#peeling off the wallpaper and eating it like a fruit roll up

[planetariumx]

Only Lonely

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Rumors about Eddie Munson have run rampant as long as you can remember. You’ve crossed paths only briefly, but maybe the notorious freak of Hawkins isn’t as bad as you’ve come to believe.

Word Count: 12.5k+ (sorry that I exist well beyond the clutches of brevity)

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Mentions of past bullying. Implied abuse. Mentions of drugs & drug use (marijuana). Consumption of alcohol. Shameless use of the italicized ‘oh’. Sex dreams. Dry humping. Unprotected vaginal sex. Creampie.

A/N: This little brainworm is for my baby, @sweetdreamsbuck​. I offer you the most humble gift of my very first Edward McMunson fic. <3 No better way to officially return from my hiatus than with this mess…for which I will be taking absolutely no responsibility or criticism at this time, thanks! 

Keep reading

[rocksandrobots]

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 18 - Readjustments

Hiro flopped face first upon his bed with a groan. His stomach was rolling.

Aunt Cass had decided, as a means of making Varian feel more at home, to fix traditional meals from Corona. Turns out Varian loved to cook and he had helped prepare dinner every night for the past week. 

It started out simple enough, pork dumplings, baked apples, buttered shrimp, ham sandwiches with pickles, but then things started to get weird. While using pumpernickel for the ham sandwich had been different it was still manageable, but what came next was inexplicable; meatballs covered in anchovy sauce, cookies that tasted like black licorice, boiled eel, and today had been the worst of all, fish pie. 

It wasn't even like a real pie, it was just a whole fish, head, fins, and all, covered in a type of thick crust and baked. You had to pick through the crust and the skin to actually get to the fish and then you had to pull it off the bone and hope you didn't get one of the sharp tiny blades stuck in your throat or teeth. 

It had been all Hiro could do to sit through these dinners with a polite smile plastered on his face as he forced himself to eat. Today he had feigned an excuse about homework in order to get away as soon as possible. Though it looked like there was no end in sight. Varian already mentioned making some sort of stew tomorrow. Hiro forgot if it was going to be beef or vegetable but either way he didn't trust it. 

Hiro hoisted himself up and rolled on his back with a heavy sigh. 

Of course it wasn't really the food that was bothering him. He looked over to the other side of the room where Tadashi's things still lay untouched since his death. He didn't tell Aunt Cass this, but when it was first announced that Varian would be moving in with them Hiro had feared that Varian would share his room. That they would have to move all of Tadashi's things out and he was afraid he couldn't handle it.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Varian had taken over the guest bedroom downstairs instead. As Aunt Cass had put it, Varian was their guest and it wasn't like they used that room for much of anything else. Though Hiro suspected that Aunt Cass was just as unwilling to go through Tadashi's things as he was. They would have to do so someday though and Varian had just been a painful reminder of that. 

There were also other ways in which the time-displaced teen unintentionally encroached upon Tadashi's memory. Seemingly simple things, like when joining in on movie night Varian had picked out Frankenstein. That had been Tadashi's favorite film. Or yesterday, when Aunt Cass had taught Varian to play Gomoku. A family staple, the board game once belonged to their father and Tashdai had loved to play it on rainy days. 

Varian was a far different person than his brother and of course it wasn't as if he was trying to replace Tadashi or anything, but still simply having the boy around and integrating into their family naturally brought these situations up. It felt, well, off putting. 

If Aunt Cass felt the same or noticed she made no mention of it and for the most part Varian was oblivious. So Hiro was trapped with his own discomfort, unable to share his feelings without upsetting someone. 

He blinked back tears. The world was moving on without Tadashi and Hiro wasn't ready yet to accept that.

                                                   ----------------------

Varian made his way back to his new room, annoyed that Hiro had managed to avoid cleaning up after dinner, again. Varian knew the other boy had a lot on his plate; school, his internship, and superheroing, but would it kill Hiro to wash a dish now and then? Varian was also juggling school work and a new part time job, and he had not only cleaned up but also cooked the meal in the first place. But it's not like Varian could really say anything about it. He was still new here, and despite Aunt Cass's best efforts, he felt like an intruder.

People had always talked about ghosts in his world. He had never believed in them. His own castle was reportedly supposed to be full of phantoms but despite searching for years he'd never come upon any such spectral, until now. 

The Hamada home was haunted by the presence of Tadashi. The teen's pictures framed the walls, his things laid about the house untouched in months, and everything Varian said or did seemed to stir his memory in the minds of the family who still lived there. 

Varian understood, they were still grieving and he couldn't blame them for it. Yet, that didn't stop the ghost of Tadashi hovering in the back of everyone's mind and making even the air feel repressive. Varian gave an uneasy sidelong glance at one of the fading pictures on the wall, this one of Tadashi and his also deceased parents, before opening the door to the guest bedroom. 

The room was a small office space at the end of the hall on the second floor of the house. In fact it was the smallest room in the building save for the bathrooms. 

There was a single window on one end overlooking the alley and fire escape. Not the most resplendent of views perhaps, but better than having no fresh air or light at all. A living condition Varian knew all too well from his time in the dungeon. 

There was also a small metal bed with a thin spring mattress, made to fold up and roll out of the way if need be. Aunt Cass had said it was only temporary and offered to buy him a new bed later, but Varian had told her not to worry about it. It wasn't quite as comfortable as Wasabi's couch had been but it was still serviceable and he didn't want the woman to go out of her way any more than she already had. 

There was no closet but a tall chest of drawers on the far end and a small wooden desk next to the bed. Above the desk was a single shelf. Aunt Cass had originally stored decorative knick-knacks on it, but Varian had replaced those with what few books he owned instead. 

Aunt Cass had said that Varian was free to redecorate the room however he wanted as he'd be living there indefinitely. Varian wasn't sure what he might do as he didn't have any real preferences, though he might somehow cover the flowery wallpaper as it was starting to fade and peel. Hiro had posters up in his room, Varian might put some up as well, but of what he hadn't decided yet. 

For now though Varian simply reclined upon the bed, hands behind his head as he leaned against the wall, one foot dangling off the side, as he just wanted to relax. Soon the family cat, Mochi, wandered in and hopped on the bed with him.

Varian liked Mochi. The cat had actually been the most welcoming member of the household. That was perhaps unfair to Hiro and Aunt Cass, who really were trying to make him feel at home, with 'trying' being the key word. All of their efforts had felt forced, Aunt Cass with her over eagerness and Hiro with his awkward politeness. But to Mochi, Varian was just another lap to sit on. Nothing special, nothing different, as if he'd always been there, Varian might as well have been part of the furniture as far as the cat was concerned. 

Varian sat there petting the calico cat curled up on his lap, when Ruddiger walked in carrying a banana in his mouth that he'd stolen from the kitchen. The raccoon dropped his treat and sprung upon the bed when he caught sight of the other pet. He indignantly tried to push the other animal off Varian's lap, chittering angrily, but Mochi paid no heed and stayed where he was. 

Varian couldn't help but laugh. "Aww, what's the matter, Ruddiger? Jealous?" 

His raccoon put its paws on its hips and gave Varian a pout. Well as best a pout that a raccoon could give. This only caused Varian to laugh more. 

"I'm sorry, Ruddiger, I don't mean to make fun, but you're being silly. There's more than enough room for both of you." He reached out his hand to pet Ruddiger and added, "Why don't you hand me that banana you dropped and I'll peel it for you?" 

Ruddiger acquiesced to his offer and soon curled up next to Mochi on the bed, munching on the tropical fruit; his hunger overtaking his jealousy. Varian continued to cuddle them both until falling asleep.

                                                  ----------------------

"Varian, honey?" Aunt Cass gently opened the ajar door to peek inside Varian's room. She found him asleep on the bed, still in his clothes with both Mochi and Ruddiger curled up beside him. The sight of which melted her heart. 

She moved his still dangling foot back onto the bed and took a throw-blanket from the living room's couch to cover his legs. She then placed a pillow behind his head so that it wouldn't be leaning against the wall anymore. 

She tried her best not to wake either him or the animals as she attempted to make him more comfortable. It'd been a long time since she tucked a child into bed, both Hiro and Tadashi had outgrown the ritual, and in truth so had Varian no doubt, but her motherly instincts took over anyways. She also couldn't resist wiping his bangs to the side as she so often did for her other two boys as she whispered good night before closing the door and leaving him to rest. 

Cass stood a moment or two outside the door to make sure she'd not woken him up but was greeted by a light snore in response. She gave a sigh, half in relief and half in worry. The move hadn't gone as smoothly as she had hoped and they were all still readjusting to their new lives. 

Hiro was upset, she knew, though he made a big show of being polite in an effort to keep everyone else happy. And as for Varian, well he came with a whole host of challenges that Aunt Cass hadn't been prepared for. 

All the usual problems she expected of kids never happened. He was more than happy to do homework and chores and often volunteered his services to help out whenever he could. In fact he was a little too eager. 

