#i already said he smells like a warm carrot cake

[chrlotpony]

crusty sunil crusty sunil! I yearn for stinkie

[howdoyousleep3]

Rating: Explicit (E) Word Count: 7K Notable Tags: Established Relationship, Daddy Kink, Light Dom/Sub, Surprise Roleplay, Crossdressing, Feminization (!!!!), Age Difference, Breeding Kink, Butt Plugs/Sex Toys, Manhandling, Rough Sex, Breeding Kink (!!!!!!), Anal Sex, Overstimulation, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Pregnancy Kink (!!!!) A/N: Y'all...😮‍💨 This shit is wild. I'm so horny for these two and for this specific kink, it's craaaaaaazy. How have we never indulged in Senator and Breeding Kink?? This might be my favorite thing I've ever written for them and I can't wait to hear what you think. This fic is entirely dedicated to @vilkasdaina since she was the one that requested it. Extra lub to @the-iceni-bitch and @maddiewritesstucky for hyping me up when I needed it most. I hope you enjoy. 🧡 Read here on Ao3.

Bucky thought his hands were trembling as he was cutting up carrots and potatoes, steaming Steve’s dress shirts, and fluffing the pillows on his bed, but that’s nothing compared to the tremor of them when he hears the senator opening the door to his apartment. 

The shake of his fingers as he tied the frilly white apron around his waist, his waist while wearing a dress, is a very close second though.

Bucky has but a second to consider how long he’s been thinking of this moment, how long it’s been brewing in his mind. He’s spent months planning this daydream out, from hyping himself up into going to the extreme, to ensuring that this was the perfect Friday to execute his plan. 

Every single thing is perfect so far: how easy it was to get into Steve’s apartment, how unrushed he felt throughout the chore list, how delectable both dinner (pot roast) and dessert (red velvet cake) look and smell. Even the dress he borrowed from Wanda fit him perfectly, black and cinched at the waist and low-cut. 

“I hate you. You look better in this dress than I do. How is that possible?” 

She even believed him when he said it was for some Halloween party on campus. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a new pair of heels but he is wearing stockings underneath this dress, one on each leg, and that will just have to do. 

Every single aspect of the night has worked out flawlessly and yet here Bucky is about to faint wondering what Steve’s reaction is going to be. He has to like it. Right? Bucky’s been taking hints all the way back from when they were merely boss and employee, comments about coming home to a warm meal and wishing he had someone to come home to and to take care of him, how his ma would do the same for his father before he passed away. 

Steve is a man who wants to be taken care of, pampered. 

And Bucky is just delusional enough to provide that for him, even if it is but for a night. There’s no option left but to follow through and do it well.

He’s pulling the roast out of the oven with shaky hands when Steve walks into the kitchen. 

“Hi honey,” Bucky purrs, surprised at his own sultry tone, the false confidence it’s laced with. “I hope you’re hungry.” 

The look Steve gives him from the doorway of his kitchen floods Bucky’s mind and body with almost too many emotions. The senator is hungry indeed, eyes blazing as he takes in the situation before him, no doubt Bucky’s attire. Surprise is evident on his face, as is confusion. 

Bucky places the roast onto the stovetop, checks the temperature of it to ensure its doneness, turns back towards Steve. 

Steve looks at him, unmoving and critical. Bucky anticipated this moment, this moment where Steve plays along or calls it off. He gives him a moment to take everything in, to make decisions for himself on whether or not Bucky has gone too far or if he wants to continue. Bucky can almost hear his questions from here, can hear that brilliant mind working overtime. 

Steve is rarely caught off guard and Bucky can already feel himself growing addicted to making this a frequent occurrence. 

One thing is for certain— Steve looks like a housewife’s wet dream. It feels like he takes up every extra inch of space in this kitchen, both with his physical presence and dominating air. A charcoal-colored suit, a crisp white dress shirt, a tasteful tie; Bucky wants to unwrap him button by button. His suit is perfectly rumpled, his hair windswept, his cheeks flushed. He looks like he needs to be taken care of and something deep deep within Bucky reacts. 

He ignores it mostly, but capitalizes on the opportunity in front of him. 

He makes his way across the kitchen towards the older man on shaky feet, stops when he is toe to toe with him. The way Steve looks at him is unnerving, predatory. He’s in Bucky’s head already, is affecting him physically too. He feels himself stir between his legs, his dick filling out under the silk of the women’s panties he’s wearing. The excitement is almost too much to contain, his body interpreting it as sexual excitement. 

It probably is.

He indulges in his urges and clenches down around the plug buried in his ass. 

It’s definitely sexual excitement. 

He reaches forward on his tippy-toes, places a kiss onto Steve’s bearded cheek. When he pulls back Steve continues to fill the air with silence. Bucky chooses to reach for Steve’s shoulder bag, taking it from his body and placing it in its designated spot on its hook a few steps away. His heart hammers against his chest when he makes his way back towards Steve. 

It batters overtime against his ribcage when the senator startles him with a burly arm wrapped tightly around his waist, with a tug and a squeeze that results in his entire front being pressed deliciously to the older man’s own. 

“Smells delicious,” he purrs against Bucky’s mouth, hand quickly wandering down to his ass draped in silky material. Bucky’s heart soars elatedly, his mouth parting to make way for his breathing picking up. When Steve’s big fingers dig into the meat of his ass, kneading, Bucky can’t help but gasp. He feels smaller like this, in this roleplay and dressed more femininely. He’s tempted to drop to his knees right here and call the whole thing off to suck Steve off, but he worked too hard for this. He has to stay focused. 

He lets himself gasp again, this time in more of a shocked manner, pushes at Steve’s chest as he turns his cheek away from Steve’s mouth. 

“No sir, not in the kitchen and not after I’ve worked so hard on dinner,” he breathily tells him, voice full of fake scandal before he turns his attention back towards the stove. As with every other moment spent with the senator, he fails to remember and anticipate just how intoxicating the man’s physical presence and pushiness is. He takes a few deep breaths as he pulls a rocks glass out of the cabinet and makes his way to Steve’s liquor selection. 

“Did you have a good day?” Bucky asks lightly, working to pour a generous amount of scotch into the glass he retrieves. He moves towards the fridge, grabs a sphere of ice specific for drinking liquor. It’s quite fancy if you ask Bucky, but he wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he found them in Steve’s freezer. 

“It was…” Steve starts, saddling up to the kitchen island. “It was a lot actually. I wasn’t sure it was going to end.” 

Bucky’s chest pulls tight. He brings Steve his glass, places it in his hand before turning his attention back to dinner. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Midterms are such a stressful time, understandably so. You have nothing to worry about, you know this.” 

The reassurance flows from Bucky easily and with purpose and honesty. He knows how stressed Steve has been over the past few weeks and he knows that stress will only compress and grow as they get closer and closer to election day. This is the main reason Bucky chose this time to follow through with his plan. 

Steve sighs heavily once Bucky has spoken, a tiny thrill running through him when Steve immediately takes a drink from his glass. He could get addicted to this. 

“I do know this. There’s just both some uncertainty and some big changes that this election could bring. Some pretty important states have been putting in the work. It could be big. Texas with a Democratic governor? Can you imagine?” 

Bucky hums, plating up the roast, potatoes, and carrots rather artfully on two of Steve’s dinner plates. He doesn’t have enough time in the world nor the focus at the current moment to dwell on and analyze the reasoning behind how easy this interaction feels. There’s no awkwardness, no unpleasant tension. It’s as natural as any other interaction they have when he’s in Steve’s apartment. Except this time, he’s wearing a dress and has spent the day cleaning Steve’s apartment and not eating greasy pizza in his underwear on Steve’s couch. 

“Honestly, no. But there’s hope with Beto. His campaign is one that should be studied and used as an example for all future candidates, governor or not.” 

He gracefully makes his way to the dining table, two plates in hand, Steve following him curiously and slowly. He had set the table just a few minutes before Steve arrived home from work and Steve seems impressed, a raise of his eyebrows once he sees the lit candles. When Bucky goes to make his way back to the kitchen, Steve stands in his way. He doesn’t move. Bucky knows then that small talk and mindless conversation are over. 

When he tips his chin to look up at Steve, he can almost taste the scotch on the older man’s breath. His dick comes back to life, twitching in his panties. The senator’s eyes dance as he drinks in Bucky’s face, his appearance. Bucky goes almost cross-eyed when a hand casually rises to cup the side of Bucky’s neck, Steve stepping forward, closing what is left of the gap between them. 

“You tryin’ to romance me, sugar?” he inquires softly, voice but a gruff whisper. Bucky wants to kiss him, wants to melt even further into the older man’s dominant embrace, his chest, his body. 

Get it together. 

“You deserve it,” Bucky dutifully responds with, almost positive Steve can feel his erection against his body. Steve’s own is dizzyingly heavy against Bucky’s belly. He immediately wishes the plug buried between his cheeks were replaced with that cock. He forces himself to reel in his kiss, placing a dreadfully chaste one on the senator’s lips before slipping around him and into the kitchen. 

“Go ahead and sit down. Everything is ready.” 

Bucky isn’t sure how he’ll make it through dinner. Especially with the other plans he has in mind; he won’t survive those . 

When he turns back to the table, Steve has seated himself and made himself comfortable, having taken off his suit jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. Bucky suppresses the urge to moan when Steve takes the time to unbutton his cuffs and rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms. He could get off to that and that alone on repeat, he swears. 

Bucky reaches behind himself and unties his apron, also drapes that across the back of his chair. Bucky can only describe the look Steve gives him as predatory. It devours him, feels like a physical touch that has his breath hitching in his chest. 

Fucking hell. 

“Is that a new dress?” 

The question feels as if Steve’s stroking him off. 

Bucky nods his head as he takes a seat in his chair. 

“It is, I was…was hoping you’d notice. Do you like it?” 

The last part slips out of Bucky’s mouth before he can contain it. He shouldn’t have to desperately seek out Steve’s approval, no matter how flustered he may be. The senator would reprimand him for this line of thinking, for Bucky not communicating with him, but…he’s working on it. 

He regrets his question up to the point where Steve reaches beneath the table and openly adjusts his erection. 

“I think you look fucking divine.” 

“Oh.” 

Bucky is sure his blush creeps down his neck. 

“I think that if you didn’t work so hard on this dinner, I’d toss you on this table and eat you for supper.” 

“Steve.” 

“Honey, my dick is so—” 

“Steven,” Bucky damn near begs, overwhelmed by the senator’s words and the plug he’s wearing and his dick wrapped in satin. “This is not appropriate dinner talk. Watch your mouth. Please .” 

He thinks it’s what a housewife would say. Surely a housewife wouldn’t let her husband talk about fucking her at dinner. And that’s what Bucky is tonight, a housewife. He’s playing a role tonight. 

He takes a deep breath before continuing, grounding himself by placing his palms flat on the table. After a few seconds he looks up and over at the senator to find him already devouring him, his eyes roving over Bucky’s nearly nude chest. His nipples harden in an instant, pebbling up at the attention. It is more than distracting. 

Without another word yet still communicating his desires by eye fucking Bucky into oblivion, Steve picks up his fork and knife and digs in. 

Thank God. 

Bucky shouldn’t be startled by the moan Steve lets out, but he is. It’s dripping in eroticism, it’s guttural, it’s pleasure. It’s food, he has to remind himself as he watches Steve savor his bite on his tongue. Bucky shoves his own bite into his mouth, first one and then another, just so he has something to do with his mouth other than beg for the senator’s cock. 

“Buck, honey,” Steve moans, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them to work another bite onto his fork. “This is incredible. You made this?” 

The pleasure brought on by the senator’s compliments is unmatched. Bucky feels as if time slows, as if his head fills with wisp after wisp of cotton candy sweetness. He’s finding it infinitely more difficult to stay focused, but he nods his head. 

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, swallowing his own bite before reaching for his wine glass. “Started it this morning.” 

Bucky doesn’t miss the twinkle in Steve’s eye at the subtle confirmation that Bucky has indeed been in the senator’s apartment all damn day. He knows it, Bucky sees this, but he blessedly plays along, Bucky’s dick hard for this roleplay and this banter. 

“How have you spent your day, sweetheart? What’d you do while Daddy was away at work?” 

Bucky barely manages to swallow his bite of carrots. 

“Umm, I…well, I did the laundry and steamed your shirts, made the bed. I vacuumed and tidied up around the house. I went to the store and got the things I needed for dinner and dessert. I—” 

“Bucky.” 

Bucky immediately feels like he’s done something wrong. 

“Y-yes?” 

“If you tell me you made red velvet cake for dessert I’ll—” 

“Of course I made red velvet cake for dessert.” 

“— marry you right here.” 

Bucky’s cheeks burn bright red as he looks down at his plate to push a few pieces of potatoes around. He snatches up the opportunity to solidify what it is they’re doing here, what Bucky hopes Steve is understanding in full. 

“Don’t be ridiculous— we’re already married.” 

When his eyes meet Steve’s, he’s almost certain he’s going to reach across the table and snatch Bucky up to sit him on his cock. There have been few times in their relationship where Steve has looked so furiously hungry, where Bucky can see his purely sexual thoughts written all over his features. His eyes burn like fire, his breathing is damn near ragged. His neck is even flushed. 

Bucky needs to add Steve’s reaction to him saying they’re married to the list of things to analyze later. 

They share a heady look with one other, the two of them visibly trembling with their need to break character but to also keep moving forward with the hottest thing they’ve ever embarked on together. Steve is the first to break the tense silence. 

“You spent all day taking care of me? Taking care of our home?” 

Bucky mindlessly takes another bite of the roast on his plate. It melts on his tongue. He did do a good job. 

“Of course I did; that’s what I’m supposed to do. You work hard every day and deserve to have everything you want at home. You deserve to be taken care of, Daddy.” 

A noise deep in Steve’s chest reaches Bucky’s ears at the same time Steve’s fork lands loudly on his plate. 

“Bucky. Fuck, I need—” 

He reaches forward, grasping up Bucky’s chin and pulling. His own fork lands as loudly as Steve’s did on his plate. He tries hard to shake his jaw free of the senator’s grip. Hell will freeze over before he doesn’t follow through with every aspect of his roleplay, no matter how desperate he is, no matter how thick with arousal his brain is. 

“No! Steve, no. Not at dinner, not here. This wasn’t…this wasn’t the plan.” 

“Fuck this plan, Bucky. You’re killin’ me, baby. Just—” Steve tries, voice rough as he litters Bucky’s cheeks, his jaw, with wet kisses. Bucky whines. 

“Steve, no.” 

It’s more the word no than his tone that does it, his whine morphing into something stern, strong enough to force the senator to pull his head back with a groan. His temple presses against Bucky’s own. His chest heaves as he collects himself. One more part of this roleplay is important to Bucky, one more part. He needs to follow through with it and he needs to make it quick. The senator doesn’t wait for anyone and Bucky knows he’s used his one chance to reel him back in. 

Steve pulls his head back to run his nose along Bucky’s hairline, the move making Bucky feel like prey, yet somehow intensely comforting. He waits a moment before speaking again.  

“You’re showin’ me so much fuckin’ skin, Buck.” 

“I know, it’s…it’s a lot.” 

A hand curls around Bucky’s knee under the table, fingers toying with the hem of his dress and the lacy top of his stocking. 

“No— it’s perfect.” 

He presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek before he can respond, clearing his throat and adjusting himself. Bucky attempts to pull himself together as well, crossing his legs and reaching for his wine glass before taking a sip and reaching for his fork. His hand still shakes but there’s nothing he can do about that, he’s decided. He clenches desperately around his plug, a shiver running up his spine in impatient anticipation.

“So you spent your day tidying up, doing some chores?” Steve asks, making a valiant attempt at trying to steer the two of them back towards the direction that Bucky has requested. 

“Mhmm, but that’s boring. Tell me more about your day. What’s been on your plate lately? It’s such an exciting time.” 

Steve does just that, sharing with him his back-to-back meetings and appearances. Of course Bucky is aware of most of the things that fill the senator’s days, Bucky himself being a part of some of these meetings and events. But it’s been so long since the two of them have actually sat down to talk about their day. They don’t tend to do that, Bucky reminds himself. Bucky finds out what Steve’s up to outside of meetings he’s a part of through trying to figure out when to squeeze in a quickie. 

So, it’s nice to hear Steve discuss what he’s involved with, what’s on his mind and how he is feeling. It’s wildly domestic and Bucky’s dick doesn’t soften in the slightest. 

Bucky has a lot to think about once this night comes to a close. 

When Steve is done sharing, they fall into an easy silence. They’ve taken their time eating their meal, sipping on their drinks. It’s easy and blissful and Bucky is relaxed…until he realizes this is the perfect and silent opportunity to move onto the last part of his surprise and to finally get Steve’s hands on his body. 

His heart kicks up into his chest. 

With one last sip of his red wine and placing his fork on his empty plate, he clears his throat. 

“So, I’ve been thinking, honey” he starts, his elbows falling to the table, his fingertips grazing his collarbones. His voice is gentle, but there’s an obvious tremor to it, one that isn’t lost on Steve. Somewhere deep, Bucky digs up confidence, pulls forth a coquettish demeanor. Steve’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as he finishes his last bite, mirroring Bucky’s body language and leaning forward onto the table as well. 

Fuck, it’s risky. This is the most daring part of his planned roleplay. Is this something the senator will enjoy? He finds it difficult to find his voice as Steve’s eyes rove over his chest once more, as if Bucky has tits . It’s so brazen it makes his dick twitch.

“You were thinkin’ about what, sugar?” Steve pushes after Bucky doesn’t finish his sentence right away.

Bucky audibly swallows.

“I stopped taking my pills,” Bucky whispers, throwing caution to the wind. “I’m ready to try for a baby. I think it’s the perfect time to and I know I—” 

The response is immediate.

Strong and hungry hands reach across the table for his nape, his waist, as he’s hauled from his chair and onto the top of thick thighs, directly into Steve’s lap. He doesn’t have time to appreciate the strength it takes to be so smooth with a move like this, let alone have time to gasp. Lips are on his in an instant, insistent and hot, tongue delving between his parted lips and stroking along his own. 

It’s the kiss he was hoping for, the kiss he’s been denying himself all night. 

It’s delicious . 

“You…you wanna fuckin’ run that by me again?” Steve all but growls into his kisses, doesn’t even bother pulling his mouth away from Bucky’s. He whimpers pathetically when Steve dives for his neck. 

“I…I want your baby,” Bucky stupidly whines, but Steve’s groan sounds like thunder when he digs his teeth into Bucky’s adam’s apple. “Want to start a family, wanna… want you to get me pregnant, Daddy.”  

He’s on his back in the next instant. Dishes clatter to the floor, the time and effort he put into setting the table gone within seconds. He’s sure he hears something break, more than one somethings, but his pout of, “Steve, the dinner…!” is met with a harsh, “Fuck the dinner,” just before his dress is hiked up around his waist with a yank. 

“The dress isn’t mine, don’t—!” 

“I’ll buy another fucking dress, Bucky, goddamnit .” 

The sensation of Steve between his legs, narrow, fit waist between his thighs, leaves Bucky no choice but to moan. It’s a gluttonous noise, a built up one that is the culmination of jerk off session after jerk off session imagining what this moment would feel like. His thoughts don’t compare in the slightest, the feeling of Steve’s cock rocking against his own behind the silk of his panties forcing him to give into the urge to tremble. 

He feels the frenzied moment that Steve realizes he isn’t wearing his normal undergarments, that he’s prepared for this housewife role thoroughly. 

“You motherfucker, you…oh my god, Bucky.” 

“Daddy…”

“Fuck yeah, that’s right,” Steve purrs from above him, fingers digging greedily into the meat of his hips, eyes blazing where his gaze rests between his thighs. “Really am your Daddy now, ain’t I? You gonna make me a Daddy, sugar? You gonna gimme a baby?” 

Oh. 

“Oh fuck.” 

This wasn’t part of the plan. Not once did he consider Steve returning his dirty talk, of what Bucky’s roleplay would sound like coming from Steve’s point of view. He failed to think about how it would sound if Steve responded to the things he had decided to say. He is such a fucking idiot. 

He is a fucking idiot that is going to come if Steve keeps massaging his body in such a deep and appreciative way. 

The senator chuckles, hands greedy as they work their way around Bucky’s body. He rubs the heel of his hand up and along Bucky’s dick, squeezes his fingers around it with another rumble. Bucky’s eyes nearly cross. 

“You’ve been in my house all goddamn day,” Steve mumbles distractedly, hotly. “Cleanin’ and cookin’ and bein’ the prettiest fuckin’ housewife a Daddy could ask for.” His fingers find their way to Bucky’s nipples as he talks, the tips of them pinching and pulling at them over the material of his borrowed dress. Bucky hisses between his teeth, his dick throbbing and his ass clenching around the heavy plug he wears. He should have done this months ago; he’s in heaven . 

“And now my tight little wife tells me she’s been keepin’ secrets? Been tryin’ to get knocked up without Daddy even knowin’?”

“Steve, I can’t…I can’t do—” 

“What a naughty fuckin’ girl I got.” 

Bucky is in way over his head. His fantasy never went this far, always ended with what he thought would be the most anticipated moment, the reveal. He hadn’t thought beyond that point. If he had, he may have not followed through. They’ve never dabbled in any of these kinks, in breeding, in roleplay. Surely he won’t survive an hour, let alone the entire night. 

“Show me that fuckin’ pussy. Show me that pussy that Daddy’s about to ride until he breeds, just like you’re askin’ for.” 

He won’t survive the next five minutes. 

He barely has time for his brain to catch up on what he’s feeling, what he’s hearing, his limbs weak from an onslaught of arousal. The senator reaches for the top of one stocking but stops, apparently deciding to keep them on, which is heady. The underwear encasing his dick is yanked down his thighs then, impatiently left hanging from one ankle before the senator is shoving his legs apart, the wide spread making Bucky feel like a slut. 

He feels the plug buried between the cheeks of his ass. He’s been feeling it all night, all day. 

He feels it but he doesn’t register that Steve will see it. 

Goddamn, has he gone dumb in the head. 

“Oh my fucking god, are you…”

The senator can’t even finish his sentence, his thoughts, something Bucky would surely marvel at if he were in a more stable headspace. But all he can do is whine, huff and run his hands down his chest to his dick where he squeezes at himself. Steve lets him, watches as Bucky touches himself, the senator’s fingers pushing at the base of the plug, rubbing at his stretched and puffy rim. 

“Look how ready you are for Daddy, baby,” Steve recovers swiftly, voice deceivingly sweet as he pulls at the plug slowly, letting the widest part stretch Bucky to the point where his toes curl. He stops touching himself immediately, throws his hands wide on either side of him as he attempts to find anything to ground himself. There’s nothing. He soars. 

“Pussy’s ready to make me a Daddy, ready to take every load I can pump into it. Look at that…” 

Bucky’s whine gets louder, longer. He keeps his thighs spread wide, lets Daddy play with him, slipping the plug halfway out of his ass before letting his hole eat it up again. He’s getting fucked by that plug, and while it feels like everything he’s been wanting for all damn day, he knows the senator’s cock will feel infinitely better. 

“Gimme a baby, Daddy. Fuck it into me so…so deep, ngh,” he whimpers, face turning crimson as his own words hit his ears. What is he saying? 

Steve growls, growls, as he reaches for his belt, undoing it swiftly and impressively with one hand. “Hell yeah, gonna knock you up so good, ain’t I?” 

