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lazyevaluationranch · 3 years ago

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On a post about the Blue Haired Girlfriend's quixotic citrus breeding experiments, @voidingintotheshout asked:

I mean, if you wanted a hearty citrus relative, why didn’t you just grow Osage Orange? They can grow as far north as Michigan which is surely further north than anyone could reasonably expect to grow a citrus tree. They’re not edible but then hearty orange isn’t either. Osage Orange are so cool and such a interesting historical plant from the Shelterbelt era of American agriculture. Apparently they do smell like citrus.

This is part three of three. Part one. Part two.

Now you've done it! It's time for A Very Brief (But Also Insufficiently Brief) History of Twentieth Century Hardy Citrus Cultivation! Growing citrus trees this far north is kind of nuts, it's true, but I promise you it is not even close to the weirdest things people have done to grow citrus in places where the citrus doesn't think it should grow.

A note: This post will written using the Swingle citrus taxonomy system, including things that are definitely wrong. The citrus taxonomic tree looks like that one box of orphaned computer cords I keep moving with me to new houses "in case I need them" except some sort of adorable five-dimensional kitten has entertained herself with them and some of the resulting knots are not technically possible in our space-time continuum.

The powers that be gave us citrus because nothing pleases them like seeing a geneticist cry.

1. The Migrant Trees

The Soviet Union wanted lemons for tea, and they wanted to be independent enough not to have to trade with anyone else to get them, which meant they wanted to grow their own citrus. That part of the world is not a great place to grow plants that die when the temperature goes below zero, but at the foundation of the Soviet Union, there were citrus orchards in the warmest part of Georgia, along the Black Sea. Specifically, there was about, uh, one and a half square kilometers of somewhat implausible citrus orchard.

Hang on, it is about to get way less plausible.

This is the great citrus migration: any tree that did well in one spot, they'd try planting its seeds a few kilometres further north, or a few kilometres further east. Prizes were offered for breeding hardier citrus. Slowly the orchards spread, but they were extremely weird orchards.

It's usually a few degrees warmer at ground level than up in the air, and there's way less wind. So as the trees grew, they were bent over and tied along the ground. Some of them had the central trunk run in a straight line along the ground, with branches spreading out from it like the leaves of a fern, like an espaliered tree on its side. Others were starfish shaped, with the central trunk looped down until it ended up next to the base, and the branches sprawling out along the ground from the centre like starfish legs. The citrus trees were no taller than particularly vigorous strawberry plants, but they survived the winters, and you could throw a blanket over them to help them stay warm.

None of that helped if the ground froze solid, so they needed Underground Citrus. You'd dig a ditch, down below the lowest area where the ground froze, and you'd plant flat Starfish Trees or Flat Frond Trees running along the bottom of it, too deep to freeze. In winter, you'd just cover the ditch with boards any time the temperature was expected to go below freezing - citrus would tolerate the lack of light, but not the cold. Mandarins (Citrus reticulata) seemed to do best, so that’s most of what was grown.

It is a nearly unimaginable amount of work to grow citrus this way, along the bottoms of pits and trenches. We are experimentally trying to grow a Soviet-developed mandarin breed of unknown parentage, Shirokolistvennyi, but we will definitely not be putting in that level of effort.

2. The Mixed Up Trees

There are a couple species of citrus that tolerate cold well, but taste awful. A lot of effort has gone into crossbreeding them with more edible citrus. The results are ... mixed.

The Ichang Papeda (Citrus cavaleriei) generally survives temperatures down to -18 degrees C. It is stoic and calm and has mastered emptiness. Unfortunately, it has mastered emptiness too well. The fruit smells like lemons, with maybe a hint of rose, but there's nothing to eat here. It has a rind and seeds. No juice, no flesh.

(Photo by Michael Saalfield)

The Ichang Papeda is the parent or grandparent to several delicious, extremely sour Asian citrus types. Yuzu/yuja smells like grapefruit and clean wet stones from the bottom of a fast-flowing stream. Sudachi smells like grapefruit and leaves with dew on them. (I haven't met kabosu or any other papeda hybrids personally, but they are numerous.) They're all too sour to eat plain, unless you really need to turn your face inside out for some reason, but make for excellent flavouring.

(We have a yuzu tree and a sudachi tree and they're surviving, but no fruit yet.)

Trifoliate orange (Poncirus trifoliata) can survive temperatures down to -30 degrees C. This may be partly because, uniquely amoung citrus, they can drop leaves in autumn or winter and regrow them in spring, like a maple tree. They also produce an internal antifreeze. They are angry, twisted, thorny little plants that yell swears when you walk past them. They make a great hedge. The fruit is furry, smells like flowers and pine trees and taste like burnt, bitter plastic. It may or may not be possible to breed the horrible taste completely out of trifoliate oranges without losing cold-hardiness, if it's due to their antifreeze chemicals. Here’s Stabby:

(Photo by Rob Hille)

Even the least terrible trifoliate crossbreeds are bitter enough to qualify as “acquired tastes.” There are recipes for trifoliate marmalade: put a dozen trifoliate oranges, a kilogram of sugar, and a kilogram of pebbles in a pot, cook until it gels, then sieve out the oranges and eat the pebbles.

We are growing a trifoliate orange / minneola orange hybrid. And, of course, someday our own trifoliate hybrids. The Blue Haired Girlfriend planted 200 trifoliate oranges a couple years ago. There are fewer now, but the survivors have lived through two winters of snow and frost, and they might have somehow gotten more stabby. We're going to breed them, to each other or to less angry fruit, try and make something new and good from them.

I've limited this post to twentieth century hardy citrus breeding, but I have to give a shoutout to somatic hybridization, a decidedly twenty first century technique, where you take a cell from each of two different plants, remove their cell walls, put them next to eachother, and shock them with electricity until they merge into a single cell whose nucleus contains all genes from both plants. Then the new plant is like, "Wow, I guess these are all my genes? It seems like a lot, haha, but it's not like somebody made me from dismembered body parts and electricity, that is not how science works. Anyway I guess it's time to do some plant stuff now."

3. The Mutant Trees

In the 1950s, people started using radiation to randomly scramble the genes of plants. You'd irradiate seeds enough to change the genes somehow, and then you'd have to plant them to see what had happened. Maybe it was people horrified by the atomic bomb desperately wanting to find some life-supporting use for atomic fission, maybe it was government-supported cold war "atom bombs are good actually, look how many we have, USSR" propaganda. Probably both.

This time period also saw serious plans for Orion, a spaceship with a huge metal plate for a butt, intended to be propelled by exploding atomic bombs under it, which I am not actually making up.

Thousands of people in Europe and the US signed up to receive seeds with random mutations in the mail, plant them, and report back on what they heck they grew into and if it had any useful weirdness. (The gamma radiation used to mutate the seeds did not make them radioactive themselves - the seeds were completely safe.) There were also more formal and carefully controlled university research programs in China, Japan, and the US, where plants where grown in a circular research garden with a coverable radiation source at the centre, so that the farther you got from the centre, the less radiation the plants got. Radiation breeding is less popular than it used to be, but Japan still has a very productive citrus radiation breeding program.

The most popular radiation-bred citrus is the "Rio Red" grapefruit and its offspring, which has a much deeper red than non-mutant red grapefruit.

There aren't many radiation-developed citrus breeds noted for cold-hardiness - with radiation you get whatever you get - but there are a few, and I want one just because I think they're neat, a monument to that lovely human vision that looks at terrible weapons and somehow sees glossy-leaved trees with bright fruit.

4. The Monster Trees

Citrus are usually grown via grafting. That is, you plant a seed from a fast-growing sturdy breed, you let it grow roots and all that, and then you cut the top off and replace it with a branch from a more delicious breed. The two citruses grow together, and you end up with a tree that's disease and cold resistant in the roots, below the graft, but makes tasty fruit above the graft.

Occasionally, this process goes Wrong.

The first recorded instance is the tree called Bizarria, discovered in 1640. Someone attempted to graft a sour orange branch onto a citron. But instead of a clean line between sour orange branches and citron roots, the graft was damaged somehow, and the two different species of cells got tangled and mixed through the whole tree. It has branches that produce citron fruit. It has branches that produce sour orange fruit. And it has branches that produce, uh ... these:

(Photo by Labrina)

Most graft chimeras are made accidentally, when the graft site is damaged. Trifoliate orange is often used as rootstock, so there are many reported chimeras involving trifoliate orange and a nicer fruit. The mixed-up cells can be arranged a lot of ways, but it's possible to have the outside layer of the tree be trifoliate orange, and the core of the tree be the other citrus (periclinal chimera). This means you could theoretically get a tree with frostproof trifoliate leaves and branches, but fruit that doesn’t taste like burnt plastic rolled in quinine.

This lucky monstrosity has, in fact, reportedly happened. Twice. There is the Prague Citsuma, discovered in a greenhouse in Prague and suspected to have been created by a Soviet breeding program. And then there is the Hormish, discovered in China and thought to have been made by frostbite messing up the clean lines of the graft. The Blue Haired Girlfriend has managed to track down budwood from the Prague Citsuma - I’m so excited! - so we'll see how the fierce thorny monster tree with a heart of gold, or at least heartwood of gold, does for us.

5. Conclusion

Humans have been trying to grow citrus trees where they don't belong for nearly two thousand years, at least since the Jewish Diaspora and people trying to grow holy etrog trees - trunks gnarled as barnacle stones and the whole tree scented like the best dream you can't remember - in Europe. Maybe longer.

The Blue Haired Girlfriend's citrus-breeding schemes aren't going to singlehandedly transform Canada into a net citrus exporter. But history shows us: it might be possible to have a little gleaming sweetness from the stony ground here, with the ravens and the fir trees and the auroras. A sweetness we made ourselves, that exists nowhere else.

Or maybe we'll just have a bunch of weird inedible fruit. I don't know, but it's worth finding out, worth weaving together leaf and thorn and stone and the light of our hands as the years unwind. Worth it to have a quixotic project we can expect to spend decades on together, hands and hearts. This is how home is made, sometimes, with a balcony full of angry thorny little trees that shout swears at passerby.

#part three of three #so much doesn't fit in this post #fog gardening #how lemons started the mafia #etrogs in diaspora #citropsis and the african citrus species #we are still discovering new citrus species in oceania!#who knows what we'll make?#and one day we'll scoop up hydrocarbons from Titan's stormy seas and polymerize them and make huge bubble greenhouses filled with citrus #small children will fling squishy citrus at their siblings by the coiled light of Jupiter #which is as it should be #thank you voidingintotheshout for an excuse for all sorts of ranting

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beevean · 4 years ago

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Opinion: How could Sonamy progress in IDW?

[note: the original article was written in Spanish by @latin-dr-robotnik]

Today we’re going to discuss a recurring topic on my blog, with a more complete perspective.

Today’s article was inspired by an ask I got a few days ago about my possible perspective on the future of IDW Sonamy. I thought it would be interesting to revisit and expand this topic, because it’s still something of great interest for thousands of fans all around the world, and because SEGA has recently adopted a very peculiar position on the couple and their dynamic. As I detailed on my article SEGA and its most recent Sonamy side – more canon than ever, the dynamic has been going through a shift that can be distinguished into two main parts: 1) the commercial potential of Sonamy as a merchandising and marketing icon; 2) the stability of the interactions in the comics, in the short monthly stories on Sonic Channel, and so on.

That being said, there’s no need to mention that we’re going to focus entirely and nothing more than on this ship. I usually suggest other articles for those who prefer to read on other subjects, but today I will recommend our Discord server [translator’s note: the server is mainly Spanish-speaking], where discussions about ships are limited on their own canal that is separated from other themes: general discussions, music, fangames and mods, fanfics, fanart and even gaming in general. As you know, if you want to bring something else to our community, or just avoid talking about Sonamy, you’re more than welcome to join. Now, back on track.

What’s going on with Sonamy in IDW?

To recap what’s happened in these last months: Sonic and his friends finally got through the nightmare that was the Metal Virus, he and Amy hugged a few times, and since very recently they’ve been involved in a short arc about Chao races in Twinkle Park Zone, with a sinister background. In these last months after the eradication of the virus, there have been much closer and warmer interactions between our two hedgehogs, and I suspect that part of this is what inspired that question in the first place: what’s going on?

As I commented in the article where I proposed that Sonamy is “more canon than ever” (I know that it’s an exaggeration, that was the point), SEGA is treading carefully and the main canon seems to be willing to negotiate a more open representation of the relationship between the two in their different continuities, from best friends to something more. What I did not expect to happen was reading an answer from Evan Stanley (artist and writer that replaces Ian Flynn) about their dynamic, summing it up with “they like each other”.

The redrawing of Sonic’s expression when Amy hugs him in a recent drawing of hers made people wonder if this was yet another example of SEGA’s “censoring” (comparison below), to which Evan answered that it was modified to keep Sonic in character: he’s a guy that does not show much emotional vulnerability or too many negative emotions, and this is why sometimes the artists have to adjust WIPs to keep in line with this official point of view. Evan assured that this is not any kind of confirmation that Sonic does not like Amy, and doubles down by highlighting that in the official material, in the wikis and on Sonic Channel they show that, and I quote: “They like each other, but Sonic just isn’t the kind of guy who is going to make goo-goo eyes at Amy or perform grand acts of romance. If you wanna see that, that’s what fan works are for.”

And Evan’s words are a great way to sum up what’s going on with IDW Sonic right now. When it comes to interactions, they’re working with two characters who deep down “like each other”, but both show it in their own way. Amy is much more proactive when it comes to express her feelings, while Sonic only sometimes shows a glimpse of his feelings, with a smile or a small gesture. But at the end of the day they’re still friends and, depending on the situation, the comic can focus more or less on these details.

Comparison between the first sketch showed by Evan and the final product. The modification of the expression was minimal: Sonic’s slight blush was changed into a smile, maybe being a little overwhelmed by the gesture of affection.

The “progression” of the dynamic in the future

A good part of the answer to this question is based on my idea that right now, when it comes to Sonamy, we reached some kind of comfortable plateau. What am I referring to? To the fact that there have been a lot of varied interactions in these last 3 years of the comic, and they’re everything I could have asked for and then some. When we talk about Sonamy in canon, as Evan said, we don’t tend to hope for great romantic gestures from Sonic, we barely even ask for a look that hints that they understand each other beyond what it seems at first glance, so the fact that the IDW continuity is betting so much on this ship is basically a dream come true. For this reason, I don’t think things will change much in the future.

