#i have a few prompts tumbling around in my head like a dryer

[ultimatepeter-man]

DAMN I need to write more USM Spideypool. I can't believe I've only written one fic for them. Disgraceful. As a massive Spideypool shipper, I am disgusted with myself.

I will try to rectify this soon. USM Spideypool content rise up!

#you know #in the episode #Deadpool said 'catch you later' to Spidey #and then NEVER followed through with it #Marvel stop being a coward challenge #let my boys interact #it's what we deserve #I need more ammunition to fuel my obsession #i have a few prompts tumbling around in my head like a dryer #I shall ruminate in them later #Ultimate Spider-Man #USM #Spideypool #Wade Wilson #Peter Parker #OTP

[nervousladytraveler]

removing your lover's tie, putting it behind their head, pulling them into a kiss

Thanks @veryflowerobservation for the prompt. I know you requested this ages ago. But there I was, chipping away at a new chapter of Like Someone, and Ross started loosening his tie...and well, here we are!

(A proper update to that fic is coming soon)

---

“Demelza?” Ross knocked softly, listening for any sounds within that might signal an invitation to enter.

“Ross? It’s unlocked,” Demelza called. “You don't have to be so formal you know.” She smiled a bright but tired smile as he filled the door frame. “This room is yours too at least as long as we’ve guests in the main house.”

She hopped closer to him and closed the door behind them both. No one else was letting the other barn rooms but he appreciated the extra layer of privacy all the same. He kissed her lips then her forehead lingering a little to take in the softness of her hair.

“Busy day?” he asked.

“Yes but...it was satisfyin’. I'll tell you about it later, after you’ve had a chance to unwind,” she said. “Did you eat?”

“I did--and you? Tell me you didn't just have ramen?” he asked, looking at the remnants of the meagre supper on her desk.

“I didn't feel like dealin’ with other people and sharin’ the kitchen,” she shrugged. “This was fine. I like soup on rainy days.”

Ross was going to quip back that a foam cup of instant noodles wasn’t the same as soup--not like her usual savoury soups anyway--but he decided instead to let it go, grateful that she hadn't asked him exactly what he’d eaten. Or where.

It wasn’t that he was hiding where he’d been, he’d told her his plans that morning--hadn’t he? But maybe it was still better left undiscussed for the moment. Like she’d just said, until after he’d had a chance to unwind. Hopefully that would happen soon.

The truth was, even after his solitary drive home, Ross was still a little unnerved by today’s visit to the other Poldarks in Trenwith Road. It wasn’t that Elizabeth was thorny or icy or even needy, she was in fact very even-keeled and reasonable. Nice even. Perhaps the last few weeks with her husband in hospital had finally given her some mature perspective. But the experience of having a pleasant, genuine conversation with Elizabeth had left Ross feeling off guard.

It had been far easier to categorize her as an enemy, to dismiss her entirely, rather than really engage her. And to think of her as a friend or even as family, which she had been legally to Ross for years now, brought even further complications.

Better not to dwell on that now, Ross thought to himself and without meaning to, sighed aloud.

He sat down on Demelza’s bed and slipped off his stiff shoes, then loosened his necktie. The number of days he was wearing one of those seemed to be growing. If it had been just him and Tonkin today he wouldn't have bothered, but that morning they'd met with the accountants as well. Ross felt like he wore the tie as part of a costume to convince others--and himself--that he was really fit for the role of responsible businessman.

And yet it was curious--he did seem to be growing used to it, so much so that he hadn’t removed the tie when he visited the Trenwith Poldarks. No one there had commented but they must have found it a striking contrast to his usual farm attire of muddy boots, dirty jeans, worn flannel shirts.

Maybe that’s why everyone there was friendlier today, he thought sourly.

“Demelza?” Ross asked, suddenly looking around him. “What’s all this?”

She’d set up the clothes drying rack in the corner but on just about every other possible surface, wet laundry had been draped. On hangers, his shirts--the business attire not the checked ones--hung hooked over the top of the window frame.

“I did a wash today but the tumble dryer isn’t workin’ properly,” she said. “Let’s hope the guests weren’t needin’ it. I’ll let them know tomorrow and if so, I can haul their clothes to the launderette in Perranporth.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. That she’d been washing his clothes and eating ramen alone in her room while he dined on braised lamb at Elizabeth's well-laid table rankled him. Of course it was himself he should be angry with or the general unfairness of the situation, not Demelza. It had come out wrong. It often did. “Why don’t you let Prudie help you with these chores?”

“She never hangs your shirts properly and then they need a full ironin’ afterwards instead of just a touch up,” she explained. “Besides, there’s…” She darted her eyes across the collection of fine underwear she’d acquired over the past months. Lace, silk--Ross was well acquainted with how they felt to his touch and how they looked stretched against the curves of Demelza’s firm flesh. Of course, she’d want to keep those private.

“Well then, we’ll have to get a new tumble dryer,” he said firmly.

“You keep spendin’ money we don’t have,” she laughed.

We. It wasn’t lost on him that she took his burdens on as her own.

“Maybe I can fix it,” he sighed again. “Is it not heating or not turning properly?”

“Heatin’...it wasn’t that bad a few weeks ago--just took a little longer but now there’s no heat at all…” she explained and moved a pair of his wet jeans from the bed to a chair by the desk.

“You knew this weeks ago? And you didn't tell me?”

“Ross, you’ve been so busy…”

“And you have too!” He hadn’t intended it to sound like an accusation.

“I just meant it didn't seem a priority. The weather has been nice up til now so hangin’ the wash outside wasn’t a problem. And you know how it is--if you ignore somethin’ long enough sometimes it fixes itself.”

She laughed and he was instantly grateful that she’d somehow remained impervious to his grey mood.

The whole room felt damp and smelled like wet laundry but somehow through it all, he could make out her own distinct scent. It moved him and he took her hand in his.

“Demelza, you tell me if you really believe that,” he said and pulled her down next to him on the bed.

“Well, sometimes that’s the easier approach. Besides you can’t take on all the world’s burdens and fix everythin’ all the time, Ross. You just gotta focus on improvin’ your own little corner of the world,” she said softly while further undoing his tie. She pulled the tie off entirely then playfully put it behind his head, pulling him into a kiss.

“My own little corner?” he laughed.

With the rain beating down steadily and his house occupied by paying guests, his life that evening had very much been reduced to one tiny corner--her room.

But with her warm, familiar company he felt at that moment, he had more than enough.

"I like that corner very much," he said and kissed her again.

#writing prompts #poldark fanfic #ross poldark #demelza carne #Ask nervousladytraveler #Like Someone Who Would Know Her Own Mind sneak peek

[forgetful-dorito]

Here’s my gift to Bio Anon for the MCYT G/T gift exchange! I kinda took the second prompt and stuck it in a dryer on tumble-dry, then shook it up even more. though, I did have a lot of fun brainstorming ideas for how to use the prompt, so I hope you enjoy my little word vomit :)

(also in this au Tommy never got exiled because screw the green teletubby) word count: ~1.3k

cw: food at the beginning, some very mild fearplay, and so much swearing. So much. It was like I got possessed by Tommyinnit while writing this I’m so sorry

“What the fuck.”

Tommy had just wanted a snack.

It was 2 am and he couldn’t sleep, understandably so considering all that happened in the past few months, so he decided to get up and make himself something to eat. Nothing too heavy or time consuming, but enough effort to distract him from the thoughts that had been bothering him.

He had walked down the dark hallway to the kitchen, turning on the fluorescent lights and yawning. Stumbling over to the cabinet, he pulled out a small loaf of bread, and turned towards the fridge to get the cheese and mayo. Since he was still blinking the sleep from his eyes, it took him a few moments to register the fact that there was a tiny human watching him from the countertop.

A tiny fucking human. Standing with its hands in an open bag of peanuts. Looking as surprised and frozen as he was.

“What the fuck.” Tommy finally spoke up, and that was the cue for the tiny person to start fleeing off the counter.

Sleep gone from his mind, Tommy raced to catch the thief. It wasn’t a very hard battle, the poor thing seemed absolutely terrified. He gently pinned him down, putting as little pressure on the tiny guy as possible.

In the blink of an eye, Tommy found a sewing needle stuck in his thumb. He swore heavily, picking the needle out. He used more force this time, wrapping the escaping tiny in a fist and bringing him up to Tommy’s face.

The Tiny stopped kicking, instead he stared in horror at Tommy.

“Alright, I’m gonna give you three seconds to explain who you are and why you’re in my house stealing my food.”

The tiny pondered for a moment, but gave in after Tommy squeezed a little harder.

“AAH, don’t squeeze me like that! And I thought you’d know already, considering you humans blew our SMP to smithereens!” He spat the word ‘humans’ like a curse word.

Huh?

“Stop fucking around with me! Who are you?” He looked a little closer at the tiny….wait…..was that his shirt? And his pants?!

