your combined weight. You can feel Bucky’s breath against your shoulder, hot and laboured.

Finally, you reach the top of the stairs. Bucky sags against the bannister, his body wobbling from the effort. You keep a firm grip on him, not willing to let him fall after all this. 

“Here, next to the fire.” You murmur as you usher him into your room. The fireplace crackles lazily, casting a welcoming glow. Bucky lowers himself with some effort onto the rug in front of the fire, his movements slow and deliberate. The warmth of the fire seems to offer him some small comfort, and he leans back slightly, letting the heat seep into his battered body.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” you say, your voice soothing despite the urgency in your movements. You watch him for a moment, making sure he’s stable, before turning and rushing downstairs. Your heart races as you grab a pot, filling it with water. The stream from the tap seems to echo loudly in the silent flat. You try to steady your breath, but your fingers won’t stop trembling.

“Get it together,” you whisper to yourself, gripping the counter for support. You can’t afford to hesitate now. Taking a deep breath, you lift the pot, returning to Bucky’s side as quickly as you can.

When you reenter the room, Bucky’s eyes are closed, but his breathing is still laboured. He opens his eyes as you approach, watching you with a mix of pain and curiosity. Setting the pot on a metal stand over the fire. The flames eagerly lick at the bottom of the pot, and you watch as the water begins to heat up.

You kneel beside him, your hands still trembling slightly. “We need to get you clean first. And dry,” you explain, meeting his gaze. He nods, a grim determination in his eyes.

As you move to peel away Bucky's clothing, the reality of his injuries hits you with full force. In the brighter light of the fire, the mud, sewage, and dried blood caked onto his clothing are worse than you remember. The fabric sticks to his skin in a second, grimy layer, with the fibres melded and mashed into the lashes, which are partially visible through the torn sections. The smell is overwhelming—a nauseating mix of sweat, blood, and decay that catches in the back of your throat. 

“Who did this?” You press the gangster. “I didn’t think there were many high up enough to touch you, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts, his breath hitching as you begin to peel the shirt from his back. “I have plenty of enemies, doll.”

“Like who?” 

“You really want to talk business right now?” He snips. The shirt clings stubbornly, the dried blood acting as glue. Each inch you lift reveals more of his battered skin. The gashes on his back are deep, angry wounds, raw and inflamed. You have to work slowly, carefully prying the shirt away from his flesh to avoid tearing the wounds open further. Bucky’s muscles tense and twitch under your hands, his jaw clenched tight.

“I just don’t understand. How did this happen? Why were you alone… do you really have enemies powerful enough to jump you in your own streets?” You babble, the words distracting you from the nerves that were quickly climbing your throat.

“Arcana Castigatio ring a bell?” Bucky says gruffly. 

“You mean The Penance Boys?” You baulk. The lashes suddenly made sense. The Penance Family were a crime family that had founded a cult based on the religion of Arcana Castigatio. They believed in purification through suffering, administering lashings to themselves and others as acts of penance. They view lashings as a necessary act to purge sin and achieve spiritual purity. “I didn’t think they had business dealings in these parts.”

“They don’t. They’ve been pushin’ their luck, pushin’ their beliefs on workers in the Smokestacks, tryna recruit them for the factories over the river.”

“Gods, Bucky,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. When you finally pull the shirt free, you see the full extent of the damage. His back is a mess of deep lashes, some oozing fresh blood, others scabbed over and encrusted with grime.

“So you went to deal with them alone?” You turn your attention to his pants, which are equally soaked through with mud, sewage, and blood. Your cheeks flush with awkwardness, but you know the filthy clothing needs to come off or the cold will never leave his bones.

“No. I took some boys with me.”

"Lift your hips a bit," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Bucky complies. You work quickly, trying to remain clinical as you peel the wet fabric away from his skin. The pants slide down his legs, revealing more bruises and scars. He’s left in just his undershorts, and you both pointedly avoid acknowledging it. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”

“Let's say I’ll have a few mothers to visit in the mornin’.”

You frown hard, swallowing dryly. “I don’t think you’ll be quite on your feet in the mornin’. You already feel like you’re developin’ a fever.”

Bucky grunts, clearly in agreement but unwilling to admit it outright. With the worst of the clothing removed, you turn your attention to the task of cleaning his wounds. You take a clean cloth and dip it into a bowl of hot water from the pot, wringing it until damp but not dripping. The heat from the water stings your fingers.

You press the cloth to his back, starting with the worst of the gashes. Bucky hisses through his teeth, his body jerking involuntarily at the touch. You work as gently as you can, but each swipe of the cloth brings fresh agony. The warm water loosens the dried blood and muck, the cloth coming away dark and filthy with each pass. The more you lift, the more you notice that the skin untouched by wounds is equally scarred, as if this lashing had not been the first occurrence. 

His eyes close as you work, and his face contorts. You move methodically from one gash to the next. The wounds are deep and numerous, crisscrossing his back in a chaotic pattern. Some are long and jagged, others short but vicious. 

Finally, you finish cleaning the last of his back wounds. The cloth in your hand is filthy, the water in the basin turned a murky red-brown. 

“There,” you say softly, your voice laced with weariness. “That’s the worst of it.”

You stand up, stretching your aching muscles, and grab a clean bowl from the nearby shelf. You fill it with fresh water from the pot that is already over the fire. Kneeling beside him, you gently tilt his chin up to get a better look at the damage.

“I’m assumin’ the Peance Boys won’t be gettin’ away with this?” You ask, starting with his forehead, carefully dabbing at the cuts and bruises. The cloth quickly darkens with the mix of blood and dirt, but you continue, your movements precise and gentle. As you wipe away the grime, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent. His face is a mosaic of bruises, some fresh and angry, others older and fading to a sickly yellow. His left eye is swollen nearly shut, and a deep cut runs along his cheekbone.

“You’re not wrong,” he replies, his tone rough and weary.

Bucky’s eyes open and meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels even smaller, the air between you charged with unspoken tension. His gaze is intense, a mix of pain, exhaustion, and something else you can’t quite place. You hold his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away.

“Hold still,” you whisper, trying to cover for yourself. He complies, though his muscles tense with every touch of the cloth.

“What’ll you do to them?” You ask, moving to his jawline, the cloth gliding over the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat as you clean a particularly painful cut. You hum soothingly, trying to ease his discomfort.

“They’ll pay. With time. I need’ta think on it first,” he responds, his voice a low rumble. His eyes flicker dangerously.

