#so not @me about ‘there’s pumpkin sauce in there’ either there’s less

[vexalia]

incensed at the state of the pumpkin spice this season everyone is copying starbucks with the damn pumpkin cold foam in place of pumpkin syrup i do not WANT the cold foam the cold foam sits ATOP the tea and keeps the shaken on top spice OUT of my tea and does not MIX into the tea so you have a latte with aerated pumpkin cream at the end of your beverage. stop this madness. put the pumpkin and the spices back into the beverage.

[kayesfanfics]

General Striker x Reader Headcanons

He hates too much PDA, only likes it when he’s either jealous or showing you off. Otherwise, refrain from kissing and hugging and all that lovey dovey crap, save it for when the both of you are in private. He’s got a bad boy reputation to hold up, and yes he likes to flaunt you but he doesn’t want to be too affectionate and have people realize you’re a weakness of his, especially with he people he works and deals with

He calls you stuff like darlin, pumpkin, sugar, doll face, sweetheart. You call him cowboy, stud, Casanova, babe, and you save daddy for when you want something cause you can NOT tell me Striker doesn’t refer to himself as daddy in the bedroom I’m sorry-

He really likes showing off for you, showcasing his strength, smooth singing voice, rugged good looks, everything. Will do some hard work for you like any repairs around the house, carrying heavy stuff for you, anything like that. Will cook for you as well, he’s really good at barbecue and def makes the best barbecue sauce you’ve ever tasted, and he’ll proudly smile when you dig into his food. Will sing for you if you ask him enough, yes he’s confident but with you he can be a little bashful since he actually wants you to like him. He’s secretly a big sap though and has probably written a song or two about/for you

Whenever you want to go out, he doesn’t have a ton of money to go crazy but he tries his best to find a less sleazy place where it’s less likely for creeps to hit on you and make you uncomfortable. Def the type to fight you on who pays the bill, and it’s often settled with you agreeing to pay for your own stuff, but then Striker will intercept the waiter and give him the cash to cover the both of you. You know he’s not exactly rich himself so you never expected any big fancy thing from him, but when you have date nights in he’ll make you a really nice candlelit dinner and blush a little when you call him a lover boy

But whenever the two of you do go to bars, he gets pretty protective cause he knows the kind of shit that washes up in these places. He knows you can handle yourself and have been for years before you met him, but he’s here now so he can help you out. So if the bartender gets a little too flirty or another customer gets a little too close to you, you hear the rattle and hiss from Striker as he glared at the person as a warning to back off. If the person doesn’t listen or dares to even lay a single finger on you, he WILL start a bar fight and get kicked out for you, he does NOT like anyone touching what’s his or making you feel uncomfortable and unsafe

You do go days, sometimes weeks without seeing him due to his work, but he’ll call you on his burner phone when he’s free to check in with you. You’re not allowed to call him and don’t ever have his numbers to his phone, just in case because he could get caught or something. Which is fine, cause he always calls you in the evening when he’s winding down for the day to say hi and make sure you’re okay. He’ll listen to you ramble about your day, and sometimes he’ll fall asleep on the phone with you, listening to your voice and you smile when you realize he’s asleep before saying goodnight and hanging up

When he comes home all roughed up, you scold him as you grab the first aid kit, which is often kept out now rather than tucked away under the bathroom sink. He rants about how a guy named Blitz and his other imps keeps beating him, but you could honestly care less as you tend to his wounds for him. He’s extra grumpy but you kiss him on the cheek and he softens up a bit, accepting your offer to head to bed early and cuddle a bit. He’s definitely a cuddler once he softens up with you, loves to have you in his arms and sometimes even lets you hold him instead if he’s in the mood for it. And after a beat down, he wants nothing more than to lay on your chest and let you play with his hair or rub his back as he groans from his sore body

CAMPING DATES. He’s already got all the stuff to spend nights out in the desert for his job, so it doesn’t cost him more money and it’s just the two of you. You’ll both ride Bombproof out into the middle of nowhere with nobody around for miles, setting up a fire and lying against his horse to look up at the sky. He’ll give you his jacket when you get cold, claiming he’s just fine but he’s trying not to shiver so you don’t feel bad. Or you can both cuddle up in a blanket, your head on his shoulder as the two of you chat while he roasts some food for the both of you over the fire, giving the leftover scraps to Bombproof

[snowmuttgetsweird]

7/29/24, witching hour

Little late to be doing a journal/blog entry but here we are.

Squats always wreak the most havoc on my body where DOMS is concerned. I skipped the gym tonight in favor of a staff game night at my day job. Unless I plan ahead for it pretty far in advance, I rarely get to attend them, so it's nice that I had the opportunity this time around. We played I'm the Boss!, MLEM: Space Agency, and Scout. First was fun but I'm not good at it, second was... Aesthetically very cute, but not my favorite, and Scout is fantastic; kinda like Uno with less direct aggression and more interesting mechanics.

Came home to a very annoyed cat. He's not used to being alone for long stretches of time, so he's usually mad at me by the time I get home, and it makes his feeding schedule a little weird.

I miss my roommate. Where he is, he's like 3 hours ahead of me so by the time I'm awake, it's usually already noon for him, and then by the time I get home from work, it's either already evening or he's about to head to bed, so we haven't been able to talk much. It sucks coming home to a (mostly) empty apartment when I'm so used to someone else being around.

Workout-wise I think I'm getting a better idea of what all I wanna do.

I wanna do some sorta exercise every day in the morning, pretty much right after I wake up. I think on a daily basis I wanna incorporate a 1 min plank and 10k steps (making up whatever I miss just walking around that day on the treadmill at my gym), probably a rice bucket to help mitigate/prevent tennis elbow and wrist issues, and then I wanna maybe rotate a handful of bodyweight exercises- mostly probably push-up variations for shoulders and chest, squats and calf raises for lower body, crunch variations for core, and glute bridges. I still gotta find something for my back that doesn't take equipment too, since I really only have access to dumbbells at the moment.

Once I'm actually in the gym, I think I'm mostly doing weighted squats, dumbbell presses, dumbbell rows, hammer curls, side lateral raises, and chest flys. I mentioned before I wanna focus a lot on my shoulders and chest since they're pretty wimpy, and I just like hammer curls.

Food-wise overnight oats are still kinda soupy. That might just be how they are, idk. I'm trying to dial back the liquid little by little to see how little I can get away with while still getting them pretty soft. I'm also trying more chia seeds. The pumpkin puree with some spices and maple tasted alright, but I don't have all the spices I wanted to include, and I don't have real maple syrup at the moment, so I'm not sure what I expected, lol. C'est la vie.

Still struggling a bit to actually eat what practically feels like my bodyweight in protein each day, but I imagine that'll get easier as I start putting on more muscle and my body starts demanding more calories. As much as I love to eat, I just don't have much of a stomach for, like... Gorging myself. Even just eating my half-cup of overnight oats feels like a battle. I'm more of a grazer.

Oh, and if I didn't say so already, that salmon bowl was a big success. The cottage cheese blended up nice and smooth with just a little olive oil, some sriracha, salt, pepper, dill, and maybe a tsp of lemon juice, and then I just tossed that with a can of salmon, plated it up beside a mound of brown rice and sprinkled some furikake over the whole mess. There's more "sauce" than there is salmon almost, but it's all basically just cottage cheese so I feel no guilt in just mixing it up with the brown rice as a vehicle and going to town- basically free protein.

Think that's it for now. A little peckish atm but don't really feel like cooking, and don't really wanna snack right before bed, so I'll just assume a happy accident calorie deficit and call it a win. Nighto.

[coastalqueries]

recipe for a delicious orange goop

I was doing some kitchen experiments this evening and one came out so delicious I had to actually write down the recipe before I forgot. and then it occurred to me that I could share it, so if anyone is interested: Pumpkin And Beef Stew.

Much like any stew recipe, this is a template and not a rulebook. Anything except the salt, water, and oil can be substituted, with the caveat that I cannot guarantee your end result if you deviate too far. This recipe is entirely lactose and gluten free, provided you use gluten free soy sauce/flour. It will require one stockpot, one plate or bowl, one stirring implement, and potentially a knife and cutting board if you are not buying things pre-chopped.

Time spent actively cooking: 20-40 minutes depending again on chopping Total time: about 2.5 hours Cleanup: minimal Serves: Probably 3 as written

Ingredients:

1 bag frozen japanese pumpkin/kabocha, or equivalent fresh

About a pound of beef chunks for stew (or a small package as sold in the store in your measurement of choice)

Half an onion, chopped

Handful of carrot. You could also probably cut up a single mid-size carrot but I used the shaved kind because it was conveniently in a bag

Mushroom broth, one carton (or diy)

Liberal amounts of red wine for deglazing and also taste

Spices/herbs to taste (I used: premade italian mix, powdered mustard, dried thyme but fresh would be better, medium amount of garlic, bay leaves)

SMALL amount of: gluten-free soy sauce, worcestershire sauce (seriously I barely splashed both in and it was the correct amount. probably a tablespoon each? maybe less)

Salt, pepper, chickpea flour (for browning the beef. type of flour doesn't matter and can also be omitted entirely)

vegetable oil or similar (I use grapeseed. I tend to avoid olive oil for frying/sauteing since it burns at a lower temperature but also we're not cooking with excessive heat here, use your own judgement)

water as needed

STEP ONE Add salt, pepper, and powdered mustard to the beef chunks, then dust with chickpea flour. Heat oil in the stock pot at medium, then brown beef chunks on two sides, flipping when the chunks no longer stick to the bottom of the pot. Remove promptly.

STEP TWO Deglaze with red wine, add a bit more oil if necessary, then add the onion. You could caramelize the onions probably but there's not really a point because they will dissolve either way, just get them translucent

STEP THREE Add frozen pumpkin (or not frozen if you're feeling industrious. Chop it though), carrot, and garlic. Stir it regularly & keep an eye on it, this step shouldn't take long — just enough for the pumpkin chunks to defrost and start to fall apart a little.

STEP FOUR Add the whole carton of broth, soy & worcestershire sauce, more red wine, and all remaining seasonings. Bit more salt to taste. You can throw the browned meat back in at this stage also. All ingredients should be submerged. Bring to a boil, and then reduce heat and cover.

STEP FIVE Slow cook the bastard on very low heat for at least two hours. Keep an eye on the liquid levels and stir occasionally because it will burn given the opportunity; add water as necessary. A little bit of browning on the bottom improves the flavor imo but if it burns it will be Bad.

STEP SIX You now have delicious orange goop. Where did the pumpkin rinds go? I certainly don't know. Remove the bare thyme stems and bay leaves. You can eat it as is or put it on bread or rice or mashed potato.

I will probably try adding mushrooms next time. I don't think chicken would work as well for both taste and textural reasons (though it would serve in a pinch) but other red meats or pork would probably also be delicious. You could absolutely make it vegetarian and/or vegan by substituting out the meat and worcestershire sauce, but if you do this I definitely recommend the mushrooms and also a big spoonful of miso, or some equivalent source of savory flavor and umami. You could also substitute the seasoning profile to your preference; this would be delicious with garam masala for instance.

No idea if it freezes well and it will remain a mystery because it is not going to last long enough to find out.

[awed-frog]

What are some of your go-to recipes for satisfying meals? I’m trying to convince my husband that we should eat less meat, but he thinks meals without meat are not as filling.

Wow, that’s a great question, but I’m not sure I have a good answer for you because ‘satisfying’ really depends on your taste and habits. These are our favourite family meals, I hope something can inspire you:

Pasta and beans of some kind. There is a lot of variation here, so I don’t have a fixed recipe, but what I like to do is to prepare some vegetables (roasted or stir-fry), add some kind of bean (lentils, white beans, fava beans, green peas) and a portion of pasta (sounds stupid, but by changing the kind of pasta you immediately get a different meal). I make the sauce either red (with tomato and possibly a touch of Porto) or white (with soy cream or, if I’m feeling motivated, a blend of white beans and cooked mushrooms in stock). You can also add saffron to a white sauce, just make sure there are no overpowering spices, otherwise the saffron gets lost. If you eat cheese, you can obviously add it whenever you want: some Philadelphia-style fresh cheese, ricotta or gorgonzola can turn a dish into something completely different.

Risotto or orzotto with beans of some kind. Orzotto is like risotto, but it’s made with pearl barley instead of rice. The only problem one can have with this kind of dish is overcooking, so make sure you check before adding more broth. Many traditional recipes have them plain with some cheese, but I like to add a bean to get my proteins (green peas are the usual choice, but you can be creative) and some veggies for taste. Some people also enjoy risotto with stuff like strawberries, you can find many recipes online.

Minestrone is an end-of-week staple: I do it by just throwing all the wonky vegetables in my fridge into the pot and adding - guess! - some cereals and beans! You can have pasta instead of cereals, and the only trick here is to check how long everything has to cook (beans, for instance, are normally added pre-cooked). You can serve it with warm bruschette with butter, tapenade, dried tomatos, hummus or melted cheese.

If you’re looking for more elaborate meals, my go-to is lasagna (I normally make a vegan béchamel with soy milk and use lentils, mushrooms or seitan in the ragù), a hearty seitan stew (seitan is very easy to make at home if you can find a bag of gluten), or one of Isa Chandra Moskowitz’ recipes, like orange-glazed tempeh, tofu in pomegranate sauce, vegan spanakotiropita and stuff like that. If you eat cheese and eggs, quiches of any kind can also be irresistible. You’ll need two hours in the kitchen but the result is definitely worth it. 

If your husband doesn’t like the idea of eating less meat, my advice is to not press the point, and instead cook what you want and then be like ‘My friend Sarah gave me this recipe!’ or ‘I found pumpkins on sale so I wanted to make something with them’ or ‘How about trying an Ethiopian dish this evening?’. People don’t like to be lectured about health, and most people who don’t want to give up even a slice of ham are just afraid of the dreary, tasteless life that’s waiting for them now the wife wants to eat ‘rabbit food’. And I mean, it’s normal to be nervous about stuff you have the wrong idea about: in a lot of Western dishes, vegetables are the overboiled, awful side to the ‘real thing’ you’re eating, so the thought of skipping that ‘real thing’ and live the rest of your life on mushy carrots is not appealing. So imo if you want to make a change you have to show your husband vegan and vegetarian food can be amazingly tasty without pressing the point. It’s not ‘I want you to live longer so have this chewy cabbage’, it’s more ‘Let’s try something new! Isn’t gorgonzola great?’. Slowly, he’ll get used to the idea these dishes are actually good and satisfying and won’t notice meat is something missing from your menus.

(As a tip on recipe books: I usually leaf through them on Amazon, and if I see something I like I download the book from the z library. Then I try a few recipes, and if I like them, I buy the book from our local bookstore. There’s no point imo in buying a recipe book before tasting a few things first.)