“Wait….you seriously don’t know?”

~~~~

After internally freaking out and a very long and painful conversation with Phil (he wasn’t really ready to see him yet, but this felt important enough to ask him about. Being the oldest living member on the server has its perks) it turns out, Phil knew what was going on!

Apparently no one bothered to tell Tommy that the myth about “tiny people” that live in the walls and start tiny governments was real. Who just leaves that out of a conversation?! What the fuck Phil?!?

To be fair, it looks like Phil was the only one who knew about these tiny people. They started springing up everywhere around the SMP, and they were always dressed like one of the server members.

Another thing that the myth conveniently forgot to mention, was that these tiny people were the complete opposite of the people they were based off of. Tommy didn’t understand what Phil meant by that, but after remembering the way Tiny Tommy acted he got it. Since Tommy was loud and brash and so, so cool, then tiny Tommy was quiet and careful and a total douchebag. Easy enough!

At one point, he had seen a tiny Tubbo lurking around Snowchester. At first he didn’t recognize him, the little guy had bright blond hair for some reason. But after he realized, he tried to strike up conversation. It was good old Tubbo after all! Except he couldn’t make it past a few sentences of conversation before he realized this was not the same Tubbo he knew.

For one thing, this Tubbo was actually normal. There was no talk of nukes, no mention of some horrific scandal he had committed, nothing! Just some pleasant conversation about the weather and gardening.

It was absolutely disgusting.

Mental note: make sure to tell Tubbo how awful his tiny double is.

Jschlatt’s tiny double was actually really nice.

When Tommy had found him, he was open and kind. Tommy had immediately assumed it was a trap, but after getting to know him, it was quite the opposite. He was kind and caring, and all around an amazing father figure.

He was fine with being lifted up and carried, so they would often be seen together, working on one of Tommy’s new carrot farms with Schlatt perched on his shoulder. Honestly, it was like having a tiny parent hovering over you, worrying over your bruises or if you’ve eaten enough.

Tommy didn’t have the heart to tell him that was the most parental attention he’s received since he can remember.

One day, while working on the garden, Tommy had asked about tiny Technoblade. He didn’t know why, maybe it was all the wanted posters of his former brother. They had started appearing a few weeks ago, and though their last interaction was shit, he was still worried.

“Oh…..Techno?” Jschlatt asked, fidgeting from Tommy’s shoulder.

He grunted, pulling a few grown carrots out of the ground. He loved his farms, but they were hard work.

“He…..oh how do I say this in a nice way….”

“Just spit it out. I’m a big man, after all. I can take it!” Tommy said, piling the dirty carrots onto a wheelbarrow and puffing his chest out dramatically.

“Well…alright I’ll just say it. He died a long, long time ago.”

“…WHAT!?”

As it turns out, Tiny Techno is not very good at surviving. Jschlatt had admitted that before he had lost his third life, he had the survival instincts of a sheet of paper.

“Yeah, one time I saw him fall off a cliff while reading his chat. It wasn’t pretty, I think I used up all my healing potions on him.” He commented as Tommy brang the hose over to wash the carrots off.

That was certainly something he’d never expected to hear. The Blade DOES die, I guess

Later that day, after tiny Schlatt had said his goodbyes to Tommy, Tubbo had come by to visit.

Tommy had expected some news about Snowchester’s government, or maybe a new cookie recipe, but he was certainly not expecting Tubbo to start screaming bloody murder.

“TOMMY, WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!” He yelled, pacing around his little garden.

“ALL I WANTED WAS TO FIND MY FAVORITE PEN, I DROPPED IT BEHIND MY COUCH! I GO TO PICK IT UP, AND MY HAND TOUCHES SOMETHING WARM AND HAIRY. WARM. AND. HAIRY. I LOOK AT IT, AND THERES A TINY BLOND ME SITTING ON THE FLOOR HOLDING MY PEN. WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK.”

“Woah big man, calm down!” He handed Tubbo one of his nicer-looking carrots.

“Please, calm yourself, have a carrot.”

Tubbo absentmindedly took the carrot and sat down, munching away while still yelling about how the tiny person in his walls stole his pen.

Tommy, being the absolute dickhead he is, decided to call Tubbo crazy.

”Sorry Tubs, but I think you got one too many hits to the head. Tiny people living in your walls? That’s just crazy.” He shrugged, staring at the clouds above.

Tubbo bristled. “TOMMY WHAT THE HELL, YOU THINK IM LYING?!”

”Nah, I just don’t think you’re telling the truth” he smirked.

Tommy soon found a half eaten carrot thrown at his face, and rightfully so.

(I hope you enjoyed my weird crack-take on your prompt Bio. I had a lot of ideas for the story, including a lot more characters and cool game mechanics, but I didn’t know how to incorporate it all into the fic before the deadline. Im going to be on vacation for the next couple weeks, but if I find time I’d love to edit it and flesh it out more, maybe fix the pacing make it more enjoyable. have a great day! :] )

#mcyt g/t exchange #mcyt g/t #tommyinnit centric #tw swearing #tw food mention

[cordytriestowrite]

Fight, Fight, Fight

Bucky x Reader

One Shot

College AU

Summary: I see your "there was only one bed" and raise you "there was only one shower" with a sprinkle of "enemies to...still enemies but also lovers"

Natasha Romanov slid Sam Wilson a glass of vodka. A literal glass of vodka. Filled almost to the brim with the strong, clear alcohol a few drops sailed over the rim and left a wet trail as the glass came to a stop. 

"Drink."

Who was he to argue with a Russian about drinking? He took a large swallow, letting it burn down his throat and wash over the knot of nerves in his stomach. 

"You have to say something, Sam. It's your house."

He nodded. Natasha was right. When he put up the flyers in the student union offering the spare bedrooms in the house he inherited from his grandfather he thought it'd be a win-win. He was in his senior year, about to graduate and in need of some cash flow: enter roommates. He thought it would be like living in the freshman dorms all over again, bonding with people like Steve and building lifelong friendships. But no, while the roommates individually were just fine, it was when they were together that brought Sam to sit at his dining room table practically chugging eight ounces of cheap vodka. 

Natasha was nice enough to support him, maybe nice isn't the word, annoyed enough to help him. They had only just started dating after being introduced at Steve's birthday party two months ago, but she had been witness to too many squabbles, slammed doors, and sabotage. 

"There's gonna be a civil war in this house in less than," Sam glanced at his phone, "ten minutes."

"That's why you drink.

-

Your books were heavy and kept slipping from your arms. You adjusted them as you walked but that adjustment would only work for a few minutes before you had to perform another juggling act. The house was only two blocks from campus, the air was cool and breezy, you were pretty sure you aced your civ test, but you were far from content, after all finals were only a month away.

Bucky was walking just in front of you, headphones blaring music that even you could hear. He held a single, slim textbook and a pencil in on hand and his phone in the other. That's why you were mad. Bucky insisted on walking home together after class, but you never actually walked home together. You worked hard in class while he coasted on through. And yet you knew you would both pass.

When you reached out to Sam about the open room in his house you were hopeful, optimistic even, about a new living situation that didn't involve sleeping two feet from someone else in a dorm room that was always too cold. Had you known Bucky Fuckin Barnes had also called up Sam you would have stayed huddled under your blankets with earplugs while your roommate had sex in the bed two feet away from you, loudly. Anything was better than being stuck with the guy in and out of classes, but it was too late.

You hit an uneven patch of concrete, stumbling and losing your hold on your textbooks. You growled in frustration as they tumbled to the ground, bending down to collect them. Every week, every fucking week, you had to carry four textbooks to and from class. Every week Bucky saw you carry four textbooks while he carried practically nothing. He never offered to help, not once.

"Hey asshole." You called, knowing Bucky wouldn't hear you over his music, but it felt good to yell.

"You could fucking stop and help me for once."

Bucky stopped and turned, he pulled an ear bud out of his ear and regarded you with a fake smile. He didn't move, didn't even raise his voice to match yours.

"Buy a backpack."

-

Sam's head shot up from the table top at the sound of the front door slamming open and hitting the wall. The house shook, or maybe that was just him. Natasha swiftly stomped toward the comotion, coming back in less than a minute with strong hands gripped onto the shoulder of both you and Bucky, who were still screaming.

"Backpacks were literally made to hold books-"

"Or you could just take one or two-"

"Why would I help yo-"

"QUIET!"

Natasha's sharp tone cut through the animosity between you as she pushed you into a chair opposite Sam. She walked Bucky to the chair at the far end and stood behind him, arms crossed and mouth tense.

"Sam." She prompted.

Sam sighed, wishing he was still face down on the table in blissful, drunk, silence. He took a deep breath, sparing a glance at his girlfriend before opening his mouth. He should have prepared something, but the booze had loosened his lips and now he was just coming out with it.

"I can't have it anymore. The fighting, the yelling...I'm done. I like you both and I'm sorry to do this but-"

"Sam, please don't say what I think you're going to say." You started.

"Dude, come on we're just-" Bucky spoke over you.

"You don't speak for me, Bucky."

"I'm just trying to apologize to Sam for your shitty behavior. Since you don't seem to want to do it."

"Bullshit, Barnes!"

Sam slammed his palms against the table top. He stood suddenly, a wave of dizziness sending the room into a tailspin. He closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and finally just said it.

"I want you out."

-

It was mid semester. Dorms were full and open rooms were few and far between. Sam agreed to give you both a week. It wasn't enough time, but between classes and homework at least you barely saw Bucky.

Wanda had found the apartment. Said it was good practice for when she got her real estate license. You couldn't pass up her help so you agreed to let her do some of the heavy lifting. 

The place she found for you was on the other side of town. One bedroom, no washer or dryer, and on the fourth floor. The building was old too. Faded wallpaper and flickering lights lead you down the hallway towards the unit. The realtor had given you a code to the lockbox hanging from the doorknob, but the box was already hanging open. You were about to text Wanda when the door opened.

"Bucky?"

-

"Wait, you two are moving out...together?"

Sam shook his head in disbelief, hoping he just heard them wrong. 

"Unfortunately." You grumbled, crossing your arms and glaring at Bucky.