What Aunt Cass had intended to be an easy part time job, Varian had decided was a grave responsibility. He seemed to think that he needed to take on the 'family business' so to speak. She'd caught him reorganizing the food stores, volunteering to bake the donuts early in the morning without telling her so, balancing the books and offering up better deals on coffee beans that he'd found online. He'd even tried to learn how to do taxes. 

That had been the last straw. 

"Varian, you don't need to do the taxes."  

"It's okay, I don't mind. I'd always do the bookkeeping back home anyways. Dad preferred that to me running the plow, and I was always better at math than him." Varian explained blithely. 

Aunt Cass just stood there and blinked at him in confusion. Who'd let their kid do their accounting? True that was probably better than plowing a field all day, but still. 

"Varian, I appreciate that you want to help out, but taxes are my job. At sixteen, your only job should be going to school, making friends, maybe doing a chore now and then. You can occasionally serve customers at the cafe for extra spending cash, but only serving. I don't want you taking responsibility for the whole business." 

Now it was Varian's turn to blink in confusion. 

"But...but I live here now. Isn't the Luck Cat all of our responsibility? I can do it, or do you not trust me?" 

"Oh, Varian, it's not about trust. What kind of parent would I be if I didn't allow you to just be a kid?" 

"But, I'm not a kid. You said it yourself. I'm sixteen. If I don't start now then when will I learn? It's not as if they teach taxes in my advanced physics class." 

Cass had to admit he had her there. When she was teen they had taught home economics in high school, so she had known how to balance a book before ever buying the cafe. Hiro had skipped high school, Varian had never even gone to school before, and according to Tadashi home economics wasn't even a class anymore. She had had a similar discussion with him when he had been seventeen and close to graduating. 

"Okay, if you want to learn how to manage money you can, but we'll start small." 

So she had helped Varian open his own bank account the next day. That way he could deposit his pay from working at the Luck Cat, learn the basics of how to manage funds, and still come to her if he needed help. 

However, that had only resolved one issue. There were still many hiccups that resurged over the week. Some minor, some not so minor. 

For instance Varian didn't know how electric stoves worked and so Aunt Cass had caught him one morning putting his hand directly inside the oven and reciting some nursery rhyme in his native language in order to test how hot it had gotten. Apparently wood-fire stoves were all he had ever cooked on and there of course was no handy light on them to tell you that the oven had preheated. Funnily enough, he was trying to bake cereal, as he'd never eaten the kind you poured milk over and didn't know what else to do with the box of cornflakes Hiro had handed him. He was going to turn them into a pie crust for a breakfast pastry, which Aunt Cass had to admit wasn't a bad idea. 

Then there were less charming faux pas, such as when he dismantled her digital alarm clock to see how it worked. Fortunately, he had been able to put it together again. He was always into something, brimming with curiosity and energy. It was all Aunt Cass could do to keep up.

Still, Cass wouldn’t have traded him for anything in the world. The moment she had picked him up from the police station that day was the moment he had become her child and she’d do anything, put up with any inconvenience, just to give him the love he’d gone so long without. Neither Varian nor Hiro realized it, but Varian had added life back into their little broken home and filled a hole in her heart that had been missing for over nine months now. 

She turned to look at the fading photograph hanging on the wall. It was a picture of her sister and brother-in-law with Tadashi, before Hiro had been born. She missed them all so much. The way her sister would gently tease her about settling down while they shared a cup of tea. Tom’s love of lame jokes that he would try to interject into their conversation. The way Tadashi had inherited his father’s sense of humor and would try to cheer her up when she was feeling down. Nothing would replace them. But she also knew that deep down, that she and Hiro needed Varian just as much as he needed them.

[sabraeal]

Truth in Masquerade, Chapter 5: Le Beau Monde

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

An extremely, extremely late birthday gift for the fabulous @xaphrin. Let us all never speak of how late this was.

Lyrias is too small -- even if one generously lumps Wilant into the equation -- for Shirayuki to not be acutely aware of what is said about her.

(”The perfect scholar,” Yuzuri intones with Mistress Akane’s proper, measured cadence. “Always in the library, always the first for class. A first-rate thinker; the ideal student.”

Shirayuki tears open her evaluation with more vigor than strictly necessary. One corner rips from her efforts, but it doesn’t mar any of the message inside. “She’s never said all that.”

Suzu lets out a dubious honk. “Of course she has.”

“Maybe she didn’t say it.” Yuzuri waggles her own envelope. “But she’s certainly written it.”

Shirayuki stares down at the paper pinched between her fingers and just makes out the words, a pleasure in lecture. A few lines down, it reads, an abundantly clever mind.

She folds the paper over. “You don’t know that for sure.”)

It’s only too bad that, despite her sterling reputation in the classroom, the whole waking up early thing never took.

Worse still, neither did the waking up clever.

Birdsong wedges itself into the thin crevices of her dreams, levering Shirayuki, reluctantly, into the world of the waking. It’s a far gentler reveille than she’s used to; half a decade at Lyrias, and still the clangor of the bells jar her out of sleep more often than not.

Confusion sets in with all the regularly of morning fog, her memories filing in like recalcitrant students to remind her of the day, the season, where she last her research, where it should be. With an ease borne of practice, she electively forgets the last. There’s no need to start off the morning on a depressing note.

Her body wakes even slower, skin prickling numbly against the sheets. A breeze gently rolls over her, as warm as a summer in Wistal. It’s strange that she’s left her window open -- she knows better to trust in the weather of Wilant -- but the fresh air soothes her, reminds her of when she would leave open the window of her tiny office, an invitation --

And any moment now, Obi will hop though it to scold her.

If you get a cold, I’ll make sure Suzu is the one that treats you, he’ll grumble; an empty threat when he never lets anyone take care of her but himself. Or maybe, how am I supposed to keep you safe, Miss, if you leave such an invitation for any old rogue?

Maybe today she’ll let herself say, but you’re the only one who’s ever taken it.

Now that would make him stutter, make his jaw drop, maybe even make him blush --

But she shouldn’t be concerned with that. Not when she’s has -- has --

Her eyes fly open. Zen.

Zen, who is marrying someone else. Who is marrying Kihal.

Silk sheets slip slickly beneath her fingers, and – and she’s not in Wilant. Her bed at the castle may be extravagant compared to what she had grown used to at Lyrias, but it’s not this, not silken sheets and down pillows on a bed so wide she can’t touch the other side. She’s not in Wilant, not even in Clarines, but –

But in Tanbarun, in Shenezard Castle, and Obi –

Obi is clutching the far side of the bed like it’s flotsam after a shipwreck. Shirayuki stares, brow furrowing in numb consternation as she tries to will the events of last night back into her memories. There must be some reason he’s in her bed, an ocean of silk away, but her mind clunks along as it tries to find it, like gears whose teeth won’t mesh. Ah, how she wishes her mind was quicker to rise.

(“Just past first bell,” Obi drawls from the window, startling the beaker out of her hand. He catches it hardly more than a few inches from her hadn. “And already bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eh, Miss?”

“Hn,” she grunts, tucking the glassware safely away on her bench. “I’m awake.”

“Oh yes.” She can hear the laugh flirting with his words. “I can tell.”

Her mouth pulls thin. It’s nowhere near fair that he’s so awake in the morning, so quick it’s like he’s been up since --

She twists toward him, eyes narrowed. Rumpled uniform, bruised under-eye, tousled hair. “It doesn’t count as being a morning person if you’ve been up all night, Obi.”

He jolts, surprise and guilt flashing across his face. Clearly, he hadn’t thought her awake enough to catch him out.

Obi gives her a sheepish smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Now, Miss, that’s all a matter of opinion.”)

The memories are right there, just out of reach, but they slip away when she looks at him, when her gaze lingers at where the sheets wrap tight around his waist and his naked back above it.

She stares, eyes tracing the patchwork of smooth bronze and puckered silver. His head is wrenched away from her, half-buried in the pillow he’s strangling, but she knows from his breathing, from the loose set of his jaw, that his mouth is slack, and he’s drooling.

She grins, reaching out for him, but the smell of medicinal herbs brings her up short. That is – that is the muscle balm she uses, and if Obi smells like it –

Her heart leaps to her throat. She’d – she’d been the one to invite him into her room, to ask him to undress. She’d been the one who suggest he – he stay, that this could be just another part of their deception

Distantly, she realizes that she has no idea whether there is anything beneath that sheet. Her palms itch; it’s entirely too tempting to peek, to try to peel back the silk and see just how much she has forgotten --

The clang of a tray dropping to the floor tears her attention away.

Obi bolts upright, blade in hand, and –

“A-apologies, my lady!” the maid squeaks, hands fluttering to her mouth. It’s a new one this morning, her mouth and eyes round as she stares at them. “A-and my lord! I only – I didn’t – oh!”

The maid hastily gathers up the cracked dishes, cheeks flaming, and scurries away.

It’s only the two of them in her rooms now, a sea of covers between them.

Obi clucks his tongue, knife disappearing with a quite flick of his fingers. “I guess that means no breakfast.”

She turns, staring.