[1010ll]

do you have any new recipes that you've learned recently? i remember you wrote something a while ago about carbonara and i tried it out for myself it was really fun!!

i love this 😭 im gonna write way too much idec! something that has changed since that post: my kitchen is worse. i have a horrible combi oven which has resulted in me accidentally eating raw chicken, because it had been in there for more than 2 hours at supposedly 230 °C and i was really hungry and thought it HAD to be done by then. also i have less time and less money lol. it has made me a bit sad, and less motivated to cook nice things but i also love food! which means these tips/recipes are gonna reflect that and might seem a bit dull but probably also relatable for a lot of people.   i’ve definitely made spaghetti carbonara a bit too much because it’s simple and require few ingredients! will still vouch for that one tip about substituting the bacon with roasted veggies and other types of meat.

last week i made risotto for the very first time, i think? which means i might be assuming a bit too much, but i think it’s a great dish that you can almost make with whatever you have in your fridge. i made it with roasted beetroot(needs A LOT of time to soften, lesson learned), carrots and parsley root or parsnip(idk the difference), dried rosemary and thyme, garlic and onion. i had some leftover sushi rice, which is great for risotto apparently(love versatile ingredients), roasted them in some oil and then added white wine and chicken stock and actually added a leftover parmesan rind i had in the fridge to give the ‘stock’ some flavour, a bit of nutmeg and then in the end some shredded gouda lol… it was surprisingly delicious and i didn’t even really care to cook the rice perfectly. it also tasted delicious 3 days later, which was a nice surprise. i bet there are tons of risotto recipes online, but as long as you have rice, some kind of flavoured water, i guess you could kind of add whatever you want of veggies and top with whatever herb you have around.

another type of porridge i consume a lot these days is hot oat porridge, which i’ve eaten since i was little and it was the first ‘dish’ i learnt to make myself and it’s cheap. some people really dislike the consistency and look but i don’t. it’s also very easy to customise. i put in whatever nuts and seeds(which are often cheaper than nuts) i have around: flaxseed, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds, chopped almonds and sometimes a dollop of peanut butter. i let them simmer along with the oats. i like adding those elements because it gives it some texture and it keeps me more full throughout the day. it’s very important to me because i hate spending money i don’t have on fast-food when i’m not home and i hate being hungry. dried raisins, cranberries for a bit of sweetness and if i’m treating myself i’ll add some fresh apples cut into small pieces or some homemade berry compote(i use frozen) or brown sugar. if i had more money i’d use maple syrup but i don’t at the moment. i also add a bit of cinnamon and cardamom, dried ginger etc, whatever you feel like. some people also add milk afterwards but i’d rather spend my milk on my coffee.

a small tip: making chili flake / garlic oil. it’s really delicious, you could put it straight on pasta with some parmesan and pepper and it would be a filling meal. either chop the garlic really fine, grate it, microplane it, smash it to pieces. heat some olive oil until it’s quite hot, then remove from heat and add the chili flakes and garlic. if the oil isn’t hot enough you can just put the pan or pot back on the heat but be careful you don’t burn the chili flakes or garlic, as it will make it bitter. the longer it will toast, the less pronounced the raw garlic flavour will be, so when it smells toasted enough for your taste, take it off. i store it in a tiny glass jar and add it in stews, sauces, toasts, pizza, sandwiches etc. the flavour is very strong imo and everything it touches will smell like it. something to drink: i like strong foods and i like sour foods, which is why i like lemon/ginger based drinks. to make it even more winter friendly and easy to make, i like to grate unpeeled ginger(i hate slices of ginger, they do nothing for me and seems like a waste of ginger), lemon zest, lemon juice and mix it or blend it with some water/apple juice and honey and strain it afterwards. if you have a really nice blender you can just add all of it together with some ice. i’m basically making a large amount of ginger shot mixture. then when i feel like it, i can take some of the mixture and either drink it as it is, add more apple juice if i need a refreshing beverage or add hot water and more honey for when im cold. you could also add turmeric, chili, use less sweetener and other sorts of healthy stuff but i honestly do it for the taste so i don’t care about that that much.

something sweet: i posted earlier about cakes and someone mentioned swedish kladdkaka, which is a super delicious, cheap, brownie-like chocolate cake that is easily customized and hard to fuck up which is why i’ve made it since i was very young and is a go-to and i didn’t even know it was a swedish thing. if you like airy, light cakes this is not for your. this is sticky, sweet and almost like confection. you can add nuts, swirls of peanutbutter, tahini, actual pieces of chocolate, replace the white sugar with brown sugar, the butter with oil(you can be fancy and use a bit of olive oil) or use a mixture, brown the butter, you name it. the recipe i use is this: melt 100 g butter and let cool. mix 2 eggs + 3 dl sugar in a bowl until fluffy in one bowl. mix 1.5 dl flour, 4 tbs cocoa, 1 pinch of salt in another. mix the dry with the wet mixture and add the cooled, melted butter. this is the point where you’d add chopped nuts, chocolate etc. pour the batter into a cake tin lined with parchment (i use one that is 16 cm in diameters i think). bake the cake for around 30 mins at 150°C - 175°C degrees. check on the cake using a cake tester or a a knife. if the knife is clean after … stabbing it, it’s done! the cake will change it’s texture after cooling. this is a cheap cake, and if you like cake dough you might want to give it less time in the oven for a more fudgey texture. make it your own! there are no rules. last time i made this, i left it in for too long in my opinion but it was still delicious. also i literally have a shit oven with a round oven rack that goes in circles no matter what due to the microwave function, and the only ‘mixing’ equipment i have is a whisk and a spatula. no need for kitchen aids or  even electrical hand mixers.

something else i’ve been eating a lot for lunch is simple open faced sandwiches, and something that can really elevate those is: making your own mayonnaise(and toasting the bread). it can be challenging, but it’s really worth it imo and i can’t remember the last time i bought it in a store. i have a small plastic bowl, whisk and 1 egg yolk. something i can really recommend is buying pour snouts for bottles. i transfer my oils from their plastic bottles to smaller, old soda bottles because im cheesy like that and it’s really handy especially when making mayo. constantly whisking the egg yolk by hand and then adding the NEUTRAL oil ever so slowly. don’t be fancy and use cold pressed stuff or extra virgin olive oil because it will taste weird. i only ever fail when i try to use immersion blenders for some weird reason but i find it rewarding to do by hand anyways and i think it might be easier to make smaller portions that way. mayo needs acid and you can get it by adding regular vinegar, apple cider vinegar, balsamic vinegar, lemon juice, lime juice, pickle juice, citric acid dissolved in water etc. it’s really easy to customise! when im making banh mi, i add some sesame oil, soy sauce for saltiness and use lime as the acidic element. for more regular use i add a bit of mustard(also helps with the emulsion), for fries, i like adding some fresh garlic. something as simple as mayo, tomatoes, flaky salt and pepper topped with chives is really nice. i also really like using slices of boiled potatoes or boiled eggs(idk if that’s only a thing where i’m from), mayo and the chili garlic oil. it’s also great for making tuna salad. yesterday i made a really simple sandwich with a very simple tuna salad(tuna, mayo, yoghurt, lemon and pepper), arugula, basil, the garlic/chili oil, cream cheese, pickled jalapeños and onions, green peber, cucumber and tomatoes. you could leave out everything but the tuna salad and it would still be a great little meal.

another nice condiment that beats the supermarket stuff by far is homemade ‘pesto’. when i buy parsley from my local grocery store, it’s a gigantic amount that i in no way can consume in a week. first of all when buying fresh herbs i really recommend washing them, wrapping them in a damp towel and keeping them in a closed container. it will prolong their lifetime from lasting a day to a week(change the towel if it seems too wet). i once had some cilantro in my fridge for several weeks and still be fresh. anyways, when i buy that much parsley, i like to remove the tougher parts of the stem(which i use in stews/sauces! chop it up and sautee it along with garlic and onion), add literally just olive oil, water, pepper, garlic, and a bit of acid and then blend away! it keeps for a long time in the fridge and is also delicious beneath tomatoes/potatoes/cheese on open-faced sandwiches. if you want to be fancy you can of course add some type of hard cheese, nuts, seeds, dried tomatoes, whatever.

i know this is the longest text post ever, but as a last reminder, i really recommend watching pasta grannies on youtube. really simple recipes with focus on few, good ingredients that just takes some time and love.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

how to make your pancakes taste yummy: a guide

since some people showed some interest in me making a longer post about Pancake Making Techniques (@artemisthehuntress @00qtee @supermutantprince @panerato @acemoppet @pawkaray), here you all go 

what are my qualifications? my dad started teaching me how to make pancakes when i was 2 and we made them every sunday until i was like 13. now i experiment whenever i have the time.

basic stuff:

-for every 1 cup of flour you use 1 egg.

-a recipe that class for 2 cups of flour and 2 eggs is enough for 4 people. 

-if you find a very basic recipe that you like you can use that as a base for any other add ins (such as spices or mix ins).

substitutions:

-you can substitute up to 1 cup of white flour for 1 cup of whole wheat flour in any recipe without changing anything. (so for example if a recipe calls for 2 cups of white flour you can do 1 cup of white and 1 cup of wheat without changing anything else). this will make the pancakes more hearty and a little denser and slightly more healthy.

-you can substitute white sugar for maple syrup or brown sugar. just use slightly less than the amount of white sugar that the recipe calls for. (so for example if a recipe calls for half a cup of white sugar you might use a quarter of a cup of brown sugar or a few tablespoons of maple syrup)

-if you do not have buttermilk you can substitute instead the same amount of milk (any kind words) and a teaspoon or so of either white vinegar or lemon juice. let the mixture stand for at least 10 minutes. (so if a recipe calls for a cup and a half of buttermilk you could use a cup and a half of milk and a teaspoon and a half of lemon juice)

-buttermilk can be swapped with milk in any recipe as long as you add an extra teaspoon of baking powder. (so if a recipe calls for a cup of milk you could use a cup of buttermilk plus 1 teaspoon baking powder)

-you do not need to add a lot of sugar to pancake batter. if a recipe calls for honey and sugar or honey and maple syrup or whatever, it will still taste fine if you only put in wither the honey or the sugar. the sweetness from pancakes usually comes from the mix ins. i generally do not put more than a half a cup of sweetener to 2 cups flour in any recipe. 

-butter can be substituted for and equal amount of coconut oil. 

spices and mix ins: 

-always add spices to your recipe. even if its not listed. 

-decide what you want your mix ins to be before you add the spices. 

-some good combinations are: cinnamon and apples, pumpkin spice, banana and walnut, blueberries, cinnamon raisin, orange and spice etc.

-essentially think of a dessert of any sort and copy those spices. 

-always put the spices in the dry mix. 

-if you cannot smell the spices in the dry mix, you will not be able to taste them.

-a good rule of thumb is always add the most cinnamon. then about the same amount of ginger, nutmeg, allspice and the least amount of cloves. those are the spices that i use the most often. 

-if you want to make chai pancakes, add all of the above spices and then a few teaspoons of dry chai mix. brew a strong cup of chai tea and put it in the wet. 

-no matter what a recipe says, you can Always add in vanilla. at least a teaspoon.

-if you want to add citrus in your pancakes (usually orange or lemon) add in at least a quarter cup of juice to the wet and a good amount of zest. id mix the seat with the sugar (white sugar works best) and almost massage the zest into the sugar. this releases the flavor. its best to use your hands. add this sugar mixture into the wet ingredients. 

-additionally, your mix ins do not always have to go in the pancakes. you can make a sauce instead. (like warmed apples or cranberry sauce, etc). basic sauce consists of some kind of fruit, water, maybe some juice and some cinnamon (depending on what the sauce is). you dont have to add sugar because fruit is naturally sweet.

extra tricks:

-if you are putting brown sugar in your pancakes put it in the wet. it will melt and there won't be any weird clumps of it in the batter. 

-always put the dry mix in a larger bowl than the wet mix. 

-a good pancake batter should be thick, almost like cake batter. 

-leave some lumps in it. only mix until there isn't any flour left. 

-add any mix ins to the batter After you've combined the wet with the dry. 

-always put the wet in the dry. not the other way around. 

-you can grease your pan with either butter, butter substitute, or coconut oil. all work equally as well. 

-make sure your pan is hot before you put the pancakes on! the easiest way to do this is to turn on the heat, grease the pan and then wait a few minutes. you will know a pan is ready if you throw a few drops of water onto it and they jump/crackle. 

-ideally you only want to flip a pancake three times. it depends on what is in the recipe (is there is whole wheat flour they will need more time to cook) but dont be afraid to let them cook for around 2-3 minutes per side.

-a third cup measure works very well to scoop batter into the pan. this ensures that they are all the same size. 

-if you are making sauce, start it once you are halfway done cooking the pancakes. 

-serving pancakes with yogurt and/or nuts adds variety to flavor and texture and balances the sweetness. 

-you can make pancake mix the night before. just do not combine the wet and dry ingredients. make sure you put the bowl of wet ingredients, covered, in the fridge. combine them and add the mix ins in the morning. 

bottom line, dont be afraid to experiment!! have fun!!

[jobean12-blog]

Top Shelf: Chapter 15- Binding Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Bookshop/Bartender/Baker AU)

Word Count: 1,894

Summary: You finally start to get things moving and it’s all so exciting and then something even more magical happens...

Author’s Note: Hi again loves! Happy Monday! I hope everyone is doing well! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it made me really happy to write it. The macaron place the reader is referring to is called La Maison Du Macaron and you can visit the sit here so delish! Thank you for your continued support and love, it means everything and I know I say it every damn time but you all rock, thanks for reading and much love always ❤❤❤

Warnings: Fluffy fun, happy fluff, soft fluff, FLUFF explosion! yay! :)

Top Shelf Masterlist (all the previous chapters can be found here :)

“You ok baby?” Your question startles Bucky from his thoughts and he looks at you with a soft smile. “Yea. I am. Thank you beautiful.” With your fingers entwined you walk down the street, your arms swinging and your hearts lighter. “Now I’m just thinking…where do we start”? You hum in agreement, lightly skipping in front of him and twirling yourself around.

“Well. We have to call Tony and tell him we’re in. So, we’ll do that first thing on Monday. And he might be a good person to ask on what to do next.” Bucky watches as you continue dancing yourself down the street, lightly jogging to catch up and twirl you around again. “Good idea,” he says before kissing you, his fingers buried in your hair and your hands clinging to his shirt.

“Bucky, we’re really gonna do this aren’t we?” You whisper the question against his lips, eyes still closed as you catch your breath. When he doesn’t answer you open them and the depth of love you see makes you lose your breath once again. “We are. And there’s no one else I want to do this with.” Before you can say more, he kisses you again and you let the sound of the city and the rest of the world fall away, completely wrapped up in him.

Monday starts off well and your call with Tony is full of hope and excitement. He wants to meet with you again to go over how and where to start and he wants Steve to come as well so they can discuss the structural changes that the Bookshop will undergo. The buzz from it all carries you through the rest of the day and your thoughts are ever present on all the ideas you have for the renovation.

‘Hey doll. ❤❤ I was thinking we should meet up with everyone after we talk with Tony and maybe discuss ways to get the word out, you know on social media and all that.’ You smile as you type your reply text. ‘That’s a great idea ❤ Nat is a whiz with this stuff and has done some freelance work for companies so she will be a huge help.’ His own response makes your smile grow. ‘How did we get so lucky. Our friends are the best.’

Later that night the two of you are sitting on the couch, facing each other, criss cross apple sauce, pen and paper in hand. “Ok babe. So far, you’ve had my chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, chocolate pie, cream puffs, and chocolate chip cookies.” Bucky is vigorously shaking his head yes and licking his lips at the thought of all the yumminess. “What about brownies? People love those! And definitely some kind of cake, right? Muffins are a must! And maybe even those cookies you love, the ones with the little feet that we get at that fancy French place in your neighborhood?”

Bucky’s hands are flying this way and that as he continues hurling out different desserts and goodies. At first you try to keep up and write them all down, finally just giving up and throwing the pen at his head. He catches it of course. “Ugh. Why did I know that would happen? you laugh, picking your feet up and poking him with your toe. Ignoring your complaints, he grabs your feet and starts tickling them, expertly pulling you forward and covering your body with his.

“Did you get all that. Hmmm? Huffing as you lay under him you try to get your arms free but have no luck. “I stopped after the cookies with the little feet,” you deadpan, trying your hardest to wiggle out. “Feet? I said cookies with feet?” His bewildered look is the last straw and you burst into giggles, screaming out “macarons, they’re called macarons,” just before he starts tickling your sides.

He finally lets up when your face starts turning red. “Man that is way too fun,” he sighs out happily when he sits up, still keeping you pinned to the couch. “You’re the worst. Now take me for macarons at La Maison!” Grinning down at you he lifts his hands in a promise of more tickles but instead helps you up and kisses you sweetly. “Anything for my best girl. Let’s go.”