Bucky glared right back, eyes hard and hands busy aggressively making a sandwich. He was getting mustard on the countertop, like usual. 

"Okay, one of you can stay here and the other can take the apartment?"

Bucky, finished with his sandwich but leaving the counter dirty, joined you at the table and with his mouthful answered simply.

"Can't."

"Can't?" Sam echoed.

"I paid the first and last month's rent. I'm not trusting her to pay that back to me."

You nodded, "And it's my name on the application. I'm not risking him tanking my credit score when he doesn't pay rent."

You snatched the remaining half of Bucky's meal right out of his hands, taking a large bite, savoring Bucky's protest more than the actual food.

"God, who destroys a sandwich with this much mustard?"

"It wasnt your fucking sandwich! "

Sam could only watch as the conversation digressed into yet another fight. How you two were going to share a one bedroom was beyond him, but at least he would get some peace and quiet.

-

You woke up, not suddenly, but gradually with enough time to know it was still dark before your eyes even opened. You also knew you were cold and that your body was huddled too close to the edge of the mattress. Behind you there was a loud, sudden snort that made you finally open your eyes. 

You were in fact at the edge of the mattress, your blankets nowhere on your person, and your phone screen showed the time to be 4:03 am. You turned, squinting against the fluorescent lights shining through the cracks in the blinds. Bucky was on his back, loud snores erupting from his open mouth, blankets bunched up around his body keeping him warm. He looked deep in sleep and that just wouldn't do.

With both hands gripped tightly on the comforter you yanked with all your might. You pulled and tugged until Bucky was completely bare, his exposed skin erupting in goosebumps. The snoring stopped, Bucky turned on his side, eyes still closed, to grope blindly for his missing warmth. You smiled ruefully and turned your back to him, enjoying the thrill of victory as you shut your eyes.

The mattress squeaked and rocked as Bucky flopped around like a fish out of water and suddenly your victory was stolen by a man who wasn't even conscious.

With a deep groan of resignation you turned over and dropped the comforter over Bucky's form, tucking the corner under his shoulder to trap in heat. Bucky exhaled deeply and settled into the covers. You turned your back to him again. Making sure the blankets were tucked under you as well.

-

Natasha didn't think Sam should be worrying about his old roommates as much as he was. But here they were out to dinner with Steve and Sam had barely said two words in as many minutes. Steve threw her a look, one that asked her to explain, but she only rolled her eyes and elbowed her boyfriend.

"Hm?

"I was asking how class was going, Sam." Steve gently reminded him. "But something tells me you got something other than finals on your mind."

Sam heaved a huge sigh.

"I can't stop thinking about them."

-

You vaguely remembered your alarm going off, but sleep dragged you back under as soon as you made the offensive noise stop. Next time you woke up there was much more appeal. The sun was soft, its rays warming your face. Your body was cocooned in a pleasant mix of skin and sheets. You hummed, turning into the warmth, breathing in the familiar scent of your bedmate. You couldn't even drum up irritation at the smell of his 3-n-1 shampoo. 

Responsibility tickled your brain, urging you to untangle from Bucky and get ready for class. You did just that, albeit reluctantly, sitting up and grabbing your phone.

You overslept. Your final was in thirty minutes.

"Shit!" You hissed, jumping out of bed.

"Whatisit?" Bucky grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"We missed our alarm. Civ final's in thirty minutes." 

You pulled off your pajama bottoms, stepping out of the pool they made around your ankles. Bucky was up and out of bed by the time you pulled off your shirt. 

"Fuck!"

On long legs he sprinted into the bathroom, but you were there to catch the door before he slammed it shut.

"What are you doing?"

You shoved your way through, pulling back the shower curtain and turning the knob. The room filled with the hiss of water and arguing. 

"I've got to take a shower."

"Well so do I?"

"Does it look like I give a fuck?"

It was a race to get naked, to find yourself under the spray before the water could turn cold. You stepped into the tub, Bucky following suit. He closed the curtain, mouth still set in a hard frown.

"This is your fault."

You laughed, leaning your head back to wet your hair. 

"Oh, is it? Maybe if I wasn't up half the night because of your snoring I wouldn't have missed my alarm!"

You switched places with Bucky once you were doused, letting him under the spray. He grabbed his 3-n-1 shampoo bottle and squeezed too much into his hand.

"I only snore because you insisted on taking your mattress."

"My mattress is the most expensive thing in this apartment."

"So you're just bad at spending money then?"

You glared at each other, silent as your fingers worked to clean your hair. Bucky did the same. The staring match raged on for a few breathless moments, until for the first time all morning Bucky's gaze drifted away from your face and down your naked body.

"Pervert!"

-

"I don't know why you're worrying." Steve said, watching his best friend flitter around the kitchen.

"I just want to know how they're doing." He explained, pulling the chicken from the oven.

"You know, Nat's right. This is crazy. Why am I supporting this?"

Sam had to agree. He felt crazy thinking about his old roommates so much. It's been six months. If one of them had killed the other he needed to know.

"I'm just checking in on my friends, Steve."

-

Bucky opened the door to Sam's place like he still lived there. You pulled on your joined hands, yanking him back a step to chide him.

"We're guests stupid. Knock."

"Knock, knock." Bucky called sarcastically, shooting you a smug look when Sam shouted "Come in!".

"You're rude." You grumbled.

"And you're a know-it-all." Bucky shot back without looking at you.

"I'm not-"

"Hey!" Sam greeted, voice a bit too loud, smile a bit too wide. His arms were open as if he was going to go for a hug but they hung suspended as his eyes found your joined hands.

"What's uhhhh, what's this?"

You and Bucky looked down at your interlaced fingers, then at each other, then back to Sam.

"We're together."

Sam's arms fall heavily to his sides, then up to run over his head as his chest swells.

"WHAT? How? What?!"

-

You and Bucky had made your way home to your one bedroom apartment, changing into your pajamas and you continued your squabble from the walk home.

"They poop in a box. It's disgusting!"

Bucky scoffed, leaving the room briefly and coming back with a glass of water that he sat down on your bedside table.

"We shit in a box too if you think about it. Just admit you aren't a cat person so we can break up and I can take the cat."

He crawled into bed, lifting up the blanket so you could join him. You stood there for a moment before relenting and crawling in next to him, tucking your head under his chin and throwing your leg over his hips.

"Whatever, I'm tired. We'll continue this in the shower tomorrow."

"This isn't over." Bucky warned before planting a kiss to your forehead. "Love you."

"Love you too, but we're not taking Steve's cat."

Bucky groaned, rolling on top of you. 

"Cats are awesome, if you got your head out of your ass-"

"If you thought for more than two seconds about the responsibility-"

The bickering continued as you shed each other's clothes, putting a pause on fighting in favor of moving together. It's how most of your arguments ended and while most people, especially Sam, couldn't wrap their heads around that it was what worked for you and Bucky. So did the one bedroom apartment, the shower that ran out of hot water too fast, and the cat Bucky was going to sneak in before spring semester. It all somehow made sense. 

Except the fucking cat, come on Bucky!

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x oc #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x ofc #college bucky au #college au #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #marvel #avengers au #avengers fanfiction #avengers fic #bucky barnes one shot #bucky oneshot #bucky one shot #enemies to lovers #there was only one bed

[liviablackthorns]

the pink underwear

title: the pink underwear

pairing: james potter/lily evans

summary: “some idiots decided it would be funny to mess with peoples’ laundry so now we’re sorting through our dryers and you’re holding up my pink underwear.” prompt

word count: 1581

xoxo

“Hey, Lil, didn’t you do a load of laundry a few hours ago?” Marlene absentmindedly says as she flips through a Cosmopolitan magazine. “It’s probably done now.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Bloody buggering shit!” I jump up from my bed and grab a scrunchie from my bedside table before haphazardly making a bun at the top of my head. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Marlene shrugs. “You were studying very intently. I didn’t want to bother you.”

I glare at her and pull on a pair of socks I’m pretty sure don’t match. “My fifteen point Chemistry quiz won’t matter if someone steals all my bras like last time because I won’t be able to fucking take it.”

(Yes, someone stole every one of my bras from the dryer last time I did laundry and I had to buy new ones because the only one I had left was the one I was wearing when I found out. No, don’t ask. I’m still upset about it).

“You could totally go braless. Your tits are small enough.”

I choose to not answer her rather insulting quip and pull on a pair of formerly white trainers that have seen better days. “I’ll be right back.” When I reach the front door of my flat, I pause and say, “Or not. Maybe someone stole my new bras.”

Marlene grins and smacks her gum. “Maybe.”

I leave my dorm and speed walk down the hallway. When I get inside the elevator, I repeatedly push the close door button until the million-year-old contraption finally listens and starts moving with a groan (a million years is a bit of an exaggeration, but fifty at least). Biting my lip, I pray to all the higher powers that it doesn’t break down. I need to get to my bras before someone steals them. And my nice panties (don’t look at me like that) that I bought at Victoria Secret’s Christmas sale last year because they’re my only pair of non-granny panties.

After what feels like hours, the elevator reaches the ground floor and I rush to my dorm’s laundry room and push the door open to see a dark-haired, fit bloke (at least from the back) holding up my nice panties.

Fucking hell. What is it with my luck today?

“Well these definitely aren’t mine,” he mutters.

“No, but they are mine.”

He whips his head around and widens his eyes when he sees me. Hazel eyes blink slowly behind a pair of round, thin-rimmed glasses and he looks at the lacy number in his hands and back at me. “Oh.”

“Oh,” I say flatly, trying my hardest not to turn into a tomato (I do not look attractive when my skin is as bright as my hair). Of course, I have to run into a fit bloke holding my only pair of nice underwear while I’m wearing neon green pajama pants and a worn jumper with my hometown football team’s logo. I close my eyes and ask whatever higher powers exist to kill me right then and there. 