If I have to make a prediction on Sonamy’s future in IDW, I believe that there are still a lot of possibilities that our known writers (and maybe new writers!) could explore more, to see what makes this dynamic work so well. Actually, about 10 years ago, Ian Flynn wrote that if they could take advantage of the abilities and similarities between the two characters as adventurous spirits and with a strong moral sense, they would be “like poetry in motion”. This largely happens in IDW Sonic if you look carefully, but there are always new stories to tell and opportunities for them to work together and explore a bit more their strong bond, stronger than other friendships that they share. When the next major arc comes (which seems to be getting closer), they could explore aspects of their dynamic that are slightly more experimental, like being separated for extended periods of time and under dangerous situations… as long as they don’t turn it into a painful experience like the Metal Virus arc.

What Ian Flynn wrote about Sonamy, what works and what doesn’t. This was written in 2011, when Archie Sonic was still the major comic continuity, and when, according to Ian, Sonic was still “tied” to Sally Acord, leaving little room to the writers’ opinions.

The reality is that I see a stable future for the dynamic in the IDW universe. Sonamy is not fit for a lot of drama (fights, breaking up, etc.) without feeling forced or completely out of place, and only fanfics and fanart could be capable of capitalizing on this kind of content. On the other hand, for reasons I detailed in past articles, SEGA would not dare to alter the established order of the dynamic, let alone new that they managed to recover and maintain control over the ways Sonamy is being portrayed everywhere. SEGA won’t pull a Dragon Prince, which ended up confirming the main ship and then they made them go through a crisis and break up in a heartwrenching way in the graphic novel that acts as a bridge between season 3 and 4.

In short

The future of IDW Sonamy is looking bright and stable. I don’t think there will be serious changes to what we’re experiencing right now, and this is why both Evan Stanley and Ian Flynn agree that the dynamic is practically in the perfect place, keeping in line to how SEGA wants them to be represented together. This means we won’t see more affectionate gestures than what we’re seeing now (I doubt we’ll ever see again Sonic offering Amy a rose like in Sonic X), but it also means that we have now a solid basis for our expectations. In the now old IDW Sonic #2, Sonic and Amy had the chance of seriously talking a bit about what they thought of each other, with Sonic being determined to keep living life his own way (although he wouldn’t mind Amy to accompany him… or even suggesting himself that she could come), and Amy being determined to respect his way of life, because that’s what she loves about him, and she doesn’t want him to change. Since then, all we have seen and we’ll keep seeing in the comic is a consequence of this key moment; the two philosophies that they have and they share, in a constant back-and-forth with some tense moments and some cute moments.

An interesting detail that wasn’t included in the ask and that makes me think is the possibility that all of this will feature in the games as well. This is a completely different matter for another day, but I like to think that there is the possibility that we’ll see SEGA being more interested in inserting more Sonamy in the games, even if in an indirect way like in Sonic Unleashed and its emotional support, especially if the rumors that we’re about to get a soft-reboot are true. Romance is not something Sonic games are famous for doing well… at all, but that doesn’t mean it would be a bad idea to add a little sprinkle of IDW Sonamy in the mix.

And finally, I think I’ve talked enough about this topic, As you know, we’re waiting for some news, and I hope we’ll see each other again here or on our Discord. We’ll see if on this 25th something interesting happens. In any case, see you next time!

The moment that shaped the present and future of their entire relationship, 3 years ago.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonamy #long post #translation #oh look just in time for that famous thursday 25th #keeping up the chronicles of sonamy's evolution #this was fun to translate lol #it's probably a little clunky in some places but it should be readable enough #anyway now i'm hyped lol

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hrina · 4 years ago

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In The Ring, Pt. II - Cross

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 7k REQUESTED: highly lol!

hi again! here’s PART 2 of boxer!harry :) thank u all for such a wonderful response on the first part, i can’t explain how much it means to me. i worked really hard on this chapter, so i hope u guys love it! if u do, reblogs and feedback are very much appreciated, and i’ll probably ask for ur hand in marriage in return.

warning: parts of this fic will contain mentions of blood, violence, mild stalking, and sexual content. if any of that makes you uncomfortable, please take care of yourself and keep scrolling <3

u can find the rest of this series on my masterlist, which is linked in my bio! my inbox is also there if you wanna spare a few thoughts about this part. love u guys sm, stay safe out there 💛💛💛

~*~

January 19, 2021

It’s ten at night, and you’re curled up in bed, scrolling through social media. You should be doing the assigned readings for your anatomy class, but you’re procrastinating. Besides, watching video after video of cute kittens peeking their furry little heads out of cardboard boxes is a much better way to pass the time.

Your relaxation period is interrupted when a notification banner descends from the top of your screen. It’s an unknown number, but the content of the message makes your eyes widen in surprise.

Hi. It’s Harry. I’m at the gym.

You tap on the text immediately, waiting with bated breath as you’re taken to a different app. You chew on your bottom lip for a moment, thumbs hovering over the screen before they begin to type.

Hey! I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Harry’s reply is short, concise, to-the-point—just like him. Oddly enough, it makes you smile.

Okay. See you soon.

~*~

The first thing that Harry notices when you walk through the door is that you’re slightly out of breath. He’s standing in the middle of the ring, his eyes fixated on the opposite side of the room as you enter. Your hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and you’re wearing a pair of leggings and a tank top under your jacket. Your sneakers squeak against the floor as you stride over to him, fingers wiggling in a friendly wave.

“Hi!” you call out, shooting him a kind smile.

Harry leans against the ropes circling the ring, careful not to put too much of his weight on the barriers lest he flip over and fall to the floor. It’s happened once or twice, and each time, he ended up with a bruised tailbone afterward.

“Hi,” he replies.

You shrug your coat from your shoulders as you draw nearer. “How are you?” you ask, peering up at him curiously.

“Good, thanks,” he says. His fingers toy absentmindedly with the silver cross pendant dangling from his neck. “Er…did you run here?”

“What? Oh, no,” you answer with a breathless laugh. “I drove. But I was hurrying—I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

You’re so fucking sweet. He’s going to throw up.

“It’s alright.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“Still,” you say, tightening your ponytail with both hands. “You’re going out of your way to do this for me. And while we’re on the subject of that—thank you, again. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Harry says. He slips between the ropes and hops down from the platform. “Shall we start?”

“We shall,” you agree, biting back a teasing smile. “Am I going up against you?”

Despite himself, Harry chuckles. He shakes his head. “Not yet. First, you need to learn the basics.”

“Basics,” you echo, nodding once. “Right.”

He leads you over to the side of the ring, where a pair of punching bags have been strung up near the wall. The arrangement is nothing special—twin leather bags, one brown and one black, filled with sand and stitched together with strong, coarse thread. Reflexively, you reach out, running your fingertips along the black bag and giving it a gentle push. It swings outward before returning back to you. Harry watches you closely, examining the gentle crease between your brows and the slight glaze that smooths over your pupils. He clears his throat quietly, and you seem to snap out of your trance.

“Do you know how to punch?” he asks.

You purse your lips, looking unsure of yourself. “Um…I think so.”

He nods. “Show me, then.”

The blow that you deliver to the bag is weak at best. Harry immediately notices a handful of things that you’re doing wrong. When you pull your arm back and peer up at him, he’s trying his hardest to hold back a smirk.

“What?” You frown.

“Nothing.” He snickers softly, shaking his head again. “It’s just…that was cute.”

“‘Cute’?” you parrot, narrowing your eyes. You scoff good-naturedly, stepping back and holding your arm out in invitation. “You do it, then.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Gladly.”

The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when his fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag itself swings forward in an extraordinary arc before hurtling back in your direction. You gasp when Harry stops it with his palms. He grunts quietly, stilling it before turning around to face you. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, and he’s sure that his eyes are gleaming with a smug sparkle. You just cross your arms over your chest, gazing at him evenly with your chin held high.

“Fine,” you say. “Tell me what to do.”

Harry gets you situated back in front of the bag, standing beside you and studying your posture.

“First of all,” he starts, “you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, shooting him a confused pout.

“Like this—,” Harry reaches for your shoulders before pausing, his fingers only inches away from your skin. “Er,” he clears his throat, fixing you with inquisitive eyes, “is it alright if I touch you?”

You nod wordlessly. Harry swallows down the lump in his throat as his hands close the distance between your bodies. He slants your torso to the side before reaching for your arms, bending them at the elbow so that your fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of your face.

“If you’re angling yourself this way,” Harry starts, mimicking your stance, “you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—,” he changes sides, adopting a mirror image of his previous position, “—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?”

“Got it,” you say confidently. That same crease is digging into the space between your eyebrows; Harry aches to reach out and flatten it with the pad of his thumb.

“Also,” he says, delicately wrapping his fingers around your wrists, “when you punch, you can’t drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face.”

“Guard my face,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Okay, cool.”

You throw an experimental punch at the bag, and Harry doesn’t miss the shadow of pain that flashes across your features. His eyes trail down the length of your arm, lingering on your fist. Before you can deliver another blow, he stops you, catching your knuckles in the calloused valley of his palm and halting your movements.

“Keep your thumb on the outside,” he says, peeling your fingers open and freeing your thumb from beneath them. “You’ll break it, otherwise.”

He curls the digits back up, this time so that your hand is settled in the proper arrangement. He then steps back, jerking his head toward the bag and encouraging you to take another swing. “Try it, now.”

The third blow is better than the past two. You beam up at Harry when a promising smack! echoes through the air. He smiles reassuringly at you, nodding his head and tugging at the collar of his t-shirt. “Good. That’s a start.”

“Put me in, Coach,” you tease, bringing your fists up to your face and bouncing playfully on the balls of your feet. Your eyes shimmer as you peek at him from behind your knuckles. Harry presses his lips together to keep himself composed, but he can’t stop the faint snort that slips out of his nose. You laugh cheerfully, dropping your arms back to your sides.

“Okay, so I know how to punch,” you say. “What’s next?”

“There’s four main punches in boxing,” Harry replies. He steadies himself in front of the bag, his left foot extended to provide balance.

“The jab—”

He punches with his left fist, pointed and forceful.

“—the cross—”

He strikes with his right hand, driving the weight of his body into the blow.

“—the hook—”

He curves his arm, angling it accordingly so that he can deliver a hit to the side of the bag.

“—and finally, the uppercut.”

He bends his elbow, scooping upward so that his fist makes contact with the bottom half of the bag. The sand inside shifts audibly as it rattles around, looping in every direction and gathering momentum. Harry turns back to you as it continues to swing in circles, cracking his knuckles loudly and seeking you out.

Your eyes are wide. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you look a bit…enthralled. His brow furrows in confusion.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, and he’s taken aback by the breathless quality of your voice. You clear your throat quickly, scratching at your hairline and looking away. “You’re just very…dedicated. That’s all.”

“I’ve got to be,” Harry hums. He turns back to the punching bag and ceases its movements. “This is how I make a living.” His lips quirk up with the hint of a smile. “We can’t all go to medical school and become doctors.”

A weak laugh tumbles from your mouth. “I haven’t even gotten in yet,” you say from behind him.

“But you will,” he murmurs, the reply slipping out before he can weigh it on his tongue. “Without a doubt.”

He pauses when the words finally sink in, his shoulders stiffening and his eyes stamping shut. If you weren’t standing so close, he would have leaned forward and crushed his forehead into the rough leather of the punching bag. His lips mould around unspoken curses as a heavy silence descends upon the two of you.

At last, you finally choke out, “I—thank you, Harry. That’s really nice of you to say.”

“No problem,” he grunts. He steps back, spinning on his heel but refusing to meet your gaze. You’re probably looking at him like that—with soft, glimmering irises and earnestness woven through every cell in your body. If your eyes lock, he knows that he’ll be overrun with the urge to kiss you.

And he knows that if that happens, he might not be able to hold himself back.

“What time do you have to be home?” Harry asks, subtly trying to change the topic.

You lift one eyebrow challengingly, like you know exactly what he’s doing. Still, though, you humour him.

“I told my dad I was going to a friend’s house,” you say, shrugging lightly. “We have time, don’t worry.” You smile as a thought crosses your mind. “Just make sure you don’t get me too sweaty by the end of the night, okay? I can’t go home looking like I’ve just run a marathon.”

Harry’s cock twitches in his shorts at the thought of rendering you sticky and speechless. Of watching you walk away from him with wobbly knees and messy hair. Of dropping you off at home and nibbling on your neck one last time for good measure. He quickly shoos the temptations away, clearing his throat and nodding in accord.

“Minimal sweating,” he concedes. “I’ll try my best.”

Deep down, he knows that you’ll most likely be drenched with perspiration once he’s through with you. You’ll figure that out soon enough, though.

Harry makes his way over to the ring, snatching up a pair of gloves lying on the platform. He turns back around, tossing them to you and fighting a smile when you yelp in surprise. With an awkward flail, you manage to catch them in your arms. You shoot him a questioning look, lifting your eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

“Put those on,” he orders, clapping his hands together once. “We’re gonna try to perfect your stance, tonight.”

“Why do I need to wear them, then?” you ask, gazing down blankly at the gloves nestled against your chest.

“You don’t need to, I suppose,” Harry says, shrugging. “But your knuckles will probably be destroyed by the end of the night.”

“Oh.” You make a face, wrinkling your nose up in distaste. “Okay, yeah—I’ll use them.”

He smirks, folding his arms over his chest. “We want to be careful, don’t we? Those are the steady hands of a future surgeon.”

You scoff, laughing gently at his quip. “Hopefully,” you say, a sweet smile playing on your lips. “Let’s just pray that I get the right grades.”

You will, Harry thinks, but this time, he bites his tongue to keep the sentiment contained. You’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and you’re kind. You’re perfect. I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you. I want to sleep next to you at night and prepare you breakfast in the morning. I want to make you laugh. I want to make you smile. I want to—

“Harry?”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You fix him with a benevolent look. “Zoning out on me?”

“No.” He shakes his head, approaching you as you struggle to tug on one of the boxing gloves. His eyes fall to your hands and he reaches out, halting your movements with a gentle, “Let me.”

You peek up at him shyly as he guides your fingers into the glove. He keeps his gaze trained downward, avoiding your eyes. One of his rough palms grasps your elbow as he tugs the Velcro strip tight around your wrist. Once he’s done the same with the other one, he releases you and steps back.

“Thank you,” you say softly. He just nods in response.

“Make sure your feet are shoulder-width apart,” he says, and you spread your legs according to his command.

For a brief moment, the image of you separating your thighs to accommodate his hips flashes through his mind, but he squeezes his eyes shut and wills it away.

The rest of the night is painful—his cock grows stiffer and stiffer by the hour, spurred on by each sweet smile that you send his way. By the time you’re through with the session and bidding him goodnight as he locks up, he’s half-hard beneath his black shorts. He hopes that you don’t notice.