When you meet with Tony later in the week, you’re much less nervous and having Steve with you just makes it all the better. The location he picks this time is much more relaxed and you feel like you’re getting to know more about Tony as a person and not just a businessman. “I’m excited for you kids. And you’re lucky you have so many willing and able people on board,” he says, looking to Steve. “I think you should get started as soon as possible. We have about 8 weeks left of summer and it would be nice to have things ready for fall.”

Steve perks up at that. “Buck, if you’re gonna serve coffee and all that you can make pumpkin spice stuff. I’ve seen Peggy literally do dances for anything with pumpkin spice.” Everyone laughs and can’t help but agree. “It’s true. My wife has made me go out in the pouring rain to get her a pumpkin spice latte. She loves that stuff.” Tony’s smile is real whenever he mentions Pepper and it gives you a good feeling, loving that he’s sharing a bit more about his personal life.

The four of you sit and talk for over three hours and it isn’t until you rest your head on Bucky’s shoulder and cover your mouth in a yawn that Tony decides it’s time to go home. Steve walks halfway home with you guys before he makes a turn and heads to his shared apartment with Peggy. “See you guys this weekend and don’t forget about Friday Buck.” Steve gives Bucky a stern look before hugging you tight and saying goodnight.

“What’s happening on Friday?” A mischievous grin creeps over Bucky’s face and you start smiling yourself. “Bucky. You better tell me.” Bucky’s smile is so big and bright you can’t help how infectious it is. “Ok. Listen to me. He told me not to tell anyone because he’s afraid it will ruin the surprise but he also said if I couldn’t take it anymore I could tell you but if you ruin the surprise he’ll kill you. So.”

You’re now jumping up and down in front of his apartment, pulling on his arm and shouting, “oh my god. OH MY GOD. He’s gonna propose, isn’t he?” you whisper yell, nearly bursting. Bucky’s shocked look makes you throw your head back with laughter. “I knew it! Peggy, Nat and I were talking about it the other day. Peg was saying Steve’s been acting so strange and then Nat just threw it out there that he is probably going to ask her to marry him and that was it.”

Bucky starts to look frantic and you quickly take his face in your hands. “No, no, Buck. Don’t worry. She doesn’t know when or how or any of that. She doesn’t have a clue. We were just having fun and talking.” It seems like he wants to say something, so you wait, watching as a sea of emotions swirl around in his eyes. “Ok. That’s good. Because if anything goes wrong, my ass is toast. Even though he can’t touch me but ya know.” Scoffing you brush him off and spin back around to ask, “wait. So, what’s happening Friday?”

“Well we have to go pick up the ring and then I’m going to help him carry out his plan.” You clear your throat and try to hold back your emotion. “I’m so happy. I can’t wait!” Bucky takes your hand and opens the door to his building, letting you through first and securing you to his side once you’re in. “I’m happy for them too,” he whispers into your hair, “it’s going to be amazing.”

By the time Friday comes you’re practically thrumming with excitement and can barely contain yourself every time you talk with Peggy. You’re thankful for modern technology and texting because if you had to talk on the phone you would definitely give something away. You’re supposed to meet Bucky and everyone at the bar tonight to celebrate the engagement, so you and Nat hang out after work to get ready. You all decided to get a little more dolled up than usual tonight considering it was a special occasion and you knew Steve and Peggy would be looking fancy themselves.

“I wonder if she suspects anything,” Nat says as she turns around for you to zip her dress. “I hope not. I mean we did elude to the fact that he might be up to something, but it was all in good fun. Either way, I know she’s going to be so happy. My turn.” You turn around so Nat can zip you up, giving yourself one last look in the mirror.

When you arrive at the bar Sam is outside to greet you, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head when he sees Nat in her dress. You leave the two of them to say hello and head inside. The moment your eyes lock with Bucky’s you can tell he thinks you look incredible. He mouths a “wow” at you before Peter nudges him in the elbow to get his attention. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, instead motioning for you to come closer.

Walking up to the bar you shimmy between some customers, leaning over so Bucky can whisper in your ear. “You look stunning.” With a light blush you pull away and kiss his cheek before searching for Nat and Sam and finding them in your usual spot. “Anyone have an eta on the newly engaged couple?” you ask when you reach them.

Sam slides in close, whispering, “Bucky said they should be here in under 30. He wouldn’t give me any more info.”  Looking at Nat you cover your mouth to quiet your squeal, “ok, thanks Sam!” He walks away to grab your drinks and you watch Bucky behind the bar. “Do you think you’ll marry him.” Nat’s question has your head snapping back and you take a moment to appreciate the weight of it. She just smiles and squeezes your hand.

Before you can take the conversation further, Bucky rushes over with Sam, handing you your drinks and yelling, “they’re just about here.” The four of you get to the front of the bar as quickly as you can and wait for Steve to open the door. You see his blonde hair first and you can already feel the tears building. He opens the door for Peggy and the second her eyes land on the four of you she screams and comes running at you full speed.

Her arms wrap around you and Nat and all three of you jump up and down, crying and hugging and grabbing her hand to see the ring. It’s gorgeous and perfect and you’re so happy. She calls Steve away from the guys and you all hug again, congratulating them and gushing over the ring. Sam and Bucky watch from behind and Sam turns to Bucky whose gaze never once leaves your smiling face. “So. You’re next huh?”

@flyawaybay​ @throwmyheartawayagain​ @amandatar-06​ @nd1998sc​ @captainchrisstan​ @vherriepie​ @godofplumsandthunder​ @when-the-hell-is-bucky​ @fire-flv​ @jamesbarnesappreciationclub​ @irishflutiegirl​ @rinthehufflepuff​ @moonybarnes​ @nordlysinthewoods​ @scarletsoldierrr​ @inflxmes @lauratang​ @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines​ @buchanansebba​ @emilylyoness​ @yansi1923​ @curlyred2020 @addikted-2-dopamine​ @lady-pswrld​ @lookiamtrying​ @pinkdiamond1016​ @lokilvrr​ @aesthetical-bucky​ @auro-ora​ @buckys-broody-muffin​ @bugsbucky​ @bucky-on-my-mind​ @breezy1415​ @buckys-henley​ @buckys-minty-breath​ @book-dragon-13​ @eurynome827​ @hiddles-rose​ @hawksmagnolia​ @hailmary-yramliah​ @imgaril-lindru​ @ikaris-whore​ @itsunclebucky​ @jhangelface0523​ @jewels2876​ @kaosera​ @loricameback​ @lorilane33​ @littledarlinhavefaithinme​ @littleredstarfish​ @mushyjellybeans​ @marvelgirl7​ @marvelandotherfandomimagines​ @nano--raptor​ @nerdypinupcrystal​ @randomfandompenguin​ @sallycanwait68​ @softpeachbarnes​ @tuiccim​ @the-wayward-robot​

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜 

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​ @pomjompish​ @writerxinthedark​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.                                                        

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”  

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.  

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.  

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.  

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

[vegetalass]

RDR2 Boys Cooking + Eating Habits

Arthur 

Somebody else on here wrote some headcanons about Arthur not being able to cook and just eating microwave food all the time and I just have to say…. That’s canon 

Lowkey though he’s trying his best to get better at cooking

Probably the only thing he knows how to make is pasta 

He adds a bunch of random frozen veggies to water as the noodles are cooking 

And then smothers the whole thing in butter and calls it a meal

Or he puts marinara sauce on it straight from the jar 

And yes, that means it’s cold

He’s also getting better at friend rice, too

But he’s really bad at actually making rice 

If he doesn’t add too much water… He burns the bottom 

Charles makes a mental note to buy him a rice cooker for his birthday 

Makes his own popsicles out of random fruit juices and eats them 24/7 

Thinks this qualifies him as a chef

Eats pickles and olives straight out of the jar with a fork 

And sauerkraut too probably 

Just goes over to john’s house on his pizza nights 

Puts ketchup on eggs

John 

Pizza dad 

Probably orders pizza, salad, and a 64oz soda twice a week 

Everything else is just Dino chicken nuggets, Eggos, hot dogs, quesadillas, and frozen peas and corn 

Food you feed to little kids, basically 

Mostly because he does have a little kid 

But also because it’s easy and takes minimal effort and he doesn’t mind eating it, too

Abigail would be mad but she has no room to talk

The most you’ll see him actually make is buttered pasta (like Arthur) or sometimes beans and rice 

Abigail bought them a rice cooker a while ago so that’s one thing he doesn’t have to worry about 

Probably always has some type of dessert laying around 

Doesn’t mean it’s good, but it’s there 

Abigail buys a bunch of those gross, low calorie ice creams and John ends up having to finishing them 

Family lunches consist of a bologna sandwich on wheat bread with American cheese and mayo, a piece of fruit, a bag of chips or crackers, a go-gurt, and some gummies 

And yes he makes them for himself and Abigail too 

They’re all eating good at the Marston household 

(Not really)

Charles 

Everything he cooks are things that can’t be made in single batches 

Lots of healthy soups, chilis, stew, etc…

Most of the time, he makes too much of whatever it is so he always has leftovers 

Everyone is jealous when he brings them for lunch

Probably finds all of his recipes in the newspaper or random magazines he reads while at the grocery store checkout line

Everyone is like, “Charles… Why are you reading Women’s Fitness?” 

And he’s like, “Check out this salad recipe, though”

Puts hot sauce on everything 

Salad, macaroni and cheese, hamburgers... You name it 

And he’s the king of snacking

All of his snacks are healthy, though

Raw veggies and fruit and quinoa chips from Whole Foods or something like that

Nobody likes this

He’s one of those people who brings hard boiled eggs everywhere as a “snack,” too

And yea, he puts hot sauce on those, also 

He really likes those weird protein bars that are hard to bite into and taste like chalk 

The flavors are either normal stuff like white chocolate macadamia or Protein Power Punch with whey, chia and seaweed 

There’s no in between 

He’s also a charcuterie board legend

Hosea is jealous of this talent

Micah

Spends all his money on take out 

He’s totally one of those weird people who’s entire trash can is just filled with take out boxes and cans of coke or beer

Constantly eating fast food 

You ask him what he bought at the supermarket and he’s like “Pub mix and bud light” 

SIR 

Everything that he does manage to cook only involve one step of preparation 

Unseasoned, fried meats and boiled veggies 

Sometimes scrambled eggs and bacon

If he’s feeling fancy, he will make plain sandwiches

This is very rare, though

Can and will complain about anyone’s cooking

Even if it’s good and he he likes it

There are certain people he can’t do this to, though, or they won’t let him eat

The only person’s cooking he doesn’t complain about is Dutch’s

Constantly snacking from an entire party sized bag of chips

And yes, he eats straight out of the bag and wipes his fingers on his jeans

His oven is dirty

Hosea 

A meal for him is probably a handful of almonds and an applesauce or yogurt cup 

He is constantly making a bunch of those Tik Tok recipes where you just put a bunch of random stuff into your crock pot and add ranch seasoning and cream cheese

*insert all of those memes about mom pulling out the crock pot*

If you complain, he says “Well, you’re always welcome to cook, too”

Wears an apron when he cooks

Constantly eating plain toast with butter

And bananas 

And cheese sticks

Thinks that this makes him “healthy” 

Definitely likes to snack on those cocktail fruit cups and canned mandarin oranges

His entire freezer is just full of ice cream 

It’s all weird flavors like Cherry Garcia, chocolate banana, and pistachio though

Everyone hates him for this

Raisins are his late night treat 

Has a secret stash of candy no one can find 

That’s okay though because it��s mostly Werthers Originals

And Chiclets gum

He picks out all the orange ones, though

Dutch

Tries to re-plate takeout so he can call it his own

Everybody sees through this but they stopped commenting on it like four Thanksgivings ago 

Buys a bunch of those meals from Costco that all you need to do is heat up in the oven

He does like fast food but only from the less popular places

Carl’s Jr., Wendy’s, BK, Arby’s, etc. 

A&W, too, because he’s old and weird

He can totally cook, he just never does 

It’s just normal stuff like spaghetti and meatballs or chicken and rice, though

Tuna fish casserole

He over-seasons everything, though

Mostly because he’s trying to prove that he’s a good cook 

Eats dessert twice, every night 

Once right after dinner, and then later when he’s feeling like a treat 

Will eat in bed

Uses a little bib and tray and everything 

Likes pumpkin and sunflower seeds

Would eat hot wings with gloves on 

He’s the one who taught Arthur to put ketchup on eggs 

Kieran 

The second I realized that Kieran would probably be white trash, my life changed 

Hamburger Helper meals for LIFE

That one cheeseburger pasta? Kieran probably eats that three times a week 

He 100% makes the ketchup-butter sketti from Honey Boo Boo 

“It’s been a while since I done had roadkill in my belly”

His favorite dessert is ambrosia salad or that weird yogurt/Cool Whip covered jello that was popular in the 2000s

Probably has a TV dinner every once in a while, too

Instant mashed potatoes and minute rice type of guy 

Also gives me big microwave cheddar broccoli vibes 

I’ve said this before, but his house is probably stocked with all kinds of on-brand goodies 

Probably always has some kind of chip and cookie around 

Eats dinner in front of the TV

Dips french fries in mayonnaise

All of this said though, he isn’t a picky eater and will eat whatever is put on his plate 

That’s why he’s great to take to restaurants, because he never complains

Honestly it’s just so sweet to think of him making big crockpot meals to share with ppl even if his cooking is a lil.... strange 

Javier

Thinks that the hot dog combo from Costco is a suitable dinner 

Also gets hot food from the grocery store for dinner a lot

Literally will just heat up a can of something and eat it plain 

Beans, chili, soup… 

Doesn’t doctor it up or change it at all 

He’s happy to share but no one wants any

Chips and dip, 24/7

And it’s just Tostitos Hint of Lime chips and hummus

Probably puts hummus on everything, too 

Corn chips, tortilla chips, tortillas, vegetables, sandwiches, etc. 

Will put anything in a tortilla and call it a sandwich 

Eats leftovers cold 

The rest of the gang thinks this is a sin

Makes stir fry with whatever is laying around the house

It’s a little gross because he will try to add leftover beans

Refuses to eat fast food

The only exception he’ll make is for french fries and ice cream

Walks around and eats at the same time

Isn’t above asking the other boys to share with him 

Despite the fact that this only happens if what they’re eating is good

Which is almost never

Sean

Sean can’t cook. That’s the end of it

The most he can make is that weird microwave Mac and cheese where the pasta is boiled in the mug?? 

He never does it tho and just sticks with the normal, frozen Mac and Cheese you can microwave instead

Uses his microwaving ability to make mug cakes

And microwave scrambled eggs

Burns his popcorn every single time

He’s probably set of the smoke detector or fire alarm multiple times

He’s Irish though so of course he’s addicted to potatoes and cabbage

And since he’s from the UK, he likes stuff like beans on toast and marmite

He’s a little nasty too so catch him eating bologna sandwiches on wonder bread

Not even the Marstons are that bad

When he does get takeout, he overspends trying to use a delivery app 

He’s like, “And do I need the extra side of special sauce for $5…? Yes.” 

Cooks like this 

[paradise-creator]

OwO when u have time,, can I have a haven box for BNHA?? But just when you’re free and not working on prior works!! >:( I’m watching u bish

You can use my name in the result if you want to lol I already know it anyway!!

She/her, Taurus, INTJ, slytherin (pretty freakin’ queer but I usually lean towards boys/enbies more)

Personality: the first thing people notice about me is that I am less of a feeler and more of a thinker. I do have an IQ of 125, but my emotional intelligence is quite low, so I have trouble sympathizing with others. But I learned through experience, so I don’t SEEM emotionless. I can (and will) help my friends through tough times if they need me. I’m pragmatic, so I always go for the facts instead of the feelings during decision making or tough situations. I hold a lot of perfectionist traits that make it really hard for me to be satisfied with my results if they aren’t higher than the norm. I also have a slight issue with saying no, so sometimes I’ll offer my help or enrol myself in long-term projects while knowing I legit do not have time for more stuff on my schedule. Being a bit smarter than average, I sometimes feel like I’m obligated to help others so that they can do good too (however, I do like helping people with their hw to a certain extent). I’m working on those issues though!! I’m also an introvert, and I can get rlly tired if I have to be interacting for more than four hours straight with people, especially if their persona isn’t rlly compatible with mine.

