#bunnings slotted steel

[more-cardigan-than-woman]

They were Roommates! 3/?

Summary: We get some perspective. Jason's had a long day and all he needs is his princess to help him relax.

Pairs: Roommate!Reader x Jason Todd

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: SMUT, FEELINGS, POV SWITCH, chocking, cock warming, praise, pining, dark humor, fluff. reader gets a job, I have no excuses but this kind of hurt to write.

AN: This Chapter is from Jason's POV. I just feel like we needed some insight. Also just wanted to repost this because apparently it didn't upload properly yesterday. Hopefully this time it works.

Part 2

What a long fuckin day, Jason thinks to himself as he trudges up the stairs to your shared apartment. He's been out all night and day chasing down leads for Batman and hasn't felt this bone tired since he crawled out of the pit.

His duffle bag like a sack of bricks on his shoulder and his feet doused in concrete. But his goal is ahead of him. He knows your home right now, you told him this morning when he called to ask about your upcoming Art Show that you had pieces to get ready and you’d be locked inside all day.

The idea of you waiting for him pushes him further, faster. Just a few more steps and he'll be home. Not that he thought of you as home.  No, that'd be too much. You're friends, just friends, who haven't been able to keep your hands to yourself for longer than 2 days for the last few weeks. So maybe you’re just very good friends.

He pushes through the door, only a little grateful that Bruce made him leave his guns at the manor for Alfred to clean. Apparently, he wasn’t doing it properly. Though he’s about 90% certain he’s never going to see his favourite firearms again.

He makes a beeline for your room upon noticing you left the door open. Are you waiting for him? You wouldn’t be, right? His ears perk up at the sound of your soft humming, making his heart pound and his hands sweat. Fuck, he just needs to get his hands on you.

“Hey Jay,” you say in that velvety tone, when you see him approaching down the hall. Pulling your headphones off and smiling your cute little face at him. He can hear Taylor Swift's newest song echoing from them, but he barely even registers it. He’s so focused on you.

Fuck, you’re a wonderful sight. Your tablet resting on your crossed legs, your stylus slotted delicately between those delicate fingers, hair up in messy bun, tiny fly away's framing your beautiful face, knee high socks that nearly give him a heart attack and his fucking red flannel. Fuck, if he had your skills he’d sit down and capture how perfect you are.

His eyes take all of this in as his heart tries his best to tell him something. But he can't stop moving. His body goes limp as he flop’s down onto you, resting his head on your silky thigh. All he wants is to sink his teeth into your flesh, mark you, cover your pretty skin in signs that you're his. 

Instead, his hands dig into the shirt that’s fanned out over your legs. His shirt, if only the woman in it were his too. He thinks, grateful he’s managing to keep these confusing thoughts inside, “Princess,” he mumbles into your leg. 

“Long day at the office?” Your hands start to brush through his hair, combing the knots out that had formed throughout his search. Your nails graze along his scalp, he shivers as goosebumps spread down his neck and onto his arms. He may not remember hell, but this sure feels like heaven.

“Mmm,” he kicks off his boots, the steel caps thumping when they hit the ground. His bones start to feel gooey as he presses his face deeper into your thigh. He doesn’t mean to kiss you, but he just can’t seem to help himself.

“Bruce have you digging holes in the garden again?” your voice like wind chimes on a still day. Fuck, he could listen to you talk forever about whatever you wanted.

“He does love his family bonding exercises,” his hands drift up, wrapping around your hips, hugging you tight and hiding his face, unable to look at you. He hates the lies, hates that he can't tell you. But Dicks right, it's too dangerous for a civilian. He couldn't forgive himself if anything happened to you and if he was the one who put you in danger….

“Want me to get you anything?” 

“Just this for now.” He snuggles up into your tummy.

You lean down, placing soft kisses into his hair. He’s thankful you can’t see his face, sure that it would give away just how right you feel..

“You rest Jay, I got you.” you lay back, your hand still in his hair as you begin humming the song you had been listening to before.

“Hmm.. thanks Princess.”

You only get to the chorus before Jason’s phone starts to ring, “back pocket,” he grumbles, rubbing his cheek into you, “can you get it for me?”

“Ah huh,” your hand reaches into his pocket, “it says mother dearest?” you sound so confused but he can’t help the laugh that escapes him, “Jay I thought-”

“Jesus, can't I rest? answer and tell him to fuck off please.” you let out a tiny sound that sounds like you agree and then the bloody hollering starts.

“Little Wing, I need-”

“Umm hello?” you interrupt.

“- oh you're not Jason. Hey girlie,”

“Jason, why is Dick in your phone as mother dearest?” you whisper, scrunching your brows up at him when he looks up at you.

His eyes start to grow heavy, rubbing his cheek into your tummy. Fuck, Jason does not want to talk to his brother right now. He inhales your perfume mixed with the lingering scent of his cologne. It makes his pants grow tighter and his brain feel foggy, “tell him I'm busy and to annoy someone else,”

“Jason can't come to the phone right now, he's dead.” you joke and he can hear the fucking panic starting to form in Dick’s head.

“He's what?!” He hears Dick shout through the phone. His brother starts to ramble and Jason can imagine the man pacing through his house, his arms flailing around him like he’s going to kill someone. Jason can't help the laugh that escapes him.

“Dick doesn't get the joke Princess. Put it on loudspeaker.” he whispers to you, turning his head so his brother will hear him, “I'm not dead, calm down.”

“Don't you tell me to calm down! She shouldn't make jokes like that, because- wait, am I a loud speaker?”

“Yes,” you both say at the same time.

“I just wanted to make sure you got home ok, and now I'm having a heart attack. Fuck you both very much.” He hangs up and you both burst into laughter.

“Your brother's a bit of a drama queen.” his head jostles on your giggling stomach, “Like did he think I’d be so casual if you were actually dead?”

"You don't know the half of it," Jason says, taking the phone from you and throwing it away.

"We just doing this all night or?" 

"What you have in mind?"

"Haven't had a girls night in ages and you look like you could use some pampering." You suggest as your fingers work their way back through his hair.

XxX

He must've fallen asleep. His first clue is that you're gone and he's wrapped up in your cotton blanket, the second is he can smell the snicker doodles in the kitchen. The rich cinnamon sugar scent, almost as sweet as you.

Ducking into his room he takes off his dirty clothes and throws on a pair of clean sweats before floating towards the kitchen like a cartoon. "Princess?" He calls when he can't see you.

"I'm over here," you call back. He spots you bending over the coffee table, arranging your pamper station for him. Fuck I love you. He thinks, in a friend way. Yeah. She's my friend. But the way his shirt rises up over your ass makes him want to do some very unfriendly things to you. "Can you grab the cookies from the oven?"

"Yep," he says, with a pop of his lips, spinning on his feet towards the kitchen. 

"Thanks ba- I mean thanks Jay," you turn trying to hide your embarrassment, but he can see it. You wanted to call him babe. Maybe this isn't as one sided as he thought?

"What are we doing first?" He tries to say casually, sitting down on the couch and taking in the vast array of items you've got set out.

"Facials," you smile, picking up the little bowl of cream, "want me to put it on you?"

"Yes please," he sits back, almost moaning at how soft your fingers feel on his face, "what's in this it smells yummy,"

"Honey, lavender, oats, all the good stuff," 

"It smells great and it feels so good," he presses his face into your hands. "Princess, i-"

"Finished, you look so cute!" You say excitedly, "ok, now you do me,"

"Do you?" He raises his brow at you.

"Jay," you playfully hit him, "I want a facial too." He can't help the face he makes and you slap him again, "come on, get ya mind out the gutter."

"I'm just teasing," he swipes a handful of the cream, rubbing it into your soft features. His fingers press into the crease into your brow, your cheeks. You grin up at him and his heart feels like it might burst. Holding your chin he presses a soft kiss into your lips, "tastes good too," he beams, when you open your eyes you peer back at him so sweetly his heart thumps even faster. "What now Princess?"

"We just need to wait ten minutes then we can wash it off," you say getting up and grabbing the cookies, from the table "we can eat these while we wait."

"Princess these are delicious," he moans as the spongey cookie melts in his mouth, "tastes almost as good as you."

"Jay." You level your deadpan stare at him.

"Princess." He stares back.

"Can I do your makeup after?" You perk up, sitting on your knees.

"Can we watch Heathers in bed?"

"Deal."

"How many of these am I aloud to eat?" He asks, stuffing another one in his mouth. Fuck if he only had to eat two things for the rest of his life. He knows exactly what he would pick.

"All of them? I can just make more if you want." 

"Just for me?" He's surprised, he's not sure why. In the year you've lived here he's always surprised by just how much the little things you do for him chip away at his walls.

"Who else?" Your words circle his heart, the tips of the letters just grazing the outside.

"Princess, can I wash this off? It's starting to itch,"  he says, the honey sticking to his fingers and the lavender that smells exactly like you wafting up his nose. He's having trouble keeping his thoughts pure and not just bending you over the couch and making you beg for him.

"Yeh, I'll get the movie ready and move the snacks," 

"Fuck, what the fuck am I doing?" He says to himself in the bathroom mirror, his face still smelling like you, "just ask her out to dinner," he washes the rest off, but the scent still lingers. "What would Bruce do? Deny his feelings for ten years and wait for her to make the move. I can't fuckin do that." He wipes his hand down his face in frustration. 

Shit, he feels like he's stuck between a crowbar and an explosion. But if he fucks up this time, you could be the one to get hurt and that's the last thing he wants.

"You're taking a while in there, are you alive?" You knock on the closed door, "you talking to Batman in the mirror again?"

"I do not do that," he says as he brushes past you and into your room where you've got the cookies resting on the edge of your bed.

"You kinda do," you call out.

Fuck me, she's going to kill me. Again. He thinks, holding his face in his hands as he reaches for another cookie and savors the taste.

"Alright, Jay," you say, swishing into the room, his shirt sitting just low enough to cover your panties. Your hands drift up his bare arms, stopping at his shoulders as you step toward him, your legs spreading over his and your ass lands on his thighs. "Ready for your makeover?"

"Is this how I get it?" His arms encircle you, "Can I get one every morning?" He squeezes your ass and you jump, making his cock throb underneath you. His fingers dig into your sides making you squirm and the cutest little sounds escape your mouth. Is this your version of torture? It’s definitely preferable to other methods he’s endured, he thinks, he could get used to this kind of treatment. 

"Jay, stop," you laugh, "you're tickling me, Jay, please," squirming even more on his lap, his cock growing harder and harder by the second, "Jason, babe, stop, let me do your makeup."  

His eyes meet with yours and he stops tickling you. Did you just? No. It must’ve been a slip of the tongue. 

"Make up time," you try to smile, your eyes looking everywhere but at him, what is that about? Is he reading too much into this? "Maybe a smokey eye? What colors would you like?" 

"Red and black, please Princess." You reach back for your eye shadow pallet and he tries to think of something else. Anything else, Dick farting on Tim, Damien getting eaten by his dog. But with that lavender still on his skin and you on his lap, all he can think about is kissing you again.

You press your fingers into his face, your dominant hand holding the brush like it was made there as you lean over him. Brushing the color onto his closed eyes, your cinnamon breath fans over his face warms his heart. Your tits pressing into his hard chest have a similar effect further south.

"Jay, stop squirming," you say as you continue to wiggle on top of him. "I'm going to poke your eye out," Like he can help it. Like he can help just how much to affect him.

"I'm trying, are you nearly done?"

"True art takes time,"

"I don't know how much I got left,"

"Why's that?"

"Princess if you don't hurry up I might break your pretty brush," his hands grip your hips, hoping to keep you still. Instead it gives him more leverage to rub up into you, grinding his very hard and seeping cock into your delicate panties. 

"I'm nearly done, just one more thing." He feels you reach back, his eyes still closed. Then the softness of your kiss overwhelms him and he can't hold it back any longer. 

He flips you underneath him. You let out an adorable squeal of excitement as his cock grinds on the wet patch in your panties. "Fuck" it feels like someone finally cracked a hole in the horny pond. he tries to stop but can't, “I need to be inside you,” 

"Like right now?" You say, grinding up into him and shoving your panties down your legs as fast as you can. "But I haven't finished your makeup" Fuck, you're always so ready for him. Maybe you can finish his make up? He thinks slyly, hmm this could be fun.

“Right now Princess,” his hand fumbles as his blood thrums. He dips his fingers into your heavenly pussy and you’re already clenching down on him, "fuckin hell. You're already so wet. I got an idea," he moves back, laughing when you let out a huff as his fingers leave you. He rests his back on the wall behind your bed, "come here,"

'Ok?" You ask, seemingly confused about what he's doing. But when you see him shake his pants off and throw them on the floor, your mouth falls open and you start staring at him again. Fuck, it makes him feel like a God. 

You fall onto your tummy crawling towards him, like sin personified, like you need him as much as he needs you. He glimpses those pretty tits through the large gap in the front of his shirt, "What are we doing?"

"Since you insist on doing my makeup,” he tuts, “you're going to sit on my cock while you finish it. Don't look at me like that. Come on now,"

"I'm definitely going to poke your eye out," you side eye him as you raise to your knees.

"You won't. I trust you," he says, taking your hips in his hands, sighing when your warm fingers wrap around his cock. 

"Good girl, now sit," he takes deep breaths as your tight little pussy envelops him, your creaminess sliding down the hard ridges of his cock, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. 

"Ok," you pant, squirming around him with your eyes closed, "I've just gotta-" you pick up your pallet, swiping some black over your finger and pressing it into his eyelid. 

“Please don't make that face,” he squints, knowing what you look like when you get focused, “I'm having a hard enough time,”

“This was your idea,” you sass, wiggling your ass and he feels like he might just let you poke his eyes out. 

He thrusts up, moaning when you bite down on your lip to try and keep your concentration. His hand moves, slipping over your hip to fall right at your clit. His thumb lazily swiping up and down making you spasm and pull your hand away.

“Jay,” you shudder, falling forward and into his chest, your hands holding his cheeks as you reach up to kiss him. Pride swells in his chest, knowing that he can have you like this whenever he wants. That you’re so open and trusting of him, ready to fall apart in his arms at any given moment.

“Makeup done?” He mumbles between kisses. His cock with a mind of its own as it starts to slowly thrust into you.

“It's,” you lean back, taking in your handy work, your delicate fingers brushing over his cheeks. You’re cheeks are flushed and your beautiful eyes take him in, “kinda smudey now, but it looks good.”

“Good,” he lifts his knees bringing you even closer to him, “now about this shirt,” his hands slip in between the buttons, ripping it in half. 

“Jay,” you gasp, and the shock on your face was worth it. Until you pout at him, “that was my favourite shirt,”

“I got heaps of flannels, you can have all of them Princess,” he peels the shirt from your arms, bowing his head so he can take your tit in his mouth, his strong tongue flicking over your nipple. Moving his other hand so his thumb can do the same to your clit, “still upset about the shirt?” He pant’s when you start to bounce on his cock.

“No, Jay I-” he knows what you're going to say, he can feel how tight you're getting around him. You just need a little push, his mouth sucks into your neck, tasting the last remnants of your face mask mixing with your sweat. You keep making those noises as bites into you, the fucking sweetest sounds on the earth, he wants to have his head clogged full of them.

“Cum,” his voice muffled as his teeth move to your nipple. You arch back, your hands grip tight to his legs, nails digging into his thick thighs,  Yes, mark me, he thinks, I'm yours Princess make me look like it, but his mouth says, “cum, cum on me, then you're going to do it again and again, cum Princess,”

His cock feels like it's in a vice as you shake and shiver over him, his name like a chant on your lips and your eyes tight with his. Your face is so beautiful as you fall apart on top of him, those tiny breathy moans echoing in his ears.

His hands slide around your waist, pulling you even closer, his lips connect with yours, “you did so well, wrap your legs around me," Your eyes lidded as you gaze back at him, "I got the next one,” he lifts you, sliding his legs underneath him to get more leverage. 

“Ready?”

“Yes Jay,” your voice is so lust filled, he wants to record it for when he's had a bad day. He thrusts up, your fingers winding through his hair, turning his head towards you. 

He'll never get used to how stunning you are, your eyes groggy and your lips swollen from his kiss, "fuck your beautiful," he kisses you deeply one hand on the back of your neck, the other gripping into your ass. "Keep those pretty eyes open for me," 

He's losing himself, losing any remaining semblance of sanity inside of you as he moves faster, harder "fuck I want to cum. Your little pussy feels so good Princess"

Your hands are drifting, seeming to want to touch every part of him before settling on his biceps. Your teeth bite down into his shoulder as he finds your g spot and it feels like fireworks shooting down his neck. "Fuck me back Princess," he slaps your ass making your pussy pulse around him.

“Again,” your voice getting breathier by the second, starting to grind down into him as he fucks you. He can feel your clit grazing his stomach, your tits brushing against the sensitive y shaped scar at the center of his torso. He's alive, alive for this. So he could make you cum on him everyday for forever . He slaps your ass over and over, feeling your pussy clutch and clench around him.

“Want to fill you, Princess,” His cock throbs inside you, your moans surrounding him like a symphony, “want to see that pretty pussy drip with my cum,”

“Jason,”

“Yes, cum. Cum, cum,” he moans in your ear, trying to hold back his own release, he wants to share it, to share everything. With you.

“JASON!” you scream, his name on your lips the richest sound in the world and as your pussy begins to convulse around him, he lets go. His cum filling you up, surrounding his cock and pumping into your pussy. He keeps going, fucking into you, letting you have as much of him as you need. He wants you spent, blissed out on his cock so that you never go searching for the feeling elsewhere.

His lips caress your neck as your shaking begins to slow, “did so well Princess, so perfect for me,” he praises you, lifting you up and laying you both on the bed.

Your head rest's on his chest as your little fingers trace the line of his scar. It feels strange, nice strange. Your fingers drift down the tail end of the why and he thinks maybe you're putting the butterflies inside him.

“You're fucking perfect,” your voice so fucking soft.

He smooths out the strands of your hair, not believing that you could ever truly think that of him. Not if you knew what he had done and all the lies he told you.

“How did my makeup hold up?” He asks, noticing the black smudges all over by your pretty face when you look up at him and wanting to change the subject, “I got it all over you,” he tries to wipe it clean.

“I think it looks better this way,” your soft hands brush his hair up, so gently. You're always so gentle with him. It makes his knees weak, “Hmm. You just need a jacket and a bit more black and you'll look just like how I imagine the Red Hood looks under that shiny helmet.”

“Oh really?” He knows you don't know, he's gone to very extreme lengths to ensure it. And asking you to dinner? What was he thinking, that's only going to make things more complicated. But he's not going to deny how it makes the pride swell in his chest, “Is that a look you like Princess?”

“Don't be jealous Jay. He's just mysterious and dark,” you shrug.

“I'm not jealous, beautiful, only a little intrigued.”

“Dressing up as him wouldn't hurt,” his smart girl, too smart. How is he going to keep this up? The closer, the deeper he falls the more likely you are to be in danger. He needs to tread very carefully. The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt.

Part 4

Taglist: (let me know if you want in bestie)

@princessbl0ss0m @letmebebatmanpls

[mahamid110]

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[fixdex-fastening-technology]

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[archies-litterbox]

Whumptober #11: Just Keep Swimming

adrift | drowning | dehydration

Summary: When trapped underwater, Douxie’s immortality proves more of a curse than a blessing.

Words: 4700

A/N: Heyyy! So, I’m not keeping up with the days anymore, because I have... all but given up on whumptober this year. Eh, it’s my first one. It happens. but I still have ideas for a handful of the days I’m excited about, like this one! I’m happy to still write them out on my own time, so for now, I hope you enjoy this!

[CW: Graphic Descriptions of Drowning/Suffocating, Repeated Death, Trapped in a Box/Claustrophobia]

--

When Douxie woke up, the first thing he recognized was that his head hurt. Bad. Worse than the time he’d been trying to cast spells on his own and accidentally cast “Cranium Migranius” instead of the spell he’d been intending to practice, as well as cast it on himself and given himself a rather strenuous headache only worsened by Merlin’s scolding.

The second thing he realized was that he was trapped.

Well, that was worse.

His heartbeat skyrocketed as he realized how small his confines were - a realization that hit him like a boulder. Laying flat - and rather uncomfortably - on his back, he couldn’t bend his knees very much at all, and spreading his arms was out of the question. He had enough room to bring his arms right in front of his face, or to perhaps let his hair loose as his bun pressed against the back of his head, but that seemed to be it.

But he couldn’t even think about moving, not when he was still trying not to panic; to know where he was and what happened to him.

He smelled a metallic scent of pennies, and since he couldn’t feel any wounds or blood on him, he figured it was his… his little cell? It was honestly more like a coffin than anything else. It must have been steel. Or iron? Who knew - he wasn’t brushed up on metals and their alloys, and it was not the thing to wrack his brain about.

If there was one thing he’d been grateful for since waking up, it was the little slot in the metal, right in front of his eyes. It wasn’t much of a window, but enough to get a bit of a clue where he was.

He saw the blue sky above him, pierced by tall pine treetops. So, he was outside? In a woodsy area?

Before he could be confused about that, he realized, once his panic subsided enough for him to inspect his restrictive surroundings, he could feel that they were… moving. In one direction, with a rhythm to the movement that only came with footsteps.

He was being carried, then. Carried in a metal, coffin-like box.

Before he started making a ruckus, his memory started coming back, as if he’d woken up from a nap.

Yes, yes, the last thing he remembered was going out into the woods with Archie. He’d been sent out to gather some herbs for Merlin, warned by his wizardly mentor that while it was useful for spells, it had some rather hallucinogenic properties if consumed in any way. Douxie had tried saying there was a better use of his time than plucking some magical weeds, but he’d been met with frustrated insistence from Merlin.

“How am I supposed to expect you to heed my instructions in magic,” his master said, “If you can’t even be expected to collect ingredients without bellyaching?”

“But Master-”

Merlin had cut him off with his frustratingly typical, “Don’t “But Master” me.”

So, into the woods with his familiar he went.

But then, he remembered, he’d heard sounds from the bushes that made his stomach drop - noises that let him know that they weren’t alone, and whoever was there was not friendly. Intimidated and terrified of being overpowered, he insisted that Archie fly out of there, and reluctantly, his familiar listened.

It’s the last thing he remembered happening before he got tackled and knocked out, which explained the headache he had now.

And unfortunately, he was sure this wasn’t a hallucination from those herbs he was sent out to collect.

Against his better judgement that said it might have been better if he kept feigning unconsciousness, he spoke up.

“Who-” he started in a shaky voice, “What’s going on?” He decided against trying to thrash and make a ruckus. Maybe he was too scared to move much. Maybe he was scared of being confined worse in retaliation. Did it matter?

“Nothing you’ll have to remember.” a gruff voice responded. With no way to see its owner, as they weren’t in view of the little slot in front of him, he couldn’t tell if it was a troll or human.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, “Where’s my-”

He cut himself off before saying familiar. Maybe it was best if he didn’t allude to his wizardry.

“Where’s my cat?” He curled his leg and hit the metal with his knee experimentally. “I was foraging, and he was right next to me, and-”

“Not here.” another voice said, leading Douxie to believe that there must have been two people here. 

Douxie swallowed down his fear, despite how suffocating it was. He hoped that just meant Archie got away, and not…

No. Thinking about that would have just made him panic further.

“I’m an apprentice. I was just out on an errand. Herb picking. I’m expected back soon.” he said, trying to sound convincing. As convincing he could sound from trapped in a box, anyway. “I’ll be missed. Whatever you’re planning, I’ll - I’m already being looked for!”

“Not fast enough.” the second voice said, “You’re alone, wizard.”

Fuzzbuckets.

His stomach dropped. He realized his wrist was bare of his gauntlet. His blood went cold.

“No familiar, no magic, and no master wizards.”

His heartbeat skyrocketed. They knew who he was. This wasn’t random, whatever it was. It was targeted.

Of course, Merlin had warned him that people had a fair amount of bones to pick with him, and that their frustrations - and their prejudices against magic itself - may get directed towards him (despite how “incompetent” Douxie had still been at honing his magic, according to the master wizard), but warned as he was, that didn’t make this any less terrifying. He didn’t expect something like this, but he doubted that expecting it would have calmed him.

He kneed the metal above him again. Not an experimental hit, but a hard one. A desperate one.

“Merlin’s the most powerful wizard in the world!” He shouted as he kept kicking against the metal. “If you lay a hand on me, he’ll… you’ll pay for it! With more agony than you’ve ever known! Maybe even your lives!”

Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe Merlin wouldn’t have gone through that trouble for him. But what did it matter if he was ingenuine?

“We don’t fear Ambrosius. Detest, not fear.”

“Besides,” the other voice spoke, “We won’ lay a ‘and on ye anyway. We don’ ‘ave ta.”

What did that mean?

...He heard water splashing below him.

It must have been something big, he realized, like a lake. A deep lake. Deep enough to drop a near-coffin into, at least.

He was trapped in a metal coffin that was being taken above a lake, and though he was a bit of a nitwit sometimes, he knew what that meant.

They wanted to put him down there.

Panic gripped his gut and bubbled up in his throat, coming out in the form of begs and pleads.

“LET ME OUT! PLEASE, LET ME OUT OF HERE!” Douxie cried out, slamming his fists against the box and banging his knees against the top. He ignored the pain in his certainly bruising knees as his voice resonated around the tiny box, projecting out to uncaring ears.

“Whatever you want from Merlin, he'll give you! Or - or King Arthur!” He took in deep breaths, desperate for mercy, desperate for those breaths not to be numbered. “I - I know my - my master will give you anything you ask the second he knows I'm in danger!” The moppet was as insecure as he was terrified, so he wasn't even sure if what he pleaded was true. “Please! Whatever you want, you don't have to-”

“We want you dead. Nothing else ye can do fer us but die, ya little magic freak. ‘S not like ye can hocus pocus out without yer lil charm bracelet ye dropped.”