When I open my eyes, the bloke is ruffling his unfairly attractive messy black hair (God, I want to run my hands through his hair. Does that make me sound creepy? It probably does.) with one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. Why is that simple gesture so fucking attractive? I really need to get my head checked. “Could I, um, have back my underwear?” I tightly say.

The bloke flushes, his tan skin taking on a hint of red. “Erm, right.” He awkwardly holds it out and I stand there for a few moments before realizing he wants me to take it from him. Fuck, I’m so stupid. Trying to ignore the shiver that travels down my spine when my fingers brush against his, I grab my panties from him and stuff it in the cloth bag I brought with me. 

“Thanks,” I mutter. We both stand there for a few moments, glancing at each other and then looking away when caught. It’s official; this is the most awkward encounter of my life. I bite my lip. “Uh, I kinda need to get to the rest of my clothes.”

I’m probably imagining it but I swear his gaze flickers down to my lips before he hastily steps out of my way. “Right, sorry.”

I silently bend down and pull on the handle of the dryer I used. When it doesn’t budge, I let out an irritated huff and yank again. It doesn’t open. Fuckity-fuck. I resist the urge to bang my head against the stupid machine, reminding myself the hot bloke behind me already suspects I’m crazy. 

“Need help?”

I whip my head around. The bloke’s hands are in his jean pockets and an amused smirk is on his face. It only makes him more attractive. Scowling, I grunt and gesture towards the dryer. “Bloody thing won’t budge.”

I move aside and he takes my place before pushing up his jumper sleeves to his elbow (I do not stare at his toned forearms any longer than necessary). He wraps his long fingers around the handle and yanks it open with a grunt. Clothes tumble out of the dryer, landing on his lap, on the floor, and some even reach my feet. 

I pick up a red jumper with a glittery reindeer on it and frown. “This isn’t mine.”

The bloke stares at it for a moment. The tips of his ears turn red and he stands up and grabs it from my hands. “It’s mine.”

I frown. What? “Wait, so then if my underwear-”

“And my jumper-”

“Someone must’ve-”

“Mixed up our laundry loads,” he finishes with a frown.

“What sort of idiot would do that?”

The bloke looks away. Now, the redness has spread to his cheeks and he scratches the back of his neck again. “An arsehole one,” he mutters.

I peer at him suspiciously before shrugging and bending down to pick up my clothes. He’s probably just feeling as weird as I am. “I’m Lily, by the way,” I say as I put a pair of black leggings in my bag.

“I know.” At my confused look, he elaborates. “We live on the same floor.”

“Oh.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Then, I frown. “Wait a second. Are you in the flat that keeps throwing those annoying parties?”

The bloke scowls. “That would be me. But those are my flatmate’s parties, not time.”

“Sirius, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. Well, my flatmate’s Sirius. I’m James. James Potter.”

James. I internally groan. Of course even his name is bloody attractive. Is there anything about this guy that isn’t? “Well, nice to meet you, James.”

“You too, Lily.”

I nearly sigh at the way my name falls from his lips. He makes his sound like some exotic plant, not a regular house flower everyone and their mother has. God, what’s wrong with me? I have it so bad and I've only just met him!  

He pulls out the rest of the clothes from his dryer and we work in silence, occasionally handing each other pieces of clothing. I blush when I realize I’m holding a pair of football covered boxers and he looks away and ruffles his hair when he hands me a lacy black bra. 

We finish in about ten minutes and once the floors are clothes-free and we both have our clothing in our respective bags, we awkwardly stare at each other, neither of us saying anything.

He breaks the silence. “I better get going. I have football practice in a few and Coach is going to murder me if I’m late.”

I swallow as I imagine him in a football jersey, sweaty and messy-haired, running down a field. So fucking hot. “Yeah, I have revision.”

Yet, neither of us move. We just stare at each other and for some reason, it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable, even and this time I’m positive his eyes fall to my lips.

James hoists his bag higher up on his shoulder and says, “It was nice meeting you, Lily.”

“Yeah, you too.” I try to ignore the pang of disappointment in my chest and watch him as he pushes the door open and leaves with a little wave.

That night, he texts me.

Unknown number: Hey this is James from the laundry room

Unknown number: I got your number from the building directory

Unknown number: And I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for dinner sometime

Unknown number: Of course if dinner sounds weird after you walked in on me holding your underwear that’s fine too

I giggle and text him back.

Lily: Dinner sounds great

The next week, we meet at a Chinese restaurant and I wear my nice panties for good luck. It’s awkward at first and we’re both at the table across from each not saying anything and studiously studying the menu but then he breaks the silence by starting a story about the cute redhead down the hall and his flatmate’s plan to get him and her together and I tell him about the time someone stole my bras. By the end of the night, I’ve laughed so much I cried and a warm, fuzzy feeling has settled in my stomach and when we’re in front of the door to my flat and he leans forward and presses his lip to mine, I let him.

xoxo

Yes, I typed this at 2am. Please reblog if you enjoyed.

#jily #jily fic #james potter x lily evans #james x lily #james potter and lily evans #james and lily #my jily #jily au

[citrinekay]

Holden is irritable and sleep-deprived. Bill handles it like a champ and convinces Holden to take a nap only by offering to lay down with him.

I keep seeing that post going around about how 35 year old writers just want their two characters to lay in bed together and get the best night’s sleep of their lives. and honestly??? i’m not 35 yet but what a mood. I just really really want these overworked boys to get the rest they deserve! Thanks for the prompt 💕

The Friday after they return from a three week long stretch in Cape Cod battling sandy gravesites and wrangling high-strung socialites upset with their vacations being interrupted, Bill and Holden take the day off. Holden, who was against the suggestion, was out-voted by both Wendy and Bill who asserted that they both needed some rest before taking on the next case. 

Both of them had gotten very little sleep over the past few weeks with the Provincetown officials and a number of local high rollers breathing down their necks to put an end to the rapes and murders of three privileged teen girls. The trip ended in success, but Bill is not sure when he’ll ever get caught back up on his sleep. 

He sleeps in late, and wakes around ten to the buzz of his neighbor’s mower blasting by a few feet from his window. Rolling over with a groan, he wallows in irritation for the space of a minute before convincing himself to get up and not waste the day languishing in bed. 

He gets up, makes a quick breakfast, and starts a load of laundry before slouching down on the couch. The handful of chores are about all the energy he can muster with a bone-deep exhaustion still tugging at his limbs. He half-watches the midday baseball game projecting in sunny, over-saturated greens and blues all the way from Chicago before the timer on the washer jolts him awake again. 

While the laundry tumbles in the dryer, Bill takes himself to the kitchen to get a cup of water. His gaze glances off the telephone mounted on the wall before shifting to his watch. It’s edging closer to noon, and he can’t imagine Holden would have slept in so late. It must be safe to call now. 

The last thing he wants to do is disturb Holden’s rest. Holden always takes on the brunt of responsibility when it comes to their work, piling as much on his plate as he can possibly manage - and then some - mentally flogging himself if things don’t go according to plan. The last few days in Provincetown, he’d looked exhausted and threadbare, but hadn’t wanted to hear a word about stretching himself too thin. 

Bill picks up the telephone and dials. The phone rings several times, and Bill chews his lower lip nervously. 

Finally, Holden picks up with a strident “Hello?”

“Hey,” Bill says, frowning softly at Holden’s tone. “It’s me.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, not all.” Holden says, “I was working.”

“Working? Holden, we’re supposed to be taking this day off to rest.” 

“No, you took it off the rest. I told you and Wendy I was fine.”

Bill clenches his jaw. Now that makes it sound like he’s slacking off for no good reason. He struggles not to match Holden’s brusque tone. 

“Fine.” He says, “Can I at least come over and keep you company?” 

“I guess so.” Holden says, sounding bewildered. “If you want to watch me work on this profile, be my guest.”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that then I guess I will come over, and you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Holden’s sigh rustles across the line. “Why? So we can just piss each other off?”

“No.” Bill says, not taking the bait. “I’ll bring beer.”

“Great.”

“Great. See you in a little bit.” 

They hang up, and Bill puts his hands on his hips while his gaze wanders around the quiet, sun-bathed kitchen. The back yard needs mowed. The weeds are trying to take back the patio space, but he figures he can push it off until tomorrow. Despite Holden’s cantankerous mood, he’d trade coaxing him into putting a pause on work and getting some much needed rest over riding the lawn mower under the baking sun any day. 

Bill pulls the laundry out of the dryer, and only takes out what he needs before leaving the rest in an unfolded pile. Throwing on khakis and a polo, he grabs the case of beer out of the fridge, and leaves the house. 

Once he reaches Holden’s apartment, he knocks on the door, and barely waits for Holden’s reply of “it’s open” before slipping inside. Bill frowns as he eases the door shut behind him. 

Holden has the curtains drawn over the bright, July sunshine, leaving the room in semi-darkness. His desk in the corner is piled with case files and legal pads, and the wall above it is decorated with a dozen crime scene photos held up by strips of white tape. The coffee table is it’s own mess of documents, police reports, and Post-It notes.

Holden emerges from the kitchen in a white t-shirt and blue flannel pajama pants. He’s carrying a cup of coffee in his hand as he makes his way back across the room to the desk. 

“Hey.” Bill says. 

“Hi.” Holden mutters, raising his eyebrows as if to ask whether Bill is pleased that he’d forced his way into this madness. “Excuse the mess. I have more room to spread out at work.” 

Bill ignores that pointed remark, and holds up the case of beer. “You want one?”

“Coffee first.” Holden says, taking a sip from his mug, and plopping down at the desk. 

“It’s past noon.”

“I know. I can tell time.”

Bill clenches his jaw. If they hadn’t just come off such a difficult case, Holden’s attitude might have warranted a stronger response. This conversation might have been going something like, “are you begging to get turned over my knee?” But this isn’t playing hard-to-get. Even in the shadows of the apartment, Bill can see the dark circles and glassy, bloodshot quality of Holden’s eyes. 