Bucky’s response is simply a wail, a pitiful noise that grows messily frantic when his eyes are blessed by the sight of the senator’s cock. It looks so heavy, so meaty and girthy. Bucky wants it inside of him now , wants it to hurt so good. He wants to be bred by that cock, wants to come on it. He feels mindless, lit up from the inside out, needy and achy. He finds himself nodding his head, in response to the senator’s question, in response to all future questions, all without thought and newfound, dumb enthusiasm. 

“Mhmm, so good, so good. No pills, no…no protection— wann’it raw, Daddy. Give it to me raw.” 

Bucky doesn’t know what he’s turned into, what this roleplay has done to him. 

Steve’s groan meshes deliciously with his chuckle, dexterous fingers pulling the plug free from the grip of Bucky’s ass, tossing it carelessly to the floor. 

“Dirty fuckin’ bitch, of course I’m gonna give it to you raw. From here on out it’s only raw. From this moment on you’re always gonna be heavy with my kid. You think there’s any goin’ back after this? Fuck no, you’re gonna make me a daddy over and over and over and—” 

The stretch the plug provided him with, that he worked towards all day, feels as if it does very little to prepare him for the size of the senator’s cock. He should have known to size up over the course of the day, that he should have chosen a larger plug if he was going to use just one. 

“Hold your legs, press ‘em— yeah, there you go. Get your pretty little body in that baby makin’ position,” Steve guides him roughly, pressing Bucky’s thighs to his chest, big hand pressing against his belly. “Gotta watch this pussy get bred up, as a Daddy I gotta make sure’m doin’ my job.” 

Bucky feels lightheaded as he wraps his arms around the back of his knees, his vision turning blurry around the edge when it gives him the perfect view of his neglected and rock solid dick, of the senator fucking into him, still donning most of his work clothes. What a picture he must make: Bucky’s dress hiked around his middle, lithe legs still clad in stockings, back pressed against the dining room table as their forgotten dinner is scattered around him, damn near gagging for a United States Senator’s cock.

It’s indecent, scandalous. 

He feels so fucking hot, so desireable, even though he feels entirely gone in the head. 

“Pussy’s soakin’ already. How long have you been thinkin’ about this? Huh?” 

“So fucking long,” Bucky whines raggedly, the senator taking his time sliding inside of him, of course making a show of it. 

“Yeah, bet’chu have,” Steve chides, fingers splaying wide against Bucky’s belly as he sinks further into Bucky’s willing ass, other set of fingers rubbing at Bucky’s rim, smearing spit he just pursed his lips and sent down. “Let Daddy in, lil’ mama. C’mon, let Daddy have it.” 

No, he’s going to come. He’s going to come. Steve is barely bottoming out and Bucky is going to come because of the astronomical build-up of this moment and because of the senator’s filthy fucking mouth. And because of how stretched he is, how no part of his pussy is untouched, the senator squeezing himself inside of Bucky so perfectly, oh god. 

The stir in his core, in his balls, has no time to build; it spirals and bursts within seconds.

“Coming, m’gonna—! I’m coming, oh god I’m—” 

“Jesus Christ, Bucky. Already?! Fuck.” 

Steve doesn’t even let him lay there and take it. He curls his hands around Bucky’s middle and ruts into him with newfound energy and fuck, it makes Bucky shout through his teeth, makes him whine just like being fucked through an orgasm always does. He can’t even touch himself given his position and the jolts of his body from Steve’s punishing thrusts, and he’s forced to just take it , wave after wave of pleasure knocking against his limbs and his insides. 

In half a minute he’s messy with his own come and left sucking in air like he was being chased. 

And Steve doesn’t stop. 

“Steve …Daddy…!” 

Steve rumbles, eyes locked onto Bucky’s belly, his messy dress, as he fucks him, on the rivulets of come left behind from his explosive climax. “Squirtin’ all over Daddy’s dick, just like you should. Atta girl. They say that helps with… fuck, with makin’ a baby— you comin’. How many times can Daddy make you come tonight?” 

“Oh fuck…fuck you, I…oh my god…” 

Bucky can never recover appropriately from an orgasm he’s been fucked through. It’s like Steve fucks his mind too, his brain, when he does this, fucks it so roughly he’s left loose-limbed and exposed. He feels raw, feels like he’s right there on the edge of too much, too much. The recognition that he is going to need some major aftercare tonight is his last thought before one, two, three long, deep strokes perfectly rubbing against his sweet spot have his eyes rolling back into his head. 

“Yeah, baby. Tonight’s the night, ya know that? Daddy’s gonna knock you up on the first try, first try. This belly’ll be all sorts of swollen, won’t it?” 

A shock rips through Bucky’s  system upon hearing those words, one that sparks an impossible fire in his dick, in his groin, in his chest. He whines at the force of it, at what hearing those words does to him without any sort of hesitation. Of course the senator notices. 

“Oh yeah, sugar— gonna be heavy as fuck with my kid. This belly—” Steve bunches up the come-covered dress as he talks, as he uses it to fuck into him.“—it’s mine, just like this pussy is.” 

Steve reams into him steadily, his cock digging into his sweet spot repeatedly. It’s impossible, is ridiculous, the way he makes Bucky’s body feel lit up from the inside out even after such a shattering orgasm moments before. No one else does this to him, no one will ever do this to him, not when his Daddy makes him feel so thoroughly fucked out. The images flashing in his mind are pure fantasy, ones that Steve masterfully and filthily paints, yet Bucky feels as if they’re real, as if his belly can grow big, as if he can get pregnant. 

And god help him, he likes it. 

He gasps for air, his body going weak alongside his mind. He loses his grip on his legs, elbows slipping along the soft material of the stockings with slick sweat, neck arched weakly against the dining room table. Steve takes over for him immediately, smacks at his hands and presses Bucky back, bending him further in half, taking a brief moment to tug Bucky close towards the end of the table. It makes the senator’s cock feel ten times larger, makes Bucky squeal, makes his noises grate against the front of his throat as Steve fucks them out of him. 

“These tits?” Steve growls, digging his hips into the underside of Bucky’s ass, grinding in tight with each trust. “Fuck, these tits, baby, they’re gonna be so big. And Daddy loves big tits."

Bucky hiccups. “Daddy…they’re not… not—” 

“Oh, they’re tits, Buck. They’re gonna be swollen and round too, gonna have Daddy’s mouth all over ‘em. Got no choice but to suck on ‘em every time I goddamn see ‘em.” 

As if he needs to prove his point any further, Steve bends at the waist and joins Bucky on the table smoothly, dishes clattering to the floor. His thighs are left spread wide around the senator’s thick middle, a sensation Bucky will surely never tire of. The way Steve fucks him feels damn near feral this way, god, it’s close and tight and the older man’s breaths sound like they are being punched out of him with every brutal thrust. It finally sounds as if this sex, this wild roleplay that Bucky spent months planning, is finally getting to Steve. 

And that makes a second climax feel within reach.

Bucky barely has time to squeal before the senator is yanking at the already low neckline of his dress and his mouth is on his nipples, his tits, sucking hungrily at his pecs, cock heavy in his ass. He can feel the senator’s balls in this position, can feel his heavy sac smack against his ass and it makes him feel dizzy with dick.  

Steve holds onto his tits, one in each hand, squeezes at them as if they are indeed heavy and swollen and purrs.

Bucky can’t breathe. 

“Mhmm, get used to this, sugar. Get used to Daddy’s mouth on these pretty tits,” Steve mumbles, tugging one pebbled nub between his teeth and sucking. Bucky’s dick jumps, genuinely jumps where it’s trapped against their torsos, and his moan is ragged and worn out, exhausted. Bucky can’t believe he’s going to come again and his mournful noises reflect that sentiment. 

As soon as Steve hears his sob, his purr turns into a groan.

“Already comin’ again, Buck?” Steve asks, panting against his mouth, hands finding a home as both of them wrap loosely around his throat. When Bucky can’t formulate an answer, when all he can do is hiccup and tug at the parts of the senator’s dress shirt that he can reach, Steve nips at his bottom lip. “‘Course you are; you’re gaggin’ for this Daddy come.” 

He is. He’s mindless and boneless and laying there taking the senator’s cock like it’s his job, like he’s getting paid to get fucked so willingly. He isn’t, he reminds himself, head bouncing with every thrust Steve rocks into him without mercy. Bucky really does feel like a slut. He smiles. 

“The first one was for you,” Steve whispers against the curve of his mouth, his sweat dripping onto Bucky’s neck.. “This one's for me. Ask me for it, ask Daddy to come in this pussy. Ask Daddy for that baby you want so fuckin’ bad.” 

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. In fact, he lets out a growl of his own, albeit a pathetic, pup of a noise. If a second orgasm is being forced out of him, he’s going to earn it. And if he’s so lucky enough to have a surprise roleplay work out this well, he’s gonna send it home. 

“Put that fuckin’ baby in me, Daddy,” is what he ends up biting out, spreading his legs wide and lifting his head to meet Steve’s eyes. His tongue darts out, lapping at the senator’s plump bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. The older man’s groans sound almost pained when Bucky leans into the hold around his throat. He knows exactly how to get what he wants.

He sticks out his bottom lip, whimpers.

“Want that Daddy come. Please Daddy, please— can I have your baby? Will you give me that baby? Daddy…” 

Steve’s groan sounds more like a roar when his fingers tighten, when Bucky feels his breathing hitch, feels the shallowness of his breaths. Bucky feels like a doll, limp and useless as Daddy uses his grip to fuck Bucky on his cock, thrusts going sloppy. 

“Practicin’ that fuckin’ baby talk already, fuckin’ hell. Take it, Buck— take that Daddy come and make that baby.” 

He’s gasping, all sensation narrowed down to the big hands around his neck and the fat cock in his ass, and when he hears and feels the senator begin to moan raggedly into his cheek, when he grinds in deep, Bucky soars. 

He’s pure sensation. His ears ring, his vision blurs, his limbs tremble. He milks Steve for everything he’s worth and that’s all that matters to him, is what pushed him over the edge and into another orgasm, a much more intense one. Steve is in his ear, against his lips, whispering filthy thought after filthy thought as he drops his load in Bucky’s worn out pussy. He sucks breath after breath into his lungs and by the time he’s done spurting between their bodies, on this poor dress, his thighs drop like stones onto the table beneath him, his arms doing the same. 

It takes more than a few minutes for this feeling of pure sensation to give way to the present, for the fog to clear long enough to feel the kisses that the senator presses against his chin, his lips. 

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before. The closest he’s ever come to this was the first time Steve fucked him on the desk in his office. 

“I’m… holy shit, I can’t…m’gonna need…” Bucky hears himself mumble mindlessly, giggling when it sounds ridiculous to his ears. His brain feels like it’s full of air, weightless and empty. Steve joins Bucky in chuckling, hands squeezing all over his body: his shoulders, his neck, his chest. 

“You’re gonna need a lot of things, Buck,” Steve mumbles, pressing a set of chaste kisses against his lips before sighing and settling his feet back onto the floor. He’s still quite hard within Bucky, cock rigid, and for a moment he wonders if Steve wants to go another round. 

Having almost passed out after two rounds, he surely wouldn’t survive a third. He thinks he’d take that risk. 

“We’ll take a bath,” Steve tells him, hands running up Bucky’s sides to pull down his dress. “Let me go grab a fat piece of that cake you made and you can feed it to me in the tub.” 

Bucky scoffs.

“Oh, excellent. As if I haven’t done enough for you today already.” 

Steve gives him a light smack on the cheek for his attitude. Bucky bites his lip. 

“No, don’t move,” Steve tells him in a hushed voice as he slips from Bucky’s body and steps back. “I’ll carry you.” 

“Oh…okay.” 

The senator doesn’t bother tucking himself back into his pants and Bucky doesn’t know why he feels himself blush, not after tonight.

“Plus,” Steve starts, voice dipping into dangerous territory as he saunters towards the kitchen. “Gotta keep those hips up, gotta keep you on your back. Better chance for makin’ that baby…”

[missallsundaes]

Sanji x Male Reader — Amateur Chef

2111 Words • CW dealing with repressed bisexuality

When Luffy heard your self proclaimed cooking skills in the town market to a friend, he immediately invited you on to the ship, even without trying your food. A bigger crew needs more cooks, was his reasoning for Sanji. Sanji wasn't exactly happy about the new addition to his kitchen, possessive about his things and how the kitchen was maintained. And he was sure that you wouldn't take the same care as he did. At least you had your own set of knives, he thought with a sigh.

The first night cooking together proved to be...a challenge. He was paying you no mind, working in his own entrees for the crew, but the haphazard slap of the kitchen knife against the chopping board, well he could only stand it for so long before his temper got the better of him.

“What the fuck are you doing over there, amateur?” He seethed, turning to face you.

You sheepishly set down your knife on the counter, stepping back to show Sanji the vegetables you were cutting. His heart skipped a beat, seeing your rough cut shapes and uneven chops.

“What are you doing to that poor food!” Worded like a question, but spat at you like an insult. He approached you cutting board, staring down at the mangled shapes of potato, carrot and celery, hand frustratingly pulling through his hair.

“Well I'm just making soup..” You started, you were a bit offended but the chef in front of you was too intimating to talk back to. You'd heard enough stories about Black Leg Sanji to know when to keep your mouth shut.

“So you decided to torture your poor ingredients?” He reached for his own knife, wiping it clean with a cloth before trying to salvage the vegetables. You watched in awe as he saved first the potatoes, then the celery. He looked at you before touching the chunks of carrot on the board.

“You taking notes, amateur?” He said. His voice was softer now though his tone was still harsh. He raised the visible eyebrow, “Come over here and learn how it's done.”

He waved you over to stand in front of him, placing his hand over yours on your knife, he guided your left hand into place, showing you the gentle fist to protect your fingers without losing grip on the vegetables. He started slow, chopping motions in cool even bursts, slicing the chunks of carrot into perfectly measured cubes. You tried to pay attention but the beating of your heart in your throat, his warm hand over yours, and his firm chest placed against your back was all that your mind could focus on.

When the carrot was taken care of he let go of your hand, leaving you feeling you were missing something. You watched him cross the kitchen again, standing again in front of his own prep, you watched him skillfully pull the bones from a huge fish in one movement, running his hand over it to make sure it was all removed, looking for even the smallest of bones.

You hadn't heard about how gentle he was. How careful in the kitchen with perfect mannerisms. He looked at you, and you realized how obviously caught up in watching him you were, jumping to peel the garlic in front of you for your soup. He laughed, turning back to his prep, beginning to make a marinade with fresh lemons and cracked pepper for the fish.

“You're not a chef are you?” He said, looking at you briefly as he squeezed the lemons of their juice.

“No not at all,” you said sheepishly, ”I know a few recipes but when a wanted pirate grabs you and tells you you're going to be a chef on his crew you listen, you know? It's not like I was in a position to refuse..”

He sighed, knowing exactly how enthusiastic Luffy could be when he set his mind on something. “Don't worry, you can be my sous chef. I'll teach you what you need to know. We'll start with more knife practice for breakfast tomorrow, I hope you're okay getting up early.”

You thought briefly of how much you were not a morning person, though this was not the time to mention that. You nodded, “Thanks for helping me. You're a kind man.”

Sanji's face flushed at the genuine compliment, turning around quickly as if there was a pressing matter in the fridge to attend to. “N-nonsense it's just the right thing to do.” He stammered, head buried in the fridge, looking desperately for an ingredient to pull out that would make sense.

///

He kicked your hammock in the men's cabin, foot still perched on your side as you swayed back and forth, trying to regain your senses, shaken from a dream about your new crewmates, the one in front of you in particular.

“I thought you could be up early,” he laughed.

The room was still full of the snoring of the other men, the only light from the lantern in Sanji’s hand, casting golden light across him. He was already dressed in his slacks and dress shirt, looking primed for the day. You were sure that you looked the absolute opposite, feeling the drool caked to your cheek and knowing your hair was probably a wreck.

“Uh, about that,” you chuckled, climbing out of the hammock and hopping to the floor of the cabin. “I may not be as much of a morning person as I said.”

“I figured as much when you didn't wake up the first few times I kicked you.” He said, “Though I bothered you enough for you to say my name in your sleep.”

You turned from him, hiding your face by searching for a clean set of clothes, forcing an awkward laugh, “Oh yeah I must have subconsciously known you were trying to wake me.”

“Well hurry up, these idiots won't be asleep forever, and you do not want to see Luffy without his breakfast.” He left the room for you to get dressed, and you trudged to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

When you met him in the kitchen, he had a multitude of fruits set up at your station. You could smell bacon in the oven already, and he was whipping a large bowl of eggs for what you could only imagine was the biggest omelette of all time.

“Took you long enough.” He said, though he had a smirk on his face, his harsh attitude from yesterday softened.

“Am I chopping these?” You said, lifting your knife to slice the strawberries laid out on the board.

“Ah ah wait. Hold on I'm almost done.” He said, setting down the bowl of whipped eggs on the counter. He approached you, watching over your shoulder. “Do you remember the lesson from yesterday?”

You nodded, ”I think so.” you put your hand in the position he showed you, holding the knife how it felt under his guiding hand, breathed in and started slicing the strawberries.

The difference in your cuts from yesterday to this morning was leagues away. He adjusted your elbow, his firm gentle touch making your heart flutter, and just the adjustment of your arm made your slices neater. “Breathe,” he said, his own breath hot in your ear and making you catch your breath instead. You struggled to retain your breathing, but your cuts were messier now. He took your hand again, your heart beating through your chest. “You're making this so much harder than it is, watch. Breath with me.”

You times your breathing to match his, his firm chest pressed into you, his hand over yours. You felt your chests rise in succession together, making you feel as one. His hand held yours in place, but you were doing the work.

“Exactly like that,” he praised, you felt like you could melt right then and there. “You're doing great.”

He let go of you, stepping back to the stove top to heat a huge skillet for his omelette. “You've got it from here I presume.” You watched him for a moment, testing the temperature of the pan before adding his eggs and watching them diligently. “Most of breakfast is ready, so just get the fruit cut and plated and then we can wake up the crew.”

You nodded, “Thanks again, Sanji.” You said, continuing to chop the fruit in front of you, plating it up on the large platter he had set out.

///

The next few weekswent the same, Sanji waking you in the morning. Him teaching you new techniques to use in the kitchen. Making three meals a day together, not including if someone wanted a snack, getting closer and closer until you couldn't bear it. Your feelings for the man were definitely growing, you had a sneaking suspicion that he had similar feelings for you, but the constant doting of the girls on the crew made you doubt yourself, fearing that he wasn't into men the way you were.

You had already made fresh baked bread together that morning, as you watched his hands knead the dough tauntingly slow, his strong hands rolling it out and beating it down, his sleeves rolled up you could see the flexing of every muscle in his forearms.

You were cracking about two dozen eggs into a large skillet to fry, trying not to think about how close he was to you, chopping chives to put on top of your fried eggs.

“Sanji,” you said, rinsing your hands of the raw eggs in the sink.

He didn't look up from his work, now slicing pieces of smoked salmon, “Eh?” He said.

“I think I might have a problem,” you said, trying desperately not to look at the blond sharing the kitchen with you. He set down his knife, immediately checking your eggs over, the stove temperature, any kitchen error he could think of before looking you incredulously in the face. “It's not my food.” He looked more relieved than you expected and you laughed.

“What is it then?” He said, curly brow peaked with curiosity.

“I think I fell for one of my crewmates since I've been on the ship.” You flipped your eggs carefully, trying not to break your yolks.

“Oh? Nami? Robin?” He said, going back to work at his salmon. He wasn't jealous, per say, it's not like he really expect to feel this way about you. Plus the girls were gorgeous in every way, how could a red blooded man not fall for them. He still didn't know how to accept his feelings for you, forcing down any hint of bisexuality that he ever felt, blocking out those feelings, usually with anger.

“Uh no,” you said, turning off the heat on the stove and letting the residual heat finish your eggs as you seasoned them with salt and pepper. Beginning to set up the crews plates with thick slices of your fresh bread, two eggs each (four for Luffy and Zoro), sprinkling the chives on top, and passing the plates to Sanji to top with smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce.

After a moment of silence so thick you could slice it with the kitchen knife next to you, you continued, “Sanji, it's you.”

He almost dropped the plate he was holding, and you both moved quickly in reaction, hands one on top of the other under the plate. “What,” he said, worded like a question but tone flat in disbelief.

“Just, spending all this time with you has meant so much to me,” you withdrew your hand, looking away from him to hide the tinge of crimson on your cheeks. “Having you close to me, your guiding hands. Your strength. I can't help it.” He was still frozen in place, thoughts racing. “Just don't worry. Never mind, forget I said anything!” You said, plating the last of your half of the plates.

“Wait,” he said, as you were leaving the galley to wake the crew, “I think I fell for you too.” You stopped in the doorway, turning back to face him, but his back was to you. “I grew up not allowed to be who I wanted and even though I can now it's still hard to accept who I am. But I want to learn and be better. I want to be with you.”

“Do you mean that?” You said, letting the door swing back closed.

“Yeah,” he laughed, he turned to you smiling with tears in the corners of his eye. “Yeah I definitely mean it.” He wiped his eye, “Come on then, let's go wake up the ravenous beasts.”

[orionwhispers]

Bravado // Tommy Shelby Imagine

(A/N - its been a long ass time and i wanted to ease myself back into writing but this ended up being long and also super super angsty. sorry that this illness imagine came during covid idk whats going on with my imagination lol. love you guys SO much thank you for always being there. reblogs, comments and likes mean everything to me.)

trigger warnings - LOTS of angst. fluff. implied smut. my hc that tommy has a fear of illness, bad descriptions of hospitals. 

He knew something wasn’t right the minute his car pulled into the driveway and you weren’t waiting for him under the great concrete arch, with that smile on your face that made his knees buckle and heart race like he was a love struck teenager.

You were always there as soon as he came home. Barefoot in a broderie dress in the summer with tousled hair and baby pink toenails. Wrapped in a hand knit blanket with fire flushed cheeks and woollen socks in the winter - even running across the gravel and into his arms in the middle of a storm, the ice cold rain whipping across both of your faces as you kissed under the light of the moon.

No matter how shit his day or week or month was, no matter what stained his hands or darkened his heart, no matter what lay heavy and hard deep in his gut, seeing you made everything vanish in the night air like wisps of smoke. You made everything worth it.

He refused to give into fear, he wasn’t that kind of man, so he swallowed all of the nagging thoughts and apprehensions as he came up to the dark foggy windows and the iron cast door. It felt strange turning his key in the lock without the weight of you in his arms or the sticky peach kisses you left down his jaw and neck, the smell of the vanilla in your hair and lavender on your skin.

The second thing that sent a jolt of white hot electricity down his spine was Mary, watching him anxiously and wringing her hands in the hallway. Usually, she was calm and collected, taking his jacket and leather travel bag with her signature placid smile and gentle fingers. Usually she would return to the kitchen and finish up whatever she was making - a hearty roast lamb with rosemary and garlic and glazed potatoes or a pheasant pie with honeyed carrots, always followed by a three layer chocolate ganache cake that was so thick and rich you practically had to saw through the sponge. She would always have dinner piping hot and dripping with gravy by the time the two of you returned downstairs, no matter how many hours it took for you to get... reacquainted.