“I haven’t done anything!” No. He must have done something. “What - whatever I did, I’m sorry! Just please, please don’t! I - I can't-”

“SHUT UP!” the voice screamed at him. He tensed up and shrunk on himself as much as he could, stifling a sob. He hated this. He wanted to be back at Merlin’s study; he'd rather get scolded by Merlin for the 500th time than-

The coffin stopped for a beat.

It swung back a bit. Douxie's stomach dropped.

“No, please-”

It swung forward. It swung back again, harder.

“NO, NO, NO! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP!”

It swung forward again, making Douxie's tiny frame slide back and forth in the box as he kneed and kneed and kneed and banged and banged and banged as the box swung back as far as it could.

"HELP ME-"

The box flung forward again, but Douxie realized as his stomach dropped, as he dropped, that they let go that time.

Gravity ripped the scream from his lungs.

The sudden drop made the back of his head clang against the metal, and he lost what little bearings he had as the box fell and fell and fell and he swore he felt it flip and-

SPLASH!

Water started flooding in through the little slit in front of him, and as he thrashed his head from side to side and tightened his lips together to keep out the water relentlessly coming at his face, Douxie forced his arms in front of him - even though forcing his arms around what little free space he had hurt - and pressed his forearms against it to stop the water from coming in.

Finally, after a slow but all too fast sinking, he fell with his back to the lake floor.

...Fuzzbuckets.

Instinctually, he tried pulling a spell just from his raw magic without his gauntlet, but it seemed to be curbed by the metal around him. Anti-magic metal? How thorough had they been?

He was trapped, he could barely move, he couldn’t use his magic, and by blocking the slit that let in the water, he blocked out the only way light came into the box. He couldn’t even see.

“HEEEEELP!” Douxie screamed. “ARCHIE! MASTER MERLIN! LADY MORGANA!”

He could feel the water that did come in before he could stop it slosh around him, mostly around his feet. The box must have been at an angle? Anyway, he doubted he could be heard like this, but as his arms hurt more and more, and it got harder and harder to hold the water back, it didn’t stop him from trying.

“No, please! Lancelot! Galahad! ANYONE!” the moppet wailed. Even though his face was soaking wet from when the water poured in, he could still tell when tears streamed down his face as he kept kicking the coffin walls.

“Please…” he sobbed as his thin, thin arms trembled under the weight of the water trying to pour down above them, “Please, I don’t want to die.”

But with each beat of his pounding heart, his arms burned more. He couldn’t keep the water out for much longer, but he wanted to. He needed to.

...But he couldn’t.

So, when his arms ached too much to keep up, Douxie knew it would be better to take them down in favor of plugging his nose now, rather than try to stick it out. So, he took a deep breath, fighting a sob as he did, and squeezed his mouth closed as tight as possible. Keeping one of his arms up, he brought one down to pinch his nose shut as tight as possible… and let his other arm fall limp.

Instantly, water crashed against him, rushing past his ears so hard it was near deafening. Within only a few heartbeats, the coffin was filled with water, making him almost float in what little space there was. Still, despite the pressure around him - cold, freezing heaviness - he kept his nose pinched shut.

...It was very quiet now.

The water all around him… it stifled all the sounds around him besides his own heartbeat, deafened all other noise. When he opened his eyes, he saw, through the slit in this damn box, light coming in from the sky, blue and dim with how deep he was underwater. The hue was almost pretty, and the silence… it was almost peaceful. Perhaps it could’ve been, were it not for the cold all around him and the hunger in his lungs - overwhelming, overpowering, overriding hunger.

He needed to breathe. He needed to BREATHE.

But the little part of his mind still rational, still sensible despite his panic - his terror, told him he wouldn’t be able to, even if he opened his mouth. All that would meet his lips was water, and he knew it. He knew it. So why wouldn’t the rest of his mind shut up with telling him how much he had to breathe? Why wouldn’t his lungs stop begging? Screaming?

As he kicked against the box, and pain wracked his knees as they clanged against the metal while he pounded against it with his fist, Douxie wasn’t sure what he was fighting more at this point: his confines, or the hunger in his lungs.

...It was too much. It felt like his lungs were going to collapse in on himself, and he couldn’t even think because his mind only screamed -

Breathe breathe BREATHE BREATHE YOU NEED TO FUCKING BREATHE

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He knew that if he opened his mouth, water would come in, and he’d drown.

...But it wasn’t a matter of whether or not his mouth would open, but when.

And as his body’s instincts fought against his mind’s desperation and started to get the upper hand, he knew it was only a matter of seco-

GASP.

His mouth snapped open, and his starving, starving lungs finally filled up… with water.

It probably should have shocked him far less than it did, but the feeling of his lungs and his belly filling with water felt wrong. So, so wrong. It was that wrongness and how bad and scary it felt that made him pound as hard as he possibly could against the metal in a desperate last-ditch effort to get the hell out of the box.

...But he got weak.

He got so, so weak. And so tired.

Douxie’s hands fell to his sides as he floated, darkness creeping in as his heartbeat got slower, and slower, and slower…

This was it then, wasn’t it?

He hoped that Merlin would at least find his body here, and that he’d track down those guys so they would never get the chance to do something like this to any magical being again… and he hoped Merlin would grieve him.

He was worth that, right?

The world slipped away, as did Douxie’s grip on consciousness, and everything went black…

...And he woke up.

His heartbeat raced and pounded in his ears once again as he kicked against the box again, but as he scanned around the dark little box in frantic desperation, he didn’t know why. Why was he awake? Why had he-

And that’s when it clicked.

It was his magic. It wouldn’t let him die. Not permanently.

His body would constantly revive itself, forcing life back into his body no matter how many times it was snuffed out.

That meant...

No.

No, no, no.

He… 

He was going to keep dying. Over and over and over again.

As that suffocating, starving feeling grew in his lungs again, he opened his mouth for a voiceless, soundless scream.

FOR THE LOVE OF AVALON, HELP ME.

Unconsciousness - no… death claimed him again.

--

It happened again after that. And once again. Each time, he was just as panicked, just as suffocated as the first. It never gave him any more air, just more energy to pound against the steel box in futility. His knuckles stung, and he was sure that his knees were near black with bruising at this point.

He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t. He cou-

Through the blue blur of the water he could see through the slit, he saw a black mass falling down to him.

No… swimming.

It was a black, fuzzy mass swimming down to where he lay so helplessly, and as its features grew more distinguished - his ears, his paws, his wings, his big yellow eyes, his glasses…

Archie!

Despite the suffocation, hope swelled in his chest. It was Archie. He’d found him.

The cat-dragon swooped down and curled his back claws around the top of the box, but...

He couldn't lift it. The box, it - it barely even moved. 

Douxie felt hope slip away, right when it had been at his pruny fingertips, and he would've screamed if he had the air in his lungs for it.

No, no, no no NO! PLEASE, YOU HAVE TO-

Archie dropped the box.

It was only an inch, at the most, but Douxie’s heart might as well have sank a hundred feet. Archie… he couldn’t get him out. He was right here, but he couldn’t get him out.

Archie swam around and repositioned himself so his face was in front of the slit in the box, his eyes meeting Douxie’s - desperate hazel meeting desperate hazel.

Douxie brought his hands up in front of him, curling his fingers around the ridge of the slit in the box. Archie put one of his paws on his fingertips, and if he could still tell the difference between tears and the water around him, he’d be sure he was crying right now. Archie was here - his familiar was right in front of him, but he couldn’t even hold him. He was still trapped.

...He had to go.

Archie couldn’t stay down here. If he drowned, he wouldn’t revive like Douxie did. At least, he didn’t think he would. Anyway, it wasn’t worth that risk. He had to go back up. He… he had to leave him here.

And judging by the way those patches of grey above his eyes upturned, that devastated Archie almost as much as Douxie.

The boy mouthed, for his lungs were too full of water to even try to speak… 

GET. MERLIN. PLEASE.

Archie nodded. Closing his eyes, he put his furry head against the metal between them. It was a promise, a silent way to say…

“I will come back. I will save you.”

And whether it was silent or deafeningly loud, Douxie took that promise.

Using what little strength he had, he brought his head up so his forehead touched the metal. His mouth contorted in a grimace, and his water-filled lungs shuddered with what would’ve been gasps and shaky breaths, if he could breathe.

As his head grew light, he could feel the water shift a little in front of him, displaced by Archie’s movement as he must have swam back up. Douxie couldn’t open his eyes. Doing that would mean seeing his familiar leave him here, no matter how temporary.

But as he lost the strength to even keep his eyes squeezed shut, they slowly, lazily opened. And as his vision spotted, he could see, through the blur of the water, a black fuzzy mass got further and further away.

As he blacked out again, he could only think one thought louder than his panic.

Hurry, Arch. Hurry.

--

Archie still wasn’t back yet.

It was hard to tell how long he’d been gone; the only way Douxie could tell the passage of time down here, with everything so quiet and cold and dim and scary, was how many times he’d… blacked out, only for his body to start back up again, always suffocating, always panicking.

But… shouldn’t he be grateful? If he couldn’t stay dead, that meant that Merlin would find him soon enough, no matter what.

It was only a matter of time.

Time.

Time.

More time he’d be down here. More time for him to die and die and die.

It was almost funny, he probably would have thought if he had the mental energy to expend for such a thing anymore.

At first, he worried when the next time he blacked out would be the last.

Now, as he neared the fifth time, he hoped just for that.

--

On the seventh time, he stopped paying any mind to his body’s own struggling.

His body reacted on it’s own, purely on instinct, but as pain wracked his hands where he struck the metal and his knees where he kicked it, he knew it was in vain. That burst of energy he’d get when he woke up - that damned burst of adrenaline - would keep making him thrash, but his mind wasn’t in it anymore, that determination - that quiet desperation, drowned by the water as much as his body had been - fizzling out, so close to empty.

--

On the tenth time, stopped recognizing his feelings. Fear, hopelessness, despair - it was all drowned out by panic. Douxie’s very mind felt as if it was drowning in the frenzied state, just like his body had been drowning in this water for… for… 

--

… 

--

He stopped counting.

--

With a sort of mercy, lucidity finally lost its grip on Douxie - or he on it. It didn’t matter much. He didn’t even feel cold anymore, just… numb. Like he wasn’t even here anymore. Honestly, he might as well have not been. He’d checked out, abandoning focus on anything around him in favor of despondence. His body was still frantic, still frenzied, but his mind…

Like a fire burning so hot it felt cold, Douxie had surpassed panic, surpassed even hysteria and gone into a vacant, thoughtless state. If he tried to focus on any one thought, it would have sent him into a frenzy once again.

No, as his body thrashed and fought, always doing all it could with the adrenaline that surged through his body with every revival, his mind… didn’t. Zoning out made it easier when he inevitably blacked out again. So that’s what he did as he stared at the unmoving, unchanging blue in front of him.

Again, of course, he started to black out, but this time… it was different. 

This time, he felt the coffin shift.

This time, he saw a new hue in the water. A glow. A green glow.

And this time, it was the last thing he saw before he blacked out again.

--

Damn it, why hadn’t Merlin gone searching sooner?

When the Master Wizard’s apprentice hadn’t come back from getting those herbs, he figured he’d just been distracted by a lovely flower, or some maiden at the market - something menial, something he wouldn’t need to do anything to rectify besides a few minutes of scolding.

But Merlin knew something was very wrong when his familiar flew in through his workshop window, soaking wet.

“Archibald!” he griped, “Flying outside the castle is dangerous! And at least dry off before you fly in - you’ll get water on precious texts! And where’s-”

“It’s Douxie.” Archie said with a fear in his voice that made Merlin himself fear for his apprentice, that fear worsening when he saw the cat-dragon’s wide, wide eyes.

“What?”

“He’s in danger. Underwater. He needs help now.”

Merlin had never gone anywhere faster. He could scarcely even keep track of the path, his body on autopilot as he followed Archie. His apprentice - his son was in danger. His son was… drowning.

His magic wouldn’t let him die. Not permanently. Merlin knew that the boy’s magic would keep him alive, or at least bring him back to life. But if he were underwater, if he couldn’t breathe… then what was the alternative to a permanent death? A perpetual state of suffocating torture?

Merlin’s heart almost stopped when his body did, at the edge of the lake. He looked over the water and scanned for the boy. His eyes fell on a box on the lake floor, and his eyes couldn’t have been wider if he tried to make them be so.

Archie didn’t need to point it out. He knew Hisirdoux was down there. He - he was in there. In that fucking coffin.

Focusing on the damned box, he cast a spell that shrouded the underwater coffin with a green aura and hauled it to the surface and made it break through. Despite his rage, he put it gently on the ground on the edge of the lake. He needed to be gentle to his apprentice. Heaven knew what he’d already gone through was bad enough.

Casting a powerful spell, he sent a green light crackling through the coffin that blasted the damn thing open, snapping its iron locks and clasps in half.

All but hurling the lid to the side, he looked down at the box to see his son’s floating corpse. Pale. Unmoving. His hands were pruny, his knuckles bloody.

And his eyes…

They snapped open.

An awful, gurgling retch left Douxie’s throat as he lurched forward, making water pour over the sides of his prison and splurt out of his mouth. It must have filled his lungs, that’s how much came up.

Desperately, with a look in panicked eyes that showed little lucidity - just enough for him to seem to realize that the lid of the damn coffin was gone and he was free and on land again - he scrambled out of the box and onto the ground, on his hands and knees as he just kept coughing and vomiting up water. It seemed like no matter how many times he coughed, it was never, ever enough. And Merlin couldn’t stand it anymore, so with a simple spell, he expelled the rest of the water from the boy’s lungs, and his stomach, and anywhere else that water crept in. With that spell, he drew it all out like a snake; like the snake he’d get his hands on and wring for hurting his apprentice. His son. His boy.

...But vengeance could wait. He had to comfort Hisirdoux now.

As Douxie continued to take in deep, greedy breaths, Merlin soothingly rubbed a hand up and down the poor boy’s back. All the while, Archie sat by the boy’s head, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. Both of them were, but Douxie didn’t even seem to know they were there. He barely even seemed to know he was there, either; the gasps and grasping at the ground and the panic that wracked the poor moppet’s body didn’t belong to a lucid person, to anyone aware of their surroundings. So, Merlin kept soothing the child.

“Hisirdoux…” he said softly, waiting for the boy to show some sign of awareness of what and who was around him.

But when he did, it was almost as bad a sight as when he’d been utterly out of it.

Because when the boy snapped his head up and looked at Merlin, all the old wizard could see in his son’s eyes, usually so bright and full of life and love and joy, were only full of fear and terror and -

Hisirdoux wrapped his arms around him and screamed.

The noise had been muffled by the way the boy had his head against Merlin’s armor, but it still shattered the hearts of both the old wizard and the cat dragon who nuzzled the boy’s side.

Merlin cradled the back of his head, weaving his fingers between soaked strands of hair.

“I’m here, Hisirdoux. You’re safe. You’re out.” he muttered.

“I KEPT DYING.” Hisirdoux wailed, “OVER-” he gasped, “AND OVER-” he gasped again, “AND OVER-” and again.

Oh, my sweet, sweet boy… 

“I know,” Merlin said, “I know. You’re on land again. You’ll never be in there another moment. I promise.”

But the boy only kept sobbing, each gasp and hiccup a stab through Merlin’s emotional armor, like they’d gotten to his weak points.

(And they did, for he only had one weak point, and it was crying in his arms and clinging to him like he was the only steadiness it had in the world.)

Merlin couldn’t bear to hear the poor boy’s inconsolable screams anymore, so the wizard closed his eyes and cast a sedative spell through the hand he still had on the back of Hisirdoux's hand. The boy instantly fell asleep in his arms, and for once, his gasps and cries quieted. Merlin shifted him around so he held his apprentice with one arm under his back and the other under his knees.

Archie looked at Douxie. Then, at Merlin. Both were done with wide, worried eyes.

“What now?” he asked, “What do we do?”

Merlin wanted nothing more than to track down who did this - who made this box, who took Hisirdoux from his errand, who carried him to this lake to die so many goddamn times - and put them through every bit of torture they put his son through. And that was only if he felt merciful.

But as he held his baby boy in his arms, still shaking from the cold...

“...We must take him home.”

[amjustagirl]

CHAPTER 2 - FALLEN

Fic Summary:

The sky Oikawa Tooru’s heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in. You are a fool to trust him with your heart anyway.

Where Oikawa Tooru tries to recapture your heart. 

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3

Pairing: Oikawa Tooru x fem! reader

Genre / Wordcount : Angst (7k words), cameo from MSBY 4

Warnings: One non-explicit bedroom scene.

Masterlist link here!

Tag list link here!

You catch sight of Oikawa Tooru as you bustle through the hospital’s sliding doors, your usual cup of coffee in your hand that you buy on the way to work. He’s seated in the waiting area next to a middle aged man you guess must be his manager, from the way he jumps to his feet immediately to act as a human shield as you call out breathlessly - 

“T - Oikawa? What are you doing here?” 

Tooru’s head swivels around to meet your gaze, and you’re shocked by the lifelessness in his eyes until you glance at the bandages wrapped around his swollen knee. 

Oh. 

You try not to stare, but you do so anyway. The sight of your ex-boyfriend makes you feel as if you’re seeing a ghost, a specter from some past life. You last saw him when he was twenty one, young and proud, wax wings fully spread, a speck in the skies. What a difference five years makes. His shoulders are still broad, and the tilt of his jaw is still proud, but the light in his eyes has faded to darkness, and the pallor of his skin suggests far too much time spent away from the sun. 

Icarus, Icarus. Your hubris has led you to such heights, but look how far you’ve fallen. 

It’s surprising there’s no news of his injury, considering he’s one third of Japan’s trifecta of setters in the volleyball scene’s monster generation. With the Olympics rapidly approaching with just over a year to go, an injury must be devastating, especially to Oikawa Tooru, with dreams of Olympic greatness and victory on his native shores. 

A nurse materialises to usher Oikawa away for surgery before he can respond to the pity in your gaze. You look around. He’s alone, save for his manager. No one deserves to be wake up alone after surgery, so you call after him - 

“I’ll check in on you after you’re done! Gambatte!”

He responds with a thumbs up and a weak smile. 

You flip through his medical files once you get the chance. 

Oikawa Tooru, twenty six. Pro-volleyball player for EJP Raijin previously, currently playing in the Argentinian league. Narrowly missed out on making the cut for the previous Olympics, but went on to represent Japan in the last three World Cups, alternating with Miya Atsumu and Kageyama Tobio. Obviously hoping for another shot at the Olympics, but that’s looking bleak from what you’re gleaning from his medical records. 

His right knee has always bothered him, even during his high school days. Now, a decade later, it looks like he’s managed to tear his tendon to shreds. 

Volleyball is a cruel, demanding mistress, especially for one not born a genius. 

The surgery to repair a torn knee ligament is delicate work, requiring an experienced surgeon, and the road to recovery requires extensive physiotherapy. It’s no wonder he’s resorted to the modern Tokyo hospital you work in rather than returning to his native Sendai to recuperate. The downside of doing so though, is that he’d have to recover alone. 

You wrinkle your nose. He may be your ex-boyfriend, but he doesn’t deserve that. 

The sun is setting when you finally find the time to slip into his room. 

As expected, he’s still asleep. The anesthetic will take some time to wear off. From the looks of the surgeon’s notes, the surgery was a success - though you know from the nature and extent of the injury that his road to recovery will be long and winding.   

So you seat yourself in the visitor’s chair with a hot cup of tea and an onigiri to stave off your hunger at not finding time for a break any earlier. You had an awful day at work today, two of your patients puked on you, another tried to fight you when you drew his blood, and the senior registrar in the ward assigned you a mountain of paperwork that you only just managed to complete, so you give in to sleep yourself as exhaustion settles into your bones.

“Princess?”  

You snap awake at the familiar nickname, ignoring the flush working its way up the back of your neck as you leap to his bedside to check his vitals, only relaxing when you’re satisfied everything’s fine. 

“You’re just waking up after a surgery, Oikawa”. When his forehead crinkles in confusion at the sound of his surname, you correct yourself. “I mean - Tooru”. The corners of his cracked lips tilt up in satisfaction. 

“Will you stay with me?” Tooru murmurs, eyelids beginning to droop again. 

You smile fondly despite yourself. “Do you want me to?” you ask. 

He manages to pout even as he’s falling back asleep. “I asked, didn’t I?” 

You smooth his hair from his forehead, slotting your hand into his. “Fine, fine. Go to bed, sleeping beauty”. 

He huffs an amused breath from his nose before he closes his eyes, contented. Trust Tooru to be shameless enough to cling on to his ex-girlfriend without a shred of awkwardness. You end up staying in his room for hours, watching him sleep.

The heart that you’ve locked away behind bars of bone and steel twitches, just once. 

You frown when the nurse catches your sleeve. “A patient’s looking for you” she says, just as you’re about to go off on a short break. 

“Who?” you reply, wondering whether it’s Sato-san who vomited this morning, or Imai-san whose blood pressure niggles at your mind. You do not expect the nurse to flush pink as she replies - “Oikawa-san”, describing the sweet young man with lovely brown eyes and such a charming voice. 

You slip back into his room when your shift ends. You expect to see a shadow of a man with broken wings, and you do catch a fleeting glimpse of Tooru staring wistfully out of the window, face tilted towards the sun before he turns to you with a wide smile and a pleased - “you came!”  

This is the Oikawa Tooru you are accustomed to dealing with. “Stop flirting with the nurses”, you tell him briskly, bustling over to look at his files. “They have jobs to do, don’t use them to carry messages to me.”

“But I’m boredddd.”

“I’m sure you have volleyball videos to watch.”

“I watched them all day today. ‘Sides, I watched all the matches on today already, twice – and I have plenty of time to watch them a third time. I have plenty of time to catch up with you, I haven’t seen you in so long!”

Five years since you broke up to be exact, but you sidestep that fact neatly, pouring over his medical file instead. His doctors’ notes indicate his recovery is promising. He brightens up when you tell him so, playfully complaining that hospital food is shit in a thinly veiled attempt to steal your food, a habit he’s clearly not outgrown. But you’re not all that hungry anyway, so you split your pork bun in half and hand it to him, dropping into the visitor’s chair. 

“So how’re you feeling?” 

“Like shit. My knee hurts so muchhhh.” 

You shrug, careless. “That’s pretty expected, to be honest.”

“Hmph. I thought they’d have taught you some bedside manners in medical school”, he snipes, though the effect is rather lost when his cheeks are comically round and full of food. 

You laugh, the stress from your day lifting from your shoulders.  

“I seem to forget them when it’s you.”

“So mean”, he pouts, hiding the familiar gleam in his eye that appears whenever he’s trying to analyse his opponents, take them apart. “As punishment, tell me about yourself. What have you been up to these days?” 

You decide to treat him like any old friend, giving him the condensed run down of your professional life,  how you’ve graduated from medical school (with top marks I bet, he interjects), how you chose to stay in Tokyo instead of returning to Sendai (your parents must miss you he says, and you brush him off with an airy they have other children, they’ll survive), how you chose to work in this hospital because you’re considering a specialisation in Orthopedic surgery (because of your grandma, I bet, he says, and you choose not to correct that, using your silence as a lie).  

He in turn tells you about the highlights of his career, how he’s spent a year at EJP Raijin before he was headhunted to the Argentinian league, how he spent four years overseas save for summers back in Japan to train with the national team, how he’s hopeful, even now, of recovering and fighting for his spot on the Olympic roster next year. 

You already knew all of that from news alerts on your phone you never forced yourself to delete, diverting him instead with a question about life in Argentina, nodding as he reminisces about his apartment in San Juan where he gets to watch the sun set over the Andes mountains, the kitchen that he stuffed full of Japanese groceries like daishi and mirin and sake and miso in his first year there just so he has a tangible reminder of home. 

You stop yourself from wondering whether he thinks about the little home he shared with you with such fondness. That time has passed. 

His voice wavers as he spins you stories about his teammates - Matteo, whose family owns a vineyard and taught him to appreciate wine like a proper Argentinian, Miguel, who makes the best empanadas and gets roaring drunk every time they win a match, Gabriel, who takes him to his family’s home in the mountains every other weekend because his grandmother is convinced that a single young man without family in the city will starve if he’s left to his own devices. 

It seems his wings were durable enough for him to soar across the oceans, his grit and determination the foundation of the new life he’s built, whole continents away. 

“It’s funny how the world works”, you remark off hand. “I never expected to see you again.”

His eyes gleam again. “The universe seems to work in funny ways.” 

You start spending breaks in his room, scarfing down your lunch and dinner while he talks your ear off about the horrible sitcoms or ridiculous game shows he’s watched today. You catch him watching a video of Kageyama’s serves and you’re amused when he practically hisses when you comment idly that his kouhai has certainly improved since his high school days. 

You ignore his spluttered protests that service records aren’t everything and besides, his own spike serves have definitely won Japan a game or two last year until, with the air of a boy king, he commands you to sit next to him on the hospital bed so he can pull up a compilation of his serves and his best moments. 

Years might have passed, but you’re still hopeless at refusing him. Besides, isn’t it better that you distract him from the sorry state of his knee? So you do as he says, ignoring the faint flutter of your traitorous heart as he leans into your side. 

“See? I told you my spike serves are amazing?”

“Yes, yes. I already knew that. I watched so many of your practices in university, remember?”

He looks at you strangely. “Did you?” he asks, leaning his head on his hand, eyes boring into yours. 

You think of evenings spent sitting on the bleachers, homework in your lap as you watch as the boy you love builds the strength in his wax wings in preparation for his eventual flight. “Yes”, you admit, sheets rustling as you shift away from him, avoiding his perplexed frown. “You were probably too focused on practice to notice.”

You already know you shouldn’t spend so much time in his room, but you’ve spent most of your life doing what you should instead of what you want to so just this once, you ignore rational thought in favour of sentiment.

After all, he’ll be discharged from hospital in a week, then you’ll never see him again. 

Tooru promptly proves you wrong the day before he’s scheduled to be discharged. 

