#anyway. i stopped reading their response when they got facetious about my 'mocking'

[lesenbyan]

Every so often I think about the time I rb'd a post with mild disagreements in the tags and a general rant that wasn't at OP so much as to the void (which, as I recall, I did clarify) and OP decided to, in the thousands of notes, take my tags and respond in bad faith and succeeded in only getting me to delete the post, block them, and be further convinced that they don't actually know what they were talking about

[reidecorating]

Waking up Slow

Requested: Nope, this is just what happens when I decide to avoid studying for physics 

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x Female Reader 

Word Count: Around 2k

Summary: It’s been a dream of mine to wear Gube’s alien shirt and make him food and just have a good old yarn with the man so I decided to write about it. This is just a whole lot of flirting and banter and making out on a Sunday morning

Warnings: None, a lil spicy but pretty SFW, might mistake this for a pillow though, with the amount of fluff

Rays of impatient late morning sun poured in through the gaps in the curtains, which were hastily shut the night before, as they failed to meet in the middle. Matthew never minded sleeping with them half open. Some nights, he would squint and try to make out constellations in the cosmos as his whole world lay curled up beside him, her ear against his heartbeat the way a young child would listen to the ocean through a shell. Other nights, when they would both lay tired and out of breath, she would call him moonlight as her fingers danced along his collarbones, shimmering in the star shine as the thin veil of sweat painting them was the only evidence of what they had been doing previously. However, now, while the two of them remained entwined, the white sheets appeared to glow yellow in the wake of the stars which had collected into one, hours ago. She woke up to Matthew’s arm draped around her waist, having found its way under the fabric of the shirt that scantily covered her, in an attempt to share the warmth of her skin. Stretching and letting out a yawn, she debated falling back asleep, seeing as her only interlocutor was still doing the same. Craning her neck over the pile of poetry sitting on the bedside table, obscuring her view, she made out the small digital numbers reading just before midday, and turned to face the dozing man beside her.

Her eyes brushed over him in all his sleeping beauty, head resting against the supple skin of his upturned palm, brown hair brighter in the morning light, pixie nose tilted up towards the headboard. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks at whatever he was dreaming of, and she wanted, so badly, to taste the pink of his parted lips, to join his dreamscape by breathing into his lungs. A large portion of the sheets had been stolen by her in the middle of the night. While she was bundled up like a cinnamon roll, Matthew lay exposed to whatever monsters and ghosts he claimed reside in his house. His bare chest rose and fell with each breath, but her eyes trailed down to where the waistband of his pyjamas hung temptingly low on his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Catching her off guard, he pried open one eye, the murky waters of a pond spilling into her view. “It’s rude to stare,”

“Not at art, it isn’t,” she combated his teasing. He groaned theatrically as he stretched out across the span of the bed before regaining his position. “I won’t take sugar in my coffee then, you’re sweet enough,” he smirked. “Oh no, could you please move, I’m actually trying to look at the portrait behind you,” she teased. “Evil,”

“But you love me,”

“I do.”

He removed his arm from where it rested, a little too low on her body, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his hand linger on her cheek, absentmindedly stroking his thumb against the slight flush of her face. She tilted her head slightly to delicately graze her lips against the inside of Matthew’s wrist, making his breath hitch. “Kiss me?” She asked, giving into the adoring look in his eyes. “Your wish is my command, m’lady,” 

“Wow, a magician and a genie, I really hit the jackpot with you,”

“You’re really going to leave bodybuilder off the list? With muscles like these? I’m built like…Dwayne Johnson. Did you know they wanted me to be in the Fast and Furious series? But they actually thought I was ‘too buff’ and ‘too macho’ and all my sex appeal would distract from the plot, so they had to settle for Dwayne.”

Laughing into his chest, she pulled herself up and straddled his waist, bringing the blanket with her as if it were a cape. “I’m not joking, Y/N, my net worth is sixty thousand dollars per muscle,” he continued, one hand behind his head and the other now resting on her bare hip, tracing light circles on the skin where her giant shirt had ridden up, revealing the black band of her underwear. “Essentially, what you’re saying is that I could sell you on the black market and make a lot of cash?” She asked him raising an eyebrow and toying with the mess of his hair. “You could, but then you would miss out on this.” He finally kissed her, slow and tactile. Resting on her forearms, linked together above his head, she let her hair drape down and tickle the sides of his face. He swiped his tongue along her bottom lip, at a painstakingly low pace, his hands now caressing her jaw and dabbling with her hair. She breathed him in while he continued to gently suck at her lips, then jaw, then neck, eliciting faint moans from her. “We’re hungry,” he spoke, halting his actions, removing her from her reverie. “Matthew, don’t stop,” she whined semi-facetiously. He gave her a smug look, eyebrows raised. “Fine, I’ll make you food - only because you did it yesterday - but we’re not done here,” she huffed, making him chuckle as she crossly got off him, and out of bed. “It looks nice on you, pumpkin,” Matthew chirped. Tilting her head in confusion, she looked down and realised he was referring to his whimsical alien shirt she had stolen the night before. The buttons that were undone torturously left Matthew craving her skin, as she gave him a glimpse of his favourite view each time she bent down to slide on a sock. “Considering it is a woman’s top…”