He puts the beer in the fridge, and wanders back out to the kitchen. 

“Looks like you’re really dug in.” He observes, scanning the documents on the coffee table. “How long have you been up?”

“A bit.” Holden says, not looking up from his legal pad. “I went for a run, and grabbed a bagel at that place down the street before starting on this.” 

Bill circles the coffee table, and edges closer to him. “Did you sleep okay?” 

Holden sighs, and sets his pen down firmly. “Bill, I said you could come over. I didn’t say you could badger me with questions and distract me from this profile I’m working on.”

“Fine. Then tell me what you have so far and maybe I can help you.”

Holden groans, running a hand over his face. “Bill, please. My head hurts.”

“Then give it a break for a damn second.” 

Holden slumps lower in his chair, a scowl forming on his face. 

“Here, stop looking at this for a minute.” Bill says, crouching down beside him, and swiveling the chair to face him. 

Holden tries not to meet his eyes as Bill slowly runs his hands up his thighs. As they reach his hips, he squirms, and draws in a deep, shaky breath. His knuckles press against his mouth, silencing the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Bill asks, softly. 

Holden’s jaw clenches. He gives his head a slight shake. 

Bill sighs. Just what he’d been afraid of. When they’re working, Holden’s brain is always working at high velocity, and sometimes it’s a struggle to get it to slow down even once the case is over like some kind of doped up fight or flight response. 

“You have to stop working for a minute.” Bill says, as gently as he can. 

Holden turns his face away, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Look at me.” Bill says, giving his hips a squeeze. “Holden.”

Holden’s eyes glisten as he opens them, and tremulously meets Bill’s gaze. 

“You cannot work like this.” Bill says, “Look at this place - it looks like a madman lives here.” 

Holden lets out a choked laugh. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

“Come on. You need some rest.”

“I don’t think I can.” Holden says, “It’s pointless. I laid in bed for six hours last night trying to sleep, and I couldn’t get my mind to shut off. So I might as well work if that’s what my brain wants to do.”

Bill rises to his feet, and tugs persistently on Holden’s hand. “Come on.” 

“Bill, no. I think-”

“You’re not thinking.” Bill says, pulling him to his feet. “Not after being awake for over twenty-four damn hours. Come on, I’ll lay with you.”

Holden braces his hands against Bill’s chest, resisting for the space of a minute before nodding. “Okay. Fine. But if I’m still awake in an hour, I’m getting back up.”

“Deal.” 

Bill leads them down the hallway to Holden’s bedroom, leaving the lights off as they find their way to the sheets in the darkness. He urges Holden into the bed first, and climbs in beside him. Pulling the sheets over them, he settles down with his chest tucked against Holden’s back and his arm wrapped around his waist. 

After several minutes, Holden exhales a resigned sound. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Neither of them mention that they’d spent nearly every single day for the past weeks working closely on the case. It’s funny how Bill can miss Holden so much when they’re working, how they’re physically so close to one another, yet emotionally separated by the rigors of the case. It’s best not to let personal feelings overlap with professional ones. They have to stay focused on the work, but more than that, they have to keep the good things they have between them safe and sacred, untouched by the darkness they’re witnessing. 

Bill slides a hand up Holden’s back, and gently massages his shoulder. He can’t see Holden’s face in the darkness, but he can feel the way his limbs begin to deflate, tension melting from his body. He sighs softly, turning onto his stomach as Bill’s hand works its way across stiff muscles. 

“How’s that?” Bill murmurs, leaning in to kiss the back of Holden’s neck. 

“Mm.” Holden murmurs, sleepily. 

Bill smiles, but doesn’t say another word to interrupt the gradual decline from high-strung exhaustion to deep slumber. He eases his hand into a soothing, circular rubbing motion until he feels Holden go limp, his breath expelling in deep, heavy sighs. Sleeping at last. 

Bill sinks back against the pillows, and listens to him breathe and dream. It isn’t long before his own lingering exhaustion overcomes him. He falls asleep, satisfied with the thought that there’s no alarm set to wake them. They have the whole day to sleep if they like, to rest, and to not think of anything except the simple pleasure of lying next to each other. 

#bill x holden #mindhunter #my writing #Anonymous

[aestheticsandwriting]

One-Shot a Day, Day 6: Snowball Fights.

Sorry for the delay in not posting this yesterday, it was a crazy day. I’ll be posting today’s in just a few minutes!

Summary: Everyone comes to town for their yearly Christmas Get-together. Laughter, naps, important family news, and snowball fights ensue.

This was the time of year Tucker loved; every-one always busted ass all year long, saving vacation days and money so they could take the time to come visit. Occasionally, when they first started the yearly get-together, they had gone elsewhere, but eventually realized that, between him and Wash, Sarge, and Church and Caboose, it made more sense for the others to come to them. 

“Junior is your room ready for Theta to get here?” 

“Almost, Papa Wash!” Tucker smiles as he finishes putting the last few dishes from lunch into the dishwasher, setting it to delay starting until that evening, knowing that Wash had laundry going. Wash deemed it necessary for the house to be spotless, while Tucker and Junior both preferred a clean-yet-lived-in feel. The former soldier smiles again, rinsing his hands and drying them as he hears Wash ask their son to pick up something else when he’s finished in his room, the blond stumbling into the kitchen with an arm full of towels. 

“Tucker, did you start the dishwasher?”

“Nope, set it to delay since I knew you were doing laundry.”

“Oh thank you.” He plops the towels into the washer that’s in a little closet space on the opposite side of the kitchen from where Tucker’s standing. 

“Hey, Wash?”

“Hm?”

“Take it easy, yeah? The house looks fine, and you know none of them are going to judge us. Except maybe Donut cause we don’t have more decorations up, but what’s new there?” The smaller and the two men makes his way across the tile floor, socked feet barely making a sound, and stands on his toes to plop a kiss on his boyfriend’s temple. 

“I know. It’s just… dad always had to have the house spotless, and I guess that’s something that’s stayed with me.”

“I know. But is it worth the stress?”

“Not really.” A pause as he measures out the detergent, pours it in, and starts the machine, turning in his lover’s arms. “Let me make the guest beds, vacuum the carpet in the living room and guest rooms since it hasn’t been done in a while, and then I’ll stop other than finishing the load of towels?”

“You start vacuuming the living room, I’ll make the guest beds. Are the sheets on the beds?”

“The front room has the sheets piled on it, the back room doesn’t, sheets are in the dryer still. Thank you, Lav.”

“Of course. Now let’s get to work; North texted about thirty minutes ago, they had stopped to stretch, and it should only be about an hour until they get here.”

“Sounds good.” Dropping a kiss on Tucker’s lips, the taller man shoves him away playfully, Tucker laughing as he bends down to grab the sheets from the dryer. 

“Dad! Papa Wash! Theta’s here!!” Nine-year-old Junior runs out of his room where he had been playing, Wash and Tucker curled up on the couch discussing the upcoming Christmas dinner. The boy throws the front door open, a blast of cold air causing Tucker to curl tighter into his boyfriend. “Theta!” 

“Junior, come back in, you don’t have shoes on!” 

“Okay, dad!” The two boys, nearly inseparable, run into the house together, Theta dropping a duffle bag at the entrance, running over to give the two men hugs.

“Hi Wash, hi tucker!”

“Hey Theta, it’s good to see you again. You can take your stuff in to J’s room like normal.” The couple stands, each slipping their sneakers and another coat on, stepping out the front door. 

“Need some help?”

“Please! Apparently my son decided to abandon us.” The tall blond laughs, rolling his eyes fondly. “I can’t say I blame him, though, he waits all year to see Junior.”

“Yeah, Junior’s been talking about it non-stop since Thanksgiving. Hey South, hair’s nice.” Tucker compliments the female, who’s died her previously blond hair a bright purple since last year, having also had it cut recently, the short strands spiked in different directions. 

“‘Sup, assholes?” 

“Wash, remind me again why we let her stay in our house?” Tucker smirks, waiting for a punch to his arm.

A simultaneous, “be nice,” comes from the mouths of both blond males, rolling their eyes at their boyfriend and sister respectively. 

“When are the other’s coming in?”

“Connie should be here tonight, she’s getting off work in about thirty minutes and then has to run home to do a few things before heading down, York and Carolina will be in sometime tomorrow afternoon, Lina has an appointment in the morning.” The four make their way inside, South taking her bag to the back room she’s using to bunk with Connie, North taking his into the office, Tucker following with the bag that holds the air matress he’ll be sleeping on, and Wash setting the small bag with the presents down by the tree.

“Are Grif and Simmons staying with Sarge again?”

“Yep, They’re staying with him, and so is Donut. I think Church and Caboose are letting Kai stay with them -she’s strangely good with Caboose- but that’s it. Last year was too overwhelming for the big guy. Maine’s got a hotel room like normal since he needs to be able to be away from people sometimes. So we’re the full house.”

“Well you know I appreciate you letting Theta and I crash here.”

“Of course. 

The next few days leading up to Christmas are a blur of people. Between the six people -plus York and Carolina’s dog, Delta- staying at Wash and Tucker’s and the other seven people coming and going at all different times, there’s never a boring moment, but Tucker wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Christmas finally rolls around, and everyone is piled into the house by eleven, Maine being the last to show up, surprising nobody. Christmas lunch is filled with laughter and stories of the previous year, and also excited yelling from Junior and Theta when they realize that it’s snowing again, hard. “Can we have a snowball fight after lunch, pleeeaaaasee dad?!” That’s Junior’s voice, Tucker whinces slightly at the volume of it. 

“Yes, I’m sure we can.”

“YES!” That’s Junior and Theta combined. 

“And to think, give it another couple of years and we’ll have another voice joining in.” North laughs, glancing pointedly at York and Carolina, the couple smiling brightly as the redhead places a hand on her rounded stomach. “Speaking of which, I believe you said you had some news? Do we know if it’s a boy or a girl?” The table goes quiet, all eyes turning to the pair.

“We do.” York grins, dark eye sparkling mischievously. 

“Well?” Wash prompts, wanting to know his sister and brother-in-law’s news, excited to find out if he’s having a niece or a nephew. 