You shoot him a cheerful wave and drive away, and he watches before toddling over to his own vehicle. As soon as he slides into the driver’s seat, he releases a heavy, guttural groan, slouching forward and pressing his forehead to the crest of the steering wheel. Blindly, he sticks his key into the ignition and turns it, and the truck rumbles to life. A quick glance at the dashboard reveals that it’s well past midnight. Only then does he realise the extent of his exhaustion.

He backs out of the parking lot, pulling onto the main street and training his eyes on the road ahead. If he squints, he can still make out the red taillights of your car.

The journey back to his apartment passes in no time. Harry climbs sluggishly up four flights of stairs, tumbling into his home and pressing the door shut with one hand. He drags his feet down the hall and past the threshold of his bedroom, pausing only to rip his t-shirt from his torso before collapsing onto his mattress. Obscure silhouettes dance across his eyelids as they drift shut.

The last thing on his mind before sleep overtakes him is the gentle slope of your smile.

February 21, 2021

One month and a handful of late-night sessions later, Harry finds himself inundated with guilt. He’s constantly plagued by memories of your virtual conversations—short, brief little interactions consisting primarily of him letting you know that he’s free to train that evening. Your responses, ripe with exclamation marks and prattles of gratitude. You’ve taken up the habit of texting him after each lesson, too, composing a quick thank-you message before shutting your phone for the night.

And Harry regrets everything—agreeing to teach you how to box, letting you know when he’s available to meet, encouraging you as your technique progresses. On several occasions, he’s considered breaking things off, telling you that he’s too busy, that you should be focussing exclusively on school instead of on how to throw a right hook.

But then you look at him like that. With bright, trusting eyes and open features and that easy, dazzling smile. And the wall that he’s been trying so hard to build back up—not that it was particularly robust to begin with—comes crashing down.

His match is set to start in fifteen minutes, and you’re not here. You have a midterm tomorrow—your father had mentioned it in passing. You’ve been holed up in your room all weekend, he said, permanently absorbed in the pages of your textbook.

And Harry’s nervous, because you’re his lucky charm. What the fuck is he supposed to do, now?

The minutes seem to fly by—before he knows it, he’s stepping out into the ring with the crowd’s thundering screams echoing in his ears. His opponent isn’t the biggest man he’s ever gone up against, but he’s definitely not scrawny. Harry’s maybe two inches shorter than him—under normal circumstances, the height difference wouldn’t have fazed him. But he’s already on edge due to your absence, so even the smallest observations are proving to be exceedingly disconcerting.

Looking back, he supposes that he should’ve known.

Doomed from the start, destined to fail—whatever you want to call it.

Point being, he loses. Horrendously.

And he’s not quite sure when they bring the stretcher out and peel him off of the floor of the ring, but he knows that it’s sometime after the second round. He blinks rapidly, fading in and out of consciousness as moisture trickles down the side of his face. Somewhere beneath the wooziness, he’s well aware that the match is over. Your father is standing over him, walking at a brisk pace to keep up with the two men carrying him out of the arena.

“What do you mean, he called in sick?” your father spits, his eyes alight with anger. “You couldn’t find anybody else?”

The man behind Harry’s head says something that he can’t quite discern. His response makes your father grit his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, punching in a number and bringing the device up to his ear.

A few moments later, his expression lights up, relief flooding his features. “Gioia? Yeah, hi…”

Harry’s vision fades to black.

~*~

“…going to have some strong words with the bastard that did this—”

“Gioia, please. That’s how the sport works.”

An outraged scoff. “Who the hell kicks a man while he’s down?”

No reply.

Harry drifts off once more.

~*~

When his eyelids flutter open, it takes a moment for him to regain his bearings. Through the blurriness of his vision, he sees a dim light hanging from the ceiling, bathing his surroundings in a pale white glow. He blinks rapidly, hoping that his sight will sharpen with each flutter of his lashes. There’s a dull pain throbbing against the right side of his torso, battering against his ribcage and pulling an agonized groan from his lips.

The low sound is met with a high gasp. Seconds later, a face is looming over his own. Harry forces himself to concentrate on the person’s features—kind, worried eyes, raised brows, and pretty, parted lips. His heart begins to gallop in his chest.

“Harry,” you breathe. A few gentle fingers card through his hair. The sensation of your nails against his scalp makes him shiver. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” he croaks, his voice hoarse.

Despite the worry swimming around in your irises, you emit a shy laugh.

“Are you able to sit up?” you ask, pulling your hand out of his hair. He nearly whines at the loss.

“Think so,” he mutters. He places his palms flat against the surface beneath him—a bed, perhaps?—and pushes himself onto his elbows. The muted pain in his side flares fiercely, making him choke on his own breath. You reach out for him, setting one hand down on his shoulder while the other wraps delicately around his bicep.

“Easy, easy,” you soothe, tutting disapprovingly. “Be careful.”

“’M always careful,” Harry says.

“Yeah,” you reply sarcastically, nodding your head. “And that’s how you ended up like this, right?”

A short, wheezing laugh punches its way out of his lungs. “Touché.”

Once he’s sitting up, he takes note of the room—well, it’s not really a room. The only thing separating the two of you from whatever lies outside is a thin curtain drawn over what he presumes to be the exit. To his left, a single cabinet with multiple drawers stands only a few feet away. You’re both tucked into a little alcove in the wall, no bigger than a standard bedroom. Harry glances around, his gaze landing on a single plastic chair facing the bed. Everything is set up like a hospital room (but far less comfortable, and severely lacking in terms of medical equipment).

“Where’s Coach?” he asks, creases forming along his forehead.

“He went to go grab us some coffee,” you explain, your eyes scanning his face. “It’s late.”

“How late?”

“Nearly two.”

“Fuck.” His head snaps toward you. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” You chew nervously on your bottom lip. “But it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, gritting his teeth and glaring at you sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You recoil a bit at his harsh tone. “Your stupid medic took a sick day,” you tell him, your voice hard. “And my dad asked me to come in and have a look at you. Who knows where you’d be if I hadn’t shown up.”

Regret washes over him. He slouches back against the bed—it’s more of a cot, really—and blows out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay.” You wave his apology away with a quick flick of your fingers. “Just…be quiet for a second, alright? I need to examine you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath. He doesn’t miss the way your lips twitch as the words sink in.

“Can you move to the edge of the bed?” you ask, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. “I need to see you properly, but I don’t want to make you stand just yet.”

“Sure.”

He shifts his body to the right, slowly dragging his legs off of the cot with a distressed wince. The floor is cold when his feet make contact with the ground, but he pays it no attention. He’s shirtless, clad only in the shorts he’d been wearing when he first stepped into the ring. He purses his lips and feels something stiff realign against his cheek. When he brings his hand up to his face, he finds a cottony piece of fabric taped onto his skin.

“What—?” He looks up at you in confusion.

“It was bleeding pretty badly,” you tell him. “I had to stop it, somehow.”

For the first time that night, he takes you in properly. You’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants—it looks like the type of outfit that one would shrug on if they were in a rush to leave the house. Another pang of guilt jolts through his chest.

“What happened?” Harry croaks, pulling his hand away from his cheek.

“My dad told me that the other guy was wearing a bracelet,” you say; frustration drips from your words. “He didn’t take it off before the match started. It’s not a big cut, but it’s deep. You’ll probably need a few stitches.”

“And you know how to do that?” he asks, watching as you circle around the bed and approach the cabinet on the opposite side. He twists in an attempt to keep his eyes on you, but then grunts lowly at the ache that thrums against his side. When he looks down at his torso, he discovers a large splotch of blue and purple decorating the skin covering his ribs.

“I watched my mom do it back when my dad used to coach Artie,” you say absentmindedly, rifling through a few drawers and collecting the supplies that you need. You pause, your eyes clouding over with something forlorn. “Now that I think about it, that’s probably why I want to go into medicine. I think…it would’ve made her proud.”

“It would’ve,” Harry agrees.

He watches you carefully as you make your way back over to him, afraid of prying or saying the wrong thing. Your mother’s death had hit your family hard; he rarely hears you or your father mention her. But maybe that’s for the best—wounds can’t heal if they’re being ripped open time after time again. He would know.

You dump a handful of materials down onto the bed—disinfectant, cotton swabs, tissues, gauze, a needle, thread, and a pack of medical sutures. Harry swallows heavily.

“Do you mind if I…?” you trail off, pursing your lips timidly. Somehow, he understands exactly what you’re referring to.

“No, not at all,” he says. The words fall from his mouth a bit too quickly.

With no further preamble, he spreads his legs, and you step into the space made available between his knees. You lean to the side, reaching for the disinfectant and cotton swabs on the bed, but then nearly lose your balance in the process. Harry’s hand flies upward reflexively, settling on your hip to keep you steady.

You glance down at him with wide eyes, and he hastily removes his palm from your body. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and is it just his imagination, or do you sound a bit…breathless?

“You’ve got a couple of scrapes on your face,” you continue. You clear your throat, uncapping the antiseptic and dipping a cotton swab into the bottle. “This’ll hurt a little.”

“It’s alright—fuck!” he swears, scowling deeply at the sting that blooms across his chin. You chew on your bottom lip, dragging the swab over his injuries with practiced, nimble fingers. His toes curl against the cold, concrete floor.

Once you’ve finished sterilising his minor wounds, you turn your attention to the massive bruise on his torso.

“Can I?” you ask softly, extending your arm but pausing only inches away from his skin.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

He fights back against a shudder when your fingertips ghost over his ribs. You hesitate, applying a bit more pressure and cringing when he groans. “Sorry,” you whisper, making a move to pull away.

“No,” Harry breathes quickly. He catches your hand in his, trapping your palm back against his side. Briefly, he notes the unmistakable softness of your knuckles, so different from his own. “’S okay. Do what you need to do.”

You nod tautly, pressing your fingers against the bruise once more. Harry grinds his teeth together, trying his best to withstand the pain. You prod around for a few seconds, your brow furrowed in concentration. When you don’t appear to find anything worrisome, you sigh in relief and drop your arm so that it rests limply at your side.

“No broken ribs,” you announce quietly. “At least, not as far as I can tell.”

“That’s reassuring,” he jokes.

A weak laugh falls from your mouth. “I haven’t gotten into med school yet, remember?”

He chuckles. Your eyes suddenly darken, and an angry scowl curls along your lips.

“He kicked you while you were knocked out,” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief. “Fucking asshole.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly upward, his mouth twitching at your vulgar words. You catch sight of his amused expression, but instead of mirroring it, your frown only deepens.

“It’s not funny,” you say. “He fought dirty.”

“This whole setup is illegal, baby,” he says. Neither of you comment on the pet name that slips out of his mouth. He hopes that you view it as part of an expression, and not a proclamation of his affection. “Fighting dirty—they don’t care about that. If anything, it just gives them one hell of a show.”

“Still,” you mutter, gluing your eyes to the discoloured skin covering his ribs. “He shouldn’t have done it.”

Harry smiles softly, reaching out and tucking two fingers beneath your chin. Your lips part in surprise, and he tilts your face up so that he can look at you properly.

“Thank you,” he says, his tone entirely sincere, “for taking care of me.”

Your throat bobs with a hefty swallow—he can feel it against his knuckles. You lift your hand up to his face, and for a moment, he thinks that you mean to stroke his cheek lovingly. But then you scrape your thumb over the bandage covering his cut, and he’s reminded that this doesn’t mean anything.

You’re here to stitch him back up—nothing less, and certainly nothing more.

“I’m not done yet,” you say.

The two of your drop your fingers at the same time. Harry clears his throat, trying to absolve the tension in the air. You seize some of the other supplies still strewn across the bed, laying them out properly before getting to work.

You’re diligent, removing the bandage on his cheek and using a few tissues to mop up the blood that immediately begins to drip downward, rolling over the jut of his jaw. He curses when you pass another cotton swab over his injury, screwing his face up at the smarting prickle of the antiseptic.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur absentmindedly, keeping your eyes trained on the wound. “We definitely don’t want this one to get infected.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, because he can’t exactly nod with your fingers probing around.

“This is going to be the worst part,” you warn, pulling back and opening the pack of stitches.

You unwind a piece of thread from its spool, taking the string between your lips and severing it with your teeth. Harry watches you closely, anxiety frothing in the pit of his stomach. In all of his years spent boxing, he’s only needed stitches once—the procedure hurt like a bitch, especially since there had been no anaesthetic available. He remembers the pain like it was yesterday, and he’s not looking forward to having to endure it again.

When you guide the first stitch through his skin, he balls his hands into tight fists. His lips tuck themselves into a thin line, and an agonized moan bubbles up in his chest. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment; upon reopening, they glisten with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice shakes.

“It’s okay,” Harry grits out. His blunt nails dig into his palms. “Keep…keep going.”

“A few more,” you babble; he’s not sure whether you’re trying to comfort him or yourself. “Just a few more.”

It takes you roughly fifteen minutes (you haven’t really had much practice, after all) to sew his wound closed with five stitches. It is by no means the cleanest application, but it’s not bad. You retrieve another cotton swab and dip it into the bottle of disinfectant, running it along the seam of his injury one last time. After that, you finally blow out the stale air that has accumulated in your lungs.

“Thank you,” Harry mutters. “Truly.”

“No problem,” you breathe. You busy yourself with gathering up all of the supplies, cradling them to your chest and making your way around the bed. As you dump everything back into the top drawer of the cabinet, you say, “Harry. Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” he hums. He’s nervous about speaking too animatedly, afraid to disrupt the work you’ve just done on his cheek.

“How long have you been boxing?”

He peers at you from over his shoulder, eyes following your movements as you return to his side of the cot and sit down next to him. “Er…,” he pauses, thinking, “…about ten years, now.”

“You started at sixteen?” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

He smiles softly before remembering the sutures sewn into his skin. A beat of silence passes.

“Can I ask you something?” he questions.

You nod. “Of course.”

“Why did you want me to teach you how to box?” he says. You open your mouth—to feed him another lie, surely—but he carries on before you get the chance to speak. “And don’t say it’s because you were just curious, or some bullshit like that. I want the truth.”

“Harry…,” you begin softly, looking at him with pleading eyes. He shakes his head, adamant and unmoved.

“The truth.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. Instinctively, you reach for your throat, tugging at the rose-gold chain hanging there and fiddling nervously with the pendant nestled between your collarbones. It looks like you’re trying to figure out what to say, how to approach the situation without revealing something that could potentially make it any worse.

“Do you remember that guy I was seeing a few months ago?” you say, your voice small. “James?”