“I need someone to help me move into my apartment.”

“Hire a mover”, you tell him. You don’t even look up from your notes. 

“Already did”, he chirps, undaunted by your apparent disinterest. “But it’d be nice to have a friend who I know will be nice enough to help poor old crippled me put my stuff away.” Then he grins cheekily, “plus I checked with that pretty nurse – Yuna-san was it? Anyway, she told me you’re off tomorrow, so you might as well spend the day with me.”

There goes your excuse to wriggle out of having to spend your rare day off with your ex. 

“I have a mountain of sleep debt to pay off”, you protest, but faced with wide brown eyes and an embarrassing wobble of his lip, you comply. Still, you manage to get the promise of a free dinner out of him, so you suppose it’ll do.

Tooru doesn’t have much to unpack, a couple of cardboard boxes of clothes and books, probably because most of his belongings are still in Argentina. He laughs and raises his hands in an attempt to placate you when you lift an eyebrow, first at the lack of kitchen equipment in his furnished apartment, second at the weights and volleyball he tries to smuggle in behind your back. 

“You’re not supposed to exercise for at least a month or two”, you cluck your tongue, sighing with disapproval at the furtive look he casts at the volleyball sitting at the corner of his living room.

“I can set while sitting on a stool! Don’t scold me, my heart can’t bear it”. He throws a hand across his face, brow creased dramatically. 

Icarus, Icarus. You’ve already fallen once. Will you seek out the sun again? 

A string of familiarity loops into a knot over your heart. If you close your eyes and count to ten, you can imagine that you’re eighteen again, chiding the boy you love for practicing too hard. But you’re twenty six now, a full fledged adult who should know better than to dabble in sentiment again (especially when it comes to brown eyed boys who only dream of the sun), so you slash through the threads connecting you to him with a flash of your teeth, bury your beating heart deeper into the dungeon you’ve built years ago of white bone and solid steel.  

“Do what you want, but your neighbours will hate you if you keep thumping that damn ball against the wall.” You say, simply, dismissively. 

“No one could ever hate me”, he declares with bravado. “I’ll charm them all with my charm and good looks.”

“Ridiculous”, you huff, dumping the last of his clothing into the cupboard. “Where’s the dinner you promised? I want ramen and gyoza at least.”

“So demanding”, he lilts. “I’ll order in. Tonkatsu ramen with char siu, bamboo shoots, extra spring onions with gyoza on the side?” 

Your heart struggles against its shackles. He still remembers your order.  

“Yes”, you finally say. “You got that right.”

He grins at you cheekily, as if to say of course. 

After you gulp down your ramen, devour your gyozas, you pack up, ready to leave. You have an early shift tomorrow, and you’re already dreaming about your soft bed whilst dreading the cup of coffee you’ll have to down tomorrow morning just to stay awake. 

He catches your wrist, presses the spare key to the apartment into your hand.  “Come back. I want to see you again”, he says, an order and not a plea. 

You are about to make up an excuse, tell him anything but the truth that you suspect it’s bad for your heart to keep seeing him again. 

“Please” - he adds with a tint of fragility to his voice. 

“I’ll be back when I can”, you finally say. 

“Tomorrow?” he looks up at you with hopeful eyes. 

“We’ll see”, you pry your hand loose from his grasp, slip out the front door. 

You stay away for two days, citing your work schedule as an excuse until he wears you down with a barrage of cutesy line stickers aimed at driving home how lonely he is and how much he misses your presence. You’re being dramatic as usual, you text him dryly, but you turn up anyway at his apartment on a Friday night, letting yourself in with an armful of reports and a bucket of oden. 

“How’re you doing? Are you listening to your physiotherapist? Eating properly? Sleeping well?”

“You sound like my mother”, he grouses, rolling his wheelchair to the dining table. 

You flick at his forehead, he slumps back in his wheelchair.  “Stop bullying the cripple’, he wheezes through his chortle. 

“You deserve it”, you retort. “Don’t run away from the question. How’re you feeling?”

“It still hurts”, he admits with a mock sniff. “It should stop hurting by nowwww.”

You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “That’s to be expected. Your sinews just got stitched together two weeks ago. Not sure why you’d expect any less.”

“Bah, rude. At least you didn’t say I told you so”, he grumbles, spooning oden into his mouth. “That would be insufferable.”

“Well, maybe you’ll listen to me now that I’m actually a doctor”, you inform him pertly, batting away memories of a teenage boy with hazel eyes shouting indignantly at you after practice in the Seijoh gym.

Tooru snorts. “I can’t believe my eighteen year old self was dumb enough to open my future self up to a jab like that”, he complains, chewing on a cabbage roll grumpily. 

“We’re all dumb at eighteen”, you remark. “You’re no exception.” 

“You were dumb enough to date me”, he teases with a mocking smile.  

Your spoon slips from your hand momentarily. It’s the first time he’s alluded to your past relationship. 

“I was, wasn’t I”, you say lightly, before turning the conversation to Tooru’s physiotherapy sessions. 

You have no wish to delve back into the past, but you’re willing to be his friend since he seems to need one for now.  

Tooru’s knee recovers enough for him to shift from his wheelchair to crutches, which he points at you playfully, mimicking a gun every time you pop by for a visit. He seems to plan his physiotherapy session around your schedule, just so he can wheedle you into paying him yet another visit when your shift at the hospital end, bribing you with a cup of coffee with a hint of chocolate from the café across the street that you’ve never found the time to visit. 

“Thank you, kind sir”, you say, accepting the coffee with a laugh. 

“You’re welcome, my lady”, he answers with a smirk, motioning you to follow him for yet another evening to be spent in his home sitting across him, red ink smeared on your hands as you mark up the reports in your lap. 

His façade that he’s coping with his injury just fine slips every so often. You catch him more often than not watching compilation videos of Kageyama and Atsumu at the World Cup this year with a strained expression on his face, or resting his chin on the windowsill whilst staring wistfully at the birds in the sky. 

He does not confide about his worries to you. You’re not sure you want him to. 

But you can’t explain to yourself the impulse to purchase a bird feeder for his balcony, nor the glow-in-the-dark poster of the constellations that you cart into his bedroom until your heart has to scramble for equilibrium when he thanks you, his smile soft. 

“In exchange for all the coffee you’ve bought me”, you reply, turning away to hide all evidence of your heart’s betrayal, the diffusion of blood in your cheeks.  

A month passes. Then another. 

The crutches get kept in the storeroom. A limp remains, but the degree which his knee can bend increases by the day. His mood improves even further, and you constantly find yourself swerving to avoid his affectionate gazes, his attempts at flirtation. 

“You’re looking so pretty today!” he lilts, fitting his arm snugly into the crook of your elbow as you walk down the neon lit streets of Tokyo. He insisted on this outing, and in the custom of your rekindled friendship, managed to convince you to accompany him on your off day so he can get crepes from Harajuku notwithstanding the fact that it takes forty five minutes on the train and his knee still acts up from time to time.  

“It’s my first time downtown in a month”, you tell him. “Of course I’m going to dress up.” You don’t tell him you spent far too long in front of your closet, tossing outfits on your bed until you found one that complements you just right. 

He buys you trinkets, hair accessories that you’ll never wear, tries to win you ridiculous stuffed toys from the claw machine. 

“You’re wasting money”, you scold, wiping the whipped cream from his mouth. 

“It’s not a waste if it’s for you”, he tells you, with startling sincerity that you still doubt.

He doesn’t mean it, you tell yourself. It’s just Tooru being Tooru. 

You refuse to admit what’s staring you in the face until you have to duck your head to avoid his attempt at pressing his lips to your cheek. 

“Goodnight, Tooru”, you manage to say before you bolt off into the night. You check to make sure your heart is still under lock and key. 

It is, but it beats resentfully. Tooru, it beats against its bars with frightening intensity. Tooru. Tooru.  

You ignore it. You know what’s best for it.

You stay away from him for a fortnight, requesting for a change in your schedule without updating him, taking the other exit from the hospital so you don’t have to see him. You stay away until he manages to wear you down yet again, texting you the most ridiculous conspiracy theories about your absence from his life – you must be abducted by aliens, he texts you once, or your mother forced you to marry some stranger, I can break you out if you just say the word. 

He has a guest, you hear another voice, deeper, filled with gravel and intensity, so different from Tooru’s lighter lilt. You do not mean to eavesdrop, but you don’t want to interrupt Tooru when he has a rare guest over, and there’s nowhere else for you wait save for the dusty front step, so you settle yourself in, pen poised to continue your work. 

“What did the doctor say? When are you coming back for practice?” 

“I’m doing good! The physiotherapist thinks I can try light exercise next week. If all goes well, I’ll be back to practice in a month.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I had a good medical team. And I’m actually resting properly!”

“Shittykawa. Stop sounding so proud about doing what’s necessary for your recovery.”

“Iwa-channnn, stop being mean to meeee!”

Ah, Iwaizumi, of course. You haven’t seen him in years, but you remember him from school, a stoic boy with a good heart. You wonder if he’s changed. 

“Are you planning on heading back to Argentina?”

Tooru answers without hesitation. “Of course”, he says airily. “As long as they take me back.”

Your foolish heart shudders with disappointment. Of course. If you run your fingers down his spine, you’ll probably find blooms of wax attached to his very bone. 

You are about to stand up and leave when Tooru speaks up again. 

“But I’m going to enjoy my time in Japan while I’m back. Did I tell you I reconnected with my ex? She’s great, it feels like I never left.”

The firestorm of blood in your ears nearly drowns out Iwaizumi’s growled ‘piece of shit’ (he truly hasn’t changed after all), the clatter of glassware as Tooru protests that he’s not playing with your heart, he truly cares about you, his sullen silence when Iwaizumi demands what’s going to happen when he leaves Japan for Argentina, when he inevitably leaves you behind (yet again).   

Of course. 

You know his heart longs for the sky. There is no space for you. 

You barely have time to react when the door swings open, Iwaizumi on the verge of storming out. You plaster a smile to your face that does not fool him, but you hang on to it nonetheless, cracks appearing only when he gives you a wide eyed look of sympathy that only pours oil onto the flaming war between your brain and your heart. 

“It’s fine”, you say, and though he clearly does not believe you, he bows and leaves anyway. 

Tooru stares at you, mouth open, stumbling over himself with apologies and demands for you to tell him what you’ve overheard, but you motion for him to just stop with your hand, wave aside his protest that he means what he said, he truly likes you.  

Your heart screeches in delight, but your mind is firmly in the driver’s seat. 

“Let’s just pretend I never heard you say that, and we can continue just as before.”

“As friends?” he says, twisting his lips as if the words taste sour in his mouth. He clutches at your shoulders.

“I want more. I want you.”

Your heart thrums in agreement, but you recall assembling the remains of your heart back into your chest whilst kneeling on the cold bathroom floor half a decade ago. The span of five years should have molded you to view your shared past with pragmatism, but your heart seems to have forgotten its lesson. You shake your head.

“There’s no way you truly want me. I don’t think you’ve only ever had space in your heart for anything but your goals.” 

Your response emerges more bitter than you intend. 

“That’s not true”, he weakly protests. “I care about you.”

Not enough, you refrain from telling him. “Let’s remain friends”, you do say, and he opens his mouth to object again, but at the hard look you give him, he slumps back with a defeated nod.

He tries to respect your decision, never complaining when you keep a careful arm’s length distance from him, though you can feel his heated gaze on you whenever he thinks you won’t notice, hear his quiet sighs whenever you shy away from any accidental touch. He droops when you turn down his invite for lunch with his family when they come down for a visit, citing work even though he knows you’re off for the day. 

Still, it’s manageable and he says he needs you, so you return for visits, at least twice weekly, offering encouraging smiles and friendly words when he returns first to light exercise, then to rehabilitative practice a month later, just as he predicted. 

He carves out time for dinners with you, taking care to ask about your day, preferring to spin you stories about the pigeons and doves and crows crowding his balcony rather than talking about volleyball or his practice. He insists on escorting you to his apartment after work when you allow him to, offering you his arm with a soft smile that disarms you, dissolves any resistance. 

It’s an uneasy equilibrium, but it’ll suffice. 

The careful balance you’ve maintained in the space between you and Tooru is shattered when you find you’re not the only one who’s decided to pay him a surprise visit on a Friday night. 

“Tooru, ya didn’t say ya got yerself a pretty girl during yer break”, a man with bleach blonde hair wolf whistles appreciatively when you step into the apartment. 

“I’m just a friend”, you reply confusedly before Tooru’s shout “Shove off, Miya” confirms that one Miya Atsumu has decided to invade Tooru’s apartment. Well, him and what seems like half the MSBY team, with Hinata Shoyo, Bokuto Koutaro and Sakusa Kiyoomi squashed uncomfortably on Tooru’s tiny sofa, long legs stretched across the living room. 

It turns out the MSBY team just finished a game in Tokyo, and Hinata dragged his teammates to visit Tooru in a wholesome bid to cheer him up. You try to excuse yourself after exchanging nods with Sakusa (he hasn’t changed much from his university days) when Miya Atsumu blocks your retreat with a drawled invite for Izakaya and the promise of karaoke after. 

Tooru mouths playfully at you don’t leave me alone with these clowns (you’re tempted to point out that he’s very much one himself), and before you can even blink, you find yourself dragged along to the nearest Izakaya, impressed by the amount of food each man polishes off - skewers of chicken hearts and cartilage, bowls of potato salad and rice with braised pork belly, listening to stories of their exploits on the national team together, stumbling into the karaoke bar tipsy from the beers that Miya Atsumu pressed into your hand, head heavy enough to allow him to wind an arm around your waist. 

“She’s too old for you, ‘Tsumu-kun”, Tooru trills, inserting himself in between you and Atsumu, mouth taut with aggravation. 

“I’m not old, just a year older”, you roll your eyes, as the blonde setter backs away, lips turned up in amusement. Tooru is not placated, muttering how the younger setter is a douche and a sleeze bag as he drapes his jacket over you like a blanket. You nestle against his side, head on his shoulder as his arm rests protectively around you. 

Atsumu watches this with raised eyebrows, whistling slowly, opening his mouth to remark that he’s never seen Oikawa so smitten before when Hinata interrupts with a chirped  “‘Tsum-Tsum, join me!”, handing him a microphone while bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Karaoke is the most fun you’ve had in ages. Hinata and Bokuto and Atsumu sing all their favourite anime theme songs with gusto - Atsumu even gets misty eyed when he croons Sparkle by Radwimps, reddening when everyone teases him for being a romantic sap, Bokuto shaking his hips to Western pop hits, Hinata showing off his Spanish skills. Sakusa refuses to even touch the microphone but you suppose it’s a win that he’s even in the karaoke booth with all of you. 

Tooru slaps away Atsumu’s attempts at handing you any further alcohol, forcing you to down cups of water until you are no longer glassy eyed, but still tipsy enough to agree to sing ridiculous K-On songs with Hintata and Bokuto, not stopping even when Tooru whips out his phone to video the entire performance with an indulgent smile. 

“Delete it!” you squeal, losing your balance when you try swiping the phone out of his hands, tripping into his lap instead.  

“In your dreams, princess”, Tooru chuckles, his arms snaking around you like a vise. 

“Anndd that’s our cue to call it a night”, Atsumu quips, herding Hinata and Bokuto out onto the street, Sakusa heaving an audible sigh of relief. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kids!” he calls over his shoulder, throwing you a wink. 

“I’m technically his senpai, cheeky brat”, Tooru mutters, the irritation in his voice washing away as you giggle. “C’mon, it’s too late for you to get home and my place is nearer to the hospital so you might as well stay over tonight. You can take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.”

You shake your head, arguing that you couldn’t possibly turn an invalid like him out of his bed but he huffs at the insinuation that he’s anything but well, his knee almost whole again. You give in after he convinces you that it’d be more inconvenient for him to escort you all the way to your own home rather than put you up for the night, and you allow him to loop his arm around yours and lead you back to his apartment. 

It’s not the first time you’ve been in his apartment this late, not by a long shot, but it is the first time you’re over with the intention of staying over. The t-shirt you borrow from Tooru hangs off your frame, the scent of the fabric softener Tooru uses is familiar. You would’ve preferred being tipsier to dull your senses, but alcohol would only impair your logic, allow your heart to prevail, so you try to quell the thrumming of your blood in your veins by curling up on a seat by the window with a cup of tea when Tooru emerges from his shower. 

“Ready for bed?” he asks, towelling off his hair, frowning when you shake your head. “It’s late, you have work tomorrow, even if it’s the afternoon shift.”

“It’s fine”, you say without turning your head to face him. “Go to bed, I’ll take the couch.”

“I’m insulted, princess. What kind of a man d’you think I am to make his guest sleep on the couch? ”

It’s less dangerous to ignore him, so you pay him no mind, choosing instead to lean your chin in your hand and look up towards the night sky. It soothes you, the moon an old friend, reminding of five years’ worth of quiet nights spent in your own flat, filtering your younger self into adulthood. 

“What’re you looking at?” He takes a step forward, kneels down next to you. 

“The moon and the stars”, you say dreamily. “They’re pretty tonight.”

A myriad of weather conditions must coincide to allow the stars to even be visible in the polluted Tokyo night sky, but tonight of all nights fate intervenes, the stars align. The sky is cloudless, the full moon hangs heavy, the stars shimmer and dance.  

“Are they?” Tooru whispers. “I haven’t noticed.”

You finally turn to look at him. “Why’re you staring at me?” 

The unconscious echo of your past - a boy and a girl, falling in love under the same night sky makes his mouth twist wistfully, eyes faded gold.

“Because you are my sun, my moon and my stars. I love you better than anything in the sky.”

Your mouth falls open, your heart suddenly roaring, pounding against its restraints. 

“You can’t mean that”, you whisper. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I do”, he says, with heartbreaking sincerity. “And I always will.”

Nostalgia, aided by the lingering alcohol in your veins opens the gate to your foolish heart. You want to pretend that you are eighteen again, without a care in the world, indulging in the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the caress of his breath on your cheek. Your lips beckon his, swallowing the catch of his breath when your hands slide under his shirt. 

“Are you sure about this?” His eyes are hungry, almost ravenous, but his hands still hover at the hem of your top. 

“Yes”, you murmur, pressing open mouthed kisses to the column of his neck. “Please, Tooru - please.” 

He carries you into the bedroom, undresses you with shaking hands, chanting your name with reverence, almost a prayer. His eyes darken with desperation and need, unwilling to allow himself any release until you fall apart boneless, caged in his arms.  

“Stay with me”, he murmurs, after you’ve both cleaned up a second time, tugging you into bed. 

It’s laughable. Five years on, Oikawa Tooru still has the power to make your mind lose all reason (however temporarily). With a single heated look, he commands your heart to break willingly in his hands. How could you not have learnt your lesson? The conversation between him and Iwaizumi merely confirms what you’ve known all this while.

(The sky his heart seeks is a world away from the earth yours is buried in)

Even now, you can see the glimmer of golden wax feathers budding along his spine, gleaming under the pale moonlight. 

You lie under the covers until his breath evens out, then you stumble out of bed. You force your heart to relinquish the keys to its freedom, handing it back to logic and rationality, pulling on your clothing, folding your borrowed clothing aside.  

Tooru mumbles your name, his hand outstretched towards you. “Come back”, he says in his sleep, fragility tinting the edges of his words. 

Your fingers miss the doorknob by an inch. You dash your foolish hopes against the darkness of the room, put on your resolve like armour, leave your spare key on the kitchen counter. 

Without looking back, you slip out into the night. 

​

[labelleofbelfastcity]

the rockrose and the thistle

A/N: wrote this really fast for @kindlespark because she was so nice about my calmethar fic and *sobs* i hope you like it!!

Caramelinda’s lips are dark and wine stained, her mouth tasting of fizzing cola and chocolate. Amanda thinks she could get drunk on this, on the soft feeling of golden hair in her hand and breath ghosting out across her cheek. On the way the queen smiles against her skin.

“My Queen,” Amanda says, voice low and rumbling, catching in the very bottom of her chest as Caramelinda turns those warm eyes on her.

“Darling.”

Amanda burns.

-

The sky is blue and glassy as the bulb buzzes above. Amanda’s hand wraps around the hilt of her sword, squeezing the leather out of habit, slotting her fingers against the worn grip.

“We’re having trouble to the north,” her knight, a Sir Dots of House Dippin, says, neither of them looking at each other, instead facing the sky above.

“The Sundae Sorceress?”

“Maybe. All we know for sure is trouble.”

Amanda cuts Sir Dots a look, and finds xem already smirking at her. “Informative.”

“Amethar’s always had the best spies,” xe says and looks back out at the horizon.

“You just mean Lord Cruller.”

Dots snorts, “Speaking ill of our marquis?”

“Oh, never.”

They laugh together, for a moment, in the bulb’s light. It pales in comparison to the memory of Caramelinda’s soft, perfect hands, dancing above hers against cream sheets.

“We’re a long way from home,” Dots says.

“Yes, we are.”

The bulbs blazes on.

-

The milk silk ribbons tangle in her hands, too slippery for Amanda to thread through the dress’s loops. “Just give me a moment, I almost have it.”

Laughter, the kind Amanda only ever hears when they’re alone, bubbles up from in front of her, dripping and smooth like sweet sugar sizzling on a stovetop. “It’s alright, Amanda, I can do it myself.”

Amanda huffs. “They’re behind you, m’lady. How could you ever hope to even find them?”

“Well, usually I don’t take them out all the way,” Caramelinda says, smile clear in her voice.

Amanda blushes, tries once again to thread the ribbon through its loop, and gives up. One of her hands finds the curve of the queen’s waist, the other going to brush her hair from her neck, which she presses a kiss to, right atop a freckle.

“Amanda,” Caramelinda murmurs, a soft exhale.

“Mmh,” Amanda hums into her skin, combing a hand through her hair.

“I need to go to court, my love.”

“Court can wait.” Amanda mouths at her neck, tightens the grip on her waist.

“Amanda.”

“Mmh.”

“Are you doing this so you don’t have to fix my dress?”

Amanda smiles and pushes her hands into said dress, pulling it from Caramelinda’s shoulders. “Only a little.”

Caramelinda laughs as Amanda pushes her down onto the bed.

-

“Sir Maillard.”

“My King.”

Amethar smiles from beneath his crown, and claps Amanda on the shoulder. A part of Amanda threatens to do something rash, like break his hand.

“How’re you doing?”

Amanda nods, perfunctorily. “Well.”

“Not one for conversation. That’s fine, that’s fine,” Amethar’s smiling dumbly. Amanda wants to ask him if he understands what Caramelinda gives up for this kingdom every day while he sits with that crown on his head.

“What do you want? My King,” she tacks on at the end.

“Just wanted to, eh, congratulate you for your win, out on the Sucrosi Road.”

Amanda attempts at a smile, it probably looks more like a grimace. “Thank you.”

Amethar takes a step closer to her, still grinning, “Jet would love you. She’d like to train with you sometime, maybe as a present for her eighteenth Saint’s Day?”

“It would be an honor, My King.”

Amethar claps her on the shoulder again. Amanda remembers the way she found Caramelinda, crying over a dress of blue cloth, Caramelinda, asleep atop a pile of work, Caramelinda, deep circles under her eyes and a defeated slump to her shoulders. Caramelinda, barely holding on.

Amanda does not hate Amethar. She just doesn’t like him all that much.

-

A flash of s’mores steel catches the air before sinking into the chest of the popcorn warrior before her. He falls, crumbles into pieces of kernel, and Amanda is already twisting, slamming her sword into the opponent behind her.

She’s always come alive in battle, in a way she doesn’t anywhere but with Caramelinda. It’s a mix of both the rush and the wait—each swing of her sword is practiced, watchful. She does not strike recklessly like the King she serves, her strategy more like the words from her Queen’s lips.

Battle is where she feels the closest to home, while she is away from it. Battle and war and violence and peace and sweetness and strength, creating a web of spun sugar in her head. As her sword fells another opponent, her hand raises Caramelinda’s fingers to her lips. She trips a celery stalk into the praline ground, and she presses kisses to Caramelinda’s calves, the skin behind her knees, the freckles on her thighs. She watches the light leave the eyes of those who seek to hurt her Queen, and she stares into Caramelinda’s eyes as she stands by her side in the throne room, their hands not touching but close, the space of a breath between them.

Amanda lost her helmet two opponents ago, and she whips her hair back from her face where it has fallen from her bun. Her hand comes away sticky with sweat and blood—both Vegetanian and her own—and she uses that hand to slam Sir Chocolat’s combatant down to the ground so she can drive her javelin into their chest.

Amanda misses the battlefield when she is home, and she misses home when she is battling. She hopes that the two never meet.

-

“It’s too dangerous,” Amanda says, and she has never seen Caramelinda truly angry with her, but she sees that fire now, her eyes burning and blazing. Amanda tries not to take a step back.

“You will do as I command, Sir Maillard.” This is not her Caramelinda speaking, this is the Queen of Candia, whose life is spiralling from her fingers and whose daughters do not and have never listened to her and whose closest companions are all her husband’s allies.

“Please, Cara. I can’t leave you. Uvano is—”

“He is dying, and Amethar will become emperor.” Caramelinda’s chin is turned up, but she manages to look down her nose at Amanda even though she towers over her. “Now, the Sucrosi Road requires your knights’ attention.”

“Please,” Amanda says, her voice breaking around the world.

She sinks to her knees there, in Caramelinda’s study as her Queen orders her to leave when she needs her most. It is easy, so easy, to catch Caramelinda’s hand where it is fisted at her side and press her forehead against it.

“Sir Maillard…”

“Cara, I can’t.”

Caramelinda snatches her hand away. “You must. I order it of you, I am your Queen.”

Amanda rides from the castle at sunrise, armor and heraldic flag gleaming, as the Queen of Candia swallows her heart back into her chest and watches with barely hidden rage and pain as she sends her protection away.

Amanda will never get to train Jet Rocks.

-

The war is over. The battle is not.