“That would be wise. I don’t think you’re in the condition to start a war.”

When you finally reach his lips, you hesitate. His lower lip is split, swollen, and red. You dab at it gently, your hand trembling slightly. Bucky’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening. “I don’t think it’ll be a war… more like… a massacre.”

His lips twist into a bitter smile despite the pain, and you pause, absorbing his words. Unease settles in your gut as you consider the weight of his intentions. You have always known Bucky to be analytical and sadistic in his methods, his revenge was cold and calculated. The word massacre echoes in your mind, and you can't help but wonder what horrors he will unleash. His wrath won't be a simple act of retaliation; it will be a meticulously planned and bloody spectacle. 

“You’re doin’ great,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a whisper, masking the unease that nearly slips through. Bucky’s eyes soften slightly, a hint of gratitude breaking through.

You finish cleaning his face, the cloth now completely stained. You sit back, taking a moment to breathe. Bucky’s face, though still battered, looks a little better, the dirt and blood no longer obscuring his features.

Dumping the cloth on the ground nearby, you rise to your feet. You’d have to do another cleaning pass later with some soap. His hair was still slick with filth, the unmarked sections of his skin stained. 

Your head tilts as you observe him.

You needed to get those wounds shut as soon as possible.

“The best I can do is stitch up your back and use magic to seal it.” You explain as you wring out your fingers, wavering near the fire. “It’ll hurt. Badly. And the scars won’t be pretty.”

The gangster waves a hand at you half-heartedly, wincing as the movement pulls the torn flesh on his shoulders taut. “I’ll live.”

With hesitant steps, you dip behind him deeper into your room. You only needed two things—some strands of your hair and a needle strong enough to pierce skin. Later, you could make up a poultice or salve for his back, the wounds would be hot and inflamed once you sealed them, a paste could soothe them. You would also need to make up a remedy for his pain—a tonic of some kind. A tea would be best to shake off the cold.

You return to Bucky with your hairbrush and needle in tow. He gives you a quizzical look as you settle beside him. 

“Do you want me to talk while I work, or remain silent?” You ask.

“Talk. I have a feeling that I’ll need a distraction.”

You nod and pick up the brush. A clump of your strands are woven between the bristles. With deft fingers, you isolate a single strand and pull it from the mass. “I will use my hair as thread,” you explain.

“I can channel my magic through parts of myself.” You take the strand and briefly pull the fibre through your lips, wetting the end. “I’ll stitch your wounds and use my magic to seal the skin back together.”

You thread the needle with ease, pulling your hair through the eye in one gentle tug. “The magic will flush out any infection, but the scars will be painful for some time.”

“Will it break the fever?” The gangster asks. You frown, head cocking to the side as you pull your eyes from the needle to his skin. His face is rosy and flushed with heat. A thin layer of sweat glistens in the firelight.

“No.” You sigh, twisting the needle in your grip. The curved metal glints. “I fear your fever is from the cold, not your wounds.”

“It’s partly good news, though, it will be easier to break than a fever brought on by infection.” You shift so you are positioned behind him, staring directly at the criss-crossed lashes. Blood and fluid ooze from the tender flesh.

“This’ll hurt.” You remind him.

You start with the worst of the gashes, threading your hair through the jagged edges of his torn flesh. The needle punctures his skin with a sickening pop. Bucky’s body tenses, his muscles bunching as a low growl of agony rumbles in his chest. A slew of curses leaves his lips, incoherent through his grit teeth.

The smell of blood and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from the fire. Each push of the needle is nauseating. The skin resists each stroke of the sharp metal. With each pass, you can feel how your hair grows taut, and you are careful not to allow it to snap as you drag it through the skin. The raw edges come together with an uneven, painful precision.

“I did warn you, I’m no healer.” You murmur. The gangster does not reply. His hand grips the edge of the rug, knuckles white. 

You push through the process, your hands steady despite the horror of it. The strands of hair weave through his wounds, stitches wonky as they barely cinch the skin shut. Your lack of experience shows, but you decide it is not the time to comment on it.

Bucky’s low growl turns into a pained moan as you work on a particularly deep wound. His muscles twitch, and he nearly pulls away from you, but he forces himself to stay still. You coo at him soothingly, your fingers stroking across an untouched patch of skin in a silent gesture of comfort.

“Just a little more,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet strained. The tension in the room is thick, every sound is amplified by the silence between you.

You quicken your pace, your own heart pounding in your chest. The last few stitches are the hardest, Bucky’s body is writhing in agony beneath your touch. His growls turn into cries, raw and guttural. The smell of fresh blood is overpowering, and you fight the urge to gag as you finish the last stitch.

Finally, you tie off the thread, your hands shaking from the effort. The wounds are closed, but you still need to fuse them shut.

You take a deep breath, gathering your resolve for the next part of the process. The stitching is done, but now you need to seal the wounds with your magic. Holding your hands over Bucky’s back, you focus on the strands of hair threaded through his flesh. Slowly, you begin to channel your magic, feeling it surge from within you and through your fingertips.

The feeling of chaos sweeps over your skull, your scalp prickling as the electrifying feeling cascades down your spine. The strands of hair start to glow, a soft, eerie light emanating from them. Bucky tenses immediately, his muscles bunching and his back arching as the heat begins to build. The glow intensifies, with the strands heating up and melding with his skin. The smell of singed flesh fills the room, acrid and nauseating.

Bucky’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He lets out a guttural scream, the sound ripping through the quiet. His body convulses, his hands clawing at the rug beneath him. He cries out, but any words he is attempting to speak are incoherent through his agony. You grit your teeth, fingers curling as you hesitate, but you know this is the only way.

"Hold on," you murmur, your voice trembling. "Just a little longer."

The glow from the hair brightens further, the heat reaching its peak. Bucky’s screams turn into a hoarse, ragged howl, his body writhing in uncontrollable pain. It’s as if molten metal is being poured into his wounds, searing the flesh and fusing it together. The skin bubbles and sizzles, the magic knitting the torn edges with brutal efficiency.

You can feel his pain as if it were your own, each scream and shudder resonating through you. Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay focused. Your hands hover just above his back, fingers trembling as you pour every ounce of your will into the spell. The glow begins to fade, the heat dissipating as the wounds finally seal shut.

This magic, your magic, was not meant for healing. It was not life magic or kind magic. Your magic had never been empathetic, never gracious or soft. Your magic was death, violence, and destruction. If you pushed the blinding white heat any further, it would tear him apart entirely.