Now she looked sheepish and pale, her skin almost translucent under the syrupy yellow lights. There was something about the way she stood, as still as a wraith, that made his blood run cold.

“Mary. Where is she?”

“Mr Shelby, I - ” Her voice was strained and hesitant, like a slowly fraying rope.

“Where is my wife?”

She moved forward, creases forming around her eyes. “We tried ringing you in Liverpool but the hotel said that you had already left, so we...”

“You rang me? Why? What’s happened?” He couldn’t hold back the desperation in his voice, and it lingered and festered around them both like a poisonous gas.

“Mrs Shelby came down with something a few days ago, we thought that it was just a common cold but unfortunately she seems to be getting worse.”

He tore upstairs before he could even think, his shoes leaving perfect muddy footprints on the cream carpet. He almost slipped at the top, and he lurched forward, his hands reaching out and holding onto the portrait hanging above the stairs for stability.

It was the oil of the two of you. A soft, personal picture that revealed more than he ever possibly could. The love in your gazes, the hint of a soft, drunk smile on the dangerous gangsters face as you leaned into him, melting into him like butter, him holding onto you as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. It was his favourite photo, one that always washed a sense of calmness over him, a reminder of the woman that he loved and the way he felt around you. But now he felt as if was riding out a terrible storm.

He lived his life with no fear, he was capable and practical and used to the sound of bullets and the copper sweet smell of blood. There was really only one thing, one terrible thing that he couldn’t control, and that was what drove him crazy.

Sickness.

It gnawed at his insides like a rabid dog, clawed under his skin and settled behind his ribs. Losing someone he loved was like ripping out a piece of his heart straight from his chest, and he knew better than anyone what it was like to lose somebody to a violent, quick death - the pull of a trigger or the smack of a fist. At least in those moments he could lock them away in his mind, he could leap in front of a bullet or crack the neck of any man who dared to get too close to you, but there was almost nothing he could do to stop sickness, and the devastation it caused.

When you first met him it had been a surprise, almost amusing, that this powerful God of a man had these small little quirks. His house was always sparkling clean and smelling of Lysol, his fruit bowls were filled with citrus fruits and round, plump blueberries. He always made sure you were wrapped up warm in the winter, always placing his coat around your shoulders and bringing an extra pair of gloves in case you forgot yours. It was adorable, the way he took care of you,

It wasn’t till a little bit later when you learnt of those he had lost. His mother and his childhood sweetheart taken away from him much too soon. It broke your heart when he told you late one night of the sallow tint of their skin and the way he could almost see them vanishing from earth, the way that illness had moulded and changed those he loved the most.

You understood.

Your best friends older sister had died of tuberculosis when you were young. The elderly woman across the street from your first flat had passed away from a bout of horrendous smallpox. Your brother lost his first child to pneumonia. Times were changing but the fear of disease was ever present. Medicine was improving and so was knowledge, but still there remained a huge, dark cloud of what could happen, one that always hung around your husbands head.

——————————————-

All Tommy could think was the worst as he ran through the landing. His heart was in his ears and his bones felt loose, like the sweet liquorice the two of you would share at the pictures. He came to a stop by the bedroom door, tentatively pressing his palm onto the wood and ever so slightly pushing it open, listening to the gentle creak it made.

The room was warm. The lace curtains were pulled shut, and your favourite lavender candles were flickering on your vanity, casting syrupy shadows against the wall. He exhaled loudly as he saw you, bundled up under a mountain of satin sheets and hand crocheted blankets, your hair splayed across the pillows.

He moved to your bedside, pretending not to notice the large, untouched jug of water and the tissue box next to you, hoping and silently praying that you weren’t sick - just asleep and waiting for him, ready to wrap your arms around his neck.

You were silent, your lips parting every so often as you breathed, your chest rising and falling. He reached out gently, as though he was picking up shards of glass, and brushed his fingers against your cheek. Your forehead was beading with sweat, your cheeks flushed, and yet your skin was ice cold to the touch. He recoiled quickly, his heart dropping like a weight into his gut, and he inhaled a shaky, deep breath.

He saw something curled up beside your hands, a fluffy white cloud with sparkling emerald green eyes trained on him. Despite everything, he smiled. He thought of your birthday - of strawberry cheesecake and champagne, and surprising you with a ribbon wrapped little kitten as you woke up. He thought of that day often. How you smiled and leapt onto him with tears in your eyes, his whole world blissfully quiet as he spent the day in bed with you and your new best friend.

He would have preferred a big dog, one with sharp teeth and a menacing gaze to ward of visitors whilst he was away. But you were drawn to the tiny, malnourished runt of the litter who was scared of his own shadow. A kitten no bigger than the size of his clenched fist. A little white hairball who only ate and drank from fine pink saucers. A cat that had a very frustrating habit of crawling in the bedroom right as Tommy’s hand was up your skirt and his lips on the sweet spot of your neck, the tiny thing mewling and crying until you picked him up and nuzzled him into your chest.

He was a horse lover through and through, and never saw himself having time for any other pets. But in the summer when you saw the litter from one of John’s barn cats and fell in love with the sweet baby who mewled and cried and crawled right into your lap - he knew that he would give you anything and everything you wanted.

Including a cat who refused to accept that Tommy was the man of the house.

“Hello, boy.” He said, leaning over to scratch Comet under the chin, using a voice he only reserved for the two of you. “Have you been looking after my girl whilst I’ve been gone?”The cat meowed loudly in reply, pressing his head into Tommy’s palm but not moving from his spot beside you.

Tommy suddenly felt you shift under him and his heart lurched into his throat. He turned to face you, cupping the side of your clammy face as your eyelids fluttered open, blinking under the candlelight. A rush of red hot heat built up in his belly as you registered him, that angelic smile growing on your face, your tired eyes glimmering with recognition of the man you loved.

“Tommy?”

“Hi, Princess.”

You smiled sadly. “You’ve been gone for weeks - I missed you.”

He felt his brows crease as he rubbed along your jawline softly, trying to stop you from falling back asleep. He felt panic in his throat as sour as vomit, and he tried to bite back the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

“No, sweetheart, I’m early. It’s only Thursday. I left on Monday.”

“Oh.” You said softly, your voice as gentle as the breeze rustling through the trees outside. “Well let me welcome you back properly - let me make you a lemon drizzle or a...” You lifted your head from the pillow and shuffled under your blanket, but he pressed his hands against your shoulder and held you down.

“No. You’re staying right here.”

“But - ”

“No.”

“Hmm. Don’t leave me, Tommy.”

“Never.” He said, his tone firm and cast like stone. He stroked your hair softly as your breathing slowed, but it didn’t nothing to quell the hard thump of his heart in his chest.

——————————-

Tommy left the room as quietly as he could after you had fallen asleep in his arms. He hadn’t wanted to move, not when you were pressed against his chest, looking ethereal but vacant, sweat beading under your brow and your face lacking colour. He wanted to stay with you, curled up by his side, his fingers laced through yours, the sound of your heart thumping in his ears.

But he was a man of action, and seeing you there - your lips cracked and dry, shudders passing through your body and goosebumps raised over your skin - he couldn’t fight the fiery urge to do everything in his power to make you feel alright again.

He found Mary waiting outside the door, chewing on the skin of her lips and swaying on the balls of her feet in anticipation. He grabbed her by the arm, harder than he meant to and something he would apologise for later, and pulled her downstairs, determined to let you rest whilst he got some answers. As soon as they reached the drawing room he spun her around, clenching his jaw and pointing a finger at the anxious maid.

“Where the fuck is the doctor? Why isn’t he here?”

“Mr Shelby.” She said, stepping forward calmly. “We phoned Doctor Moore and he came on Tuesday to see her.”

“Tuesday?” He seethed. “My wife has been ill since Tuesday and no one called me?”

Mary raised her hands in defeat, making it clear that the decision wasn’t hers to make. “He said it was nothing of concern . He gave her some antibiotics and told her to rest. She asked us herself not to call you, she knows how you.. worry.”

He ignored her sugar coated attempt to quell his anger, but if anything it made his vision darken. “When it’s my wife, It is always my concern.”

“Mr Shelby, we were just doing what we were told. As soon as we noticed she wasn’t getting better we phoned the surgery again, but Doctor Thomas was out for the day and said he didn’t think it was necessary to come round again, so we -”

“I don’t give a fuck. My wife is the number one priority. Ring every doctor in England if you have to, get somebody out here now to see my wife.”

He stormed away, anger pulsating through his veins, but he stopped suddenly, and threw out over his shoulder:

“And call Doctor Moore’s ’office. Tell him to expect a visit from the blinders soon.”

———————————————————

Once, when you were first dating, you found Tommy at the door to your flat at midnight, with scraped knuckles and blood dripping from his nose. You let him in, cleaned him up and sat with him in the bath until his skin was clear and his breathing was even. He knew that night, as you were pressed against his chest and his lips were pressed to your scalp that he was truly, madly and completely in love with you.

He remembered waking up the next morning, love drunk and blissful, and finding the bed beside him empty. He found you in the kitchen, wincing slightly and pressing a hot water bottle to your belly as you buttered a few pieces of toast. He rushed to your side with eyes as wide as saucers, concern lacing the features that were usually ice cold and hard as stone. You were completely baffled as he held you at arms length, his bright cerulean eyes trailing up and down your body for any signs of injury he might have missed. You were bewildered at the sight of the powerful man practically on his knees as he made sure you were alright, and you bit back a giggle as his warm palms spread over your abdomen.

“What is it? Whats wrong?”

“Tommy. Sweetheart.” You said softly, bringing his gaze level to yours. “It’s just - you know - that time of the month.”

He brushed off your embarrassment and ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a uncharacteristically gentle kiss to your forehead, sending a swarm of butterflies around the pain in your stomach.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, half ready to run down to the corner shop and buy any amount of painkillers or chocolate bars or your favourite lavender tea that you might need; not caring who saw the seemingly terrifying gang leader in the street with an armful of strawberry laces and salt water fudges.

You smiled like the summer sun and he melted, pulling you close as you whispered in the shell of his ear that you only needed him, and that was all you ever needed.

That was the first time you fully saw the extent of Tommy’s fear, but it definitely wasn’t the last. He knew he wanted you forever and always, and it took only six months of neck kisses and pillow talk, red hot jealousy and possessive hands across your skin and dancing in the rain and falling asleep under the pale yellow moon for him to put a ring on your finger. You were both consumed by your love, as though it was the only thing that mattered, it was insatiable and powerful - the wonderful mix of the devil and his sweet little angel.

And with that, came the good and the bad.

Like when you got food poisoning after Arthur cooked you a Sunday lunch to cheer you up whilst Tommy was gone. He came home to you retching over the toilet bowl with Mary holding back your hair, and swore that he would kill his brother with his own hands. Or when you slipped on ice and broke your arm while out with friends in London, and Tommy went ballistic and tried to ban you from ever leaving the house. It was just in his nature, how he always made sure you walked on the side furthest from the road, kept an arm slung around you whenever you were together, kept his eyes alert and vigilant no matter where you were - always looking out for his girl.

But he had never been like this.

———————————————————-

You were falling in and out of sleep. Waking up drowsy and heavy headed, squinting under bright lights, an ache in your skull and a burning in your throat. Every so often you felt a pinch in your upper arm, a squeeze on your palm, a kiss on your forehead - but you always drifted back into unconsciousness.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke up. The room was dark and you could hear the wind howling and whipping rain across the windows. You felt all too hot and all too cold at the same time, and the bed was damp with sweat. You struggled and tried to sit up, your head swaying and feeling as heavy as one of Tommy’s marble statues; as if you had been carved up and moulded. You could hear voices out in the hall, and unsteadily got to your feet, moving towards the noises.

“Pneumonia?” You heard through the thick wooden door, instantly recognising your husbands voice. “That’s impossible.”

“Sir...”

“Fucking. Impossible.” You knew his teeth were clenched.

The other man cleared his throat.“I know that it’s hard to hear, Mr Shelby, but your wife is very sick.”

“Just...” You felt your heart flutter and clench in your chest as the sound of his broken words, could practically feel his desperation and you wanted nothing more than to hold him. “Just tell me how to make her better.”

The second man spoke again, his voice softening and lowering, something you knew Tommy would hate. “Mr Shelby, the first round of antibiotics didn’t work and that means that it’s time for something stronger. Usually I would suggest the Birmingham hospital but I don’t think it’s equipped for...” He paused, trying to think over his words carefully. He wanted to convey the severity of the situation but also didn’t want to risk getting a bullet in his head from your very protective husband. “...This kind of reaction. I recommend we send her down to London for extra testing.”

“London? That’ll take two fucking hours. How the fuck can you recommend letting my wife travel that far? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I’m my opinion this is the wisest choice to make, but unfortunately that could mean your wife might get worse before she gets better.”

“Worse than she already is? That’s not an option.”

The man you assumed was the doctor was insistent, trying his best to portray the severity of the situation but failing as your hardheaded husband had already come to a decision.

“I’ll look after her here. She’s safest with me.”

Once Tommy had spoken that was the final result, and the doctor slinked away into the darkness and shook his head. You remained peering from behind the door, your tongue between your teeth and your heart hammering.

Tommy took one look at you and frowned, scooping you in his arms like a baby despite your protests. He ignored you, acting playfully and cheerful but you could feel his heated skin and the see flare of his nostrils. You wanted to help him but didn’t know how, and let him tuck you under the covers once again. He kissed your crown and stroked your hair and you wanted to speak but no words would leave your mouth.

“You stay there this time. You know I have no problem with tying you to the bed.”

You rolled your eyes as he left, and his clenched fists and tightened shoulders told you all you needed to know.

————————————————-

Comet watched from his spot beside you as Tommy wrestled with the fire. He had noticed you shivering despite your high temperature, and bundled you up in blankets whilst sparking matches beside the fireplace. There were raindrops across his shoulders, evidence that he had been outside and to the log store right at the end of the property - a job that had always been for the Groundskeeper. Your precious cat nudged the tips of your fingers as you sighed and watched your husband throw kindling onto the coal, a deep unease settling over your gut.

“Tommy, my love, I’m fine.” It wasn’t exactly true but you felt he needed to hear it. But you could practically see your words wash over him and evaporate like ocean spray.

He was shaking a metal tin in his palm as he worked, and you groaned and let your head hit the pillow as he pulled out two round chalky tablets. You winced as he placed them beside your glass, your mouth already tasting like the sour talc medicine you had come to loathe. He raised his eyebrows and shot you a look that told you he wasn’t far off plugging your nose with his fingers to force you to swallow, and you childishly stuck up two fingers as you took them.

Your stomach rumbled with nausea and you bit back the bile in your throat as you settled into the pillows. You watched your husband as he pulled off his crisp white shirt, revealing his taut tan stomach and the deep ink tattoos that you loved to trace with your fingertips and your lips. There was something about him standing there, with those damn cerulean eyes and hidden muscles, that boyish hair and slender fingers that you wanted desperately around your throat, that made a million tiny fireworks spark inside of you.

But instead you pushed him away from you despite your body wanting nothing but him wrapped all around you. “Don’t get too close. I might have something contagious. I can’t have you getting sick.”

He ignored you, smiling inwardly at the way you always put others before yourself. It was one of the million reasons he had fallen for you. You were sweating out a high fever and shivering in pain, and yet you always thought of him first. He pressed his lips to your temple and pulled you closer, knowing that skin to skin was a way to bring down a fever - even if it meant he had to restrain himself from tugging off your pretty little white nightgown and whatever frilly things you had on underneath.

“I’m not going anywhere. Fuck it if I catch anything.”

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m the one who will have to dote on you hand and foot, you big baby.” You teased, pressing yourself into him playfully, finally giving in.

He held you like a child, trying to hard to soften despite the way you felt underneath him. Everything on him was running a mile a minute, and he couldn’t help but want to try everything and everything to make you feel better. His hand was pressed against your temple to always try and measure your fever, his other palm across your chest to try and count your heart rate.

He could hear Mary treading across the landing carpet but he ignored his anxious maid, instead letting himself be completely consumed by the only thing that mattered - you.

This was something he had to do by himself. He was the only one who could care for you he reminded himself. And he let the words tumble over and over in his skull until they were all he could hear.

—————————————————————-

You had been asleep for a long time.

Every hour, after pacing the length of the hall and sanitising his hands and wiping the beads of sweat above your brow and above your breasts he woke you up and held a cool glass to your lips. You mumbled and moaned and pushed him away but he kept his fingers across your wrist - harsher than he ever had before - and kept you as close to him as possible.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked. Perhaps it was last valentines when the two of you had camped out under the stars, drinking icy white wine and sharing stolen, day drunk kisses. That night he had roasted a chicken over the fire and it had burnt to a crisp as the two of you rolled around the grass, his head buried in your neck as you giggled at the poultry going up in flames.

He was trying now though, easy, plain substantial meals that wouldn’t upset your stomach. Boiled egg and dippy soldiers. Crackers with smooth cheese. Bubbly water and ginger biscuits. Each time he went upstairs you pushed him away, your whole body shuddering and almost retching, and he felt like smashing the plates against the wall at his defeat.

It had been almost thirty six hours since he had come home and it had been almost as long since you had eaten something, and his heart thundered and shattered in his chest when he found you gasping and wheezing over the toilet bowl when you had taken a bite of toast to calm him. He rarely left you alone, only for a few minutes to put the still full dishes in the sink, to ring Lizzie and tell her that he wouldn’t be coming for reasons that he refused to disclose, to smoke a cigarette under the grey stone archway, his shaking hands and bitten fingernails barely visible through the sleepy rolling fog.

He had grabbed handfuls of papers and the brass ink pen you had got him for your anniversary and broke his own rule - bringing work into your bedroom. It had always been a sacred space. For candlelight and soft laughter, aching hands and heart shaped bruises, a sanctuary for him to breathe and to love and to be loved fully in return. But he was afraid if he didn’t have a distraction, he might just completely lose it, and he had to be there for you.

So he sat squinting in his glasses, the room almost completely dark save for a few candles because of the migraines that had started to spread throughout your skull, and let himself be drawn into the mess of squiggly lines and numbers that suddenly didn’t add up, with you still centre stage in his peripheral.

After about forty minutes of rereading the same sentence a dozen times to try and make some sense of it, he heard your voice, like a small crack spreading across a sheet of ice, coming from the bed.

“Tom?” You sounded so weak, he practically flipped your cream vanity as he got to his feet and darted towards you. “I don’t feel well.”

He lifted you as you reached your arms up at him like a child. He almost gasped at the sweat pouring from your body but didn’t want to scare you, and instead held your shaking, shivering body against his own. How could you be so hot, yet so cold at the same time? Your skin was prickled with goosebumps yet you were burning with a fever, and for the first time in a long time, he had no fucking idea what to do.

He left you propped up against the headboard and he entered the bathroom. He ran over to the claw foot tub you loved, twisting the faucet and trying to find the perfect medium between boiling hot and freezing cold. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, just try and soothe your raging fever, and he ignored the shelves of expensive bath oils and scented soaps that you coveted, instead opting for a handful of something meant to ease tension - praying to whoever was listening that it would help you somehow.

There was a brutal, awful moment as he lifted you from the bed, limp as a rag doll, where he imagined what would happen if your heart were to stop. He couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to miss the weight of you in his arms, the smell of your skin, the feeling of your lips against him, the shovels stopping and fading into nothing. It hit him square in the chest, as merciless as a bullet, and he had to lean against the doorframe to stop the two of you from plummeting to the ground.

He undressed himself first. Tugging his white shirt off, sliding off his slacks and his underwear, keeping you as close to his chest as he could. Then he pulled your nightgown up and over your head. He gathered your hair and secured it up with a claw clip so that it was away from your face, the heat radiating off your neck as fierce as the fire now burnt down to ash in the bedroom.

He lowered the two of you into the bath, sinking down beneath the eucalyptus smelling lukewarm water, letting it wash over you both. Your teeth were chattering and you were barely awake. He gathered handfuls of water, letting it drip over your shoulders and pulse points, grabbing a washcloth and running it over your raised skin, hating how you barely registered his touch. As he scrubbed over your collarbones and up to your face he saw your lips had turned to an awful, silvery blue, as vibrant as a fresh bruise. He hissed and tugged on the plug, now determined to get you wrapped up in a fresh towel and tucked back into bed.

You were soft and placid and he helped you out, lacking the usual fire that he adored. Your eyes were glassy and missing their vibrance, like the vanishing spark of a lighter - and he felt miles and miles of invisible distance between the two of you. You were unsteady on your feet and he used his body to prop you up as he warmed your arms with a fluffy white towel. You suddenly stopped, lifting your hand to your mouth as you started to cough - a horrible, dry, gasping cough.

He noticed it almost immediately. His eyes darting to the splatter of red against the white, a smudge of crimson that was as loud and commanding as a siren, a warning signal that something was definitely not right. A bead of scarlet that would linger long behind his closed eyelids.

He managed to get you back into bed, remaining calm as he stroked your hair and kissed your temple. He tucked you under the duvet and waited for your breathing to even before he ran downstairs, his heart thumping in his ears as he practically ripped the phone off of the wall.

“Pol? Fuck. I think - I think I need help.”

—————————————————————-

The room smelt like bleach and metal. Unfamiliar and clinical. There was something hard on your chest and covering your mouth, it tasted like wet pennies and was as heavy as a hand over your throat, but for the first time in days you could finally breathe. You tried to sit up, but there was a needle in your chest, a gown you didn’t recognise cut straight down the middle to accommodate it. You struggled and lifted the thin bedsheet above your shivering torso, trying to look around the cold room.

“Careful!”

It was Polly, dressed immaculately despite her surroundings. She reached out and placed a manicured hand across yours, and you smiled at the woman who had always been a calming influence when you had joined the circus of a family. There was concern in her eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner and lifted lashes but still swimming deep around her pupils. That made you frown, and you moved as much as you could to face her.

“What happened?”

She ran her tongue over her teeth, choosing her words. “You gave us quite a fright, love.”

“I did?” Your memories of the past few days were much like a fever dream, blurry and distorted snapshots were all you could really remember.

“Your pneumonia got worse. A lot worse.” She paused, looking over to the door and you followed her gaze. “They found fluid in your lungs.”

“So...” You started, gesturing to the needle in your abdomen and the breathing apparatus around your head.

She nodded. “Yes. You were in surgery. It was touch and go for a little bit.”

“Really?” You were bewildered. You couldn’t remember anything, let alone having major surgery. You looked her straight in the eye, asking her the questions that had been on the tip of your tongue since you had woken up. “Where is he? Where’s Tommy?”

“He’s outside.” She clicked her tongue, reaching deep into her purse and pulling out some hand cream, gently rubbing your dry hands like she was your mother. You leant into her touch despite all of your questions.

“What? Why?”

“I think he blames himself. God knows what goes on in that mans head. All I really know is he was bloody terrified.” She paused, looking over in the distance. “I’ve never seen him so scared, not even on his wedding day.” She smiled sadly, trying to lighten the mood, but it soon faded. “He didn’t leave your side the whole time you were asleep.”

Your heart thumped in your chest, a soft aching that you knew all too well. “I want to see him.”

“I know you do. But right now...” She stopped right as a handful of nurses entered, clad in long blue dresses with white aprons, hair tied back and smelling of strong soap and disinfectant. You lost Polly in the bustle as one spoke softly to you before tugging on the needle right beside your ribs, your eyes just catching hers as she left, a promise to see you soon on her lips.