“Hey!” He threw a pillow at her, “I thought it looked nice, something a space cowboy would wear during his leisurely time,” “I didn’t say it didn’t look nice!” Her hands went up in surrender, suppressing a smile when she threw the pillow back in his direction. Making her way towards the kitchen, she left him starstruck and staring at the ceiling, smiling to himself like a teenager in love.

Eyes getting tired of reading the words of Robert Frost, when his stomach grumbled loud enough to genuinely frighten him, he placed down the book and followed the enticing aroma wafting into his room. When he saw her, she was humming to herself, swaying to the rhythm of whatever song was playing in her head. He admired her bare legs as the hem of his shirt skimmed the tops of her thighs. Gazing at her tied hair swinging to and fro, giving him snippets of the back of her neck, he became eager to pick up where they had left off. “Hey there lover of mine, wasn’t it you who told me its rude to stare?” She beamed at him, turning around cradling a giant bowl of some sort of mixture in one arm while sporting a giant wooden spoon with the other. He realised she must’ve heard him shuffling around, he wasn’t the most graceful person alive after all. His heart melted at the smile she sent his way, tucking his lip beneath his teeth to avoid grinning back so hard he would sprain something. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he glanced down at his feet from where he leant against the doorframe. She still made him nervous. However, the man never failed to make her fall past the point of no return each day, so they were even. “I’m so in love with you, Gube,” she shook her head and laughed, facing the stove again. He stepped forwards and slunk his arms around her, planting a kiss on her cheek before dipping a finger in the batter to taste it. “I tried making us heart shaped pancakes,” she muttered sheepishly. “Key word, tried.” He stifled a laugh, looking at the piles of pancakes on their plates, decorated in berries and cream. “Maybe if you squint and look at them from really really far away they look a little bit like hearts…”

“Do you have a warrant for all this pancake slander? Because I wasn’t aware that you were the geometry police,” she poured the last of the batter into the pan before piling up more dishes. “The proportions in my paintings can speak to that,” He pointed to his latest work in progress leaning against the wall, its newest layer drying in the spring breeze which was fleeting past the rickety handles of the kitchen windows. “I’m glad Picasso came and went when he did, poor man’d be facing some real competition if he was still around,” setting down his warm brew in front of him as he dug into his - what was now - brunch, she continued to tantalise him. “Are you mocking my curvaceous abstract cockroach? It actually came to me in a dream once,”

“Matthew, you did not just use the adjective ‘curvaceous’ in regards to an insect,” she chuckled, “but a dream? Really?” She pressed on, wondering, one, why he was dreaming about the revolting beasties and, two, whether she should leave him while she still could. “No, I lied, I just saw your face and felt inspired,” he winked. “Hurtful,” she scoffed. “All the artistic recognition is getting to your head, fame changed you Gube,”

“What’s a man without his roach?” A fake western accent glossing his words as he made a gesture of stroking a bug between his hands made you throw your head back in laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned, a roach-less man!” She chimed in, sounding almost as Texan as he did, making it his turn to laugh.

They ate in a serene silence, aside from Matthew’s odd compliments to the chef, both enjoying the view from opposite sides of the kitchen counter.  “So, aside from finishing that horrid thing,” she tilted her head in the direction of his painting, “what’s on the agenda for the one, and the only, Salvador Dali, today?” Matthew breathed out a laugh in response to her comparison. “Would you still love me if I grew out my moustache like his?”

“Bold of you to assume I love you even without the moustache,” A false and dramatic look of hurt found its way onto his face as she teasingly blew him a kiss from where she stood at the sink. “Anyway, now that you’ve completely destroyed my self confidence and broken my tiny, fragile heart, to answer your question… You are, actually,” he spun around on his bar stool. A sea of scarlet rose up her neck and made a home in her cheeks at his simple remark. “Well… I’m glad, because you’ve been at the top of my ’To Do’ list for a while now.”