You held onto something otherworldly—a power too wicked and cruel for a mere mortal. It lay between worlds, a focus of chaos invisible to the naked eye. 

It was not right to bend and force chaos to your will. 

Yet you could.

Bucky collapses onto the floor, his body shivering uncontrollably. His breath comes in frantic gasps, his voice hoarse from screaming.

"It's over," you whisper, your own voice barely more than a breath. "It’s done."

Without thinking, you rush to his side, dropping to your knees. You grasp his face in your hands, feeling the heat of his fevered skin against your palms. His eyes are half-lidded and glazed with pain, but they lock onto yours. For a moment, everything else fades away—the wounds, the blood, the horror of the past hour.

Your thumb strokes gently across his jaw, then his cheek, tracing the rough stubble and the bruised skin beneath. His breath hitches at the contact, his eyes softening just a fraction. "Bucky," you murmur, his name a fragile whisper on your lips. "It’s over now."

His gaze holds yours, a fleeting tenderness passing between you, but the tenderness is short-lived. You steel yourself, pulling your hands away and standing up. The scent of burnt flesh seems to linger in the air.

“Stay still. I will make up a poultice, it should stop the burning.” You explain to the gangster. 

But he does not reply. 

His eyes seem to have rolled back into his head.

PART FOUR

[sporco-filth]

wife on strike

This idea came to me this morning and I just had to start writing it down. I'm sorry if you've been expecting updates for my other series, especially because this is just the intro of this one and not much slob stuff happens yet.

Synopsis: Tiffany is tired of picking up of her husband Felix and decides to stop cleaning to show him how much work she does and force him to help with chores

Tiffany looked over the kitchen and sighed. Toast crumbs were scattered over the benchtop, a jar of jam was left open, the knife dripping the sticky, red goop onto the tablecloth, while a half-drunk cup of coffee sat cold and forgotten next to a dirty plate. As always, Felix left it to her to clean up. "It's not like he has to rush off anywhere," she grumbled to herself. "He works for home for crying out loud!" And so went her day, like every other day: dishes, laundry, vacuuming, ironing, dusting, shopping, cooking… Since she had married Felix, life had become one long list of chores. I feel like his mother, she thought as she sat on the bed, folding clothes, the last job of the day. Sometimes I even have to nag him to shower. Just then, Felix came into the bedroom. He flopped onto the bed, disrupting Tiffany's neatly stacked piles, and took her hand. "Tiff, love," he said, stroking her fingers. "What do you say to a bit of… you know?" Tiffany pulled her hand away and quickly reorganised the laundry. "Not tonight, Felix, I'm not in the mood." Felix looked disappointed, but he didn't argue. He got up and went to get changed into his pyjamas, leaving his clothes on the floor. Tiffany sighed and went to pick them up. It wasn't that she wasn't attracted to Felix: he was just as handsome as they day she met him. It was just hard to want sex when she was tired from cleaning all day, and even less desirable when she had to treat him like her child.

That night, while Felix slept, Tiffany opened up her laptop. Husband is a slob, she typed into the search engine and pressed go. After skimming over a few posts on forums and letters to agony aunts, Tiffany was feeling dispirited. So far, all the suggestions were things she had tried in the past to no avail. There had to be a better way. A news headline caught her eye: Wife on Strike. She clicked the link and found a story about a woman who refused to tidy up for her husband until he finally decided if he wanted a clean house he would have to do it himself. He came to appreciate the work his wife did and so they now shared the chores fairly. Tiffany was intrigued. It was an unconventional idea, sure, but perhaps that was just what she needed. After a week or two without clean underwear or home cooked meals, Felix would surely buckle and start pitching in. She shut the laptop and slipped into bed, smiling to herself. Starting tomorrow, I'm going on strike!

The next morning, Tiffany allowed herself to sleep in. Since she didn't need to unstack the dishwasher or do the laundry, she had no reason to rush out of bed. Felix got up at his usual time and made himself breakfast and got ready for work. When Tiffany finally got up, she was greeted with the typical morning mess, but she ignored it and made her own breakfast. When she was done, she just left her dirty dishes on the table. No wonder Felix never does anything, she thought, chuckling. It's so freeing to just make leave messes for others to clean up. She spent the morning lying about on the sofa in her dressing gown. Eventually, Felix came out for lunch. "You look pretty comfy," he commented, smiling. "You know I always thought you need a bit of relaxation." Tiffany chuckled. Felix didn't realise what was in store for him and she wasn't going to spoil the surprise. He rifled through the fridge and assembled a sandwich on the kitchen bench. To his credit, he at least remembered to put away most of the ingredients, though he forgot the mayonnaise, but the chopping board was left covered in crumbs and dirty knives. Tiffany turned back to the magazine she was reading. It was going to be tough, but she knew she had to steel her nerves and plough onwards.

When the sun began to set, Felix entered the living room, stretching his arms. "Ah, another day done," he said with a yawn. "What's for dinner?" "I don't know," Tiffany said. Felix scratched his ear. "What d'you mean?" "I don't feel like cooking tonight." Felix smiled. "Ah, that's OK. We can order take away." Tiffany shook her head as Felix got out his phone and went to call the local Chinese restaurant. She'd hoped he'd offer to cook, but at least he was taking initiative.

Dinner that night was eaten in front of the TV. Felix joked about the show they were watching and without the list of things to do nagging at the back of her mind, Tiffany actually paid attention. She snuggled up next to him, just enjoying being with him. Felix belched mid-sentence. Tiffany bit back the urge to tell him to excuse himself. In fact, it gave her an idea. If I behave like a slob too, she thought. Maybe it'll make him realise how gross he is… She tucked this thought in the back of her mind for safekeeping and continued watching the show. They went to bed with the empty take-away containers on the coffee table. Before she closed the bedroom door, Tiffany took a look around their open-plan dining/living/kitchen space, taking in the mess that had already accumulated from a single day. This'll be easy, she thought. In a week it'll already be a pigsty.

[merryfortune]

biscuits for a day of remembrance

Written for Ficwip Discord’s August 100 Words Event

Title: biscuits for a day of remembrance

Ship: Takumi/Yui

Fandom: Delicious Party Pretty Cure

Word Count: 1,000

Rating: T

Warning: Canonical Character Death

Tags: Grief, Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love

   Takumi woke up for the day, he was struck by dread. The birds didn’t sing outside, the frost lingered, and the skies were grey. The whole town, it seemed, knew exactly what made this Sunday so out of the ordinary and so utterly tragic.