However, when I’m surrounded by friends (or generally people who aren’t my superiors), I’m very energetic, loud, silly and I have a sharp tongue. I’m also insanely competitive, like someone please stop me?? My sense of humour goes from absolute nonsense to almost mean spirited sarcasm, but it all depends on who I’m talking to. I’m a MAJOR memer, I have a bunch of files filled with them, and I couldn’t bear be with people who didn’t understand my meme references. When I start liking something, I can get easily obsessed. I’m stubborn, therefore very passionate about the things I care about. I also have a slight case of the Endorphin Junkie, meaning that I really, really like the high you get after sports so I do crossfit training like five to six times a week. I’m unapologetically myself, and I will not ever change who I am to fit within the norm. I’m sometimes told that (that I’m odd, I mean), but I usually thank the people who tell me. I have a really, really big love for music and I have a tendency to break into song sometimes when people say a line from a song I know. I also cry sometimes when music gets really good ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ whoops

Appearance: I’m around 5’6”, with hazel eyes and brown hair that goes around to my shoulders. It gets curly out of nowhere. I can either wake up with straight hair or wake up with a freakin perm, it’s funny. My body isn’t exactly the lean type, I’m somewhere around the buff area of the scale instead, but as long as I seem visibly strong, I’m satisfied. When I’m not going anywhere significant, I usually just wear sport shirts and sweats, but I have a penchant for Dark Academia so I like /looking/ like I’m smart sometimes. And I have glasses bc apparently my eyes are assholes and they work too hard and it hurts my brain all the time

Likes: music (DavidBowieDavidBowieDavidBow-); I have a really wide range of music that goes from early 2000’s pop to 1700’s requiems(my faves are Bowie, Queen and Pink Floyd). I enjoy studying theoretical fields, reading, and I like talking about Absurd Theories About Reality That Make Little To No Sense. I like sports, and I love joking around with friends in the most exaggerated ways. I also love the colour green and I’m more of a cat person

Dislikes: dogs (they’re cute but keep them away pls), ignorant people, irresponsible people, spiders, things I’m not good at from the beginning, having to deal with strangers being upset, crying (me. I don’t like crying; I mean me, I’m fine if my friends cry)

Other fun facts!!

- my goals for the future are all over the place; I want to work for Disney, I want to get a musical composition degree, I want a biomedical engineering bachelors degree, I want an astrophysics doctorate, I want to study languages, I want to be a foreign English teacher... I can’t ever decide.

- I have a long history with getting crushes on guys who turned out to be gay. It happens so often and I HATE IT, it makes me feel terrible.

- I!!love!!70’s!!music!!so!!much!! I was raised on that stuff, my dad wouldn’t let us listen to anything else

- Lol my favourite playlist name is Drugs Playlist But I Don’t Even Do Drugs it’s just a bunch of Pink Floyd and David Bowie songs

- My favourite movies are 80’s or 90’s comedy classics!! Like Wayne’s World, or Airplane!, or Night at the Roxbury. I keep quoting Wayne’s World and no one understands :(

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Hello and Welcome my Starlight!

The Haven box includes:

- Match up

- Sun drop

- Flashes of memory

- Truth or dare gone wrong

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

I'd match you up with

Sero Hanata, Cellophane

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Sun drops

The reasons I paired you

- It me awhile to think about who to match you up with

- I was thinking of either Bakugou or Denki

- BUT THEN I REMEMBERED SERO

- Sero is such an underrated character smh

- BUT THIS DYNAMIC IS WHAT I LIVE FOR

-At first, you might be annoyed at his lack of knowledge but you over past that

- His EQ can help you grow as a person as well

- You have the IQ he has the EQ, BALANCE!

- You two would often have laughing sessions at class

- No cap tho, you two would be the most interesting couple

- You guys would have a matching necklace or a Keychain (IDK why but I feel like it-)

- You get along well with Denki, (IT TOOK A LONG TIME)

- But you would rather hang out with Bakugou (He tolerates you more than the others).

- BRO, please give him love. He craves your attention

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Flashes of memories

Sero: Hello there hot stuff!

Eve: Hello there Soy sauce

Sero: NOT YOU TOO

Eve: Just kidding, Hello babe

Sero: ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?

Eve: Yes, killing you with love

Sero: Dang that's smooth

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

Sero: He-

Eve: I didn't take your Pocky, Denki did

Sero: How-

Eve: You've been yelling about it for the past few minutes

Sero: Oh-

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

Sero: Can you help me with studying?

Eve: Struggling again?

Sero: Yes...

Eve: Why did I date you again?

Sero: Please?

Eve: ...

Also Eve: Fine

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡��*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Truth or dare gone wrong

The class 1-A were all gathered in their common room, even Bakugou was present. The class was having a truth or dare session, it seemed interesting. “Sero, my man! Truth or dare?” Denki asked as he looked at Sero. “Truth! I choose truth,” Sero said. “Who have you been talking on the phone to this past weeks? The one I keep hearing is my pumpkin?” Denki asked. Sero’s face then turned a light shade of pink. “O-Oh- ummm,” He started as he looked away. “Does our Cellophane have a girlfriend?” Mina teased as she poked Sero. “Y-Yeah,” He stuttered. “OI THAT’S NOT FAIR?!? WHY CAN YOU HAVE A GIRL BUT I CAN’T,” Denki sulked as he placed his head on the table. “If you weren’t such a perv then maybe you can get one!” Hakagure responded.

“Don’t be shy. Tell us more,” Mina said. Sero’s blush darkened and he looked away. “We are playing truth or dare! It’s my turn to ask,” Sero then said. “Actually, I am quite curious as well. We can always continue later,” Momo said as she smiled. Everyone agreed and they then looked at the nervous male. “C’mon now guys, this is unfair,” Sero said as he looked at everyone. “But you have a girl and we want tea,” Mina then said as she sat in front of him. “I- um, you guys really want to know about her, huh?” Sero said as he chuckled. Everyone nodded and stared at Sero intently. “Just tell us already, Soy sauce,” Bakugou growled as he glared at Sero. “Don’t listen to him, bro. He is just jealous,” Kirishima said. “WHAT-“ Bakugou was about to counter but was silenced. “Fine! Fine! You got me in a corner,” Sero then said as he chuckled. “She should be coming here,” He added as he looked at the door. “Three, two, one,” He then said as he pointed to the door.

“Hello, is Sero Hanta here?”A feminine voice said. “ARE YOU A PSYCHIC?” Denki said as he looked surprised. “I’m right here pumpkin!” Sero then said as he smirked. His nervousness melted away as he saw the 5’6ft girl. It was his girlfriend, Eve, and he was overjoyed. “Hey there babe!” She then said as she smiled. “DANG YOU GOT A FINE LADY!” Denki then yelled as he checked her out. “Keep your eyes above for I’ll gorge them out,” Eve then said as she glared at Denki. Soon enough, Mineta tried to touch her as well but his efforts were at vain. Sero used his tape as to stop Mineta from getting closer. And Eve kicked him away, far away from her. “Get your filthy hands away from her,” Sero said as he stood up. He then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. “Woah, that was so manly!” Kirishima said as he smiled.

“GIRLS! GET HER-“ Mina said as she tackled the girl. They didn’t fall down but Mina was laughing and hugging her. “Girl! How long have you been together?” Mina asked as she pulled away. Eve was a bit uncomfortable but she merely had a stoic face. “A few weeks,” She responded bluntly. And soon enough, the truth or dare session was forgotten. It was replace with the class 1-A trying to pry out the tea from the couple. Did they succeed? No, not really. Though the class seemed to love Eve and her antics. The class even tried to make them forget about the date they have planned. But either way, Sero and Eve got manage to get away to have their small movie date at his room.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Author's note

Hai bb! I'm sorry it took so long. But thanks for requesting again~

[rayofsunas]

superm as boyfriends

A/N: sorry for never updating and being hella inactive. I've been focusing on school and getting a job. this is just something I whipped up quickly

Byun Baekhyun

• jokester

• can't sit still during dates in the park

• the boyfriend that's probably sacred to ride the big roller coaster and will never admit it

• ^ and will ride it anyways, probably cry a little, maybe not

• ^ he'll deny it either way sooo

• hand holder

• will probably make a secret handshake with you because he's that childish

• but it's cute either way

• blasts music around the house/apartment with you and you're just goofy together

• complains that he's not a very good dancer, but you'd like to argue against that

• you play a lot of video games together

• he beats you most of the time, but when you do beat him, he "sulks" for days

• expect a mediocre silent treatment 

• he's super cuddly honestly

•  does the most goofiest things with you

• FaceTimes you all the time and texts you a lot to check in

• goodnight and good morning texts

Lee Taemin

• wants to take cute pictures with you to cherish for forever

• cuddles galore

• he always has his hands on you (not always in a sexual way)

• arm over your shoulders, hand holding, arm wrapped around your hip, you name it

• nighttime car rides with you

• photo albums/polaroids

• he prefers physically copies honestly

• also likes to call you although you always tell him he doesn't know how to use the phone

• he's a grandfather in a young mans body ngl

• it's a cancer thing ♋️  don't me

• bundles you up in scarves when you leave the house together in cold weather or if it looks like it's going to rain/storm

• macaroons (don't ask)

• dad jokes maybe? poor ones that no one laughs at, sorry son :(

• says the most weirdest things, but it's cute

• sometimes very goofy and sometimes very serious

• always smiling with you

• rarely any arguments

• kind of insecure, and you help him through it

• if you speak English, you'll help him out and kind of be his tutor

• because he wants to be able to communicate with you

• if you don't speak English he wants to learn your native language 

Kim Jongin (KAI)

• teaches you how to dance (if you don't know or think you can't)

• gets you flowers on every date

• opens the door for you (car or any door really)

• he's a whole ass gentleman tbh

•says he'll pay first, but if you interject and want to pay, he won't argue with you

• because he's not "sexist" and has the mindset that women can do anything men can

• can't even lie, he'll get jealous when other guys flirt with you

• ^ won't necessarily say anything and will be calm, but that leads to whiny and clingy arguments lol

• cheek kisses galore!

• he loves kissing your nose and cheeks (lips too)

• lends you his pillow or blanket when he's away on tour so you have something that reminds you of him

• can't help but spoil you with cute things

• stuffed animals, candy etc.  

• always thinks about you when he's away or not with you

• it's not that he doesn't trust you

• he's just worried about you and misses you

• having a shared Instagram where you take photos lol

• art galleries

• art museums  

Lee Taeyong

• the boyfriend that will giggle at their girlfriends jokes if they're not very funny

• ^ he doesn't want you to ever think lowly of yourself and will do it to make you feel more comfortable if you aren't because no one else is laughing

• very caring and gives lots of compliments

• messy eater with you and always tells you it's okay to "pig out" or eat messy with him

• ^ if you don't already feel comfortable doing so

• during FaceTime calls, he holds the phone so close to his face, no one knows why but you think he just wants to see your face "better"

• the boyfriend that will keep his plane ticket when he goes to visit you (don't ask, it's a cancer thing I swear)

• I feel like he'd buy records with you, like physical copies

• unique clothes owner and you have mini fashion shows in your living rooms when he has days/weeks off

• sleeping in with you

• he will either be the big spoon or little, he doesn't prefer one

• braids your hair

• ^ you like to run your hands through his hair because finds it comforting

• loves finding new songs with you, because it's just that amazing feeling of of discovering something new together 

Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul (TEN)

• photography couple honestly

• he likes taking pictures of you, especially when you're not looking

• he thinks it captures the beauty of the moment

• his pictures are unique and aren't basic or what you usually see from other people

• the boyfriend that will send you memes and prank call you when he figures out how to do it

• will deadass ask a stranger for their phone so he could prank call you real quickly

• puts extra extra hot sauce in your food when you're not looking

• ^ that's his way of getting back at you if you're arguing or not

• you argue over stupid things, like food or clothes

• expect prank wars to be a thing that happens between you two

• ^ one of you going to stay with a friend for a while if they get too bad

• likes hugs honestly

• ^ the good mushy, warm kind 

• feeds you lol

• you always threaten that if he doesn't stop being childish during serious times, you'll force him to eat fruit

• he's rather die than do that

• traveling together :)

Wong Yukhei (LUCAS)

• big foodie, soooo expect to go on lots of dates to fancy (or not) dinners/lunches/breakfasts

• might even find a restaurant that you both love and will take you there monthly if his schedule allows it

• will give you his sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers or any of his clothes really, because well, they're large

• always wants to smell nice tbh, so he'll probably buy you so many fancy perfumes

• shopaholic?

• if he definitely wasn't before, now he is

• camping, depending on his mood

• but he eventually wants to do that with you

• will probably make a long ass handshake with you that only you two know or a saying that only you two know the meaning too

• at first, he'll forget it since it's long, but eventually he'll remember always

• I'm talking really long

• hella long

• i feel like he'll be the type of boyfriend who would get a manicure/pedicure if you ever begged him

• might be against it for a while, but eventually he'll give in and try it out

• basketball player?¿

• ^ maybe

• will definitely do "sporty" things with you if you asked him

• he'd do a lot for you not many boyfriends would (sorry not sorry)

• like things you'd find embarrassing, he'll help you with

• at first he might try to laugh and crack jokes and make you feel less nervous/more comfortable

• but once he realizes it's something serious and really bothering you he'll try his best to help you

Lee Mark

• the boyfriend who will play video games with his girlfriend

• buys you unique or your favorite candy while he's away on tour/promoting, because you like that kind of stuff

• maybe a tiny bit of dad jokes or jokes in general

• a lot of laughing in this relationship

• he's a very happy boy

• embarrasses himself a lot in front of you, but you find it really cute

• hella voice cracks

• especially when he's nervous or on the spot

• likes hugs and hand holding ngl

• meme god

• ^ meme king

• public outings are chaotic just saying

• either one of you is always daring the other to ask strangers random (usually embarrassing) questions

• pumpkin carving

• poor boy almost stabbed himself with the sharp ass tools

• but he wants to make it perfect for you lowkey

• types in all caps

• types "couldn't be me" and such things like that

• helps you hang up fairy lights (orange ones for spooky szn)

• he and the rest of the boys play hide and seek from you in public

• you wanna kill him afterwards

• but he's a cute little baby so how could you right?

[oveliagirlhaditright]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27787951

Summary: A Thanksgiving story I wrote involving Death Note... since apparently I'm determined to write about all the holidays this year. A nice, happy time that everyone deserved, to be honest. And, yes: it seems like L will always find someone to compete with. LOL. Set during the Yotsuba arc... Just pretend Light hadn't gotten his memories back yet, and L hadn't been killed here.

I know the timeline of this is messed up. In canon, Light has his memories back and L is even dead at this point… Just suspend your disbelief for this one fic. Thanks:)

And I suppose Light is off the chain, just for this one holiday… mainly because L (shockingly) wants to help cook, so that they’ll have all the dishes he wants (and since L is probably still forcing Light to stay in the same room as him and they have cameras everywhere).

Originally, this was going to be shippy. But it didn’t quite get that far. So, you all can see this as friendship or shippy. Whichever you prefer.

A Day Off

L’s PoV

"...I mean, I'm looking forward to a break as much as the next person, Ryuzaki. But do you really want to celebrate Thanksgiving—and America’s Thanksgiving, for some reason—when Kira's still at large?"