He presses a hand to his chest. “I’m a growing boy, Miss. I need my five different kinds of pork.”

She stares harder.

“And a fruit cup,” he concedes smoothly, slipping out from beneath the covers. She squeaks, averting her eyes –

But it’s unnecessary; he’s wearing the same pants he had worn to dinner, creased and rumpled from a night of wear.

Whatever this feeling is in her breast, it’s not disappointment. “We’ll have to eat in the hall, then.”

Obi’s face wrinkles in distaste.

She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile. He’s come a long way; years ago he wouldn’t have turned his nose up at food found on the floor. “Unless you want to skip --”

“Fine,” he sighs. “At least that girl’s probably scurried off to report to the king. I’m sure he’s interested in who spends time in your bed.”

Shirayuki looks at the sheets between them, trying to think what the maid might glean from this, the both of them dressed, clutching to opposite ends of the bed. She may not be an expert in such things, but she doesn’t think it says lovers. “I hope it was convincing enough.”

He turns, as if to ask her meaning, and his eyes catch on the expanse of bed between them, the conspicuous lack of a lack of clothes. His mouth closes.

“Well,” he says, voice oddly stilted. “People see what they want to see.”

Shirayuki doesn’t allow herself to wonder what the king wants to see, doesn’t think about how Izana would have his spies report on every detail down to the cast of their eyes and position of their fingers so that he could form his own opinion.

She slides out of bed herself, nightgown fluttering around her legs. “I hope so.”

Miss has never needed much time to ready herself. While Yuzuri might take hours to change for dinner, Miss only took a handful of minutes -- unless she lost herself on the way from the bath to the door, pausing to look at the notes on her desk, or slide a book she had been looking for off her shelf, or reading just one more page before dinner.

(”But I’ve been looking for that all day,” Miss protests, leaning into the hand he’s placed on her back. “It will only take a minute!”

“Then you can do it after dinner.” He gives her a gentle push, herding her toward the door. “You’re hungry.”

Her mouth purses into a pout. “No, I’m --”

As always, her stomach obliges him, letting loose a gurgle he’s sure can be heard halfway down the hall.

“All right,” she relents, “dinner first.”)

It’s different here, in court. A woman isn’t fully dressed until she’s gone through her toilette, a word Obi can’t make heads or tails of, save that it involves at least four forms of underwear. There’s no dress thrown on over leggings here; oh no, here it is crinolines and corsets, hair pulled back in combs and flawless faces. Even with more modest dresses, the sort that can be put on without a lady’s maid -- or at least only requiring a helpful bodyguard with nimble fingers -- it still takes nearly half an hour.

Obi flops back onto her divan, a fussy thing with eagle-claw legs that looks like it might fall apart under one of the many assignations Tanbarun’s court is known for producing, and settles in to wait. Even here, all it takes him is a quick rinse and a change of clothes and he’s court-ready, ten minutes’ work. It’s the privilege of being in service as opposed to being served – you don’t have to look so nice when you’re supposed to blend in with the wallpaper.

He remembers the girls from last night, arguing over where his land would be and – ah, perhaps he would not be as much furniture as he is used to, this trip.

Obi picks at the rivets along divan’s border, trying to put it out of his mind. They would deal with that sort of thing when they came to it. Until then, he was just part bodyguard, part lady’s maid – and he’d just seen his Miss walk into the bath with that dove-gray number, the one with a thousand buttons. He’s more than content to spend his time guessing how many she’ll manage before she has to call him in to help

(“I don’t even know why they would cover them with cloth!” she squeaks, flushed from her hairline to halfway down her back. He can see every bit of it from where he’s standing. “It doesn’t help any!”

“Because you’re supposed to have someone else dressing you, Miss,” he teases, slipping buttons the size of peas through even smaller holes. “The more obviously you can’t put it on yourself, the more elegant it is.”

“It’s not as if everyone could have a lady’s maid all the time,” she protests, eyes wide when she meets his in the mirror. “Who is supposed to dress you if your maid is asleep?”

She wakes up is the true answer, but Obi has never let the truth get in the way of a good opportunity. “Your lover.”

“Oh!” Miss squeaks, blushing a painful red. “Oh my.”)

It’s not his Miss’s sweet voice summoning him that gets him to his feet, but an impatient knock at her door that. He darts a glance back at the bath, but Miss offers no explanation, the sound of running water drowning out anything she might hear from the rest of her quarters.

She’s clearly not expecting any visitors. After all, the only person they knew at court was the prince himself, and he would have barged straight through the door, scolding Sakaki for his bad manners. Unless Miss managed to make friends last night at dinner –

He grits his teeth. Her cousin. There was a chance that he was coming to…renew their acquaintance. And his miss would be all-too happy to reunite with family; she had told him last night, as they lay in bed, that her cousin had dangled her grandparents in front her of, a living set, and –

And Obi didn’t see the draw, but Miss had grown up with her family. She missed having blood to go back to. And here it was.

Conveniently.

He’s barely touched the doorknob before the door flies open, and --

His worries are for nothing. A parade of pink marches through, trailing the smell of roses behind it.

“You may wait outside,” Her Highness informs her likewise pink-clad companions, though in a paler shade than the princess herself. “I have private business to discuss with Lady Shirayuki.”

They demure at the door, casting him wary glances. Rona gives him a nod, and with entirely too much pleasure, he slams the door in their faces.

“Now there’s some decoration I didn’t see the other day,” he remarks evenly, watching Her Highness flounce to the divan, lounging at one corner. Out of all the royal family, he thinks he’s only ever seen Eugena sit properly in a chair. “New accessories?”

“Unfortunately not,” she sighs, waving a hand. “My father sends me the most unfashionable things sometimes. I leave them in my rooms when I can, but you know how men get when you don’t flaunt their gifts.”

He’s highly tempted to ask if she knows how men get with their gifts. He’s never quite kept track of Her Highness’s age, but she can’t be older than Ryuu, not by much, and at that age –

Well, never mind what he’d done at eighteen. Not anything a princess should be doing, that’s for sure.

“That is why most ladies curate their own collection,” he offers, leaning against the wall.

Her Highness grimaces, just for a moment. “Maybe when I control my own purse strings. Until then, Father is all too happy to ensure I’m properly dowered.”

His eyebrows raise at that. As far as he knew, Raj ran through his allowance at an alarming rate, and still the king had never cut the strings on his purse. Rona was much less likely to spend frivolously, unless she had good reason to seem frivolous, and –

Ah, that would be the problem. If she wasn’t going to spend it on baubles like her elder brother, or books like her youngest, just what would Her Highness be spending it on? Nothing that would let her father sleep easy at night, that was for certain.

“You should do what girls your age do,” he tells her. “Marry a very lenient husband. With deep pockets.”

Her eyebrows lift, amused. “From your mouth to father’s ears.”

He grins. “I --”

“Obi!” Miss’s voice floats out desperately from the bath. “Could you --? There’s just so many of them…”

She pokes her head around the jamb, hair in disarray. “I’m so – oh, Rona!”

He should not be wondering how far her blush extends, not with Her Highness watching him so closely, with such a sly smile on her face. Slipping up like this is what leads to him catching Miss after suspiciously clumsy accidents, or finding himself alone with her in cramped closets, or once, memorably, being shoved into a lake.

Especially since he doesn’t need to wonder, since he’ll be seeing it first hand in a few moments.

“Oh, Shirayuki,” Her Highness demures with the sort of smile sharks wear. “I did not mean to grab you in such a state of dishabille.”

Miss glances at him, all wide eyes and worry, before giving the princess a tremulous smile. “It’s all right, I just – just needed some help. With buttons.”

“Hasn’t my brother seen to your arrangements?” Her Highness asks, too innocent. “He should have sent a lady’s maid to see to you for your visit. I mean, until you find a more permanent one.”

“He…did.” Miss shuffles awkwardly at the door, looking like she’d much rather be having this particular conversation fully dressed. “It’s just…that it never seems to be the same one. So it’s just…easier if I ask…”

“Curious.” There’s something far too serious in Her Highness’s answer, but in a moment it’s gone, replaced with her too-innocent look. “Well, I am happy to help you now, if you --”

“No!” Miss darts a look at him, alarmed. “I mean…your offer is too kind, but I couldn’t possibly ask you to do something so…ah…simple. Obi is just fine. If he doesn’t mind.”

At the tip of his tongue is I would much rather be taking it off than putting it on, but he knows what reaction that would get. That’s something he could try on Miss Kiki, but Her Highness would get ideas, and Miss – Miss would blush.

His gaze raises to meet hers, and -- and there’s something steady in it, something reminds him of how a fire looks behind a screen, just barely tamed –

Well, he thinks all she would do is blush.

“Of course not, Miss.” He pushes off the wall before he remembers Her Highness is still in the room, and when she fixes him with a knowing look, he can only hope his skin obscures the heat he feels burning on his face.

“By all means,” she tell him with exaggerated graciousness. “Go rescue your Mistress. That’s your job after all.”