   Time all but stood still in remembrance to a certain woman whose reputation was known far and wide in this town. Today marked exactly one year since the passing of Nagomi Yone.

   In the kitchen, Takumi stood like a zombie. He wasn’t hungry, he just wanted to pay his morning dues. In a similar fugue state, his Mother gave him an apologetic look. She knew, too, and had already made plans and arrangements to give Akiho and Hikaru the day off. That meant he was tasked with occupying Yui.

   His stomach clenched at the thought of his best friend. Poor Yui. She had been closer than anyone to her grandmother, absorbing all her wisdom and clinging onto her dress the way only a granddaughter could. 

   It wasn’t the same but he could relate to the gaping hole left by a precious person’s absence. Just look at his Father, even on a day like this, he was still far away and on that boat in a different part of the world. It was tough. But at least for Takumi, who still had all four of his grandparents, it was temporary.

   Takumi got changed and it was eleven by the time he went next door. With the diner closed, the front of the house was eerily quiet. The lights were off and the gloomy weather hung like a ghost. He came around the side and into the main part of the house. Where it was a home. Or should have been. It was so cold today. Felt lifeless and lonely yet when Takumi saw Yui, he was relieved.

   There she was. In the kitchen, humming a little tune to herself. She had her hair done up in a bun today. That was uncharacteristic but understandable on a day like today as it was just like her nan’s favourite hairstyle.

   When she noticed him, she turned around with a bittersweet smile.

   “Ah. Hey Takumi. Mum said you would be around soon.” Yui said, her voice cracking. “I-It’s nice that our parents are friends, they’ve gone to have lunch somewhere. Or, uh, maybe brunch since it’s not noon yet.” She laughed awkwardly.

   Takumi came closer, leaned against the entryway to the kitchen, where tatami met tiling underfoot. He could smell something  crispy and somewhat sweet in the air when he poked his head in.

   “How’re you holding up?” Takumi asked.

   “Y-Yeah, fine.” Yui clearly lied. She was honest to a fault as she pawed at her eyes. They were shiny and rimmed red. “Um, I’ve had a, uh, cry or two already this morning but…”

   “You're working out your feelings the way you know best.” Takumi said and he gestured to the workspace in the kitchen.

   The mess that Yui made seemed reflective of her headspace. Nothing was neat and clean, there was flour and desiccated coconut sprinkled on the benchtop. Her wooden spoon perched precariously on the sink’s edge was still slathered in batter.

   Yui nodded. 

   “Whatcha making?” Takumi asked.

   “Army biscuits.” Yui replied. “You're just in time, they’re almost done.”

   “What’re army biscuits?” Takumi asked.

   “They’re from Australia and given to folks who you aren’t going to see in a while. They don’t spoil easily so they’re good for long journeys.” Yui said, her pacing off-kilter.

   She brushed herself down, skirt flapping, and started to walk into the den, so Takumi joined her. They sat down together. It was obvious that Yui was feeling fragile but at the same time, talkative so it was better to continue cross-legged versus standing up.

   “D-Did you know?” Yui asked. “My Grandmother, she did some travelling in her youth. Including Australia which is where she learned this recipe. It's made with coconut, oats, and golden syrup. They’re hard and crunchy but so yummy.”

   “I look forward to trying one then.” Takumi replied.

   “They’ll be ready soon.” Yui said then got flustered. She had already said that. She fidgeted atop the table as she got upset with herself. Takumi reached out and stroked her hands, running his fingers over her knuckles.

   “When you're ready.” Takumi told her again.

   “Thanks.” Yui breathed a sigh of relief. “I-I thought they would be a good choice for today. Grandmother said these biscuits are baked around times of remembrance, so, um, I thought it was fitting.”

   “I see.” Takumi murmured.

   Neither had anything to say to that so it turned into a mutual minute silence for Yone. It was a heavy silence which had Yui shuddering as she tried not to cry but she was boiling over like a kettle on the stove. Takumi was a non-judgemental presence but ever an awkward teenage boy, he didn’t know what to say.

   Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything. Yui’s timer went off and she went flying to the kitchen in response. Anything to flee her feelings as she opened the oven, was blasted by the heat inside and drew out the cookies on the tray over the rack.

   Takumi could smell them from here. They had a wholesome, hearty smell to them decadent with caramelised golden syrup. Yui impatiently plated them, singing her fingers by accident. 

   “They’re ready.” Yui said. “And be careful, they’re hot.”

   Takumi nodded and let Yui place them in the middle of the low table but waited for her first. She got onto her knees and took a deep breath, then spoke.

   “Thank you for this recipe, Grandmother.” she said.

   “Thank you.” Takumi echoed.

   Yui reached for the top biscuit piled upon the plate. She breathed, shuddering, and they were still too hot to handle and that made her tear up, or maybe she was already tearing up because of her grandmother then ate, with gusto, and let her tears stream down her face.

[gokartkid]

Chalex - ‘taste’ 👀

Charles, unlike a lot of chefs that Alex knows, likes to keep cooking outside of work too. 

It says something else about him, Alex thinks, about how he loves it for the art of it. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the industrial kitchen of his Michelin star restaurant, or their cramped apartment countertop with a gas stove that takes about 30 seconds to decide whether it’ll work on any given day. Charles will pull every drop of spirit he has out of himself to put on a plate. 

Alex has had one of the best Steak au Poivre’s in his life just standing by their benchtop in a ratty pair of boxers and a too-big shirt.

Alex likes to cook at home too but— not like Charles does. He doesn’t think he could do it like Charles does, how he goes into a completely different zone in the kitchen. Alex is always so aware of himself, of what he’s doing and has to do next and everything that he’s probably fucking up that he has to work on the next time. 

That’s what made him a good sous chef, he guesses, what makes him a good critic now. He thinks it takes something else to be a visionary.

“Alex.”

He blinks. 

Charles is holding out a spoon towards him, expectantly. He’s wearing his reading glasses, that he’s had to put on more and more lately. Alex had noticed him squinting, and then surreptitiously bought him a nice pair for his birthday from a local bookstore. The bottoms of the lenses are still fogged up from opening the oven to check on the potatoes.

“Tell me what you think,” Charles prompts, as Alex leans forward to taste, closing his mouth carefully around the spoon and letting the sauce sit in his mouth, licking it clean.