And oh, Harry remembers. He remembers watching the two of you swap spit on top of the bleachers at one of his matches. He remembers imagining James in the place of his opponent, and then making sure to aim all of his punches directly for the face (he won, that night.) He remembers seeing the sparkle in your eyes slowly start to dim the longer you stayed with him. He remembers the aftermath of your breakup, when James had shown up at the gym and screamed at you to come outside, deterred only after Portia threatened to call the police.

He fucking remembers.

“Yeah,” he spits. The affirmation is coated in a thick layer of venom. “What about him?”

His eyes widen a touch when it all clicks, then, like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.

“What did he do?” he demands immediately, fixing you with a stern glare. “Did he fucking touch you?”

“No!” you exclaim, shaking your head quickly. “No, no, it’s just…I’ve been seeing him around. A lot. And I’m not sure if I’m just being paranoid, maybe, but—,” you inhale deeply, “—it feels like he’s following me.”

Your name slips past Harry’s lips in a hard, firm tenor. When you look up at him warily, he stares straight into your eyes, leaving no room for you to break away.

“You need to tell someone about this,” he says steadfastly. “You need to go to the police.”

“I don’t even know if I’m right,” you tell him. Your mouth curls down into an apprehensive frown. “I don’t want to cause a fuss, especially if it all just turns out to be one big coincidence.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Harry asks. A bitter taste settles on his tongue. “How often has this been happening?”

You tilt your head to the side, lost in thought. “Two days ago,” you finally say, shrugging helplessly. “And…I don’t know. I’ve seen him, like, nine or ten times in total.”

“Ten times,” he hisses, “in a few months? That’s not normal, and you know it.”

“Harry,” you plead, tugging nervously at the hem of your t-shirt. “Please. Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“How can you—?” he starts, but then you lurch forward, putting a dainty hand on his thigh.

“Please,” you repeat, shaking your head softly. “Just…keep this between us, okay? The last thing I want is for my dad to find out.”

And maybe it’s the tenderness brewing in your eyes when you meet his gaze. Maybe it’s the wilt in your voice, the feeblest he’s ever heard. Maybe it’s the feeling of your fingers on his leg, burning a hole through his shorts and searing a mark—a brand—into his skin. Harry sighs, looking away from you and running his fingers anxiously through his curly hair.

“You’re bloody stupid, you know that?” he asks, scoffing quietly.

“Yeah,” you reply, the corners of your mouth kinking up into a half-hearted smile. “I know.”

“Got you a latte, gioia—”

The dinky curtain in front of you is pulled back by none other than your father, who is holding a tray of coffee in his right hand. He blinks at the scene laid out before him—you and Harry on the small cot, sitting a bit too close for comfort. Your hand on his thigh. You both jump, breaking away from each other and inhaling sharply. Harry clears his throat as you cough into your elbow, standing up and reaching for one of the drinks nestled in the tray.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to your father’s cheek.

His eyes bounce between the two of you, forehead wrinkling in curiosity as he asks, “What’d I miss?”

You peer down at Harry from over the rim of your cup, panicked and beseeching. He just shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly; the tattoos inked into his skin ripple with the act. His tone is steady when he meets your father’s gaze.

“I’ve got some bruised ribs and a wicked headache, but aside from that—,” he lies, “—nothing at all.”

~*~

Your father ends up driving him home.

He parks the car just in front of Harry’s apartment complex, watching with worried eyes as he slips out of the passenger door.

“You sure you’ll be alright?” he asks.

Harry just nods, waving away his concerns. “I’m fine, Coach, really. Thanks for the ride.”

Your father nods—still looking a little unsure—before speeding off.

Climbing up four flights of stairs with bruised ribs is hell, Harry soon learns. By the time he reaches his floor, he’s panting and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. He pulls his keys out of his coat pocket, unlocking the front door and staggering into his apartment. A pained whimper slips out of his mouth as he shrugs the jacket from his shoulders.

He slowly makes his way into the bathroom, cupping his battered side over the material of his t-shirt. The water is cold when he first turns the shower on. He grits his teeth, fiddling with the temperature and meticulously removing his clothes as it warms.

The moment the first droplet hits his skin, he lets out a deep, guttural groan. He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until now. He stands under the spray of the water, tipping his head back and letting it wash away every trace of dirt and grime on his body. His hair grows heavy with moisture, sticking to his scalp and his forehead. He leans against the wall of the shower, inhaling deeply. His eyelids flutter shut, and your smiling face appears amidst the darkness.

Almost subconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock.

Part of him is disgusted with himself. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be thinking of you. He shouldn’t be—

He moans.

In the realm of his perverse imagination, you’re straddling him, your arms looped leisurely around his neck and your whimpers echoing into the cavern of his mouth. Your hips roll against his, unhurried and languid and deep. So fucking deep. Harry reaches down with one hand, squeezing greedily at the curve of your ass, and you whine in response, encouraging him to do it again.

He pumps his length in the shower, panting quietly.

Your fronts are pressed together as you rut into his lap, your nipples brushing against the ebony birds on his chest and your silky walls wrapped around him like a vice. He grunts; you swallow the sound down, your hot, heavy breaths wafting out onto his chin. His fingers dig into your thighs when you steady yourself on your knees, doing your best to bounce up and down on him properly. It’s frantic, it’s uncoordinated, it’s sloppy, but…it’s perfect.

Your nails scrape down his back as the two of you move together, a steady series of push and pull, like water under a bridge. If you’re the moon, then he’s the tides, bending and swirling under your gentle light. Every time you rock forward, he meets you there, your bodies connecting with faint slaps of skin on skin. You gaze at him with hooded eyes, lust simmering beneath your lashes. Electricity tingles across his shoulders.

The noises that you emit are music to his ears. Delicate sighs when he nips at your breasts, earthy groans when he hits that special spot inside of you. And woven between them, imploring pleas, murmurs of right there and oh, yes and so good.

It’s embarrassing, how quickly he finishes.

He stands there, leaning against the tiles with his cock in his hand and his release dripping from his fingertips. He has the decency to feel appalled by his actions, at the very least. If you were aware of what he had just done, he knows for a fact that you would never speak to him again.

He cleans himself up, shampooing his hair and scrubbing down every inch of his body. When he steps out of the shower and shuts the water, a wave of exhaustion washes over him, making him sway on his feet. His lips vibrate with a soft sigh.

His phone chimes from where it’s perched on the bathroom counter. When he taps on it, he finds a message from you.

Feel better soon, it reads. The guilt festering in his chest increases tenfold.

Thank you, he says back, shoving the remorse down. Good luck on your midterm tomorrow.

A moment later, your reply comes through.

Thanks! Goodnight, Harry.

Goodnight, he types. He pauses for a moment, debating over whether he should include a little red heart after the word. But then he shakes his head, rolling his eyes at his own insolence and sending the text without a second thought.

He doesn’t even bother drying himself off before padding across the hall and into his bedroom. He collapses onto his mattress, still covered in tiny droplets that bead along his shoulders and trail downward, wetting the duvet. He doesn’t care. It’ll dry, and so will he.

He falls asleep moments later, the repaired skin of his cheek tingling in the dark.

~*~

PART III: Hook

PART IV: Uppercut

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#harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #eeeeeee okay here it is!!! i love this part a LOT so i hope u guys do too 💘#harry writing #boxrry

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imjustthemechanic · 4 years ago

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives Part 26/? - A Reluctant Accomplice Part 27/? - Deja Vu Part 28/? - Interview with a Madwoman Part 29/? - Violence

Holy shit, another chapter! This is the one where Dottie kills a buncha mobsters.

They did not fly to Nevada. Kay had already been recognized on a plane once, and with all three of them together and all three of them fugitives, there was a greater chance that at least one of them would be spotted. They got Dottie some clothes that were not a prison uniform, stole another car, and started driving.

“You know, I just realized,” said Peggy, who was at the wheel for the first part of the journey. “We never did find the bomb on Howard’s plane. Was there one?”

“Of course not,” said Kay. “Why would I bother building a bomb when the threat of one would do the trick?”

“Because you’re a coward,” said Dottie.

“I’m efficient,” Kay told her.

“What if she’d called your bluff?” Dottie asked.

“She didn’t. And even if she had, I wasn’t actually going to blow up the plane. I needed it. And the people on board it. I would have thought of something. You don’t have to kill every single person who inconveniences you,” she added, sounding exasperated. It made Peggy wonder if that were something many of the Russian girls tended to do.

“Spoilsport,” said Dottie.

The journey had to be done in stages. Peggy and Kay could take turns driving, but neither trusted Dottie to take the wheel, and they had to take turns sitting up and watching her during the night so she couldn’t run off. Dottie seemed to enjoy the attention. As far as Peggy could tell, she slept quite peacefully during the nights, and during the daytime she let her scarf flutter in the breeze with a smile on her face, and delightedly pointed out roadside attractions that Peggy and Kay refused to stop for.

While they drove, they listened to the radio. The news talked about things like Burma joining the United Nations, and how the latter organization had established a special body dedicated to public health. But of course, what Peggy was really listening for was Steve. His tour of New England continued with cheering crowds all the way. The announcers described him visiting soldiers whose lives he’d saved, and the widows of those he couldn’t.

There was even, at one point, an interview with him. Peggy perked up at the announcement and Kay immediately turned the radio up.

Captain Rogers, the interviewer said. Now that you’re back, what are your plans for the future?

I’m not sure, Steve’s voice replied, and Peggy’s insides twisted. He’d had plans… he’d been going to get married and buy a farm. She was the one who’d told him he couldn’t do that. I’m still in the army for the time being. My discharge was issued on the assumption I was dead, and since I’m not, my service isn’t finished.

“Damn Masters,” Peggy murmured.

Kay thought for a moment. “What if he got his tie caught in a piece of machinery and it strangled him?”

“Hush,” Peggy told her.

Have you heard the rumors that other countries have begun research on human enhancement? asked the interviewer.

I have, said Steve. It was my understanding that everyone signed a treaty that they wouldn’t do human experimentation like that.

They did, the interviewer said, but there have been suggestions that America’s enemies think they need to find a way to counter you.

I’m not a weapon, and we’re not at war, said Steve. When you’re not at war, you don’t need super-soldiers.

So you would be opposed to any such work in the United States? Or only abroad?

I think, said Steve, that anybody who wants to volunteer for such a program needs to think very hard about what they want to get out of it. Even the people who worked on the serum didn’t know what its long-term effects on my body would be. I think they’d have been shocked to learn I survived three years frozen in ice.

Peggy certainly had been, and Howard… but now she found her own thought. He’d crashed the Valkyrie fully intending to die. He’d said he’d realized at the last moment that he didn’t want that after all, but that was before he’d found his plans in tatters. Had he changed his mind again since? Was he contemplating suicide, only to realize he didn’t know if there were anything that would kill him?

No, that couldn’t be. Steve wouldn’t, not when his previous attempt was so fresh in his mind. Not when he knew that the friend he’d intended to die for was alive and in need of help.

Even so, the idea stuck in Peggy’s mind, and made her feel a little ill. She couldn’t stop picturing him contemplating it. She imagined him playing with a knife, examining a bottle of rat poison, spinning the chamber in a revolver, and wondering if any of them could do him irreparable damage. A treacherous lump rose in her throat at the thought.

She wondered, too, if Steve were thinking about her while all this went on. What with all the autographs and photo opportunities and such things, he probably had very little time to. If he did, though, what was he thinking about? He’d told Russel to trust her, so he clearly didn’t believe in the charges against her. What did he think she was up to? What had Masters told him?

For that matter, what was Daniel thinking about while he sat in jail? He doubtless thought Peggy was working on clearing both their names. Technically she was. Freeing Dottie would doubles have delayed the trial at the very least. But she was also thinking about Steve’s desire to free his friend. He’d been so broken the day after Sergeant Barnes fell into the ravine… at the time, all Peggy had been able to offer was advice. Now that she could give him an opportunity to fix that awful thing, she couldn’t just let it lie.

Neither Steve nor Daniel had heard from her since her arrest. Did one or both think she’d simply run off with the other?

Well, to close this on a less serious note, the reporter said. Captain, I’m sure what the women of America are dying to know is: are you looking for love?

There was a brief pause. I’m not sure, said Steve. I had a girl during the war, but three years is a long time.

You heard it here first, ladies, the reporter said. Captain America may soon be back on the market! Thank you so much for your time, Cap. Pleasure having you on the show.

You’re welcome, was all Steve said.

Kay changed the station, and then quickly turned the volume back down again as the Floyd Hunt Quartet’s Fool that I Am came out just a little too loud.

“Aw, don’t love make fools of us all,” Dottie teased.

Peggy didn’t answer. She had no intention of encouraging her.

Upon arriving in Carson City, they had some lunch and freshened up, and then parked across the street from Governor Strieber’s mansion. It was a very modest place compared to some of the buildings Howard Stark lived, but still represented hundreds of possible hiding places for a large amount of money. Especially for a man who knew that no less a mobster than John ‘Moxie’ Blumberg would come down on him if it were found.

“How are we going to find it?” Peggy asked.

“Joseph will show me where it is,” Dottie replied calmly. “He knows I’m coming back for it eventually.”

“Will he be surprised it’s so soon?” A smart man would have set it aside to make sure it was there for her, but Peggy’s experience was that most politicians were not very smart where money was concerned. If he thought it might be a while before Dottie came back, he may well have spent it… especially when Dottie and her ilk were so easy to underestimate.

“Joseph is easy to surprise,” said Dottie. “It’s one of his more charming traits.”

It was very late, almost one in the morning, when Strieber’s shiny silver Packard pulled into the driveway, and Strieber got out. He was a very tall man but also quite overweight, with a drinker’s belly that hung over the top of his trousers. He was dressed up as if he’d been out for a night on the town, no doubt gambling in the new casino he pretended to disapprove of. A woman climbed out after him and took his arm. She was a brunette, dressed in a pink and black evening gown with an enormous fur stole around her shoulders. The two of them headed inside.

“Forgot me already, Joseph?” Dottie clucked her tongue. “You’ll break my heart.”

Once the door was closed, Dottie climbed out of the car and headed towards the house. Peggy and Kay climbed out and went after her.

Dottie took them around the back and knocked on the kitchen door. A woman in a maid’s uniform answered it, and looked startled.

“Miss Abagnale?” she asked.

Dottie punched her in the face.

They tied up the maid with an electrical cord, and found the short flight of stairs that led up into the living area. Light was coming around the door at the top. Peggy opened it a crack and looked out into a sitting area… lamps were lit, but she couldn’t see anybody.

The door suddenly jerked open, and Peggy found the barrel of a revolver in her face.