And here, L tried to not let his anger at Light’s questioning him show (but how Light's contradicting him twenty-four/seven didtick him off, and keep him up twenty-four/seven as he tried to decipher it).

"Light-kun", said L, as he very unselfishly helped Watari prepare a cranberry and orange sauce they were making for the rolls that had just come out of the oven. "As I'm sure you're aware, we have reached a temporary block in this investigation. In fact, as I recall it, you were the one who told me we had hit a wall... and that I just refused to see it, since I apparently want you to be Kira and will investigate no other leads: your words, not mine. So, to that end, I think we are allowed to cook a Thanksgiving meal while we work, even if it does distract us. I think a distraction is exactly what we need right now, to rejuvenate our minds again. Now, please: stand out of the way of the blueberry pie that’s in the oven."

It was quite a tragic thing to L, that such a scrumptious dessert was about to be burnt, simply because Light-kun refused to accept the nice thing he was doing in giving them all a holiday. Blueberry may not have been L’s favorite flavor of baked good, but in the detective's mind... any food covered in sugar that met an untimely end, was a crime.

Apparently, Light didn't need to be told twice. He stood aside without much more preamble, and L was able to rescue the glorious dish from the oven. He then lovingly put it on the counter.

It was when L forgot himself for a second—and was about to eat a piece of the pie already, not even thinking on how he would scald his tongue—that Light seemed to remember he was capable of movement and slapped L's hand away... Something L would find himself being thankful of later, even if he hated being in Light Yagami’s debt.

"Ryuzaki... I still feel there has to be some ulterior motive as to why you’re doing this. I would believe you were trying to give us all a holiday, if you were sending everyone home to be with their families. But you’re not. So, I can't cancel out the possibility that you're using Thanksgiving to... get off somehow. I feel the power that you have over people is something you use to get off on, I mean… Either that, or you're trying to prove I'm Kira with this. Somehow. But how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not, Ryuzaki?"

L was about to tell Light that if anyone got off on power, it was him. Since he had long ago deduced that the teen had a rather large praise fetish. But he was interrupted from doing this, when everyone came into the kitchen to finally get some food.

Soichiro was cutting the turkey and passing it out on plates… Mogi was heating up cider for everyone... And Aizawa was finishing up the rice he'd been cooking. Matsuda, of course, got the whipped cream out of the fridge, in case the one that Watari was whipping at the moment didn’t turn out.

"Thank you so much for all of this, Ryuzaki!" Matsuda called, as he got a piece of cherry pie and put some strawberries onto it—forgetting his whipped cream that fast, and the version of it that Watari was currently burning—"everything's amazing!"

And the rest of the task force shared that sentiment, before filing out of the room.

Then and only then—when L was feasting on some pumpkin spice flavored turkey—did he answer Light's question, as the youth simply pawed at a vegetable tray. "...I suppose you’re not wrong, Light-kun."

It took Light a moment to figure out what L meant by that—but he did eventually do so, and L was mildly impressed by it—and then he was nearly knocking his broccoli to the kitchen floor in surprise. "Ryuzaki... we're celebrating the American day for Thanksgiving, aren’t we? And whenever you speak English, you have an accent... And not an American one. You're British, aren't you? And what? Are you still somehow sore about the U.S. declaring their independence or whatever? And are trying to show them up by proving you can take their version of Thanksgiving and make it better?"

L said nothing to this, because the truth was that Light had hit the nail on the head and now that he heard his brilliant plan out loud, it did sound quite mad.

But L's silence must have been answer enough, because Light angrily threw a dish towel down—why, L could only guess at--and turned towards him to shout, "Ryuzaki, that's insan-"

"Are you really that startled I'd try to one-up someone, Light?" L interrupted his "friend", feeling embarrassed despite himself as he surely blushed. At least he had shaved his eyebrows, and Light wouldn't be able to see any emotion on his face in that way... "Though I couldn't care less about the their declaring their independence part. Good for the old US of A. I just care about being better than someone. And besides, doing this allows me to have good food and celebrate Thanksgiving twice, seeing as how I of course celebrate the Harvest Festival."

And speaking of the good food… perhaps Watari hadn't burnt the whipped cream as much as they had feared! L’s father figure was motioning for him to try some of his batch right now. And as L was never one to turn down dessert, he took a spoonful of it and instantly tasted bless. He gave Watari a big thumbs up, while Light continued to be baffled beside him.

"You're unbelievable," Light accused, with a shake of his head and his hands crossed over his chest. He seemed to have forgotten about his lovely tomatoes, broccoli, and celery entirely.

L just shrugged at the comment. "Think on the bright side, Light-kun. I've chosen to compete with someone else today, so you have the day off."

Naturally, Light looked furious for L's words—and the detective imagined that he might punch him again for them—but he quickly got it together and said while pinching the bridge of his nose, "Happy Thanksgiving, Ryuzaki.”

And now Light, miracle of miracles, was going for the blueberry pie. It seemed that just for this one day, he was okay with foregoing his perfect looks.

L almost smiled at that. Almost.

Instead, he settled for worrying his lip between his teeth and replying, "And happy Thanksgiving to you too, Light-kun."

[kinkstuffig]

Try Guys Sandwich

Keith had nearly finished his assignment for the video was to eat every item from taco bell. Obviously, he didn't eat all of each item, only a bite. Even so, his stomach was bloated and churning. He reeked of sweat, sauce, and beans. When he had signed up to work for Buzzfeed, this was not what he had expected.

At first, Keith had tried to hold in the gaseous emissions. This had resulted in him overheating and getting cramps. When the others realized this was the cause of his discomfort, Zach and Ned assured him that they were good enough friends and mature enough to sit with him in a room while he ate an immense amount of beans. After that, it was smooth sailing with Eugene filming, Zach encouraging Keith, and NEd being on cleanup duty.

Keith swallowed his last bite and burped. “I’m so glad this is over. I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat that much,” Zach remarked, gazing at Keith with slight astonishment. 

“Oh, I have.” Keith thought back to those lonely nights in highschool and college but quickly recovered.

“What are we going to do with all this leftover food?” Zach asked, as Ned began wiping down the table. 

“Each of us could take some,” Ned suggested. Zach was ok with this idea until he realized that some of the ingredients would interfere with his medication. Ned remembered that Mexican food made his wife nauseous. Keith was too full to think coherently. They all turned to Eugene.

Throughout the filming, he had been unusually quiet, only commenting when necessary. “I… uh… I’m going vegan for a video. Sorry.” He walked quickly out of the room.

“Did anyone else think that was weird?” Zach asked. Keith moaned and all attention returned to him.

“This was such a bad idea,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. 

“Fuck.” Ned turned to Zach. “I think we maxed him out.” 

Zach bit his lip, worried. “He has to go back to his desk till the end of the work day.” Ned left the room to find Keith some sweatpants.

Zach knew how to help a bit. He’d been with Keith on some of his milder bad nights. Gently he unzipped Keith’s jeans and pulled them off, which was a struggle. Keith’s belly, given more freedom, expanded, until it looked like Keith had swallowed a pumpkin. Pulling the fabric of Keith’s T-shirt up over the globe of his belly. Zach brushed his finger against the taut skin. Keith moaned again, from pain or pleasure he wasn’t sure. Lightly, Zach ran his hands over the bulging belly, massaging out cramps as much as he could. Eventually, his fingers reached the edge of Keith’s boxers. They slid under the waistband, pressing into hairy flesh. 

The door opened and Ned returned with the sweatpants. Zach flushed and stood up quickly but ned hadn’t seen anything. They helped Keith into the sweatpants and then took him to a filming room that was being unused. They laid him down on the couch, hoping his stomach wouldn’t take too long to settle. As they were leaving, Keith winked at Zach, being his true food-drunk self. 

Eugene paced back and forth in the men’s room. Do not throw up, do not throw up, do not throw up. Suddenly, he dove for a toilet, spewing pink tinged  vomit into the white bowl. Arms wrapped around his middle, he hoped nobody would see him. His stomach ached and his throat burned. Fairly sure he was finished, he flushed the toilet and pulled himself to his feet. Rinsing his mouth at the sink, he splashed water on his face. He wasn’t dizzy at all. His swaying reflection laughed at him.

Eugene stepped out of the bathroom and returned to where they had been filming to retrieve the camera. Ned looked up from the tupperware he was packing the leftovers into. “Dude, are you feeling alright? You look really pale.”

“Mmm.” Eugene rubbed his face and reached for the camera before he realized this required and answer. “Totally. Yeah, I’m fine.” Ned remained skeptical but Eugene had already left. 

The Try Guys eventually all returned to their desks. Ned looked fondly at the picture of his wife that he had as his phone’s background. Keith rubbed his stomach, trying to pay attention to the files he was working on and less to the nausea building inside him. Zach watched Keith, while trying to look like he wasn't watching Keith. Eugene took some aspirin. His head was pounding and staring at a screen while he edited footage wasn’t doing him any favors either. 

3 Days Later

Keith, Ned, and Zach had definitely noticed something. Eugene wasn’t known for pouring out his feelings or being sweet and fluffy, but at least he was an extrovert at least 30% of the time. He’d been acting weird lately. He barely spoke to anyone in the office and there were bags under his eyes. He hadn’t eaten lunch with them for at least a week. Even in videos there was a difference, though less detectable.

It was Saturday and the boys were going out for drinks. Eugene arrived at the designated meeting place (Ned’s house) 20 minutes late with messy hair and a few keyboard imprints on his cheek. This was a new low.

Ned sat everyone down around his table. “Eugene, what is going on?” 

Eugene stared blankly for a second. “What?” 

“There’s obviously something wrong, either with you or in your life. We’re your friends. You can tell us anything. Please let us help.” “Honestly, I have no idea what all of you are worried about. I was up late and i fell asleep at my computer. Sorry for not being my usual punctual self. I promise I’m fine.”

Everyone at the table knew, this was bullshit but they also knew that if Eugene didn’t want to tell them, he wasn’t going to tell them.

In a strangely quiet mood,  they all climbed into a taxi that was taking them to a club. Zach told a funny story to get everyone back in the mood and then everything was back to normal. Dancing ensued as soon as they arrived.

Eugene was panicking. He had to act normal. They knew something was up. This was too embarrassing to tell anyone, even his closest friends. The room was really hot. There were too many people. He needed to get outside. Eugene stumbled toward the place where he thought the door was but the room began to spin. Then it went dark

“Oof.” Zach got the breath knocked out of him as Eugene ungracefully collapsed onto him. Zach had followed Eugene, seeing how unsteady he looked. Catching him unconscious was not what he had planned. “Ummm, a little help?” he called. While a strong and wiry man, Zach could not lift Eugene. Keith and Ned found him, more from the path the dancers left around him, than his calling. 

“So there’s definitely something wrong with Eugene,” Zach said, handing the unconscious man to Ned, who picked Eugene up bridal style. The barman showed them to a back room where they draped eugene on some furniture. Slowly his eyes fluttered open. 

“Dude, what the fuck?!!!” Ned was angry. Eugene looked around at the faces above him. They wouldn’t understand. He turned away and closed his eyes again, hoping they would leave. This did not improve Ned’s temper so Zach took him out to try and calm him down. Keith stayed. He put a hand on Eugene’s shoulder. 

“Please,” he whispered. “We just want to help. We really do care.”

Eugene sighed. “I know.” He felt something hot and wet on his cheeks. “I’m just afraid that you will all look at me differently if i tell you.” that was more emotion that he’d shown to anyone in a very long time. Keith struggled to hold back his own tears. He couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want the support of their friends in whatever they were going through.

“Can you at least tell me why you think you passed out? We need to make sure you don’t need medical attention.”

Professionalism. This was something that Eugene could do. “It might have something to do with me only eating a toaster waffle today.”

“For breakfast?”

“At all.” 

Keith was incredulous. “How are you so calm about that?”

“Should I not be? It’s become sort of a routine.” 

Keith turned his back and muttered under his breath, trying to stay calm. “I’m going to bring you some sandwiches and you are going to eat them. Do you understand?” Eugene nodded. He was too tired to argue. He would have much rather stayed asleep with his face on the keyboard than gone out anyway. Keith got some sandwiches from the bartender and explained the situation to Ned and Zach. It took awhile to actually get the sandwiches into the room because Keith had to help Zach restrain Ned, who was furious, and keep him from chewing out Eugene.

Eugene took the plate of sandwiches complacently, but didn’t take a bit out of one of them. Instead, he took the top off the top of one, ate the lettuce and tomato, before laying the rest aside. There were 3 sandwiches of average size. Eugene ate all the vegetables and then put the plate down, preparing to leave. Keith stopped him. “You didn’t finish.”

“Vegan, remember?”

“Bread is vegan. Besides, there are eggs in toaster waffles. Now sit down.”

Obediently, Eugene sat, picking at the bread and turkey. He would pinch off a piece, chew it slowly, swallow, wait what seemed like an extremely long time, and repeat. He kept asking, “Can I go now?” 

Keith’s only response was “Finish”. He looked tired and drained, unable to bear seeing his friend like this.the others were let into the room but told to stay quiet. Finally, Eugene finished. He felt massively full and he was sure every person on the other side of the door should be able to see just how round his belly was. He burped uncomfortably. The 3 men stared at him.

“Well, now that I am finished, can i go?” No one tried to stop him so he stood up and left. Ned, Zach, and Keith looked at eachother. What were they going to do with him? They went back out and tried to enjoy themselves, all the while one always staying within catching distance. 

Eugene seemed like he was alright, dancing and flirting like his usual self. He also drank quite a lot. As the night dragged on, his dancing got slower and less vibrant until he stopped, with his arms wrapped around his middle and his head bent down. 

Zach was, again, the closest. “Are you ok?” He asked over the blaring of music.

“I don’t feel very good.” One of Eugene’s hands moved from his middle to be over his mouth. 

“Fuck.” Zach grabbed Eugene. They made it to the men’s room just in time, Zach waiting outside, sure that Eugene would want some privacy. Even so, he could hear the wretching from outside. 

“All done?” Zach asked. Eugene made a non-committal sick person noise so Zach came back in. He found Eugene sitting on the dirty floor with tears streaming down his cheeks once again. Zach knew lt beside him, rubbing his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Eugene whimpered. “I tried so hard.”

“It’s ok,” Zach said, trying to be comforting but also very confused.

“I didn’t mean to make you all so upset. But i couldn’t keep it in. i’m sorry. It’s better this way.”

Zach wasn’t sure how to respond. “This way?”

“Out. it feels better out. Nothing feels right in me.”

Zach put his hand on Eugene’s middle, trying to see if he could ease any paint his friend might be experiencing. Immediately, Eugene tensed his whole body, sucking in his stomach as far as it would go. Then Zach understood. Wrapping his arms around Eugene, he hugged the taller man, throwing him off guard. “Eugene, you’re perfect. All of us love you just the way you are. You don’t have to change or try to look different, even if you think your public will like you more if you do.” He squeezed harder. “It’s not safe. We worry about you.” Zach kissed the back of Eugenes neck. Eugene finally leaned back into Zach’s arms, letting go the flood of tears he’d been repressing. Zach left early with Eugene, texting his friends the important details.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Violet Skies

Pairing: Bucky X OFC

Summary: When Bucky tries to get away from yet another moment of chaotic change he’s faced with a reminder that fate, sometimes, is kind to those that wait. 

Warnings: Smut and a truckload of feels. 

A/N: I don’t know how @littledarlinhavefaithinme does it but for the second time one of her writing challenges has sent me on a journey I didn’t expect but am so happy to have gone on. (Prompt in bold.)

I hope y’all can forgive the lack of series updates in lieu of this (lengthy) one-shot.

Oh and I finally said, “Fuck it,” and made an OFC so feedback is very welcome. ALL the thanks to @wonderlandmind4 for being my beta to make sure I stayed on track with not slipping into my insert habits. She's a goddamn blessing y’all. 