He closes his eyes to savour it: the salt and umami of miso; a rich depth from the seaweed; the fatty satisfying taste of beef. He licks his lips at the last hint of it, and opens his eyes. 

Charles is looking at him slightly dazed, red spots high on his cheeks. His eyes drop and linger on Alex’s mouth, and he feels suddenly self conscious.

“I liked it,” he says, talking just to talk, “great umami flavour, and it went through the layers really well. I think you could stand to add some spice but—“

Charles leans forward, and kisses him; long and slow and deep, tongue licking into his mouth. Alex almost talks through the first part of it, when his brain is still short-circuiting until he gets with the programme, tilting his head and breathing in shallow through his nose.

Charles’ mouth tastes like bitter tannins; the glass of red wine that he’s slowly been sipping at while making their dinner, staining the bottom of his glass, his mouth. Alex can feel Charles’ fingers curl in the soft material of his shirt. The air hangs heavy with the smell of well loved food, the ambient whirr of the exhaust fan going. 

“You promise you like it,” Charles pulls away to ask, just barely, lips moving in a buzz against Alex’s.

“I promise.”

[mickey-gomez]

Rita Calhoun couples headcanons 2/?

Who reaches out to new neighbours?

You, but only if you run into them in the halls or the elevator. Does anyone ever really know their neighbours in Manhattan? 

Who remembers to buy healthy food?

Rita. Despite hardly ever cooking she gets a weekly delivery of groceries and meals, she’ll make green juices and smoothies so you both get something into your system before leaving the house for the day. On the weekends if you both have the time you’ll stroll through the farmers market in Washington Market Park, buying fresh fruit and flowers. 

Who remembers to buy junk food?

You, but you sneak it in the shopping when you don’t think she’s looking, and hide it where you don’t think she’ll find it in the house. She knows, she just lets you think she doesn’t. Also if you’re having a particularly bad day, she’ll drop by your office with pastries or cookies to cheer you up.

Who fixes the oven when it’s broken?

Neither of you. Rita calls someone to fix it. 

Who waters the plants/feeds the pets?

Both of you. It depends on your schedules and who is home first. But you typically have indoor plants that don’t require a great deal of care, and the plants on the terrace have an in-built sprinkler system, or are taken care of by someone else. 

Who wakes up earlier?

It depends. During the work week you both tend to wake up at the same time and share an alarm, on the weekends she’s more likely to wake before you. She’ll leave you to sleep in while she runs a couple of errands, and makes coffee to wake you up with. 

Who makes the bed?

Whoever is last out of bed, but Rita will make her side if you’re still asleep. 

Who makes the coffee?

Rita, and she’s very particular about it. She has a benchtop professional espresso machine, a french press, a moka pot, a pour-over, and an ibrik. She uses the espresso most mornings, but it’s all dependent on her mood, the beans, and her time. On Sundays she’ll use the pour-over or french press for the two of you while you read the paper, if it’s just her she’ll use the ibrik for herself. 

Who burns the breakfast?

Rita. She can’t cook very well, but will try her hardest to make something more impressive than toast for you, and will end up getting distracted. 

How do they let each other know they’re leaving the house?

You find one another out and let the other know, sharing a quick kiss. If you’re asleep, Rita will leave a note on your bedside table. If Rita is in the office you’ll scratch her shoulder lightly to gain her attention and let her know. 

How do they greet each other when one of them gets home?

A quick kiss, and a conversation about how your days were. If one of you needs to vent you’ll pour out two glasses of wine, or scotch if the day calls for it, and relax into the couch as you listen to one another. 

Who brings home little gifts like flowers/chocolates more often?

Rita. But you normally have fresh flowers in the house anyway, normally on the kitchen island or in the living room. She’ll buy you jewellery after a bonus from work, but she’s more likely to surprise you with hard to come by dinner reservations or gallery tickets. 

Who picks the movie on movie night?

Both of you. If one of you has to work through a file, the other will pick. Or if there’s two different movies you both want to watch, you’ll play rock paper scissors to choose who gets to pick the movie. Rita normally lets you win though, able to read what move you’re going to use. She wraps you in her arms on the lounge and falls asleep behind you. 

Their favourite kind of movie to watch?

She loves the classics, and would probably say either 12 Angry Men or To Kill a Mockingbird is her favourite film, but it’s actually My Cousin Vinny. Her go to pick would probably be a Humphrey Bogart or Katharine Hepburn film, or more likely a documentary, but if she wanted to switch off for a while it’d be a classic comedy.

Who first suggests a pillow fort?

You, but rarely if ever. Only maybe once or twice for a movie night, and only with the spare sheets and pillows, not the ones from your bed or the lounge, Rita would probably have an aneurysm if you did. 

Who tries to distract the other during the movie?

Probably you, but unintentionally. You might remember something you wanted or had to tell her, and talk through the opening scenes. She’ll stop and pause the movie until you finish, then right after she hits play again you’ll remember something else, and she’ll give up on being able to pay attention to the screen. 

Who falls asleep first

It depends on your days and your frames of mind. Normally you fall asleep around the same time because you’re wrapped up in one another’s arms. If you’re upset, Rita will wait until you fall asleep to close her eyes. 

Who is the big spoon/little spoon?

Rita is almost always the big spoon. But every once in a while she’s the little spoon, when she’s had a tough day and wants to be held as she falls asleep.

Taglist: @storiesofsvu @alexusonfire @drduckthief @wannabe-fic-reader @imlike-so-gay-dude @fanfictionfangirl04 @annegilletteslostwhor3 @momlifebehard @holycrapraewth @giftedchildturns40 @ladysc @itwasrealtome @plccarter @when-wolves-howl @upsidedowndanvers @amarria_svufan @red1culous @summergeezburr​

[murdockussy]

Beyond These Walls

Matt Murdock x Roommate Reader Fic

previous chapter

masterlist

Chapter Seven: Why Not

words: 2k

With the sound of the pad of your finger tapping the phone screen, ending the call, Matt diverted his focus back on Karen, her muffled words becoming clearer. 

“...Which I'm sure he’ll be happy about”  

“Sorry Karen, I missed the first half of that, what’d you say?” Matt spoke, clearing his throat as he stood in the kitchen, pretending to clear the sink bench. 

“That's fine, I was umm... Just saying that maybe we could grab some coffees on the way. I know you and Foggy usually make one in the office but I thought since we were already out, and we've got the extra set of hands?”  