It wasn’t her you saw next, but Tommy.

The nurses had cleaned you up with wet flannels and bowls of warm soapy water. Your hair had been braided and your face washed, and walked you arm in arm over to the bathroom so you could relieve yourself. A skittish doctor followed after, his eyes darting across you and his touch gentle as he changed your dressings and took your blood - obviously under strict instructions from your husband, and despite everything, you smiled.

You were sat listening to the clock tick. A romance novel you had been given was dangling dangerously close to the end of the bed, but you were too tired to focus on it. You heard the door squeal softly, and the sound of familiar footsteps across the tiling, each small thud sending shockwaves across your spine.

“Tommy.”

He looked tired. Exhausted rather, as though he had been awake all the hours that you had been asleep. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow and bruised. His clean shaven face was dark with stubble and his hair was ruffled and unwashed. You longed to reach out to him and cradle him against you, but he stood in the doorway, lingering like a ghost.

“Tommy?” You repeated, your voice almost a whisper, breaking his already shattered heart once again.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

You smiled softly, like spun sugar and sweet honey. No hospital bed or itchy gown could dull your infectious light. “Better now.”

He approached you almost cautiously. He settled down on the hard chair beside your bed and stroked a line down from your temple to your lips, his touch setting you alight like an electrical storm. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded you of how he got when things were bad, and you willed him to come back to you. His touch was tentative and he inhaled shakily as you cupped his hand with yours, pressing a tender kiss to the inside of his palm.

“Don’t scare me like that. Ever.” He was stern, as though hoping his words would make it true. “I mean it.” He kept his gaze on your pretty face, trying his best not to stare at the harsh bruising on your delicate flesh or the sickly tone of your skin.

“Tommy I’m going to get sick, even you can’t stop that.” You teased gently.

“I can bloody well try.” His hands cradled your face, pulling you into him and kissing you fiercely, still mindful of the wires and tubes taped to your body. There was something about the tenderness and deep longing in the kiss that when mixed with your total exhaustion and love for your husband prompted tears to start falling from your eyes. You sniffled as he pulled away, concern dripping from his beautiful features, his powerful mind wanting to do everything and anything to stop your hurting.

“Hey, hey.” He said, running his calloused fingertips under your eyes and wiping your tears away. You leant into his touch and he kissed your temple, squeezing you even tighter into him. “You know I hate it when you cry.” He toyed with your hair and winked playfully. “Besides, all you need to focus on is getting better. You’re going to have to take care of me when we get home, this week has given me a fucking stroke.”

You rolled your eyes, kissing the inside of his wrist. “You’re a idiot, Thomas Shelby.” You blinked at the clock looming above you both, wanting to stay in your blissful bubble but also knowing that Aunt Pol would probably be in the vicinity harassing a poor nurse over your results. “You should go and find Polly, let her know that everything’s alright.”

He shook his head and nuzzled his nose across yours, an act so innocent that your heart dipped and swooped in your chest. “Later.” He said, breathless and consumed by you. Everything had been too much. Almost losing you had been harrowing, it had punctured him completely and he just needed to feel his girl safe and warm around him. He needed to know that you weren’t found anywhere.

“I just want to stay here for a while. Just me and you.”

You grinned. “Always.”

[min-yumniverse]

Stroke My Whiskers One Last Time (1)

This story contains: fluff, food, nudity, death.

"Order up!" A (h/c) girl said, spinning up to the table with a plated angel cake in her palms. The sweet smell of cream and bread filled the warm building. The chatty customers add to the fullness of the rustic building. "Enjoy." She walked to the back of the bakery, opening a heavy wooden door leading to the kitchen. A light steam from baking escaped through the door.

(Y/n) wasn't the richest, but she was happy with the way she lived. She didn't have a lot of money but she had a lot of spirit. Many of the boys and girls loved being by her side. She was always so cheerful and full of positivity, she was always adored by the adults around her.

"What would you like to order ma'am?"

~~~

"Your highness, please come back!" A woman in a servant dress came running out of a large room. A stressed sweat was visible while she swiftly moved, holding up her mustard gown so as to not trip on it. She hastily approached the young man in baby blue silk pyjamas. As she got closer to him she reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him from escaping the building. He turned around to glare at her with his deep black eyes. If looks could kill, she would already be buried six feet under.

"There's no way I'll marry someone I don't even love!! Who do you take me for wench?!" He turned around pushing the lady away from him before walking away farther. The boy was beginning to approach the stained glass doors which lead to the large garden. Just five more seconds and he could be free of all the naggings. Free from other people's expectations and orders.

"You heard the King's orders, you can't just walk out like this!" The woman continued to chase him. He picked up his speed to the door, opening and slamming it on the lady's face. "Oh dear..." the lady put her hand to her face, massaging her temples. "He can't avoid marriage forever he's almost twenty for god's sake." She shook her head and walked back to the King's headquarters.

~~~

The sky was dark, crickets chirped keeping the night from being silent. (Y/n) locked up the bakery, securing the wooden plank in front of the door with an iron lock. "Meow~" She heard a cat whining at her.

"Back again Little Prince?" She crouched down to pet the black cat. He had bright blue eyes and grey mitten paws. He comes by usually at night after (Y/n) gets off of work.

"Meow~" The cat purred out, rubbing his head on (Y/n)'s legs. He especially loved his ears and chin being scratched. Soon enough (Y/n) picked the cat up and brought him to her little home. As she stood back up she patted down her striped blue skirt and butter-stained apron.

"Alright Little Prince let's head home and eat," she said to the cat, earning an excited meow back. She walked along the dark streets, barely litten up by the lantern posts. Her home was small but cosy. "Mom, Dad, I'm home!" She shouted out replacing the shoes on her feet with house slippers.

Silence replied to her. She walked into the kitchen, "Fish again?" she asked as she opened the icebox taking out some fish that she bought the previous day. She put them next to her cutting board, gutting, deboning and scaling the fish. She squeezed some lemon and lime juice onto the fish, marinating them. While she waited for the fish to absorb the lemon-lime mixture she put rosemary and butter in a large pan over her cooking fire. Throwing the fish in the pan caused a large splash and sizzle sound.

The cat purred while watching her from the table. He dragged the picture frames from the middle of the table near the chairs, making it appear as if there were more people in the home. (Y/n) fetched a potato and some carrots from the vegetable basket, cut the potato down the middle and threw everything in the oven to soften. She mixed the middle of the potato with cheese, parsley, garlic and butter. "Little Prince~ dinner is ready!" She brought 3 plates to the table. giving one with a single cooked fish to her parent's painted portraits. One with a fish and chopped carrots to the cat and finally her own plate with fish and a potato. "bon appétit," (Y/n) said as she and the cat began feasting on the delicious meal.

"Meow~"

Upon finishing the food, (Y/n) walked to her bedroom, which only fit a dresser and a bed. Mint green hues glistened off of her walls. "I should take a bath." She grabbed a wooden bucket and headed outside, the cat following her every last step. She walked up to the metal hose pump, grabbed the handle and began thrusting it for water to come out of the spout. When her bucket was full she walked back into her house to pour the water into the bathtub. She put on a fire under the tub to heat the water before leaving again to get more water to fill up the tub.

It took four, maybe five trips back and forth to get water to put in the tub. Sweat dripped from (Y/n)'s face as she put out the fire. The water was just a few degrees too cool to cook her alive. The perfect temperature. The cat waited outside while (Y/n) bathed herself. He never entered the bathroom with her, cats don't typically like water. She, of course, wouldn't expect him to.

An hour passed by and the cat began meowing and scratching the door. "Alright, alright!" (Y/n) giggled out to the cat, rinsing off her hair one last time. Then getting out of the bathtub, too lazy to drain it at the moment. She got out and wrapped herself in a towel. While she dried her hair she opened the door to reveal the one who was meowing on the other side. "Are you happy now?" She giggled while picking the cat up and laying down on her bed, still in her towel.

He purred and rubbed his head on her collarbone and chin while she pet him. Soon enough she fell asleep and the cat pulled a fuzzy blanket onto her.

~~~

By the time (y/n) woke up her little friend was already gone. She was still in just a towel and her hair was frizzy from sleeping on it wet. “I wonder where he goes off to every morning?” The girl got up from her bed and dressed, struggling to tighten her corset herself.

She opened the bakery once more and repeated her usual day. “Welcome~”

~~~

“Yoongi! How dare you run out of The Castle like that?!” His father, the King, raised his hand to the boy. The stinging sensation led to his eyes tearing up. But the prince refused to cry. He was a grown man. ‘Men don’t cry,’ as he was taught at a young age. All the adults spread these words for him to hide his emotions and never share them… Toxic masculinity if you would.

The prince always got yelled at for leaving The Castle. Why did he have to be born the prince of a large kingdom? Born into this cursed life of high standards? Oh, how he just wanted to leave and explore the kingdom without being recognized. “Yoongi, you’re going to get married whether you like it or not. It’s for the sake of our kingdom,” his father flamed at him. He sat up from his bed laid with silky white sheets.

“But how am I supposed to marry someone I don’t even love! Father, isn’t your top priority to make me happy? This is making my life miserable,” The prince shouted back to his father, letting the warm tears simmer down his cheeks. His fists were squeezed shut, shaking from the tension. He was furious. How he wanted to punch his father with all of his might and knock the man out cold. Though, he knew he couldn’t do so. He would never be let out of his room, let alone out into the kingdom. “Shouldn’t you choose family over anything else? What would Mother say?” The prince wept out.

“My top priority is the Kingdom, to give my family a good life.” The king narrowed his dark eyes at the boy. “And to give you a good life, you need to marry a capable woman,” his father sighed, sitting down, on the large bed, next to the prince.

“What if I found someone for myself?” The prince’s eyes shimmered with hope. “I can find a capable woman, that I love,” he went off, wanting to convince his father. The King sighed at the boy.

“I’ll give you by the end of the month. You know what happens if she finds out though.” The prince’s face gleamed with his smile. He nodded vigorously at the king.