Her mouth spreads into an unnerving grin. “Don’t take too long, though.” Her eyebrows lift pointedly. “That how rumors start, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” Shirayuki whispers fervently as Obi closes the door to the bath. “I didn’t even heard the door open. If you’d like to finish your conversation, I can wait?”

“Don’t worry, Miss,” Obi soothes, as he always does, teeth peeking out from beneath his lips. “We were only talking about accessories, after all. Nothing important.”

She doubts that; Rona never talks save to say two things at once, and between the both of them, it’s Obi who knows how to play that game, making innocuous comments laden to bursting with meaning.

“You don’t have to --”

There’s suddenly no breath in her lungs, none at all, as silk cinches intimately around her waist. It’s his hands pulling it tight, closing the halves to help fasten them. There’s no – no reason for it to be such a surprise – she called him in here to help her, but –

But there’s something different in the way he touches her. Or rather, in the way he’s so careful to not. His hands never stray from the round pearl of the buttons, or the silk of the bodice but -- but for some reason it feels intimate, as if it were not cloth hugging her tight, but his own hands.

“There,” he murmurs, too loud in the quiet of the room. “I think that should do you, Miss.”

She presses a hand to her back, wondering how she can be buttoned to within an inch of her life and yet feel so undone.

“Thank you,” she breathes, brushing her palms against her hips. It doesn’t distract from the phantom pressure there, from how hands much larger than her own should hooked around them and –

Hah, that’s – that’s enough of that.

She turns on her heel, mouth open to – to says something inane, probably, but he’s so close her shoulder brushes against his sternum. In the dim light of the bath it seems as if the gold of his eyes nearly glow –

Ah, she hadn’t – hadn’t realized the room was this small. She’d…have to remember that. Later.

His smile looms far too close like this. “Anytime, Miss.”

For a moment she thinks he might close what little space is between them, that he might lift a hand to her cheek like he has last night, might hook his fingers around the curve of her jaw and –

And he steps to the side, gesturing toward the door. “It’s probably best not to keep her Highness Waiting. You might give her time to think.”

She wants to glare – she would glare, full of warning yet playful, a tease – but her shoulder brushes the bronze of his buttons as she passes, rumpling his lapel, and – and it feels too close to let their eyes meet. Instead she lets her feet carry her past, hardly daring to breathe until she’s in her chamber.

It’s a good thing she’s left the windows open; fresh air banishes her light-headedness like bells to miasma. The bath’s must have gone stale. There’s no other reason for – for all that, otherwise.

“Lady Shirayuki,” Rona drawls as she enters, lounging as much as propriety allows. “Or should I call you margravine, now?”

She grimaces before she can stop herself. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, it will,” Rona promises her, the piercing green of her eyes watching her carefully, “but not for me, I think. After all, we are old friends, are we not?”

Shirayuki find that a bit of an overstatement for someone she sees once every two years, and has only dizzying, confounding conversations with. Then again, Raj also calls her a friend of a crown, and at times, a bosom companion with not even a hint of irony. Perhaps this is as much friendship as the Shenezards have comes to expect. At least they know she doesn’t have any ulterior motives, unlike most of the people they talk to on a regular basis.

Still, she doesn’t miss the way Rona’s gaze darts pointedly over her shoulder before cutting back to her. She’s being told something here, something the princess already knows Obi will take note of, if she doesn’t.

“Of course,” Shirayuki says, and she is pleasantly surprised to find the words natural in the air between them. Maybe they have become friends, with only sparse visits and letters between them.

Rona smiles, and to Shirayuki it seems genuine. “I am too pleased to hear it.”

A warmth settles over them. It’s nice to think that maybe she hasn’t only done Raj some good over the years, but also Rona. That maybe she’s been able to give some comfort, and is only now starting to receive it in return.

And just like her brother, the princess ruins the moment by continuing to speak.

“I trust that I will see you at my picnic.” Just like her father, Rona fails to understand the purpose of a request.

Shirayuki grits her teeth, ready to refuse the invitation – or, more accurately, the demand – but the princess forges on before she can reply, “In your honor, of course. The morning before the ball. All of my set will be there.”

In your honor. Shirayuki is beginning to think royalty only utters those words when they mean to say trap.

“I suppose they’re the only people worth knowing?” Obi offers blandly from the corner of the couch. Shirayuki feels her cheeks heat. Of course Obi is actually paying attention to what matters.

Rona’s mouth slants, sly, fan coming up to flutter coyly. “Hardly, I’m sure. Just the young and the fashionable.”

Having met more than a few of that sort between her time in both Wistal and Wilant, Shirayuki feels her already thin enthusiasm waning.

“That’s very kind of you, but --”

“I insist.”

Rona’s tone makes her hesitate, but when she looks up into the princess’s face, she’s all smiles.

“Don’t worry, Shirayuki,” she assures her with a pat on the hands. “I know you’ll be just The Thing.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. Attention.

She hopes her grimace looks much more like a smile than it feels. “Lovely.”

Her Highness never lingers long after her mischief is managed – he’d suspect, if she were less flighty, that she plans her schemes down to the minute – but the princess does surprise by taking her leave almost as soon as her invitation is tendered. Miss stares at the closed door for a long moment after she’s swept from the room, leaving only the lingering taster of rose on the air.

“Well,” she says, wide-eyed. “I wonder what that was all about.”

Obi’s mouth twitches at the corner. “Something tells me we won’t have to wait long to find out.”

Obi is right, of course.

Within the hour she’s flooded with invitations – picnics, dinners, teas, soirees, and even, most memorably, some illicit horse races.

(”Oh,” Obi coos, eyebrows raised. “Now doesn’t that sound fun?”

Shirayuki snags the card from his hand. “Absolutely not.”)

“Where did these all come from?” she sighs, the pile spread out in front of her. She had received formal invitations before, of course; her work at Lyrias had captured the attention of more than a few enterprising merchants, and her continued presence at Wilant had assured a contingent of nobles had taken interest in her as well.

But those had been sparing, parties and dinner set months and miles apart, and easily turned down with no hard feelings. These are – more.

Obi cocks an eyebrow at her, mouth following suit. “A new margravine has suddenly showed up in their midst. Anyone who is anyone – and especially those who aren’t – are going to want a better look at you.”

“I was a margravine yesterday, too,” she mutters, more cross than she would like. “These are all for today.”

He snatches the offending pile from her hands, aggravatingly smug. “Yesterday, you didn’t have the attention of a princess.”

Her jaw drops. “Do you think Rona…?”

“Planned this?” Obi offers when her own mind will not. “If she can orchestrate me falling into a duck pond, I think she can manage making a few nobles interested in a mystery woman.”

Shirayuki grimaces, staring down that the pile. “What do I do?”

His smile turns tight. “Oh Miss,” he murmurs. “You aren’t going to like this.”

(He’s right: she doesn’t.

“Whoever I turn down will take it personally,” Miss complains with a sigh.

Obi can’t help but grin. She doesn’t even know these people, but already she hates to let them down. “Oh, absolutely.”

She deflates at the thought. “Then how am I supposed to do this?”

“Let me give you some advice Sir Hisame once gave me.”

She eyes him, dubious. “I wasn’t aware you took advice from traitors.”

“I take good advice whatever the source, Miss.” He grins, sharp. “Make friends carefully, and enemies purposefully.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, resting her cheeks on her fists. “That does sound like him.”)

“Lady Shirayuki.”

She startles at the title. It’s not odd – most of the court at Wistal had taken to using it after she had fallen into Zen’s orbit. Even Izana favored it, and though she’d tried to protest, he held up a quelling hand and told her, you will need every inch of respectability a title could afford you, if you plan to stay by my brother’s side.

If only he hadn’t been so right. He palm still itches when she thinks of that clerk, of the way his cultured voice had drawled, perhaps you should wait in the bedroom, where you’re used to…

But she’s beyond that now. She’s earned the respect her title grants her, even if she doesn’t agree with the institution. It’s not novelty that makes her flinch but instead –

Instead it is the gravity. Even the most earnest of Wistal’s courtiers had put a stress on it, had let it be known that their regard was a favor to be repaid, but now –

Now the footman stares at her expectantly, easily repeating, “Lady Shirayuki?”

She shakes herself. “Ah, yes, I’m here.”

“The countess apologizes for the wait. If you would follow me?” He gesture to a door leading further into the suite, and she springs to her feet, eager to follow.

“You’ll have to get used to that, you know,” Obi murmurs in her ear, grin implied by his tone. “A margravine never leaves home without her titles.”

Her mouth thins at the thought. “Maybe we won’t have to tell anyone in Clarines.”

His eyebrows raise, a corner of his mouth tagging alone. “I think they send letters out about this kind of thing, Miss.”

“They?” She can’t quite wrap her mind around who would care enough to keep track.

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs, careless as he escorts her to the door. “Spies.”

Her feet stutter to a stop beneath her, breath trapped in her chest, and she wants to ask him what he means, ask him just who he suspects of having spies, but –

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Miss?” he asks, eyeing the room beyond warily.