I hope you love it pumpkins! 

Tags are open!

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @stevehesaidabadlanguageword @buckysstar @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @siriuslycloudy2 @wildmoonflower @cutie1365 @handplucked @jewelofwinter @whiskeywinter89

(If you should be in my perma-tags and you’re not here let me know so I can fix it!)

Bucky needed to get away.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the new friendships he was forming or the posh new digs he’d been granted courtesy of Pepper Pots and the Avenger’s Fund. He was deeply grateful. Even so, it was all so much so fast and he desperately needed to disappear to clear his head.

As he tears down highway mile after highway mile heading south, memories of another time when he needed the same freedom, fill his mind.

Unbeknownst to him, the summer of 1943 would change his life forever. In July they informed him that he was one of the best shots they’d seen in a while—he’d be an invaluable asset in the field. All Bucky heard was that they wanted him to be a killer. That knowledge sat like a brick in his gut for weeks.

When they gave him leave to return home for a stint in August he couldn’t bring himself to head straight back to Brooklyn. After all, how could he look his Ma in the eyes and tell her what they wanted him to do…

Instead, he’d done the same thing he was doing now. He ran south.

The New Orleans he pulled into would be different than the one he encountered all those decades ago. He knew time and the brutality of nature would have changed the city forever, but as he rode into the French Quarter he was pleasantly surprised to see so many things had remained the same—on the outside at least.

The last time he was in this city he had stayed in the cheapest hotel he could find. To say it was questionable would be giving it too much credit. This time, he decided he’d give himself the benefit of a decent stay. The Soniat House was central and nice, but it still had an older feel that soothed him. He liked knowing he wasn’t the oldest thing around.

It’s too early to check-in when his bike pulls up, Sunday morning. He didn’t have a plan, no sites he necessarily wanted to see and no memories he’d allow himself to seek out. All he wanted was peace. The easiest way for him to find that was to move, sitting still too much—especially alone—let his mind wander to things he’d prefer to forget for now. So, rather than linger in the lobby, he leaves his bike and heads into the Quarter on foot.

Despite it being fall the warmth and humidity are still heavy—he loves it, if he never had to be cold again in his life he’d be happy.

After a few blocks, he finds himself in Jackson Square, staring up at the beautiful facade of the St. Louis Cathedral. A steady stream of locals and tourists head into the sanctuary for Sunday morning mass. He can’t help but laugh at himself—once an altar boy.

He hadn’t stepped foot in a church since he’d been free. Some part of him felt unworthy, maybe even a little afraid. After everything recently he longed for something familiar though. With slight hesitation he joins the flow of people, taking a seat as far back as possible.

A few things were different in the ceremony but for the most part, the cadence was as he remembered. He ignored the automatic urge to take communion, watching others with just a touch of envy. Would he ever feel like he deserved to do such a thing again?

The homily was oddly fitting. The priest spoke on forgiveness—not the kind that comes from some benevolent being but the kind from within.

“We must all forgive ourselves, especially in the wake of The Blip, for the things we did to mourn, heal, and survive. After all, if our heavenly father can forgive us these things, who are we to stand in defiance of his wisdom?”

And who says God has forgiven any of us anything? Bucky thinks, bitterness filling his mouth.

When the service ends he tries to slip out without having to shake the Father’s hand. The size of the crowd prevented that though and he found himself face to face with the kindly man.

He grasps Bucky’s hand, a genuine smile on his face. “Thank you for your service soldier.”

Bucky’s heart kicks up, “How did you-”

The priest laughs a little, “You’ve got the look son. Have a blessed day.”

“Thank you, Father.” He forces a weak smile and heads away from the crowd.

An all too familiar restlessness had settled over him since the priest had clocked him for a soldier. It was the feeling that came over him before a mission, similar to the feeling that hangs in the air before a thunderstorm, itchy and electric. He hates it.  

Heading for the hotel once more he handles check-in. Since he rode his bike down he’d packed light but this also meant that settling in took not nearly long enough.

He showers, hoping the steaming hot water will wash away this feeling of anticipation but it does nothing. Staring at his reflection in the foggy mirror, tired eyes, grey dusted bread, long hair dripping with water, he comes to a decision.

With a plan in his mind, he changes quickly—slipping into a pair of dark slim denim, a black v-neck tee, and his light bomber jacket—sure it was warm but he’d rather not deal with the stares.  

It only takes him a few blocks to find an open barbershop. Swallowing his nerves he steps in.

In a little over an hour he stares, dumbfounded, at a reflection, he can’t quite connect to. This is a different man, someone who died in 1945 and couldn’t possibly be sitting here. This was the James Buchanan Barnes in the Smithsonian, the one in history books.

No, he says to himself, this is me. He still has his beard, albeit groomed, he’d never had a beard back then. The hair is similar, short on the sides and long on top.

This is me, he repeats. Like Sam said, he’s not either Sergeant Barnes or The Winter Soldier—he’s both, all the experiences, good and bad, coming together to make him who he is.

“You clean up real nice son,” the man, who couldn’t be more than 50 says with a smile.

He returns the smile, “This is all you, sir.” All while thinking, I’m likely old enough to be your grandfather.

Despite the man’s protest, he pays him three times the cost of the services plus a tip. What was the point of having money if you didn’t use it like this?

Some of the anxiety lifts after he walks from the shop. He feels lighter like he left something behind there to be swept up and tossed. The rest of the afternoon is spent eating, poking his head into a few shops, enjoying not having anything he feels he has to do.

Evening begins to fall as he watches the Mississippi from a bench in Woldenberg Park. There’s a touch of pleasant coolness to the breeze now, lifting some of the dense humidity he’d grown used to throughout the day.

He breathes in the air, curling his fingers behind his head as he leans his face up to the sky, eyes sliding shut. Being by the water always brought him a sense of peace.

It’s not that he’s tired but closing his eyes feels nice. Soon his muscles relax and he allows himself to doze just a bit. When he opens them once more the sun is just peeking above the horizon, a swatch of orange beneath a violet sky.

Instantly his mouth goes dry as a voice from the past whispers to him about another lifetime and a violet sky.

—

Sweat drips in rivulets down his back. The brass band chases away all other thoughts that could fill his mind. Cigarettes, whiskey, and the smell of the woman next to him fill every other sense.

He’d lost track of time. Was it day two or three? Was this the fifth gal he’d take back to his squalid digs? When did he have to leave? He had to leave right?

His head began to spin.

“James?” The woman next to him tugs on his sleeve. He doesn’t respond, unused as he is to hearing that name. “Hey, James?”

“Huh?” He looks down at her. “Sorry.”

“I don’t wanna bust your chops soldier but you’re lookin’ pretty sauced.”

“Guess I am,” he slams back the remains of the whiskey in his glass.

“Why don’t you take me back to your place then?” She coos the question against his ear. Her hands wander down his torso, grabbing his belt to tug him close.

This isn’t what he wants. Sure, she’s pretty enough but he’s too warm, too drunk, and too morose for this. He needs air.

“I hate to ditch a dame like you but,” he pushes her back, “I’m gonna have to call it a night.”

“What? Are you serious?” She looks so offended, he wished he cared.

“Yeah. Have a good night, Carol.”

“It’s Mary!” She yells to his back. He doesn’t acknowledge her as he makes his way through the crowd to the door.

Once outside he’d hoped for relief but in this southern climate, the sun being down didn’t do much of anything for the heat in August. He barely makes his way down the street before stumbling into an alley to relieve his stomach of the whiskey sloshing around in it.

“Fuck,” he groans pressing his forehead against the bricks. They’re barely cooler than his skin but it feels good none the less. He heaves once more before stumbling to the other side of the alley and collapsing.

A lump rises in his throat. He forces it down along with the nausea, cradling his face in his hands. Home. He needed to make his way home. But home meant facing the future…

“You doin’ alright down there?” A velveteen voice croons from somewhere above him.

With effort Bucky forces his eyes open locating the source of that sweet voice. A woman leans over the edge of the second-floor iron balcony of the building he just wretched on.

“Been better. Sorry.”

“Stay there,” she calls down before disappearing.

He very much wished he had the gumption to run and hide. But his dignity was just going to have to withstand this particular embarrassment because there was no way he was going anywhere fast.

In a few minutes, a woman steps onto the sidewalk. Once he gets an eyeful he feels a little soberer and a whole lot lousier. This wasn’t just some bland bird. The woman swaying toward him was, simply put, stunning. And she had undoubtedly just watched him hit bottom.

Excellent, he thinks.

“Here,” she kneels down holding out a glass that looks damp with condensation.

He does a double-take, unable for a moment to think about anything but caramel skin, freckles, full red lips, and the most fascinating eyes he’d ever seen. At a glance, they could be called grey but truly they were silver, rimmed with coal-black lashes and filled with tender concern.  

“I’m so-sorry ma’am,” he stutters trying to force himself up straighter. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance.” Right now he’s happy he could blame the whiskey and heat for his burning ears.

“You’re not a nuisance.” Her voice wasn’t exactly the predominant southern drawl he’d been hearing in the city. There was something else to it, softer, foreign even. “Drink this, it’s just water.”

“Thank you.” Gratefully he takes the glass, gulping down the contents with relief.

“Better?” He nods. “Good. Now,” she pulls the stopper off an unmarked bottle and hands it to him, “drink this. It’ll take the edge off.”

He eyes her suspiciously for a moment, searching for some kind of malice, as he takes the small bottle. Cautiously he sniffs it. The contents don’t smell bad, a mix of mint and a smell that made him remember summer lightning. Strange, but honestly he didn’t give a damn. Without any more hesitation he drinks it.

There’s a moment of zinging through his whole body and then… nothing. Not even the uncomfortable drunken haze remained. Yeah, he still felt a little intoxicated and his abdomen was a touch sore from vomiting but all in all his faculties seemed restored.

“What the hell is that?” He studies the bottle, looking for some kind of identifying mark. There’s only a little wax from where it had held the stopper and a slight greenish tint from the liquid that was once inside.

“Magic,” her voice sounds mischievous. He looks up at her and she winks.

Bucky laughs a little, “Well, whatever it was you could make a fortune selling it.”

“Maybe,” she stands, extending a hand to help him up. Once on his feet, he dusts his trousers off, more to buy time as he searches for something to say than thinking he could actually fix his rumpled appearance.

“Apologies for chucking up on your place here…” Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth. He chides himself.

The woman only laughs, “Oh this isn’t mine. I was just at some awful party. Really, you did me a favor by picking this spot to lose it.”

He grins, “Well, in that case, I guess we’re almost even.”

“Almost?”

“Let me buy you a drink and we can really be square.”

She raises an eyebrow, gesturing to the other side of the alley. “Haven’t you had enough booze?”

He shrugs, “You worked your magic. I’m ready for another round.”

Those fascinating eyes narrow then soften. “Alright. But you only get one magic potion a night so if you end up in another alley you’re stuck there.”

“Fair,” he flashes her a wide smile.

“Let me take this back inside,” she holds up the glass. “I’ll be right back.”

Without a word, she hustles into the building. Honestly, a part of him doesn’t expect that she’ll be back but in just a few minutes there she is, tucking one of her tight dark curls behind her ear as she heads out to meet him.

“Glad you came back,” he smiles at her as she approaches.

“What, think I’d run off?”

“Wasn’t sure if a lamb like you’d really wanna go grab a drink with a drunk you met in an alley.”

“How d’you know I’m such a lamb, huh?” Her eyes glint with the kind of moxie that really gets his temperature up.

“You did just come to my rescue back there,” he thumbs back to where he’d been sitting.

“That makes me a hero, not a lamb.” Multiple rings glint on her fingers as she sets her hands on her ample hips.

“True,” he concedes. “Ya know, I didn’t catch my savior's name.”

She smiles, “Antoinette.” She pronounces it in the French style, the first syllable making a soft sound as it crosses those lips. “But you can call me Toni.” It’s beautiful, perfect for her.

“Pleasure to meet you, Toni,” he holds out his right hand. She takes it, soft skin sliding against his callouses, “I’m Bucky.”

“Pleasure,” she nods. “Come on, let’s get that drink.”

She takes a few confident strides forward as Bucky stares at her retreating form for a moment. The open back of her halter dress is as tantalizing as the sway of her hips.

“Damn,” he whispers under his breath.

Pausing she swings her head back, a broad grin on her lips, “I know it’s a fine view but it’s rude to keep a lady waitin’.”

Bucky laughs, “Must’ve left my manners with my dignity in the alley.” He catches up, taking her proffered arm.

The joint she leads them to doesn’t look like much of anything from the outside. There’s no street entrance, instead, they wind their way back through an overgrown courtyard and enter through a door that’s seen better days—in fact, Bucky was a little worried the thing was going to fall off the hinges when she swung it open.

As soon as they’re in, he hears low notes of a sax playing a smooth song. Down the dim hall, they follow the music until reaching an intricate wooden door guarded by a doorman.

“Wondered if we’d see you tonight Miss Toni,” the dark-skinned man flashes her a broad smile before giving Bucky the once over. “We do have a dress code ya know,” his tone far harsher than when he’d spoken to her.

Bucky’s not sure what to say. He looks like he’d been rode hard and hung up wet and he knows it.

“Oh come on, Cal. The Yanks havin’ a tough time is all. Make an exception for me?” She pats the man's lapel, batting her eyes up at him.

“Fine, but only cuz that cure-all you gave my mama has her up an’ about again.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Her tone is sincere.

“But if the boss wants him out-”

“I’ll handle it, Cal. Thanks!” She grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him into the bar.

Violet shades cover all the lamps, paired with the haze from the cigarettes the room has an ethereal glow. People murmur quietly around small tables and in cozy booths, not a one speaking so loud as to interrupt the lone man on the stage playing that sweet melancholy sound.

Bucky doesn’t even realize that she left his side, nor that he’s been watching the man play for so long until she taps his shoulder, two drinks in hand, and nods her head toward a back corner booth.

“Thought I was the one gettin’ the drinks,” he says as soon as they slide into the booth next to one another.

“You seemed to be enjoying the show, didn’t seem right to interrupt.” Toni sips her martini, a satisfied look crossing her features before continuing. “Besides, not like I paid for it.”

“Got another beau up there,” Bucky tosses her a grin and takes a sip of the whiskey. It was fine stuff.

“Hardly,” her eyes slide around the patrons, “bartender owes me several.”

“Seem to have a lot of people in your favor.”

Her shoulders lift in a shrug, eyes diverting to the olives in her glass.

Bucky decides it’s a sensitive topic and switches tracks. “What’s this about me bein’ a Yankee anyway?”

“You are, aren’t you?” Her gaze slides up to meet his, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“What gave me away?”

“Oh come on,” her shoulder nudges his, “with that accent? How could you be anything else?”

“I don’t have an accent!” He plasters a look of mock offense on his face for emphasis.

“And neither do I,” she says with a snort.

“What is your accent anyway?”

“Creole. Don’t hear too much of it in the city these days.”

“Not from the city?”

“Not exactly.” Those shadows again. “Smoke?” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a cigarette case.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Bucky pulls his lighter out before she has a chance. “Let me,” he lifts the flame to her cigarette before his own.

She takes a drag. “The boy does have manners,” tendrils of smoke accenting her words further.

“A few. Don’t get your hopes up.”

On the stage, a small band has replaced the lone musician. Just a bass, drums, sax, and piano. More than enough though. They begin a slow but swinging tune that gets a few folks on their feet.

Bucky notices you watch them, a serene expression on her face.

“You happy just watchin’?” He asks as she finishes her drink.

Immediately she looks at him as though she forgot he was there for a moment. “I… yeah, usually. I… Well, I come here alone a lot.”

“That’s hard to believe.” He touches her fingers gently with his own as they both stamp out the remains of their smokes.

“On the house, Miss Toni,” the bartender says, depositing two identical drinks on the table.

“Thanks,” she smiles at the man.