She placed their cups in the sink and made her way over to where he sat, the seat of the stool resembling a bottle cap. “Is that so?” He smirked, now wearing the same shade of blush she was, as she stood between his knees, letting her hands snake up around his neck. “Mhm,” she gently planted her lips on his, “and you’re one thing I’m not going to procrastinate on getting done,” 

“You’re killing me, Y/N,” he breathed against her mouth. “You’ve always wanted you be a ghost, haven’t you?” She felt him smile against her as her lips glided over his. She placed one hand, still warm from the coffee it had been cradling, on his chest while the other inattentively played with the wiry tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck. The effect she had on him hadn’t changed with time, even after two years, she realised, his racing heartbeat evident beneath her palm.

This time, when their lips met, it was slightly more desperate, the need for one another gushing from both of them. She captured his bottom lip beneath hers, gently biting down before drawing back for air. Matthew gazed at her devotedly, eyebrows furrowing together when she kissed him again. While her tongue traced over his lips, enchanting him, his hands travelled down to her thighs, gripping each of them firmly before standing up and lifting her onto the counter. Their lips separated with a small smack as she gasped at the contrast in temperature between the granite and her skin. His nose skimmed hers when he made his way back down along the same path he had travelled earlier that morning, this time, unbuttoning the remainder of the shirt she wore, the heavenly sounds she was making leaving him in a trance. He adored seeing her this way, unguarded and sinking in his touch.  “You’re sensational, Matthew,” she sighed, tugging at his hair and craning her neck back to allow him more access. He nipped at the column of her throat, smiling to himself at the comment. She had no clue what she did to him. “Angel, I don’t often get dessert after breakfast, but do you think you can make it happen for me today?”

[sgdi]

Stewart Lee and the Tree of Nothing

[This is a work of fiction, Stewart Lee does not endorse (or probably even know about) this story.]

I am Stewart Lee, a fifty year old, British, stand-up comedian. I once made a joke about Harry Potter. Had I known the calamity that would befall me, due to telling this joke, I probably would have, despite how much I hate censorship of comedy, I probably would have not told this joke. That is how much what happened, in the story I am about to tell you, troubled me.

The joke itself was fairly simple, and only really told as build up for the real meat of the main joke I was telling. Really, it was just a throw away line. At that point in my act, I was trying to demonstrate my contempt for the Harry Potter series, a book series that is written for children, and not adults, and all I said was "Harry Potter and the Tree of Nothing." That was it. It was said along with a collection of other facetious titles, to mock the template of Harry Potter book titles. That wasn't even the main joke. Just, as I said, build up for the real joke.

As part of my act I like to lead the audience to believe I have a superiority complex, and stand in judgement over all culture. This is, of course, just an act, and most of the audience get this. However, I really do believe that Harry Potter is a series of books only enjoyable by children and the feeble minded. So, in a rare display of honest intellectualism, my joke was wrapped in a kernel of true emotion. I believe this is what lead the events to unfold as they did. Had I only been joking, and not really expressing my true and enduring contempt for the Harry Potter books, I think things would have turned out differently.

It all started the next morning. My wife and I were sat around the breakfast table, a scene of wedded bliss that Tories believe everyone else should be forced into. We heard a knock at the door. I, being the man of the house, we like to conform to gender norms in my house, at least when my wife lets me, got up to answer it. Now, it's important to note at this point that the shoes I wear day to day are the same as the shoes I wear on stage.

When I opened the front door I was confronted by, as if I were in some kind of Two Ronnies sketch, a tall man and a short man, both wearing glasses, long brown coats, black shoes and bowler hats. You couldn't make this stuff up. They glanced at each other, then at me, then they both started to talk and abruptly stopped. They looked at each other.

"Sorry," the tall one said to the short one. "I thought you were letting me."

"No, no," said the short one. "My fault, I thought you were letting me."

I interrupted them. "Look, is this going to take long? Only I'm having breakfast with my wife. If there's going to be some kind of comical misunderstanding, can you please get on with it."

"Are you Stewart Lee?" asked the short one.

"How many other houses have you tried?"

"What?"

"Well, have you been going door to door asking if people are Stewart Lee, hoping to get lucky, or do you have information telling you that this is where Stewart Lee is?"

"I mean, you could have guests."

"If my wife had opened the door would you have asked her if she was Stewart Lee?"

"No, she's a woman."

"I'll tell you this, then. I'm not a guest of Stewart Lee." Then I closed the door and went back to the breakfast table.

"Who was it?" My wife asked.