It took a moment for her eyes to re-focus from the dark ring of potential death to the man wielding it. He was a skinny guy with dark hair, wearing a gray suit and hat and a green tie.

“Come on out, sweetheart,” he told Peggy. His two front teeth were missing.

Peggy thought fast… no idea who this man was, but she couldn’t let him reveal that they were here. She dropped to her knees to grab him around the legs and knock him over. At the same time, both Dottie and Kay leaped on him from behind her. He squawked in surprise, but it was too late for him to fight back. Moments later they had him flat on the floor. Dottie’s foot was in the middle of his chest, and the gun was in her hand, pointed at his head.

“Carbone?” somebody asked. “What’s going on?”

Peggy swore under her breath – she should have known Dottie would lead them into trouble! “Let’s go, quick,” she said.

It was too late for that, though. Another man appeared in the doorway to the siting room. Dottie shot him, and the second one who turned out to be behind him. She kicked Carbone in the chin, and strode down the hall like a queen.

Peggy and Kay had no choice but to follow her.

In the sitting room, Strieber and his girlfriend were on a sofa, clinging to each other in terror. Four more mobsters were standing around them, and Moxie Blumberg himself was halfway through lighting a cigar out of a box he’d taken from the cabinet. All of them were clearly shocked by what had just occurred, and more so to see Dottie walk in with Carbone’s gun in her hand.

The one nearest Dottie raised his own weapon. She kicked it out of his hand and shot him. There was absolutely nothing for it now. One of the others pulled out a knife and went for Peggy – she grabbed a crystal decanter of alcohol off a table and smashed it over his head. Kay kicked another one’s legs out from under him and slammed his face into the floor, then snatched the revolver off his belt and shot a third mobster in the knee. He dropped, and Dottie shot him in the head to finish him off. The last one lost his nerve and turned to run – Dottie shot him, too, and then she was out of bullets. She threw the gun aside and snatched up the knife the other man had dropped. By this time, Blumberg was pulling out his own gun, but Dottie threw the knife and it embedded itself in his gut. He fell.

That left the three women, and Strieber and his mistress.

“Mary-Ann?” asked Strieber in a tremulous voice.

Dottie smiled. “Where’s my money, Joseph?”

Strieber ran to the bookshelf, stepped over Blumberg’s fallen body, and pulled out a few volumes. Behind them was a wall safe. He dialed the combination in with shaking hands, needing several tries to get it right. With each failure, Dottie came closer and closer behind him, and Peggy could see the sweat beading on the back of his neck. Finally he got it open, and stepped aside.

“T-t-there it is!” he said. “Take it!”

Dottie pulled out several packets of bills and tossed them to Peggy and Kay. Then she shut the safe and turned to smile at Strieber.

“Thank you, Joseph,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”

In a swift motion, she’d gotten a toe under Blumberg’s fallen pistol. She kicked it into the air, caught it, and shot Strieber in the neck. His girlfriend screamed. Dottie turned around, and killed her, too.

“Don’t!” Kay shouted, but it was already too late.

#fanfic #agent carter #captain america #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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agreateryesterday · 4 years ago

Text

Stucky - ABO

Bottom!Steve

Inside the Lines

Settling in the Lines

Little Bumps in the Lines

A Little Outside the Lines

Way Outside Those Lines

Picking a New Color

Back Inside the Lines

Bold, Wiggly Lines

Scribbles and Broken Crayons

Somersaults and IV Lines

Broken Noses and Coloring Lines

Family Ties and Signature Lines

The Lines are Closer Than Ever

Past Lines and Future Loves

Little Wonders by Avengers_Whore

“You’d look amazing with a pup on yer hip,” he murmured, startling Steve. The blond sat up slightly and looked at him, brow furrowed. “Buck, you know I can’t-” “Yeah, yeah, Stevie, I know, but we can adopt! Just like Sam and Rhodey did with Wanda,” the alpha told him, smiling wide as he looked up at his mate. He was feeling giddy just at the thought of having a pup in their home. “Plenty of kids out there who would love to be part of our family.”

“Waffles, p’ease,” Tony murmured, laying his head on the omega’s shoulder. Steve smiled and nodded his head, carrying the little omega into the kitchen. He settled the pup onto the table and poked his nose gently, enticing a soft giggle from the boy. “Steeb, can we have choc’late chips?”“Of course honey,” the blond man said, gently tickling the boy’s side.

“Poor kid just fell down and seized right there in the exam room, totally scared the shit out of me.” Steve bolted upright, his eyes wide with panic. Tony whimpered at the sudden movement and curled into Bucky more, his little face scrunched up. The alpha tightened his hold on him and gave his omega a look.

“I wish you could be my brother, then you could stay forever,” the young pup murmured, moving around the table to hug onto Harley. The blond teen looked down at the boy with wide eyes before wrapping his arms around him and holding on tight.

“Stay away from my pup,” Bucky snarled softly, placing himself protectively between Howard and the small group of three still clinging to each other. “So you’re the one who took on my greatest failure,” the other alpha commented with a sneer. Bucky’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he got even closer into the older man’s face. “Walk away before you say something that gets you seriously hurt,” the brunet growled.

“Edward.” A shake of the head. “Benjamin.” Another shake. “Joseph.” “You’re not even trying,” Tony accused, crossing his arms over his chest. “Benjamin’s nice though. That can be his middle name.” “Oh well since you’ve already decided."

“Why do we even try to keep up with you people?” Sam grouched as he helped Steve put away everything in the kitchen. The beta was putting the glasses away in a cupboard, careful as he unpacked them from the box one by one. “Three kids and a house, I’ll never catch up.” “I don’t think it’s a competition, Sam,” Steve told him with a smile.

“You act like you’re not going to be supervised by an adult,” Harley said, cuffing the younger’s ear and smirking when the omega yelped. Since Tony was incredibly young to be in college, they’d put him in Harley’s apartment. The alpha would be able to watch out for him and since they were actually siblings, he wouldn’t be bothered by Tony going into heat. “Why do you have to crush my dreams like that?”

“Boyfriend?” Bucky asked, a growl lacing his words. “Oh stop. His name is Ty and he’s a very nice, charming alpha. Just wanted you to know before you got a whiff of him and got all rutty,” the omega told him. “Do not embarrass Tony.”

“Boyfriend?” Bucky asked, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. The brunet alpha was immediately up in Loki’s personal space, trying to intimidate and size him up all at once.

“Boyfriend, hm? A good one this time hopefully?” Steve asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “The best. Harley-approved and all,” Tony told him, biting his bottom lip as he watched Loki and his father.

He looked up and came face-to-face with icy-blue eyes. The alpha had a white coat on, meaning he was a doctor.

“I-I am so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Tony stuttered, his face turning red the longer he looked at this alpha. The man smiled slightly and handed over some of the books before helping the omega up. “Not a problem, I was too busy looking at my phone,” the doctor told him. “Dr. Stephen Strange.”

“You have my blessing.” “Stevie!” Bucky protested. “Oh hush. You always get like this, Wade’s not even allowed in our house because you think he’s going to molest Peter,” the blond scolded his mate, swatting at the alpha. “What?” Peter asked, his voice cracking from the shock.

“You’re pregnant?” Steve exclaimed, immediately off of the couch and running over to hug the three of them excitedly. “I’m gonna be a grandma!” “Well, yes and no,” Loki said with a chuckle. “Anthony isn’t pregnant.” “Then what do you mean?” Peter asked, his brow furrowing. “Riri, you can come out now, darling,” Stephen called. Everyone watched with wide eyes as the little alpha girl came out of the kitchen, running over and hiding behind Tony’s legs.

“Honey! Babe, I’m home,” Steve called as he entered the apartment, tossing his keys onto the table by the door. He closed his door with his foot and carried the grocery bags into the kitchen. “Brock?” “Yeah, Steve, I’m comin’. I was in the bathroom,” Brock answered as he came around the corner. The omega giggled as he started pulling everything out of the bags to start putting away. He purred when arms wrapped around him from behind.

“You- You hit me!” Peter exclaimed. “You never hit me!” “I didn’t mean to! You wouldn’t get off’a me!” “‘Cause you won’t talk to me! Wade, I’m your best friend, why won’t you talk to me?” Wade growled in frustration and pulled his hood further down over his face when he caught Peter trying to look at him. He smelled of angry, anxious alpha over his unique taco and iron smell.

I'm not making any promises. by Ohlookitsabi, Stucky_Barnes

(Last updated Sep 7, 2018) 3 chapters

steve and Bucky are together, They are happily inlove... but what happens when SOMEONE tries to get in their way? (this is my first fic so I'm sorry in advance)

Popping by himawri45 (kotaka_kun)

*Finished* 2 chapters

Steve and Bucky are expecting (again, or it could be their first), and Steve hasn’t taken the changes to his body so well and with each new change, he grows more self-conscious and embarrassed of his new appearance. The latest change, he noticed one morning, is that his belly button has popped. This makes him super embarrassed not only because of how apparent it looks, but it also is very sensitive and to make matters worse, he gets razzed about it by Bucky, their kids and/or his friends.

Splintered Beginnings by angel_with_a_nuclear_bomb

*Finished* 3 chapters

HYDRA gave up on human experimentation after their 500th subject failed. They theorized that if they changed the original form to something more substantial, the project could survive. Their first subject was immensely successful, vicious yet obedient. Their second subject.... That's a little bit of a different story. But what happens when the Avengers intercept their first subject, and HYDRA's house of cards slowly begins to to fall? *STARRING* Bucky as a chunky wolf Steeb as a tiny wolf and Bucky as a traumatized human Steeb as an even more traumatized human

It's been a long day without you, my friend by AyeeItsJaee

(Last updated Nov 24, 2019) 1 chapter

Packs are the most important thing to Steve. Ever since he was a child he believed he would form a pack with Bucky. And then the war and the serum happened. the two hardly got to even speak. Bucky fell off of the train and Steve crashed in the ice, he thought he was dead. He sometimes wished they never found him. He didn't have his Alpha. Everything changed when hydra attacked Nick Fury and Steve found him again. Bucky was alive. He was alive and taking care of a fourteen year old while is aunt was in the hospital.

Date Night by himawri45 (kotaka_kun)

*Finished* One Shot

“You feeling okay?” “I’m fine,” Steve assured him, “Just Braxton Hicks.” Bucky looked surprised at that. “I’ve been having them off and on all day, it’s no big deal.” “Is it bad?” he pressed. “We can go home if you’re not comfortable, y’know.” “I’m fine, Buck.” Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand. “Really, it’s okay. Just means my body’s getting ready and all. It’s nothing to be worried about.” Bucky looked unsure but dropped it once Steve began looking over the menu. Steve was glad for it - he didn’t want Bucky to have to spend their night together worrying himself over Steve. Steve could take care of himself.

The Same Star by Annaelle, dolarhyding, Juulna

*Finished* 6 chapters

The year is 2117—nearly 100 years after the Third World War and 50 years after the discovery of the Alpha-Omega gene mutation—and the United Research Space Agency has landed its first manned mission on the recently discovered tenth planet, named Gaia. On this planet, there are now seven souls—that they know of—led by URSA’s finest, most driven Captain; an Omega named Steve Rogers and his loyal Alpha, Bucky Barnes. The mission—a dream mission, a mission the entire population of Earth follows with bated breath—will soon become a nightmare for all involved. The mission is hastily aborted when a freak storm of unimaginable proportions hits suddenly, forcing the team to leave the surface of the planet—all but one. Bucky Barnes is left behind, assumed dead by all, even his grief-stricken Omega. The vast distance between them increases every minute, and it might be more than he—and his mate—are capable of handling. With such distance, it is only a matter of time before Separation Sickness takes them and makes them lose control—the one thing Steve, leader of the Gaia Exploration Crew, cannot afford to lose.

Remember Dreams by Stuckylover4ever

(Last updated July 22, 2020) 11 chapters

In a world where Beta rules the world, Alpha's and Omega's are trying to survive. Going to a college would be hard enough for Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, and Peter Parker if they weren't dealing with being Omegas in a world where Omega's aren't allowed much. Each one of them is dealing with a pregnancy on top of Steve's health issues. As much as Tony Stark loved his daughter, he didn't want to be a stay at home dad. While he didn't mind it, Tony wanted to have a good education as well. Beta's are known to be given everything while being allowed to do what they want. Alpha's, on the other hand, are required to go to college, get a good job, then settle down. Omegas are only allowed to have families. Going to college isn't allowed for them, and if they do go, then they are looked down upon. Follow them as they learn to love, dream, and change the world. Each one of them has a story to tell, and they want to tell it. Life is hard, but when you are told what you are supposed to do, then life get's harder.

honestly thought i’d be dead by now, but what you can trust is that i need your touch by moonythejedi394, raynaki

*Finished* 17 chapters

Bucky is 37 years old; he’s unmarried, hasn’t had a Sub of his own, is definitely not ripped, comfortable at his job as an Advanced Practice RN at Brooklyn General ER, and just got his Five Years coin from AA. Steve is 26 years old; he’s unmarried, his last and only Dom has Alzheimer's, he's worryingly muscular, uncomfortable in his job as the government’s poster Alpha for masculinity and strength, and worries more than he should about his BMI. Unfortunately, Steve and Bucky meet initially in a not-cute moment. Bucky’s tired as shit thanks to the sudden alien invasion that shook New York and Steve is tired as shit because he hasn’t slept more than 20 minutes at a time in – well, since 1936, probably. Bucky’s Alpha instincts get irritated at the sudden presence of another "Alpha" into his territory and Steve’s suppressed submissive tendencies latch onto this grumpy bachelor Alpha and he only suppresses it further. Bucky’s grumpiness and Steve’s duckling impressionism aside, both of them are a mess. But since both of them are a mess? Their messes seem to fit pretty well together.

Fairy Tales Are Lies We're Told So That We Keep Dreaming by Fallen_Ash

(Last updated June 20, 2019) 5 chapters

This is a story about a group of friends, who came together in the most unlikely of situations, to battle for what they believe is right.

So the Story Says by monsterradio

*Finished* One Shot

A prophecy once said that a warrior with scales for skin and fire for breath would tie with a prince of a kingdom so vast it spanned half the land. Alpha King of Dragons, James, thought it was just a story whispered around a fire until a crow came from the kingdom of Shield, hailing the coming of age of their Omega heir.

What the Doctor Ordered

Conflict of Interest

In Equal Measure

Be Your Alpha if You Wanted

Coming to Terms at the Turn (of the decade) by sarahyellow

*Finished* One Shot(s), 4 chapters

Steve is a sickly adult omega who lives under the custody of the state in the 1940's. He's always insisted on riding out his heats alone but after the disaster that was his last cycle he is forced to choose: pair with one of OmegaHouse's support alphas, or undergo a therapeutic procedure to fulfill his heat.