“Yes, yes. I know father, I won’t tell her,” The prince bounced up from his bed. He dashed to his changing quarters, putting his coat, trousers and hat on, and then he ran out the door. His father looked at him amused. Did the prince already have someone in mind? Or was it just an excuse to see the Kingdom he loves being in so much? The King chuckled at his son’s ambitiousness.

~~~

“Welco- Oh my, Good morning Your Highness!” (Y/N) bowed, her hair covering her face. The prince lightly bowed back to the girl as a reply,

“And to you.” He sat down at one of the unpolished mahogany tables. There were a few water stains here and there on each table, adding to the rustic-themed bakery. The girl was flustered, she had never thought she would meet anyone in the royal family.

“Your Highness, what can I do for you?” The girl stood at the prince’s table waiting for his order. Her hands got clammy from her nerves, and she tried not to clench them or rub the sweat off on her apron. The prince gave her a gummy smile.

“A Fiadone Corse with a coffee, no sugar,” the prince replied to the girl. She nodded to him telling him how long it would take to make the pastry. The prince waited patiently for the girl to bring him his coffee, and a little bit after a slice of freshly made Fiadone Corse. The prince’s mouth watered from just the scent of the beautiful dessert. “Thank you,” he blurted out to the girl. Flustering her further.

“It’s my honour to serve you, Your Highness.” She just barely got out of stuttering in her sentence. She walked back into the kitchen to get other orders out onto customers’ tables. The prince was ecstatic with his Fiadone Corse, it had a satisfying creamy texture with an ideal balance of the citrusy flavour. And the coffee mixed perfectly with the flavours. His smile never faltered from his face.

When the girl glanced over to him, seeing his bright smile, a grin formed on her face too. ‘Happiness is contagious,’ they say. And she was getting the disease. She walked over to the prince, “How is you food, Your Highness?” The prince gave her a gummy smile in return, before composing himself, lowering his smile.

“It was super,” he replied to her question, smirking at the girl. She smiled in return.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she gratefully told the prince. She gave him the price for the meal and saw him off into the kingdom.

“Would… would you be willing to accompany me? I don’t know my way around these parts,” the prince asked the girl. Could this be happening? She barely processed that The Prince of the kingdom was at her bakery, and now he was asking for her to be his tour guide. She didn’t know how to think anymore and blurted out the first thing that ran through her mind.

“I- I have the bakery to look at… I can close it early. Yes. Yes I would love to show you around!” Her bright red cheeks made it apparent how flustered and anxious she was.

“Can I stay in the bakery until you close then,” he asked the girl. She nodded vigorously. She was at a loss for words. In disbelief. The kingdom’s prince? At her bakery? Asking her to show him around town? No way. This was obviously a dream. She wasn’t some main character in a play written by Shakespeare. She was no Juliet. If she was to be any character in Romeo and Juliet, she would be Peter. “Thank you,” the prince said to (Y/n), detaching her from her train of thoughts. She bowed to him and led him to the kitchen,

“Ma’am, would it be alright if I left early? The prince requested for me to show him about the kingdom.” An older lady put down her whisk and looked at the girl in disbelief.

“What are you still doing here? If he wants you to leave go with him immediately!” the old lady hurried the girl out of the door, the prince following closely behind. “I’m so sorry Your Highness, she needs to learn her manners around the royal family,” the lady said, glaring at the girl in mild disappointment. “Well, I don’t want to keep you waiting, Your Highness. You two should be off now.” The lady shoed them away from the bakery, “I can handle the bakery for today.” The girl nodded in response to the lady.

9.3.22

If I missed any mistakes I made uhh 🙈 ignore them. Also if anyone sees my work somewhere other than on min-yumniverse’s (my) page, sue them, beat them up in an undisclosed parking-lot and send me their name.

Thank you all for reading my story!! Look forward to more!

[mistress-and-servant]

Just a Tear

“Go change,” she said to him, sternly.

She was sitting at her vanity, powdering her face when he walked in. She didn’t even turn around to say that, merely glanced at him through the mirror. Charlie was momentarily shocked, but then nodded to her and quickly made his way back to his room to put on his maid outfit. This was a common occurrence for him. Sometimes she’d demand to see him in his maid outfit, while other times she didn’t mind the butler one. But he would gladly change for her whenever she asked.

The maid outfit was slightly more revealing. The skirt portion didn’t even go past his mid thigh, and there was a cat head hole right where his chest was. It showed off a bit of his cleavage squishing out against it. The sleeves were tight right below his shoulders. It was a bit more difficult to move around in this outfit, but he’d never complain to his Mistress. He quickly made his way back to her door and knocked.

“Enter.”

He opened the door and shut it behind him as he walked in. He stood behind her, just like earlier. This time when she glanced up, she smiled and slowly turned around in her seat. There was a spark in her green eyes.

“That’s better. Now, Charlie, do me a favor and do not take that outfit off till you burst out of it.”

Charlie paused, and blinked a few times to catch up with what he heard. His maid outfit had started to show how much he’s grown, but even with how ill fitting it had become he wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to completely outgrow it.

“Do you expect me to even wear it while I sleep, Mistress?”

“Oh heavens of course not-“

He sighed in relief.

“- I expect you to do it today kitten.”

His eyes widen and a blush began to form on his chubby cheeks. She giggled.

“Oh stop. I know you can do it. I would suggest you sit around and just stuff your face till it happens, but I know how much you don’t like ignoring your duties.”

He nodded, he hated the idea of not doing anything at all. He was her butler after all. And if he did nothing at all, then how was he ever to keep his worth?

She continued, “ Yes, so since you need to be doing something, I suggest that as long as you are working, you are also eating.”

She got up from her seat and walked up to him. She placed her small hand on his tum and patted it. It gurgled, reminding him that he had yet to eat today. “I want to see you eating something all day, no matter what. I’ll make sure of that.”

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Breakfast was the easiest. She didn’t add anything to his simple meal of eggs, bacon, toast and a cup of whole milk. He was sure that she would add a pastry of some kind, but she just sat there with her own portion and smiled. After taking and cleaning their dishes, he got started on making a list of things that needed to be bought for the home. He would receive lists from the head chef and head housekeeper, and he would then in turn check the stock room and pantry to make sure everything was listed off.

It was in the stock room that he heard someone come into the room. He looked and saw his Mistress come in with a plate of cookies. When she got to him, she immediately shoved a cookie into his mouth. He had no choice but to eat it, and it was delicious. It was still warm, and it was crunchy on the outside but soft on the inside. The chocolate chips were gooey, coating his mouth as he chewed. As he finished it, a second one was pushed into his mouth. This went on as he continued to check the stock. Cookie after cookie would pass through his lips with no room in between them until finally there was none left. She smiled at him and finally left him alone again. It wasn’t till then that he noticed a slight bit more pressure in his tummy. He rubbed his belly and burped into his fist before continuing on with his work.

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This continued on throughout the morning. Treat after treat would make his way to him, and his Mistress would happily feed him as he worked. She fed him slices of cake, batches of brownies, plates of cookies, and other such desserts until it was finally time for lunch. He had just finished a plate of scones and was now slowly making his way to the kitchen. He was full, his belly now pushing against his maid outfit. He could have sworn that the fabric was slowly inching its way higher up his legs, showing more and more skin as it went. The end of his skirt was barely covering the top of his thighs, and soon would start showing the very bottom of his belly. Yet there wasn’t a tear yet, he was afraid that he wouldn’t burst out of the outfit and it would simply no longer cover his body.

He held his belly as he walked, trying to stop it from sloshing around and causing more discomfort. He hiccuped and burped softly as he got closer. But before he could enter, his Mistress came out and blocked him.

“Oh no no no. You are to sit at the dining room table. I will bring you your meal.”

He was about to protest, but she began to push him away. “Go on now. I know how hungry you must be,” she teased. He relented and made his way to the table. As he was slowly lowering himself onto the seat, he felt something give, and his belly expanded a little with the extra room. Upon inspection, he found that the bow to his apron had come undone, and now the flaps were loosely on his sides. It didn’t count, but it gave him hope that maybe he’d be able to stop soon.

He inspected his clothing further and found that, when sitting, his skirt barely covered his legs at all. The ends of the fabric were just shy of exposing his belly. He patted his tum, causing it to gurgle. He was so full already, but he knew his Mistress would not stop till he burst out of his clothes. He hiccuped, causing his belly to wobble, and he groaned. He hoped he'd be able to get up after lunch.

Half an hour passed before his Mistress entered the room. With the little time he was given as a break, he was starting to breath a little bit easier. His tummy was still full, of course, but he was finally relaxing, until he wasn’t. The Mistress brought in two plates with her. One with a bowl of creamy potato soup with bits of bacon in it, the other with a sub cut in half with cheese and tomato sauce oozing from the sides, a classic chicken parm sandwich. They both smelled amazing. Even with his full tummy he began to drool at the thought of eating them both. He rubbed at his belly, momentarily forgetting his fullness.

His Mistress sat the two meals down and motioned for him to eat, which he did with no hesitation. He began with the bowl of soup. It was warm and creamy. The bacon was salty, and as he lifted up his spoon he saw that there were globs of cheese and chunks of onion and carrots mixed in. He savored the flavors, and before he knew it the bowl was empty. He stifled a burp in his hand and began to rub his tummy. Not only did he feel how stretched his belly was, but also the fabric of his dress. He didn’t understand how it could still contain him after everything. He swore that he could hear creaking, he just wanted it to tear already. His belly gurgled and a burp slipped past his lips. He blushed as his Mistress pushed the next plate in front of him. Charlie picked up the sandwich and began to eat again.

Slowly he made his way through it. Bite after bite of cheesy, saucy chicken and bread slid down his throat and expanded his tight gut. He groaned as he felt his stomach grumble even more. He tried to push his belly out in hopes that the dress would finally give but it just held on. Even after the last bite joined the rest in his packed gut, not a single thread had given out. He let his head fall back and didn’t try to hide the burp he let out. He was just so tired from the heavy weight in his belly sitting on his lap, still covered by his maid outfit. He barely registered the hand slowly rubbing circles into his belly. His Mistress pushed a finger against his stomach and felt how tight he felt.

“I really thought for sure you’d rip through this by now.” She placed both hands on either side of his wide expanse and gave him a gentle squeeze that still made him groan at the discomfort. She stopped and continued with her rubbing circles. After a few minutes of caressing his stuffed midsection she got up and stood beside him, grabbing his right arm.

“Come, it probably isn’t too comfortable sitting like this. Let's get you to a more comfortable spot.”

He moaned at the thought of moving, but after a moment's hesitation he began to slide himself closer to the seat edge. He used one hand to grip the dining table, and the other to support his tum to prevent any unnecessary movements. Slowly but surely he got onto his two feet with the help of his Mistress, his belly wobbling as it was pulled down by gravity. The weight making him have to arch his back to give his belly more room. He hiccuped and groaned and clutched at his middle, his Mistress leading him towards her personal Reading Room. She led him towards the plush coach they’d both use to sit next to each other during lazy days. She made sure that he slowly and carefully sat on the cushions and then pushed him into a lying position. With laying on his side his belly was no longer pulling at his back, now being supported by the soft pillows. He was both more comfortable and still in pain by the sheer volume in his tummy. His Mistress sat down next to his head which then made him want to pull himself closer to her to put his head on her lap. He struggled a little before she granted mercy on him since all this began and shimmied closer for him to snuggle into her. She began to run her fingers through his hair.  With now being close to his Mistress, he began to purr softly and gently fell into a food coma, his tummy slowly digesting all the things he’d eaten .

The last thing he heard before slipping into darkness was, “Maybe when you wake up we can continue working on tearing this outfit.”

[fatefulfaerie]

A Century Apart Part 1/2

Kakariko without the stench of blood in the air was frankly sickening to Zelda’s lungs. 

She had trouble breathing in the air that took so long to clear, that had forgotten the war of a century prior, that was normal to an entire country of people that had become accustomed to a post-apocalyptic Hyrule. 

When she had first arrived here, Link draped as best as she could manage over his horse, she was frankly overwhelmed with nausea, some of it due to her worry at Link collapsing moments after an unanswered question, some of it due to the blood caked on his tunic, and some of it due to her terrible, terrible, stomach twisting guilt for making it here alive. 

It was night now, and the twelve hours that Link spent recuperating in his slumber had felt to Zelda like an entire week. She tossed around a circular slice of orange carrot as she sat with worry twinging her heart. Normally sitting on the floor to eat as the Sheikah were accustomed to would have made her back hurt, but she paid little mind to her back.

Impa cleared her throat, and so Zelda looked up and across the table. The noise was so familiar that she almost expected to see the Impa she knew, in her twenties and incredibly agile.

Yet this Impa had eyes that had aged, eyes that had faded from a red as bright as cranberries to a hazel, a common side effect of Sheikah aging.

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” Impa said, wrinkles and all, her face more spotted and much more round nowadays. “I know the carrots aren’t your absolute favorite but you always used to love when I made Seafood Rice Balls.”

Zelda nodded, and faked a small smile, although it came off as a simple pursing of her lips.

“Yeah, I…I remember,” she muttered quietly as she tore away her glance, looking back down at her plate. The scientist within her knew that she was, in fact, hungry and needed food to sustain herself, yet the princess with her wasn’t quite ready for such indulgence, for such luxury. 

She began with a carrot.

It was soft, obviously well-cooked as her teeth bit upon food for the first time in a hundred years. It was buttered and salted and spiced with something she didn’t recognize, something they wouldn’t have typically served at the castle.

She almost forgot how to swallow as the chewed-up orange mush threatened to trail down her throat, but she gulped the single slice of carrot down nonetheless. 

It felt strange, eating, and it felt strange that it felt strange.

She could tell Impa was watching her eat, especially as she dove the chopsticks into the Rice Balls that, over a hundred years, she forgot she missed.

“When was the last time Link was in Kakariko?” Zelda asked, reacquainting herself with the texture and taste of the white rice, the seasoned fish on top of it, the leafy seaweed around it. She didn’t dare to meet Impa’s glance.

“About a week ago,” Impa said. “He came to restock, as he does occasionally. It wasn’t a long visit, though. I suppose he had places to be.”

Zelda nodded, using the cloth napkin on her lap to wipe away any stray particles of food from her mouth. It was almost an instinct, the way she was trained to always be proper, the way her back was straight were she sat, the way she refused to let herself be and just put her elbows on the table. Paya obviously had no problem with it when she ate earlier. Zelda envied her casual manner, living decades upon decades away from a kingdom.

Zelda didn’t expect Impa to reach out and grab her hand, and thus she almost ripped her hand away she was so unaccustomed to it. Zelda looked up.

“He is going to be okay,” Impa insisted slowly and calmly with eyes aged with wisdom. Zelda had no choicest to truly trust them. “He pushed himself very hard to save Hyrule and to bring you back. I would wager he hasn’t slept in days…and the injuries he ignored, well, it’s about time they caught up to him.”

“S-sorry to interrupt,” Paya stammered. Zelda didn’t even hear her come back down the stairs. “It…it’s Link.”

“What’s wrong?” Zelda asked standing up completely panicked. “Is he okay?”

“Oh gosh I shouldn’t have phrased it like that,” Paya said. “He’s fine, he’s just stirring. You said you wanted to be there when he woke up?”

“Yes,” Zelda said, nodding, her hand lightly fisted at her chest. “Y-yes, of course. Please lead the way.”

He didn’t look any different when Zelda finished the last steps of the stairs, Link coming into view. His face was still terribly scratched up and bruised. The only difference now was that Paya had-and she would have to ask later how a Sheikah could be so stealthy as to wrap a person’s chest without waking them up-dressed Link in bandages to brace his broken ribs. There was a fair amount of blood on the bed from the gash on his leg, but it seemed to be well-sewn up now, the wound cleaned and covered with a fresh bandage. There was also a half-empty bottle of a familiar dark purple elixir, a common painkiller among Hylians. Zelda used to use it for headaches.

She could she the way his blue eyes had begun to shine through eyelids. The room was dark, lighted only with candles that smelled of lavender and honey. It seemed so long ago that they had brought Link in, Zelda suggesting they keep the main lanterns in the room doused so that Link could perhaps sleep sounder.

“Link?” She asked as she stepped forward, the combination of her lack of stealth and her thin brown sandals making the wooden floor creak.

She knelt at his bedside and repeated her query.

“Link,” she said. It was now a whisper, like she was pretending to be the lover she never was to him.

The fatigued hero hummed as he blinked open his eyes lethargically.

“Zelda,” he said, softly in his half-awake state with a small smile. The former princess assumed it was because he knew of her presence before his head rolled over to her and he flipped out with wide eyes. It was as if someone had put smelling salt underneath his nose, the way he bolted upright.

“P-princess! I…” Zelda watched with equal parts awe and glee as he ignored the extremely likely pain in his ribs to fix his messy bedhead. Not to say he was in any way successful. “I’m sorry, I…”

“Link,” Zelda said, in such a soothing way that Link froze immediately. It may have also been because she placed a hand on his cheek. Zelda gently guided him back down to lay on the pillow.

“You look fine,” she assured him. “And you are in no condition to do anything but rest.”

Link’s icy blue eyes pleaded for something Zelda couldn’t place. They looked at her, studied her in a way Zelda wasn’t used to.

“Princess, I…” he began, but his words faltered, as if his intended sentence just walked off a cliff, accidentally ran out of room on the ledge and was now falling and forgotten. “I would like to call you Zelda,” he finally said. “Is that all right?”

Zelda nodded, and had to keep from tearing up.

“Yes,” she said, water making her green eyes shine like emeralds. “I would actually prefer that.”

It looked as if Link had something else to say, and yet he hesitated with a hitched breath. Zelda hesitated too, not what to say, but whether or not it was fair to reveal that she could read him like a book. It was a byproduct of their time together a hundred years ago, a time he may not have any recollection of at all, a time he may even be scared of. It was for those reasons that she demonstrated her patience instead, taking his hand and fooling herself that she was conveying her care with her eyes.

“I remember you, by the way,” Link said.

Zelda shifted slightly. There were so many memories between them and so many things that could be assumed between the memories that she couldn’t help but fear what story he had construed.

“I remember you not liking me,” Link continued, Zelda sighing, opening and closing her eyes with a slight cringe. Of all the things for him to remember. 

But he didn’t stop there.

“I remember you warming up to me and us becoming friends…at least I think.”

Zelda had looked down at her hand, the way her thumb ran up and down his palm.

“Do you remember anything else?” Zelda asked, tilting up her head. Link seemed genuinely out of answers and that’s what broke her heart the most.

“Is there something I should remember?” Link asked. Zelda shook her head.

“No,” Zelda said quietly, detaching her hand from Link’s. “It’s nothing of consequence.”

She moved her hand to his forehead, brushing aside a lock of his dirty blonde bangs. 

“I’m glad you’re recovering well, Link,” she said softly. “I’ll leave you to your rest. We can talk more later if you’d like.”

She stood up to leave but didn’t get far, Link’s hand grabbing her wrist and seizing her heart.

“Wait,” was the word he spoke to explain himself. Zelda turned her head to look over her shoulder. She couldn’t help but be surprised that Link had indeed, meant to grab her, was entreating her with those soulful blue eyes, deep as an ocean and filled to the brim with conflicting emotions.

“There’s more to it than what I remember,” he said. “There’s…well there’s how those memories make me feel.”

“What do you mean?” Zelda said, turning her body but refusing to kneel at his bedside, her cautious heart already shattered enough to not risk being broken even more.

“Whenever I remembered something that happened between us,” Link began. “I would try to draw you, would try to capture your beauty, but the image of you was always fleeting. Sometimes I forgot whether your hair was truly blonde, whether your eyes were brown or green, whether or not freckles dotted upon your nose, your cheeks, what the shape of your face was. But each time I tried to draw you I felt like I was getting both closer to and farther away from perfection.”

“Link,” Zelda said as she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t either at first,” Link continued. “I didn’t understand why I was so enthralled by your beauty, why the sound of your voice twinged my heart, why the thought of your touch made me feel the warmth of my blood.” 

Zelda knew what he was describing, and she knew it well. It was for that reason that she couldn’t believe his words, that she searched within her lungs for the ability to breathe.

“Link,” she said breathlessly, finally kneeling down. “A-are you saying…?

She couldn’t even finish her question but Link nodded nonetheless.

“Once I realized it was a crush,” he said. “I tried to ignore it, telling myself that nothing in my memories indicated anything more than an obligatory friendship, that it was disrespectful to think in such a way of someone who was royalty, but…” He bit his lip. “No cliff was as easy to descend as the one that dictates love. I fell quickly and I fell fast. It felt familiar too, like something was in ruins inside me but this time, it was simple to salvage, to rebuild and to…” Link chuckled. “I can’t think of another word.”

Zelda was speechless, her mouth slightly parted and her eyes frozen. Link didn’t expect his declaration of love to be so paralyzing.

“I-I guess I,” Link said, continuing in the absence of Zelda’s words. “I kind of got the feeling that you also have similar…” Link looked for another word, but it didn’t exist in his brain “…feelings…” He inwardly cringed. “So I figured I would bring up the subject...but maybe I...shouldn’t...have?”

Zelda was quiet, almost too quiet, before she stood and finally said five words, five words that left Link in the dust of such an anticlimactic response.

“You never talked this much,” she said, before shooting him with green eyes filled with conflict and pity and turning around to walk back down the stairs.

[rigmarolling]

Historical Holiday Traditions We Really Need To Bring Back

Here comes Santa Claus, and also a bunch of annual holiday Things we do to ensure he commits a truly boggling act of breaking and entering and leaves goods underneath the large plant in the living room.

Because I’ve always got a hankerin’ for the days of yore, here are some historical holiday traditions we really need to bring back:

1. Everything that happened on Saturnalia

Saturnalia was the ancient Roman winter festival held on December 25th--which is why we celebrate Christmas on that day and not on the day historians speculate Jesus was actually born, which was probably in the spring. 

Saturnalia was bonkers. As the name suggests, it celebrated the god Saturn, who represented wealth and liberty and generally having a great time.

Above: Their party is way cooler than yours could ever hope to be.

During Saturnalia, masters would serve their slaves, because it was the one day during the year when everybody agreed that freedom for all is great, actually, let’s just do that. Everyone wore a coned hat called the pilleus to denote that they were all bros and equal, and also to disguise the fact that they hadn’t brushed their hair after partying hard all week, probably.

Gambling was allowed on Saturnalia, so all of Rome basically turned into ancient Vegas, complete with Caesar’s Palace, except with the actual Caesar and his palace because he was, you know. Alive. 

The most famous part (besides getting drunk off your rocker) was gift-giving--usually gag gifts. Historians have records of people giving each other some truly impressive white elephant gifts for Saturnalia, including: a parrot, balls, toothpicks, a pig, one single sausage, spoons, and deliberately awful books of poetry. 

Above: Me, except all the time.

Partygoers also crowned a King of Saturnalia, which was a predecessor to the King of Fools popular in medieval festivals. The king was basically the head idiot who delivered absurd commands to everyone there, like, “Sing naked!” or “run around screaming for an hour,” or “slap your butt cheeks real hard in front of your crush; DO IT, Brutus.”

Oh, wait. Everyone was already doing all that. Hell yes.

(Quick clarification: early celebrations of Saturnalia did feature human sacrifice, so let’s just leave that bit out and instead wear the pointy hats and sing naked, okay? Io Saturnalia, everybody.)

2. Leaving out treats for Sleipnir in the hopes of avoiding Odin’s complete disregard for your property

The whole “leave out cookies and milk for Santa” thing comes from a much older tradition of trying to appease old guys with white beards. In Norse mythology, Odin, who was sort of the head god but preferred to be on a perpetual road trip instead, took an annual nighttime ride through the winter sky called the Wild Hunt. 

Above: The holidays, now with 300% more heavy metal.

Variations of the Wild Hunt story exist in a bunch of European folklore--in Odin’s case, he usually brought along a bunch of supernatural buddies, like spirits and other gods and Valkyries and ghost dogs, who, the Vikings said, you could hear howling and barking as the group approached (GOOD DOGGOS).

That was the thing, though; you never actually saw Odin’s hunt--you only heard it. And hearing it did not spark the same sense of childish glee you felt when you thought you heard Santa’s sleigh bells approaching as a kid--instead, the Vikings said, you should be afraid. Be VERY afraid.

Because Odin could be kind of a dick.

Odin was also known as the Allfather, and like any father, he hated asking for directions. GPS who? I’m the Allfather, I’m riding the same way I always ride.

And that was pretty much it: “I took this road last year and I’m taking it again this year.”

“But,” someone would pipe up from the back, “there are houses on the road now--we’re gonna run right into them. We could just take a different path; there’s actually a detour off the--”

“Nope,” Odin would say. “They know the rules. My road, my hunt, my rules. We’re going this way.”

So if you were unlucky enough to have built your house along one of Odin’s favorite road trip sky-ways, he wouldn’t just plow right past you.

He would burn your entire house down--and your family along with it.

Kids playing in the yard? Torch ‘em; they should have known better. Grandma knitting while she waits for her gingerbread Einherjar to finish baking? Sucks to be her; my road, my rules, my beard, I’m the Allfather, bitch.

Above: Santa, but so much worse.

To be fair to Odin, he could be a cool guy sometimes. He just turned into any dad when he was on a road trip and wanted to MAKE GOOD TIME, DAMN IT, I AM NOT STOPPING; YOU SHOULD HAVE PEED BEFORE WE LEFT.

To ensure they didn’t incur Odin’s road trip wrath, the Vikings had a few ways of smoothing things over with Dad.

They would leave Odin offerings on the road, like pieces of steel (??? okay ???) or bread for his dogs, or food for his giant, eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, because the only true way to a man’s heart is through his pet. 

People would generally leave veggies and oats and other horse-y things out for Sleipnir, whose eight legs made him the fastest flying horse in the world and also made him the only horse to ever win Asgard’s coveted tap dancing championship. 

(Side note: EIGHT legs...EIGHT tiny reindeer...eh? Eh? See how we got here? Thanks, nightmare horse!)

Above: An excellent prancer AND dancer. 

And if Odin was feeling particularly charitable and not in the mood for horrific acts of arson, children would also leave their shoes out for him--it was said that he’d put gifts in your boots to ring in a happy new year.

If all that didn’t work and the Vikings heard the hunt approaching, they would resort to throwing themselves on the ground and covering their heads while the massive party sped above them like a giant Halloween rager. 

So this holiday season, leave your boots out for Odin and some carrots out for his giant spider horse or you and your entire family will die in a fiery inferno, the end.

3. Yule Logs

Speaking of Scandinavia, another Northern European winter solstice tradition was the yule log. Today, if you google “yule log,” something like this will pop up:

...which isn’t an actual log, but is instead log-shaped food that you shove into your mouth along with 500 other cakes at the same time because it’s CHRISTMAS, and I’m having ME TIME; so WHAT if I ate the whole jar of Nutella by myself, alone, in the dark at 3 am?