She holds Caramelinda where she has collapsed at the statue of her fallen daughter, fifty paces from the statue of her fallen wife. She holds Caramelinda, buries her face in her hair, breathes in her caramel and sweet sugar smell.

Amanda wishes that this fight would end, but she knows it never will. So, she will remain by her Queen’s side. She is not leaving her home again.

[yandere-daydreams]

has a yandere incubus been done before? an incubus that loves to visit his darling every night, disturbing her dreams and seducing her through them?

This is less ‘seducing’ and more ‘phycological torture’, but incubi are such an unused landmine of terrible, terrible things… it’d be a shame not to use them to their full potential. Let me be a little selfish, sometimes.

TW: Mentions of Death, Mentions of Gun Violence, and Emotional Manipulation.

~

It was zombies, today.

Technically, it’d been zombies for the past week, but time passed quickly in the depths of your mind, the world around you changing whenever he willed it to. The sun never seemed to set or rise, but the sky grew dark and brightened accordingly, the landscape around you doing its best to accommodate the change. He’d chosen a bleak setting, this time, full of decaying buildings and toppled concrete structures, and of course, stocked with slow-moving, groaning, decaying monsters, all fresh out of a low budget movie that would never see a good rating. He’d been nice, though, giving you a few days to adjust before the creatures became aggressive, but his mercy must’ve come to an end.

The scratching was enough to tell you that. You didn’t need the growling, but he’d always been theatrical.

You grit your teeth, cursing the demon’s name as you reloaded the pistol in your hand, one of the many, many weapons you’d dragged up to the shabby apartment you’d made into your safehouse, barely pausing before jabbing the muzzle against one of the cracks forming in the fragile wooden door, pulling the trigger and shutting your eyes as a gunshot rang out through the small space. Luckily, it served its purpose, the greyish hand that’d wormed its way through going limp and falling away. But, it was replaced with another instantly. You barely let yourself inhale, steeling yourself and--

“It’s fun, right?”

The growling stopped as soon as he spoke, or… quieted, at least, giving him room to fill the silence. You just glanced over your shoulder, spotting your captor, your torturer, Alastor sprawled out over your bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling as he addressed you. He was just as nonchalant as he’d always been, black hair tied back into a loose bun and a lazy, proud grin pulled across his lips, as sickening as every other expression he was capable of. “I thought it might be a little much, but now that I’m seeing it…” He trailed off, chuckling. Laughing at you. “It’s great! Way better than the clowns, that’s for sure.”

“Anything’s better than the fucking clowns,” You mumbled, dropping your gun and grabbing the machete laid at your side. The doorknob’s lock had given out, your heart skipping a beat before a weak, rusted chain took up the slack, keeping your only barrier loosely connected to its supporting wall. The gap was barely wide enough for an arm to fit through, but you made due, stabbing at fleshless limbs recklessly, solely focused on keeping them out. “I couldn’t leave that warehouse for three days. I had to drink rainwater, for god’s sake.” 

“You didn’t have to.” He was whining, now, the zombies growing slower. You caught on quickly, letting yourself relax as he put a momentary end to the attack, Alastor allowing you to shift your focus onto him. Still, he took his time sitting up, stretching as he did so, only bothering to look at you once you made it clear you wouldn’t do the same. “You know the rules. As long as your body is being taken care of out there-” He paused, gesturing abstractly. Alastor never cared for the ‘real world’. “-you’ll be fine in here. And you are being taken care of. I’ve made sure of that.”

“My family made sure of that, you mean.” You turned, attempting to block him out. Alastor didn’t take kindly to that, going silent for a moment before appearing behind you, a pair of lanky arms wrapping around your waist. He slotted himself against your back, nuzzling into the crook of your neck when you failed to shove him away, a thin, leathery tail wrapping around your leg, further pinning you in place. You opened your mouth, your spite quickly find its way to the surface, but Alastor sighed before you could, always prepared to interrupt.

“I don’t enjoy this, you know.”

You huffed, speaking under your breath. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t.” You didn’t doubt he was being honest, but he’d tricked you. He’d tricked you, and lied to you, and put you in a goddamn coma when you told him to keep his distance. No amount of ‘honesty’ would make you forgive him for that. “I want to be happy with you, (Y/n), I really do. I can take care of you, I want to take care of you, but you have to devote yourself to me, first. I can’t take you home until you do.” He stopped, drawing you a little closer, chilled fingertips slipping under your torn shirt. Your apartment grew noticeably colder. “We’ll be happy, after that. You’ll be happy with me.”

“I’ll be dead.” You’d been through this too many times to feel any sort of sympathy for him. If Alastor wanted your companionship, you wouldn’t have to deal with the dreams he inflicted, the nightmares. You wouldn’t have to fight for your life against barbaric gladiators or wander through a never-ending forest or survive things no one should have to survive. “You’ll have my soul, and I’ll be stuck in hell, under your control. I couldn’t be happy like that.”

You felt him scowl, sharpened teeth brushing against your skin. “You’ll be with me. It’s already been a week in--”

“A week?” The question slipped off your tongue absentmindedly, as flat as it was hopeless. You couldn’t be sure about passing time in your own head, much how long had actually elapsed, but… it had to be more than that. More than a week. A month, at least, a year. Longer than a week. “It’s only been a week? Alastor, you can’t… I’m not...“ You trailed off, letting out a frustrated scream. One you’d been holding in for far too long. “You can’t keep me here. It’s not humane! I don’t want to be with you!”

You felt him stiffen, his hold on you loosening before you realized your mistake. The temperature rose, and for a moment, you were relieved, but your hope dissolved as soon as it continued to rise, the whole manufactured world suddenly seeming to radiate Alastor’s anger. “Fine.” His lighthearted tone was gone, replaced with something sterile. Something dark. “Have it your way, then.”

In the blink of an eye, Alastor was gone, and your nightmare had returned to its previous state. The yelling, the clawing, all of it was deafening now, and you reflexively reached for your machete, only to come up empty-handed. You looked towards your supply, but your weapons had disappeared, vanished, not a single bullet left. Your panic flared, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry about that.

No, no. You had a much more pressing issue to deal with.

Alastor was gone, but he’d taken your door with him, too.

[artificialqueens]

Stagnant (Taywhora) - pureCAMP

A/N - I keep wanting to write some fun diamond chaney stuff but rn I’m going through some shit so I have created angsty taywhora. You’re so welcome <3

Love isn’t supposed to taste sour. Love isn’t supposed to go off, like opened milk left in the fridge too long. When love breaks down, it should be explosive and intense, because logically, scientifically, all that energy has to go somewhere. Atoms, molecules, chemicals, matter can be created but not destroyed and all of that. It’s physics. All of that love, that energy, has to be channelled somewhere, so it should be channelled into a bright flame, severing any bonds as the energy dispels.

It shouldn’t just… be like this. Like a tiny hole in a balloon, slowly and silently deflating rather than the sudden, heart-stopping pop. Like that moment where you take the bottle of milk from the fridge, take a whiff, and sort of wrinkle your nose. Because it’s vaguely unpleasant, enough to know it’s a little off.

Love should be more than that. If it’s not, was it ever really there?

A’Whora wonders if she should start writing a diary, confiding in a journal, whatever. It’s not something she’s ever considered before, not with Tayce. She tells Tayce everything, every last pet peeve and irritation or deeply analysed personal flaw.  There are no secrets between them, it’s honest and open and A’Whora has never felt more understood than she does with Tayce. Tayce feels like someone who she finally fits with, the jigsaw piece that slots in perfectly. Tayce is perfect.

Tayce hasn’t changed, but they have. Something is different now. Maybe another piece fell out of place, and the picture is incomplete now. If that’s the case, then why does their relationship feel like it’s taking the brunt of the loss?

They argue. No one would bat an eyelid at that; flirty banter is entirely their thing, insults delivered with a single raised eyebrow, gasped responses with faux high intonations, specific looks. But these arguments, this bickering… The flirtation, if it was ever there, certainly isn’t now. Sometimes Tayce does things, and A’Whora feels like little twigs are being snapped in her chest. She feels like she’s sitting in the fields trying to listen to a teacher while someone next to her won’t stop tearing up the grass and tossing it around. She feels like someone is endlessly clearing their throat and she can’t tune out.

But it’s Tayce. How can it feel like that when it’s her? A’Whora loves Tayce. She knows it.

She thinks it.

The beginning of the end starts with Tia. Tayce knows all about A’Whora’s opinions on Tia, starting with how insufferably annoying she’d found her, then morphing into the guilt of she’s a perfectly nice and funny person and I’m so shit to her and I feel so bad that I judged her like that and acted like a bitch when there was nothing wrong with her and then, finally, to the friendly toleration. They get along fine just now, and while they never really choose to hang out one on one, it doesn’t feel like a loss or a dig for either of them. They’re friends, and it’s good.

The girls are all out for brunch. Or, they started at brunch, and then blinked and it was 7pm, and the cocktails they’d shared at lunch started to sound a lot like hey we’re already out, we may as well go out out and now they were out out, nestled into a pub with an empty pitcher and too many glasses on the table in front of them. A’Whora can barely rest her elbows on the sticky wood without knocking a glass or two over, but they’re packed in like sardines and putting her arms down means brushing up against Tayce.

They’re dating, but for some reason touching her casually like that feels wrong. Not dangerously wrong, glaringly wrong, or evoking some kind of deep sulphuric hatred that burns holes through her stomach. Just… off, like touching the unprotected relics in an old church. You can, but it feels a little like you shouldn’t, even though nothing will happen if you do.

She keeps her elbows on the table. The stickiness bothers her, but not as much as the looks that Tayce sends her way when their arms accidentally touch. What does that look mean? Why is it so irritating?

Tia pulls focus, thankfully, grinning like she’s never grinned before in her life and digging through her purse. Veronica has her arm looped around her waist, sitting close enough that Lawrence and Ellie have room to sit beside them. It’s a good thing Bimini and Asttina are small, because A’Whora and Tayce are nowhere near as snuggled up as those two.

When she finally stops digging, Tia presents a hand like she’s a princess expecting a kiss, and everybody’s eyes are drawn to the ring adorning her finger. If she’s honest, it only caught A’Whora’s eye because Tia’s choice in jewellery is usually much flashier and cheaper than that, but she reasons that obviously Veronica chose it, and then the reality of what’s happening kicks in. Tia and Veronica are engaged. They’re getting married. Everyone, A’Whora and Tayce included, excitedly congratulates them. She’s genuinely happy for them, but she’s not genuinely happy. It doesn’t make much sense.

Maybe it’s the cocktail buzz, but A’Whora feels funny. She registers two sensations at once, managing them by way of urgency. First, she mumbles something about needing the bathroom and click-clacks her heels up the stairs into the women’s, finding it mercifully empty, or close enough. She picks the first available stall and awkwardly crouches over the bowl, trying to gag, waiting for it so she can finally feel better.

She pukes twice; some of it gets on the wall, but only a small amount. She holds her breath as she fumbles in her bag for tissues, cleans it up as best as she can, and steadies herself. Too much fucking sugar and fruit in those cocktails, she thinks. They taste amazing and feel terrible. Her stomach still feels horribly fragile, like it’s separating in the middle, but when a test heave brings up nothing, she decides a regular drink, non-alcoholic, will probably settle her.

Before leaving the bathroom (and after washing her hands), she opens up her phone and follows her second instinct, tapping on the screen until everything’s confirmed and then tucking it back in her bag and heading down the stairs. She won’t tell anyone she’s been sick, because that’s both embarrassing and would ruin the fun.

When she rejoins the table, Lawrence is halfway through a roaringly funny anecdote that involves burnt toast, Ellie being a disgusting whore, and possibly a ruined anniversary. Everyone is howling with laughter; Tia’s hanging off of Veronica, Ellie’s clutching her stomach, Bimini and Asttina have both thrown their heads backwards off their chairs in laughter, and Tayce is laughing so hard she’s completely silent, vibrating. A’Whora sits down and forces a chuckle just so she fits in, desperate to maintain at least one of her jigsaw puzzle pieces while she can. Tayce clasps a hand over her knee as she laughs, and the touch is not uncomfortable, but unwelcome. She gently moves her leg away from Tayce’s hand - Tayce stops laughing, looks at A’Whora, then looks away and resumes her laughter like it’s nothing. It was something, but for now it needs to be nothing.

It just solidifies the idea in A’Whora’s mind that she’s done the right thing.

-

The following morning, she suddenly remembers it. They’d both awoken a bit headachey, but otherwise fine, fresh as daisies even. Ellie keeps texting the groupchat about her wicked hangover, and as she says something about am literally desperate enough to try raw eggs at this point A’Whora mutes the chat, not wanting to get distracted.

Tayce is in the living room, not a stitch of makeup on, wearing a big t-shirt with Eeyore on it and a pair of grey shorts hidden somewhere underneath it. She’s absolutely beautiful, breath-taking, stunning. No one in the world is built like she is.

A’Whora wonders if it’ll ever be enough.

Steeling herself, she makes her way into the living room, briefly stopping in front of the hallway mirror. She looks a mess, hair in a gravity-defying bun, dark circles under her eyes, the remnants of last night’s lipstick still smudged on the inside of her lips. Does Tayce think she’s just as beautiful when she sees her like this? Is there still beauty in her ugliness?

“Morning, you,” She greets, injecting a cheerful note into her voice. Tayce nearly jumps out of her skin, but when she turns around she meets A’Whora’s eye, mercifully, with a smile that looks genuine.

“Hiya love,” Tayce replies, beckoning her to come and sit on the sofa next to her. “How you feeling after last night? Have you seen all of Ellie’s bitching?”

A’Whora sets herself down, leans into Tayce’s side, embracing the early morning closeness before it can evade them. Her head rests on her girlfriend’s shoulder, and neither of them move to rest it elsewhere, so it’s a good start.

“I don’t feel too bad, head’s a bit fucked though,” She admits.

Tayce laughs, causing her shoulders to bounce and wobbling A’Whora’s head. “Here, I think your head was fucked before a couple of cocktails, babe.”

She’s not wrong. A’Whora grants her a laugh which is only a little bit fake, and then sucks in a breath to start speaking. Unfortunately, Tayce beats her to it,

“And all this about our Ronnie proposing to Tia? You know, I was thinking about it all night but I didn’t wanna say anything and make it all about us, but what are they gonna do about the hen do? Like, a joint one, or two separate ones on different nights where all but one of us is out?”

It’s a very fair point, but it’s so far from important in A’Whora’s mind that she brushes it away. Dwelling on the success and excitement of another friend’s relationship is hardly going to ease the tempest waging war in whatever part of her body processes weird emotions that feel the need to migrate to her chest and stomach. She’s happy for them. Her feelings end there. It doesn’t need discussion.

She presses a kiss to Tayce’s shoulder, feigning nonchalance over the topic. “I don’t wanna talk about them, they have it all figured out and that’s boring. I, however, did something last night.”

Tayce raises an eyebrow and waits. A’Whora pulls up her phone, shows the screenshots of the booking confirmation.

“We’re going on holiday!”

A second passes. Then another. Then another. Silence.

Then, Tayce hunches her shoulders and A’Whora takes the cue to remove her head, to stop resting against her, to sit up and be serious. She sighs heavily, glancing at A’Whora’s phone again and then up at the ceiling, her enthusiasm about her friends and a night out stripped away immediately.

“A’Whora…” She hates when Tayce uses her name properly, it feels wrong now after getting used to so many nicknames and pet-names. “What- We’ve got work, we can’t just jet off on holiday whenever we want.”

Is this the first hole in the balloon, the start of the slow deflation, or is it one of many slowly letting out air, gaining speed with every interaction that goes the wrong way? Either way, there’s a sinking feeling in A’Whora that just won’t let up. She doesn’t even want to try - she considers cancelling the booking, giving up the tickets, apologising for such a stupid oversight. But no, she wants to try. Making an effort is important, and she doesn’t want to just sit back and let things sputter out like a dying fire. They will burn bright or not at all.

“I know I - I rushed it, a bit, and I’m sorry I didn’t think that far ahead. But I think this’ll be good! Just you and me, away from all the stress and chaos, some proper alone time.”

She feels like they’re never really alone. They’re not, when she thinks about it - friends always texting, TV always on, always aware of the presence and existence of other people when the whole world used to be just Tayce and A’Whora, A’Whora and Tayce, and everyone else was secondary. Her plan had been pretty bare bones, but a long drive through Middle America until they reach sunny California feels like it can fix things. They can reconnect properly on the long drive, fall in love with being in love again, and then bask in the sunshine and luxury of wherever in Cali takes their fancy when they make it there. Escaping to a place where just for a while, they’ll be the only ones… That sounds good. That sounds like what they need. The panacea of relationships, the reminder of what they were.

Tayce agrees to go.

-

“You know, I literally hate people and I can barely be alone with someone for ten minutes without getting pissed off but I honestly feel like I could sit here talking with you forever,” A’Whora admitted, blushing and laughing at Tayce’s expression. “No, really! We could go anywhere, where shall we go? Barry Island?”

Tayce snorted. “Oh fuck off with that, Lawrence’ll never let go of this bloody Gavin and Stacey thing she’s got going on if we go there. Anywhere but that.”

They collapsed into laughter, mindful of gear sticks and cupholders digging into their sides as they went limp. A’Whora feigned offense, wrinkling her nose and sticking out her bottom lip in a childish pout.

“I’m just annoyed that her joke means I’m the bloke of the relationship. Fucking Gavin, I mean he’s such a wet wipe.”

“I wonder if that would make Lawrence Nessa though?” Tayce pondered, gasping as genius struck her. “Oh my god, Rory, would that make Ellie Smithy?”

A’Whora was sure her stomach was going to fall out of her body with the force of her laughter, so sore she couldn’t do anything besides screeching and trying desperately to stop, to no avail. The car was parked up in a lay-by overlooking the sea, still with no destination in mind as of yet, but they were happy to observe the view as they munched their sandwiches, scrambled for a plan and tried to assign each of their friends a Gavin and Stacey character. (Bims was obviously Pam, if she was slightly more unhinged.)

Tayce wiped her eyes. “This is beastly. Alright, alright, where are we actually going then? Do we have any plan at all?”

A’Whora shrugged. “Drive til we find somewhere that looks nice?”

“Sounds good.” She leant over, the two of the meeting in the middle for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Happy six months, gorgeous.”

-

It’s not the same. Of course it’s not the same. Everything is different now, so why would this be the same?

America is big. Big enough that you can drive and drive and the landscape will stay the same, dusty and yellow with nothing else to see beyond the occasional sparse red rock. There is nothing for miles in any direction, and they are the only car on the road, just driving through endless space.

At first, she’d thought that the big open space would make it easier to run from their problems, the simplicity providing some clarity into why everything seemed to have shifted and allowing them space to fix it all. Instead, the emptiness was just exacerbating her own emptiness, a barren landscape horribly reminiscent of their lives at home.

They had been so colourful, once. When had the barren desolation crept in? Where had it all gone?

America is so big, and they are so small.

Some of these Middle America states are so similar that the line between them seems to just be an arbitrary thing, as the sign indicates they’re somewhere new while the landscape suggests they’re anything but. Tayce is driving, occasionally tapping her fingers on the wheel in tune to the music, which A’Whora pretends doesn’t annoy her. It used to be endearing, but hours of tap tap tap feels like some tame iteration of water torture. Then she feels ridiculous for such a dramatic comparison, and tries to count her blessings.

She’s in a beautiful country with a beautiful girl. She should be happy.

They both should.

“So we’re due in California in like two days of driving, yeah?” Tayce checks, still drumming away on the steering wheel. “Where are we staying tonight, then?”

A’Whora shrugs. “I just thought we’d find somewhere along the way, a motel or something.”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say. Tayce huffs.

“What, so we’re just driving aimlessly? You didn’t book anything?”

Her memory jolts back to their six month anniversary, almost forever ago now in the timeline of their relationship. She doesn’t know if Tayce remembers any details of that day, or just the fond memories that she clings onto as best as she can. Before she even says it, she’s knows it’s stupid, knows it won’t work, and is annoyed at herself before Tayce even can be. In fact, she knows it’ll start an argument. But what else is there to say?

At least their arguments have a bit of passion, a tiny spark. Nothing like the explosions, but maybe it’s a start. It’s better than letting their love sit stagnant and off until it slowly disintegrates.

“Drive til we find somewhere that looks nice?”

She thinks about sharing a kiss, feeling a sort of young happiness that melts away everything else in the world. She thinks about how lucky they felt.

“For fuck’s sake, A’Whora. I thought you would’ve at least planned something for your little impromptu holiday,” Tayce snaps, turning off the music. Thank God - no more tapping.

“My impromptu holiday? This is about us, Tayce, which apparently you’re too blind to see. I did this so we could spend some time together alone and actually start getting on.”

“Start getting on? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh my god, okay, it’s all in my head then and I’m the bad guy. I just mean that we’ve been bickering a lot and I thought that getting away from home would help us recalibrate and get back to normal, Christ.”

“This isn’t a coming of age film, you can’t just jet off to fix things. We’re fine, but this is a bit of a piss take because there’s nothing literally anywhere and we have no idea when the next place to stop will even be. Can you at least look on your phone for somewhere instead of making this into a fight?”

“I’m not making it into- fine, yeah, I’ll look. There’s no signal, though, we might need to get further towards a town before we can look something up.”

“Fuck me. This is so relaxing, I’m so glad I booked a week off to do this.”

“I was trying to do something nice, you don’t need to be like that.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Let’s just - I’ll put the music back on, we’ll keep going.”

They drive in silence.

-

Four hours later, there’s a motel. It’s a single isolated building in the middle of the emptiness, with neon signs that buzz and hum with electricity and flicker on and off. There’s only three other cars in the car park besides theirs, all aggressively American looking, but it’s dark and they’re both too tired to care. It looks like the kind of place that a murder is definitely going to take place, probably tonight, but Tayce stacks up the chairs in front of the door in case the lock fails and flops down onto the bed, exhausted.

“This is fucking delightful.” She comments dryly. “I guess it’s an authentic American road trip experience, though, so I’ll give you credits for that.”

Her tone is unnecessary - A’Whora prickles. “Oh wow, thank you so much for all the credit you’re giving me. I feel so inspired to do nice things for our relationship again now.”

It happens again. Arguments, none of them screaming matches, no blinding fury and passion, no explosive fights and hateful sex and the feeling of losing it all, so throwing everything in at once to stoke the flames. It’s just another small thing, again and again and again.

They’re fighting and there’s just no reason for it whatsoever. No one has done anything wrong. No one has said anything wrong. They love each other, desperately, and they’re fighting.

Eventually A’Whora realises what they’re doing, and it hurts somewhere deep and cavernous in her chest. Their love won’t end in explosions and flames and hysterics and tears, but they’re still arguing and bickering for a reason, just not the one she thought.

If love is supposed to be so big, all grand gestures and bleeding heart fights, then what are they? Were they ever in love?

It doesn’t matter. The truth is, they’re just breaking something because they don’t know how to fix it.

There’s no fixing this.

-

They don’t make it to California.

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part sixteen

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

  Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

The Night of the Infiltration

While she’d spent the night dissecting her and Noir’s relationship, she rose from bed the next morning with a clear head. With a long night ahead, she could not afford any distractions. At work, her and Martha chatted, and the blonde attempted to gauge her friend’s state of mind. She seemed steady, focused and—well, normal. Nothing seemed to affect her or frustrate her in the least that day. Not the printer not working, or her computer experiencing technical issues. She didn’t mind the terribly long line in the cafeteria and didn’t seem to care when her papers were misplaced by the office mailman. She was utterly impassive.

Martha worried, even though these were all positive signs. If she’d seen Sarah growing evermore nervous and angry, she’d have pulled the plug. Her being impassive meant she had better control over her more violent emotions.

And soon, people began to gather their things and leave.

Martha and Sarah also shrugged on their coats, packed their bags, and left the building. Before heading their separate ways, Martha grabbed her hand bringing them to a halt.

“Be careful tonight, okay?”

Sarah nodded, wrapping her arms around herself and looking at the crowd swarming the sidewalks.

“I’m serious,” Martha pressed, “I’ll be ready, and get it done as quickly as possible.”

“I know, I’ll be careful,” Sarah promised.

Martha nodded, satisfied with her answer, and pulled her friend into a tight hug.

She whispered, “Don’t worry, we got this, girl.”

And with a wink, Martha spun around and disappeared into the crowd. Sarah chuckled and turned the opposite way to head home.

.

An hour before go-time, Sarah could be found arming herself in her home. She steeled herself against rushing, and instead took her time. She had changed into a black suit and packed a small bag with the files and thumb drive she’d need once in the archives. 

She wore a black wig with long bangs, since she wouldn’t be able to avoid all the security cameras placed between the back entrance and the archives. The wig would confuse them of her identity since her curly hair was a distinctive aspect of her persona. It would immediately give her away. And pulling her hair into a tight bun was strictly not an option, since pulling her hair back accentuated her features. 

The suit had a particularly long turtleneck which she could easily lift over her nose, leaving only the upper part of her face exposed. That paired with the wig would be enough to conceal her identity.

She checked her utility belt and finished fixing a series of knives into their sheaths. A single gun with silencer was strapped to the top of her back where she could easily access it. A set of throwing knives were securely tucked against her calves in the side of her heavy-duty boots.

Looking in the mirror, she approved of the sleek, dark vision that was her reflection. She would be such a dangerous piece in this game against Vought. She would be unstoppable. A force to be reckoned with.

Finally, she settled at her kitchen table and waited for the minutes to tick by, counting down to the moment for action. When the clock struck eleven, she rose and made her way out the back door. Crossing her dimly lit backyard, she hoisted herself over the wooden fence and disappeared into the shadows of the back alleys.

.

Once she’d made it to Vought’s back entrance, she quickly slipped on the glove she’d gotten from Mallory. It felt odd on her skin, as it was made from a biosynthetic material. As soon as the sensor captured the fingerprints, she quickly shrugged it off and placed it into its protective case, which she then slid back into her bag. She stepped into the elevator and punched the button for level 02.