"Oh just two weirdos dressed up like the Two Ronnies asking if I was Stewart Lee."

"What did they want?"

"I don't know, I'm not going to admit to two strangers where I live. Anyway, they're probably just Richard Herring fans trying to get his address."

Now, you might be thinking, "But Stew," in your best Richard Herring voice impersonation, "But Stew, what if they had been delivering something, or had important news about a relative?"

Well, I knew for a fact that I wasn't expecting any deliveries, and my family hates me, so there is nothing they could have been there for.

Or so I thought! As when I looked up from my breakfast, through the window I could see the faces of the two men who had just now been trying to discern my identity. As you can probably imagine, I was livid.

I opened the window, forcing them to move back. "Get out of my garden!" I shouted. "Get out! I'm not telling you where Richard Herring lives." I slammed the window closed. My wife was visibly shocked by the situation. "Don't worry, my love, I shall go outside and give them a piece of my mind."

"Be careful," she replied. I should have heeded her words. When I stepped out the back door, the tall one grabbed me and the short one put a rag over my mouth, doused in what I can only assume was chloroform. I blacked out.

Cold water splashed across my face. I don't know if you've ever been woken up by cold water, but I can tell you, it's not fun. It gave me the immediate indication that these people didn't like me much. I mean, I can understand that to some degree, I've had a long career in comedy, so I'm bound to have said some things that people get annoyed with, but still, I didn't think I deserved this.

"Hello, Mr. Lee," I heard a voice through my dazed state.

"Who are you?" I slurred. "Why have you kidnapped me?" My eyes slowly adjusted to the room around me. It was bleak. Bare walls, floor boards and a small window.

"I'll be asking the questions." I couldn't see a source for the voice. "How well do you know J.K. Rowling?"

"I've never met her."

"Interesting. I can see here you were at the same function six months ago."

"What?"

I heard a noise behind me. After a moment the tall one and the short one rolled a computer screen in front of me and turned it on.

"So these two are your goons, are they?" I shouted trying to stir some kind of emotional response, trying to understand what kind of person had me held in this room.

"Yes," the voice replied tonelessly. A video started playing on the screen. "As you can see, this is you entering the building for the event." The video played on for a while longer. "And this is Mrs. Rowling."

"I guess we must have been at the same event, then, yeah. We're both learned authors, we're bound to get invited to some of the same events."

"Interesting. You call her learned, yet you show utter contempt for her most cherished works."

"Oh my god. Is this about that Harry Potter joke? This is why I've been kidnapped? Look, I can think someone is learned without revering all their works. Harry Potter is for children. I thought I'd been kidnapped by some hate group or other, not some kiddy book worshipping nerds. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, getting so bent out of shape over some joke. It's no wonder you're stuck reading children's books if this is how you respond to criticism."

I heard laughter. "That you told a joke is not the problem. I can see you are a master of feigning ignorance."

"I'm not feigning ignorance! I haven't got a bloody clue what you're on about."

"The Apocrypha, Mr. Lee. Come on. No more beating around the bush."

"What? The Christian writings that have been excluded from the biblical canon?"

I shouted in anguish as one of the goons clubbed me around the head. "No more games Mr. Lee. Your little joke just happened to name the most notorious of the supposed Harry Potter apocrypha, and we're supposed to believe that you're ignorant of the fact?"

"Yes!" I said defiantly. "You are supposed to believe that, because it's true! Harry Potter is successful fiction, why would it even have apocrypha? Surely J. K. Rowling would publish every book she could to get the most revenue from the idea! Even if I did know about them, what good is kidnapping me going to do?"

"We want them, Mr. Lee. We want the blasphemous books."

"How could they be blasphemous? Harry Potter isn't a religion. And if it were, how would these supposed books speak against your messiah? I assume Harry is Jesus in this analogy?"

"If you do not get us those books, we will be forced to take action."

"If I don't find books that almost certainly don't exist, you'll take action? What is this threat you're holding over me?"

"Let's just say, I have more than two goons, and you currently have a wife."

"Let's just say? Are we in the writers room for a 1960s Bond film? I didn't think people really spoke like you."

"So flippant! Do you not care about your wife?"

"Of course I care about my wife, but I can't do anything about whatever scheme you're up to from here, tied to a chair, you bombastic, ridiculous moron. I have no way of contacting J. K. Rowling, and I have no idea where any secret books of hers would be. All your threats are worthless. You might as well threaten me to make me pull a monkey out of my arse." I ran out of steam at this point as my desperation to save my wife counteracted my rage.