But that log cake is actually inspired by actual logs of yore that Celtic, Germanic, and Scandinavian peoples decorated with fragrant plants like holly, ivy, pinecones, and other Stuff That Smells Nice before tossing the log into the fire.

This served a few purposes: 

It smelled nice, and Bath and Body Works scented candles hadn’t been invented yet.

It had religious and/or spiritual significance as a way to mark the winter solstice.

It was a symbolic way of ringing in the new year and kicking out the old.

Common belief held that the ashes of a yule log could ward off lightning strikes and bad energy.

Winter cold. Fire warm.

Everybody loves to watch things burn. (See: Odin.)

The yule log cakes we eat today got their start in 19th century Paris, when bakers thought it was a cute idea to resurrect an ancient pagan tradition in the form of a delicious dessert, and boy, howdy, were they right.

In any case, I’m 100% down with eating a chocolate yule log while burning an actual yule log in my backyard because everybody loves to watch things burn; winter cold, fire warm; and hnnnngggg pine tree smell hnnnnggg.

(Quick note:  The word “yule” is  the name of a traditional pagan winter festival, still celebrated culturally or religiously in modern pagan practice. It’s also another name for Odin. He had a bunch of other names, one of the most well-known being jólfaðr, which is Old Norse for “Yule father.” If you would like to royally piss him off, or if you are Loki, feel free to call him “Yule Daddy.”)

4. Upside down Christmas trees

I just found out that apparently, upside down Christmas trees are a hot new trend with HGTV types this year, so I guess this is one historical trend we did bring back, meaning it doesn’t really belong on this list, but I’m gonna talk about it, anyway.

Side note: Oh, my god, that BANNISTER. I NEED.

Historians aren’t actually sure where the inverted Christmas tree thing came from, but we know people were bringing home trees and then hanging them upside down in the living room as early as the 7th century. We have a couple theories as to why people turned trees on their heads:

Logistically, it’s way easier to hang a giant pine tree from your rafters upside down by its trunk and roots. You just hoist that baby up there, wind some rope around the rafter and the trunk, and boom. Start decorating.

A Christian tradition says that one day in the 7th century, a Benedictine monk named Saint Boniface stumbled across a group of pagans worshipping an oak tree. So, instead of minding his own damn business, he cut the tree down and replaced it with a fir tree. While the pagans were like, “Dude, what the hell?” Boniface used the triangular shape of the fir tree to explain the concept of the holy trinity to the pagans. Some versions have him planting it right-side up, others having him displaying a fir tree upside down. Either way, it’s still a triangle that’s a solid but ultimately very rude way of explaining God. Word’s still out on whether anyone was converted or just rightly pissed off that this random guy strolled into their place of worship, chopped down their sacred tree, and plopped HIS tree down instead. Please do not do that this holiday season.

Eastern Europeans lay claim to the upside-down tree phenomenon with a tradition called podłazniczek in Poland--people hung the tree from the ceiling and decorated it with fruits and nuts and seeds and ribbons and other festive doodads. 

(God, who lives in these houses? Look at that. That’s like a swanky version of Gaston’s hunting lodge. Where do I get one? Which enchanted castle do I have to stumble into to chill out in a Christmas living room like that?)

Today, at least in the West, upside-down trees are making a comeback because...I don’t know. Chip and Joanna Gaines said so. 

Some folks say it’s a surefire way to keep your cats from clawing their way through the tree and then puking up fir needles for weeks afterward, which checks out for me.

5. Incredibly weird Victorian Christmas cards

So back in the 19th century, the Christmas card industry was really getting fired up. Victorians loved their mail, let me tell you. They loved sending it. They loved getting it. They loved writing it. They loved opening it. They loved those sexy wax seals you use to keep all that sweet, sweet mail inside that sizzling envelope. (Those things are incredibly sexy. Have you ever made a wax seal? Oh, man, it’s hot.)

The problem, though, was that while the Victorians arguably helped standardize many of the holiday traditions we know and love today (Christmas trees, caroling, Dickens everything, spending too much money, etc.) back in 1800-whenever, a lot of that Christmas symbolism was, um...still under construction. No one had really agreed on which visual holiday cues worked and which...didn’t.

Meaning everyone just kind of made up their own holiday symbols. Which resulted in monstrous aberrations like this card:

What the hell is that? A beet? Is that a beet? Or a turnip? Why is it...oh, God, why does it have a man’s head? Why does the man beet have insect claws? 

What is it that he’s holding? A cookie? Cardboard? A terra cotta planter?

And then there’s this one:

“A Merry Christmas to you,” it says, while depicting a brutal frog murder/mugging. 

What are you trying to tell me? Are you threatening me with this card? Is that it? Is this a threat? How the hell am I supposed to interpret this? “Merry Christmas, hide your money or you’re dead, you stupid bitch.”

Also, why is the dead frog naked? Did the other frog steal his clothes after the murder? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS?

Victorian holiday cards also doubled as early absurdist Internet memes, apparently, because how else do I explain this?

Is this some sort of tiny animal Santa? A mouse riding a lobster? Like, the mouse, I get. Mice are fine. Disney built an empire on a mouse. And look, he’s got a little list of things he’s presumably going to bring you: Peace, joy, health, happiness. (In French. Oh, wait, is that that Patton Oswalt rat?)

But a LOBSTER? What’s with the lobster? It’s basically a sea scorpion. Why in the name of all that is good and holy would you saddle up a LOBSTER? I hate it. I hate it so, so much. Just scurrying around the floor with more legs than are strictly necessary, smelling like the seafood section of Smith’s, snapping its giant claws.

This whole card is a health inspector’s worst nightmare. It really is.

I gotta say, though, I am a fan of this one:

Presumably, that polar bear is going in for a hug because nothing stamps out a polar bear’s innate desire to rip your face from your skull than candy canes and Coke and Christmas spirit.

This next one is actually fantastic, but for all the wrong reasons:

I know everyone overuses “same” these days but geez, LOOK at that kid. I can HEAR it. SAME.

If you’ve ever been in a shopping mall stuffed with kids, nothing sums it up better than this card. This is like the perverse version of those Anne Geddes portraits that were everywhere in the late 90s. “Make wee Jacob sit in the tea pot; everyone will--Jacob, STOP, look at Mommy; I said LOOK. AT. MOMMY--everyone will love it.”

Actually, you know what? Every other Christmas card is cancelled. This is the only card we will be using from now on. This is it. 

Wait, no. We can also use this one:

Merry Christmas. Here’s a fuckin’...just a dead fuckin’ bird.

[sunshinejihyun]

Chocolatey Giggles - Kiro’s Birthday 2021

Author’s note: happy birthday, you big goofball. I love you so much.

the little scene I mention with Lucien is based off @dreamer-hyun​‘s WONDERFUL fic called ‘watch the universe expand’. Go read it, it’s amazing.

Word Count: 1580

Warnings: brief mention of unrequited love concerning Lucien, unedited bc im toired

Masterlist

Kiro had awoken before her; he was expecting sunlight to be streaming in through their windows, casting a glow over her soft but he was instead met with a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning.

He must have slept the night through, but with the worried lines creasing her forehead, Kiro knew she hadn’t slept well. He gently pulled the covers up over her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead before getting out of the bed and stretching.

Even though it was his birthday, Kiro still had to work. The life of an idol never stopped, even when he wish his Evol was more like Victor’s; Kiro would love being able to stop time so he could have a little world all to himself and the woman he loves. He kept telling himself that the faster he went and got the recording finalized and perfect, he’d be back in her arms where Kiro felt the safest.

So he snuck one final peek at her face. The worried lines had fallen away and she looked peaceful; it was the perfect image to etch in his brain before he saw her once again.

The driver was already waiting for Kiro as he came down his front steps. He didn’t bother changing; he knew he should but he really just wanted even more of a reason to head on home as soon as possible.

Kiro brushed his driver away as he reached to open the idol’s door. “Please, I’m perfectly capable of opening my door.”

“Of course sir. I’ll get in the drivers seat then.”

Settling himself in his seat, Kiro pulled out of his phone to send a text.

Miss Chips! Today’s a wonderful day! Don’t worry about the rain, the best part of celebrating Kiro Day is being in the arms of the person he loves most, and that’s you! I’ll be home before you miss me too long.

Kiro hoped that seeing that message would put a smile on her face when she woke up. One of the ones where she’d smile sleepily while still rubbing her eyes and seeing the slow way her face lit up always brought strength and warmness to Kiro’s heart.

As the rain pattered on, Kiro watched the raindrops race down the window and placed bets every time on which one would win to kill time.

A ding from her phone brought her out of a restless sleep, the side of the bed next to her was cold but judging from the imprint on the pillow, Kiro had only left maybe ten minutes before. The storm last night had been noisy, and she didn’t sleep well through them. She even briefly wondered if Lucien did okay through the storm.

Before she and Kiro got together, she and Lucien would stay up late on stormy nights, only a wall between their backs as they talked on the phone through stories about fictionalized worlds. She didn’t realize it then, but Lucien told her more about himself in those stories than he ever told her to her face.

The storm connected them, and now it felt like the biggest disconnect in the world not to have his calming voice whispering to her until the sun started to rise. It wasn’t that they couldn’t talk, but he had distanced himself since she and Kiro had gotten together; she didn’t blame him either. He loved her. She loved him too, just in a different way.

She wouldn’t change anything, though. Not even for the whole world, because Kiro was her world and that would mean potentially losing him in the change.

Her phone made another sound, reminding her of the message that roused her from the light sleep she had slipped in after waiting for the sun to arise. Kiro had texted and it was a message that warmed her heart and made her feel a bit more awake.

Rubbing her eyes, she set out for the kitchen. There was coffee still in the coffee pot from when Kiro made it and she poured some in a mug before pulling out the cake box she had hidden from Kiro in an empty sealable bag of peas and carrots. He wouldn’t dare eat those on his own, so she figued it’d be a safe place to hide the mix to surprise Kiro for his birthday. As long as Savin didn’t escort him in, she and her love would be able to eat enough cake until they crashed on their couch from a sugar rush later on.

Baking the cake was mindless, the hum of the mixer calmed her nervous coffee jitters and by the time it was in the oven, she was snuggled under warm blankets on the couch. The coffee didn’t keep her awake for long and the slow drops of rain against the roof was enough to lull her back to sleep.

She woke the second time because the fire alarm started screaming. She couldn’t place where it came from at first but as soon as she spotted the smoking oven, she rushed over and pulled the burning cake pan from the oven.

Dropping the hot metal into the sink, she rushed to open the windows and clear out the smoke.

“Miss Chips? I’m hom- WAH! What’s that smell?” Kiro walked through the door, choking on the smoke as Apple Box ran to him, jumping up and landing his paws on Kiro’s shoulders.

“I burnt something!” She cried out, grabbing a handheld fan and trying to push the smoke towards the open window.

Kiro gently removed Apple Box from his shoulders and grabbed a magazine, helping her to fan the rest of the smoke out. The fire alarm had stopped screaming and the kitchen was starting to smell like burnt cake and rain, a weird combination but not an unpleasing scent.

Kiro peered into the sink and laughed. “Did you try to bake again? You know what happened to the cookies!” She had tried to bake him cookies to snack on during a plane ride a few weeks ago and no matter how long they were in the oven, they refused to cook. Kiro left with no snacks and she was left with un-cookable cookie dough.

“Shh,” she pouted, walking over to Kiro and wrapping her arms around her from behind. “I just wanted to do something nice for your birthday and it’s ruined.”

He turned, hugging her head close to his chest. “Kiro Day isn’t ruined!” Kiro kissed the crown of her head. “Just having you here like this is enough for me.” It was quiet for a moment, they stood wrapped in each other and swaying to the gentle pitter patter of the rain. “Besides, the cake isn’t ruined either.”

“Um,” she blinked, looking up at him. “It’s kinda burnt.” “Hear me out, but I saw on Tik Tok that if you mix cake with frosting and put them in balls and freeze them, they can be cake pops after you dip them in chocolate! We could do that!”

“That’s… actually genius, Mister Kiro! Good job!” She bounced up on her toes and smacked a kiss on his cheek before breaking out from his grip. “Let’s start!”

That’s how they ended up in standing side by side in the kitchen. She was on a stool and watched as Kiro guided the handheld mixer around the burnt cake and chocolate frosting.

“Now we just have to roll them into balls!” Kiro said, and she snickered as he dipped his hand in the bowl and got a clump of the messy cake.

They giggled together as they rolled each individual cake pop and every once in a while one would hip bump the other, which would throw them into another fit of giggles.

Once they had popped the cake in the freezer, they plopped on the couch and cozied up together. His arm was around her shoulder and her head was on his shoulder. Kiro draped a blanket over both of their laps and Cello jumped up and curled into her lap. Apple Box sat on Kiro’s feet which made the both of them giggle.

“I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well last night.” He said, kissing her forehead softly. She responded with a kiss of her own, placed right on the side of his throat.

“It’s fine, I had a nap earlier.” She didn’t question how Kiro knew she had a restless night; he always could tell from one look at her. He claimed once it was because her eyes didn’t sparkle as much. “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday cake,”  She picked up her head then and choked back a giggle.

“What is it?” Kiro asked, his eyebrows furrowing which just made the chocolate on his nose that much funnier.

“Hold still,” she replied, leaning over to grab her phone from the coffee table and snapping a picture of his confused face, covered with chocolate. She showed him then, and he scrambled for a napkin. “That’s going on Moments!” She declared.

“Miss Chips, don’t you dare!” Kiro’s quick fingers tickled at her stomach and sides, causing more laughter to bubble up. “If you do that, Savin will kill me!”

“...Too late!” She cried before she escaped his tickling. “Happy birthday Kiro, I love you.”

“Thank you, Miss Chips, for spending Kiro Day with me!” He replied before touching her sides softly this time and pulling her in to share a sweet, frosting tasting kiss.

[ramblings-of-a-cavill-lover]

Good Looking Stranger

Summary: A handsome stranger finally stops by the café where you work after weeks just walking by.

Warnings: Language

Word count: 1,6k+

A/N: This is my submission to @browngirlmagic 1k Writing Challenge, congratulations Ayesha!

Thank you always @shellbilee for helping me, and making sure I didn’t write anything unintelligible. I love you girl!

☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕

It was a quiet night, and with finals behind your lucky regulars, it would probably remain like that for the rest of the month.

Your hope for better tips rested on the increasing temperature and tourists seeking refuge and refreshments in the small café where you worked.

You had the evening shift and it was almost time for the handsome stranger to cross the street and pass by the window.

Tall, dark haired, and if there was any more light, you’d have been able to see the color of his eyes, but your bet was on blue.

Like clockwork, he exited the subway station, crossed the street and, to your amazement and slight panic, entered the café.

You held your smile as best as you could while you served a steaming cup of cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake to an old man sitting at the table closest to the window.

As if drawing your eyes like a magnet, his figure strutting through the room made you slowly turn. He chose the very last stool by the counter, sitting sideways with his back to the wall and facing the door.

Before his eyes could reach yours on his sweep of the room, you swiftly turned back.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” you asked the older gentleman, and his full-mouthed ‘no’ was enough to get you moving.

“Good evening and welcome!” you greeted the newcomer with what you hoped was a warm smile, doing your best to hide your anxiety. “What can I get you?”

His head, buried in his phone until you spoke, snapped up. His eyes met yours, their surprising shade, a steely, deep sky blue in the dim lights, took your breath away.

After a moment of mutual gawking, he blinked and cleared his throat.

“Uhm, I’ll have a…” he paused, frowning at the menu written on the wall. “Uh, a latte.”

Uncertainty clear in his tone, his eyes swiveled back to yours and a frown mirrored the one you unwittingly displayed.

“Sure thing. It’ll only take a sec.” you replied, shaking off the odd impression you had, and moved away to prepare his order, making sure to always keep an eye on him.

He didn’t look back at you. His eyes were again glued to the screen and undiluted tension colored his features.  

Between preparing coffee and evaporating the milk, he had started typing.

You couldn’t help noticing he was wearing gloves when you were almost in summer, and weirder still, that he’d wear them inside.

You finished making his latte, and stood opposite the oddly mysterious man who apparently was in another galaxy.

“Here you go!” you announced, and once more his attention was seized abruptly. “Would you like anything to eat?” you insisted to his clear annoyance.

“No, thanks.” he answered, turning his focus immediately back to the device in his hands.

“Trouble in paradise?” you tried to get his attention, and rolled your eyes internally at your lame choice of words.

He sighed and put the phone in the pocket of his jeans.

“Kinda.” he started, with visible reluctance. “Are you like the bartender of this coffee shop?”

The tilt of his head was really cute, and it was your turn to hold back a sigh for an entirely different reason.

“Kinda.” you threw back at him, quirking your brow.

The smile he rewarded you with was something to die for. Never had you seen something so spontaneous and genuine from a complete stranger. It disarmed you of any annoyance you may have harbored.

“Tell me all about it. I promise it dies with me.” you prodded.

Crossing your arms over the counter, you settled in a somewhat comfortable position and gave him your undivided attention.

“Well, there’s this woman…” he began.

“Oooh!” you interrupted smiling, and earning another heart-stopping smile in return.

“She works for a company that…” he paused, looking away for a second and brought his beautiful eyes back to yours. “Well, her company competes with mine, kinda. Like industrial espionage, you know?”

“Oh, the plot thickens. And you like her?” you half asked, half guessed.

“She’s gorgeous, but I haven’t really had a chance. A chance to get to know her better, I mean.” he looked at his full glass of latte and took a sip.

“And is it impossible to do that?” you asked, more engrossed in the story than you had intended.

“Not impossible. But it would go against a lot of rules and…”

“Do you believe she is worth it?” you interrupted him.

“I believe she can be, yeah. I want to get her out of trouble. That company of hers… it’s bad news.” he shook his head and his jaw twitched. “I would have to make sure my moves were well planned, and that I didn’t screw up.” he replied, lost in his thoughts.

“You know, the Second Law of Thermodynamics states that everything goes from order to disorder.” you said, casually. “If you think you can control chaos, you’re setting yourself up for failure. And whenever you think you have control, that’s when things blow in your face.”

He studied you for a second longer than you were comfortable with, and as soon as you busied yourself with the over polished counter surface, he opened his mouth.

“You studied Physics?” he asked quietly.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye.

“I read a lot.” you replied matter-of-factly. “Don’t sleep much.”

Your shrug dismissing it caused him to squint minutely. You pretended not to see, moving instead closer to the client who had just come in and sat much closer to the door and the other man.

You held a finger, signaling you’d be back in a minute.

While you took the order you saw the gloved fingers back at their previous activity.

A chai latte and a blueberry banana muffin later, you were in front of blue eyes again.

“I changed my mind. Do you have turnovers?” he asked.

“Made this afternoon. Apple, cranberry and walnuts.” you replied with a smile.

“I’ll take twelve of those.” he said, eyeing you expectantly. “To go, please.”

“I’m sorry. Twelve?” you exclaimed, baffled.

“Sweet tooth.” he explained with a shrug. “Thank you for the talk. It helped a lot!”

You nodded, taking the money he owed you and feeling very confused about the whole exchange.

“Do come back!” you called after him when he was a few stools away from you.

“If these taste as good as they smell, you bet I will!” he replied with a smirk, lifting the bag with the turnovers.

After he left, the older gentleman paid for his cake and drink and left as well, but not before winking at you and fake whispering “If you don’t pounce on that hunk the next time, I will!”.

As he disappeared from sight, the man sitting closer to the door got up and locked it.

“Finally alone.” he declared in a heavy accent. “So, no useful intel from this first contact?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” you replied patiently. “Do not rush me. I haven’t been busting my ass here for the past six months for you to just show up and undermine my entire operation.”

“They sent me. They want a report.” he told you. “Do not shoot the messenger.”

His chuckling was grating, and much like your shift, your patience with him was coming to an end.

“I have to lock up. Pay up and make your way out. Please.”

“I’ll be around. Don’t look at me like that! Orders!” he barked at you upon seeing your scowl. “I’m redundancy!”

“Fine!” you said through your teeth. “Now leave. I’ve got shit to do.”

“Hail Hydra!” he whispered, not waiting for you to reciprocate. Spinning on his heels he left hurriedly.

“Yeah, yeah.” you grumbled.

So now you had a guard dog to watch your every step. Now, that he had finally entered the café.

You had a bad feeling about that.

Whatever you were expecting from Sargent James B. Barnes, former Hydra operative known as Winter Soldier, was not what you found.

Bringing him back in would be a task much more complicated than you had anticipated.

***

Two blocks away.

“Seriously? No coffee for me?” Sam asked outraged, rubbing his hands together while eyeing the bag in Bucky’s hand while he was still getting into the car. “So, what’s she like?”

“She’s been very well trained.” Bucky replied, his lips pursing in the familiar way that told Sam he wasn’t telling the whole story.

“Spit it out tinman, it’ll do you good.” he said,  while gesturing to the bag which Bucky still clutched.

“I think I trained her.” he confessed, handing an agape Sam the bag. “Close your mouth bird boy.” Bucky continued, serious.

“You mean the soldier trained her.” Sam replied, already expecting the old-timer to talk back.

“What’s the difference?” he countered, morose. “Back in Siberia I may have spent most of the time as the Soldier, but there were moments of consciousness.”

Sam chose not to reply. The bitterness was still there, despite all the work with Shuri.

He was beginning to regret accepting a Hydra linked mission from Hill, so soon after Bucky got his head back in shape. It would be devastating to watch the organization take all that progress away from him; to watch him be a prisoner of his own mind again.

“Those moments weren’t enough for Sargent Barnes to train anyone.” Sam told him, opening the bag, taking a turnover with a napkin and humming in appreciation before continuing. “She’ll be waiting for the Soldier, you’ll show her Bucky.”

Bucky looked at him baffled at his speech, and shook his head at the sizable bite Sam took out of the pastry.

“Steve was so much better at pep talks than you are.”

[zekroudon]

Dinner with the in-laws

Adrien's first dinner with Marinette's parents since they officially got together. A lot of puns ensues. As usual, you can read it on Ao3 here.

This was the fic I wrote for my application for the Totographs zine, but I didn't get picked, but I'm proud of myself for applying! Once again, beware, lots of puns ahead. 

P.S. I won't be writing fanfics during November since I'm attempting Nanowrimo for the first time! It might not have been the best idea since I still have my classes, but I'll manage.

Edit: Thanks @komorebirei for beta-ing and their insightful tips.

   As Adrien stands in front of the door to Marinette’s home, the bouquet he got for her feels heavy and useless. He has already given so many roses to her, but they feel meaningless compared to how grateful he is to still have her in his life. Her parents must know how amazing she is — they’ll be disappointed…

   He’s hit by flashbacks to the events that led to Tom being akumatized into Weredad. Coming to the bakery after a lonely breakfast. The grey gloomy sky. The awkward kissing Marinette on the cheeks. The pink rose. Admitting he loved Ladybug, Ladybug and not Marinette, an irony Plagg kept teasing him about now that he was fully aware of her identity. Marinette being too good of an actress at being hurt. The enormous tower of vines with the angry beast on top protecting his princess. Ladybug only appearing at the end when everything was crumbling…

   Even though Nino assured him it was casual enough, yet fancy, and that Marinette would like it—a light green buttoned shirt, with only the top two buttons undone, and dark jeans—Adrien feels like he’s underdressed. Plagg phases through his shirt and looks him in the eyes.

“Just press the doorbell! I’m starving and I can’t wait to see Sugarcube!”

“Plagg, what if I mess up again? What if they hate me?”

   Adrien starts fidgeting with the bouquet in his hands. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants.

“How could they hate you? I’m pretty sure Pigtails couldn’t hate you.”

“But, what if…”

   The kwami presses the doorbell and returns to his warm pocket while dread fills Adrien. He hears the steps creak lightly as someone comes down to open the door. Is it Tom? No probably not—he’s heavier and the steps would creak more. Maybe Sabine? She can also be very scary when she wants to…

   The door opens and relief floods his body at the sight of his lady, princess, and girlfriend. Marinette is wearing a pink dress with a black jacket. He didn’t fail to notice the small cat paws and the kitty she embroidered on the jacket. The dress is fairly simple to the casual eye, but having been raised in the fashion industry for so long, he recognizes all the hard work she put into the hems and her trademark flower motif. Her black hair, free from the usual pigtails, cascades in waves over her right shoulder.  

“You look… beautiful,” are the only words that escape his lips.

“Thank you, you look great too!”

“So… These are for you!” he says, extending the flowers to her.

“Thank you! They’re pretty...” She leans her head into the bouquet, smelling its perfume. “They smell amazing too! Let’s go upstairs so I can put them in some water.”

   Adrien follows her as they enter the apartment over the bakery. Delicious scents hit him as they step inside. Except for the usual sweets from the bakery, he can smell a plethora of aromas he is not familiar with. An overly excited Tom practically bounces to him, followed by Sabine, who looks more calm and composed. Adrien swears the man is about to burst from how much he is shaking and buzzing with energy. He kisses Sabine’s cheek and extends his hand to shake Tom’s, who gladly accepts.

“Welcome, Adrien, we’re glad you could make it! We could not wait to meet the young man that stole our little daughter’s heart.”

“The pleasure’s all mine! Thank you for having me for dinner.”

   Once Tom let go of his hand, it instinctively went to rub the back of his neck, his usual tic when he’s nervous. Fear fills him as the man’s eyes grow big like saucers when a ray of light hits his ring, making it shine a little. Does he recognize him as Chat Noir? Marinette looks at him, unsure of what to make of her father’s reaction.

   He then turns and picks up Sabine. He whirls her before doing a pirouette himself.

“Our little daughter is engaged! She proposed to Adrien! We need to prepare the wedding cake, it’ll be the best Paris has ever seen!”

“Tom, dear…” Sabine says, trying to bring back her husband to Earth, with no success.

“What?” is the only word that escapes Adrien’s mouth.

   “Is it another case of Oblivio?” Adrien asks himself. ”Last time I checked, we were only dating…” He realizes at the same time as Marinette what gave Tom the idea, but she’s quicker to react. He thought that Adrien’s miraculous was an engagement ring. Though, it’s not on the correct hand…

“We’re not engaged, Papa!!” shouts Marinette, calming her father. “The ring’s, um…”

“It was from my mother, it’s not a wedding ring. Not that I would mind being engaged to Marinette, she’s amazing and any guy or girl would be crazy to turn her down. I mean, I’d gladly propose to her, but I don’t want to go too fast and I’d rather have your blessing before…”

   He is stopped by a hand on his arm. Sabine looks up sweetly at him, just like she did with Chat Noir all those years ago.

“It’s okay, dear, we know you love our daughter very much—it’s obvious in your eyes. Tom just tends to get ahead of things. That poor Chat Noir, I hope he wasn’t too traumatized.”

“I don’t think he is…” Adrien shyly replies.

   Since he arrived a bit early, Adrien offers to help make dinner. Considering his lack of ability in the kitchen, he gets vegetable duty, since it’s pretty straightforward and he won’t risk ruining the meal with a beginner’s mistake by putting in too much spice or causing a fire.

“You know, I can’t believe no one ever taught you to cook—but at the same time, knowing your father, it does make sense.”

“Yeah, I  carrot  believe it either. I guess he expected me to  stew  in the mansion and have a cook for my entire life.”

“Even for you, that was pretty bad,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Finish slicing them, it’s nearly ready...”