“At this rate, I’m not gonna get to repay my debt.”

“I’m sure you can think of some other way to repay me.” She leans a little closer, moving her hand to slide her fingers between his.

“Hmm,” he hums, running his thumb across the surface of the rings on her fingers. Slowly, giving her time to pull away, he lifts her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. Beneath the table his free hand sliding just above her knee.

Eyes locked on hers, lips still hovering over her hand he says, “Why don’t we start with a dance?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As the two of them dance one, two, three dances the bar fills with patrons. He’s not sad for it. The more people on the dance floor the closer he could hold her, the more excuses he had to breathe in her intoxicating scent of woodsmoke, roses, and a spice he can’t name.

No one’s doing the Lindy here. Everyone is dancing slowly, moving to the rhythm of the music and their partner.

Sometime in the middle of the fourth song the two of them stop moving, save for a slow sway. Those eyes of hers drawing him in. He lowers his lips, catching hers. To his relief, she returns his affection.

Eagerly she pulls him from the dance floor and back to their secluded booth. The larger crowd makes this space feel even more private, hidden. He’s glad of it.

Bucky presses her back into the corner of the booth, kissing her hard. Those soft lips open to him and he tastes her, something sweet with a hint of gin and smoke.

With effort he pulls back, smirking at the little pout on her face. She wouldn’t be pouting long.

He slides close, lifting one of her shapely legs over his. He curls an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into him. With her cheek on his shoulder, his body angled just so, and the privacy afforded by the booth he trails his other hand up her skirt, sliding his fingers around her underwear.

When his thumb slides across her bud he can just make out the little gasp she releases over the music and the crowd. Steadily he strokes, her body reacts, hips pressing up, demanding more.

Toni lifts her face up to his eyes glassy with desire, and kisses him until a small moan trips over her tongue.

“Hush now doll,” he croons into her ear, “don’t want anyone to come ruin the fun.”

He can feel her breath quicken, feel her shudder a bit beneath him.

“You like that,” he nips a little at her ear. A hand flies to her mouth to catch the sound. “Thought so. Come on sweetheart.”

Just a little more and… She buries her face in his shoulder, hand gripping his shirt tight as she comes hard.

Bucky moves his hand, wrapping her trembling form in his arms. For some time he holds her like this, comfortable, and admittedly a little self-satisfied.

Suddenly he feels her hand grab him, fingers deftly caressing his cock through the fabric. His breath catches as he looks down at her smirking face.

She lifts her lips to his ear, applying just a touch of pressure, “You think that makes us even?” Her teeth sink into his ear lobe causing his hips to thrust up, pressing into her grip. “Nowhere close.”

In moments they’re in the courtyard. Bucky presses Antoinette against the crumbling brick wall, pinning her arms to her sides as he trails kisses down her neck and collarbones.

“Bucky,” she groans pulling at his restraint.

“Come to my place,” he says in a gravel tone after kissing his name from her lips.

“Bet mine’s closer.”

“Lead the way then,” he releases her.

The block to Toni’s digs takes several times longer than it should. Neither of them able to go more than a few feet without pausing to taste the other. There’s a moment when Bucky isn’t sure they’re going to make it to her place before having one another.

They do make it though.

Toni stops in front of a shop, the sign above the door reads: “Madame Antoinette’s: Palmistry, Cards, Assistance.”

“You’re a… fortune teller or somethin’?” He asks as they walk through the suspiciously unlocked door.

“Or somethin’.” She pulls him by the arm through the small waiting area lit by the street lights to a room filled with bottles, pouches, herbs, and other strange paraphernalia with one lamp glowing in the corner. The next room is clearly where she tells her fortunes, dark, save for one thick candle burning in a lantern.

Bucky freezes, an entirely new desire overtaking him.

When she takes a step to head out of the space all she manages is to stumble, anchored by his unmoving form. Confused she looks back to him.

“Did you wanna gawk at the decor or me?”

His gaze slides from the velvet covered road table to her face, trying his damnedest to keep his features and tone even. “Read my fortune.”

“No.” Her tone is final. Once more she pulls at him but he doesn’t budge.

His hand grips hers tighter before tugging her into his chest, “Come on.” He gives her what he hopes is a confident grin.

“I said no,” she pushes against his chest and takes a step back.

“Why not?” His brows knit.

Toni looks at the floor, at the table, and finally back to him. “I don’t tell soldier’s fortunes.”

“I didn’t-”

“You didn’t have to. I knew.”

He doesn’t want to know how. “So you’ll take a soldier to bed but not read his palm?”

“Because I know my bed holds nothing but good things,” she spits. “The fortune of a soldier is almost always bad news.”

Silence hangs, the air between them crackling. “Besides, if you need the cards to tell you what the product of war is maybe you should reconsider, soldier.” It’s his turn to look away.

She strides to the doorway they’d been heading for. “You coming or not?”

“Please,” his voice is thick with emotion. When he’s able to meet her gaze again he can feel the tears sting the backs of his eyes. Closing the distance between them he grabs her hands in his, immediately her expression softens.  

“Even if it’s bad. Please, Toni. I just… I gotta know.” He’s begging, likely losing any shot he has with her too, but it doesn’t matter. “I don’t even care if everything you tell me is bullshit. I just… I need somethin’…”

“It won’t be,” he cocks his head in confusion as her eyes drift to the table. “From me it won’t be bullshit. It will just… be.”

“Ok. I can take it. Better than not knowing.”

Subtly she shakes her head, pulling free from his grip and walking toward the candle. Bucky doesn’t move as she lights a thin stick, using it to light another white candle on the round table.

“Sit,” she commands. He does as he’s told.

Taking a deep breath Antoinette lays her hands on the table, palms up. “Give me your hands.”

He stares at her hands, suddenly nervous. “Don’t you need cards or-”

“Do you want this or not?” He nods. “Then give me your hands and shut up.”

When her hands close around his her eyes slide shut. For a few seconds everything seems normal but then he’s overcome with the strangest sensation-it’s like he’s floating and yet weighted down all at the same time, his whole body feeling the way a limb does after you’ve sat on it too long, numb yet tingling with sensation.

She releases his hands and he recoils instantly. When her eyes open he could swear that just for a second they were… glowing. It happened so fast he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was the steady stream of tears flowing down her freckle dusted cheeks.

“Tell me…”

Her voice is low, resonant, “You will become everything you fear. Ice will live in your veins. But only one hand will drip with blood, the other will remain snow white.” His breath leaves him. “But they will never know these things.”

Somehow he knows who she means—his family.

He almost doesn’t ask, almost doesn’t want to know… “Do… do I die… there?”

“No.”

“Oh, well… I guess that something right?” He tries to force a half-smile, he’s pretty sure it just looks like a grimace.

True sorrow filler her eyes before she has to look away from him. “There are far worse fates in this world than death, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky tries, he really does, to keep it together, to be a man. He’s not strong enough though, not for this. The sob bursts from his lips before he can stop it. Desperately he covers his mouth as if he could put it back.

Before he can protest his face is enveloped in the soft black fabric of her skirt, one hand holding his face against her abdomen, the other wrapped around him. He doesn’t resist, flinging his arms around her allowing the tears to take him.

Toni’s soft hands pull his face up to look at her once his sobs quiet a touch, “Come upstairs, Bucky.”

He shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Toni, but I don’t think-”

“Shh,” she slides a finger over his lips. “Trust me. Please.”

Stepping back she grips his shoulders, guiding him up from the chair. In a haze of emotion he follows her blindly out of the room and up a narrow staircase. It opens into a large open room with windows and balconies on both ends.

Past a screen toward the back balcony is a large, brass fourposter bed. Beside it she stops, fingers making quick work of his shirt buttons, sliding the garment off his shoulders and pulling his undershirt over his head. He doesn’t stop her when they wander to his trousers. In moments he’s in nothing but his shorts.

Wordlessly she unties the neck of her dress, letting it fall to reveal her chest as she unzips her skirt. In another situation he’d never be able to resist those curves, but right now, how good he’d feel between her thighs is the furthest thing from his mind.

She removes her underwear and steps past him, climbing into the unmade bed. Turning he sees open arms beckoning him to join. Understanding dawns along with an immense wave of gratitude.

He makes his way into her bed, glad to press his back into her soft warmth, allowing her to hold him tight.

Toni presses gentle kisses against his left shoulder and begins to hum a pretty, soothing song. The melody accompanied by the soft whirr of an unseen fan and her reassuring presence soon rock Bucky into a deep, dreamless, sleep.

Soft morning light filters through the lace curtains casting intricate shadows on her sleeping form. One arm is curled tight against her chest while the other is tucked under her pillow. Through lids still heavy with sleep Bucky takes in the features of her serene face.

A mahogany curl lies over her closed eyes. Ever so carefully he tucks it back into the red-brown mass splayed across her pillow. Despite his best efforts, her brows knit for a split second before her lids slide open to reveal those silvery eyes. They remind him of full moons.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he lets his finger trace the line of her high cheekbone. Her lips curl softly in response, reaching one and caressing his rough cheek in kind.

Closing the small space between them in one motion, Bucky kisses her tenderly. Turning her body to fully face him she returns his affection. He runs a hand down her side and around her back pulling her close against him, the warmth of her body making him ache.

She slides a hand between them, lightly scratching her nails down his chest and abdomen. When she reaches his hips she grips him, pushing him to his back as she rises to her knees.

He doesn’t resist her—deft fingers coaxing his shorts off before studying the planes of his abdomen, the curve of his hips, the tense muscles of his thighs. Not once though does she touch the one place on his body that is begging for it. Each touch elsewhere causes his cock to jerk painfully, desperate for contact.

Lips curled into a coy smile she leans over him, the tips of her breasts barely touching his chest. Lowering herself, she presses her body against him. He ruts against her, the soft flesh of her abdomen driving him wild.

She lets out a low purr, close to a laugh, “Patience.”

With her mouth teasing the tender flesh of his neck he lifts his hands to feel the curve of her spine down to her ass. Gripping the supple flesh there he tries to lift her, wanting to take her now. She reaches back, grabbing his wrists. Compliant, he allows her to pull them away, pinning them by his head.

Bucky had been with other women in the past. Never had he found himself in this position—he was utterly besotted.

When she covers his mouth with hers, he can’t help but groan with desire. Her lower body shifts thighs lifting to flank his.

Rising onto her knees the light shines on a bit of moisture on her stomach. A tiny touch of embarrassment rises in him but is obliterated when she catches it with her middle and ring fingers, brings them to her lips, and slowly sucks them clean. He can’t even breathe.

Those same fingers descend the length of her body and slide between her legs. Her lashes flutter, hips rising to her own touch. She removes them, glistening.

Before she can stop him he takes her wrist, drawing her hand to his mouth. Much as she had done, he tastes her, his tongue flicking the tips of her fingers. He holds her eyes with his, watching them widen as her breath hitches.

Toni leans down to him once more, shifting her hips forward. This kiss is unlike anything else he’s ever felt—he buries his fingers in her hair, not wanting her to stop, not wanting the humming in his chest to stop.

He can feel the heat of her hovering just above him. His cock twitches up and just barely touches the soft hair.

Lips still locked together, she reaches back to guide him into her.

Bucky thrusts up, the warm tight feeling of her sending tremors through his body. Their eyes open when he does so both frozen mid-kiss, breathless from the feeling of being joined like this.

Neither move at first. The connection somehow enough to satisfy for a time.

Untangling his fingers from her curls he grips her thighs. With a fluid swoop she rises, holding her hair back with one hand. Never looking from him she begins a steady rolling motion with her hips. He’s slack jawed with the feeling, unable to fathom anything better than this.

She runs her hands down to her breasts, taking her dark pink nipples between her fingers as he pushes himself deeper inside of her. He releases one of her thighs, wanting nothing more than to make her feel as good as he does.

As his thumb moves over her clit her head falls back, a dark moan filling the room. Her body arches, one arm braced behind her back the other holding onto his forearm, silently begging him not to stop.

“Bucky,” she whispers, tongue thick. Her hips move into a faster pace.

When her orgasm crashes into her he sits up, twining his arms around her back to bring her shaking body closer to his. Toni lifts herself just enough to wrap her legs around him, allowing him to push deeper within her.

As he moves slowly, his fingertips trace goosebumps on her spine, the feeling that they’re one being is otherworldly.

This is what it should feel like, he thinks, what it should always feel like, like magic.

“What are you?” He whispers, feeling her walls tighten around him.

“Yours,” she responds.

That’s all it takes to tip him over the edge.

His fingers grip her ass, pushing their pace a bit faster. She braces herself against his shoulders.

“Antoinette,” he breathes, unable to make another word rise to his lips, unable to ask.  

“Yes,” she answers his unspoken question.

His whole body tenses, brows knit, a low groan rumbles from deep within him as his muscles release. With a need he can’t quite name his mouth seeks hers again before they fall—panting, sweat sparkling on their skin—back into the embrace of the bed.

“You don’t have to go, not yet,” she says as her fingers absently run through the hair on his chest. Rising on an elbow she turns those bewitching eyes on him, “Just stay until tomorrow at least.”

He tries not to dwell on how she knew where his thoughts were without him saying a damn thing. The truth was he didn’t want to go.

“Ok, tomorrow,” he agrees before catching her lips with his.

Tomorrow turned into another tomorrow and before he knew it he’d been falling asleep in Antoinette’s bed for four nights.

In truth, it was all a sweet blur. Languid days spent exploring New Orleans by her side. She’d tell animated stories of the city as they walked—painting such a vivid portrait of events and people from decades prior that if he didn’t know better he’d think she lived it.

Bucky couldn’t help but smile as folks from all walks would stop them to thank her for some cure she’d provided, some guidance she’d offered. Without hesitation she’d stop anything she was doing if someone made a request of her. More than once someone had whispered how lucky he was to be in her company as if he could somehow be unaware.

He’d seen people in his life who wore their goodness like a badge of honor, something they hoped people would laud them for. Not her. It was just who she was. Each time he was reminded of this it also served to remind him that she’d never be his, not really. He wasn’t destined for such goodness.

When the sun lowered beneath the river they danced in clubs he’d never have found otherwise. Drank in music, and liquor, and each other like they’d have all the time in the world to do so.

Now, he lays in her bed, studying the curves of her body through the open French doors, unable to fathom how he’d just had her and yet his body is already begging for more.

The new moon kept the sky dark and little light from the city touched the back balcony—even so, her caramel skin seemed creamy, almost luminescent.

He rolls from the comfortable confines of her bed, padding out to join her. Without hesitation, she leans her body into his as he comes up behind her. Plucking the cigarette from her fingers, he takes a deep drag, his free hand caressing the soft skin of her abdomen.

“Tomorrow,” she sighs, her head falling back onto his shoulder to be able to see his face. “You’ll leave tomorrow.”

He had decided to do so earlier that day, he just hadn’t known how to tell her. “Yeah.” She nods in acknowledgment, turning her gaze back to the summer night, twining her fingers tightly around his.

They make love slowly almost reverently the next morning. He doesn’t want to forget a single thing about her.

As he sits on the edge of the bed his stomach flops over at the thought of getting on the train that evening. He rests an elbow on his thigh, leaning over to cradle his head in his hands.

“Don’t go.” Her tone is suddenly frantic as she turns him back to face her, sitting on her knees in the middle of the mattress.

“I have to Toni,” he shifts his body to be more squarely on the bed. “I gotta see my family before…” He can’t manage to finish the statement.

“But you don’t have to go. Not to Europe.” She grabs his hands, gripping them with all her might. “We could run. I have enough money tp go-”

“Where would we run, Toni. The whole damn world is-”

“Not the whole world! We could go to Mexico City. Or maybe Saint Domingue, live on the beach, spend every day in the water…” Her fingers trace the outlines of his face, “Please. Don’t go. Don’t… you don’t have to…” He knows what she can’t bring herself to say.