The elevator rose soundlessly, no music or simple tune to ease the tension. The doors slid open, and she cautiously stepped out. She quickly moved down the hall towards the archives and pressed her back to the wall as she neared the final corner to reach its entrance. At night, there were always a team of guards who made sure there were no break-ins, even though it had never occurred before. Two were placed at the building’s entrance, another two near the R&D sector of the building and one near the archives.

She heard the scuffle of shoes against tiled pavement, and the deep sigh that followed. She pulled out a small mirror and used it to look beyond the corner.

There he was. The guard seemed fit, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was seated and scrolling through whatever had his attention on the tablet he held.

Sarah flipped the mirror shut, storing it away.

She grabbed the baton from her belt and focused on her breathing. At her next exhalation, she moved out into the hall and flipped it in his direction. It hit him straight in the face, and while he raised his hands, she sped towards him, kicking him down.

“what the fu—”

She twisted his arm behind his back, and removed all of his weapons, sliding them out of reach. Finally, she crooked her other arm around his neck and dragged him out of potential cameras’ view.

The radio on the guard’s belt crackled to life, “Hey we heard something down your way. Everything okay?”

She pressed harder on his windpipe. “Answer them. Everything is fine.”

“You bitc—”

“None of that, I’m afraid,” she scolded. “Now tell me,” she questioned with a genuinely curious voice, “Do you care more about this company or your life?”

She felt him go still in her arms, followed by a useless attempt to get out of her hold. She held fast, focusing on the mechanics of her grip rather than brute strength. He could get out of the hold, but to do so he’d have to break his own shoulder. She smirked.

“I’ll repeat myself one more time,” she whispered, “Are you going to give your life for this fucking company tonight?”

Finally, he shook his head no.

“Then tell your buddies you dropped your tablet or some bullshit like that.”

He nodded, and she brought the mic up to his lips.

“Everything’s all right, boys,” he hesitated, “Just dropped my tablet with my dumb ass.”

Some laughs broke through the small device, “Take it easy Jackson.”

She clicked the radio’s mic off, satisfied with his answer.

“Yeah, take it easy Jackson,” she whispered in his ear before effectively knocking him out. She took the key card from around his neck.

Sarah rose and flattened her bangs back into place. Stepping over his body, she walked over to the entrance and swiped the card. Access granted.

She withheld her satisfaction and stepped into the dimly lit space. Closing the door behind her, she switched the lights on.

The room was even larger than she had imagined. Rows and rows of servers occupied the room and shelves with boxes full of files lined the walls. A single desk and computer sat alone at the entrance. She quickly took a seat and searched the index for the items she needed to find.

She searched the applied physiology lab and couldn’t find any match. She ran a hand through the straight black locks of hair, sighing in frustration. The guard would be out for a while, but not long enough for her to search the whole database. She inserted a few more dead-end searches. Finally, an idea struck. She typed in her patient code from when she’d been a part of Vought’s experimental treatment. Surely they kept records of their experiments, trials and advancements.

She struck gold and immediately noted the server code on a small piece of paper. Then she quickly searched for Sarah Burns, immediately finding her file among the Vought employees. She noted her file’s position amid the boxes as well.

She turned the computer off and rose out of her seat, taking a second to figure her way through the maze of servers.

Once she’d found the right one, she recalled Martha’s directions on where to put the thumb drive. Double checking, she plugged it into the right slot and pulled her burner phone out.

She sent a quick text. I’m in.

Not ten seconds later, she’d received an answer. I’m on it.

In the meantime, she made her way towards the employee files, committing the path to memory so that she could later find her way back to the thumb drive.

She found her box and flipped through the different folders held inside. Finally, she reached the one on Sarah Burns. She took the papers out and replaced them with the ones she’d fabricated in their stead. Slipping the originals into her bag, she put the box back in its place.

Turning around, she sped back to the server they were currently hacking.

She checked her phone as she weaved through the columns of devices, wires and switches.

She’d gotten a text. Done.

She sent one back. Ok, I’m going to disconnect.

There were only a few corners left and she’d have the USB, ready to leave the building.

It’s already disconnected.

This immediately made her halt. She gathered her breathing, her already alert state of mind sharpening even further. She wasn’t alone.

If it was the guard, there would be no issue, but if it was a member of the Seven, this room was about to be wrecked. She prayed that it wasn't Homelander.

She inched closer with caution in every step.

She peered around the corner and found the server’s glass door closed with no thumb drive sticking out of it. She wanted to curse but focused instead on the sounds around her. When she heard nothing, no steps, no breathing, she realized someone was watching her, toying with her.

Did they already know? Had they simply been waiting for her to make a move?

Well, at this point they’d caught her red-handed.

That’s when she heard the slightest sound, followed by the movement of air behind her. She spun around, and almost choked.

Noir had jumped down from the top of a server and was now standing in the middle of the corridor. One of his gloved hands was curled into a fist, which without a doubt held the thumb drive she so desperately needed.

Oh God, she thought. This isn’t going to end well.

They stood still, staring, and waiting for each other to make the first move. If he was waiting to see if she’d run, he was going to find himself terribly disappointed. She knew from her data collection with Mallory that he enjoyed a hunt. This would be no predator and prey dynamic.

This was a predator facing another predator over a piece of property. She would not go down easy, nor would she flee like a scared rabbit.

Black Noir observed the darkly clad woman standing across the hallway. She seemed untroubled by his presence and didn’t seem likely to back down. There was a deep-set power to her that he had difficulty pinpointing. She looked like an elastic ready to snap.

Tired of waiting, he took firm steps towards her. Any enemy of Vought was an enemy of his, and Mr. Edgar had given him clear orders. She was to be either detained or eliminated.

As he moved towards her, she held still. She watched him approach, and he almost faltered at the intensity of her gaze, the total lack of fear in her awfully familiar eyes.

The eyes that were blazed in his mind since that night at the gala…

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he focused on the task at hand. As he reached her, he wrapped his fingers around her neck hoisting her off the ground.

Sarah felt the characteristic surge of warmth and energy surge through her chest and outwards through her limbs. She placed her palm against his chest plate, feeling it melt under her touch. Finally, she let go. The sudden transfer of energy sent him flying backwards and through a server which crackled and beeped loudly as it went offline.

Noir stepped out of the wrecked device and looked at her before rushing to the side and slamming her through another server. She literally burnt a hole through the tower and looked back at him through the opening. Sarah almost laughed, immediately hoisting herself up off the pavement. She felt a surge of energy and climbed to the top where he met her.

She took a standard fighting position, ready for anything he’d send her way. It’d been some time since she’d fought, and this would be the first time she’d be challenged by someone of equal strength. There was no holding back here, on either side.

And she’d get the thumb drive back no matter what.

Again, he was the first to move in with a punch aimed straight for her head. Sliding under his outstretched arm, she kicked his knee hard and punched him in the stomach before backing away.

Reaching down, she took a dagger into hand and threw it his way, nicking his cheek. If she’d wanted to she could have sent it flying into his skull, although that too wouldn’t have been enough to stop him. Still, it had been a warning.

The fight went on, equal forces clashing against one another.

But then he caught her in a chokehold that she couldn’t escape. She wouldn’t allow him to end her or put her to sleep and have her captured. There was no way in hell it would all end here, this way.

She focused on her anger, on the pain, on her mother and father’s faces. Her mind conjured butterflies in the air around her and she followed their intricate dances intently. She smelled the smoke, felt the ashes softly coating her cheeks.

As he held her close, slowly cutting off her air supply, Black Noir came to a sudden realization. The sudden whiff of vanilla conditioning cream made him still. Her eyes. Her scent.

And then she let go, and the air around them exploded like a set of bombs.

When the dust settled, and she opened her eyes, she searched for Noir afraid of what she’d find. She found him among the wreckage, lying on his back a hand to his side.

She rushed over and cautiously kneeled beside him. She stayed alert, knowing he could kill her even in an impaired state, be it by a silent dagger or the snap of her neck.

He reached one hand up to her cheek, and she knew he’d connected the dots. Everything would be different now. Her cover was blown.

But then he did something that took her by surprise: one hand slipped into a pocket, and instead of the expected dagger, he extracted a slightly fuming, still intact thumb drive.

He held it up for her to take and signed a simple word. She nodded and squeezed his hand with her own before standing and running away. The blast had destroyed a part of the servers and it had sent the security alarms blaring. Red lights flashed in the corridors she ran down to reach the back entrance she’d used to get in.

Her brain ran even faster, thoughts clouding her senses. Ultimately, she shut them all out. She cleared her mind of everything but the thumb drive in her hand.

She thought back to Noir’s advice, or maybe threat. The one simple word he’d signed.

“Run.”

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx  @rayray1463

[gotham-ruaidh]

Pas De Deux - A  Moodboard (Three Part) One-Shot

@iamnottrisha​ thank you for organizing!

Chapter 1

Claire Beauchamp – Miss Claire to her students – sighed and rolled her stiff shoulders, squinting at the pile of lab reports yet to be graded.

 Another Thursday night working late in her cramped office at PS 345, recognized for six straight years as one of Brooklyn’s top-performing middle schools. Two months ago she had started her fourth year as a seventh-grade science teacher, her creative approach to topics ranging from biology to buoyancy winning accolades from students and a precious tenure slot the year before.

 She truly loved the school – so much so that after leaving Frank she’d bought a co-op just a ten-minute walk away, on the border of Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens. The charming brownstones and tree-lined streets were the perfect antidote to her years living in a Manhattan high-rise, all cold steel and glass and cold neighbors and a cold husband married to his deals.

 When she realized she’d been looking at the same diagram for five minutes, she sighed, feeling deflated. No use continuing tonight.

 Quickly she organized the papers on her desk, shrugged into her blue peacoat, and slipped the remaining lab reports into her satchel. Already thinking about the Lebanese food she’d pick up on the walk home, and how Adso would wrap his furry gray body around her ankles as soon as she unlocked the front door.

 She stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her.

 Faint music drifted from the direction of the arts wing.

 Intrigued, she padded down the quiet hallway, passing lockers and darkened classrooms and walls covered with flyers of all colors and sizes. Turned at the corner –

 Ah. Light blazed from the art studio, where Jamie Fraser hunched over a sink, his back to her, washing paintbrushes, fast-paced orchestral music blaring from speakers mounted at two corners of the room.

 This wasn’t the first time that she and the second-year art teacher had found each other working late – and truth be told, seeing him there tonight made her smile.

 Shaking her head – damn, she was just like her students sometimes, mooning over a ridiculous crush – she knocked loudly on the classroom door.

 Jamie startled, turning to face her. Then smiled broadly, wiping paint-streaked hands on his denim smock.

 “What’s it tonight?” she teased.

 He fished a remote control out of his back pocket and dialed down the volume. “What did you say?”

 “I said,” she smiled, slowly walking into the studio, “what are you listening to tonight?”

 “Ah.” He leaned back against the sink. “Tchaikovsky – Swan Lake. I just got my hands on this great new recording from the Bolshoi, in Moscow. It’s amazing.”

 “Ballet?” Claire’s eyebrows quirked, and she set her satchel down on one of the classroom tables – careful of the coffee cans full of paintbrushes.

 Briefly Jamie turned away to set out the damp paintbrushes to dry on a towel beside the sink. “What – can’t a man have many tastes?”

 “Well – whenever I’ve found you in here blasting your music before, it’s been anything from rock to folk to country music. I thought all of you artistic types were into the indie stuff.”

 Jamie reached behind his back to untie the strings of his smock. “I only like the classics. Too much of art and music these days is bullshit. If you have to be told that it’s great, or told what political statement the art is making, then it’s not art.”

 She smiled. Feeling refreshingly alert. “So, Mr. Artist – what is art?”

 He hung up the smock on a peg beside the sink. Crossed the room to stand just a few steps away. Looking a bit tired in his flannel and corduroys – his eyes, however, so alive.

 “Art is something that stirs you, and resonates with you, and that you know is beautiful.”

 She swallowed.

 He ran paint-stained hands through his short, thick red hair. “And, well – my sister is a professional ballet dancer.”

 Claire laughed – tension suddenly relieved. “What?”

 “Yeah.” Why did his voice sound so shy? “I grew up going to her practices and recitals. So I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for ballet.”

 “Who was the Impressionist that was particularly enamored with drawing ballet dancers?”

 “That would be Edgar Degas. The Met has rooms dedicated to his pastels.” Jamie tilted his head a bit. “Since when do science teachers know anything about art or ballet?”

 She lifted her chin. “My uncle raised me after my parents died – he worked very hard to give me a well-rounded education.” She balled her hands into fists, safe within the pockets of her coat.

 Jamie sat on the edge of the table. “My parents died too.”

 Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m – ”

 “Don’t apologize – please. Mom was an artist – she encouraged me, and my sister. After she died, my father did the same. And now, here I am.”

 Claire swallowed. Wanting nothing more than to keep talking to this man.

 “Do you like Lebanese food?”

 --

 “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

 Jamie wiped his mouth with a napkin before diving back into his piping-hot lamb sandwich.

 “I love this place.” Claire took another bite of falafel, digging deep into the paper bag for another slice of pita. “It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century. And you saw all the grocery items, right?”

 Jamie nodded, re-crossing his legs on the bench, watching the cars whizz by on Atlantic Avenue. “Do you live close to here?”

 “Yeah. I love it. What about you?”

 “I’m up in Greenpoint. I inherited Mom and Dad’s brownstone. It’s silly to be in such a big house by myself, but – ”

 “But you can’t part with it. I understand.”

 He turned to look at her. Really look at her – crazy curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, falafel crumbs on her coat, a smudge of white sauce on her chin.

 Why hasn’t some lucky man snapped you up?

 It took five seconds for his tired brain to realize he’d spoken the words aloud.

 How he wanted to sink into the sidewalk.

 But Claire set down her styrofoam tray. Pursed her lips. Really looked at him.

 “One did,” she whispered. “But he threw me away.”

 Chastened, Jamie reached across the bench. Wiped the sauce from her chin with the flimsy paper napkin from the take-out bag.

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize – please. I’ve got my own life now. My students – a job that I love.”

 He didn’t say anything for a long time – watching her, and the taxicabs gliding by, and the hundreds and hundreds of people hurrying past on the sidewalk.

 She cleared her throat. “Anyway. We got some baklava for dessert, right?”

 “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

 She blinked. “Friday? Um…nothing, I guess.”

 He nodded. “Good. I want to take you somewhere, if that would be all right. Wear something halfway nice – we’ll leave from school.”

 She raised her eyebrows. “Are you taking me out on a date, Jamie?”

 He smirked. “Just returning the favor, Claire.”

[inforapound]

Emboîté Part 3

A/N - Part 3 of @youbloodymadgenius writing celebration fic. Than you so much for your likes and comments. The saucy Part 4 will be up tonight. 

Pairing – Ivar and Sarah     (Aethelswith)

Words – 3,500 approx

Series Warning – explicit smut, dance industry inaccuracies, fluffy Ivar, possessive Ivar, semi-slow burn, ‘baby’ used as a term of endearment.

Having lived my life in leotards, leggings, and costumes with little to them, I rarely thought twice about how much of my body was on display. Walking toward me, Ivar looked everywhere but at the short, soft pink dress and sheer leggings, I had chosen for the occasion. Without arrogance or his usual stiff expression, he looked almost shy. It was so adorable it hurt and in that moment, I wished I knew him well enough to tease.

Arriving precisely one hour after my distress call, he came through the doors dressed ‘down’ in a grey button-up shirt and expensive-looking jeans carrying not one but two camera bags, strapped across his chest. It was clear, Ivar Lothbrok did not mess around.

“Hi,” I smiled pleased to be on my own turf.

“Hi, you look,” his bright eyes and neutral face did a quick sweep of my front, “…. ready.”

Not uncomfortable, more focussed, he listened while unpacking his gear, placing it onto a long wooden table pushed against the wall.

“We were all asked to contribute something for the silent auction on the 23rd and Derek, my friend, he’s professional photographer,” Ivar’s eyes narrowed, listening to me rattle on, “was set to take two photos of me. One dancing and one wearing a gown provided by Caffrey’s, our sponsor, who provide all our evening wear. Anyway... the photos will be blown up and framed and put out for the auction.”

“You want mid-motion shots or still poses?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“I was going to leave that to…”

“Derek?” he asked, glancing up from the canon in his hand, his eyes skipping between each of mine.

“Yeah.”

“Got it.” Dropping his eyes back down to his camera, he flicked various buttons, a digital screen lighting up on the back.

“What do you think I should do?”

Looking up, he said nothing, his mind obviously working it through.

“Let's get some test shots for light and then just do your thing. Forget, I’m here.” With a quick jerk of his head, he indicated he was set.

Moving to my invisible mark on the floor, he took what felt like eight or ten shots of me standing in the center of the room in first position. Adjusting dials and playing with his zoom, he looked through the lens, his other eye squeezing closed, the shutter firing in a rush of clicks. Using a different black cane than the night of the auction, he hooked it on the inside of his elbow anytime he stood in one place. It seemed like an extension of his body, moving it with ease and I knew then his dramatic limp was not an injury but a condition.

It was time. Walking back to the table, I pressed the player, returning to my spot at the center of the wooden floor. The music sounded and I began. Swiveling, I rose up onto pointe, lifting and swinging my right leg in a broad sweep, shoulder height, before dropping and dramatically walking forward with rushed steps. I chose to dance my favourite part of the ballet Coppelia. Leaping high, my extended legs and pointed toes cut and curved through the air. For my size, I had always excelled at grand jetés and knew they often made for an impressive photograph.

My muscles and tendons, calloused feet and bones, blood and soul knew these steps so automatically, so ingrained that my mind could suspend and almost observe. There were few times in life, one could be wholly present, and dancing provided those moments for me. No concerns or past, no fear or questions, no right or wrong, good or bad, just movement. My body simply called forward into this graceful fluidity that felt as natural as taking a breath. So, this piece seemed fitting for such a sensation as the story was about a man who created a dancing doll, void of a mind, who moved so remarkably she floated like some beautiful celestial being. He became obsessed and controlling with her the more people fell in love with her dancing. I felt like a doll twirling and leaping, prancing with delicate steps, void of thoughts, responding only to the pull of the enchanting music.

The last steps were upon me and I rose onto point, extending my other leg vertical to my body, my toes reaching up toward the ceiling. Dropping forward, into a grand révérence, I held allowing the music to come to its end. 

Silence.

Pulling myself up from a deep bow, I turned to look at Ivar. Lowering his camera, our eyes met. He had this confronted look and I could only assume he wasn’t sure what to say. The force of his stare and then a quick flutter of his eyelashes betrayed him though. He was impressed.

Exhaling, I relaxed my shoulders, resting my hands on my hips as I caught my breath.

Strange moments had been happening since I first saw him in that ballroom, and this was no exception. Neither of us seemed to know what to say, and I felt this sense of impatience, wishing I knew him already. Wanting, somehow, to fast forward through this polite unfamiliarity to a place where we talk without feeling guarded.  

“Okay?” I lifted my chin.

“Yeah,” he answered, lowering his cane to the floor, stepping back to his equipment on the table. Glancing back, “More than okay,” he said, turning again to his gear.

Moving toward him, I grabbed my water bottle off the table and took a long drink.

“Thanks...for this. I would have felt like a ninny with nothing to contribute.”

“Ninny?”

“Yeah,” I smiled looking down at the floor, running my hand, out of habit up the back of my hair to my tight bun.

“Pickle, ninny, do they teach these phrases in Canada?”

“I don’t know,” I laughed, subtly shaking my head, pleased to see his broad smile and shining eyes. “Are you okay waiting while I change and clean up for the dress shots? I might be half an hour or so.”

“You want to do those here?”

“I guess. They were going to be done in Derek’s studio but he’s home sick. I’d rather be lit on fire than have you see my place so, yeah, here.” Looking around the room, I could still feel his eyes, watching me. “I could stand by the window or by the grand piano. Whatever you want. You’re taking the photos.”

Turning from the waist, he inspected the large room with its high ceilings and antique crown moldings, white walls and patinaed oak floors. It was a bright beautiful space.

“So?” he squinted one eye and I could tell he had a plan, “Whatever I want?”

“You are the photographer,” I nodded.

“Mine then.”

The playfulness in his smile and straight white teeth were not helping me catch my breath.

“Your what?”

“My place. My apartment. It has large east-facing windows. The light will be perfect for the next couple of hours. Once the sun sets, the sky will be backlit over the city. You will look…” he nodded, raising his brows but quickly glanced down to the camera he held like a security blanket. “It will work.” Looking back up, his eyes searched mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

---

I failed horrendously at keeping causal when walking in behind him, carrying my old duffle and garment bags. My steps slowed to a stop as I entered the contemporary, open concept living room, dining room and kitchen, all with a backdrop of massive steel and glass windows.

“This is amazing,” I said looking up at the high ceilings that opened further to a large loft on a second level. Smooth cement pillars stood in the corner of the floor-to-ceiling windows and ran up through the high, soaring ceilings. Like a nerd, I bent down and ran the pads of my fingers across the glassy black floors. “What is this?”

“Polished concrete,” he answered as he flipped through letters that had been pushed through a mail slot in his door. His own mail slot.

My mother’s crudely lined lips and spiteful words came to mind, when you date a man with money, you bloody well earn every cent. I sighed, shaking off her poison knowing that she in some perverse way hoped I would end up on my back, in some director’s office, working to stay relevant. My poor, bitter mother.

Walking to the dining room, I knew immediately it was not a table to place my shitty old sac on. Draping my dress bag over the back of a tall dining room chair, I dropped the duffle bag to the floor.

Turning around, I found Ivar watching me, leaning against the eating bar that separated his dining room and kitchen. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes and I wondered if he pretended not to know how good looking he was. Or, perhaps he was indifferent to the opinions of others. That seemed more likely.

“Come,” he walked over, grabbing my garment bag and led me back toward the entrance and into a large bathroom, in which every surface was the same type of white stone. Hooking the hanger on the glass shower door, he turned to me, glancing around the bathroom as if to check that everything was in its place.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, playing with his cane, picking it up and bouncing its rubber base on the tile floor.

Smiling, I shook my head, internally dying at the image of him standing behind me with a flat iron.

“Okay, I’ll be out there.”

---

Stepping out of the washroom, my hair, by some fluke was skillfully styled down and smoothed out with a gentle wave, and my smoky eyes and nude lipstick were masterfully applied, just as Derek and I had practiced. I even felt confident in my spectacular silver heals. Peering down my front, I ran my hands over my hips, smoothing the grey shimmering satin, loving how the draped silky material felt against the skin of my, shaved that morning, legs.

“That was fa..” Turning around, his words caught in his throat. Closing his mouth, his eyes blatantly scoured the length of my body, his expression not filtering a thing.  

I had been a performer all my life but could not remember a single person ever looking at me with that kind of awe.

Glancing down again, I adjusted the seams on the inside of the long sleeves, realizing how much I had wanted him to react this way.

Clearing his throat, he didn’t smile but his body settled as if easing into the reason I was there.

“Okay,” he inhaled loud enough for me to hear and lifted his hand toward the living room. “Let’s start with you in front of the corner window. Maybe even have you lean against the column. God, it’s perfect.” His eyes skipped back down my body. “The silver of your dress with the sky behind.” Pausing, his face softened. “That dress.” His eyes flashed wide and he shook his head with a half-grin.

“Thank you.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t wear that on Saturday.” Taking the lead, he walked toward the living room, stopping behind a leather armchair. “I would have doubled my bid.”

“I’ll remember that,” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye as I passed him, heading toward the window. A surge of excitement raced through me knowing that he was seconds away from seeing my exposed skin in the backless dress, cut down to just above my bottom.

“Derek and I picked it out together. So many at Caffrey’s looked like ice capade costumes. I am not a frilly person and he liked the clean lines of it.”

Moving past his low-slung furniture and glass coffee table, I walked toward the corner windows, passing a stunning black ornate fireplace, feeling his eyes burning up and down my spine. Biting my bottom lip to conceal my smile, I wished I could see his face.

“Stop!” he called and I froze, my hands shooting up in front of me, thinking I shouldn’t have walked across his fancy rug with heels on. Slowly looking over to him, he stood beside the armchair, camera lifted, staring at me over the viewfinder.

“Right there. Do not move. Keep looking at me like that.”

Taking his direction, I stayed in place. The clicking of the camera started with a flurry.

With a pleased grunt, he lowered the camera and pressed a button to flip through the images. “God, this is perfect. That is the shot! That is the mother-fucking shot! You look,” lifting his excited face, his bright eyes faltered seeing me again. “You look… perfect.”

“Wow, okay. Thank you.” Shifting my heals, I turned to face him. “That was… fast.”

His attention was already back to the photos on his screen.  

Stepping carefully across the dark, likely hand made rug, I headed back, en route to the bathroom.

“Don’t go,” he blurted causing me to snap my head over at him. “Not yet,” his tone was gentle. His puppy eyes were staring right into mine and I had no doubt this man got anything and everything he wanted in life. “Let’s take more. Just for fun. Hmm?” Bobbing his head, his expression turned playful.  

Jesus, yes.

Like the good girl that I am, I took a seat on the built-in concrete bench that ran the length of the wall of windows.

Coming out of the kitchen, Ivar’s limp was pronounced, in fact, it looked painful without his cane, as he moved toward me carrying a glass of wine in each hand. Stopping myself from jumping to help, I waited, accepting the glass with a smile when he handed it to me. It tasted lovely and cold and was in the most elegant wine glass...of course.

And did we play…. Ivar stepped into his role as photographer, directing me on position, placement, even how to rest my hands, gently tucking my hair behind my ear and tilting my chin just as he wanted. His fingers lingering longer and longer each time they touched my body or hair or the fabric of my dress. The air felt thick when he was close causing my skin to warm and I felt a wave of disappointment whenever he stepped back. I was his muse, his doll and it was incredibly arousing.