“I don’t know about that, young lady—there’s always  thyme  for puns,” replies Tom with a smirk, a fire lit in his eyes. “Once you’re done Adrien, I’ll  knead  some fruits for dessert

“Of course! Would you help me,  gourdgeous  princess? We make the perfect  pear , after all.”

“I think you’ll be  apple  to do it yourself, my prince.”

“Ah, you leave me  floured  ! You know I only have  pies  for you.”

“You’re such a weirdo…”

“Maybe, but I’m your  weirdough  and you  loaf  me.”

“See, Sabine, they were  baked  for each other. I’m sure  muffin  could break them apart.”

   A little bit later, once they are all sitting at the table, plates set and food served.

“This is so delicious! I don’t think my chef has ever made me something this good!”

“I doubt your chef would have cooked this—it’s not really suited for a model’s diet,” Sabine says. “But thank you. I could show you some recipes if you want.”

“I’d love that, Mrs. Cheng! Well, I’m  bacon  track now, I’m no longer following a diet as strict as before: no more drumsticks and crumbs.  Dough , I have to admit that I would have been  toasted  if my father had found me eating a meal like this.”

“You can call us Sabine and Tom, dear, no need to be so formal.”

“I’m glad to hear that! You sure could add more meat to those bones of yours,” Tom adds jokingly.

“The  yeast  he could have done was to let you see your friends more often,” Marinette replies drily.

“It’s okay, it’s all behind us now. The  bread  of akumas, the  pain …” He adds, giving Marinette a slice of bread. She shakes her head, but still takes it.

“Doughnut  worry, son, you’ll always be welcome here. I could show you the ropes of a baker’s job! I  croissant  your talent.”

   The rest of the main meal goes well—more puns, talking about their future and hopes. Adrien loved the fact that Tom and Sabine didn’t expect him to follow in his father’s footsteps and take the reins of Gabriel, unlike almost everyone else in his life. Instead, they encouraged him when he said that he would need some time to figure out what he really wants to do with his life, to forge his own path.

   As Marinette ices the cake, Adrien finishes slicing the fruits and placing them. His fingers are all sticky and stained from the juices, but he’s the happiest he’s ever been. He feels like he’s part of a family, in a house filled with love, warmth, and fun. He dips his finger in some cream that has fallen from Marinette’s pouch. She’s fully focussed on the task at hand, just like when she was figuring out an especially complicated lucky charm in a face-off with a strong akuma. He gets an idea. It’s a bit mischievous, but a good one.

   Smirking, he carefully sneaks behind her, channeling his inner Chat Noir. Once he’s close enough, he pokes her nose with his cream coated finger. She jerks back into his arms and squeezes the icing bag, making it explode. Their faces and clothes are covered with icing.

“Ch-Adrien!”

“See, m’ lady, I always told you that you’re  la crème de la crème  . Getting my miraculous was an  ameowzing  day in my life, but meeting you was the  icing on the cake ,” he whispers in her ear.

“Shh! They’ll hear you!”

   Her scolding expression lingers for a bit longer, but she soon bursts out laughing.

“I can’t believe you! All this for puns?”

“I felt like I needed to remind my girlfriend of how amazing she is...”

   Tom and Sabine turn the corner to the kitchen, taking in the mess the two made.

“What are you two  loafing  about… Oh, that’s quite the mess, isn’t it?” Tom asks, stopping in his tracks.

“Go change into your pyjamas, I’ll finish icing the cake in the meantime,”Sabine sweetly adds, opening the fridge to get more icing.

   As they walk past the counter to go change, Marinette picks a cherry and perches it on Adrien’s nose.

“You don’t need to remind me, Adrien, I’ll always  cherrysh  the  koalaty  time I get to spend with you.”

[florianwirtz]

Tears - Anyone You’d Like

Warning: strong language

"Will we see us again? I really had a good time with you."

You blinked a few times confusedly before you answered the question with a plastered smile on your face.

"Of course, I'm texting you whenever I'm free, see you soon." You even had the decency to look back and wave until you ran to the bus stop, a sour expression on your face.

Another failed tinder date later, you found yourself at your best friend's couch with a glass of wine in your hand. Luckily, he always had an open ear for you whenever your day didn't go the way you wanted.

"He really spent the whole date talking about how fucking awesome he apparently is and managed to make everything about him. I swear I was that close to spilling the wine over the table so he could shut the fuck up for once."

Frustration was taking over you which made you finish your half-full glass in one go and your best friend only chuckled slightly while observing you silently. He never grew tired of listening to your failed date stories because the way you were able to retell stories and spilling all your emotions was just so hilarious.

“I told you these tinder dates will lead to nothing. You should give one of my teammates a chance, they're all lovely, I promise!” He suggested after you were finished with ranting and you only rolled your eyes at him.

“While I appreciate your lousy attempts of playing matchmaker, I already told you I don't want to date a footballer, I don't think I could handle being second choice to a freaking ball!” A short laugh escaped your mouth which made him laugh too, but you saw that he wasn't really listening anymore as he was busy scrolling through his socials.

To avoid awkward silence, you pretended to do the same as a sudden wave of sadness hit you. Because of course, he didn't understand why you were still accepting all these tinder dates when you were fully aware that this is definitely not the platform to find the love of your life. How could he know that you refused to go on dates with one of his teammates because you couldn't help but compare every single footballer to him.

Something deep inside you still somehow hoped that you'd end up with him. So you used these dates as a distraction, an excuse that you haven't found the right one yet.

And just as you thought about how naive and stupid your feelings were, the reason you felt silly went down the stairs.

"Hi you two! [Y/N], I didn't know you were coming!" She gave you her sweetest smile and you couldn't help but smile back. The hug she gave you felt warm and genuine and once again you just knew that she was the right one for him. How could you hate her when she never badmouthed you once for always showing up at your friend's house because you wanted to feel his presence near you.

Not even the miserable feeling in your stomach when she bent down to him and kissed his cheek softly which made both put their happiest faces on could tell you that you shouldn't be happy for them.

"Hi! Yes, but I was about to go, it's late." You answered her politely, ignoring the pang in your chest when you realised that they only had eyes for each other.

"Really? Let me drive you home then, it's late and you had a drink." She didn't even give you time to refuse and went searching for her car keys, leaving you and her boyfriend alone again.

"Thanks for having me and sorry for always barging in, she probably doesn't like it and I try not to do it so often anymore." You chuckled while holding him in your arms. Nothing made you feel more secure than being able to share physical contact with him while smelling his signature perfume.

"Stop saying that, you are always welcome. She knows how important you are to me. Have a safe ride home." He lightly brushed your cheek which made your whole body tremble and never were you happier than now that you could blame the burning shade of your face on the wine you had consumed.

You knew it was only a gesture of a trusted friend, yet it was all you could think about the whole ride home. Which is why you barely paid attention to what she talked about but she didn't seem to mind as she cluelessly continued talking. Only when she mentioned his name, you suddenly came back to reality.

"You ordered that cake for his birthday next week, right?"

"Yes, of course, the carrot cake from the bakery located in the neighbourhood he came from. It's gonna be delivered to your house on his day, it's all planned." You explained to her and saw her smiling while paying attention to the street.

"He's so lucky to have you, the amount of effort you put in his birthday is so heartwarming. I'm going to make sure he does the same for you."

She said it with such reassurance, for a moment, you weren't sure if you were able to hold this fake happy facade any longer. Because you still couldn't believe that she found all these sweet words for you when you were nothing but horrible to her by secretly wanting her boyfriend all to yourself. You were lucky that it was dark outside so she never noticed how a few tears escaped from your eyes. 

And the pain in your heart returned but this time not because of jealousy but because you realised how awful of a human being you are by not being able to let go of a dead crush.

A few days later you were invited to one of his games and it wasn't just any game but the decisive game of which team was going to the cup final.

Of course, you wore his name and number on your back but it didn't feel any special as he always had gifted you his kits whenever a new season started, it was a tradition since he went professional and for you as a football fan a great collector’s item.

She was also here and you were both twinning as she wore the same kit as you, only that hers was a man size, probably stolen from him. You even posted a pic on social media together, capturing it with “game day x” and expressions for the support of his team.

His family always managed to be present which was a rather rare occasion as they lived far away from his current residence. However, you knew from childhood days that they were always the proudest whenever they saw him play. And of course, they loved her, she was the perfect girlfriend anyone could ask for and she already told you that his family already made her feel like she was one of them. Life could be so perfect if you’d only see him as your best friend.

The game couldn't be any closer as both teams were equally strong, chances missed and converted from both sides and in the last 10 minutes, the scoreline showed was 1-1.

Both of you were nervously trembling, the tension whenever the opponent had the ball was unbearable and it seemed like it was going to extra time. But then a player of his team saw an opportunity and sprinted as his life depended on it, making the opponent's defenders look like fools. Finally, in front of the goal, he was crossing to his teammate who smashed the ball into the net with a beautiful header.

The crowd erupted, you and she in the family lounge hold each other tightly, screaming with joy and pride with the others in the room joining as well. And the few minutes of extra time after the deciding goal felt like an eternity, you and she never let go of each other's hands, too afraid that the opponent could turn this game around, but his team fought back until the liberating final whistle was heard.

You saw his team celebrating with each other, grinning like a Cheshire cat and also finding yourself in her arms again.

“I'm so proud of him, you have no idea.” She squeaked excitedly and you agreed with her, hugging her even tighter.

Finally, after all the post celebrations and interviews he came up to the family lounge, the people in this room applauding him with immense pride when they spotted their golden boy and he was greeting one after another.

Then he made his way to you and you just ran up to him and hugged him wordlessly, burying your head in his shoulder.

“You were fucking awesome there. You gonna win this trophy for sure now.”

“God, you are amazing. My supporter even when I accidentally smashed your mom’s vases back then. Thank you.”

You could feel your heartbeat so fast, you even thought you might pass out in a moment. This moment just felt too intense to end but it wasn't long until he slowly let go of you and you snapped back to reality.

And the ugly feeling of rejection came back when you saw him running up to her, kissing her passionately on the mouth and leaving a few other kisses on her face. They whispered sweet nothings to each other inaudible for everyone else and never noticing how they were lost in their own bubble. You stood on the side, no one noticing how you hold back a few tears in the back as they were busy in taking pictures of the two lovebirds.

Then his birthday came up. He still had training on this day but his coach assured him that there was no training the day after so he decided to celebrate in the evening after training.

So you found yourself in his house, helping his girlfriend to organise the party they had planned.

"Can I ask you something?" She suddenly asked you as you were in the process of decorating the table.

"Uh sure." Unsure what to expect, you both stopped arranging the glasses on the table as she sat down on the sofa, pointing to the place next to her.

"Do you think him and I are a good match?"

To say you were flabbergasted by her question would be an underestimation as you looked at her utterly aghast. What was she implying?

"What do you mean? Of course, you are?! You and he are perfect for each other and I bet you could ask anyone and they'd say the same."

She hesitated a bit before she answered, visibly uncertain about your statement.

"People on Instagram beg to differ."

She referred to the pictures he posted after the game he won. It contained a series of pictures including his family, you and her. "Finals! Always grateful for all of them supporting me."

You hadn't had a look at the comments before, but most of them were either about her or you. How you and he would be a much better fit, that you and he seemed to have more chemistry, simply based on two photos he had posted.

"Don't listen to them, sweetie. They don't see what we see every day and we know that you belong together." Comfortingly you put your hand on her shoulder while her expression still remained doubtful.

"But you still know him better than I ever will. After all, it was you who told me what he likes and how we should organise the party. It feels that after all these years, I still don't seem to know him like you do."

Unwilling to accept her self-doubt, you forcefully shook your head.

"It doesn't matter how well I know him. You are still his and his only. And while he loves me a lot, he loves me differently. He will always love you more."

How you managed to say this without bursting out into tears was beyond your understanding. Maybe if you told yourself this often enough, you'll start to accept it and maybe you were finally at the point where you should be able to move on.

However, when she gratefully took you in her arms, thanking you for trying to build her up, the relief in her voice obvious, you could feel your eyes watering. Because you knew she wouldn't even take a look at you if she knew what kind of feelings you were hiding.

The conversation was long over and forgotten when one of his mates finally brought him home, his house full of guests singing happy birthday to him as he entered the living room.

Obviously, he was left speechless at the number of people who had come to the party. He was even more surprised when he found out that it was you and her who organised all of it and immediately, he embraced you both at the same time, whispering "thank you my favourite girls".

Everyone was having a good time and even you could temporarily forget about your problems for a while. It was also an opportunity to get to know his teammates and you were positively surprised as most of them weren't too bad of a company.

It was all going well for you until he was asking for everyone's attention. No one really knew what was going on but he managed to make everyone surround him and his girlfriend, visibly wanting to announce something.

"First of all, I wanted to thank everyone for coming and making this day special. I feel extremely grateful that I know people like you who care so much about me."

Everyone in this room applauded him but stopping soon as he gave a signal that he wasn't finished talking.

As the applause died down, he took both hands of his girlfriend in his and looked her deeply in the eyes.

"I also wanna say special thanks to my girlfriend who always stuck by my side no matter what we've been through. I don't think I could ask for anyone better than you."

Suddenly he went down on his knee, everyone in this room holding their breath, knowing exactly what was coming while she held both of her hands in front of her mouth as he pulled out a box with a shiny ring out of his pocket.

"So I wanted to ask you if you would give me the honour and let me make you my wife?"

And she was now crying tears of joy, nodding with her head so much as if she had never been more sure of a decision.

Finally, the ring was on her finger and the people around the couple who were holding each other happily began to film and cheer with loud noise, celebrating and congratulating the couple in front of them.

You, on the other hand, stood like a brick wall at your place, not moving one bit as you still needed time to process what had happened a few minutes before.

Luckily for you, everyone's attention was given to the couple as no one noticed how you discreetly made your way out of the room.

You barely managed to reach the toilet and lock it up as you immediately fell down on your knees and finally, you let all the tears you had held back all the time streaming down your face.

You knew you should've expected it, you knew there never had been a chance in the first place, yet you couldn't help but feel heartbroken and alone. Because now he had made his definitive decision, he intended to spend the rest of his life with her.

And maybe this was your final call to ultimately move on from a love that was never meant to be, to finally let go of a person who was never yours in the first place.

Eventually, the tears stopped pouring and you took your time to sit on the floor for a few minutes, trying to regain your composure. Your make up was ruined by crying so you tried your best to make yourself look normal as much as possible. Right now, no one was supposed to notice your pain, later when you were home by yourself, you had enough time to let your true emotions show.

Carefully, you sneaked out of the bathroom and by the looks of it, no one had noticed your disappearance or breakdown. So you approached him with your brightest smile who was still surrounded by other people congratulating him. "My best friend is growing up and I can't believe he didn't tell me! Congrats on popping the question!" You took him in your arms as he hugged you happily back.

This time you broke the hug before you could feel anything more than you should.

Of course, he immediately noticed your face which was still red from the tears you had cried, making him look at you with a concerned face.

"Did you cry? Is everything alright?"

It wasn't easy to lie directly into his face as you still felt like you could burst out in tears at any minute but for his sake, you continued smiling.

"Of course I did, because I was so happy for you, idiot!" Playfully you smacked him on the shoulder and laughed which immediately infected him too.

"God, I'm so glad to have you."

And for some reason, his words didn't seem to affect you as much as they used to, you no longer felt like your heart could explode at any minute. Maybe these tears you had cried before were the first step of letting him go. Maybe these tears were necessary to get you through the process. Maybe when you saw him with her the next time, you will already have your happiness back.

Tell me who you imagined this with!

[dreams-of-valeria]

Could it be F1 and A1 but like maybe the reader and hopper have an age gap so the reader parents are almost (but they are not... or they are ? Idk that’s up to you lol) the same age as hopper therefore there’s this kind of tension??? And hopper being kind of clumsy at the cake ? Sorry if I am asking too much, tbh your prompts got me exited!

@may85 asked:

Sooooooo can I please request A1 and F10 together? F10 being that the readers parents are complete shit and giving reader a hard time about Hop being late. Pllleassee!? 🥰🥰

In the midst of winter

F1: Baking a cake together

F10: Requester's choice

A1: Late for Christmas dinner with Reader's parents

Pairing: Jim Hopper × Younger female reader

A/N: Merry Christmas and thank you so much for your kind words! I’ve clubbed both of your requests together because as you can see, they are essentially the same but I’ve made sure to give them some individuality and I really hope you like it!

Warnings: Ok so this turned out to be a little darker than I expected and includes mentions of abuse and crying but it’s nothing our favourite Chief can’t handle. Age gap.

Word count: 3,067

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The old clock on the wall taunted you with every plock, demanding your attention between every bite of the bread you were working down just to keep your mouth busy.

The alternative would be to make conversation with the two severely conservative, stuck up and judgy people you knew as your parents. But unlike that moment, your childhood didn’t consist of you swimming in bread, although it had always been your favorite.

Your eyes drifted anywhere but over them sitting across from you at the table, and rather flew over the spread you had spent all day making. Gingerbread, ham, mashed potatoes, roasted green beans and carrots, sugar cookies, cake batter on the counter and a stuffed chicken because the store had run out of turkeys the night of Christmas Eve. The festive season was surely joyous and mesmerizing, but also meant you had to work tirelessly to a goal you had set for yourself, and could barely accomplish when your parents had arrived an hour early; just so they’d have extra time to pick at how untidy your apartment was, how old your simple black dress looked, and how you were wasting your life working as a writer at local newspaper. Which, they had added rather graphically the people of Hawkins only used to wipe their unmentionables. And that was even before they got to the pièce de resistance.

They had always been elitist and looked down upon the humble families just trying to survive and make it in a capitalist country, especially the folks of a small town, which was part of the reason you had moved to Hawkins, Indiana. The lion’s share was because you just had to get away.

The pleasant dream of having a small, homely Christmas dinner with Hopper had been shattered by that one phone call last night, of how your parents had caught wind that you’d found someone for yourself from your sister.

Becky hadn’t told them on purpose, of course. Unlike your parents, she didn’t see anything wrong with you dating a 40-year-old man especially when you were finally, truly happy. In fact, her only folly had been to leave the postcard you had sent her out on the counter, and naturally, your nosy parents had found out. Strangely, it had been Hopper’s idea to dress both of you up in all red for the photograph and send Christmas postcards out to everyone you knew. He wasn’t very generically forthcoming but did have certain ways to show affection.

Including offering to cook dinner with you. You smiled when you remembered, how only last night he had taken you in his arms after the phone call and calmed you down until your panic attack had passed. ‘We can figure it out’, he’d said, brushing your hair lovingly. You missed feeling that sense of warmth and safety in his arms.

You didn’t feel even an iota of that warmth and safety in your own apartment and surrounded by the people you’d known ever since you were born. But knowing and loving were two completely different things, you’d realised, a little too late in your life. The moment you did, you were on a bus heading south.

But now there was nowhere to run. They were there to meet your boyfriend, and like he had said, you just had to get through it. Pull off the bandaid. You wished Hopper wasn’t late, that he was there to defend you from the comments or offer comfort with his hand on the small of your back, but he was late, fighting crime. Typical.

Unlike in your parents’ case, you found that to be endearing. Even if he was forced to let you cook dinner alone.

“It’s been a while,” commented your mother, pulling her blazer’s sleeve back down over her diamond wristwatch. She was studded all over with stones, and they made your eyes hurt from the glare. You swallowed the bread and the lump down your throat and tried to smile.

“Like I said, he’s the Chief of police and must be busy with work.”

“On Christmas Eve? Did someone lose a cow or something?” Your father laughed, a balding bespectacled man who outshone his better half only in contempt.

“We’re not all mindless, farming hillbillies, dad.” You sighed, taking a sip from the wine, but reminding yourself not to drink too much. Drowning your sorrows in alcohol had worked before, but right then, it would only work in your parents’ favor. Just another reason to find a flaw in you.

“Of course not, dear. You’re not one of them.” Rebutted your dad, keeping it civil but his eyes spoke otherwise. Appearances meant everything to them, but you could never forget that look in their eyes that spoke more than those golden words ever did.

“Them are people too you know? Like Jim, my boyfriend.” You smiled, rubbing it in. It was a rarity for you to have the upper hand when it came to irking your parents, and you were not going to let this go. Your father sighed, and you could see that he was taking deep breaths to keep the civility going. Deep down, you wished he would break. You could feel a storm brewing, but it was no reason to let Jim bear witness to it. Provided that he made it in time.

“Of course.” He gritted his teeth but soon eased up. “All we’re saying is, it’s rude to be late to dinner. Especially when you spent all day cooking.”

You opened your mouth in reflex to counter but then listened to his words. Really listened. There were no double entendres or veiled insults. That made you even more suspicious.

”We just want what’s best for you, y/n.” He smiled and your mother mirrored him, and you looked between them like a deer in headlights. What sort of game were they playing? There had to be a game.

“And it’s never too late to make the right decision–” Your mother started off, and you interrupted her with an exasperated sigh.

“I knew it,” you chuckled grimly. “You’re just here to try to talk me out of my relationship.”

“What relationship?” Your father spat suddenly, and the timber of his voice made you shudder. There it was. “You are a child, and that jerk is just forcing you to–”

The door clicked open behind you and heavy footsteps gushed in, along with a gust of frozen air. All eyes went to the hallway and landed on the man of the hour, all bundled up in a parka and boots and huffing heavy breaths, probably from running up the three flights of stairs.

He scanned the room and pursed his lips. “H-hey.”

He was terrible at meeting new people. But that was the least of your concerns. You went up to him with an automatic smile on your face despite the circumstances and helped get his parka off.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, a car had tipped over on Maple street and it took forever for the fire engine to get there and I had to wait, baby, there were kids inside–”

“It’s ok.” You assured him with a smile, holding his face in your hands briefly, knowing you had an audience. An especially judgy one.

On that note, he approached the table with a smile and drew his arm across to the seated guests.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I’m Jim–”

“Ms. Brown.” You mother corrected, eyeing him sharply. You went up behind him and rest your hand on his back, as a form of apology. You knew already you’d be doing a lot of that later.

“My apologies, Ms. Brown. And also for being late. It’s great to meet you.” You could hear the smile in his voice despite the curt way in which they shook his hand.

“Likewise, Jim.” Your father’s jaw clenched. “Now, shall we eat before you get called into duty again?”

Hopper forced a chuckle and you could hear it. He took his seat by you, not excusing himself to change out of his uniform or splash some water on his face like he usually did before dinner. He knew that no matter how much you mouthed off about them, there was still something there, and he respected that enough not to drag it out longer than it had to be and to take whatever they threw at him. It warmed your heart that he would do that for you, but at the same time, you wished he wouldn’t.

“It smells amazing, y/n.” Jim smiled on your right, squeezing your knee gently. You looked into his tired eyes and smiled back. He meant the world to you. Would they ever see that?

“Do you cook, Jim?” Asked your father as he served himself some vegetables, beating you to it. You sighed and served the potatoes to your mother, yourself and Jim.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Brown–thank you, sweetheart–unless you count microwave dinners.” He laughed in that deep, rumbling voice as he scooped some potatoes onto his spoon.

“I don’t.” Snapped your father, watching him intently as he chewed. “So this is what your … relationship is like? My daughter cooks for you and you don’t even help out–”

“I like cooking for him.” You interrupted, making louder noises with the cutlery than needed. You used to get reprimanded for that too.

Jim gently rubbed your thigh. “I meant to get here earlier, but my job–”

“So if God forbid something happened to y/n late at night, you’d be on Maple street, correct?”

“I bet you’d love if something happened to me, wouldn’t you, mom?” You hissed, stuffing your mouth with the potatoes. They were overcooked. Damn it.

“Please don’t be a martyr, y/n.” She scoffed.

“How could I be when you steal the show, mom?” You snapped and watched her jaw drop. That had never happened before.

“Y/n! That is not how you speak to your mother. Apologize.” You could see the perspiration on your father’s forehead already, and the next level would be his vein throbbing. Some part of you wanted to push him further.

“No, I’m good. Honey, could you pass the ham?” You asked Hopper, and it took him a second to blink and realize you were talking to him. He did as asked with a slight frown as he watched you closely.

You could feel your father’s eyes burn holes through you a while longer before he wordlessly returned to his dinner. You’d nailed the ham. That Jacques Pepin really knew what he was doing.

“If we knew this was how it was going to be, we’d never had flown up.” Your father said passive-aggressively, attacking the poor ham with his knife. “Thought we could just visit our daughter for Christmas …”

“Don’t pretend like that’s all you’re here for, dad.” You rubbed your fingers over your eyes, feeling moisture come back.

“Well, of course, it’s not! We paired you up with the most perfect man!” He exploded, and you were surprised he could hold it in for as long as he did. Of course, he would bring up the lowest point in your life.

“Oh, Gerald?” You scoffed, watching his vein pop. Hopper shifted uncomfortably, arms ready to interrupt if it came to that. He knew everything about your past.

“Yes, Gerald! He went to Yale! He’s going to be a doctor, y/n.” Your father cried, eyebrows furrowed in a rage. Like you had stabbed him in the back. Your mind imploded with the overwhelming memories and seemed to grip at your chest painfully. You could feel another attack coming.

“He … hurt me.” Your voice cracked, and Jim’s arm came around your shoulders.

“So you say!” Your mother dropped her cutlery, leaning forward in a rage. “He is a good boy but of course you would find faults with him, y/n–”

“He hurt me …” you gasped for breath as your voice quivered, feeling the tears track down your face. “ … every. Day.” Jim’s other arm had come around your front and held you tight, but somehow it made you feel better. The weight on your chest was getting lighter with his touches, as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