“Yeah, that’ll be nice” he said, his attention once again drifting to the opening door 6 stories below his home, the guess you were waiting upon beginning to make her way upstairs.  

“Well, we better get going if we want to make it on time, I don’t want Foggy judging us if we’re both late, although I'm sure a hot cappuccino will make up for it” Karen said with a laugh, the joke flying over Matts head as he continued to listen to Noelle now speedily ascend the stairwell.  

“I’ll just have to grab my things before we leave” Matt muttered, teetering around the kitchen as if he didn’t know exactly where everything was placed, his hands tapping along the benchtop pretending to be searching for something to drag out the time.    

The thought of meeting your visitor – let alone you – for the first time filled him with confusing emotions he hasn’t felt for a very long time, his feelings walking the fine line of eagerness and anxiousness. It wasn’t though he wished to avoid you, but he also didn’t feel ready to be face to face with the stranger he was secretly becoming conditioned and comfortable with, these sensations something he check listed to ponder over at a later time.    

Karen watched Matt fumble with an awkward eye, unsure of whether to lend a hand or allow Matt to do what he needed too, not wanting to overstep any unclear boundaries that were yet to be made. “I can go wait for you in the hall?” she asked, sweetening her voice out of uncertainty as she slowly inched her way towards the front door.  

“There's no need, I'll only be a moment. I just need to find...” Matt replied, continuing to delve around his kitchen, his attention dipping between Karen edging closer to the front door and Noelle growing nearer to yours.  

“I’ll just be outside, take your time Matt, really there's no rush”  

“Ah, no Karen, I’ll just-”, As Karen ignored his pleas, finding her way to the front door and swinging it open, his anxieties grew worse, his internal stress radar going over the edge as Noelle reached the final flight of stairs below yours and Matts floor.  

In a panic he raced towards his front door with the intention of reeling Karen back inside before Noelle could spot her, not wanting to give your guest the impression that Karen was living there, or that she was associated with Matt as more than a co-worker. And although he was clueless on why he wanted to avoid that scenario so badly, something deep inside him was potent on keeping Karen clear from your eyes – another thing Matt added to his list to ponder on later.  

However, Noelle’s excited pace was somehow unparalleled to Matt’s distressed-fueled speed, her reaching the peak of the staircase before Matt had the chance to shelter Karen inside from Noelle’s view.    

He stood behind the wooden front door, his heart thumping with worry as he listened to the now inevitable interaction, a quiet gasp leaving Noelle’s throat as she laid eyes on Karen's figure leaning against the hallway wall.  

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezed his eyes shut as he prayed for Karen not to interact with Noelle, to let her enter your apartment without any conversation, but found himself silently cursing as Karen's inescapable kindness was released.  

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you” the blonde spoke with a toothy smile, her voice friendly and sincere.  

“No! Don’t apologise” Noelle replied with a laugh, her hand over her chest as she released a deep breath as though she was winded, “I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone else up here”  

Matt followed Noelle’s every move as she swiftly passed Karen, arriving at your front door and began to knock, relief flooding within him as your voice called from inside your apartment, “It’s open!”  

Noelle cranked her head over her shoulder, wishing Karen a good day before opening the door and entering your home, Matt releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding onto as Noelle closed the door behind her.    

Scurrying around his home, Matt grabbed his belongings, heading out the front door, locking the door as he apologised for keeping Karen waiting. There the two headed down the stairwell together, Karen's grasp firm on his upper arm in attempts to help him down each set of stairs, his hearing still within the walls of your apartment as Noelle recalled the events from before to you, her words searing the pit in Matt’s stomach.  

***  

“By the way, did someone drop by before I got here?” Noelle asked, dropping her bags on the floor next to the dining table as she gently placed the takeaway tray on the surface, sliding the cups out of their holders.  

“No... Why?” You asked, thanking your friend as she passed you the warm drink. 

“There was some blonde woman standing across the hall when I got here”  

“Blonde woman?” you said as you flickered through old conversations with Fran, trying to possibly remember her mentioning the stranger, “What was she like?”  

“Feminine. More than I'll ever be. Looked professional. Blue eyes, blonde hair, banging figure. I'm talking tiny waist, and hips. for. days. Seemed nice though, totally didn’t give off psycho killer vibes”  

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not” you said, taking a sip of your drink.  

“I’m dead serious. Although it wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep the door locked, even when you know I'm headed up, you know how Fran is with that stuff. Anyway, she seemed like she was waiting for someone, maybe your neighbour?”  

“Could be his girlfriend or something? Grandma never gave me the details on him, just the standard cautionary tales”  

“That’s Fran alright, wouldn’t expect any less of her” Noelle said with a laugh, crouching beside the table and began ruffling through her bag, you leaning against the back of the couch as you watched, taking sips of your coffee.  

“Gotcha!” Noelle called as stood, returning to face you with the borrowed set of clothes in her hands, “Thank you again for letting me borrow them. I was tossing up the idea of keeping them, those sweats do cling to my ass pretty good”  

Grabbing the clothes, you headed into your bedroom to put them away, calling out to Noelle to “borrow them any time” before returning to find her sitting comfortably on the couch, sipping her drink as she patted the empty space besides her.    

Complying to her silent offer, you sat down, turning your body to face hers with your feet tucked underneath you, sipping your coffee as you both gossiped about your week. Although the presence of another person still left depths of you feeling uncomfortable and hesitant – a habit you were sure you weren't going to break out of anytime soon - Noelle’s company had you slowly resurfacing from your thickly built shell.    

As Noelle rambled about her latest encounter with a group of freshly legal drunken college girls, you couldn’t help but have your mind slip away from the conversation into its own imaginative void as you pictured yourself in her shoes, the idea of being around so many constant people leaving you feeling overwhelmed which Noelle eventually caught onto.    

“Hey, are you alright?” Noelle asked, her now gently placed hand on your thigh pulling you from your daze.  

“Yes, sorry! I swear I was listening. I was just picturing myself around that many people, I don’t know how you do it”    

“Well for one, true New Yorkers like myself are accustomed to crowds, you can’t beat them. And two, if you’d come visit during one of my shifts you could see for yourself that it’s not that bad”  

“I know you’ll hold me down to it, I'll come visit you someday soon” you said with a smile, patting her hand that rested on your leg.  

“That ‘soon’ better mean within the next few weeks, I don’t want you going mad in this apartment. Don’t get me wrong, this rundown-penthouse is quite the stunner, but you’re going to need a break from it soon, right?”  