The more photos he took, the more I allowed my inhibitions to unravel and it only fueled Ivar to become more expressive, excited even.

“Okay. Now, I’ll have you come to the couch and just do what feels natural. The glass behind with the colours in the sky, ughh,” he grunted, “amazing.”

Turning his attention back to the eating bar, he took a sip of his wine, scrolling through the last handful of shots. With his back turned, I used it as an opportunity to situate myself. Rolling from my seated position on the black leather sofa, I lay down on my tummy, propping myself up on my elbows, letting my heels drop to the carpet.

Spinning to face me, his eyes widened with surprise but he quickly recovered, pressing his lips together and returning to his role. He could not lift his eyes from me though. Could barely blink. Peering up at him from over my shoulder, his gaze dragged down the length of my bare back, holding on the round swell of my behind, naturally arching toward him. The dim, early evening light, made his normally brilliant eyes appear a deep blue. His entire expression seemed darker somehow as if laying below him, taking his every direction drew him into some wicked part of his mind. I had never felt this sensual before and didn’t want the feeling to fade or for him to stop staring at me like I was the most remarkable thing he had ever seen.

Lowering to sit on the glass coffee table, he lifted his camera once again, his lens sweeping up my form, focussing straight in on my face. Looking directly into the lens, I wondered if my expression was as yearning and wonton as I felt. The air had definitely shifted, and perhaps the glimmer or suggestion in my heavy-lidded eyes gave away my desire. Either he knew the contents of my mind, and how my body was responding or he felt the same as the intensity in his gaze rapidly grew. Faint grunts of approval, running his tongue over his lips, even outright murmuring how incredible and beautiful I looked, swearing under his breath.

I had to consciously control my breathing. The force of his stare, peering over his camera, sped my heart. How could he be doing this to me? It felt crazy knowing that I had only just met him but would not have stopped him from crawling over me, sinking down against my back and grinding into ass. Just the thought made me nearly rock my pelvis against the leather couch, needy for pressure on the tingling between my legs.

“You are so perfect, Sarah,” he whispered, and it occurred to me how often he used my name. I had never liked my name but somehow, the way it slipped from his tongue always with an exhale, it sounded anything but plain.

Two more clicks, three, the camera felt like the only barrier between us now as he slid closer to me, up the table. The image of his smooth, plush lips pressed to mine flashed through my mind and I exhaled loud enough for him to hear.

“Sarah,” he whispered again, my eyes still fixed on the lens of his camera as if hypnotized.

Click. Beep, beep, beep.

“For fuck sakes,” he snarled loudly, lowering his camera. “Don’t move. Don’t move.” Pushing himself up, he rushed, teetering as he walked without his cane, leaning on the back of the furniture to the bar. “Let me just change the battery and we’ll keep going.” Glancing back quickly as if to make sure I was still there, “God, have I really taken over a hundred photos!” he laughed sharply, dropping his head back. He was giddy.

“Ivar?” I pushed up on the couch to sit, combing my fingers through my tousled hair, attempting to blink off the spell I felt under. I needed to move, get some air before… well, I wasn’t sure what, but something was going to happen if I stayed splayed out like a dog in heat. I barely knew him!

Turning back to me, frustration flashed through his features but he stopped and looked at me. No, scrutinized, me.

“Ivar, I think I need to...”

“Who is Derek?” he cut me off, the question catching me by surprise.

“The photographer I told you about.” Not reacting, he stood waiting for me to continue. “Actually, he was one of the first people I met when I moved here. He is the photographer for the theatre, or I should say the theatre is one of his clients. He took my headshots for the company and we became close. It was nice as I was new to the city. Didn’t know anyone. Still don’t really.”

“So, it is more than professional between you?” he narrowed his eyes as if confused by something I said.

My stomach fluttered and I suddenly felt odd sitting across the room from him. “Yes,” I replied realizing that clarified nothing.

His eyes flashed again and he glanced down at his camera. I could see the steeliness in his gaze when he looked back up. “So, he dates the new ballerinas?” 

Ignoring the insinuation, I answered, “He is my close friend and one who is far more interested in… ballerinos.” My brows spiked high on my forehead emphasizing my meaning.

Tilting his head to one side, he squinted further, before, “Oh!”

Locking eyes again, we looked at each other longer than what felt appropriate and I wondered if we would have reconnected if Derek hadn’t serendipitously fallen ill. Sooner than later, my instincts told me.

“I am going to go and change,” I finally said, needing to say something.

Rising from the couch, I picked my heals up off the rug and headed toward the hall for the bathroom. The room had become shadowy and I stared at the floor as I walked, gasping when he grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward him, my hair flying out of place.

“Sorry,” he spoke quietly, letting go of my arm. We were standing close. “Don’t change,” his voice was just above a whisper. “Let’s not waste that dress.” His eyes dropped, sweeping across my chest. “Can I take you back to Piccolo’s for supper?”

“Twice in one week?” I smiled softly, inwardly thrilled by how he was looking at me.

Shrugging, his eyes watched my mouth, waiting for me to answer.

Giggling, a little too loudly, two thoughts occurred, I really did need to eat after two glasses of wine on an empty stomach and I was no where near ready to say goodbye. Lifting my chin, my smile widened, “We are creatures of habit, are we not?”

@youbloodymadgenius​​​​​​​ @naaladareia​​​​​​​ @whenimaunicorn​​​​​​​ @lol-haha-joke​​​​​​​ @ceridwenofwales​​​​​​​  @jaydelesley4​​​​​​​  @sweeneythots​​​​​​​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​​​​​​​ @fangirl-nonsense​​​​​​​ @thiahilmarsdottir​​​​​​​ @redama​​​​​​​ @mdredwine​​​​​​​ @didiintheblog​​​​​​​ @yourpurplequeen​​​​​​​ @londongal2810​​​​​​​ @fields-and-fields-of-poppies​​​​​​​ @readsalot73​​​​​​​ @hexqueensupreme​​​​​​​ @silly-bullshit-collector​​​​​​​ @littlecarolina94​​​​​​​ @oddsnendsfanfics​​​​​​​  @youbelongeverywhere @blonddnamedhandz​​​​​ @waiting4inspiration​​​ @flowers-in-your-hayr​​ @zuxiezendler​​ @heavenly1927​​ @squirrelacorngliterfarts​ @jzr201​ @hecohansen31​

[emily-charles]

Be Nice to the Dice

[WP] Everyone thinks you are either incredibly lucky or manipulating the dice. But that's not true. You simply are nice to the dice. He cheers with the crowd at the seven coming up for the third time in a row. Any luckier, and the pit bosses would be coming to watch him, and he knew it. Nothing wrong with a lucky streak now and then, but when you were a new face at a casino, they tended to watch with tighter security. No one wanted to get dragged down to the dark rooms they had underneath, along a labyrinth of hallways, each seeming darker and more threatening than the last. And no need to get thrown out. He allowed himself to lose once in a while. He'd even had himself strip-searched at a casino once, and that was not pleasant. He'd never had to squat and cough for someone before, but he imagined it was a lot like an introduction examination to prison. They were bewildered to find nothing on his person, in his pockets, or in his... well, backside. He'd been told all his life he was incredibly lucky, or that he was for sure using sleight of hand to switch over the dice, but even when the pit boss came over, weighed the dice, and eyed him down hard he simply smiled gleefully as though he was extremely happy to be winning. As any innocent person would be, of course! Albeit he was sure he wasn't entirely innocent, he never lacked for true excitement to shine in his eyes. It was a rush asking politely of the dice to come up as pleased, and it was just as simple as that. A nudge of the mind with a casual but polite please, and they would come up any way he desired.   He always made sure to wear a casual polo, always short sleeved, so that he couldn't be mistaken for switching the dice. The time he'd gotten strip searched, he'd been wearing long sleeves. He wouldn't make that mistake again. As the pit boss nodded, the stick-man pushed the dice back towards him, and he smiled. The pit boss watching with eyes of glinting steel for any switcheroos or any odd business. To not be mistaken for a fraudster, whispering gently to the dice in his mind, asking them to please come up a hard four, he simply yelled, "Parlay it!" The crowd was gathering, and he knew soon, they would be riding along with him, but he couldn't push his luck too much on his first night there. Maybe twice more before leaving the table, or pulling back his winnings, and placing more meager bets before wandering off and hiding amongst the slot machines, playing mindlessly for an hour to dull suspicion. Asking the dice's permission was easy. You were simply nice. In soft-spoken mental voice, asked them nicely to come up as you wished, and they did. At least for him. He's sure many people would wish and wish, plead and beg for the dice to come up as they pleased, but had they ever asked the dice? Not just threw pleas into the air at some God of Gambling? This time was no different. Perhaps he was just incredibly lucky as some believed, but he believed that being kind was the answer. He played a few more rounds, the crowd gathering getting larger and larger, the suspicion in the pit boss' eyes growing, before finally exhaling on a rush and asking for his winnings. He had made well over double what he'd wanted, so he was ready to lose half of it, and this would undoubtedly ease the pit boss and craps table players as their excitement was mounting to see how far he'd go. When he put half on the line, he asked the dice nicely once more. When they showed up snake eyes, he groaned with the crowd and sulked for a moment. His disappointment clear on his face, despite having exactly what he needed. The pit boss' eyes glowed, still suspicious, but not nearly as glowering as before. And he loudly proclaimed, "What a crazy ride! I think I've pushed my luck enough for one night!" One woman leaned heavily into him and offering him a drunken kiss on the cheek, insisting she'd ‘be happy to let him press his luck into her’. He laughed and shook his head, before gathering up his winnings, and meandering over to the cashier cage. He needed to do his time, and sit at the slot machines and spend some mindless time there before he left just to show he wasn't just there to take their money, but also to lose some, too. Become too lucky, and you might end up dead. He managed to wander around, and was unaccosted by the crowd that had been previously surrounding him, and managed to make it to the cashier cage without any pit boss or security stopping him. He had no doubt the eye-in-the-sky was watching him, so he stayed cheerful and chipper, and asked for $200 in dollar bills he could waste on the slot machines, and a slip for later to collect his winnings. As he settled himself amongst the noisy machines, he settled into a quiet pace, just putting in dollar bill after dollar bill. He turned inwardly, thinking about his day, letting his eyes watch the spinning. He never won with slot machines, unless it was a free game or a paper slip giving him some extra money to play with, and asking them nicely did nothing at all. He knew. He'd tried. It wasn't until a younger looking slip of a woman sidled up beside his machine, that he took his eyes off the rolling symbols. She smiled politely, playing with her own machine next to his, immediately putting in the highest bet, and letting it spin. She had blue hair. Weird. But it was Vegas, and Vegas in itself had all kinds and all sorts of weird. He rarely questioned it now. He turned back and was just about to tune out again when he heard her speak low enough that he almost couldn't make her out above the blinging sounds of the machines, "So you ask them?" He started inwardly, but didn't move a muscle, as he hadn't been expecting her to speak to him at all. Once people were at the machines, they tended to zone out, leaving one another in their own little bubbles. Sometimes to move to other places, but rarely did they speak to one another. And the question itself set off alarm bells in his head immediately. "What?" he asked atonally, as though he hadn't heard her at all. "You ask them. Nicely. And they just..." she slipped another dollar bill from her pocket into her slot machine, not making eye contact. He viewed her from the corner of his eye. She seemed somewhat waifish. Wearing a hoodie clearly too big for her frame, and tattered jeans and a pair of sneakers that had seen better days. "Ask who nicely?" he prompted her, dreading the answer. "The dice, duh," she rolled her eyes at her screen, still looking at her machine as though captivated. "You just ask them nicely, and they just kinda..." She trails off, pulling on the handle. "I don't know what you're talking about," he responded, working on keeping a bored, dismissive tone. She smiled at her screen, and again rolled her eyes. If she kept doing that, he was sure she'd see brain soon enough. "Right, and denial is just a river in Egypt," she chuckled under her breath. It seemed like a good time to make an exit. This was getting weird, and he'd never been made before. Had he been made? And moreso, how? Much less by someone who looked like she was barely old enough to gamble. He was about to get up, and move spots when she hissed, "Wait." For some reason he froze. "They're still watching you, and if you move too much, they're going to assume shit. Just let me win a quick round, and then we can separate. It'll take the focus off of you at least." He blinked, and like some automaton put in another dollar bill. He waited as she did the same, and together they pulled their respective levers. The blaring alarm for winning suddenly came to life as she came up three sevens in a row. She squealed delightedly, and clapped her hands together excitedly. Under her breath, she coached him, "Now you can go." For some reason he found himself staring at her, and for the first time since she'd sat next to him, he quickly took her in. Some awkward blue dye job with dark roots, in a messy bun, pieces of her hair framing her face. She had wide matching blue eyes under dark brows. Her full lips smiling wide and practiced, as his had been at the craps table. She made eye contact with him again, and narrowed her eyes a little, "Go.” He did as he was told, and exited the area. His mind running a mile a minute -- instead of finding a different spot, he went to the cashier cage, and collected his winnings. He walked out, numb and more than a little confused, no longer smiling big like an idiot for the eye-in-the-sky. As he made his way down the Vegas strip, he paused and looked behind him, almost expecting her to be following him. To his chagrin, she was nowhere to be seen. What the hell had just happened?

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Chapter 2 (Winter’s Gem) (B.Barnes AU)

CHAPTER 1

Characters: Gigolo!Bucky Barnes x You (AU)

Summary: Bucky Barnes has been scouted by your boss in Felicity Night, you were just a mere young, cleaner in Felicity night and have been living in the basement of the club for all your life. He's the most wanted Gigolo in the city, and taking him away from eager, thirsty women seemed to be impossible especially if he chose to be a Gigolo as his way of living.

Warning: Profanities. Profanities. Inappropriate words.

Words: 5,507.

A/N: This chapter is long as heck. I'm sorry? XD (We shall twerk because this was a long chapter! *twerks*) Sorry for the typos and wrong grammars if there is. :) HELLO WINTER ;) 

Disclaimer: PNG's, pictures and GIFs aren't mine. However, the whole series, one shots and edits are from moi.

TAGLISTS: @yn-the-reader​

Another day, another laborious night in the club. The difference today was that it was the holiday and there was even more people than the usual. You were glad you've taken the spot in the men's bathroom because there were lesser people who come in often more than the women's bathroom.

Plus, the men's bathroom was filthier because it has been days that you haven't gotten the chance to clean it.

You were cleaning the mirrors with a cloth and a can of glass cleaner. Spots of dirt and a mixture of dried toothpaste was drawn, scouring them off the mirror with your cloth.

"Nice set last night, Stevie." You lightly teased, scrubbing the dirt away. The joke sent at the handsome, brawny blonde man taking a piss in one of the black cubicles. You told him it was fine to take a piss using the urinals since it didn't matter but he refused to, mumbling about how modest he was which you didn't bother listening about.

You heard him spoke from the cubicle, hearing the sound of a zipper and running water. He was taking a piss alright, "I was forced to strip last night! I never wanted to!" Steve exclaimed, voice raising a pitch higher as it echoed around the bathroom. You were now scrubbing the sinks with detergent and a mix of Clorox. The salty drop of sweat fell on your forehead and you were quick to swipe it off with your arm.

"You looked like you were having fun, though." You huffed with a smile, scrubbing the sink with a sponge. Your nose getting a whiff of the strong, acidic smell from the Clorox, but your face never once scrunched because you were already used to the foul smell.

"I was not! Stripping in front of people is outrageous! If it weren't for the tips and the double pay that you guys have been telling me, I wouldn't take the slot!"

"But, I wanna know something..." You dragged on, a hint of playfulness in the tip of your tongue plus a small smirk to add to your reply, "Was the spandex comfortable to wear, Captain Rogers? Doesn't it look a little too tight?" You laughed when you heard him groan, the sound of the toilet flushing came with it, giving you a sign that he was finished pissing.

After watering a small plant of Aloe Vera, you tidied everything up. Hearing the cubicle door creak slightly, you glanced back to see Steve without his coat on, baby blue eyes that looked gorgeous with his ears slightly turning red from the realization that you have seen him strip in his star spangled suit.

"Hey, Kid..Aren't you a little young to watch me..strip?" He strolled beside you, turning the tap open, washing his hands. His ears became redder than the usual and you couldn't help the laugh that escaped your lips.

"I'm 21! Not 15! Don't act like I've never known you since the last three years!"

Steve's ears was now redder as the conversation continued, like a kid who have been embarrassed by seeing his mother and dad having sex, that kind of embarrassment. The blonde man placed his hands below the air dryer, hearing a quiet click before it began blowing hot air for his hands to dry. He spoke through the loud whush, "Kids like you should still be studying, Y/N." His hands were now dry, he leaned his hip on the sink in front of you, gorgeous blue eyes fixated on yours, empathy itching his heart. He knew how you felt about not finishing your degree, not even having the chance to study in your first year. Steve was your friend, and he knew every last detail of your life. He couldn't stop the tempting frown etching to let show. "You shouldn't be working in a club full of..Gigolos and strippers. You deserve to have a future and not get locked up in this..this damn hell house,"

You smiled indifferently, "Language, Rogers." Steve gave you a sympathetic smile, bringing his hand up your shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Think about what I've said, Y/N. You know i'm willing to help," His baby blue eyes locked on yours, and you were the first to look away..You've thought about his help, but you were still hesitant and you didn't want to accept his offer of paying your tuition fees especially that he was just a friend of yours.

What would you mother even think about that? Olivia/Luscia would be livid to find out that Steve was helping you be what you wanted to be. The news will spread around so fast, people would think he was your sugar daddy or something..

Even so, you didn't want Steve to have that responsibility because it was your mother's. She was working for so long, so that meant she could afford to help pay your tuition fees.

"I'll..think about it, Steve. Thank you," You uttered quietly, gazing up at his bright, baby blues. He shook his head, sending you a gorgeous smile of his that everyone loved. "For what?"

You beamed, completely pleased by his loving attitude towards you. Y/N took a cautious step forward, weakly wrapping her feeble arms around him. "For being such a great friend..Thank you, Steve." Steve gladly took her arms in, gently shoving her head in his chest, giving her back warm, comforting pats.

It wasn't long for you to hear a silent creak of the door, immediately you began unwrapping your arms around Steve once you heard the person come in. The club's sound faintly sliding in the men's bathroom. You heard the gentle clicks on this particular person's shoe tapping on the black granite floor, slowly getting louder, walking towards where you and Steve were. You felt the warm presence of the man towering behind you.

That precious smile on your face hadn't wash off yet, you guessed it was Sam or Clint who disrupted your conversation with Steve and the smile on your face grew wider at the thought of Clint. He owed you ten bucks because he lost on a bet that involved Steve, betting that he wouldn't take the Stripper slot. You voted that he would since you were already sure he would strip that night because he have talked to you about it..

"Jerk," Steve grinned at the man behind you, "Punk," The man rasped, his voice entirely indistinguishable.It sounded deep and velvety. He surely doesn't sound like Sam or Clint. But, you could tell by his voice that this unknown man was smiling by the mention of his endearment for Steve that came out of his lips.

You couldn't help but tilt your head at one side, figuring out who he was. Brows slightly furrowed, trying hard to familiarize whose voice it came from. You couldn't get an idea.."A blonde dame's looking for you, Pal. Did you take a shit or what?" The man chuckled deeply, sounding like the angels sang from up above. You didn't know why your heart skipped a beat when you heard him chortled so velvety, so alluring..

Even without looking at him, your guessed he was attractive as hell. Maybe he was someone new? Well, he needed a warm welcome then.

You plastered your best smile for the anonymous man, loudly clearing your throat, your palms flattening the wrinkles of your uniform. "Remember Y/N? The young girl that I was telling you about who was working here? Olivia's/Luscia's only daughter? One of my closest friends here in Felicity Night?"

You enthusiastically turned the heels of your foot to welcome the man who sounded attractive. Maybe welcoming new people wasn't really a good idea? when you spun around, you felt your breath hitch as it got caught in your throat. All you saw was a pair of gorgeous Steele blue eyes that made your mouth turn agape. They were the most beautiful out of all the sea of blues you've ever seen. You were completely stupefied when you slowly process everything in, "Bucky, This is Y/N Y/L/N, The hardest worker of all time, she's been cleaning all her years in this club and I'm proud of how strong this kid have been," Steve paused and you felt him cup your shoulder, proudly introducing you to his best pal. "Y/N. This is Bucky. Bucky Barnes. My brother from another mother. I think you've already heard all the intriguing gossips about this punk," Pause. "--Women call him 'Winter', but his close friends of him don't,"

Winter. You mentally gasped. He was the 'Winter' that Stan told you about. God, you were completely speechless. Stan was right all along. He was one charming, gorgeous, handsome fucker.

Thump. Your heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud in your ears. You could feel the overwhelming warmth seep through you once you completely planted your E/C eyes at Bucky's stunning blue eyes. Your words seem to get stuck in your throat.

You blinked and swore that you saw something flash behind those eyes of his, showing deep interest towards you. He initially smiled, a picturesque, cheeky smile lifted for you to see and engrave in your mind forever.

You felt as if you were drowning in his sea, feeling like you couldn't breath because of how beautiful he looked. Bucky had his brunette hair in a bun, you guessed he had long hair that could reach his jaw because his bangs that were parted in the middle have fallen and cascaded on either side of his face. It simply accentuated the marvelous structures of his face, bringing out the best of his apple-like cheekbones.

Oh, were his cleft chin so perfect that you wanted nothing but to touch and press them together, showing how you can appreciate how handsome he looked with it.

Not to mention his plump, beet red lips that seemed to be moisturized all the time. Shit, you're definitely digging your own grave by liking a Gigolo. The newest recruited gigolo if you were going to be specific.

Your abusive, brusque mother warned you, cursing at the heavens that she would have to lock you away if ever you had a relationship with one of them. You didn't know the reason why but she seemed to hate the idea, even though you were a daughter that came from a stripper. Your father have been one and now he was nowhere to be found because he left you both to marry a very wealthy old woman in replacement of your mother, Olivia/Luscia.

"You can call me Bucky," He uttered with a low voice that could be considered sexy and hot. You wanted to pinch yourself, and you actually did secretively. Bucky could see the flash of awareness in your eyes, an awareness that seemed to held the same feeling as his. Yet, those awareness that made him confident was now lost in just a blink, replaced with a polite reserve.

Bucky thought he was imagining things, but the way you fluttered your eyelashes up at him, giving him those heart eyes and a blush that climbed up your cheeks corrected his disappointed theory.

"Good evening...Bucky," You stuttered quietly, gnawing on your trembling lips. His presence was making you conscious and insecure because he was too gorgeous for your own good.

This was dangerous. He was dangerous.

'when you get your heart involved,' You remembered what your old friend, Stan said. As if you would even get your heart involved..

That was a question that seem shaky and untruthful. This was bad. Your breath shook when you gave out a sigh.

The both of you heard a clap that distracted your reverie, "Ooookay!" Steve piped in rather enthusiastically. Weirdly eyeing the both of you. "Introduction's done now. It's up to you if you wanna be friends or maybe get to know each other more. I'm off! A dame needs my patriotic presence," Steve bid goodbye, never forgetting to slap a hand on Bucky's back, making the latter chuckle and send him a wave of his hand. Your blonde friend waving a friendly hand at you as he trotted towards the exit.

That was interesting.

Bucky and you were left in the bathroom. The awkward, heavy silence trapping you both. Your heart was running a mile, and your mind was trying to think of a conversation that would spike up the current cloud that you were in. You could still feel his eyes on you, probably starting to bore holes in your face. You kept looking anywhere else besides his handsome features, doing it seems impossible because his face was satisfying to stare at.

However, you tried hard. Your toes curled inside your shoes, feeling all the heat come at your face. You needed to get out of here, you mentally thought. You needed to take a breather, you needed to come up in that sea you were drowning in.

Bucky mindlessly licked his lips out of habit, and it wasn't a movement that didn't go unnoticed by you. "So.." He slowly dragged on, gathering his thoughts and wording it all out, thinking about words that could sound good to hear, "How old are ya', Doll?"

Doll. That sounded so sweet. You couldn't help but curl your toes further, totally stuck up in your place. "21," Even though, it was meant to be ignored. You saw Bucky sigh after that, pursing his lips before a cheeky smile was replaced. "How about you, Bucky?"

A tiny voice was cheering at the back of your head. Loudly screaming '25! 25! 25! 25!' But those voices were ceased when you felt his finger lift your head up to meet with his Steele blue eyes that shifted from intense to soft and tender.

You could feel your insides melting so bad.

"Your eyes are pretty, Doll. I want them on me whenever we have a conversation," The man was definitely a charmer with his words too. That made everything difficult for you to process. Bucky wanted nothing more than to see how your heart worked, he wanted to see the real you. A thought inside his brain, secretly hoping that you weren't like one of the women he'd been with. Women who had paid for him, women who had rotten hearts, and only cared for what they feel. Not his. "The words coming out of your mouth seems fake when I don't get to see your beautiful E/C eyes,"

He abruptly dropped his finger beneath your chin like he was burned. It was too early. Too damn early to get involved with a woman who was nearly half his age. Fuck. He cursed inside his mind, giving himself a punishment by biting his tongue as he continued his next words. "35," Yet, Bucky didn't seem to mind the age-gap. He was mesmerized by how big your heart was. You seemed to stand-out in his eyes and he couldn't grasp why, it was frustrating him.

You weakly nodded in understanding while Bucky felt a tiny dismay because of your reaction. Were you disappointed? Why was he even thinking about it when you just literally met him today?

Get your shit together, Barnes. You're being a creep. He mentally thought, chewing on his bottom lip.

There was a flash of glitter in your eyes as you thought about question that has been bugging you and your old friend, Stan. Since you wanted to get to know more about Bucky better, you needed to make some efforts in doing so. You gave him a sweet smile that he immediately saw, wanting those precious smile of yours to be remembered since he knew you didn't smile a lot for the past few months. "Can I ask you a question, Bucky?"