Much to Steve Roger's chagrin, a handsome new alpha is assigned to his hall at the Brooklyn Heights OmegaHouse.

Things in the House haven't changed too much in the past year and a half. Well... some things have. Steve's turned eighteen now, he's started courses at the community college. Alexander Pierce has been elected the 33rd president of the United States. Oh, and James/Bucky? He's Steve's hall alpha and he's kind of growing on him. Until he isn't.

Another look into the lives of Steve Rogers and James (Bucky) Barnes at the Brooklyn Heights OmegaHouse. Steve and Bucky are still diametrically opposed.

Things've been confusing between them ever since his heat. Bucky had given Steve what he’d needed, and Steve’s been feeling indebted to him ever since. He’s got newfound respect for Bucky. And… maybe something else. He hasn’t put a name to it yet, has been too afraid to. But it’s been plaguing his thoughts. According to House rules it’s probably inappropriate, but neither one of them knows what to do about it.

Post: Part 4

#stucky #steve rogers #james bucky barnes #alpha!bucky #omega!steve #omega!steve rogers #alpha!bucky barnes #abo #alpha/beta/omega #marvel #bottom!steve #bottom!steve rogers #top!bucky barnes #top!bucky

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sugarmaplewings-fics · 4 years ago

Text

Deep Blue Fantasy Part Three

Pairing: Merman!Tamaki Amajiki x fem!reader

Warnings: Uhh . . . sexual tension? Idk how to describe it. I guess this is the most PG-13 bit of it but there’s nothing too crazy

{Pt. 1} {Pt. 2} {Pt. 3} {Pt. 4} {Pt. 5} {Pt. 6} {Pt. 7}

くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡

You made your way down the familiar rolling hill that led to the ocean, inhaling the briny air. The winds whipped your hair around your face haphazardly, tossing it as they pleased. You scrunched up your nose and tried to spit the stray strands out of your mouth, which proved to be a struggle.

Trying to tame your now spit covered (H/C) hair, you allowed your feet to sink into the black sand. You reveled in the feel of it squishing and shifting between your toes.

Waves noisily crashed over the black rocks, rougher today than they were normally. The wind was stronger than usual, and you expected a storm was on its way, judging by the gray look taking over the sky. You frowned at the wind, wishing it could be a nicer day when something caught your eye.

Pale skin contrasted the black sand it was lying on, dark water crashing around a pair of shoulders.

You knew how dangerous the waters could be, especially on a day like today. It was forbidden to step foot in the ocean; your father never let you or anyone else forget it. But there was clearly something wrong, so you risked coming closer for a better look.

A man roughly your age was lying on his back, partially submerged in the water that curled and fell over him. You realized, to your further shock and horror, that this man was completely naked.

His eyes were shut and you couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. An odd necklace laid against his bare chest, somehow miraculously staying on after the apparent chaos he had been through. What was he doing out here? Was he some castaway washed up on shore? Was he some idiot who had decided to go skinny dipping at a bad time?

You decided none of it mattered as you knelt next to him, finally giving up on trying to keep your skirts out of the water.

You put a finger under his nose, checking for breath. To your relief, a warm cloud collected between you. So he was alive, if only faintly. You tried shaking his shoulder, wondering if you could wake him up. His skin was cold, so cold, just touching it made you shiver.

No matter how hard you shook him, he wouldn't stir, making you worry. Finally you dragged him further out of the water, taking off your jacket and draping it over him, hoping to provide some warmth.

"I'll be right back," you whispered, standing up again in order to race home to find help.

✤✤✤✤✤

Tamaki blinked his eyes open, light bleeding into the crack of his vision. It was too bright, and his head hurt. His whole body throbbed and tingled and something about him felt . . . different.

He was laying on something very soft and wrapped in layers of coverings, which trapped in his heat nicely. Where was he?

His memory suddenly flooded back to him, the necklace, the waves . . . his legs.

Tamaki's eyes snapped the rest of the way open, cringing at the onslaught of light. He was in some kind of room, bathed in afternoon sunlight. It was relatively simple, only holding a bookcase, a wardrobe, and a small vanity table. He had never before seen so many warm shades, marveling at how much yellow could be picked up by his eyes.

He lifted the blanket off of him, cold air rolling over his brand new legs. He was wearing another type of covering over the lower half of his body, these loose-fitting and a light blue color. They obstructed the view of his legs, only showing him his bare feet. Tamaki bunched some of the fabric in his hand, twisting it slightly in curiosity. He then experimentally bent his knee, straightening and bending it again until finally taking his foot into his hand. Tamaki brushed his fingertips over his toes, spreading and curling them. He finally allowed a small smile onto his face. He'd done it. He had legs.

Tamaki suddenly noticed something about his thoughts. They had changed slightly. It was still him thinking them, yet they felt almost foreign. He was thinking in . . . words. That's what they were called. He was used to forming sounds in his mind, but generally he used pictures to think. Now they flowed silently in individual sounds, each one with its own meaning. A new one would appear every now and then, and Tamaki would just sort of know what it meant.

Before he could start unpacking his new mental system, a noise drifted into his ears. It reminded Tamaki of singing, but this was distinctly less musical. Could these be words except . . . spoken? The knob on the door shook, the sound coming from the other side. The door swung open, causing Tamaki's breath to catch in his throat.

You walked in, followed by a woman who appeared to be a few years your senior. You wore a light-colored sundress and a glittering circlet was delicately placed atop your head. Tamaki noticed how your (H/L) (H/C) hair gently bobbed and flowed as you walked. He'd known you were pretty, but he'd never seen you this close before, and he made a point to memorize every feature of your face which until now, he'd only caught glimpses of from afar.

The woman behind you was speaking, her hands wringing her skirt. "—princess, please. This isn't—"

"Oh! You're awake!" You met Tamaki's eyes, your face melting into a heart-stopping smile.

Princess? What's a princess? Tamaki wondered.

Your face suddenly went serious, almost frowning at him. Tamaki fought the urge to shrink back from your gaze, unsure of what he'd done to evoke such an expression. "Brianne, could you give us a moment?" you requested of the woman behind you, your eyes never leaving Tamaki's. "Since my father is away for the week, it is my duty to deal with him."

Brianne sighed, releasing her dress. "Very well, then." She stepped out of the room, closing the door after her.

You crossed the room, bringing yourself a few paces away from Tamaki's bed. You folded your arms in front of your chest, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Do you realize—" you spoke, your voice smooth and even, curiously filling Tamaki's ears in a way he was unaccustomed to, "—that swimming on that beach is forbidden?"

Tamaki frowned, taken aback. The beach?

You must have seen the look of confusion written across his face, because you relaxed slightly. "Sir, are you from this island?"

Tamaki shook his head, answering truthfully.

You uncrossed your arms, resting a hand on your hip. The gentle smile returned to your face, making Tamaki marginally less tense. "So you are a castaway. Your ship must have gotten stuck in another storm." You glanced out the window that was leaking sunlight into the room. "You were out nearly all day. You missed the storm we had over here. But the sun's out now."

Tamaki couldn't take his eyes off you. He wanted to ask you so many things, to tell you how much he admired you, but nothing would take hold in his mind.

You finally looked back to Tamaki, your eyebrows creasing in concern. "You don't talk much. You aren't going into shock, are you?"

You closed the distance between him and yourself, resting a warm hand on his forehead. He stiffened at your touch, explosions of feeling firing off in his chest.

"I did find you half-drowned and naked on my beach. I'm glad you don't feel so cold anymore."

Tamaki frowned at your words, focusing on one which was foreign to him. He decided to experiment with his voice, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously.

"N-naked?" he asked, the word finally sliding over his tongue. It felt odd, using his voice like this to communicate, but sound was able to travel differently through air than it did in the water.

You blushed, averting your eyes to the floor. "The wreck must have torn off your clothes or something. We-we gave you some pants." You bit your lip, embarrassed by the subject matter.

Tamaki fiddled with his pants again, the new word bouncing around his brain as he twisted the cloth between his fingers. Now that he thought about it, humans did have a strange obsession with hiding their bodies from each other. The merpeople didn't really practice the custom, although Tamaki knew some of the mermaids liked to wear decorative pieces tied around their chests; anything from shells to seaweed. He'd even seen someone sporting a discarded man-made flag.

"You s-saved me." Tamaki finally said, turning back to you. "I thought I was going to die." His words were coming easier now, formed in his head and then shaped by his tongue. "Thank you."

You smiled. "I didn't really do anything. I just found you." You extended a hand. "I am Princess (F/N) (L/N) of the Islands of Thapia, it's a pleasure to meet you."

There it was again; princess. Tamaki decided not to ask, in case he ended up looking like an idiot. It couldn't be anything too important, although the way you said it almost made him wonder . . . .

"I'm Tamaki Amajiki." I've been watching you for the past two months, and I might be in love.

"Where are you from?"

Tamaki sighed, uncertain of how to answer. "Far away from here."

He vowed to himself to tell you, but now wasn't the time.

Your gaze slipped down to his chest, admiring the necklace that hung from his neck. "I like your necklace. Where did you get it? Is it a family heirloom?"

Tamaki brought his fingers up to it, subconsciously fiddling with the shell. "I'm borrowing from this lady."

"A lady?" Your eyebrow shot up again. "Got someone back home?"

Tamaki jolted at your words, his hand flying from the necklace. "No! It's just me."

"Just you?"

The raven-haired man swallowed and nodded.

"Well," you said, straightening, "since you weren't breaking the safety laws and you clearly aren't from around here, I am making it my personal responsibility to care and provide for you until you are ready to return to your home.

Tamaki blinked. "You'd do that?"

You shrugged. "Where else are you going to stay? Besides, I get lonely here and you seem like a nice person."

You thought he was nice? He might cry at the thought.

"Would you like anything?" you continued. "A meal? More blankets?"

Tamaki bit his lip, suddenly noticing how his stomach clenched around nothing at your words. How had he not noticed how hungry he was? "Some food would be nice. Please."

You smiled and nodded. "I figured as much. I'll get Brianne right on that."

You ducked out of the room and Tamaki waited patiently in his bed, tapping his fingers together when something caught his attention. A dark form had moved from behind the glass of the window. Tamaki had never seen anything like it, wondering how he hadn't noticed the clear panes before. He stared outside, watching as leaves on a tree shook with an invisible breeze, another form darting through the air into his vision again. He now recognized the creature as a bird, however, he was used to the larger, white sea birds that he would always find when he came up to the surface. This one was so dark and compact, and Tamaki found himself finding it cute.

He watched it intently as it fluttered about, poking around in the grass for a stray worm. Its activities intrigued him so much he barely noticed the time passing, jumping when he heard his door swing open.

You strode in, carrying a tray laden with food. "Hi, again. I'm back." You set the tray on Tamaki's lap and grabbed a chair from the other end of the room, pulling it up beside the bed so you could converse.

"Th-thank you," Tamaki said, looking down at the bowl that was before him.

"You're welcome!" you beamed. "You just missed lunch, so we still had some stew left over. Our chef is really nice and he warmed some up for you! I'll have to take you to meet him later." You gasped at a new thought. "I should take you on a tour! I'm sure you'll like it here. I don't get visitors much, it's usually just the same islanders. Aren't you hungry?"

You had noticed Tamaki hadn't touched his food yet.

"Sorry! I was just, um, distracted . . . ." It was the truth, watching you talk was like some kind of dream to him. The way your mouth moved intrigued him, holding your smile through your words. There was something so indescribably enrapturing to him as he watched you. He felt like he could listen to you all day.

Listening to you . . . . That was right. Your voice. Tamaki had to figure out how to ask you to sing for him so he could finally hear it up close, untarnished by distance and wind.

Now wasn't the time, though. Tamaki's stomach painfully reminded him. The only problem was . . . what was he supposed to do? At home, he was used to being able to eat everything with his hands. But this was obviously a liquid, and something told him just shoving his fingers in wasn't the answer.

He swept his gaze over the tray, his eyes landing on a little slice of another foreign item to him. It had a tan crust, with a light, almost fluffy center. He picked it up, throwing multiple glances over to you in case you made a face to signal he was doing something wrong. Tamaki held it to his nose and sniffed. It smelled . . . good. Really good. He dunked it in the stew and brought it back out, lifting it up to his mouth and licking off some of the broth.

Flavors unlike anything he'd ever experienced before exploded in his mouth, and he found himself biting off some of the disc he'd dipped in it. This was another flavor, a little plain with the faintest hints of sweet. Tamaki happily chewed, already trying to figure out how to consume it all as fast as he could.

"You like the bread?" you asked, noticing his overjoyed expression. "I baked it this morning, with some help from Brianne. Brianne's my handmaiden, by the way. You've seen her, right? She was with me when I walked in the first time."

Tamaki looked over and nodded, thinking back to the older, somewhat heavy-set blonde woman from before.

You went on, beginning to explain your nearly perfected technique for baking bread. Tamaki tried to follow what you were saying, but it was difficult when he didn't even know half the terms you were using. Oven? Yeast? Dough? Tamaki could never have imagined how vastly different his world was from yours.

All too soon, he finished his 'bread', or at least, he was pretty sure it was bread. He frowned a little, disappointed, until his eyes alighted on another object on the tray. He picked it up, instantly feeling that it was metal. He used it to scoop up some of the chunks of meat and vegetables, finding them even better than the thick broth he'd been eating before.

He finished the last of what was in his bowl, a new sense of satisfaction settling in his stomach. But something else was tickling the back of his throat. He felt almost dry. He looked over to another bowl-like object on the tray, this one cylindrical and tall. He picked it up, seeing liquid inside.

It was water, it had to be, due to how clear it was. But the memory of seawater gushing into his mouth only a few hours before made him hesitate. He'd hated the salty taste of the ocean. Did humans actually drink that stuff? Tamaki tipped it towards his face, cautiously dipping his tongue into the water. This surprised him; it wasn't salty at all. It was clear and nearly tasteless, but somehow so deliciously satisfying.

He downed the whole thing in a matter of swallows, which you noticed, making you stop in your impromptu bread lecture. "You must be pretty dehydrated," you said sympathetically. "You swallowed a lot of seawater out there. And threw up a lot of seawater too. You're lucky you survived. Our shores alone would be enough to kill you. I can't even imagine floating out at sea." You studied him, a light of what looked almost like respect and intrigue flickering behind your eyes.