You sat there for a moment in silence pondering over her words. Although it had only been a week since you’d moved in, the same daily routine was slowly starting to chip at you. It wasn’t that you lacked any company – being alone was something you were habitual with – but that you were beginning to grow bored, feeling in need of a more proactive change of routine.  

Noelle watched you as you remained stiff, your blank gaze unmoving from your lap, your attention diverting back to her as she murmured your name, "Did I say something wrong? I don’t want you to think I'm pressuring you, you know I would neve-”  

“No, you’re right” You said, interrupting her, taking another sip of your drink before continuing, “I think I do need a break, I need a fresh start, you know?”  

“Yes!” Noelle shouted, an encouraging smile forming over her face as the worry drained from her body, “Back in the city, technically-old but new apartment, fresh start, I love this for you! This is great, timing and all!”  

“Timing with what?”  

There was a pause before Noelle spoke again, her eyes blinking rapidly as a stressed smile pulled at her cheeks, “Don’t hate me, it wasn’t my idea”  

“Noelle” you said firmly, “What have you done?”  

“Nothing! It wasn’t me! Fran and mum have been chatting since you got here, and she knows Fran would never leave you empty pocketed here, but she’s been hounding me with questions on you being cooped up alone here, mothers' intuition and what not”  

“Go on”  

“Well, she wanted me to ask you about this offering at the right time, and I don’t want you to feel pressured at all. If this isn’t what you’re aiming for I totally understand. I get you’re comfortable here and I-”  

“Noelle, just spit it!”  

“Okay! Mum’s asked if you wanted a spot at her book store”  

You smiled, feeling somewhat relieved at Noelle’s words, the offering sparking your interest. “Like a job?”  

“Pretty much. She hasn’t gone over the details much, every time she brings it up I try to brush it off, but you know how persistent she is. All I know is that it’ll be stocking shelves and service stuff, that’s pretty much what mum does day by day anyway”  

You thought over the idea as you sipped through the remainder of your drink, considering the possibility of you working with Noelle’s mum. From what Noelle’s told you, their bookstore has kept a quiet, even pace over the years, the more well-known stores gaining more attention than theirs, which you’d consider a win. And although you had your own money, as well as the gifted cash from Fran, a little extra on the side wouldn’t hurt. Plus, it wasn’t like you’d be working with strangers, Noelle’s family being people you used to be familiar with. ‘What could be the harm in it’ you thought to yourself, emotions beginning to swirl in your stomach.  

“You know what, why not” you spoke quickly before you could take back your words.  

“Wait, really?” Noelle said, her eyes wide with shock, “Don’t feel like you have too, mum just thought she’d offer”  

“Yeah, really” you replied, your smile spreading from your face to Noelle’s, “I think it’ll be good. Let your mum know I said I'll do it”    

[ms-hells-bells]

i almost set this house i'm caring for on fire because the owner won't let me use the goddamn oven. she's got weird hangups about ovens and refuses to use them, so she uses a benchtop toaster oven. fine enough, i'll just use that. i want to cook a pizza. i double check to make sure it'll fit in the toaster oven. it will. the highest setting on the toaster oven is 220C. the pizza says 232C, but eh, close enough, it'll work. i turn the oven on to 220 to preheat, no pizza in yet. i sit on the couch in the living room, to wait for like 5-10 minutes for the thing to heat up. suddenly, i start smelling smoke. i RUN to the closed off pantry area where the toaster oven is, and the entire little room (the pantry room is through a side door in its own little space, with a benchtop, that the toaster oven was on) is filled with smoke.

i immediately turn the oven off and try to open a window, but their stupid window is tiny and barely opens. i open the pantry room door into the living room and look for more windows to open. there are none. these people have NO WINDOWS IN THEIR ENTIRE LIVING ROOM AND KITCHEN OPEN FLOOR. just an entire wall of glass doors to the backyard. so, i have to open one, letting the 5C cold air into the house, with the heat pump going, because that is also helping fresh the air get in the room. eventually, i have to close the door because i could just see the dollars going out the door with the heat. i turn the oven exhaust hood on full blast, and still have it on, slowly sucking the smoke up.

my eyes and throat BURN. but i was just so lucky that i didn't burn this house down just 5 days after being given the keys. the baking paper wasn't so lucky though.

i have never seen baking paper do this in my life. when i touched it, it crumbled like campfire ashes. this over 220C?? that's 430f, which is definitely hot, but like....a normal cooking temperature??? i cook this pizza all the time at 232 back home with a normal oven. if you can't go 220, then why do you allow me to turn you to 220, you stupid fucking toaster oven.

anyways, i texted her daughter and her daughter said 'nah, just use the oven, better than setting things on fire'. will do, but maybe tomorrow, i think i am all heated out today, no cooking tonight.

[daytimedrinkingdiary]

Tiny basic kitchen cooking.

The studio we call home here in Athens has a kitchen that reflects the old style. Tiny apartments and houses did not have dedicated ovens, instead food would be taken to the local bakery to be cooked in their ovens. A built-in hotplate wasn’t part of the kitchen either. We cook on a two-element, portable stove and have a small electric oven for roasting/baking. Our little kitchen also has a marble benchtop and, until a recent update, also had a marble kitchen sink.

So while whipping up a gourmet feast is unlikely, it’s surprising what you can cook. I’m going to keep track of the meals we create with basic ingredients and implements but with some great seasonal and local ingredients.

Tonight’s dinner was a chicken and potato salad, with both those ingredients fried together with lots of delicious fresh garlic. Along with great tomatoes, cucumber, Kalamata olives, feta, lettuce, charred capsicum, beetroot and olive oil. Yum.

[tweedheadsaustralia]

Fantastic Family Entertainer

[sawtellaustralia]

Low Maintenance Living

[jscontracting]

Rural Heritage at Piallamore - History Reborn

Built with pieces of history, this new homestead embodies modern rural living. A derelict old tobacco drying barn once stood on this farm and when it was time for it to go, we reclaimed the bricks for the owners - one by one. Now, these old bricks take pride of place - repurposed to create this new home and serve for many more years to come. Complementing the bricks with traditional materials and colours has ensured this home will never truly date - a piece of Australia that looks like it belongs.

Working with the slope of the land as it falls down to the river, a framed floor using bearers and joists keeps the home high and avoided the need to dig it into a flat pad, plus it allows an improved view of the river flats below. The result: greater visual impact is achieved, and the need for a host of other water management solutions is eliminated.