"Shoot. We're already playing the 20 questions game, Y/N."

Your smile reached up your eyes and it felt good to finally smile like the world wasn't pouring you rocks and gravels. "Why were you--"

Your heart skipped a beat, and it was not in a blushing way. You both heard the door harshly opened, the music of the club walking in and a very rough looking Olivia/Luscia welcoming you both in the doorway. It gave you a bad heart attack, or probably giving you a reason not to live after seeing how blank your mother's face was when she saw you with Bucky.

You couldn't see what was running inside her mind. It seemed unreadable and impossible to get into. "Y/N," She deadpanned, glowering at you. "Barnes," Her voice turned much more normal, but her face still looked stoic as her eyes settled at the man in front of you.

Bucky could feel the unwavering fright radiating off you. He knew it. He saw your hands tremble from fear as his eyes deliberately trailed towards your shaking hands.

You took a cautious step back away from Bucky, gulping the fear that erupted.. all the way down your throat. Glancing up a Bucky to mentally apologize for even talking to him and it made him wrinkle his forehead, furrowing his brows, looking like he was in deep thought. "Y/N, Rhodes needs you. Get your ass back in the kitchen!"

Your eyebrows instantly rose up in question, "W-What?" You thought you weren't needed anymore. You didn't even like staying in the kitchen because all of your arms were covered in scars. Basically from the kitchen accidents and scars that were kind of from all your mother's doing.

Olivia/Luscia could feel her anger boil up and it wasn't good because she was beginning to feel the inexorable itch in her hands. The God forsaken itch that Y/N was hoping to not be a repeated victim of. "What do you mean what, Y/N?"

"I-I've been covered in boils--" Before you could even stop your mouth, you had slapped a hand over it. Stopping yourself from even saying further that could put you in danger.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to shake you off your fear, he wanted nothing more than to stop those horrible scenes that was bound to happen because he knew what was about to happen next.

"What did I fucking tell you about talking back and complaining?!"

Your mother's calm demeanor was now changed into fury, and you know nothing but to quickly follow her. Thus, which is why you scrambled off your place in front of Bucky and felt your legs shake with each step you took away from the man who had made an impression.

You hurdled under Olivia/Luscia's arm, scurrying away. Gone in a hot second and Bucky was left alone.

Olivia/Luscia turned her back away from the door, not even bothering to give Bucky a second look once she saw you with him. He was a threat to you, definitely a threat.

As he began to hear the door creak, he couldn't stop the scowl on his face as he mentally threw knives at her back. Why the hostility?

It's because he knew everything.

Just like a sniper..He could see everything even though he was far.

The orders began to lessen one by one, you were tempted to hail hallelujah once the scorching heat began fading around the kitchen. You didn't even know why you were called when Sharon and an extra helper was there. A helper named Phil Coulson who was so industrious and nice.

You heard your stomach growl and damn were you hungry as hell. The last thing you ate was mashed potatoes with gravy and fresh pickles that were sneaked out of the kitchen, thanks to Steve.

They weren't the greatest thing to be paired together but it was better than having nothing like the most of your days.

"Eww, Stop being gross, Sharon!" Wanda chit-chatted with Sharon in front of the metal table laying in the middle of the huge maroon and white kitchen. People already had their food and it was the final batch that was given from the last ten minutes ago.

You were carrying a tray full of unfinished food, dropping them off with a clang beside the kitchen sink. Your arm was still hurting from the fresh wounds it held. Even though, Phil was around. Rhodes had still given you some time to 'cook those bitches' while he cuts whatever he was cutting.

An unfinished plate of Hushpuppies lay before you, there were five pieces left and you wanted to give that particular customer a karate chop on the head for wasting such a delicious meal.

The whole plate felt like it was a gift from God. You could see the golden swirls surrounding it, tempting you to just finish the damn thing and think how that was more cleaner than the other unfinished foods that laid in front of you. You cussed beneath your breath.

Growl, says your stomach.

Nobody wants a hungry stomach, yes? And so you feed it off to shut it up. You fit every Hushpuppies in your mouth, just like a squirrel protecting his nut. Your mouth looking hideously full.

"Doll," You jerked and slammed your hand on the metal sink when you heard a very familiar voice that could make your heart go gaga. Being lucky with food was probably in your genes because you didn't choke when Bucky had appear beside you like a genie in disguise.

Though, the tiny wrinkle of his nose hurt the dignity left in you. He looked disgusted. Wow, that was the best first impressions. You were such a hopeless and desperate woman.

Yeah, you'd rather hear people saying those kind of things to you, having a label that could hurt your dignity than die in hunger.

"Oh, girl. That was gross," Sharon commented with a cringe. Earning a same response from Wanda. She looked clearly disgusted at the food in your mouth. "Spit it out! Spit it out!"

Rhodes seem to have taken it lighter than those two because he found it quite entertaining after feeding hundreds of bitches. "You have the worst case of feeding your damn hunger, Y/N!"

Phil seemed the find it normal, giving you an apathetic response. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded to himself before he went back to cleaning.

On the other hand, Bucky left your side..walking in between Rhodes and Sharon till he stopped in front of a huge refrigerator. All eyes were fixated on the man who was fishing for something to eat. "Hmm," He quietly hummed, one hand inserted in his trousers. The muscles on his back appearing toned which you had only noticed until now, his hair untied as it gloriously and attractively fell on his broad shoulders. Adding another set of gorgeous facts that made your toes curl beneath you. After a minute of searching for something good, he finally brought out a frozen plum, with a simple spun of his heel, he turned around while he marched towards you, throwing the juicy fruit in the air for a couple of times, landing on his fairly large palms. "Barnes--" Rhodes spoke as Bucky glided through the kitchen. Passing in between him and Sharon.

"Bill that on me!" He walked in front of him and gave him a side-eye, sending Rhodes a cheeky wink. Strutting back in the direction from where you were. You were mindlessly digging crescent lines on your palms from the warm, giddy, overwhelming feeling that you were feeling inside. Why were you reacting that way?

Sure, he was attractive. Okay, maybe too damn attractive. Maybe a little too hot either? Why were you thinking about it now when he's currently strutting in front of you like a model or a sexy stripper who was about to give you a private show?

Did you really thought about that when you only met him hours ago?

"You're damn lucky you're one gorgeous motherfucker, Barnes." Rhodes hissed, fanning himself with his hands when Bucky gave him one of his famous winks. He gave a low chuckle, stopping beside you. Your fairly large height differences was obvious as he leaned his derrière on the metal sink. His warm hand sent sparks to your core once he wrapped his warm, calloused hand around yours. Oh, no. Stop. Taking your hand in his, he dropped the cold plum in your hand, enclosing your fingers with his around it. "I'd rather see you eating this than eat leftovers. We have no idea what you'll get infected with, Y/N."

"Alright. Let me just be the spokesperson for everyone," Wanda chimed, raking her hair in a makeshift ponytail. Using a rubber band as a tie, she parted her ponytail in half, tightening it to make sure it wouldn't fall. She eyed you and Bucky, pointing her nicely, manicured maroon nail at you. "Since when did you two become friends?"

"Uhm," You stuttered, pointing a finger on your chest, pertaining to yourself. The pressure crippling your anxiety bit by bit. Their scrutinizing stares boring holes in your body. "Me?" Sharon's face turned stoic, placing her hands on her perfectly wide hips. "No, not you. Rhodes. Of course, Y/N! You and Barnes?!" She exclaimed, making it sound extremely impossible.

What was wrong?

Bucky could sense the polarity in their minds. He obviously didn't find anything wrong, yet they seem to be complaining. "You guys make it sound like it's impossible for us to be friends,"

A creak of the door made everyone quiet, but after a second of realizing it was just Phil who went out to throw the garbage in the dumps. They continued their discussion.

Wanda raised her brows to prove her point, "Of course it is! Y/N has no friends!" She exclaimed, before an apologetic smile reached her lips. "No offense, Y/N."

You could only nod, their conversation was entertaining you but at the same time, it was throwing you a harsh brick on the face. Were you such a loner? Were you really an anti-social person? You counted your friends inside your head, and Bucky could see you completely out of focus. Mind going elsewhere as you counted how many were they. It made his heart all cozy. You just looked...innocent...and so adorable.

That's what he wanted to say, but he kept his lips sealed. He was probably just slugged from the tequila shots he took.

Sharon crossed her arms against her pliable breasts, a blush creeping towards her cheeks. Slowly making her looked flushed, "Besides Steve, of course. He's a sweetheart. Who isn't even friends with him?" Her voice sounded smaller than the usual and you were curious why she sounded shy all of a sudden. Wanda piped in her train of thoughts, "And Stan, obviously. I think he's her bestest friend out of all of us,"

In a vague corner of Bucky's mind, There was a question inside his head that he so wanted to ask them, a question as to why they sounded so incredulous when he gave Y/N a little bit of his help. "Aren't you guys her friends?"

Everybody went completely still. Phoebe Ryan's song named 'Dark Side' was hardly reaching their ears. That question totally shut them up. Y/N couldn't help but feel how heavy her heart turned out when nobody dared to answer one simple question that can be answered by pre-schoolers. Not even one single person could say 'yes'. She knew why she was left friendless. She knew who was the center of her life, the person who had controlled her life and everyone since birth, and she was scared that she'll soon turn out numb from all the pain that was inflicted towards her. Physically and emotionally.

Rhodes shut his mouth, Wanda began to zip her mouth and Sharon was left thinking about her next words. She opened her mouth to talk, "Even though we want to, her mother doesn't. We're forbidden to. Only the toughest people are friends with her,"

Bucky's eyebrows narrowed, a deep wrinkle forming in between his smooth forehead. Did those words seriously came out of her mouth? Were they seriously scared of her? He couldn't help but snort from their hooey reasons. "You're seriously scared of one woman?" He exclaimed skeptically, his hand reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears. "A woman who asks you to stop befriending one girl? Can you seriously hear yourselves right now?" He exasperated and waited for them to talk, yet nobody was tough enough to talk, he reclined away from the metal sink, absolutely aggravated by how they were fine for letting one woman control their decisions. Leaving an innocent woman alone and friendless just because 'her damn mother' doesn't want to. How can her mother be so immature? What was running inside her head when she asked these people to stay away from her daughter?

"If Steve gets to be her friend, then I can be her friend, Her mother doesn't scare me," Bucky uttered as a matter of fact. He chewed on his bottom lip before focusing on your disheartened form. You were awkwardly fiddling with the ends of your plain white shirt. Head bowed down in dismay, and a plum in your hand. Holding it for dear life. The man in front of you couldn't help but tuck his fingers beneath your chin. He couldn't blame you for acting this way especially that he knew you were physically abused by a person whom he thought will never even lay a finger on her own spawn.

You were met with dazzling Steele blue eyes that peered down at you with softness, "You wanna go eat somewhere, Y/N?" He spoke rather tenderly, a sincere smile lifting his lips that made your heart race a million miles.

This was bad. So bad. Stop. He should stop. You gulped the saliva trapped in your throat, didn't he have any..other woman to tend to? Doesn't he have someone to work on? Customers who needed him? Women who he needed to fuck? "Don't you have...work to do?" You hesitatingly asked. Wording everything much more proper and good to hear. He thought for a second, licking his red, plump lips that made some warmth go through your core. Oh. Damn. Bucky shook his head after, eyes adorably curving like crescent moons. "Nah, Doll. The ladies were all interested for America's flag stripper tonight," He lowly chuckled, "I needed some time off anyway,"

"Uhm," You hesitated on coming with him. If your mother finds you out and about with her best underling, she'll go loco. "I don't know, Bucky." The vexation came back in his head, he knew why you were reluctant. But, you needed to eat right even just for tonight. He had always seen you eating tons of shitty food. There was this urge that he wanted to make it different this time, he wanted you to take care of yourself. He wanted to...

--to take care of you. He discreetly cleared his throat from that. Pulling himself back from reality, "Come on, it's my treat." The comforting, familiar heat wrapped around your hand out of habit. He was holding your hand with his right hand again, gazing down at you with that beautiful blue eyes of his. If he doesn't stop then things will go worse. Things that would probably place your heart in a very vulnerable position.

He smiled very amiably and soft, "Say we continue our 20 questions game?" His voice sounded raspy and sanguine.

You couldn't help but get lost in those Steele blue eyes. Jumping in his sea of orbs that made you want to drown yourself over and over again and you gave zero fucks about it. He was clearly trying to heal your poisoned, wounded heart.

With no control over your emotions, you gave a weak nod. Completely out of your trance and with only one squeeze given to your hand....

You were a goner.

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN, TATER TOTS! Just send me an ask! 

XOXO, 

TATA (SEBASTIAN’S POTATO BITCH)

[popuptoaster]

Best Pop Up Toaster Of 2020

A perfectly well-toasted slice of bread with butter or jam along with your favourite beverage is one of the best pleasures of life. In homes where mornings are busy and rushed, a good toaster comes to rescue. As a consumer, you want to make a smart purchase, but that is not always easy. You need to do your homework, and if you are thinking of buying a toaster to ease your morning routine, we have come up with the list of best toasters in India with prices.

10 Best Pop Up Bread Toaster In India in 2020 So here, we bring you a well-researched list of the best toaster in India with their features, cons, and prices.

1. Morphy Richards AT-201 2-Slice 650-Watt Pop-Up Toaster Morphy Richards AT-201 Toaster Morphy Richards AT-201 bread toaster tops our list of best toasters in India. The brand is renowned for its quality and durability both and the same is reflected in this daily use pop-up toaster that will start your mornings with a perfect breakfast.

Benefits: This is a two slice toaster, making it easy to toast a pair together with the same setting. Seven settings of variable browning controls enable you to get your toast just the way you want it. The body does not get heated up and is cool to touch when the toaster is in use. With a 350 watt power, the toaster works efficiently and toasts the bread quickly without consuming a lot of power. A high lift lever prevents your fingers from burning, and an anti-skid base keeps the toaster in place. Use it daily without any worry. Removable crumb tray makes cleaning an easy job.

Cons: Although Morphy Richards has a very loyal customer base, it still lags when it comes to customer support. That’s the only downside with this toaster.

2. Bajaj ATX 4 750-Watt Pop-up Toaster Bajaj ATX 4 750 Watt Bajaj’s kitchen appliances have stood the test of times and have a very loyal market with consumers opting for the brand more than once as well. Fast and delicious sandwiches are made in minutes with the powerful Bajaj ATX 4 750 watt pop-up toaster, and you can always have something to eat even when you are running late.

Benefits: For your ease and convenience, this toaster allows you to toast two bread slices at the same time with six adjustable browning settings. You can serve your family toast just the way they like it. The outer body remains cool even when the toaster is in use for long, so you will not burn your hands when you touch it. With a 750 watt power to its credit, the time to toast to perfection is little, so you don’t end up waiting to have your breakfast or snack. And if you are worried about cleaning, the removable crumb tray makes it a tad easier. It also stays put in one place, thanks to the anti-skid base. Use the reheat function to heat bread sandwiches that have already prepared.

Cons: Because the toaster offers so many variable browning settings, arriving at your own best preference may take a bit of time, but will ultimately be rewarding.

3. Philips Daily Collection HD2582/00 830-Watt 2-Slice Pop-up Toaster Philips Daily Collection HD Another trusted and reliable brand in kitchen appliances would be Philips – the brand that brings out the aesthetic elements in boring appliances a standout. If you are not just looking for a toaster for a small family but are also looking for something that can heat your rolls, buns, and patties, then you may like to pick this up.

Benefits: With a wattage of 830 watts, the performance of the toaster is unquestionable. It also offers you eight variable browning settings for individual preferences. Two slices are toasted in one go, so this toaster is also suitable for small families. An integrated bun rack that comes with this favorite toaster is an additional attractive feature. Heat your buns, rolls, patties, and pastries easily with this bun rack. Canceling feature is another attraction so that you can stop anytime. To accommodate breads of various sizes, you get two large variable slots. You also get a lid to cover the toaster when not in use. Other features like reheat, defrost, high lift, and removable crumb tray also make this one of the best toasters in India.

Cons: It is priced higher than many toasters so that budget buyers may be deterred by the price factor.

4. Morphy Richards AT 204 2-Slice 800-Watt Pop-up Toaster Morphy Richards AT-204 Toaster Another Morphy Richards toaster to make it to our list of best and preferred toasters in India is the AT 204 2 slice toaster with powerful 800-watt power. The brand has some of the best kitchen appliances on offer that stay put through years of use.

Benefits: Quality, looks, and efficiency come together with this blue and white toaster that offers seven variable browning settings, and you can select one based on your preference. The reheat, defrost and cancel buttons are easy to use and make the toaster much more convenient to use. Toast two slices at a time quickly within no time. The hi-lift feature comes handy for small slices or pieces left behind. A dust cover keeps the toaster clean and dirt-free, the removable crumb tray can be ejected to clean the leftover crumbs. The toasting slot is quite extensive, so toasting bog or small sizes should not be a problem.

Cons: Apart from the customer service issue, this toaster needs to be placed safely as it is too lightweight and might fall from an edge. Also, it may come across as expensive because of the price tag it carries.

5. Prestige PGMFB 800 Watt Grill Sandwich Toaster with Fixed Grill Plates Prestige PGMFB When the brand ambassador is Aishwarya Rai Bacchan herself, you are not likely to go wrong in buying it, are you? Well, Prestige has been around in the market for decades now and are undeniably a market leader in small kitchen appliances market.

Benefits: This sandwich toaster comes in an elegant black finish body and an 800-watt power to ready your bread within just a few minutes. The power consumption is lower, thanks to the thermostatic controlling temperature feature. The grill plates are fixed, though they are non-toxic and non-stick. The indicator lights let you know when the toaster is ready to use and when the sandwich is prepared. From a basic toasted bread, you can also make restaurant style cheese and vegetable sandwiches now and have healthy breakfast daily.

Cons: Apart from the fact that this on features fixed grill plates and the plastic body is not very durable, this is an excellent buy for sandwich lovers.

Price: This toaster can be bought at an affordable price of Rs. 1120 only after discount.

6. Pigeon 2-Slice Auto 700-Watt Pop-up Toaster Pigeon Pop up Toaster Have you often found yourself repeating ‘what to eat for breakfast’ during busy, rushed mornings? Well, Pigeon aims to help you in the simplest of ways by offering a classic, simple toaster to take away your breakfast woes. Get deliciously toasted bread every day without any hassle and do have your breakfast ready in minutes.

Benefits: Pigeon 2 slice pop-up toaster brings simplicity and efficiency together for someone who is not looking for any fancy features. It offers six browning settings so you can have your toast exactly the way you want it. Automatic pop up function is another attraction, while the looks and style are sure to match with any interiors. Being a two slice toaster, it is suitable for small families and single people.

Cons: It does not have reheat/defrost or cancel feature.

Price: Affordably priced at Rs. 1321(discounted price), this is indeed a basic yet affordable pop-up toaster that anyone can use with ease.

7. Black + Decker BXTO0401IN 2300-Watt 4 Slice Pop-up Toaster (Grey) Black Decker BXTO0401IN Black + Decker is known to deliver performance with quality. If you have a large family, a 2-slice toaster may make toasting slices slightly tedious. To ease your breakfast woes, opt for this four slice toaster that can give you perfectly toasted four slices at a single go.

Benefits: Apart from the four slice toasting option, this pop-up toaster is also made attractive with its stainless steel body- which accounts for its durability. The problem of overheating is taken care of, and you are unlikely to burn yourself accidentally. Reheating and defrosting features are also there. You get six browning settings for both sets (so you can toast two in one sitting and two slices in another) making things super easy. The cancel button can be used when you want to cancel. Removable crumb tray makes it easier to clean the toaster.

Cons: Would have loved this one if it had a lid as well!

Price: It is priced at Rs. 4649 online. Remember, with this one, and you get the benefit of two toasters in one!

8. Morphy Richards AT-401 4-Slice Pop-Up Toaster Morphy Richards AT 401 Pop-up Bread Toaster Another one in this list of best pop-up toasters in India is the Morphy Richards AT-401 4 Slice toaster that appeals to bigger families but in a budget price. The brand has made a mark for itself as one of the best toaster brands in the Indian market and rightly so.

Benefits: Elegant and lightweight, it comes in a white and blue colour combination with two full slots that can accommodate four slices at a time. You get the cancel option to stop the operation anytime, and features like reheat and defrost also available. The wattage is 1400 watts, making it one of the most potent toasters in India. The removable crumb tray and the cord winder does cleaning and storing the toaster easier.

Cons: All four slices get toasted in the same browning setting – if there was another control that would have made this piece irresistible.

9. Prestige PPTPKB 800-Watt 2-Slice Pop-up Toaster Prestige PPTPKB Bread Toaster For a sophisticated looking, elegant, , and reliable pop-up toaster from the reputed house of Prestige. Innovation has been one of the driving pillars of the brand, and the same is showcased in this toaster as well.

Benefits: Apart from sturdy looks and a sophisticated feel, this pop-up toaster also comes with a powerful 800-watt heating element that gives you perfectly toasted slices in minutes. With six levels of adjusting temperatures for medium, golden and dark browning, you are sure to get your bread toasted to your liking. You also get the option to cancel the operation anytime. Use the toaster to reheat and defrost as well. The removable crumb tray makes it easier to get rid of small crumbs. The cord winder ensures the toaster uses minimal space in your kitchen.

Cons: Some people complain that using it for long causes the bread to be burnt, so you may need to experiment with settings.

10. Philips HD4815/01 2-Slice 800-Watt Pop-up Toaster Philips HD4815 01 Toaster Philips HD4815/01 2 slice 800-watt pop-up toaster is the last one on our list of best toasters in India – although we must reiterate that all these toasters are equally best and are in no order of preference.

Benefits: Compact, convenient to use, affordable and durable are some of the features of Philips HD4815 toaster. Designed thoughtfully, it occupies minimal space on your countertop and thus is best for people who use a toaster daily and don’t want the hassle of storing it. Cleaning this toaster is also easy, thanks to the hinged crumb tray. You can even remove this by unscrewing once in a while to clean properly. Toast two slices at once with variable browning options and get your breakfast ready in minutes. You can also heat buns in this. The cancel function can be used when you wish to stop the operation. Being white easily blends into any space.

[miserablesoldier]

Go Fish

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: on a mission to capture an enhanced individual, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes unassumingly come across them in an elevator in a run down hotel in which it gets pretty awkward when it gets stuck in the middle of the night.

Warnings: Swearing.

Word Count: 4k+

Author’s Note: After a much needed mental break and an episode, I’m reposting these fics and maybe I’ll post new ones in the future.

The end of autumn and the start of winter, the beginning of getting plastered for an entire month. What could be better than that? Oh, right, getting out of this piss stinking hotel and out of this cramped city. You weren’t a fan of New York City at all, especially with all the crazy crap that happens in that city.

You can’t really complain about that since you were associated with the crazy crap. You made sure to stay out of every sort of media eye and out of the Avenger’s shadow. It would have been easier to avoid them a month ago but now, not so much.

You didn’t really think that fully fledged enemies or arch-nemesis was actually a thing for you, but it looks like you pissed the wrong guy off because it looking like someone is spilling blood in your name. 

Which you weren’t too happy about.

As much as you would love to take the guy out, that would make too much of a mess and cause too much attention. You didn’t want to get on the radar, you wanted off the grid completely. Which is what you were doing.

Designer clothes, accessories or anything of the style wasn’t your forte so you could pick what was essential and go like it was nothing. You do have an actual house to call a home but that’s shoved far back in the crevasses of your mind. It needed protecting, it was your home. No damage will be done to it so cheap, dirty motel rooms were the right way to go.

No questions asked and nothing ever worked other than the shower which is all you really needed.

You dropped off your room keys and the money for the room before you turned on your heels for the elevator, you wanted to go to the roof which was wasting time realistically but had your knocked about Polaroid with you and it was a weird tradition that you took a picture of the location and skyline of where you stayed. You would write down the place, time, date and how long you stayed there.

A slide of a large map came into mind. Your old room, all your old childhood possessions gathering dust in that empty, boarded up house. Safe. How it should be, for now.

You smiled to yourself as the memory faded in your mind. One day. You would make it back home in one piece, crossing every ocean if you had to. The imagery of returning home held only yourself walking past the rusted gates and up the stoned pathway with no one by your side. You were perfectly content with that ending and you didn’t see it as any other way.

You pulled at your pony tail, tightening the band around your silk hair. You decided on a side Dutch braid for today, up your hair game a little. You didn’t know why, you were fine with a standard pony tail every other day but today felt different. A good different, but that is yet to be determined.

Clutching your patch covered army green back pack, you made your way from the front desk to the elevator at the end of the stained corridor. For clothes, you raising the Amy Navy Surplus store for plain, cheap shirts and heavy duty boots and thick jackets. You grabbed a couple cheap black skinny jeans from Primark. Pretty reasonable and quality, at times.

Mid walk, you pulled your phone out and slotted your cheap earphones in and pressed shuffle. Your music taste was soft, dark and a mix of 80s groove. It was weird.

You stopped at the elevator and pressed the button with the arrow pointing up to the skies. With the music sending spiralling waves of art into your ears, you didn’t much hear of the two pairs of foot steps coming up beside you for the elevator.

You glanced to your right and saw a tall, broad and muscly blonde haired man sporting a baseball hat and sunglasses. Very inconspicuous. He felt familiar to you. He gave you a kind smile and nodded his head.

“Ma’am.” Who in the world talks like that? You returned with a small smile of your own and a raise of your eyebrows. You weren’t much of a talker to strangers especially.

To your left, was an equally tall, muscly and handsome man with dark brown hair pulled back in a man bun with a few strands left in the front. Another baseball hat. “Ma’am.” He said it too and you gave the same the response to this man as well. He wasn’t as familiar as the blonde but there was something about his eyes.

Honestly, waiting for the elevator to come down and open is far worse than the music that plays in it when you’re in it. You wished for it to come sooner.