“Yes,” she sighs, fingers clenching on his arm. “I mean, no. I mean – I should go alone. I don’t want anyone to think I can’t – can’t go anywhere by myself.”

“But isn’t that what we want them to think, Miss?” he asks, in the way she knows is supposed to be a prod. “That you can’t go anywhere without me?”

She stares for a moment, mouth agape.

Obi grins, lewd. “You know, because I have to be ready to sate my mis --”

“All right, goodbye!” she yelps, dropping his arm as if it burns. “I hope you, ah, have fun entertaining yourself?”

“Oh, Miss,” he purrs, entirely too much, “don’t I always?”

(“Are you not to join your Mistress?” the countess’s footman asks, trying his best to look politely disinterested, while being hawkishly aware of his every gesture. With his level of skill, he’s obviously not been part of her household long. “Sir.”

Ah, so they have not missed his sudden upgrade in status from last night’s dinner. Server to served in a day’s time. That was good information to have.

“No,” Obi tells him airy. “You know how it is.”

“Sir?”

Obi leans in with a conspiratorial grin. “Girl talk.”)

“Margravine Entaepode.” A woman stands as she enters, her golden skin unlined and hair still a deep chestnut, save for one lock of stately white that reminds Shirayuki of a wave captured in oils.

Shirayuki bounces her knees in a small nod to a curtsy. She’s never believed in any of this bowing and scraping, of knowing the precise degree of obeisance one owes, but she can admit now that even if she does not, she needs to pretend she does. She’s just lucky margravine has bought her less time on her knees, as little as she likes it. “Countess Katares.”

She only knows the name from the invitation; she’d wanted to refuse all of them. It’s not as if she could tell one title from another – but Obi had hummed, had reminded her that Rona hardly did things without reason, and handing her this one off the pile.

“Let’s not stand on formality here,” Katares says, gesturing for her to take a seat at the table. “Call me Nereida. After all, I’ve been dying to meet you.”

Shirayuki wobbles as she sits. “You’ve heard of me?”

The countess’s mouth quirks wryly. “Is there anyone who hasn’t heard of you my now? You’re that mystery margravine, brought in from Clarines. Zemarchus’s secret heir.”

Shirayuki bows her head, the words I never knew him on her lips –

But they never have a chance to fall.

“—the girl who usurped Caius’s long-awaited reward,” she continues, teeth flashing behind her tea cup.

Shirayuki grimaces. “I didn’t mean to --”

“Of course not.” The countess waves her hand, as if it were hardly worth the effort to say. “But it doesn’t make it any less true. Though it is probably Theodosia whose chances you ruined most, and she won’t quickly forget that.”

“I --”

“Don’t worry too much about all that, Shirayuki,” Nereida tells her with a tittering laugh. “You may have made an enemy of her, but foiling Caius and his sister will only endear you to the rest of the court. Practically makes you one of those folk heroes the commoners like to coo over.”

She feels her mouth gaping, and she closes it. If only Obi were here, he would know what to say.

“Is that…?” There is no good way to pose this question, no way that doesn’t seem either desperate or scolding.

“Is that why everyone is so interested in you? Hardly. Everyone in this court has their agenda, and hopes to bend your ear to further it, whether that makes you a player or pawn.” Nereida offers her the sugar, which she denies, and the lemon, which she takes. “Except me, of course. I’ve reached the age where I have no cause for ambition and can firmly settle into being eccentric.”

It’s like having a conversation with Raj: circular and confusing. “Oh…”

“Though I love being fashionable and confounding,” Nereida tells her with a smile. “And by being the first to see you, why, that allows me to be both.”

“I…” Shirayuki blinks, lost.

The door opens, and a footman bustle in, bearing a tray.

“Oh good,” the countess says, smile broad and ravenous. “Luncheon has arrived.”

As much as Obi would have loved to take to the roofs, hanging from gutters and swinging from balconies as he made his rounds, gathering the information he should have days ago when they first arrived, he’s all-too awake of the eyes on him. As a guard, he was invisible, just moving décor for those with better bloodlines to ignore, but as a knight, and more importantly, a margravine’s lover –

Well, he won’t be going anywhere unobserved any time soon. His shoulders itch under the heavy cloth of his dress blacks, and he brings a hand up to one, rubbing out the tension. It’s a lot less fun being watched than being the watcher.

He’s starting to understand why his marks seemed so stupid. He’s walked the length of two corridors and already he wants to break into a run.

He takes a breath, bringing the problem into focus. He knows eyes are on him, that as long as they keep up this game, servants and spies will be dogging his steps. If he can’t get rid of them, the only thing he can do is identify them. Knowing who is so interested in the goings on of the margravine’s lover is information that can be useful. He has to go somewhere no one else would, where it would be simple to see who was following him.

Ah, the library.

For once, he’s glad Miss spent most of her visits in Tanbarun idling away her hours in the palace’s mustiest room. She’d told him it was fascinating, that it had even more books on more varied topics than the one at Wistal, but – the draw has always been lost on him. He’s fine at reading, but there’s far too much that’s more interesting than just words.

As expected, the cavernous room is empty, all its rococo trappings wasted upon an audience of none. He’s spent enough hours here to have memorized every curve of its fleur-de-lis, every crest of its leaf-like waves, but as much as he’s a fan of gold’s glitter, he fails to be impressed by gilt. He doubts Miss even bothered to look up.

He saunters towards the bank of giant windows lining the far side. They open, he knows; one of them is open even now, and the temptation to throw himself out it, to feel the air on his face and the hard jarring in his bones as he find his place to land is palpable. No one would know to look up if he sprung to the roofs here, he’d be away from prying eyes –

Obi drops his hand to the shelf below it. Impossible. Not in broad daylight, when anyone could look up and see him. If he was just a guard it would only be a curiosity, but as Miss’s knight, it would be a scandal.

Oh, how he misses being invisible.

“Obi?”

His head swivels towards the voice, wide green eyes awaiting him beneath a sweep of mousy brown. The second prince of Tanbarun practically blends into the library’s woodwork; even now Obi’s gaze wants to skip over him, to settle on something more eye-catching.

“I-I mean, Sir Obi,” the prince corrects himself, shuffling under the weight of the books in his arms. He’s Ryuu’s age, or at least thereabouts, but unlike Ryuu, the second prince never quite hit the growth spurt to send him to a remarkable height. Like his brother, he’s average, with no above-average personality to make him stand out.

“Highness.” Obi lifts some of the books from the prince’s arms, lightening his load. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here.”

That had, in fact, been the point.

The Younger Highness lifts his shoulder, an awkward shrug that serves to only make him smaller. Obi remembers that gesture too well, on a not-so-different boy. “This is where I always am. If I’m not in my rooms that is. Or wherever Rona dr—ah, brings me.”

Obi muffles his snort in a laugh. Good to see that, at least, hadn’t changed. The prince may be a retiring, quiet young man – but his sister would see to it that he was not forgotten. At least, not until she was packed up and sent off to her eventual husband, a world away if the king had any sense of self-preservation.

That was a sobering thought. No one to drag the recalcitrant prince out, after that.

Obi let out a huff of a laugh. No, Her Highness would burn half a world to see her brother remained properly socialized.

“I’m glad I found you,” Obi tells him. “I’d been meaning to come say hello, but…events haven’t allowed it.”

“Mm, I imagine they wouldn’t.” His Highness casts him a wary, yet hopeful glance. “Do you mean it? You were going to find me?”

He blinks. “Of course. You haven’t tried to make my mistress a concubine, or worse, pushed me in a duck pond. You’re practically my favorite Shenezard.”

The prince ducks his head, smiling.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says a moment later. “I mean, about my father. I know that he – he tries to force everyone’s hand. I’m sorry that it’s happening to you and Shirayuki.”

“It’s…” Obi presses his lips together, discarding words as soon as he thinks them. “…Not your fault.”

“I think he’s desperate,” the second prince confides, glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. “He’s tried to find Raj other wives, more…politically advantageous ones, but…”

His highness gives him a guilty look. “He’s managed to scuttle every one.”

Obi swallows his laugh. “Prince Raj? I can’t imagine why.” After all, don’t princesses just lap up bombastic declarations?

“I think…” The prince hesitates. “I think he’s done it on purpose.”

Obi’s brows draw together. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” Eugena looks at him, steady. “Maybe he already knows what he wants.”

The prince takes the stack of books from his arms. “Thank you, sir, for your help.”

“It’s Obi,” he says distantly. “And thank you for yours.”

“You didn’t bring your guard?” Nereida makes the remark mildly, as if it were regular conversation, as if she had not just implied that she made enemies by breathing before the sandwiches had been trotted out. “I heard you traveled few places without him.”

“His name wasn’t on your invitation,” Shirayuki replies, finally able to untie her tongue that much. “He didn’t want to be rude.”

“How disappointing,” the countess sighs. “I do love inappropriate people. And he seemed like the type. I’m given to understand he’s titled as well?”

“A knight,” she corrects, appetite leaving her, if it ever truly arrived.

“A knight.” The countess’s expression turns wistful, speculative. “A fair choice to be attached to a margravine.”