"You, Mr. Lee, are a celebrity." I let out and uncontrollable scoff. "You will use your connections to contact Mrs. Rowling and persuade her to give you the Apocrypha."

"I think you over-estimate my pull if you think I can contact the richest woman in Britain. But if it will get me out of here and keep my wife safe, I tell you what, I'll see what I can do. That's my best offer, because, as I've already pointed out, I don't know her and I don't believe these books-"

At that moment I heard the door behind me break open and what I could only imagine was the sound of the goons hitting the floor.

"What's going on?" I heard the voice shout.

My hands fell to my sides and a strong arm helped me up from the seat. "Who are you," I asked.

"I'm from the guardians of the apocrypha."

"How did you find me? Is my wife OK?" I struggled to get a hold of the situation.

"We put a tracking device on your shoe after your show, as we knew you would attract this unwanted attention. Unfortunately your wife has been kidnapped, they got to her before we could."

The guardian picked up the mobile that had been broadcasting the voice. "We might be able to find where the signal was coming from."

I looked up from my shoes. "Do you think he has her?"

"It's a distinct possibility. We should get moving, more goons will be on their way."

We exited the building and got into the guardian's car.

"Where are we going?"

"I'll take you back to your house to gather some essentials, and then somewhere safe."

"So this is real, then?" I asked. "There are secret Harry Potter books that J. K. Rowling hasn't published because they're somehow blasphemous?"

"Yes."

"And I just so happened to say the name of one of the books in my routine?"

"Yes."

"Right, OK."

Once we reached my house I packed a bag of essentials and got back in the car.

"Where should I take you?" The guardian asked.

"Well," I pondered. "The safest place I can think of is Richard Herring's house. I'll give you directions."

"OK." The guardian pulled away.

I took us a circuitous route, to throw off anyone who might have been following. Rich is very concerned for his privacy. We pulled into the drive up to his mansion, just off the M4. His tree lined driveway was a glorious sight to behold. The front of his house was no less impressive, three stories high, with large columns holding up the ceiling to the entry way. Rich's butler was there to greet us.

"Hello Peter," I greeted him.

"Hello, Mr. Lee, it's lovely to see you. I'll tell the master you're here." Peter went inside and beckoned us to follow.

The guardian and I stood in the reception area awaiting Rich's arrival.

"Hello, Stew! What a welcome surprise." He came down and hugged me. I pushed him away, as I usually shun any kind of intimate contact.

"Yes, yes. Good to see you, too Rich."

"Who is this stranger you have brought with you, into my home? You know I don't like people to know where I live. They could be one of those dirty IT people that make up the bulk of my demographic."

"I'm sorry Rich, I had no choice. I was kidnapped and they helped me to escape. Apparently someone still has my wife. I've come here because I know how safe it is and I need to lay low while we figure out how to get her back."

"HA!" The voice came from the guardian behind us. "I am not, in fact, a guardian of the Harry Potter Apocrypha! I am a Richard Herring fan and a group of us have tricked you into revealing his location."

"Oh no!" I said in mocking surprise. "What have I done?"

"Stew! What have you done? You know how I treasure my privacy!"

"Yes, Rich, I do know that. In fact I know that you treasure it so well that you routinely try to trick your friends into revealing your address. This is clearly another one of your tricks."

"Curse you, Stew, you've out smarted me again. When did you figure it out?"

"Basically from the beginning. It doesn't make any sense that J. K. Rowling would have secret Harry Potter books."

"I suppose. If you hadn't been expressing your true and enduring contempt for the Harry Potter books I probably wouldn't have tried to trick you. I shall have to think up something more convincing for next time."

I shook my head in despair. "So, where's my wife?"

"Oh, she's probably still at your house. I didn't involve her in this ruse."

"Well, that's a relief."

THE END

[meme-lord-and-savior-sebastian]

Its Tradition

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (gender neutral)

Promt:  In which a sudden change in the weather allows for a yearly tradition to take place.

Warning(s): None

Word count: 3114

Author’s note: This is an extended (also further edited) version of this. There’s not a whole lot to say about it, but I very much enjoyed writing this further. I hope you enjoy reading it as well. Also huge thank you to @buckyshufflepuff for reading it over for me, as well as showing an enormous amount of enthusiasm and support. It makes it much easier to write, so I have never ending amounts of appreciation for you. One last thing, there is a line in this, based off of this and its not essential to the story or anything, but I think it’s worth a mention. Because I think it’s funny...but the truth of that in questionable. (Anyways) As always, thank you for reading and enjoy :)

As you stepped out of the warm comfort provided by your bed, your feet came into contact with the cool hardwood floor of your bedroom. You felt the frigid air awaken the hairs on your arms, as it engulfed the rest of your body. Confusion flooded your sleepy brain, not fully awake but realizing that it was not this cold when you went to sleep. This awareness caused you to walk towards the window in curiosity, with hope that an overnight snow was the cause of the sudden chill. You could feel the bitterness radiating through as you walked nearer; the temperature so low, and windows so thin, that you didn’t need to be in close proximity of the glass to be able to feel.