Outdoor living is well served by an undercover alfresco area with direct views to the river flats below, and a smaller private verandah with direct access from the main bedroom. With composite timber decking being laid on each of these, minimum maintenance will be required to keep these looking great.

Inside, a feature wall boasts more reclaimed bricks (this time in their original uncleaned state) and another tribute to history with the original vents from the old tobacco barn bricked in again as they had been for many decades before. But this feature wall isn’t just decorative; it serves a double purpose. Shielding the home from visitors at the impressive double door entrance, it also serves as thermal mass to smooth out the internal temperature and improve living comfort.

A custom designed highlight window above the northern entrance allows for extra light to stream into the home.

Tiles reach to the ceiling in each bathroom, and the showers feature arched screens, custom sized to fit the needs of the shower spaces. The bath is positioned so you can just lay back and enjoy the view as you relax on a lazy day.

In the ensuite, the asymmetrical mirror is a highlight. This is something the owners were keen on having, but we couldn’t just go out and buy it off the shelf; a specific size was needed to fit the space and double vanity so that it was still functional. So Justin drew up a template and it was custom made to perfectly suit the spot!

Solid spotted gum timber floorboards, secretly nailed, grace the living areas, lending them a sense of warmth and country. A raking ceiling provides spaciousness. The beautiful shaker style kitchen with stone benchtops is complemented by a walk-in pantry for loads of extra storage and is perfect for a rural home. A purpose-built study nook with VJ panelling and solid timber shelving sits adjacent so it’s easy to multitask whilst cooking.

Full width double-glazed stacking doors from the living area are great for climate control without the need for heavy drapes. They lead to the undercover alfresco area, and allow the river flats view to be enjoyed from inside or outside. Entertaining is made easy on the alfresco via a servery kitchen window.

This is such a welcome place to come home to; the owners enter via the laundry/mudroom where there’s room to sit, take off your shoes and generally “land”, before moving into the heart of the home.

With ventilation paths, insulation, double glazing and multiple heating and cooling options, it is designed and built for comfort and low running costs; not only to benefit the owners now, but for the lifetime of the dwelling. A house with roots in the past now looks to the future.

History is not lost! This home is a tangible connection between the old of the farm, and the new.

We worked with the owners of this house through the demolition of the original tobacco barn, the design phase for the new home, and the build phase: taking it from Concept to Creation. Working with the slope, the views and the original bricks allowed us to create a unique home that makes the most of its location and fulfils the wants and needs of its owners. To see more photos of this home, click through to our Facebook page or our website.

[knebelblacktown]

Kitchen Renovation - What You Need to Know

A well-designed kitchen can make a huge difference in your home’s functionality and appeal. It is also a good investment that will increase the value of your property.

However, kitchen renovations do not always run smoothly. Unforeseen structural challenges, weather conditions, and supply-chain issues can all impact timelines and costs.

Budget

A well-executed kitchen renovation sydney adds value to your home and can increase your property’s resale value. However, it can also be a huge undertaking. It’s important to have a clear idea of your budget before beginning a kitchen remodel. Creating a spreadsheet or using an app can help you stay on track and keep costs under control.

The most expensive items in a kitchen renovation are appliances and plumbing work. These items can run into the thousands of dollars for brand new, high quality products. However, you can save money by purchasing used or second hand appliances.

Other costly upgrades include a stone benchtop, new sinks and tapware, a dishwasher, lighting fixtures, flooring and paint. You should also include a budget for a plumber. In addition, consider adding extras like shiny or brushed gold finishes to cabinet doors, faucets, and sinks for a more luxurious finish. You can also install a range hood to hide odors and reduce noise from the kitchen.

Design

The kitchen is the heart of the home, and designing it to suit your lifestyle is an important part of the renovation process. A professional kitchen designer will guide you through your options and create a design that suits your aesthetic preferences, needs, and budget.

Modern kitchen designs feature streamlined styles and cutting-edge appliances. They also incorporate internal storage systems that can help you keep track of your pots and pans, crockery, and cookware. Some designers even incorporate features like smart refrigerators and dishwashers.

A kitchen renovation can take anywhere from 6 - 9 weeks depending on the scope of work, which includes plumbing and electrical works. However, unforeseen structural challenges or delays in the delivery of materials can delay your project. Working with a local kitchen designer can minimise these issues. For example, a Sydney-based designer can provide you with local manufacturing and supply options to reduce waiting times. They will also understand weather conditions that can impact outdoor work and material deliveries.

Materials

Choosing the right materials is essential to your kitchen renovation success. Using quality materials that are both durable and stylish will ensure that your new kitchen looks beautiful for years to come. It’s also important to select materials that are easy to maintain and are affordable. For example, melamine or laminate benchtops are budget-friendly and come in a wide variety of colours and finishes.

A well-executed kitchen remodel can add value to your home and boost your return on investment. However, the kitchen remodelling process can be overwhelming without a clear plan and budget in place. To avoid a renovation nightmare, follow these eight essential tips for a successful kitchen renovation.

Contractors

The kitchen makeovers process requires the services of skilled tradespeople. These professionals are needed to remove the existing kitchen, prepare the site for the new installation, and install cabinets, countertops, appliances, and fixtures. They also complete any electrical, plumbing, gyprocking, and tiling. Some may even do stone masonry or carpentry, depending on the scope of the project.

Once the design is finalized, a team of contractors will begin work on your kitchen remodel. The demolition phase of the renovation can be noisy and messy, but it is a necessary part of the process. This can take up to one week, depending on the size of your kitchen.

Unforeseen problems and delays can arise during kitchen remodel projects, but these can be managed with careful planning. A professional kitchen designer will be able to identify potential issues and provide you with an accurate timeline for the project. Some of the most common challenges include weather conditions and supply chain disruptions.

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A Comprehensive Guide To Choosing A Granite Benchtop In Inner West

A granite benchtop in Inner West is a stylish and durable choice that can elevate the look and functionality of your kitchen or bathroom. Whether renovating a home in the Inner West or building a new one, granite offers a range of benefits that make it a worthwhile investment. By considering factors like colour, thickness, budget, and maintenance, you can enjoy a benchtop that not only looks beautiful but also stands the test of time.

Investing in a granite benchtop in the Inner West is a decision you won't regret. Its timeless beauty, durability, and ease of maintenance make it a fantastic addition to any home.