You wish didn’t come true. You had to stand in between these two men for another two minutes. You contemplated just leaving and forgetting about the photo. It may be silly but it’s important to you. So, you stayed and waited for the elevator with them.

The silver doors with bullet dents creaked open. That’s comforting, you thought to yourself.

“After you, Ma’am.” The blonde insisted and you quickly shuffled into the elevator. It wasn’t the biggest but it could have been the smallest with these two beefy men in it with you.

You pulled one ear pud out. “Thank you.”

The dark haired man smiled at her and then turned to the door where the buttons were, his attention went back to her. “What floor, Ma’am?”

I hate the way they call me that. “I’m going to the roof.” You continued before it got even more awkward.

“To take pictures with my camera.” You said and they nodded. The one with the pretty eyes pressed the button for the fifth floor and then the tenth floor.

You nodded your thanks, and placed the ear pud back in your ear and leant against the cool stainless steel walls of the elevator. You closed your eyes to enjoy the music and to ignore the men.

The blonde haired man bought that you couldn’t hear him or his friend through your music but he was wrong. “Bucky, this is the very last motel in the area that Bruce came up with. If she’s not here then she is long gone.”

“Steve, It’s always the last place you look, that’s what Wanda keeps saying.” The aforementioned Bucky told his friend.

Steve sighed but remained focussed. “Let’s hope, she’s always on the move and we have no idea what she looks like.”

“Now that we’re doing this legally, it will take time to get her ID from Scotland Yard and they’re not particularly friendly with Stark.”

Your eyes quickly opened.

Stark.

Blonde.

Steve.

FUCK.

The elevator screeched and shook to a halt which caused you to fall to your knees while the two stood firm with their hands on the walls. Bucky helped you up to your feet and you muttered your thanks to him.

You rubbed your forehead. Your head collided with the metal cage you’re currently strapped in now. “Ow.” Steve heard that and looked over at your direction.

“Are you okay, Ma’am?” He asked softly, placing a hand on your shoulder to steady you.

You winced but nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m good. Just a bang on my head when I fell.”

Bucky gave a concerned glance over to Steve which he reciprocated which you couldn’t have missed. You dropped your bag on the floor and looked over at Bucky. “Are you going to ring the alarm or what?”

He looked confused. You frowned and pointed to the button with the yellow bell on it. “Press that and it triggers the alarm, someone will answer.” You hoped to gold holy Hell, you wanted out and now. You couldn’t be in a stick elevator with two of Earth’s Mightiest hero’s.

This could be your hell right now but everyone else’s heaven.

Bucky followed your instructions and pressed the bell. It rang for fifteen minutes and he wasn’t pleased no one answered. “They should’ve answered. It’s their job.”

“Not in this motel, sweetie. It’s the most run down piece of crap in town. Nothing works.” You would have smirked or at least given have a comforting smile but the thunder raging in your head didn’t give you the luxury. You saw the slight pink hue on his cheeks and you couldn’t help but feel proud of yourself in the most worst ways.

“Bloody hell.” You and me both, honey.

You slid down the wall of the elevator with one leg outstretched and the other bent with your bag in between them. You unzipped it half way and pulled out a bottle of water and some ibuprofen.

Steve kneeled down to you. “You sure you’re okay, Ma’am?”

You nodded as you met his gentle blue eyes. “I’m fine, and please, call me (Y/N).” He smiles but there was still worry circulating in those eyes of his.

“If you say so, (Y/N), but I’ll keep checking until we get out of here.” He rose up to his feet, looking at Bucky who wasn’t happy with the service in this place.

You took a gulp of water out of the bottle and took two small white pills of ibuprofen to hopefully cure the pain in your head. “I’m Steve Rogers.”

Rogers. Definitely the Avengers.

“Bucky Barnes.” The one with the shady past, you really couldn’t talk about pasts.

You tightened the top of the bottle water. “Nice to meet you both given the circumstances.” It wasn’t.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “You could say that again.”

A voice of static came out of the speakers. “Hello, is there anyone there?”

“Yes, the elevator got stuck at the fourth floor and we’re tapped in it.” Bucky has restraint which you found impressive as you thought he would go all Alpha on the guy for being lazy on his job.

“How many are you in there?”

Bucky glanced at Steve and then you before answering. “Three of us, sir, one of us has hit their head and we need to get out of here.”

“We’ll get you out of there as soon as possible, hang tight.”

You definitely didn’t believe that. You’ll be in here for hours. You recon you would miss the last coach out of the city but it isn’t like you haven’t slept in a bus station before. It doesn’t bother you.

“Hopefully, your injury will speed the process.” Bucky informed them, joining you on the floor to your right with his legs crossed. You noticed the single gloved hand of his. It is true about the metal arm then.

You pulled out your earphones. “Very doubtful, Bucky.”

You sighed unhappily and displeased. “We’ll be here for hours.”

Bucky, once again, was not happy. Steve joined them on the floor with his legs out stretched and angled to the metal doors.

“You know what…I’m calling Tony.” Steve pulled out his mobile phone but you shook your head. Before he would even turn the phone on he thought the worst with your expression.

“This motel doesn’t have service does it?” Steve deadpanned as she nodded.

Bucky banged his head against the wall. “What does work in this cursed motel?”

“The shower is pretty good.” You laughed.

The two followed with chuckle. Steve dragged a hand down his face. “We really are stuck here.” He couldn’t believe it. He’s been frozen in the Antarctic in a ship and he got out of that but a horrific elevator has defeated him. A super soldier.

You looked at the two avengers and a few few thoughts that weren’t exactly nice. Let’s have a little fun, shall we?

“Wanna play a game?” You raises an eyebrow, bringing out your playful mood in this down in the dumbs melancholy the two guys have. 

Steve sat up straight. “Like twenty questions?” He didn’t see the harm in it as it looks like you don’t know who they are. Just two friends and a woman stuck in a crap situation. 

“What? Are we having a sleepover? No.” You rolled your eyes and laughed as you rummaged through your bag which seemed like the bag that Mary Poppin’s has. Full of mysteries, infinite and full of weird stuff. 

You pulled out a Jack Daniels themed pack of cards. “You two in the mood for a game of play your cards right?” You smiled at the two. 

Bucky pivoted and the three of you are now sat in a triangle. “What’s play your cards right?” 

“Well, there’s a game called Higher or Lower and traditionally the first player is dealt a card. The player then guesses whether the next card will be higher or lower than the next card. If wrong, the player drinks once (because one card is showing). If correct, the player guessed again.” 

You continued as they listened intently to you, they seemed to never have played such a game before. “Since we don’t have any alcohol to play with we can mix it with twenty questions. So, if you are wrong, I get to ask you a question but if you get it right – you can ask me a questions about anything. Sounds fair?” 

“How will be taking turns?” Steve brought up a good point. 

You took a second to think it over. “First to five and then we switch or we could play a different game if you want…” 

You looked away as if you were embarrassed. “No, Doll, we’ll play. Right, Steve?” Bucky looked over at him as you brought your attention back to him. 

Steve smiled. “Yeah, of course we’ll play.”

They were easy. 

You smiled happily. “Great.” You pulled the cards out the pack and made sure to pull the jokers out before shuffling them. 

“Jack Daniels, huh?” Bucky smirked with a raised eyebrow. That look would make any girl swoon. 

You chuckled. “The pack came in a set with poker chips, and two small bottles of Jack. They went fast.”

“I bet.” Steve watched as you shuffled, he couldn’t help but enjoy your company. You were playful, had a great sense of humour and you made his best friend laugh. You were good in his books but your eyes really caught him off guard at first. 

He couldn’t put a finger on it though. 

You finished shuffling and you held the deck with the back to them so they didn’t see what the card was. “Just pick one card. Who wants to go first?” You were in quite the mischievous mood now. 

Steve went first and pulled the card out. He wasn’t sure if he should reveal the card. You nodded. “It’s okay to tell what it is.” 

“Oh, 3 Of diamonds.” 

You held the deck tightly in your hands. “So, do you think the next card in this deck is higher or lower than the card you have in your hand?” He and Bucky quickly understood the game after that sentence. 

“Higher.” He was pretty sure of himself. 

You pulled the card off the top. “7 of spades. Congratulations, Steve. Ask me a question.” 

“Why were you in the motel other than taking pictures?” 

You made sure to tell as close to the truth as you could. “I’m traveling, it’s easier to stay in places like these than fancy holiday hotels and I don’t mind roughing it a bit.” It wasn’t a lie and it was not that far from the truth. 

“Where have you travelled so far?” Bucky asked, he wanted to know more about her and he was sure Steve wanted to too. 

You shook your head. “Ah, Ah, Ah. You have to wait your turn and one question for a one right answer.” 

He rose his hands up in surrender. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

You laughed and shook your head. “Steve, do you think the next card after 7 of spades is higher or lower?”

“I can see where it gets tricky now. I want to say higher.” Steve pushed his luck. 

You pulled out the card and whistled. “6 of hearts. Sorry, Steve.”

He hung his head but chuckled. “I asked for that, what’s your question then?”

You couldn’t obviously just out yourself to him and Bucky, they would put you down in a heart beat. So, you had to go in light. “What do you like to draw?”

He and Bucky both blinked confused. How in the hell did she know that he draws? “What?” Steve asked, very confused and suspicious. 

“You have artist hands, Steve and you have pencil shaving stains on the side of your hands.” 

That made sense. “Oh, right.” She is quite observant. 

He cleared his throat. “Realism, landscapes, animals, people. That kind of thing.” He answered her with a smile. No one had enquired about his art before, not even Bucky or any of the Avengers. 

“I bet you’re a great artist, Steve.” 

His cheeks warmed. “Uh, I’m not sure about that.”

“He’s being modest, he’s a great artist. Never shows his pieces though.” Bucky had his back. 

You smiled at the two of them. You couldn’t help but feel a mixture of blue emotions. Sadness, shame, guilt. They were people, human (to a point) too. They were more than what the media portrayed them as. 

You’ll remember that. 

“Bucky, pick a card, please.” 

He slid a card off the top. “Queen of hearts.” 

“Do you think the next card is higher or lower?”

He stated to pretend to mull it over. “Oh, I need to think about this one.”

“Okay, smartarse.” You laughed with a roll of your eyes. 

He couldn’t help but love that sound and he was glad that he was the one that got that out of you. “Lower, Doll.”

“Are you talking about the card or..?” You smirked. 

Steve put his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ.”

“Doll, you’re such a tease.” 

You rolled your eyes and pulled out the next card. “8 of clubs. Ask a question.”

“What do you like to take photos of?” You were expecting a more different question. 

“Landscapes mainly, forests, everyday life and sometimes other people. I use a Polaroid camera, I feel more at home with it than I would with one of those chunky Canon ones.” Bucky was happy to learn more about you even if it was just for these next few hours. They would be back on their mission and she would be on that roof and then back to travelling. 

He will be sure to remember her or he doesn’t have to. Phone numbers and the 21st century make it work for long distance. He was optimistic and he was sure Steve was too. 

The game higher or lower lasted an hour at best, then went to a nice game of 21 in which you had to teach them that one as well. They played several games of that one which lasted a good two hours. 

They were in the middle of a game of Go Fish when your stomach made an abrupt rumble which everyone heard. There was a silence that lasted a long five to six seconds before anyone said anything. 

You piped up first. “I think I might be hungry.” 

“You think, Doll?” Bucky chuckled and shook his head. 

Steve pointed to your back pack. “Anything in that bag of yours you could eat?” 

“I honestly can’t remember.” You pulled the bag into your lap and unzipped it. You pulled out your purse, phone charger, clothes and underwear and then pulled a plastic container from the bottom that held half a ham and cheese sandwich. 

“I will thank any and all God’s for bestowing this gift of food for me.” The lads smirked and glanced at each other as their minds went to a god of thunder that they knew. 

They were surprised at how fast you are they sandwich. “You were really hungry.” Steve commented. 

“Yeah, I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Bucky’s eyes widened, shocked. 

“You’ve gone over twenty four hours without food? How are you lucid?” Steve was worried even more now. 

It was bad that they were growing attached to her, especially with the life that they lead. It’s a bad idea for any human friends or companions in their line of work. He guessed that being trapped in a steel container really bonds you with strangers. 

“I have to save money.” 

That didn’t seem a good enough excuse for them but it was the only one you had. “What? Can we just play now?” 

A static fazed through the speakers. “Hello, are you three still okay in there?”

Bucky answered them straight away. “Yeah, just hungry, tired and in the need of a bathroom.” He hoped that would hurry it along. 

“The fire department is in the building now and will be getting you out within the hour. I’m sorry for this, folks.” 

The speaker was cut off after the man finished speaking. “Finally.” You breathed out. 

The lads looked at you. “No offence, as much as we all are best buddies now I would really like to get out of here.” 

Steve smiled. “I seconded that.” 

You gathered up the cards you played with and slotted them back into the box they came in. You shoved them back into your back pack along with your plastic container, clothes, purse and phone charger. 

You slowly got up to your feet and nearly stumbled. Bucky got to his feet quickly and got ahold of your right arm as Steve got your left. “Thanks, lads.” 

Looking at them now, you really enjoyed their company. It would be disappointing and sad to get out of this elevator and that would all change. They would continue their chase after you and you would escape out of their clutches. The elevator was a safe space, a neutral zone without them knowing it was. You were just some unlucky woman with a dark secret that got trapped in an elevator with two super soldiers. 

“I have an idea.” You spoke up and pulled the back pack to your front as you caught their attention. You opened up your bag and pulled out your Polaroid camera. 

You looked at them both. “Want a photo for the road?” You genuinely smiled at Steve and Bucky. 

“Of course, (Y/N).” Steve moved closer to her.

As did Bucky. “Go ahead, Doll.” 

You put them either side of you, like you began before you entered the elevator, but closer so they would be in the whole shot with her. You turned the camera lens to yourself and took three separate photos. 

One for yourself, one for Bucky and one for Steve. 

“Just shake them until you see the photo develop.” They did just that and watched fascinated as the photo of the three of them in the elevator came to view. This was definitely an experience they would never forget. 

A clang of metal on metal rang in the air. A few minutes went by with clang after clang. The metal doors were pulled open by firefighters and they got you out first and then Steve and Bucky, not that they needed the help to get out. 

“Cap! Barnes! There you are, you got yourselves stuck in an elevator. Didn’t you jump out of a glass one before?” That was Tony Stark’s voice. 

Your heart dropped as his eyes set on you. 

“You got the girl, too?” Steve and Bucky turned with genuinely shocked expressions, then they turned not so happy. 

“Now, this is awkward.”

[elliedoes]

Like Real People Do - Chapter Two

Dean Winchester x Reader

You hate Dean Winchester and he hates you.

Warnings: NSFW. Smut, adult language, unprotected sex, lots and lots of growling, angst, fluff, pregnancy, first time parents.

Note: This turned out to be WAY fluffier than I was planning it to be, but knowing Dean, they’ll be angst and manpain.

The tag list is open for this, by the way. Just let me know if you’re interested. Thanks for reading and I’d appreciate any feedback you may have. ;) Love you all.

Like Real People Do by Hozier.

Series Masterlist - Masterlist

Your admission hung in the air between you and ended with Dean hanging up. It honestly didn’t surprise you, you’d probably do the same if you were in his shoes. The hunter life wasn’t meant for families and happy endings, especially when a Winchester was involved. You’d deal with it, though, like you always did.

The werewolf was put down before the end of the day and you were back in your hotel to pack up when your phone rang. Dean’s name sat on the screen and your heart started to race. Hesitantly, you swiped to answer, “If you’re calling about the werewolf, it’s dead.”

“We need to meet.” His tone was even, business-like. You knew where that conversation would lead and you didn’t want to have it, not face to face.

“I’m still in Flagstaff, heading back to Denver in the morning.”

On his end you heard rustling and then a door close. “I’ll meet you there,” he said and hung up on you yet again.

Sleep didn’t come easy and you had a long drive ahead. You weren’t sure if you were going to make it with only one cup of coffee, but you did. Barely. 10 hours later you pulled up to your cabin with the Impala already waiting for you.

You steeled yourself when you stepped inside, but Dean wasn’t in your living room or in the bedroom when you dropped off your stuff. You thought about calling out to him, but you found him eating a cup of Ramen at your kitchen table. “That stuff is bad for you,” you chastised, but your stomach called out for food. “It’s loaded with sodium.”

“Then why do you have it,” he asked with his mouth full.

“Because it’s cheap and easy to make.” You searched through your fridge to make yourself a sandwich. Silence fell between you once more while you piled up ham and cheese, smothering the bread with mayo and mustard. You could feel Dean’s eyes on you while you worked and you fought the blush that threatened your cheeks. Two sandwiches and six spears of pickles on your plate, you sat across from him with an expectant look.

Dean scowled at the food piled in front of you. “Do you normally eat that much?”

“I skipped lunch to get here,” you confessed sheepishly. “Is it a problem?”

“No,” he answered quickly and held his hands up in defense. You went about filling up your stomach and Dean finished off his noodles. “Are you sure?”

“Unlike the rest of my life, my period runs like clockwork,” you replied with half a pickle hanging out of your mouth. “I was late and took the test. I plan on making an appointment with a doctor tomorrow to confirm it. But I’m positive.”

He sat back and laced his hands on the back of his head, eyes trained on you. “What do you plan on doing?”

“You’re leaving the decision up to me?” That was surprising considering that Dean had long since expressed his ideals about the apple pie life.

“It’s your body,” he shrugged.

You stared, not believing him. “You don’t want a family, Dean. Even if I decide to keep the baby, I don’t expect you to stick around. I’m surprised you even called back. I thought you’d change your number and delete me from your memory.”

His brow furrowed and his hands dropped to his lap. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted. “I talked to Sam, he told me to call you, said I owed you this much.” He waved a hand between you before he leaned against the table. “I’m not trying to be a dick here, but you know this isn’t going to end well. I can’t worry about Sam and Cas and you and a fucking kid.”

“Then you don’t have to,” you snapped back. “Lose my number and I’ll lose yours.”

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, “Like that’s going to make a difference.”

“Then what do you want, Dean? Why even bother asking me what I wanted if you’re going to make the decision for me?” You were yelling at that point, your food long forgotten.

“I don’t know,” he hollered back, unable to meet your gaze any longer.

“I’m getting a headache,” you groaned. Your head fell to the table and you willed yourself to calm down.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Dean eventually gathered up his trash and washed his fork. You watched him from the table, the tension in his shoulders visible even under all those layers. He moved back to you eventually and squatted next to your chair. Cautiously, he placed a hand on your knee and squeezed. You had half a mind to slap it away, but another part of you sought it out and covered it with your own.

He tugged you from the table and pulled you through the kitchen into your living room. You fell onto the couch, into his open arms and he held onto you as you hid away in his neck. His hand rubbed at your back after he kicked up his feet. You weren’t supposed to enjoy this, it shouldn’t feel right. He was Dean and you were you, you were supposed to ripping each others throats out, not cuddling on your couch with him murmuring sweet nothings in your ear like you meant something to him.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, but when you woke, you were in your bed and spooned by Dean. When tried to free yourself from his hold, he pulled your closer and nosed into your hair. “Where are you goin’,” he mumbled.

“Gotta pee.” You peeled his arm from your waist and padded to your bathroom. You were still in your road clothes, so you disrobed to your undershirt and undies once you relieved yourself. When you returned, Dean’s sleepy gaze rested steadily on the door you emerged from. “Go back to sleep.”

“You alright,” he yawned and motioned you back into his arms.

You’re not sure what caused the change in his attitude, or yours, but you crawled back into bed and under your covers to let him pull you close once more. “Yeah. Fine.” He pressed against you from behind, his hand not so subtly rested against your stomach when you settled into place.

Sleep overtook you once again and when you woke for the second time, Dean was gone. You tried not to panic, but you could hear banging around in your kitchen. You shuffled through your cabin and found the older hunter with his head stuck in your fridge. “There isn’t much in there,” you slurred sleepily.

He jumped at your voice but straightened with a nod. “I can see that. Do you own anything that isn’t microwaveable?” You tilted your head in thought and shook it. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“What?”

“You have nothing in your house that isn’t frozen or in a can, we’re going out,” Dean repeated.

You blinked, taken aback at his sudden need for nutritional value. “What’s going on with you?”

“What? Nothing,” he scoffed. “C’mon, let’s go.” He shooed you out of your own kitchen and back towards your room.

“Alright, bossy, chill out.” You took a quick shower and dressed in your comfiest jeans and your most oversized sweater with your hair pulled back into a messy bun. When you joined Dean, he was changed as well, not wearing the plaid and jeans from the day before, which meant he packed a bag to meet you. That also meant that he most likely planned to stay, that he wanted the conversation to end in a more agreeable favor. “Where are we going?”

“To get the best pancakes in Denver,” he replied. You climbed into the Impala and pulled out your phone. You said you were going to make an appointment with your doctor and he watched you from the corner of his eye as you agreed to a three o’clock slot, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. A matra of ‘it’s gonna be okay’ rang in your head until you almost started to believe it.

The small diner you first met the Winchesters in was four miles outside of town. Flo, your most favorite person in the entire world, always worked the morning shift and when you walked in with Dean in tow, she waved you down. “Lucky for you, your table is empty,” she chirped and lead you to the back corner. You slid in with Dean across from you and she slapped down two menus, though she was sure neither of you needed one. “Coffee, black,” she pointed to Dean, “three sugars and a whole lotta cream,” she winked at you before gliding away.

You picked up the menu and hid behind it. “Why are you still here?”

“Do you want me to go?”

You peeked over the top of the plastic divider and watched as he rearranged his silverware. “I’d like an honest answer.”

“I had a daughter,” he confessed, “sort of. She was mine but she was an Amazon. It’s complicated.”

“Had?”

“She was going to kill me, needed to to complete her initiation,” Dean explained and waved vaguely. “Sam killed her.”

You dropped the menu when Flo returned, coffees set in front of you both. You ordered a three stack, Dean took a six and she left you in peace once more. “Is he going to kill this one?”

“What? No,” he practically yelled which made, you and the neighboring table, jump. “No,” he cleared his throat. “Look, I’m not father material, alright? I’m the last fucking person you want around a kid because all I cause is death and destruction. But that’s my blood, that’s my family. If you want to keep him... or her, then fuck…”

“I’m not keeping you to a commitment you don’t want,” you told him calmly. “I can keep myself safe, Dean. I’ve survived this long by myself, I can keep a baby safe, too.”

His jaw clenched and he took in a deep, steady breath. “I’m telling you that I’m going to try, Y/N. But you’re coming back to the bunker.”

“What,” you grimaced. “I hate it there. It’s stuffy and musty and there are no windows.”

“That’s my home you’re talking about,” he growled and pointed a warning finger at you. “Just… let me have this. We’ll do everything else your way, but give me this one thing.”

A Winchester child was going to have every supernatural creature on your ass and you hated to admit it, but the bunker was the safest place for you. “Fine,” you conceded and stole one of his pancakes in retribution.

The doctor’s office was quiet and empty save for you and Dean. When the nurse called you back, you gave him to option to stay or come with and, hesitantly, he followed you back. He hovered as your vitals were taken and second guessed the need for any blood she drew from you. The nurse assured him everything was necessary and she tried not to coo over the ‘possible first dad worries’.

Not a word passed between you two during your wait. You buried your nose into a Homes and Garden magazine while Dean fiddled with his phone. It took nearly a half hour for the doctor to finally join you and you nearly missed his greeting with the blood rushing in your ears.

“So, your iron’s low,” Dr. Oswald informed you. “Everything else seems to be good, though. You can get prenatal vitamins at any grocery store. I don’t think you’ll need an iron supplement as long as you keep up with the protein, red meat, chicken, beans, spinach, you get the idea. Do you need recommendations for an OBGYN?”

You stared blankly at the man, still trying to process the information. “Uh no,” Dean answered for you, “we’ll be moving soon. So, what was that about vitamins?” Their conversation turned to static as your mind raced. You were very much pregnant with Dean Winchester’s child and you were so incredibly fucked.

The rest of the day floated by. Dean stopped at a store to grab what the doctor suggested and you were back at your cabin as he packed your bags. You sat on the bed and stared at the floor while he moved around you, not bothering to break you out of your mood. If he was freaking out, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

You finally snapped out of it when you crossed the Kansas state line, “Oh god.”

“What,” Dean quickly glanced over at you. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to have a baby,” you whimpered. “Your baby. Oh god!”

“Okay. It’s okay. Keep it together. It’s a fine. Everything’s fine. Please don’t make me crash my car,” he pleaded.

You stared at him with wild eyes and shouted, “How can you be so calm about this, asshole?! You knocked me up and we’re having a fucking child.” You landed the hardest punch you could muster on his arm and he cried out as the car swerved.

“Cut the shit, Y/N,” he yelled back. “If you crash this fucking car, I swear…” You curled into a ball next to your door, your knees tucked into your sweater, but you did as you were told, at least until you got to the bunker.

Sam met you in the garage when you arrived and you immediately ran into his arms for a much needed hug. You held onto him for as long as possible until Dean pulled you away and passed his brother your bags.

You had been to the bunker a few times before but never for an extended period of time. Most of your time was spent in the library with Sam doing research or in the kitchen for a quick dinner before off the to War Room for a game plan overview. Dean guided you to his room where your bags were dumped on his bed by Sam.

“You can have your own room,” Sam offered. “There’s plenty.”

Having your on safe space was appealing, but from the scowl Dean was giving Sam, it probably wasn’t the best idea. “Maybe when he starts to snore,” you teased, “but I think I’ll be okay in here.” Neither brother objected and Sam left the two of you with the promise of dinner when you settled in.

“You’re not going to get clingy and overbearing are you,” you scowled at Dean.

“No,” he returned your frown. “If you want your own room, we can get your own room.”

“That’s not why I asked,” you sighed and resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m a grown ass woman, I can take care of myself. Promise me you won’t go caveman on me?”

He held his hands up in submission, “You have my word.” Somehow, though, you knew he was lying.

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@waywardbaby