You were met with an overwhelming scene of white when you pulled back the curtains. It had in fact snowed overnight, and everything you could see was covered with a layer of fluffy white powder. Excitement surged through you at the sight of the small flurries that were landing on the window sill. You rushed back into bed and underneath the covers, snuggling up against Bucky’s shoulder, and using the heat of his bare back to warm your frozen limbs. He was sleeping on his stomach, his right cheek resting on the pillow, facing you. His long hair was draped over his face and you began gently brushing it from his eyes, in an attempt to wake him and share this moment with him.

Bucky could feel you tucking his hair behind his ear, which drew him out of his sleep and caused his eyelashes to flutter in response. He inhaled sharply when he realized how icy your fingers felt against his skin. He scrunched up his face and stifled a yawn before sneaking a peek at you. He was met with a gentle smile and a look of adoration. Bucky glanced over at the clock on the side table before speaking, his voice rough from just waking up, “What is it, darling?”

Your gentle smile turned into a sheepish smirk. The excitement glowing in your eyes as you replied, “It’s snowing.”

Bucky turned and pushed his face into his pillow, muffling his voice. “And it’s so early.” He let out a low chuckle at how excited you seemed to be at only six in the morning. You moved your right arm from where it was resting on his left shoulder, across his back underneath his covers.

You rested your head onto the place where your arm had just been, and spoke in a teasing voice, “But it’s snowing.”

Bucky removed his head from his pillow, turned back towards you, and saw the hopeful expression on your face. A look of understanding flashed through his eyes as he realized exactly what you wanted to do. You visually perked up at his facial expression because you knew that he understood. You loved this part of winter, but you could tell that Bucky was not too fond of the time in which this was all happening. His mouth turned down into a frown and he moved his eyebrows towards each other, forming reluctant wrinkles on his forehead. “Can’t we do it later? You know, go back to sleep and go out when it’s not the crack of dawn?”

“But it could’ve stopped snowing by then,” you said matter of factly. “What happens then, hmm?”

Bucky relaxed his face and body, wrapped his arms tighter around his pillow, and allowed his eyes to slip closed. “Then we’ll wait for it to start again,” he suggested in a sleepy, far away voice.

“But that’s not how we do it,” you retorted, as a playful pout made its way onto your face. “We always go out for the first snow.”

Bucky thought about the past winters that the two of you spent together and a lazy smile made its way onto his face. He hesitated and spoke slowly, “I know. It’s just...so early.”

Bucky lay there with a lazy look on his face, unsuspecting and trying to fall back asleep. You on the other hand, were determined to get him out of bed. The two of you had done this every year for the longest time, and there was no reason why you were gonna stop now. It’s become something like your unofficial official start to the holiday season, bringing about fond memories and festive feelings. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic but traditions are traditions, and from your perspective there isn’t much point in questioning them.

As you pulled yourself out of your thoughts, you lifted your head off of Bucky’s shoulder to see if he was still awake. His eyes still remained closed and his face had pushed itself even further into his pillow. You slowly removed your arm from his back, and sat up as gently as you could. You got out of the bed, and Bucky still remained in the same spot, unmoved. You carefully grabbed a hold of the duvet that was resting on his body; one hand gripping the fabric covering each of his shoulders.

You counted yourself off in your head, and on three, you yanked your hands down to his feet. The sudden movement, as well as the burst of cold air on his bare skin, caused him to sit up with a groan. He felt the goosebumps appear on his skin, the entirety of his body bare except for what was covered by his grey sweatpants. He instinctively reached for the duvet, longing for the warmth he just lost, but you knew him like the back of your hand. You bundled the duvet up into your arms, removing the object of desire and increasing the incentive for him to get up.

He moved from his sitting position to standing on his knees, and he began slowly moving across the bed, closer to where you were at the end. You remained in your position with the blanket, unaware, as he spoke, “You know I think you’re right. We do this every year and we shouldn’t stop now just because it’s cold, right? I mean that’s the whole idea. It wouldn’t be snowing in the first place if it wasn’t cold, and now it’s like it’s officially the holiday season.”