“Oh, I remember the lies, y/n. And that you ran away. And all for what? Him?” Your father spat, pointing at Hopper. His arms around you froze, and you followed.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve marred the Brown family name? Dating a damn divorcee who’s twice your age in the middle of Godforsaken nowhere?” He rasped, as his entire face turned red.

“What do you want me to do, dad?” You pleaded, throwing him another lifeline. You were stupid to hope, but that was who you were. “You want me to leave the man who loves me for who I am and finally makes me happy and go back to the one you two approve of? Even if he beats me up?”

You gazed at your parents through tears with a sincere question, still waiting like a fool for them to prove you right.

“Gerald would never do that.” Your father sighed, cleaning his glasses to the end of the table cloth, before looking up at you. There was nothing behind those eyes. “But, yes.”

And there it was.

You knew the moment you’d received that phone call that was the reason they were flying down. Not to check on their younger daughter who couldn’t do anything right with her life, or wouldn’t stay with the abuser her own parents had chosen for her right out of college to marry. But still, you dreamed that they were coming to see how you were doing, to meet Jim and maybe playfully threaten him to take care of you or to tell you that no matter what choices you made or who you were, that they were with you. That they loved and supported you.

You scoffed, realizing that that moment was the final nail in the coffin. You had long abandoned your dream of seeking your parents’ approval, but this was the end. You’d found a new dream already, and Jim would not make you chase him or point out your flaws. And you were completely and gratefully in love with him. And that was enough.

You gazed up at his face, at his still tired eyes and haphazard hair, but also at the overwhelming love in his eyes as he asked you repeatedly if you were alright. He was more than enough.

You smiled at him before turning back to them.

“Well, if I’m such a dishonor to the family name, maybe I shouldn’t have it anymore.” You said, straightening up in your seat as Hopper released you, but still kept his hand on your chair.

They looked up at you slowly, until they said almost at the same time, “What?”

“You heard me. And I think you should get going before the snow comes in.” You pulled your chair back and stood to your feet, watching them expectantly.

They seemed confused, and stared up at you with slack jaws until he said, “You’re kicking us out?”

“Perceptive aren’t you, father?” You mocked, and that seemed to do it. They hastily got to their feet and shuffled around to the hallway, grumbling as they put their coats on.

“You remember this moment when you turned your own family away, y/n. When you come begging back to us.”

“Jim treats me more like family than you two ever did. And if I do come back, it’ll be as Y/N Hopper.” You said, before closing the door after them. Their startled faces were etched into your mind as you walked back into the kitchen, wiping the remnant tears from your face.

“Honey?” Jim called hesitantly from behind you but paused in the kitchen when he saw you at the counter, throwing your apron on.

“You promised you’d help, Chief. Get your apron,” You smiled at him warmly through the tears as you uncovered the half mixed cake batter in the bowl. Hopper cautiously threw the apron on as he watched you, washing your hands before dousing them into the yellow batter.

“I’m sure we have a whisk, sweetheart.” He said, tucking some loose hair behind your ears.

“No, it’s better this way,” you smiled like you didn’t just cut off ties with your parents.

“You wanna talk about it?” Hopper asked in as gentle a voice as he could, eyeing the raisins in a bowl. He didn’t like raisins in his cake.

“I’m good. Could you pass the vanilla, please?” You asked, pointing your eyes to the small vial by the oven. He did as you asked, and you could still feel his eyes on him.

“The raisins, too.” You asked, but Jim didn’t spring into action this time. You entered a staredown, one where you looked at him expectantly, and he pleaded with his eyes. You gave in with a chuckle. He could be so adorable sometimes.

“Alright, but just this once.” You conceded, and he hovered behind you, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered, kissing your hair this time. You paused the mixing and sighed, smiling as his arms wrapped around you again. That one ounce of doubt disappeared when you were in his arms again, and bliss replaced it.

“I love you too,” you declared, turning your face to kiss him. Jim was chaste this time and let you off with a peck, lending that moment more gooey-ness than the batter. And it only increased when he slid his fingers down your arms and into the bowl, kneading along with you.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled, leaning back into him. He was your pillar in more ways than one. You were grateful for him every day, starting with the day you’d met him at the newspaper office when he’d wanted some ‘intel’. You’d found out days later that it was all made up and the only reason he was there, was for you.

“Helping.” He hummed, kissing your cheek as his fingers intertwined with yours and straightened out the batter, and Jim Hopper was kind enough to lend the same favor to you.

And that was more than enough.

J.

[xautunno]

Kings & Queens Pt. 20

A Merry Christmas 

A bit short as I tried not to go over 3 pages. Please enjoy this very much G rated chapter <3

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year~!

-

“What is this?” Yumemi draped her coat over the back of a spare chair, a smile overtaking her face at the sight of her husband. 

“Dinner.” Munto turned, spatula in hand, and gestured to the stove. A cutting board sat nearby with the ends of carrots, celery, onions, and potatoes. 

She giggled at his apron of choice, a kiss-the-chef type she gave him for his birthday a few years back. It was very fitting as she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

“A cream stew.” She inhaled deeply, peeking inside the pot. “Smells good.”

“I got chicken if that’s alright.” He stirred the pot gently once, then twice. “It’s almost ready.”

Yumemi grabbed them some bowls and set them on the small wooden table. Typically a servant’s table in the kitchens, but for tonight, it would be theirs. Munto must have dismissed the staff already. 

“Are we still on for tomorrow? It’s Christmas and everyone is gathering.” She tucked her skirt underneath her as she sat. 

“Of course. You got one of those Christmas cakes?” Munto did enjoy sweets now and then, preferring to wait for special occasions such as this. Mostly when Rui wasn’t around to tease him of what the kids are calling a ‘dad bod’. 

“Left them at my mom’s.” Yumemi tried to quiet her bouncing knee. It’s been a while since she’d eaten cream stew and longer since Munto cooked like this. 

The first time Munto attempted to cook, Yumemi had been in the middle of finals week during her first year of university. She’d come for the weekend to destress and get a minimal amount of studying in before another round of exams. 

Munto cleared the kitchen, sending all the staff home early for the night. She just got back from a stroll in the gardens with Rui - deliberate distraction - and wandered the halls of the palace searching for her boyfriend. 

The smell wafted through the air and lead her straight to him. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, he tapped his chin as he read the instructions from a cookbook. The kind she remembered her mom pulling out growing up. The countertops were littered with kitchen utensils and ingredients and he had several pots and skillets on the stove. 

Yumemi was sorely tempted to call out to him but stopped. She wanted to watch him instead. To see exactly what he would do. 

Nothing special just homemade soup. But, he took care with each step, dicing up vegetables on a cut board and pulling apart the chicken into thin strips. 

The small table pushed to the side had two bowls, some napkins, and silverware set out. Two empty wine glasses sat by their respective bowls with an uncorked wine bottle as a centerpiece. There was also a pitcher of water off to the side. 

“Munto?” Yumemi bit her smile, tiptoeing further into the room. 

He stiffened, shooting from his position to greet her. 

“I’m sorry.” He dusted a piece of carrot from his shirt. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed…” Yumemi tried to cheekily peek behind him. “Whatcha doin’?” 

Munto gave her a warm smile and stepped to the side so she could join him. 

“Your mom’s recommended dish.” He heard her sharp inhale, eyes widening as she drank in the image before her. 

“Chicken miso…” A hand came to rest against her lips, eyes darting over to him.

An overcooked chicken miso with mushy noodles and vegetables filled with love and concern for her. 

Munto wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close, and kissed her temple. He wanted her to feel at home here in the palace and while he spent quite a bit on purchasing every cookbook known to man, it took one phone call to find out all her favorites. 

“Your mother said this was your favorite.” He rubbed her arm gently, one hand stirring the pot.

“It is.” Yumemi reached up, kissing her boyfriend’s cheek. “Thank you, Munto.”

“You’re welcome.” He guided her to a seat. “I want you to feel at home here.”

Munto worried about the differences between their two worlds. Her needs varied greatly from his own and between the merging of their worlds and officially courting her, he had little time to catch up. Granted, now that those trying times were beginning to bleed into history, he had a more open schedule - when he wasn’t filling it with time for Yumemi. 

“I do.” Yumemi stopped him short, pulling him down for a satisfying kiss. “You are my home, Munto.”

A sentence she would gladly repeat for him time and time again. Words that poured from her lips around midnight and before the sun rose to greet the world. A heartbeat and feeling singing between their connection, crossing the tattering remains of the continuum between the Lower and Upper Worlds. 

Sitting quietly at the same table, on Christmas Eve, Yumemi glanced up from her bowl of soup to watch her husband. A familiar warmth spread through her chest. 

“Munto?” He lowered his spoon, licking his lips as he gave her his full attention. “I love you.”

His eyes brightened as the curve of his lips set into a soft smile. 

“I love you too, Yumemi.”

[itsuki-minamy]

“BITTER CURRY”

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

"You put peppers on it again!"

As soon as he looked at the table, Sukuna screamed. Iwafune shrugs.

"So is. The ingredients of yakisoba are pork, cabbage, carrots, onions, sprouts and peppers."

"It would be nice to sprinkle the yakisoba with blue seaweed!"

"Well, that doesn't look like a yakisoba bowl."

Iwafune shook his head with an astonished face.

Still, Sukuna has only eaten instant food while away from home, except for yakisoba and other dishes made by Iwafune. He couldn't judge whether the yakisoba made by Iwafune was standard.

"It's okay, because it looks like a yakisoba bowl."

"Not well! So you can't get vegetables or protein. If yakisoba is made with the right ingredients, it's an excellent dish that can get all the nutrition you need in one dish, right?”

“It is a common mistake to cook a lot of vegetables and make them messy, but Iwa-san makes yakisoba like that. It is delicious and well balanced, I think it is a very nice dish.”

Mishakuji said it was a beautiful job while eating the yakisoba. In his captive clothing, Nagare uses the arm attached to the wheelchair instead of his hand and puts the yakisoba coiled like a spaghetti on his fork inside his mouth, making it dark.

"Affirmative. It's delicious."

Sukuna puffed out her cheeks.

“Apart from meat and other vegetables! I'm telling you to add peppers!”

"You can't grow if you continue with those tastes."

"What kind of nutrients can't I get without peppers? It's just bullying to put something that people don't like!”

"It is... Iwa-san's heart..."

"What heart? It is not easy to avoid. You see, Kotosaka, if you are a bird, eat vegetables. Eat this pepper."

"I do not want! I do not want!"

Kotosaka turned away from his face and ate the meat. Sukuna sighs and reluctantly plays with the peppers on the edge of his plate.

Iwafune shook his fist.

"Ok! Those who complain about people's cooked rice don't have to eat! I can't do you anymore!"

After that, for a few days, the days when Sukuna's food was not prepared really continued.

They all surround the table and face the hot rice, but there is nothing on Sukuna's seat.

At first he didn't mind, he turned around and ate the noodles on his own. However, as that continues, frustration and loneliness gradually increase.

Mishakuji laughed and said, "It is a natural reward for those who have no respect for their food."

"Mostly, it's not very popular. I wonder why I have to do something like that."

On the afternoon of the third day, Sukuna was in the kitchen, watching.

It is unusual for him to have nothing to do, and Mishakuji is on a small mission. Sukuna, who was left alone with Nagare (although Kotosaka is there), withdrew a bit and asked "Iwa-san is that so, can't I do anything about it?"

"By looking at Iwa-san's past personality trends and behaviors, Iwa-san simply cannot resist. Sukuna, if you apologize, he will return to his original state. It's the solution."

That was Nagare's opinion.

“I'm going to eat peppers correctly from now on, but can you tell him I'm sorry? That is because…"

Sukuna said, "Hm." He mused for a moment.

"So Sukuna, why don't you try cooking the rice instead of Iwa-san, who stopped cooking the rice for you?"

"What?"

At first he frowned, but in the end, Sukuna chose to stand in the kitchen while watching.

"I have never cooked."

Sukuna's parents' house was a place where people did not enter the kitchen without permission, and before that, her mother did not cook.

The chefs cooked meals every day, and the servants also handled the raising and lowering of the dishes. After leaving the house, he only ate what he bought at the convenience store, and has no experience in the kitchen other than pouring hot water.

"I also have no experience in the kitchen."

"Probably. Well, anyone can make curries.”

Sukuna took out her PDA and searched for curry recipes. Then many things like "my homemade curry recipe" appeared at the top of the search, and his eyes exploded.

“It is not just amateur recipes that appear. Ok, this."

"Iwa-san is not professional, but Iwa-san's curry is delicious."

"Well, yes... this is enough."

Select the most popular recipe from the aligned recipes and click on it.

Prepare the listed ingredients and cut the vegetables according to the recipe instructions. Chopping the onions was the most difficult part.

“Sukuna, the allyl sulfide in the onions has been vaporized. I see."

"Shut! It is I who is cutting! I'll try!"

"Gaaah! Cut! Cut!"

Sukuna moved his kitchen knife with his intuition, while his eyesight was blocked by tears. For some reason, the specific water on the side was also surprising.

"Sukuna, it is dangerous to close your eyes and use a knife."

"I can't see the front because of the tears! Shut up!"

 "Woah! Cut! Cut!"

He applies a bandage to the finger that had been cut with the kitchen knife, and made the cut onion manageable.

"Sukuna, the recipe says it is simmered until it turns amber, but you put a lot of heat in it."

"Because even if you do it over low heat, the color doesn't change at all."

"Woah! Hot! Hot!"

As soon as he hastened to "warm up slowly" made the fire stronger, the onions that had been sliced ​​open quickly jumped to caramel color and turned black.

However, he has no motivation to start again with the finely chopped meat: in a pan with black onions, he tosses carrots and potatoes, pork, stir it and boil it with water.

"Sukuna, it says here that the Curry Roux should be put on after the fire is out."

"What? I already put it. Is it still cooking? Do I have to put out the fire? What is the end of the recipe?”

“It is a secret taste. This is supposed to contain about 1 teaspoon of soy sauce.”

“It is soy sauce. Ah!”

"Waah! Much! Much!"

The curry is complete.

However, when he savored it along with Nagare, the burning smell and bitterness of the onion accentuated, the roux did not melt strongly and became a lump, and adding a lot of soy sauce gave it a strange taste, no could say nothing.

"What does that taste like?"

“It is difficult to say that it is delicious. But I can eat it.”

It seemed like a sincere impression that he didn't care, Sukuna feels refreshed when Nagare said that.

It would be embarrassing to serve Iwafune a plate and say "How did I do!", but it was also embarrassing to try to make peace with something so subtle, Sukuna put a lid on the curry pot and considered hiding it.

But before Sukuna took the pot of curry,

"Oh, I think it smells like curry!"

I hear Iwafune's cheery voice.

Sukuna bounces off his shoulders.

He saw Iwafune and Yukari line up and head towards him, probably because they were on their way home. Iwafune runs a short distance and climbs up.

Suddenly, Sukuna hid the pot behind him, but he couldn't hide the smell of floating curry.

"What are you doing, Sukuna? Go ahead, let's feed Iwa-san.”

Well, I did this for dinner! It tastes weird because I did it looking at an amateur recipe!”

"What are you saying, in that pot? I'm glad Sukuna does this. No, I have been feeling bad for the past few days and wondering how to make amends. I bought a cake. Let's eat it after the curry.”

With that said, Iwafune puts the cake box in the fridge and pours the rice onto a plate. Sukuna can't say anything and stands up.

"It's surprisingly cute."

Mishakuji smiled.

Sukuna's curry was not as delicious as it seemed.

However, no one said that. Mishakuji eats while saying, "It is beautiful. You did your best." As with the tasting, Nagare had to eat, saying, "I can eat it.", And Iwafune laughed, saying, "It tastes bitter and Japanese-style, and it's quite unique."

Sukuna insisted: "I am not good at it." and said, "Iwa-san's level is higher than that, Iwa-san, would you like to make a recipe?" He rubbed under his nose.

[antichristsxbox]

Knight in Shining Armor - Part Three

Read part one here!

Read part two here!

Summary: You and Michael begin to plan your wedding but encounter some trouble. Also, warning, this is a little smutty! :)

From the writer: Hey guys! This is my favorite chapter of this fic I’ve posted so far. Please excuse any typos, I proofread it a few times but there’s so much to proofread as this chapter is fairly long; I think I got carried away. Huge shoutout to @jocelynscloset​ for proofreading this for me as well! All likes and reblogs are appreciated + if you liked this fic, feel free to check out my masterlist! :) Update— here’s part one, here’s part two, and here’s part four + here’s my masterlist with more fics!

Word count: 2,329

Darkness looming out your window with a faint orange glow in the background. Grey clouds gather in the sky and high branches on dark trees release dead leaves, blowing across your viewpoint in the dry, warm wind. Hot, but not humid, Stagnant, but not predictable. Every day similar, but not precisely the same as the last. Rising up from your soft pillowcase, silky sheets run past your fingers as you lift them from your body and stand up. Today was the day to start planning the wedding, and you were fairly excited to begin this journey with Michael. More importantly, you were excited for your new life ahead with your soon-to-be husband. 

Quickly dressing in a simple black gown and cast-iron tiara, you make your way to the dining room for breakfast. Always punctual, Michael is sitting at the opposite end of the table. Previously focused on what he was reading, his head perks up and his curls oscillate near his face when he hears the door open. Standing to greet you, he gives you a small hug and kiss on the cheek, then makes his way back to his side of the table. In the middle of the elongated table, there’s fresh fruit, fluffy biscuits, oatmeal, sausage, eggs, yogurt, many different kinds of muffins, and a few more indiscernible items— all at your disposal. You begin to think this enormous spread is excessive for every meal, but who else would eat this food from Hell anyways? Certainly not the already-dead (or undead?) residents. 

“I was just looking over the invitations for our wedding, Dear,” he says, looking up from the cards in his hands. Invitations, you think. This must mean this is going to be a long, drawn-out process. You can’t complain about him wanting to get this right, but at the same time, you are growing more impatient. You were plucked from the relative safety of your tower, dragged to Hell, and now stuck here to wait for a wedding. But, you must remind yourself to respect his wishes and go with the flow of his elaborate wedding plan— it would be the least you could do to thank him for rescuing you. 

“I am certain they look wonderful,” you affirm, sitting down and pouring a cup of coffee. You reach for a blueberry muffin and set it down on your place.

“More importantly, you should choose a dress— we can decorate to revolve around your choice,” he says, looking up and giving a bright, excited smile. You give a small smile back before your attention trails back to your muffin as you slowly peel the paper back, letting it fan out little ridge after little ridge.

“Of course, I’ll choose a dress today,” you say, still looking down at your muffin, now picking at the loose crumbs. 

Realistically, Michael says they could pull off the wedding Saturday or Sunday. Having lost track of time, you learn it is now Monday, looking at the calendar Michael sends to your side of the table via telekinesis. For the remainder of breakfast, you sit and make small talk with Michael. Further planning of the wedding cannot be done without a central theme or color to follow. For the Antichrist, Michael seems pretty sociable and knows how to hold a conversation well. He knows of many things Above that would keep you entertained— sports, politics, and the latest fashion trends in the major cities. Perhaps a dress modeled with a wide skirt and big sleeves, such as what’s popular in London, he insists. Or, taking inspiration from the wide skirts, elaborate lace details, and parasols from Charleston, similar to the styles you grew up with, he says. Perhaps Hell could put together a lacrosse team, as you’ve expressed your enjoyment of the sport to Michael before. Many great athletes are sitting down here doing absolutely nothing. There would be no task too great for Michael to attempt in effort to make you happy. You try to convince him that any dress in your closet would do, yet you have had a traditional, white dress in mind. Asking about further details, you said you would let him handle the specifics and other decorations, as he clearly has good taste— this castle is beautifully decorated and perfect for a wedding, you assure him. The castle would be perfect even with no special preparations, you guarantee. 

Eventually, you excuse yourself from the table so you could go back to your room. As you open the door, an almost sickeningly-sweet smell surrounds you and wafts itself near your face with every step you take— similar to how when too much vanilla extract is added to baked goods, the taste becomes bitter rather than sweet. As you search for the offending foodstuffs, a note is laid flat on your bedside table along with five slices of cake, each a different flavor with a different icing. The note is from Michael reading that you should try these, then let him know which you would like at the wedding reception. Simple enough, you think. Going in line from chocolate, to vanilla, to lemon, to carrot, to red velvet. All are delicious, but red velvet has always been your favorite flavor. You must have experienced a small sugar high from tasting those cakes, because now you’re bone-tired and ready for a nap, despite it being only a little past eleven. Seeing as the details for the wedding have been mostly sorted out at this point, you feel no remorse sinking back into your silky sheets and velvety pillows. 

Waking from your nap, you check the clock to see how much time has passed— it’s only noon, almost time for lunch. Stepping off your bed, you walk towards your mirror and reach for your hairbrush. To your surprise, your once (y/e/c) eyes are now a pale silvery-white color. Perhaps Hell is taking more of a toll on you than you thought. Running the brush through your soft hair, you begin to let your thoughts wander about Michael. How could he deny you in your advances to be intimate? After the wedding, it would happen eventually anyway, so what does it matter? You’re on edge, pent-up, and in need of gratification that only another could provide. Sitting around and playing with yourself has become a daily ritual at this point, but more importantly, it’s boring. There’s only one option left for you to have your much-needed alone time with Michael— seduction. 

One element of seduction is having a somewhat-unattainable nature. When leaving for breakfast, Michael asked if you would join him for lunch. You said yes, but decided to ditch last-minute. Why? Because that makes the next time you see him even more precious. You’re hard to get. Another key to seduction is looking appealing for the one you’re trying to seduce. You begin to brush your hair up and pin it in a loose bun then pull a few of the shorter, loose pieces out to frame your face. Scouring the seemingly endless supply of makeup on your vanity, you find a faint red lip gloss. Having big, glossy lips appealing for most men, you think. Sure— they’re kissable, but they’re also useful for other bedroom activities as well. Picking up a small mascara wand, you open the compact that holds the dark powder and add a drop of water. Mascara helps make your lashes darker and eyes appear more open and awake. Some more face powder is applied to even out your skin, then blush is used to make you seem flustered and ready for Michael.

Time passes slowly when you’re anticipating something, but you manage the rest of the day by reading as well as relieving yourself of your pent-up desire. Many times, you thought of Michael as your hands traveled down to your warm heat. Fingers dipping in and curling up inside, hitting your innermost walls. Your muscles would clench around your fingers, wetness turning into sopping mess. As you became more relaxed each time, you were able to fit two, then three inside. A fourth was attempted and achieved, but the pinky doesn’t do much for you, being so small— you’re able to go harder with only three anyways.

Eventually, it was five o’clock. Michael normally returns to his room between five-fifteen and five-thirty to begin getting ready for dinner at six. Your hands make their way to your back, and you untie the corset you were wearing. Next, the slip you were wearing under your dress goes. In your armoire, you find a red, silky robe with a matching tie. This will do, and it’ll be very easy to take off. 

Peeking out the door to the hallway, you scan the area to make sure nobody is out there. It would be embarrassing to be caught in only a robe by anybody other than Michael. After realizing the coast is clear, you run towards his bedroom and open his door. Quickly shutting it behind you, you walk towards the bed and let your robe drop to the floor. Climbing on his bed, his sheets feel just as soft as yours. A slippery sensation occurs when your freshly-shaved legs glide across the bedding as you spread your legs. Your hand travels down once again and begins rubbing circles on your clit. As your wetness grows, two fingers circle around your entrance until they can be submerged. Small moans escape your mouth when you push your fingers up, hitting a sensitive spot inside. 

Clunk! you hear as the heavy door is pushed. A slightly louder moan ensues, realizing that it is likely Michael at the door. Immediately after the door opens, a loud boom! ensues as Michael quickly closes the door. Slowly, a creaking noise reveals the door just slightly ajar, and you can make out Michael’s voice clearly when he speaks. 

“Darling, I believe you’re in the wrong room.”

Your feet hit the cold floor as you stand up from the bed and walk towards the door. Loose tendrils of hair bounce next to your face, glossy lips are reflective in the candlelight, breasts bounce slightly as you walk. You open the door, grab Michael by the tie and yank him towards you, then shut the door behind the two of you. He would have resisted, but he is so surprised that you would have the audacity to do something like this, it’s stunning. 

“I’m right where I need to be,” you say, taking your hand and resting it on the side of his face before leaning in for a kiss. He abruptly pulls away before you get the chance to make contact. Michael turns to the coat rack in his room and throws you the first thing he could grab. Begrudgingly, you wrap yourself in his long coat then step towards him again. 

Once he turns to face you again, you step closer and hook a leg around his waist, pressing into him as close as possible. A moan slips past your lips as your cunt makes contact with his pants, but your pleasure is cut short as he gently shoves you away and steps back. He is now visibly upset, looking down towards the floor, sighing, then biting his lower lip. 

“I cannot describe how this makes me feel, even after I explained why I was doing what I’m doing,” he says, stepping closer again— Michael is attempting to seem stout and serious. You look up to meet his captivating blue gaze. His lips are pressed together in a firm line. As you make eye contact for a few more seconds, Michael’s brows begin to furrow in confusion rather than anger.

“Step into the light, Dear,” he says, moving towards a table with a tall candlestick. Your eyes are pale, demonic, and possessed. This is not you. 

“Also, the red velvet wins,” you say nonchalantly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What?” he questions with an even more confused tone than look on his face.

“That cake you left me? To try for the wedding?” you say, a slightly annoyed tone in your voice. 

This is a big ‘aha’ moment for Michael. The imaginary lightbulb has now been lit above his head. 

“Go to your room, please. Do not eat any more of that cake. I will be there soon.” 

Michael then goes to the foot of your bed and collects your robe for you, turns his back as you dress, and sends you off out to the hallway— after checking if anybody else was there, of course. Once you’ve left, Michael looks for his knife with the silver hilt and rubies on the end as well as on the sheath. It’s time for a nice, long father-and-son conversation. 

“Ave Satanas,” Michael says softy, allowing his blade to pierce the skin on his wrist as he drags it up the length of his arm. He repeats this with his other arm, and blood begins to fall from his body to the floor, joining the bloody pentagram he is kneeling above. He closes his eyes focuses on summoning his father, in need of an explanation and guidance as to what is happening. 

“Son,” a raspy, ominous voice says from nowhere, the voice just as prominent in every corner of the room— coming from an all-encompassing, all-powerful force. 

“Father, please, what have you done to my bride? How can I fix it?” Michael pleads, voice breaking mid-question. 

“You must give yourself a chance at producing an heir. Give her what she desires from you and she will return to her original state.” 

Satan’s words lingered in Michael’s head; this is a sad predicament to be in. An emotionless, sex-hungry woman fiending after a well-protected integrity. Determined to keep his original promises to himself, Michael knows what he must do. Standing to clean the blood from his arms and body, he checks the time to see if the officiant has gone to bed yet.

///

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