Tamaki's cheeks heated, feeling guilty that he was slightly misleading you. He had a month, he told himself. He'd tell you who he was and why he came. He just felt like he could adjust a little more first. Make sure you liked his presence before dumping ancient forbidden secrets upon you. Yeah, that seemed best.

"Are you still thirsty?" you asked Tamaki, jolting him out of his thoughts. "I can get you some more water. In fact, you can come with me if you want! I'll take you on that tour I mentioned. Ooh, I can show you the whole town! Maybe tomorrow, though, it's getting late. Come on." You pulled the now empty tray off his lap and set it on a table beside his bed, next walking to the wardrobe and pulling out another article of clothing. You laid it out on the bed, looking to Tamaki expectantly.

His brain took a moment to catch up, suddenly realizing you wanted him to stand. He'd never done that before. Tamaki squinted down at the floor, wondering why it had to be so far away. Finally he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sliding forward until his feet hit the cold wood below. He quickly pulled them back up, sensitive to the temperature.

You winced. "Sorry about that. I'll try to find you some shoes. Maybe my dad has some that are too small. You can come with me and check."

Shoes? Jeez, for all they did, humans almost seemed fragile. Tamaki lowered his feet back to the floor, now anticipating the gentle cold sting against his bare skin. He slowly raised himself, wobbly balancing on them. He was doing it! He was standing! On land!

Now walking. One in front of the other, right? Tamaki eagerly shifted his weight to one foot, maybe a little too excited. He toppled into you, and you just barely managed to steady him in your arms.

"Woah, there, slow down," you said, suppressing a chuckle at his now beet-red face. "I get it. You probably haven't gotten your land legs back yet. I've met the trading sailors."

His land legs? Sure, that was it. He just needed to develop them.

"Here, you can lean on me," you said. "You've been through a lot, I understand."

Tamaki carefully straightened, gripping your shoulder to steady himself. He tried for another step, this time more careful. You shuffled forward with him, helping as he put weight on his foot.

A step. His first step! Tamaki could flip—or, he would if he were underwater. Trying to do a quick somersault here could only end in disaster. Tamaki went for another step, then another, finding a rhythm to it quickly.

"There you go," you praised, your voice so quiet and genuine as you smiled up at him, gently guiding him around the room. It was only now that Tamaki realized how much taller he was than you. He could probably put his chin on the top of your head if he wanted to. You were so small, it made an odd feeling of wanting to protect you wash over him.

He suddenly realized he had frozen, staring at you. His cheeks warmed yet again and he glanced back down to his new bare feet. You had been staring back, but him breaking the connection of your gaze had jolted you back to reality. A very . . . touchy reality.

You only now realized just how much of his bare side was pressed up against you, and heat rose to your own cheeks. "Uh—shirt. Bed. I put a shirt ON the bed. It's for you." You tried to pull away from the man beside you, but he wasn't prepared and pitched to the side, forcing you to hug him again in order to prevent him from falling. "This is awkward, I'm so sorry," you said, suddenly beginning to trip over your words. "It's my fault. I'll—"

You tried to pull away again, gently this time, until Tamaki seized your hand in his. "It's okay," he said, looking into your eyes with sincerity. "I don't mind."

You swallowed, really wishing he was wearing that shirt right about now. Only because, a small part of you was glad he wasn't. You had to physically restrain your eyes from roving over him more than you already had.

Stop it. This is foolish, you chided yourself. The mind of a future queen of the Thapian Isles has no business in gutters like these.

And yet, the way your chest was squished against his, the way his pants were slung so low on his hips . . . the sudden memories of how he'd looked, sprawled out on that beach—

"Um, Princess?"

You hadn't even heard the door click open—maybe you hadn't shut it all the way—but the voice of your handmaiden made both you and Tamaki jolt.

"Brianne!" you said, your voice embarrassingly squeaky as you let go of your grip on Tamaki's hand and waist, jumping away from him.

He instinctively threw out his arms, balancing himself on his own.

You walked back to the bed, yanking the white linen shirt off its hanger and going back to thrust the article into Tamaki's arms.

"What were you two—"

"We were about to go get a drink!" you said, turning so you missed the deeply confused expression Tamaki gave the shirt as he held it up to examine it. "Then I was thinking I could show him around the chateau. You know, since he's going to be here for . . . a while I guess. How long until the boats back to the mainland get here?"

"It'll be another month or two," Brianne said, still looking between you and Tamaki suspiciously.

"Yep," you said, turning to find Tamaki holding the shirt upside down. "Here," you said, taking it from him. "These darn buttons always get me—" Your voice raced a mile a minute as you began to fumble with the buttons, still flustered from your interruption in such a position. "The traders just left last week," you explained, keeping your eyes glued to the shirt as you busied your fingers. "You just missed them. We're stuck here until they come back, so you'll have to deal with me until then, I guess."

The final button came free and the shirt fell open. You gave it a quick shake for good measure and offered an armhole to Tamaki. He stared at it for a moment before hesitantly putting his arm in the sleeve, letting you pull it around behind him. He shrugged it the rest of the way on, unused to the feeling of being wrapped in so much fabric.

He left it open before you frustratedly sighed, still shaken from earlier. You began to button the shirt closed, nimble fingers directing them into their respective slots with practiced ease. Tamaki watched, trying to memorize your movements so he might recreate them later.

"Alright, you ready?" you asked him. Brianne still stood in the doorway, watching your every move.

Tamaki nodded.

"Then come on! I want you to meet everyone!"

You grabbed his hand, spinning around to pull him out the door, forgetting his leg issues. A weight crashed into you from behind and the two of you toppled to the floor, Tamaki now sprawled on top of you.

"Princess . . . ." Brianne shook her head, grinning. She finally uncrossed her arms and departed from the doorway, leaving the two of you alone to right yourselves.

...

To be continued . . . .

くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡くコ:彡

[Part Four]

Author's Note:

Finally! Our Tamibaby is on land! This chapter was so much fun to write. I tried to figure out how to work in some se—uh, tension in here, some ROMANTIC tEnSiOn (If you get that reference, then five stars for you). I hope it got a giggle out of you. It's been a while since I've really been able to stretch my author muscles. Tamaki is a bean as always and I love writing for him. I'm also enjoying this version of y/n. I think she's turning out really well.

Anyway, it's 3 AM and I need to go to bed. In case you were wondering, I totally did not have a quick crisis on how to spell the word 'busied'. And I also most certainly did not accidentally type 'Tamale' instead of 'Tamaki' and then spent five minutes laughing about it.

Yeah, I'm sleepy, so I'm gonna go.

Good night/morning/afternoon,

-Sugar

Taglist:

@inumorph @engel-hageshii @pansexual-potterhead @ure-a-sunflower @xeina @kingtamakimurder @basicaegyo @iiminibattlehero @pyrofanatic @sokkasangel @xoxopam4

#tamaki #amajiki #tamaki amajiki #mermaki #tamaki bnha #tamaki amajiki bnha #tamaki mha #tamaki amajiki mha #tamaki x reader #tamaki amajiki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #reader insert #deepbluefantasy #sugar fics

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lynnsfics · 4 years ago

Text

The One Where There’s Only One Bed

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Prompt List #12 “You take the bed, you need it more than me.” Gender-neutral reader)

Word Count: Approx. 1600

Warnings: Mild Language

Requests Open! See Prompt List for more details!

~~~

The door slammed behind you, rain dripping from your hair, “Well,” you stated, “that was a disaster.” It was true. The mission had taken a turn for the worse, and you had barely escaped with your lives, but unfortunately not with the intel you needed. To be fair, maybe Fury’s plan of having the literal Winter Soldier infiltrate a HYDRA base wasn’t the best.

“Hey,” Bucky said, “at least we made it out of there. It could have been worse.” You had to agree with that, HYDRA wasn’t exactly the most hospitable when it came to taking prisoners.

Only nodding in response, you sat down next to the fireplace. Thanks to Tony Stark, the AVENGERS had secret safe houses all over the place. Unfortunately, this one happened to be one of the less upgraded hideouts. Grabbing the fire stoker, you tried to get the coals to catch flame. Finally a bit of heat and smoke emerged, and you sighed in relief. You wouldn’t be dying of hypothermia tonight.

“There’s some food in the kitchen,” Bucky called out, “it’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do. Want some tomato soup?”

Nodding your head ‘yes’, you abandoned your warm spot by the fire to grab a bowl. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait for backup?”

He shrugged as he tied his hair back. “Ideally? They received our message and will be here in a couple hours. But in reality,” he paused to open the soup can, “probably not until the morning.”

You froze at his words, “Not until the morning?”

“Let’s be honest, it’s close to one in the morning and it’s raining frogs out there.”

“Hold up, raining frogs? That’s not how the saying goes.” “Well that’s how the saying goes in Bucharest,” he said with a slight smile.

You held up your hands in mock surrender, “Alright fine, you win. But if they aren’t here until morning what are we going to do about the, uh,” you felt your face flush a little, “sleeping arrangements.”

“Stark funded this place, I’m sure there’s two beds, it’ll be fine. We can go check it out in a minute, the soup’s almost ready.”

Thunder boomed overhead and you felt yourself shiver. You weren’t scared of storms, exactly, but you weren’t overly fond of them either. Being stranded in what was essentially a slightly fancy log cabin didn’t improve your current opinion of them, although some may find it cozy.

Bucky pushed a bowl of hot soup in front of you and you felt better immediately. The familiar taste of tomato filled your senses, and your stress seemed to melt away.

“Feel better,” Bucky questioned from across the counter.

“I do, but how could you tell I was upset?” “You always twist your hands when something stresses you out.” He smiled, “Don’t look so surprised, I’ve known you for almost three years now, I can tell when you’re stressed out.”

Looking down, you sighed. Of course he would be able to tell, he was always so good at reading your emotions. Well, most of them, anyway. He still didn’t know you had harbored feelings for him for the past year at least. Or at least you hoped he didn’t.

As the last of the soup swirled around your dish, you felt your eyes growing heavy. You knew you’d pass out at the counter if you didn’t head to bed soon. Leaning back, you yawned and stretched your arms over your head.

“Time to get some rest?” Bucky asked, and you nodded. Standing up, you took a look down the darkened hall. A light switch was positioned near you on the wall, and you flipped it on experimentally.

A warm glow emanated from the hall, shining a light onto a singular door at the end. Nervousness filled you as you gently made your way down the corridor. Your footsteps grew increasingly loud, seeming to reverberate off of the wood floor. Entering the room, your breath hitched. A singular king size bed sat along the middle of the wall.

Oh God, there was only one bed.

“So,” Bucky said, entering the room behind you, “remember what I said earlier? I might have been wrong.”

“Yeah, I think so,” you responded, feeling nervous. “You take the bed, you need it more than me.”

“And where will you sleep?”

After a moment of thought, you replied, “On the couch in the living room, obviously.”

“That thing is rock hard. There’s no way you’d get a good rest of that thing.” He was right, of course, but you didn’t need him to know that.

“I’ll be fine. Besides, you shouldn’t have to take the couch, you could barely fit.”

“I’m sure I could,” he answered with a scoff.

“You’re like six feet tall. I’m barely even five foot four. There’s no debate.”

Then, he said the words you’d be dreading, “Why don’t we just share the bed?” You replied quickly, heart racing, “It’d be a bit cramped I’m sure, and I-”

“The bed is king sized, no need to worry about that,” he interjected.

“Well, I,” you didn’t have any other arguments, so instead you resigned, “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” he replied with a smirk, “aren’t I always?”

“Oh haha, very funny, Barnes,” was your sarcastic retort. A second door caught your eye, and you realized there was a nice bathroom connected to the room. After running for your life and getting caught in a rainstorm, a hot shower sounded wonderful.

As soon as the door was closed behind you, you took a deep breath and sighed, How on Earth would you get through this? It wasn’t as if you hadn’t faced worse, you could name ten things more terrifying off the top of your head. But for some reason, having to spend the night next to Bucky seemed to petrify you.

“It isn’t as if he can read my thoughts,” you reassured yourself as the hot water poured from the faucet. But that wasn’t the most reassuring, because a million and one things could go wrong, and he could figure out how you felt. Not only would your friendship be ruined, but the whole team’s dynamic would be off. “Shit,” you cussed softly, “let’s hope this ends well.”

Exiting the bathroom, you saw Bucky had already pulled back the deep red quilt that had been covering the bed, and was settled in, reading a book that had been on the bedside table. He looked up, “I can turn off the light if you’re planning to head to sleep.”

“Oh, no it’s fine, I don’t mind the light being on,” you replied before crawling in the bed. Being careful to stay near the edge, your heart was hammering as you lay down. “Alright then, try to get some rest, we’ll be up early tomorrow.” You cleared your throat, hoping your voice wouldn’t sound as shaky as you felt, “Okay, sounds good.” Apparently, your strategy hadn’t worked. “Is everything alright?” “Yeah, I’m just peachy. Just tired is all.”

“Okay then,” he didn’t sound convinced, but thankfully he let the matter drop.

Closing your eyes, you surprisingly found yourself drift off quickly, and soon you were out like a light.

The light on the bedside clock shone 5:09 AM when you found yourself suddenly awake. You could have sworn you heard something in the hall, although it may have just been in your dream. But no, there it was again. A subtle scritch-scratch that made you bolt up. A shadow moved and you let out a small shriek.

Next to you, Bucky sat up quickly, “What is it? What’s wrong?” Taking a deep breath you answered, “A mouse, look.” He chuckled, and you felt yourself blush. “Doll, you work as an assassin, and yet a mouse scares you?” “Mice aren’t as predictable as people, alright?”

“Do you want me to take it outside?”

You looked over at him, “Could you?” He nodded, “No problem, I’ll be right back.”

Laying back down, you felt a bit more at ease, but did a quick scan of the room, just to be sure there weren’t any more rodent intruders. Once satisfied that you were safe, you closed your eyes, but didn’t quite drift off. You were still laying like that, eyes closed but still awake, when Bucky re-entered the room.

“The mouse is back outsi-,” he stopped talking, thinking you were back asleep. He smiled softly as he got back into the bed. “Goodnight doll,” he whispered. “I love you. If only I could find a way to tell you that while you were awake.”

Your heart felt like it stopped completely. You had to have misheard, right? Or maybe it was all a dream? Nonetheless, you couldn’t stop yourself from whispering back a gentle “I love you too.”

This time, it was Bucky who bolted up in bed, “Wait, what?”

Shit. Well, you had to face it now. Sitting up in bed, you sighed. “I said, I love you, and I have for a while,” you paused not sure how to continue, “I didn’t know how to tell you, but with all this,” you motioned to the shared bed, “it just, slipped out.”

He glanced down, and then met your eyes, “I’ve felt the same way, and when I thought you were asleep I,” he stopped talking, “Is it alright if I kiss you?” You nodded, closing the distance between you, heart pounding. As your hand found its way into his hair, a knock sounded at the bedroom door.

“Hey guys,” Sam said, entering the room, “I heard you needed backup,” the last word was barely out of his mouth before he began to back out of the room, “You know what? I’ll just come back later.”