By now he had fully reached the edge of the bed, and you began to agree. “That’s exactly wha-” but before you could finish, he lunged for the blanket. You yanked it out of his reach, and pressed your palm into his chest. Defeated, he landed on the bed with a dramatic flop. “Why are you so facetious?” You said with mock annoyance. He swung his right hand out and left it hanging in the air, motioning for you to grab it. You left the blanket on the floor at the edge of the bed before moving to the side of the bed, placing your left palm on top of his outstretched one. He grabbed a hold of your other hand and threw his legs over the side of the bed, using his grip on you to pull himself up. He pulled you toward him at the same time, so you were standing in between his legs.

You removed your hands from his grip and reconnected them around his neck. He gently rested his hands on your hips, and he looked up at you with a smirk on his face. “I’m only facetious because you’re so pretentious.”

“Oh my god.” You tried to step away from him, but his grip on your hips tightened. You playfully rolled your eyes at him and his smirk changed into a smug smile. “You’re such a little shit,” you teased, which caused Bucky to snicker. You pointed an accusatory finger at him and yelled, “See! And you know it too!”

Bucky’s entire demeanor changed into an extremely playful one, and he pulled you as close as he could get you by your pointed finger. He pressed his forehead against yours, and you both moved your arms into their previous positions on the other person. The smug look still remained on his face and he moved his gaze down to your lips. The cold temperature of the room was long forgotten from the heat radiating off of Bucky’s body, and your increased heart rate as he stared at you.

You spoke barely above a whisper, trying to resist the urge to give in to the obvious temptations. He managed to make your head feel like it was filled with cotton in only a matter of seconds. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna have a problem.”

At that he pulled back and you were able to put your focus back onto what was happening. He narrowed his eyes at you and challenged, “But you love it.”

A smile slipped onto your face and you moved your hands so that you could cup his stubbly cheeks. You leaned forward and pressed a loving kiss to his lips, before moving back to look into his eyes. “I do.”

“I’m really not sure that there’s anything I love more than this.” You were walking away from Bucky in the front yard, making footprints in the snow. Your arms were stuck straight out from your body in an attempt to keep your balance, as you tried to walk in the straightest line that you could. Bucky was watching you intently with admiration in his eyes, as he made a pile of snowballs.

“What about the rain?” He asked.

He was right. Of course he was right.

You paused your walking, but your back remained to him. “That’s true,” you agreed. “I do really like rain. Just the sound and smell and everything, but I think I may just love this a teensy bit more.” You resumed your pacing and a smiled formed on Bucky’s face; both at the carefree tone in your voice, and how adorable he found the intensity in which you were focused on placing one foot directly in front of the other.

His light smile turned into a lopsided one as he teased, “What about me?”

You stopped your movements once again, but this time you turned your body so you could make eye contact with him. You pursed your lips, as if you were debating your answer. You shook your head with mock seriousness, before you answered. “No? I definitely love this more.”

He playfully rolled his eyes when you turned back around and continued with your antics like nothing happened. He grabbed one of the snowballs he made, and quietly stood from his spot on the ground. He gripped the powdered ball in his right hand, and aimed it right at your back. He made sure to not throw it too hard; he didn’t want to hurt you, but he did want it to hit you.

He watched as it flew the short distance to where you were, before hitting you squarely in the back with a thump. You whipped your head around and gasped, no longer focused on the placement of your feet.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Bucky tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy, and knitted his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

You playfully glared at him. “You know exactly what you did.” Bucky didn’t move, he only pulled his eyebrows closer together. You let out an exasperated huff, made a face like he should know what you were talking about, and motioned with your hand to emphasize your point when you said, “You threw a snowball at me?”

Bucky laughed to himself at how easily he could irritate you, and he decided to keep messing with you. He pretended that he suddenly remembered what you were talking about. “Oh!” He leaned down and grabbed another already made snowball. “You mean like this snowball?” He had a devilish smirk on his face while he tossed the snowball from one hand to the other.

“Yes, now just put that down,” you spoke slowly, as you simultaneously started taking slow steps away from him.

With every step you took, he took one towards you as well. He cocked his head to the side, thinking for a moment. “I think I’m good.”

“James,” you warned, “Don’t.”

He stopped moving closer to you, and a humorous and sympathetic look appeared on his face. “Oh, doll.” He had stopped tossing the snowball, and it now rested in his right hand and you were positive that he was getting ready to throw it. He pulled his arm back and as soon as it left his fingers, you dropped to the ground.