Shirayuki’s fingers fumble a scone. It’s impossible to miss the way the countess lingered over the word attached, implying far more than employment. It was what she wanted, what they wanted, and doubtlessly Obi would be pleased to know that the rumor had spread so far around court.

“At least loosely.” Nereida smiles, but her dark eyes remained fixed on her. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a title that fit you better at court.”

She’s so surprised, she doesn’t even think when she says, “Like what?”

Nereida grins. “Like princess.”

Shirayuki nearly chokes.

“I’m still getting used to margravine,” she insists, attempting a smile. It feels far more like a grimace, and the countess’s reaction doesn’t give her much hope for it seeming otherwise. “I don’t think I could handle another.”

“Ah, of course.” The countess lifts an inquiring brow. “You were…what, before?”

“An herbalist,” Shirayuki tells her, at least comfortable with this avenue of conversation. “At Wilant.”

The woman nods. “You were some sort of…physician?”

“Sometimes,” she says, trying to forget Suzu’s helpful patient requests. “But I did more research than pharmacy work.”

“Research,” Nereida looks interested despite herself. “On plants?”

“At first,” Shirayuki says. “But my recent project has been with pregnant women. The mother mortality rate post-birth is higher in the north than elsewhere in Clarines, and I’d been working to see if there was some sort of external factor.”

She expects, when she looks up from her plate, to see glazed eyes, to see a mind that has wandered, but –

But the countess is staring straight at her, unblinking. “You don’t say,” she murmurs, footman pouring her another cup of tea. “Do go on.”

Miss stumbles through the door, mouth pulled into a thin line, fingers picking at the pearls that keep her gown plastered to her body.

“A good luncheon?” Obi asks, grin tilting his mouth. He’d been interested in the countess since that first dinner; older women hardly stayed fashionable, especially widows, but by all accounts Katares had stayed at the top of the wheel, not quite driving fashion, but certainly not being crushed beneath.

Miss hesitates, hand still on her back. “Yes, actually. Strangely enough.”

That was…unexpected. “So the food was good, then?”

She gives him a flat look. “I mean that the countess seemed interested in my work.”

His eyebrows raise “Your work?”

Miss nods, teeth sinking into her lip. “I was surprised too.”

She finally unclasps the first button, and he holds up a hand. “You may not want to do that, Miss.”

Her eyebrows raise in question. “Why is that?”

He holds up a folded letter, and she grimaces.

“I don’t want to go to any more events today,” she sighs, trying to wave him off. He presses the letter toward her.

“I’m sure that this one you will.”

[carmenrios]

i remember porter house, the afternoon libby and i got down on our hands and knees and painted that entire porch teal, how we rolled joints while it dried and hung blankets up to cover the windows, smoking out of the bedroom window with jason and dan on the second floor, walking down the street to splurge on a slice of white pizza, how i wanted to meet my husband on the bus that summer but instead i took my fake id to work and fell in love with the people who met me there. i remember arizona house, how i left the pile of dishes in the sink when the new tenants arrived, how i slept in the sunroom for so long that even once i had my own door i rarely shut myself behind it, how i spent every sunday upstairs watching the darjeeling limited and eating chinese take-out lunch specials, veggie lo-mein with veggie fried rice with a spring roll and crab rangoon, how i fell in love with her on a sofa underneath an electric blanket and then took it with me across town, how i drank four loko until i was ready to come out, how i cleaned before everyone else woke up the morning after every party, how brandon got me to skip class to go to burger king in that dress i swore i’d never wear out of the house, how i kept scones in my food cubby and the broken parts of that bong, how i decorated the entire wall with newspaper clippings and tiny statues because i could, how i got home after that terrible thanksgiving and everyone was partying in the sunroom so i slipped on my lace-up boots and danced all night. i remember that apartment and how the intersection was haunted, the party i threw in the backyard and how when i woke up the hallway was covered in blood and my neighbor had torn out the back stairs, how i ate ramen i made in the microwave and let them turn off my gas, how mariel had to clean the kitchen and so did sam, how sad i was when she left and how i passed out on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night and hardly whispered for help. i remember when i moved to noma, how scared i was of the northeast, how i got mugged a block from that major intersection where a man tried to board the bus with no pants on, how i got home and shut my door and screamed but my roommates never woke up, the cabinet where i hid booze and pills in case we didn’t end up liking each other and how we did, how months later i stood in the same room and jumped up and down because i got a job, how months before i peeked out the front window and saw that geneva was walking up the sidewalk and got so scared that it wouldn’t be good enough that i ran. i remember the drive to new york city and the drive to west virginia and the drive to los angeles, how i kissed her on the cheek because i missed her from all the way in the passenger seat, how i liked that we drank the same drinks and ate the same trashy snacks, how she didn’t even get annoyed with me after i navigated us to that motel with the wet carpets peeling away from the wall. i remember my first office, too, and how i pinned up photos from tumblr near my desk and notes from other students, how i left early the day amy winehouse died, how i kept diet coke under the counter, how i listened to sad songs on repeat in the middle of the night and filled out forms, how the administrator everyone was most afraid of once came by just to drop off an article with a post-it note on top because she liked me. i remember new jersey, the house where my mother and i played with dolls and she kept waking up on the couch, the apartment where i only had three walls and no door to my room, the big house in the mountains with the fireplace and the morning she got the letter from my father about his new wife. i remember that we tried to grow tadpoles to frogs, i remember i left the blanket outside but i don’t remember him taking it off the plane, i remember that i cooked chocolate cake in my easy-bake oven and grew an herb garden on the windowsill and broke my dresser drawers by filling them with too much clothing. i remember how filled with longing i was, even then, how i walked along the big rock wall at the edge of my grandmother’s property line pretending i was a star, and i remember my grandmother’s house, too, how when i couldn’t stop fighting with rocky she let me open my christmas gifts early, how on thursday nights we would eat pizza and go downstairs until my mom was done working the night shift, how she picked us up after school and gave us fruit snacks in the car, how i thought it was great that she drove a grand am because you know if you scramble the letters, how she smoked in smoking sections until they made her stop, how i filled her sugar jars each week and she would wash the tiny tables from inside the pizza boxes for me to use in doll houses. i remember the house i was living in when i went to new jersey to say goodbye, how geneva and i drove the five hours there and back and i couldn’t stop crying, how i left my printer and bags of clothes and a vintage suitcase on the sidewalk, how the construction workers would come and wake up the dogs, how eli almost scaled a wall in the backyard, the spice collection we inherited and the wine wallpaper we tore off the walls, how soph and i looked at each other when we finally sat down in the living room after we saw that man get shot. i remember los angeles, how different the room looked the first night when it was empty and it didn’t really belong to me yet, how mad i was that she didn’t want to get tacos and how dumb that feels now, how i wrapped a mattress pad in blankets with my favorite one in the center so it would never touch the ground. my holiest objects came here on my back or in my trunk, i kept thinking if i had to evacuate i’d know exactly where it all fit with the seats down, i don’t want a life too big to keep track of like i used to. i remember that i lived on porches and patios, used space heaters and air conditioners to breathe, counted change at my vanity and used it to ride the bus home from work. i remember that i brought my bank and shook it out right before we left for los angeles and i had saved one hundred dollars. i remember new year’s eve, and christmas, and thanksgiving, how many wishes i made and how many have come true. i remember it all. consider this my promise that this year i’ll finally write it down.

[ohwhatamessiam]

Give  -Part 6

Summary: Bucky and (Y/N) had an amazing yet brief relationship in Bucharest before all hell broke loose. Two years later they reconnect in a bar in Brooklyn, but things have changed and neither are the same as they were before. Will their relationship survive or is a break up inevitable?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Language, fluff, and some heartbreak. Sorry this one might hurt. 

Author’s Note: Hi again! This is part 6 of my submission to @bladebarnes​‘s #bladehits2kchallenge inspired by the song Give by You Me At Six. As usual 1st person reader, and this is the last of flashback-ville! A thank you, I love you, and a let’s-go-see-some-bands-together-in-November(?) to @lostboyinneverland​ for beta-ing me. We’re coming to the end guys, only one more to go! I have had an idea for a sequel but y’all let me know if you want it (or maybe I’ll just end up writing it I don’t know.) Here’s my Spotify playlist to listen to while reading the entire fic. Hopefully this turned out okay, and let me know your thoughts!

Give | Masterlist

Light hit my face, flashing bright behind my eyelids and warming my skin. I rolled to my side, needing to escape the glare of the sun but found something harder than a pillow under my head. My eyelashes fluttered as my vision started working again and a soft chuckle came from above me.

Tilting my head the slightest bit I caught Bucky watching me, a pleasant smile on his lips and a loving look in his eyes. I smiled, wrapping my arm around his waist and molding my body into his side. I’d apparently been sleeping with my head against his chest because as I moved my cheek, my lips brushed against his skin. Lifting my body, I stretched to find his mouth and was grateful for his warm fingers hooking under my chin and guiding my lips the rest of the way. The kiss was soft, affectionate, and the perfect way to start my day.