“We’re…” Carolina glances at her husband, brows furrowing slightly and she bites her bottom lip. A slight nod from the dark-haired man sitting beside her. “We’re having twins. A girl and a boy.” The table erupts, cheers, congratulations, and exclamations from everyone around bringing a few tears to the redheads eyes as everyone stands to give her hugs, Maine included, and Church just barely remembering to catch Caboose in time so he doesn’t hurt the shorter woman.

After a while of talking and present opening, Junior and Theta ask if they can finally go have the snowball fight and everyone agrees. Bundling up and stepping into Wash and Tucker’s sizable backyard they start deciding on teams. “Theta and I are on the same team!” Junior announces, the purple-clad boy nodding in agreement, throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders. 

“Alright, how about Theta, Junior, Wash, Simmons, Lina, Maine, York, South, and Kai on one team and Church, Caboose, Sarge, Grif, Connie, North, Donut, and me on the other?” After everyone agrees on Tucker’s team idea, they part sides, giving themselves fifteen minutes to construct a fort before the fight begins. 

“Time’s up, let the fight begin!” Wash calls out, Junior and Theta letting snow fly before he’s hardly finished with the phrase, Theta’s snow hitting Caboose right in the face, sending the blue-clad man laughing, throwing a handful of almost unpacked snow flinging back, never reaching close to a target. 

As the snow around them becomes sparse, the groups start venturing further away from their ‘bases’, closer into the middle towards each other. Simmons spots an opportunity, scooping a handful of snow and shoving down his boyfriend’s shirt as the darker-skinned man was retreating, laughing as he shudders with the cold. 

“You’re gunna pay for that, Simmons!” 

“If you can catch me!”

“Connie, duck!” Not knowing where the voice came from, the short, dark-haired female squats… right into a snowball thrown by South… who’s on the other team and had called for her to duck. 

Meanwhile, ten feet to her left, Tucker is sticking his tongue out at his boyfriend on the opposite side, who’s been trying to hit him for five minutes with no luck, only to get smacked right in the nose by his son and Theta, Wash laughing as he releases another snowball, this one landing perfectly on Tucker’s forehead now that his boyfriend was trying to spit the snow out of his mouth, making him laugh harder. “Yeah! Good shot uncle Wash!” Theta calls. 

The battle rages on for another thirty minutes, before Carolina bows out to go inside, exhausted and getting colder than she should be, York stepping out of the fight to go with her. Ten minutes later they call a truce, declaring a tie like usual, the group all tumbling inside laughing, covered in snow that Wash knows will leave puddles all over the floor. But maybe Tucker was right; he needed to take it easy more and stress about it less. Sure the water would need to be dried, but that isn't that big of a deal, a small amount of water on the floor for a short period wouldn’t damage it.

“Oh my gosh, what is that smell?” Connie inhales deeply, the others following her lead.

“In the kitchen!” York calls from the kitchen.

“Is that hot cocoa?” Tucker turns the corner, breathing in deep again.

“It will be once I get it all warmed up and combined. I hope you don’t mind that I used basically the rest of your milk supply? It was a lot, but I’ll be happy to replace it.”

“Ah, it’s fine. We’re not drinking as much as I expected, and homemade hot cocoa is worth it. Where’s Lina?”

“Showering. She wanted to get warmed up.”

“Is she okay? I hope she didn’t feel like she had to go out there, I don’t want her hurt or sick” That’s Wash making his way into the kitchen, arms wrapping around Tucker’s waist, eyebrows knitting together in concern. 

“She’s fine, Wash. Just really cold, and a warm showering was the easiest thing for her to get warmed up quick. She’s been doing great about knowing her limits.”

“Good.” Tucker feels the blond behind him relax at the words, knowing how worried he’s been about his sister. Wash turns, walking back into the living room to sit with the rest of the group while Tucker pulls out mugs and the mini marshmallows for the group. 

When Wash hears his sister open the back bathroom’s door he excuses himself, padding into the back hallway. “Hey, you didn’t get too cold, did you?”

“No, I’m fine Wash. Mostly just really tired now. You’re not upset that we waited to tell you we were having twins, right?”

“Of course not. As long as you -all three of you- are healthy?”

“Doctor says we’re doing great.”

“Good.” The taller of the two wraps his sister in a hug, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Wash… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you have a problem with us naming our baby girl Allison?”

“For mom? Of course not. I think it would be a great name for any daughter of yours.”

“Thanks.” 

“Of course.”

“Hot cocoa! Who wants it with marshmallows?” Comes Tucker’s voice. 

“I’m gunna put my stuff away and then be out. Cocoa with marshmallows for me please?”

“Course, Lina.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent talking, laughing, napping, and playing various different games, and by the time everyone has left, the few remaining in the house are exhausted, all quickly retreating to bed.

Yes, this is the time Tucker loves the most. Friends and found family all together making memories. And the snowball fights are fun too.

#tuckington #yorkalina #grimmons #rvb #Red vs Blue #carwash sibs #one shot #one-shot a day #december one shot a day #mod becca #becca's writings #becca's writing

[b-icetea]

75 for prompt thing? xx

Here you go! Thanks for sending the prompt! :D Can’t write short stuff apparently … 

75. “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Matteo hasn’t been feeling well for two days.

His nose is running like the leakiest faucet ever known to man and his head feels like some extra stupid bees made a nest out of cotton in there and are now angrily buzzing about how that isn’t the kind of house bees like to live in.

Matteo hates being sick, knows he’s a baby when he is. Not that he whines a lot about it, but in the sense that he lies in bed about as capable as any human that can’t do much because its body doesn’t really work and it doesn’t understand why and how and what the hell?

It’s been ages since he’s last been this sick. He doesn’t actually remember being this sick, ever. He probably repressed the memory. And he will do the same again once whatever plague this is passes, because he sure as hell does not want to remember what this feels like. No. Nope.

Matteo makes a feeble attempt at turning from his back to his side, because breathing doesn’t work so well right now and it feels like his own body weight is too much for his lungs. Which sounds dramatic. Because it is. It is dramatic and Matteo knows he is being dramatic but this is shit and who even cares if he throws a pity party in his own head?

He feels disgusting. The blanket sticks to him, because he’s sweaty, but he knows he can’t throw off the covers because then he’ll be cold. It’s not worth the effort. He’ll just have to lie in this puddle and die. Dying actually sounds nice right about now. Or maybe he already died and he’s in hell. Dead people probably leak just as much as he is leaking right now.

Weakly, he grabs a tissue from the box on the bedside table and blows his nose. The skin around his nostrils hurts and he thinks the skin has to be red. He crumples the tissue in his fist, but doesn’t throw it away because he knows from experience he’ll need it again soon enough and he doesn’t have an endless tissue supply. David promised he would get some after he’s done with his classes for today.

That was at least 100 years ago. Matteo feels like he hasn’t seen David in forever. Maybe David has seized the opportunity and run away. Taken a different name and made himself a new life somewhere. Detroit maybe. Some place where Matteo’s snot won’t reach him.

Matteo tries to clear his dry and achy throat, but that only makes him cough, which hurts like fuck. His whole body tenses as he tries to hold back the coughs so that his throat won’t feel like someone is enthusiastically trying out a brand new cheese grater on it. But that only makes it worse, makes the coughs weirder and the air that gets into his lungs less. In the end, he has to give up and just let the coughs out and hurt himself with them.

The coughing stops, eventually. He’s a little out of breath. Even the air that flows through his panting mouth feels awful. His mouth is dryer than before and he can feel how cracked his lips are.

He needs something to drink. And some pills for his throat.

Matteo doesn’t want to get up.

It takes him a few minutes to convince his body that moving is a thing that has to happen right now. The heaviness in his limbs isn’t unfamiliar, just usually brought on by something else. He tiredly closes his eyes, not wanting to take a dive down that particular rabbit hole, and slowly gathers his body up.

Getting out of bed works. Somehow. Matteo doesn’t want to question it too much. He’s afraid the extra effort that would take might be the last straw and his whole body will just crumble into a useless, stinky, slightly moist heap on the floor.

If David ever gets back out of his witness protection, he’ll have to clean that up and they’re also freshly out of garbage bags so that would be a deeply not-good situation for everyone involved.

Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles into the kitchen. Grabs one of the dirty glasses that sits beside the sink. He definitely cannot be bothered to get a clean one from the cupboard because that would mean stretching and looking up and Matteo’s eyes fucking hurt, okay? It’s not like it matters. The glass is either his or David’s. It’s not like he can get any sicker (???) and if it’s David’s, well, he regularly, enthusiastically puts his mouth all over his boyfriend. Who cares about a used glass?

Matteo fills the glass with tap water and takes a few gulps. He keeps drinking until it stops hurting, which actually takes a while and he grimaces every time the water passes down his throat. He finds the pills in a box that’s lying on the kitchen table and also finds the time to hate himself for leaving them there instead of taking them to his bedroom. He takes one now. It’s red and tastes the way he feels.

He stuffs the rest of them into the pocket of his sweat pants and shuffles out of the kitchen.

Just as he passes through the door the world decides that left has to be down and right has to be up now. He lets out a weird sound and tries to grab the door frame but instead he hears a door slam and the sound of keys falling and his hand connects to something soft.

“Matteo!”

He opens his eyes, but the world is still all wrong, so he closes them again. He’s trying to get awareness of his body back, but it’s hard, because he knows it’s stupidly contorted. The doorframe is digging into his side a little, but he’s slumped against what can only be David’s chest. He’s clutching at the soft fabric of the dark grey sweater David put on in the morning. His cheek is smushed against his boyfriend’s shoulder.

Matteo makes some sort of noise that sounds like a bridge troll gurgling.

“Everything okay?”

Matteo makes the sound again because it actually sums up everything he feels.

David snorts. “Okay, let’s get you back to bed.”

That probably means David wants Matteo to move his feet. Matteo leans against him harder.