You started making a snowball as quickly as you could, and you heard Bucky’s land in the soft snow a couple feet behind you. While you were rushing to make snowballs of your own, Bucky ran back to his pile, and he started stacking as many as he could against his body and his metal arm. By the time he was getting back up you had only made three snowballs. They weren’t your best work, but under the circumstances they would have to do.

You ducked as another snowball came flying at your head, and you threw one of your own in Bucky’s direction. It landed a little off to his left, and you grabbed your other two snowballs before getting up off the ground. Bucky’s decided to aim lower and this time a snowball him you on the shin as you stood up.

Bucky paused in victory and pointed down at your snow-dusted pants. “Ha! I got you!”

Meanwhile, you created a plan in your head to run for the massive oak tree on the other side of the yard. You needed something to hide behind while you made more snowballs. You didn’t hesitate and you started running to take cover behind the tree. Bucky immediately sprung into action as well, throwing snowball after snowball at your fast-moving form. You managed to reach the tree, with having been grazed only once. You sat down on the ground, with your back pressed against the tree. You were covered by the width of the trunk, but Bucky continued throwing snowballs at you; each one pointlessly hitting the tree and falling into hundreds of specs of snow.

You began pressing snow into the form of a ball with your palms. Your idea was to make one huge snowball, instead of a bunch of small ones. You didn’t want to hurt Bucky by pelting a giant ball of compacted snow at him, but the man was practically all muscle so you figured he’d be fine.

Bucky’s pitching had ceased, and it was silent for a few seconds. You figured that he had ran out of snowballs, so you shifted so you were crouching on the balls of your feet. Your snowball was about the size of a softball, and you tried to stay hidden by the tree when you fully stood up; you wanted to have the element of surprise so you could get back at bucky.

You tried to peek around the side of the tree to see where he was, but you couldn’t see him. You paused a second, preparing the snowball in your hand, before jumping out from behind the tree. Bucky was several feet away from you, a snowball in his raised hand, moments before being released in your direction. You didn’t give him a chance to respond before throwing your snowball, aiming for his chest.

It hit his right shoulder, exploding into powdery dust. Bucky dramatically swung his shoulder back, and let the snowball in his hand fall to the ground, acting as if he had been hit by a bullet and not by snow. He then, in an over exaggerated manner, proceeded to grab his shoulder with his right hand, and fall to the ground with a “pained” look on his face. He landed on the ground with a soft grunt.

He laid there for a moment, unmoving, until he didn’t hear any movements. He lifted his head slightly to find you staring at him with your eyebrows raised. He looked up at you innocently and asked, “What?”

You smirked and chucked, and started walking closer to where Bucky was now laying. “Nothing. C’mon I’ll help you up.” You extended your hand for him to reach, and Bucky sat up from the snow to put his hand in yours. You gripped his hand hard, preparing to pull his heavy body, but instead you found yourself being yanked forward. You landed haphazardly on top of Bucky, and the impact of you pushed his body flat, back to the ground.

You pushed your face into his chest, and he instinctively wrapped his arm around your back. You started shaking your head in disbelief and you stated, your voice muffled but annunciating every word, “You are such a little shit.”

“So you keep saying.”

You lifted your head off his chest to look at him with an emotionless expression. “See,” you deadpanned.

“You still love it though,” he stated, confidently.

Your face was pressed back into his chest and you only grunted in response.

“Aw c’mon, you do!

You lifted and turned your head to place your right cheek against the left side of Bucky’s chest. You peered up at Bucky’s face and sighed before agreeing, “I still do.”

You saw a smile appear on his face, and he looked down at you, with nothing but seriousness in his eyes. “I love you.”

You knew you had the most blissed out look on your face because there was no better feeling than any moment you spent with Bucky. “I love you too,” you replied, before leaning your head forward, placing a kiss to the underside of his stubbly jaw.

You placed your head back down on his chest, too in love with him and the moment to remember that the two of you were literally laying out in the snow. “Are you cold?” Bucky asked suddenly.

“Uh, I guess so. Why, are you?”

“I mean I am laying in snow, so,” he trailed off.

You placed a quick kiss on his lips, before patting his chest, and moving to stand up. “C’mon, I’ll make you hot chocolate, yeah?”

Bucky’s face lit up at the mention of the warm drink, and he quickly got off the ground and ran into the house; to get away from the cold and to get to the hot chocolate faster. You only laughed as you dusted the snow from your clothes, before making your way into the warmth as well.

“I bet your glad you got up now, huh?”

End note: I think I may start a tag list, if that’s something that people would be interested in, so let me know. I’d do it like most people, where you could be tagged for a specific character or as a forever for anything I post. Just shoot me an ask :)