“I’d be yours you know. I’d say yes.” The twin moons of her eyes are huge, imploring, tempting. Tenderly he takes her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles, shaking his head.

“You deserve someone much better than me, Toni.” Someone better than what I’ll become…

“Don’t assume you know what I deserve,” shadows darken her expression. “You’re a good man, Bucky, you deserve better than what you believe, better than what fate has given you.” Her hand covers his heart before her eyes squeeze closed as if in pain. He feels that same tingling as he had when she’d told his fortune.

“Toni?” His tone drips with concern.

When she looks back to him her eyes brim with tears. “Please,” she says once more.

“I can’t darlin’. I’d never be able to forgive myself if I went AWOL. I got a duty and I’m gonna do it.”

“Then promise me something,” she takes his hands in hers.

“Anything, Antoinette, anything.” He means it.

“Remember, they can’t take this from you,” her fingers poke above his heart. “Nothing they do, nothing, will stop you from being James Barnes in here.”

“I’ll remember…” He kisses her softly. “I promise.” Even if he doesn’t believe her.

Even though he has to leave soon he can’t resist pulling her to the bed again.

Just one more time, one more and leaving will be easier, he tells himself.

He’s wrong.

Just before evening they stand outside the train station, holding on to one another so tight it almost hurts.

“It’s not too late,” she says against his lips after another hard kiss, “you can change your mind.”

He just shakes his head, smiling sadly.

Under the light of sunset, she’s radiant. The orange’s picking up the red in her hair and the warmth of her skin. He’d never meet someone like her again.

There’s something he needs to know, even if it’s not an answer he wants.

“Will I ever see you again?” Speaking the question aloud makes his heart constrict. Her gaze is distant, as she seems to look through him, the tingle beneath his skin there again.

Toni looks up and the sky, voice far away, “Under another violet sky, in another lifetime, our paths will cross again.”

“I’ll look forward to that lifetime then,” because clearly it would be better than this one. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

An announcement cuts him to the bone. Final boarding.

She grabs his face in her strong but delicate hands, the metal from her rings pressing to his skin. “I will never forget you, Bucky Barnes.”

“I won’t forget you either.” She looks away as if in doubt. He decides one final kiss will convince her. “I won’t.” He stares into her eyes, willing her to believe him.

“Until the next time.” He’s relieved she didn’t say goodbye, there were too many goodbyes coming for him. She kisses him once more releasing him.

“Next time,” he nods and runs to catch the train.

Once in his seat he looks out the window seeing her. He slides the window open.

“Don’t forget your promise!” She yells up.

“I won’t, Antoinette. I swear!”

He watches the tears slide down her face until she’s out of sight… forever.

-

A tear slides out of the corner of his eye before he can catch it.

He’d broken every promise he made to her. They took his heart, they took her. When he’d come down here, she wasn’t even on his mind. Hell, had he even remembered those extraordinary five days with Antoinette until now?

He doubles over on the bench, arms wrapped around him.

Memories were a double-edged sword. They connected him to who he was, who he’d been before, but fuck they tore at his soul in a way that made him long for nothingness again.

Here was someone else to mourn, someone else to ache for. She was probably resting in one of New Orleans’ elaborate cemeteries now, next to whatever man got lucky enough to hear her say yes.

Maybe he’d find her. Bring flowers, say he was sorry…

Her home had been in the Quarter, he could find that easier, faster, than a grave. It was as good a place to start as any.

Hands shoved in his jacket pockets he begins to walk in a direction that feels right, eyes glued to the sidewalk. Looking at the sky just made the ache worse, made her sweet voice ring in his ears again.

Turning a corner, not paying attention to anything but putting one foot in front of the other, he careens into someone.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” He hustles to grab a can of coffee rolling toward the street.

“It’s ok,” a soft voice says. “My mind was a world away.”

The coffee can’s metal body creaks a bit as his left hand closes a little too tightly around it. Slowly he turns to see a mass of mahogany curls and ring covered fingers gathering the other fallen groceries into a reusable bag.

Every bit of breath is sucked from his lungs when twin moons look up at him. He staggers back like he’s been struck.

“An - Antoinette,” he stammers.

A massive smile lights her face, “I told you our paths would cross under a violet sky, didn’t I?” His jaw hangs open, eyes blinking rapidly trying to clear her from his vision, as she steps toward him. She grabs the coffee can from his grip before he breaks it.

“Trying to catch flies, Bucky?” One bejeweled finger lifts his chin.

There are a million things running through his mind as he tries to make sense of this—but nothing will come out.

She turns, “Come on, my place isn’t far.” Before she walks forward she throws a smile his way and gives him a wink.

Of their own volition his feet trudge after her.

It’s the same building he remembers but the sign advertising fortunes is gone. Instead it seems the bottom shop is a specialty bookseller. Patronage by Appointment Only read the letters on the still unlocked door.

His head spins as he follows her through the strangely familiar yet different space and up the back stairs.

Her living space was still open and airy though it now sported a proper small kitchen close to the front. And when he looked toward the back he saw the light glint on a familiar brass bed frame.

“Coffee?” Toni asks, as though this is just a normal thing.

He stares at her for a minute, stuck at the top of the stairs, as she moves about the kitchen. She sets a brass kettle on the island burner and pulls a French press from the open shelves. After scooping coffee into the container she finally looks at him.

“Did you like chicory? I don’t remember.”

“I,” his voice cracks. He clears his throat, “I don’t remember either, honestly.” Trance like he makes his way to the small round table close to the front balcony, collapsing into the wooden chair.

“It’s good. I promise.” The kettle screeches. She pours water into the press.

When she sets it on the table she doesn’t look at him. She turns back to the kitchen. He can’t stand it. His left-hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist with cool metal fingers. Languidly she looks back at him, meeting his eyes full on.

“Is this real?” Bucky knew that dreams could feel as real as anything. The terror that this is a hallucination grips him. Toni’s expression is soft as silk as she gently touches the side of his face, he fights to keep his eyes from closing at how good it feels to be touched like this.

“I am very real, Bucky.”

Despite how insane this is he believes her—knows she’s telling the truth, that he’s here, she’s here, this is real. He releases her wrist and she unflinchingly takes his left hand for just a moment before heading into the kitchen for mugs and cream.

She sits across from him, sliding a mug over, “That needs a few more minutes. Worth the wait though.”

Coffee is the furthest thing from his mind.

“How… how are you still alive?”

A smirk makes her eyes sparkle a bit. “Well, technically the Antoinette Desmarais you knew is dead.”

“Oh?” He laughs a little at the ridiculousness of this whole thing, “So… How long have you been dead?”

Her smirk turns to a smile, “Roughly 70 years.”

“Damn,” he forks his fingers through his hair. “Guess I missed the funeral then. Wouldda sent flowers but, pretty sure I was technically dead then too.”

She shrugs, “It was a small private affair. Most of my funerals are.”

“Had more than one?”

“A few,” she presses down the plunger on the French press before pouring the coffee. “That was my second. Had my third in ’96.” He watches her put a splash of cream in her coffee, normally he took it black but he follows her lead.

“The government gets a little suspicious if you just keep goin'. But if you die and leave your estate to your namesake, well, that’s fine.” She sips her coffee, “Guess you don’t have to worry about that though.”

“Nah,” he tastes his own cup, remembering that he did like this unique flavor back then. “For better or worse they’re pretty damn aware of me.”

Silence hangs for a few moments before he can’t bear it any more. “You didn’t answer my question, Toni… How?”

“Would, ‘I’m a witch,’ be sufficient enough?” She looks up at him through her thick dark lashes. He narrows his eyes, she sighs, “Didn’t think so.”

“Long story short… I was young, stupid, had power, thought I could do anything I wanted…” Her shoulders hunch forward, eyes on the coffee in her cup. “I… I went too far. Crossed a line. Someone came to stop me and I… I killed him.”

Bucky studies her, unable to imagine her doing harm to anyone.

“Just so happened he had a lover, someone far more powerful than me.” She shields her eyes a bit, cradling her forehead, “Bit of life advice, don’t piss off an ancient powerful sorceress, never ends well.” Leaning back, she tries to force something like a smile.

When he doesn’t speak she continues, “She punished me. In a way that, at the time seemed like a gift-”

“Immortality,” Bucky says in barely a whisper. He remembers the fortune she told, that there were worse fates than death. She would have known.

“No,” she shakes her head, “immortality is—well that costs far more than I was worth to her, no she cursed me with life. A long, long life. I called her a fool, a bald hag--childish nonsense. But… well, I guess you’ve discovered for yourself.”

Tears sparkle in her eyes when she looks back to him, “There are few things more painful than to watch everything and everyone you’ve known and loved die.”

“I didn’t watch,” he slides his right hand over hers, “but I do understand.” That’s why he’d ran down here, the weight of loss was too much.

Her fingers slide through his and for a time they stay like that, linked across the table, across decades, sharing an experience few would understand. It would have been enough to sustain him through another lifetime he thought.

“You’re taking this all rather well,” she lifts a perfectly shaped brow at him.

“A few months ago I woke up face down in the dirt to a wizard telling me that somehow five years had passed and that I needed to go through a glowing portal to help save the world again…” He chugs the remains of his coffee. “I also met a talking raccoon and tree. So… yeah… I’ll roll with just about anything after that.”

She laughs, “Well, I’m glad you had a primer on weird before we met again.”

He lets out a small laugh too, he left out meeting a god and the million other small things that still felt unreal to him in daily life.

“How long?” He asks sliding his thumb over the rough surface of her rings.

“Lose your manners again? It’s rude to ask a lady her age.” She smiles at him before finishing her coffee. “I was born here in 1821, one month to the day after Napoleon died.”

“So when we met you were…”

“‘Bout 120? Yeah.” She pours more coffee into her cup, releasing his hand, “Close enough to your age now I bet.” He nods.

“And you’re still here…” He motions around the space.

“Well, I wasn’t born here-here. I was born in New Orleans though. And I didn’t stay here the whole time, I just come back home when I need something-”

“Familiar,” he finishes the thought, knowing the feeling far too well.

“Yeah. The city changes but the Quarter, she’s kinda like me—we get older, get get a little rough around the edges, a little worn down, but we’re still standin’.” Toni’s expression is almost wistful.

As her expression is focused out the French doors, Bucky argues with himself. He’d gotten off that bench earlier with the intention to apologize to dust and bones because he thought he owed her that. Now here she was, as beautiful and alive as the day he met her, and the thought of admitting his failure seemed impossible.

“Don’t,” she says in a voice like velvet. He stares into her knowing eyes. “You don’t owe me a goddamn thing Bucky Barnes.”

He shakes his head, “I do though. I broke my promise.”

“No,” she sets her cup down, grabbing both his hands fiercely, “you didn’t.”

Weakly he tries to pull back but she won’t let him. “Antoinette… I… If you only knew what I’ve—I forgot you, forgot…” he pulls one hand free to point at his heart, “Forgot this.”

“No,” she says again, “you didn’t. If you did you wouldn’t be here.” He looks away, unable to find the words to tell her just how wrong she is.

She sighs, “You do know I have the internet, right? I may be over 200 but I’m not dead.” He looks back, confused.

“James Buchanan Barnes fell from a train in 1945, was presumed dead. After the events at the Triskellion, he’s now known as the longest-serving POW in history, forced to take the mantle of the Winter Soldier and commit heinous crimes in the name of his captors.”

His stomach drops. Faster than any normal man could manage he shoots from the chair, sending it screeching back. Unable to leave her yet though, he leans his head against the frame of the French door, attempting to breathe.

Almost soundlessly she comes up behind him, placing a soothing hand on his lower back. He flinches at the gesture.

“But you fought back,” she takes a shaky breath. “If they had taken your heart you’d still be The Winter Soldier, but no, Bucky Barnes is standing right here in my kitchen. Because you kept a promise you made all those years ago, to a woman you hardly knew.”

“You don’t know,” is all he can manage without breaking.

“I do.” She lifts a hand to cup his cheek, turning him to face her. “I didn’t see exactly what would happen to you, prophecy is never that simple nor clear, but I felt the void, the despair, the cold. I felt it then and I can see the scars in your heart now.”

He covers her hand with his, eyes closing. “I shouldda gone with you. Should of listened.”

“Yeah,” she huffs out a dry laugh, their clasped hands lowering, “lived out your days on a beach, peacefully. But fate will have what she wants, I knew it couldn’t be.”

Something occurs to him, “You said you’d say yes then. But…” She looks like she’s hardly aged, “You would have stayed the same and I’d be…”

“Dead? Likely so.” Her smile is tender, “But living one lifetime with you would have been worth the pain of lettin’ go I think.” He shakes his head, eyes sliding shut, unable to fully comprehend why he’d be worth that.

“And for what it’s worth. No one said that offer had an expiration date.”

“What?!” His eyes shoot open in disbelief.

Toni’s rich laugh fills the room, “Mexico City is still there, there’s plenty of beautiful beaches around the world to see too.” She presses close to him, “And, it’s a little old fashioned but… I believe I would still say yes to this,” she points at his heart just as she’d done before.

Bucky’s chest constricts. Without thinking he cradles her face in his hands and kisses her. She tastes like coffee and memories, her scent of roses and wood smoke and spice filling his nostrils. Her body melts into his, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back with just as much intensity.

He breaks the connection, pushing her back just enough to look into her face.

“Antoinette, there are things…” how can he tell her all the reasons she should run, all the reasons she should take it all back.

“You can tell me everything or nothing in time, Bucky,” she traces his lips with her fingers. “It seems that, for once, time is on our side.”

As the violet sky above them faded to navy and a fall breeze filtered through open doors—the two of them relived the feeling of hot summer nights from years past and dreamed of a future together that, though far from perfect, would maybe be a little less lonely.

[therkalexander]

If I bake you cookies will you tell me what you know about the show? Also on a non-POO basis- how do you get your son to eat anything?

Ohhhh, I can’t say shit about shit. Not for all the cookies in the world. On a related note, here’s a pie I made last week...

But nope. I can’t say anything just yet. It’s too precarious, too nebulous just yet to have anything concrete to report until I retain an entertainment lawyer. And once I do that I will definitely let everyone know because that will mean the option will be on the table at the very least.

.

As for getting my son to eat...

I’m in a bit of an easy situation in that regard. He has my zeal for food, and my husband’s eerily high metabolism, so I’m effectively parenting a black hole.

An occasionally picky black hole.

I have a snack bag that I haul with us everywhere I go, replete with squeezey packets, Cheerios, snap pea crisps, veggie straws, cut up hotdogs or chicken, and leftover oatmeal or pumpkin pancakes.

I can get him to eat more variety at breakfast than I can at dinner, so I usually introduce whole fruits like blueberries, strawberries, peaches, etc at that point.

Lunch is either the disparate contents of the snack bag if we’re out and about, or a quesadilla or peanut butter sandwich when we get home.

My husband and I have started doing “afternoon tea” with him when he wakes up from his nap, because it helps quell the savage beast while I make dinner and still puts him in visual range of the kitchen. He likes chai or heavily milked, lightly sugared decaf black tea.

Dinner is tricky because he’s starting to fade and doesn’t have the patiences to get food on a fork or spoon. And if he had a snack at tea time he’s even less likely to eat his whole dinner. We feed him what we’re eating, and if he doesn’t want it I usually default to rice and lentils or mac n cheese.

And vegetables... which is always an uphill battle... I have a local farmers market I go to almost every week and basically set him loose there to pick out his own fruits and veggies. He used to hate peas until he found out that they could be picked out of a pod that he gets from one of my local farmer friends, and now he insists on them. But only if they’re still in the pod. He will eat zucchini, but doesn’t like it cooked; only raw. Same with carrots. He likes corn but only on the cob. And I’ve definitely hidden cauliflower in his fruit smoothies and spinach and kale in pesto sauce for his ravioli.