David’s arms wrap more securely around him and he actually starts physically shoving him forward. Matteo feels like a wheelbarrow but he goes along anyway.

They stumble once or twice but, in the end, Matteo gets deposited on his bed. He lets his body fall, which he regrets instantly, because it makes his head hurt worse.

“What were you doing up anyway?”, David asks, sitting down on the bed as well, while Matteo crawls up the mattress a bit.

“Throat hurts”, he says and the fact that he sounds about as shit as he feels is weirdly satisfying. “Kitchen is where the pills were.”

David hums.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Bit.”

Matteo blearily opens his eyes when he can feel David getting closer. He’s always aware of where David is in relation to him. Always keeps a look out and always feels better the closer David is. He knows David can’t stay home from uni just to take care of him, but that doesn’t stop him from dreaming about it.

“Hey”, David says and something in Matteo resonates. It is like that sometimes. Matteo has gotten used to David. But sometimes David does something that strikes a chord in him. The little “hey” is soft und David makes everything sound so good anyway. Matteo hasn’t ever loved anybody’s voice. But he loves David’s. “You fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

A smile colors his words. Matteo raises his gaze, even though it hurts, because he wants to look at it. And it’s worth it, because the smile makes the hurt in his head feel less.

“Always want your attention. And falling is the only thing I can manage right now, so.”

He limply rolls towards David and buries his head in his boyfriend's soft belly. A cool hand strokes back his hair and Matteo almost cries because of how good it feels.

“My hair is gross,” he murmurs, because it is and David needs to know in case he didn’t already.

David makes a sound that tells Matteo that he agrees. It doesn’t seem to stop him.

Matteo just closes his eyes and exhales a little. It’s stupid. His throat still hurts, his head still aches, his nose is still running. But there’s David’s hand and David’s voice and David all around him. It’s the first time in his life since he was a kid that he can remember one person being enough to make everything more bearable.

He exhales slowly. And smiles a little, when David puts a kiss on his damp hair.

___

If anyone wants to send me more prompts, here’s the list.

#druck #angelbeee #davenzi writing prompts #davenzi #datteo #matteo florenzi #david schreibner #b-icetea's writing prompt fills

[spookyjuicefiction]

Serendipitous - Chapter 18

MASTER LIST

Bucky x Reader - I’m trying to finish it y’all, I have other ideas I wanna get to!

________________________________________

January came and went, bringing flurries of fluffy snow that built up on the window sill and dragged in through the front door clinging to boots and scarves. February was worse: icy storms crept in during the nighttime, freezing the pipes and making the sidewalks treacherous to walk upon. Sometimes the howling wind outside would prompt Bucky’s nightmares, reminding him of the frozen landscape in Siberia where he had been held prisoner as the Winter Soldier, and he would wake shivering and sobbing in the night. These nights were terrible, but for the most part still we trudged on with our routine.

As March began to thaw and we could feel our fingers again, I wondered to myself how much longer we would be keeping this up. I had nearly finished my thesis by now, having been hard at work on it non-stop for months, and I was starting to worry what shape my life was going to take once I completed it and had nothing else to do. At the beginning of all of this, I never imagined we would be able to stay hidden for this long, although what I was expecting, I do not know. This plan was pretty half-baked. And now it was incredibly complicated, thanks to the fact that I had fallen in love with my test subject. So how much longer could I play house before reality was to set in?

The answer came in the first week of April. I was at the laundromat alone folding a load of towels while another load spun in the dryer, glancing every few moments up at the boxy old television mounted in the corner of the room that was flashing the news. My eyes widened and I nearly dropped the washcloth I was holding as the headline scrolled by: BOMBING AT THE VIENNA INTERNATIONAL CENTRE DURING THE SIGNING OF THE SOKOVIA ACCORDS.

“Hey, can you turn the volume up?” I asked the shop owner in Romanian. I was getting better at the language, but fortunately the news broadcast was in English.

“More than seventy people have been injured. At least twelve are dead, including Wakanda’s King T’Chaka. Officials have released a video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier.”

To say my mouth went dry as a bone would be an understatement. It felt more like the floor had opened up and the pit of the earth had swallowed me whole. On the screen showed an enhanced image from security footage of Bucky--my Bucky-- with a hood drawn up walking away from the scene of the crime. But it’s impossible! He’s been here all this time! There’s no way he could have gone to Vienna for the day… and he would never do that! ...Would he? Fear and panic were surging through me as my brain jumped from thought to thought, confused and overwhelmed. I noticed that the shop owner was looking at me curiously, and I realized she was likely wondering if my “husband” that I sometimes do laundry with is the same man she had just seen on the tv.

Stay. Calm. Hastily I tossed the remainder of the towels in a pile and scurried over to the dryer to check the tumbling load. I paced in front of it, checking my watch and watching the tv out of the corner of my eye for developments on the story until it finally beeped. I scooped the clothes haphazardly into the bag still damp and scorching hot, giving the shopkeeper a quick wave as I scuttled into the street and hurried toward the apartment. I could have kicked myself then for not insisting that Bucky and I get burner phones in case of an emergency. We had grown too complacent in our quiet life to imagine what would happen if shit hit the fan.

Unless he didn’t want me to be able to contact him, because he was off committing crimes all this time. The thought sprung unbidden to my mind and I cursed, angry at myself for thinking so lowly of him but unable to shake it away. Was it possible he was betraying me all along? I didn’t want to believe it, but my analytical mind could not help but recognize that I had never once seen the docks where he said that he worked. And that he was, after all, The Winter Soldier.

Still, I reasoned, trying to blink away the tears that had risen to my eyes, there was no way in hell that he could have gone to Vienna and back without my knowing it. Time wise, it was just completely impossible. Even so, my hands shook violently as I maneuvered the key into the lock of number 13 and pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head whipped up from where he was crouching next to the dresser, and a strangled cry of relief tore from my throat as I realized that he was here. Here, with me, like he had always been, and not in Vienna. Not on the lam from committing a horrible terrorist attack. Hating myself for doubting him, doubting us, I dropped the laundry and ran to him, throwing my arms around him and allowing a few tears to fall.

“What the fuck is going on?!” I hissed at him, pulling away and getting a look at the fear in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said, frantically running a hand through his long hair, “someone’s trying to frame me for this.” He had evidently heard the news at work and come straight home.

“They have a photo of you,” my voice was high and panicky. “Everyone around here knows what you look like. They’ll come for us!”

Bucky did not disagree. “Which is why we need to pack a bag and get out of here, as quickly as we can. As soon as a tip comes in, they’ll be all over us. They might already be. The photo was in this morning’s papers.” He grasped my shoulders firmly and looked pleadingly into my eyes. “Pull it together and let’s go.”

I did as I was told, moving numbly around the apartment to gather my papers and some clothes, trying to ignore the lump in my throat as I passed around the room. Library books that would never be returned to Maria. The boombox that we would no longer dance to. The noisy bed in which we would never make love again. Pull it together, I tried to tell myself, taking a bracing look at the onyx ring on my left hand. We still have what’s most important: each other. Bucky pulled on a black baseball cap and a jacket over my favorite red henley shirt, giving me a comforting smile before nodding to the top of the refrigerator. The knife.

I had just snatched it up and tucked it safely into my back pocket when the door suddenly busted open with a loud bang! I dropped back in surprise, cowering behind the kitchen island.

Steve Rogers was filling the doorway of number 13 with his huge, muscular frame. Fully clothed in his Captain America gear, shield on his back, he took a cautious step into the room and eyed me curiously before turning to Bucky, who had come up to stretch his metal arm protectively out in front of me.

After a beat of silence, Rogers asked Bucky, “Do you know me?”

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering what game he was trying to play. He had remembered Steve since I had met him.

“I know you’re nervous,” Rogers replied, “and you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.” His eyes flicked over to me again, obviously confused by my part in this.

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.” Bucky’s voice was quiet and curt. I took a step closer to him, standing by my man. I would have fought anyone, including Captain America, to prove his innocence.

“Well, the people who think you did are coming here now, and they’re not planning on taking you alive,” the Captain said gravely, taking a step towards us. Bucky gently pushed me behind him and said slowly,

“That’s smart. Good strategy.” He glanced at me over his shoulder and gave me a little nod. Pulling my backpack on, I reached behind me and fingered hilt of the knife in my sweaty palm, wishing I knew how in the hell to use it. Bucky, meanwhile, was tugging off his gloves and checking his own pockets.

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck,” Rogers urged, taking another step forward. Bucky sighed.

“It always ends in a fight.” Reaching down, he picked up his pack off the floor and shoved it into my shaking hands. He looked hard into my eyes, and I nodded with understanding. He was going to have to fight our way out of this. I was going to have to run.

“You pulled me from the river!” Rogers was growing impatient and urgent. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said without looking at him. His eyes were still on me, and he reached out to brush away a stray tear that had fallen down my cheek with his flesh hand. I ghosted a kiss to the ivory wolf bead on his leather bracelet before we both turned back to face Steve Rogers, hand in hand.

“Yes, you do.” The eye contact between the two Howling Commandos was sad and meaningful for a few short seconds before the first grenade broke through the window, and all at once, our little world fell apart.

TAG LIST: @captain-chimichanga @allseasonssoldier @watchoutforfrostbite :)