~~~

General Taglist:

@sydneyisnotawriter

@dark-night-sky-99

Requested by: @sourpatchspinster

I wrote this instead of sleeping, so I’d like to formally apologize for any grammatical errors. Also, requests are still open (Details above)! As always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you want to be added to my taglist! Love you all <3

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speaknowslut13 · 4 years ago

Text

Evermore First Impressions

Well, well, well, we meet again. I was so wordy last time around, I’m going to try to contain myself this time. No promises. Let’s just dive right in, shall we?

1. Willow (the music video)

So overall I thought this was cute. It was interesting that it picked up right where cardigan left off. But what really piqued my interest was the gold, glowing string that I tied right back to Invisible String. Clever, Ms. Swift. Clever.I also deduced that the scene where Taylor is locked in the clear box was her metaphor for fame. She’s untouchable by the person she wants but she can’t escape to be with them. Tragic.

On my second run through, I bravely decided to point out that the reflection in the water of her and her lover is interesting. Why? Because I associated his face with Joe Alwyn’s features. Obviously, the actor playing opposite is NOT Mr. Alwyn but I found it interesting that the man cast had similar features to him. I also think Witchcraft Taylor is an interesting sub plot to this three minute movie. I want to note that the lyrics “begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans, that’s my man” seem vaguely familiar and I can’t place why.

This, being Evermore, is a thing now and I’m trying to process it.

2. Champagne Problems

Taylor had already alluded to this song as being “not bubbly” so I go into this album with trepidation. Folklore has made me wary, even without Taylor’s hints. I am immediately struck by this beautiful piano. The background for the lyric video is a champagne glass with a ring in it and since I’ve already read the album prologue I know whats coming. My take away from this was that the song though pretty was traditionally sad. I love how she managed to drop yet another poetic ‘Fuck’. Honestly, Taylor is a great storyteller and is in her truest form as one. So far the sounds are similar to Folklore with just a touch of difference to separate the two albums.

3. Gold Rush

The story of daydreamed love set to the background of gold silk background. The visual, as well as the composition is ethereal much like the lyrics. I feel that there is meaning deeper to this particular song, but its too deep for a first listen.

4. ‘Tis the Damn Season

I was curious about this one when I saw it on the track listing. It couldn’t possibly be a holiday song, so what could it be? The wintry scenery is equally confusing. But once I start listening I immediately piece it to the story of Dorothea, the girl who comes back from LA for the holidays. Its a pretty story about reconnecting with people lost in transition to adulthood. But what I’m really marveling at so far is the arrangements of the songs. They work with the story lines really well.

5. Tolerate It

I saw the clouds and vivid Folklore flashbacks started. I was right to be wary. I don’t want to talk about it.

6. No body No Crime (Feat. Haim)

She had mentioned earlier in the evening that she borrowed a best friend’s name for the character of this song. I wondered who? I was delighted to hear she named the woman “Este” for two reasons: one, she sings this with the very same Haim sisters, and two, I now know how to properly pronounce her name. I loved the subtle country flavor with the overtly country plot. Very nice. This was a really good one. I loved it. I also would like to note that...there’s nothing like a mad woman, now is there?

7. Happiness

Yet another one Taylor hinted at during her Q and A. I know that this one is misleading. I had one take away. It was beautiful but sad, so very sad.

8. Dorothea

A reply to ‘Tis the Damn Season from the other party’s perspective. Once again though, its wistfully sad and I am still in emotional turmoil from that track 5. I have nothing to say but that it had a really pretty sound.

9. Coney Island (feat. The National)

This arrangement really sounded experimental to me. I had no thoughts about this track other than one: Is this the broken hearts club that I have some how stumbled upon? Most of these are so sad. This one struck me as about a dead spouse but I’m just not sure. (Jane the Virgin Vibes)

10. Ivy

This one is cute. However, I felt that this particular affair song romanticizes affairs more than Illicit Affairs did and I don’t know how to feel about that. Its beautiful though. I noticed that Ivy and Illicit Affairs could be related and from perspectives in different timing. Ivy before Illicit Affairs.

11. Cowboy Like Me

I loved this background for this one. But also that country blues sound. Its the twang of the guitar for me. Its once again, more subtle than overt but clearer in this one than others. Its a sweet song. Nice to not be wallowing right now.

12. Long Story Short

Mostly, thus far, the songs have seemed to take on Taylor’s fictional abilities. However this one seemed to call upon her autobiographical talents. I really liked this one. “Long Story Short, I survived” is a line I want tattooed on my face. Dramatic? Why yes, I am!

13. Marjorie

The picture of her grandma gave me the idea that she didn’t just borrow the name of her late grandmother but wrote a song about her. And yes, this is the second song I’ve cried to on this album. It was a really pretty song.

14. Closure

This was another arrangement that caught my attention. And I noted that the feeling of seeing someone’s name and feeling pain was familiar. This one, could be a story. Taylor Swift if a talented story teller after all, but this one felt pointed. Very pointed. I liked it though.

15. Evermore (feat. Bon Iver)

This song-- was a journey. A damn journey. That time signature switch up in the middle only to return to the calm, slower tempo was fire. It was a more hopeful feeling than Hoax. That only makes me wary of the last two bonus tracks.

Honestly, the album was good. I think it’ll grow on me. So that is Evermore. A wistful, sad album with happier notes thrown in. As for track five, I’m not ready to...wait for it...tolerate it yet. I’m cheesy, what can I say?

What did ya’ll think?

Love, Lauren

#evermore #taylor swift #renreacts #themodren #ts9 #Swifties #taylornation

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whitleyschn33 · 4 years ago

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RWBY7 Soundtrack

Should I be reviewing/giving my thoughts on the OST when I have plenty of asks in my inbox to answer and have no musical authority at all? No, probably not. Am I doing it anyway? Yes.

This is just going to be in what (I assume) is the track order. Let me know if I miss any; I’m going off a YouTube playlist.

1. Trust Love

Initial thoughts: Eh.

It’s okay. It’s not my favorite opening, that honor goes to When It Falls, but it’s competent. Very optimistic, which is a trend for this volume’s soundtrack despite how dire the tone of the latter half is, so I don’t think it fully fits the volume it opens for, but it’s by no means a bad song. It’s easy to sing along and bop to, just doesn’t seem as impressive as the other opening songs. It feels like a different sort of sound than what RWBY songs have been in the past, which is also a running theme for the OST this volume - new artists singing, a lot of experimentation in the style. That’s not a bad thing; the tracks I like the most on this album are the different sounding ones, but it’s very.... noticeable, and didn’t go in the direction you would think for Atlas.

2. Touch the Sky

Initial Thoughts: Why is the best part of this song the ending?

No, but seriously, that outro is a very different sound to the proceeding song and it’s so good. Other than that, I’ve got questions. Like, whose song is this? I’m leaning towards Team RWBY as a whole, but I’ve seen people suggest it’s Weiss’s, it’s Blake’s, I could see an argument for Yang - it’s very unclear. Also, why is the POV character(s) so happy? Their situation isn’t all that much better in terms of Salem and the Relic and all that; they should still be weighed down with that knowledge, shouldn’t they? They don’t trust Ironwood to help make things all better, they still have to carry the Relic (for plot reasons), the only thing that’s changed is that they’re going out on missions. Well, fresh clothes and a distraction are always nice, and it is a chance to put all that stuff on the back burner. I’ll give them that, then.

3. Brand New Day

Initial Thoughts: From the writers that make every Blake song a duet, here’s her volume 7 song; a duet with.... Qrow?

Have Blake and Qrow ever even spoken to each other? And, is there actually no solo Blake song, or am I beating on a dead meme? Actually, to be completely serious, these two actually work well in a song together. Their character directions compliment each other in this volume - both trying to reinvent themselves some and become better (Blake with her new hair and outfits, Qrow with a new outfit and a resolve to recover from alcoholism), it’s just a shame that, you know, this kind of talk or relationship never happens in the show. At all.

Someone in the YouTube comment section said this song sounds like a 90′s sitcom opening, and I have to agree. It really does, mixed with a bit of 50′s doo-wap. It’s not bad, I actually like the doo-wap, but it also has bits of the usual RWBY style rock, and they don’t mix as coherently as I would like in some places. The guitar bridge after Qrow’s verse is pretty nice, though.

Overall, it’s another good song to bop along to, but like the songs before it, I’m not sure it’s one I’ll be listening to over and over.

4. Let’s Get Real

Initial Thoughts: So, even the song thinks they should talk - why didn’t they?

Here’s something you may not know about me. I don’t romantically ship Renora. I’ve always preferred them as a brother/sister pair - probably in part because I’m a sucker for found family. I’ve never really had anything against romantic Renora, though... but this volume definitely made me go from neutral to dislike. Ren’s confused, he’s worried, he’s having doubts about their relationship that he’s not sure how to vocalize. He admits as much. And instead of, I don’t know, respecting that and letting it be for the moment, or pulling him aside to try and help him talk it through, she... kisses him. Instead of stopping to let them work through where their relationship is at the present (which would be nice, to clue the audience in on what exactly their status is), she pushes their relationship to the next level, presumably. It leaves a very bad taste in my mouth, that Ren’s emotions about his relationship with Nora are just shoved aside and aren’t brought up again. Hopefully it does in the next volume (Nora and Ren are notably split for, like, the first time ever in the Volume 8 preview), but still - I thought Tumblr had decided that “guy shuts a girl up by kissing her” trope was sexist or something - shouldn’t this be similarly scrutinized?

Putting that aside, I actually really really like this. It’s very reminiscent of Shine, but a Renora version; it’s got a great beat, the lyrics do a great job in character insight (something I love from RWBY songs, which are probably why Touch the Sky doesn’t do a lot for me), and it’s just a very fun, peppy song. It also feels very at home in Atlas with it’s more techno-leanings. The ending chorus chant of “Is it love?” is also a nice touch.

5. Celebrate

Initial Thoughts: The better Brand New Day (musically speaking).

And by that I mean, it leans all the way into this different style than the half/half approach Brand New Day did, and it’s all the better for it. Once again, another good dancing song, easy to listen and bop to, but it feels... oddly generic. For one thing, there’s no character tied to it, no character insight - I guess you could make an argument for Robin or the Happy Huntresses, but... not really? For another, while as a song I really enjoy the genre of music, it also makes it feel very much not like a RWBY song (something not helped by name-dropping Vegas). It’s fun, but it doesn’t feel like it adds much to the show.

6. War

Initial Thoughts: Wow, I didn’t think you could make me hate the AceOps fight more, but look at that.

Probably the first RWBY song I just flat out hate, and that’s a crying shame considering the excellent music and vocal performances. Those lyrics, though. Just - I hate them. I hate them so damn much. I refuse to give this song more than that.

7. Hero

Initial thoughts: Hell yeah hell yeah hell yeah HELL YEAH -

Best song on the album probably. It has all the usual RWBY flare, gives us a great insight into Ironwood’s thoughts and motivations, and is a fantastic performance by Caleb Hyles. The operatic section at the beginning is wonderfully chilling, and the rock section is very epic. 10/10 song even though I’m not rating these.

8. Until the End

Initial thoughts: Time to play “Who does this gorgeous song belong to?”

Actually, I really, really enjoy this song. It’s creepy in its melancholy, but I love it for that. The piano and subtle strings are beautiful, and the way Casey’s voice echoes gives the illusion of solitude in an empty place, perfect for the tone this song conveys.

Now, the matter of whose song it is. The consensus seems to be Ruby and/or Summer, and that’s pretty likely (and letting Ruby actually have a song would be nice). However, I heard a rumor before the album dropped that this was an Ozpin song, and going through it with that lens makes a whole lot of sense - the repeated “I’ll be here until the end”, the constant use of “we”, “our” and other plurals, the lines “ In waves of shame, we’re desperate to make amends / But through a simple soul, we lie complacent” could refer to him lying dormant in Oscar or other souls in the past instead of actively working to defeat Salem, and in the lines “ As light fills my eyes / I’ll picture me beside her / And pray that I’ll inspire”, it could be him thinking of Salem when he dies, and then praying that he’ll be able to inspire others to fight for humanity, for the light.

I could see it either way, honestly, but no matter which it is, I love this song.

9. Fear

Initial thoughts: Fire whoever was in charge of sound mixing, otherwise, not as preachy as I was fearing.

This is actually the first time I’ve listened to this. I was pretty pissed at the ending of the finale so I didn’t stick around for the credits, and hearing that it was called “Fear”, I was not in the mood for more Ironwood bashing or “You’re just as bad as she is if you act in fear” or whatever BS Oscar said. So, yeah, wasn’t looking forward to this track.

Thankfully, though, it was not another War. I actually enjoyed the lyrics, and the music was top-notch. Don’t really have much more to say about it other than it was difficult to hear the lyrics over the music in some places, but that could be a factor of the video I was listening to. All in all, pleasantly surprised.

10. I May Fall (Acoustic)

Initial Thoughts: Can someone tell the Williams that “acoustic” doesn’t always mean “depressing?”

Like, acoustic doesn’t have to be a super slow, piano/strings, somber rendition, right? It’s just the instruments and the singer without any added computer editing/layering/whatever, if I’m not mistaken. That style of acoustic works alright with songs like Time to Say Goodbye, but not so well with more upbeat songs. This version isn’t bad, per se, but I’d like to see an acoustic version more in line with the original.

That aside - the original I May Fall is my favorite RWBY song, bar none. This rendition was always going to be something I liked, and I do appreciate a lot about it. The strings are absolutely beautiful, particularly the cello(? I think, again, I’m not much of a music person, just have a sister that plays violin), and I love the way the violin/viola picks up for the second verse and gives the song a second wind, implying more strength and resolve. I love the music cutting out completely to let Casey sing, with the instruments slowly coming in to join as she gets louder and stronger, as if standing with her - beautiful, it’s all insanely beautiful, and this is one I will probably buy.

Closing Thoughts

This album was... average, to me. Only a couple songs really jumped out at me, while most were good, but not something I was dying to listen to again, or were dragged down by the context.

What’re your thoughts on this volume’s songs? I’d love to hear them! Until then, have a good evening, and stay safe!

#rwby7 #rwby #rwby7 soundtrack #rwby soundtrack

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