���If that’s how you say good morning babe, I think I’m gonna have to spend the night more often,” I spoke against his chest, resting my head near his heart.

“I’d like that,” he smiled, metal fingers stroking my hair. I sighed onto his skin and closed my eyes, settling back into his body. His metal thumb stroked my cheek as I drifted back to sleep.

It was too soon when Bucky squeezed my arm and whispered, “We should get up doll. We can’t stay in bed all day.”

I knew he was right but I also never wanted to leave his side. Never wanted to be without his warmth, his smell, and his skin again. “Why not?”  I whined against his rib cage.

“Your stomach’s been growling for the last 10 minutes,” he chuckled. “As much as I want to stay here all day, we both need to eat something eventually.”

“Fine,” I groaned, lifting my head from his body, “What do you have to eat?” With daylight illuminating his apartment, I could see he’d been living here a while. Somehow the place was in even worse shape than my own, with cracked tiles and horribly peeling wallpaper. But the old fridge, coffee brewer, array of mismatched dishes, and bag of chips sitting on top of the fridge told me he’d done his best to make it home.

“Not a whole lot.” He rolled off the bed, leaving me to find my shirt on the ground. “Do you have anything in your apartment?” he called as he rummaged through his closet. He emerged with a black short sleeve shirt and pair of dark wash jeans on, and his arms in a red henley he was pulling over his head.

“I think I have a few eggs left over, a partial loaf of bread, and possibly some yogurt.” As I stood up, I noticed the newspapers taped over his balcony door and windows.

Perched on the edge of his loveseat, he pulled on a pair of socks and watched me try to find my shoes. “Some fresh fruit would go well with the toast or the yogurt,” he answered, a sly smirk playing on his lips. I found my shoes in the hall, accompanied by two shining objects.

“It would,” I nodded, picking up both my kitchen knife and a smaller combat knife. “You should probably put this away.” I handed him the weapon, noticing his gulp and quick turn to the counter to find its sheath.

He concealed and secured it around his ankle before pulling on his boots, and reaching for his black baseball hat. “I’ll go run to the fruit stand and get something.”

“You mean you’ll get plums?” I tilted my head and smiled at him, holding the blade of my kitchen knife downward.

“Maybe,” he blushed. He tugged his gloves on and jacket before meeting me at his door. “But they’re my favorite.” Pausing directly in front of me, his hands held my face, covered thumbs caressing my cheeks and I wished I could melt under his touch. I snaked a hand out to his hip, pulling him closer to me.

“I know they are,” I whispered, my lips brushing his cheek. He turned his head, finding my lips with his own and our mouths worked together in a moment of fervent passion. The bill of his hat pushed back from his face as I rose onto my toes.

Pulling back from my mouth he grinned, “They’re almost as sweet as you.” I couldn’t help the tug at my heart or the flush on my cheeks. I peppered his face with small kisses, only stopping when I reached his smiling lips. A covered hand slid down to my hip, gripping me against him and deepening the kiss. I welcomed him in, savoring the way his scruff brushed against my lips and his tongue teased mine. Our lips separated for us to catch our breath, and he exhaled, “I swear I’ll only be gone for 20 minutes tops.” I kissed him again but his hand tilted my jaw, pulling us apart. “I’ll meet you in your apartment,” he moaned, wetting his lips as his heavy lidded eyes betrayed his desire. His clothed metal fingers slipped under the hem of my shirt teasingly and he raised his brows in suggestion, “We can continue… this.”

Pausing for a second, I bit my lip. This was all so new to us, and normally I’d never want to be this attached to someone, but Bucky felt so comfortable, so right to me. I reasoned with myself that this was just the honeymoon phase and it’d be more unhealthy if we were too codependent. As reluctant as I was to let him go, I knew I could wait 20 minutes for him. “Okay,” I nodded, prompting him to kiss me one last time before opening the front door.

He tugged his hat back down, planting a peck on my forehead. “I’ll rush back, I promise.”

Three loud knocks echoed from my front door. I pulled the skillet of eggs from the stove, carefully dumping them onto plates. One more loud bang came from the door, and this one sounded harder than knuckles meeting wood. Hurrying across my apartment, I unlocked the deadbolt quickly and yanked the door open.

Regret was etched all over Bucky’s features as I grabbed his elbow and guided him into the hallway. I closed the door and turned to find him frozen directly behind me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, but my words quieting in my throat as his haunted eyes met mine.

“I just, I really wanted this to work,” he sighed, gaze dropping to the floor. “I did.”

Shaking my head, I pulled the bag of plums from his hand and took them to the kitchen. “What do you mean?” I was afraid of what I’d see if I looked at his face.

“Us. This.” He spoke clearly, his voice carrying across the room.

I turned on my heel, anger and heat suddenly rising in my chest. “Considering what you said to me last night and 20 minutes ago, if this is a break up speech it seems pretty insincere.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I watched him searching for his next words. This obviously was not planned on his part.

“I-, I thought I could be happy. I was wrong.”

“Drop the bullshit,” I groaned, grasping his jaw in my hand and forcing him to look at me. “You’ve been happy for the last two weeks with me. I’ve been nothing but honest with you Bucky, and you didn’t lie to me about your past. Don’t you dare start now.”

His steely gaze held mine for only a moment before softening. I let go of his face as he muttered, “Well shit.” Moving quickly past me, he went to one of my windows. He checked the streets near our building and then the sky. “I’m not trying to break up with you, but I’m trying to tell you this isn’t going to end well.”

“What’s going on?”

He moved from one window to the next. “They’re coming for me,” he answered, turning to look at me and then back out to the street. “I don’t know what suddenly changed but there was a picture of me on a newspaper about the bombing in Vienna.”

“Do you think it’s Hydra?” I asked, closing the distance between us. My hands slipped over his shoulders and across his chest, leaning my body onto his back.

“No, it’s the UN I think, or some government agency.” He continued to stare out the window, his fingers tapping against his leg. “And since I’m now a domestic terrorist according to the paper, they won’t care whether they take me in alive or not.”

Slipping around him, I placed myself between the window and his body. “Don’t say that, we’ll figure a way out of this. I’ll come forward and say you were with me last-.”

Shaking his head, he cut me off, “No. There’s no chance in hell that I’m letting you expose yourself for me. They’ll scrutinize you, interrogate you, maybe even arrest you.” I sighed against him, mentally searching for another way to help him. “Honestly, I’m thinking about surrendering.”

Holding a breath in his lungs longer than usual, I rubbed his forearms, trying to soothe him. “But you didn’t do it.”

His gaze turned hard, “How do you know that? You didn’t even ask.”

Hands slipping to his face, I brought his forehead to mine, “Because I know you. That’s not you anymore.”

“But it could be.”

“But even if it could be you, physically. That’s not you, it’s not what you want or what’s in here.” I poked his chest reminding him that his heart was not a killers.

“I’m so sorry this is happening.” His hard edges crumbled and his hands guided my hips closer to his. “I didn’t want you to have to go through this.”

“It’s not your fault.” I rubbed his jaw with my thumbs, brushing his beard and hoping he’d relax into me.

“Yes it is,” he groaned, gripping my wrists in his fingers and moving me away from the window.  “Because if they come after me, they’ll come after you too eventually.”

“Buck-,” I started to pull him away from the glass but he turned his back to me.

“It might not be the government, but Hydra will want to get rid of loose ends. Make sure no one knows their secrets.”

“If they come, then we’ll handle this together.”

He turned to me, a hand running through his hair as he shook his head, “You don’t get it. I’ll probably be dead or locked up. We can’t handle any of that together.”

Knotting my hands behind his back to make sure he couldn’t remove me, I looked up at his stormy eyes, “You sound like you’ve already given up.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” he hunched his body into mine, hands settling on my hips again. “Just being here, holding you, puts you in so much danger. And I don’t care what happens to me, they can lock me up or kill me, but I can’t stomach the thought of someone hurting you. But I guess I’ve already dragged you into all this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything. I walked into this of my own free will.” His eyes lowered to my lips, focusing on how my mouth formed the words. “I love you Bucky, and I’d do all of this over again if it meant I got to be with you.”

He moved quickly, lips crashing against mine before I could even grasp what was happening. Instinct taking over, I gripped his biceps, anchoring my body with his as I kissed him back. Our mouths moved together desperately, wanting to take in everything we could of each other, needing to stretch what felt like our last moment together.

The walls of my apartment vibrated gently, notifying us of a helicopter approaching. His lips stilled under mine, jaw going slack as he opened his mouth against my own. Taking in a deep breath just as I exhaled, he held me close to him, sharing air for the last time. I wished the world could slow or stop. I needed more than just this and he deserved more than two weeks of cautious happiness.

“I love you, (Y/N), and I’m sorry,” he spoke into my cheek before taking his hands from me.

He moved quickly to my hallway, shoulders broadening and spine straightening in preparation for what was coming. “Make it out alive please,” I called to him, feeling heat and tears building behind my eyes.

As his fingers wrapped around my doorknob he hesitated, turning back to look at me. His eyes were apologetic and his brows furrowed. “Stay close to the ground and behind something. Don’t come out until everything sounds normal again.” My heart ached but I nodded at him, gulping down my nerves.

Watching him walk out of my life for the last time felt like losing a piece of me I didn’t know I had. But I didn’t have much time to contemplate my feelings as the sound of glass breaking and bullets hitting metal and plaster reached my ears minutes later. I followed his orders, curling into a ball on the floor of my kitchen, covered by my island and appliances on all sides as more bangs flew through the air. I covered my ears and rocked myself, silently praying he’d survive somehow.

I didn’t realize I was crying until all the fighting stopped, and I knew I was alone.

Tags: @irishdancr24 @fangirlisms-22 @suz-123 @tequilavet @plan3tmadison

[allofbeercom]

A foodie tour of South Korea

With the Winter Olympics shining a spotlight on this hi-tech country, a new culinary trip introduces visitors to zingy rice dishes and the worlds best bibimbap all with a pleasingly messy disregard for formality

A foodie tour of South Korea

South Korea holidays

A foodie tour of South Korea

With the Winter Olympics shining a spotlight on this hi-tech country, a new culinary trip introduces visitors to zingy rice dishes and the world’s best bibimbap – all with a pleasingly messy disregard for formality

Liz Boulter

Fri 9 Feb 2018 01.30 EST

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Korean comfort … bibimbap is the national dish of rice with a multitude of toppings.

I’m not particularly hungover, having stuck to local Hite beer the evening before, but the restorative effects of Korean haejang-guk, or “hangover soup” would probably cure even the pain of a truly big night out.

At 8am there’s already a queue outside the tiny cafe at the back of Nambu market in provincial capital Jeonju (has the whole city been on the lash?). I slip into a seat at the counter next to a local couple and watch an overalled woman bashing energetically at huge mounds of pungent garlic, chilli and spring onion – a cruel racket for a pounding head.

South Korea map

But soon my panacea appears: a heady beef bone and anchovy broth thick with rice and beansprouts, side dishes of kimchi and three other fermented vegetables, and squares of dried seaweed to dip in. Another dish holds a barely set poached egg. Copying my neighbours, I finish up by adding some broth to the egg, stir, and drink the lot down, following up with the (probably redundant) little plastic bottle of Yakult-type drink that comes with every serving.

The words “set you up for the day” don’t even begin to cover it.

Hangover soup counter, Jeonju. Photograph: Liz Boulter for the Guardian

Quick guide

South Korea: at a glance

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– Capital: Seoul

– Currency: Won,​ £1=1,500

– Flight time from UK: 11 hours

– Flight time from US (Los Angeles): 13 hours 30 minutes 

– Population: 51 million

– Area:100,210 km2

– Official language: Korean

– Official tourism website: visitkorea.or.kr

– High speed rail network: KTX

– Looking for more travel ideas? Guardian Travel on South Korea

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I’m two days into Intrepid Travel’s new Real Food Adventure in South Korea and starting to appreciate how this hi-tech country combines the best of east Asia, particularly in its cuisine: healthier and less oily than in much of China; spicier, sharper and chewier than in Japan.

Starting in the capital, Seoul, we’ve done the basics – Korean barbecue and moreish KFC (the K’s not for Kentucky) – then taken the train south (almost all the trip is on public transport) to foodie capital Jeonju, declared a Unesco city of gastronomy in 2012. Jeonju is known for its “slow food” skills: drying, pickling and fermenting kimchis, sauces and pastes to offer a world of exquisite textures and flavours. It’s only culinary rival was, before the Korean war, Pyongyang.

An irresistible dish of KFC (Korean fried chicken).

Jeonju is also home to the country’s best bibimbap, the national dish of rice with an array of toppings, often including a raw egg. As we’re lunching at the city’s Gajok Hoegwan restaurant, and its owner, Kim Nyeon-him, has been declared an intangible cultural asset by the government for her bibimbap, we’re probably going to eat the best bibimbap in the world.

“This is not your meal; these are just the accompaniments,” warns Daniel, our Korean-American tour leader. The tables are covered with at least a dozen cold side dishes: pungent fish innards, mild turmeric jelly and delicious fermented spring greens among them. Our bibimbaps arrive topped with a dozen more tasty things, plus a hot cloud of steamed egg soufflé. It looks very pretty, but we have to destroy it: the way to eat bibimbap is to add your side dishes, mix the whole lot up – with chopsticks so as not to mash the rice – then shovel it in with a spoon.

Mrs Kim is an “intangible cultural asset” thanks to her bibimbap. Photograph: Liz Boulter for the Guardian

The taste sensation is partly down to the array of tall earthenware jars where Mrs Kim, sprightly in her seventies, is fermenting sauces of gooseberry, green plum and other fruits. Daniel tells us bibimbap is comfort food: in Korean films the equivalent of the breakup scene where a girl eats a whole tub of ice-cream is a girl crying into a big bowl of bibimbap.

Korean food is all about side dishes, or banchan

By now our group of 12 Europeans and Australians are starting to “get” Korean food. It’s all about the side dishes, or banchan: no meal comes without at least two. For this we can thank the Buddhist vegetarian influence, which saw people brightening up meals with fresh, sour, crunchy, sweet, salty or spicy accompaniments. This continues even though many Koreans have since embraced meat and fish with gusto.

We’ve also rethought our western ideas about courses. Everything comes together: there’s nearly always a soup with a Korean dinner, but it’s sipped throughout the meal, and any sweet things are on the table from the start. Koreans say this makes an evening more fun: you get on with talking, laughing, enjoying the company, without interruptions for another course arriving. There’s also none of Japan’s dining formality. “The protocol is there is no protocol,” says Daniel. It’s fine to all dip spoons into one pot, or reach across your companions to grab a tasty morsel with your long metal chopsticks. A table barely visible under a mess of dirty dishes and empty bottles is the sign of a good night out.

Gochujang ferments in a jar for months. Photograph: Liz Boulter for the Guardian

The savoury spiciness of bibimbap comes from gochujang, the fermented chilli paste found in every Korean kitchen. The home of that is nearby Sunchang, where, with the help of another intangible cultural asset, Kang Soon-ok, we learn how “red gold” is made – by mixing powdered rice, barley syrup, soya and dried chillies before leaving it to ferment for half a year.

We also have great fun making a speciality none of us can quite get our heads round: chapssaltteok, or soft rice cakes (like Japanese mochi). Their sticky, gooey texture is achieved, traditionally, by pounding the rice flour dough with huge mallets, before rolling, chopping and sprinkling it with ground nuts. We’ve loved almost everything we’ve eaten so far, but decide you probably have to be born to it to rave about this texture, between Blu Tack and wallpaper paste, but less appealing than either.

Much more enticing is the quintessential Korean dish kimchi, which we also have a go at in Jeonju. There are kimchi factories these days of course, but many people still make it by hand in autumn, to ferment in jars buried in the cold ground for winter eating.

Hanok village, on the edge of Jeonju. Photograph: Seungchan Lee/Getty Images

In a sunny courtyard in the traditional Hanok village district, on the edge of Jeonju, the napa cabbages (what we call Chinese leaves) have been soaking in brine. Pulling on gloves and pinnies (against red stains) we copy our hosts and gently peel back the pale leaves – without detaching them from the stems – and massage each side with a paste made by pounding garlic, shallot and ginger with copious gochujang. Once every surface of every leaf is covered – inexpert tourist fingers are fumbling and slow – the leaves are folded back till the finished cabbages lie like so many swaddled babies. I taste a bit of broken leaf and it’s delicious, but without that deep fermented flavour of aged kimchi.

There are many more delights packed into the week. The waters of Bomun lake make an especially pillowy soft tofu, served at Matdol Soondooboo restaurant in a punchy broth. You drop in a raw egg, add soy, sesame oil and spring onions, then enjoy the way creamy egg and tofu contrast with the soup’s chilli kick. Spicy beef short ribs on Daegu’s foodie Dongindong Street have been steamed for hours and come with fishy side dishes for an umami hit.

The fish market in Busan. Photograph: Alamy

And in the port of Busan, we barbecue seafood at the table. The US influence means South Koreans have a very un-Asian liking for dairy products: so you can add grated cheese to a giant clam grilling in its shell with onion, chilli and kimchi and, as the cheese starts to melt, gorge on a fusion feast.

But it isn’t all eating; there’s drinking too. The craft beer movement is starting to take off in South Korea: at microbrewery Galmegi in Busan we taste IPAs and a ginger golden ale. They’re a hit with young South Koreans used to rice wine, fizzy lager and soju spirit. For us, though, Hite beer and soju make perfect partners for games of “sink the ship” – the person who makes the shot glass of soju sink into the lager having to drink the lot. And if too many rounds of that make for a sore head next morning, there’s always hangover soup.

• The trip was provided by Intrepid Travel, whose eight-day South Korean Real Food Adventure costs £1,715, excluding flights to Seoul

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/a-foodie-tour-of-south-korea/