#Serendipitous fic #spookyjuice #Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #Bucky angst #bucky fanfic #bucky x oc #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #steve rogers #captain america #captain america civil war #civil war au #winter soldier #marvel au #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #Sebastian Stan #ca:cw #avengers au #james buchanan barnes #james barnes

[letdecemberburninflames]

Bucky Barnes x Reader | Part 7

Summary: You and your best friend have been property of Hydra since you were children. You disappeared during WWII and were never seen again.

James Buchanan Barnes is struggling. He can’t tell the difference between memory and dreams. The counselor tells him you aren’t real. He’d do anything to prove her wrong.

Parts: Introduction  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 8

Fic Type: Bucky Barnes x Reader Series

Warnings: blood, sweat, tears

Author’s Note: nobody really reads these anyway, but you guys have been super supportive and I’m super happy I lost that bet.

It was a week before anyone, including Bucky, was allowed back into the medical ward. Not wanting to take any chances, Tony had the area reinforced with fire retardant materials. He also continued to joke about how he should have built a giant freezer for 003, and how Steve would feel right at home there. The doctors had managed to chip her out of the ice block and thaw the rest with a tool that strongly resembled an overpriced hair blow dryer. But it hardly mattered as she remained comatose.

According to the doctors, they were unsuccessful in getting 002 to rest much. She spent her time at the other woman’s bedside, prompting her to wake up. However, from what he had heard, she didn’t know her. The girl in the ice… 002 didn’t recognize her. Finding this out only made Bucky’s heart ache more, and he would have given anything to go comfort her.

No one could make him do anything. Not anymore. So one day, after hearing a particularly nasty report about how a nurse who had tried to sedate her had gotten practically seared and filleted, Bucky made an executive decision to ignore the Tony-induced mandate of zero contact outside of medical staff.

He easily gained access to the room, but not without a few aggressive negotiations. With his heart pounding in his chest, Bucky laid his hand on the cool metal handle of the door to their room. He stared at the wood grain in front of him. The only thing between him and many more horrible memories was this door. He stood there, expressionless, until the cool metal door handle turned warm beneath his touch. And finally, with a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped into the room.

002’s head whipped around at the sound of the door handle turning. Bucky walked into the room, quiet except for the sound of his boots on the floor. His eyes swept the room microanalysing every detail. On the bedside table, a plate of food sat untouched. The bed was made and clearly hadn’t been disturbed. The beeping of different monitors was a soft lullaby. The walls, floor, and sheets; everything was either white or black or gray. He had spent to many years in pristine and sanitary labs, and he knew she must have felt the same. To have been woken up from over seventy years of cryosleep only to be thrust back into a Hydra compound-esque environment by people she didn't know or understand so many years past her time must have been beyond terrifying. The near loss of her only companion only would have made it worse.

She was dressed in a hospital gown, which hung off her frame like a pillow case. Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes were underlined with streaks of purple and blue, the marks of a person who hasn't slept properly in a day or more. Her amber eyes, once glowing with life, were dull and without movement, like a dying fire.

002 stared at Bucky, formerly blank eyes widening with recognition. The fear faded from those embers that had once held so much pain and uncertainty. “It’s you.” She said. “James. James Barnes, the American.” American, Bucky.

Bucky's heart skipped a beat at her recognition. “Yeah.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I- She… This is my fault.”

He walked across the room to join 002 at 003’s bedside. “I have a friend… He was frozen in ice too. These people got him out and woke him up. They can save her too.”

They sat there in silence for a while. 002 watching 003, and Bucky watching 002.

“Who is she?” 002 asked.

Bucky stared at her. “...The one in the ice.”

“Yes.”

Bucky’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe what he had heard was true. “You really don’t know?” He took her silence as a yes. Bucky paused, unsure of how to answer without frightening the already weak woman. “She was your friend. Your best friend.” He looked at the ground. “You gave up everything for each other.”

002’s hollow eyes studied his face, gauging whether he was telling the truth or not. Deciding he was honest, she cocked her head to the side. “Tell me.”

Bucky heaved a sigh, shrugging his massive shoulders that dwarfed her easily. He dug through his mind, searching for a memory. “When you were children… She protected you. She fought Hydra tooth and nail. She fought and fought and fought until finally they broke her.” I broke her, Bucky thought of all the extra sessions he had had with the girl alone. “And then she was nothing, and you had learned to fight. From then on, you protected her.”

“What was she protecting me from?”

“An evil organization. Hydra.”

Something, something faint and far away, like a star in an endless ink black sky, flickers in the back of 002’s mind. “Hydra, evil.” She whispers.

“Uh… Yes.”

“You knew her name.” Bucky says suddenly.

“What?”

“Her name. Even after you had forgotten your own name, you remembered hers.” Bucky says, hope spiralling through him. “I read somewhere that coma patients can still hear everything that is said. They are alive inside their minds only. If you could say her name, maybe it would trigger a reaction strong enough to wake her up.”

002 looked down. “Buck… I barely remember anything. It would take a miracle-”

“Please. If you remember anything, you gotta remember how much you loved her.” Bucky took 002’s hand. “You would have given anything to protect her. You endured punishment after punishment just so she was safe.”

She nodded, eyes never leaving the face of the woman who lay so close to death. She studied her features, her F/H/C hair and peaceful expression. “I will try my best.”

---

“Tell me about the other one.”

Bucky spoke so frequently about 002, that Steve felt he knew nothing about 003 in comparison. The two girls were as different as, well, ice and fire. Something about her though… Steve couldn’t put his finger on it, but she was familiar. Like the way a passing scent on a drifting breeze can send you tumbling back to a specific date, a specific moment from years ago.

Blue eyes snapped shut, and in his mind’s eye, Bucky could see her. Eyes like crystals, sharp and cold. Defiant. Terrified. Broken.

“She used to speak,” He began, opening his eyes again. “She fought, even when she was a kid. Always fighting, never following orders.” He laughed grimly. “Could’ve stood up to all of Hydra, and Hitler to boot… especially when it came to 002.”

“What happened?”

Bucky frowned, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in concentration.

An empty room. He needed nothing but his hands anyway. Cold, metallic, unforgiving. He sat on the floor, facing the ten year old girl. Her arms were crossed, face contorted into a glare, with a gaze sharper than icicles.

Images flashed through his mind. That had been the day Hydra had decided that they had had enough of her insubordination. His orders? Make her comply, and if she didn’t, kill her. They could always find another mutant. They had before.

“Buck?”

“... I… I broke her.”

That day had nearly brought an end to the girl’s life. They had returned to find him standing in the center of the room, the small body mangled at his feet. Torn clothes, bruises in black and purple and yellow and green. A pool of blood so large it was a wonder she hadn’t died from exsanguination alone.

“Bucky-”

“Steve, I nearly killed her. She couldn’t’ve been older than ten, Steve. Ten! She nearly bled to death. The least I could’ve done was put her out of her misery. And do you know what I got in return for breaking her? Fuckin’ frostbite, and a steak for dinner and a shower.”

A/N: As always, comment or message me to be added to the tag list! 

Tag List: @mismatch-the-socks  @mutineeradept  @prxttybirdz  @koizorahana  @sammykat2hb  @marvel-is-my-life2099  @filia-sapientiae @tiffanypooh  @anise-d-castle6  @this-is-happening​  @some-person-somewhere​  @thegingerthatwaited​  @fightmeandmy100fandoms  @sexysamsungl​

#winter soldier #winter solider imagine #winter solider x reader #winter soldier one shot #winter soldier fanfiction #Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky imagine #bucky one shot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #avengers x reader #captain america x reader

[sian22redux]

He followed me home, chap. 3

Title: Hew followed me home,    For @theycallmebecca

Chapter 3  Beginnings:  

Rating:   Has gone up a bit.  Oopsie., grin.  

Summary   Chris and Y/N adopt a puppy to keep Dodger company and can’t settle on a name.  

Based on a prompt by @theycallmebecca because her Bosox took a series with my Indians.  Ah well they are both out of contention now :(   And because of that, to cheer her up, here’s a little of their backstory.  And the fulfillment of every Bosox fangirl’s fantasy date.

You can find Chapter 1   He Followed Me Home,  and   2 here:  here.  There will be one more after this.  Unbeta’d this time cuz it’s so overdue.  Will try to update and correct any glitches as I get the chance. 

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

You never planned on falling for Chris Evans.  

 Nope.   Nuh-unh.   You were not gonna go there.  

 You had just ended two years of heartbreak.  Sworn off of dating another working actor because self-absorption is really not your thing and you have no interest in a man mobbed by eager skirts (the perils of that scene you’ve learned the hard and public way).  

 But then on a bright, hard blue Atlanta morning, like most things in your life, it just sort of happens accidentally.….. 

Anthony Russo stands frowning down at his phone, thumbing his newest text away before sliding his glasses up on his head.  

He’s frazzled and unusually irritated: already sweating even though it’s five am.  The city is in heatwave and the production team are trying to get filming up and going before the sun makes the actors’ lives too miserable.  In half an hour they are due to be on Infinity Wars’ sprawling set.  

“Oh christ, not another one,” he mutters, shaking his ahead and pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. ��It is too early.  You are all wiped after months of location filming—coping with Murphy’s law and Mother Nature’s whim and as per usual every little thing that can go wrong has spiked the wheels.      

“What’s up?” you ask, turning your attention from marking up a message board.  

“Shiree’s got stomach flu.”  

 Ugh.  Shiree, a bouncy and fresh-faced CalState undergrad, is the sixth person on the crew to go down with a bug.   Not an auspicious sign.  You’ll have to check in with catering.  It might simply be the unrelenting heat or there might be a real problem with cross-contamination.  

Either way, you are now unhelpfully another Runner down.  

You swipe your ipad, pull up the day’s crew call.  It’s a mess of strike-outs and red-lined arrows.  Everyone is already replacing someone else.  

“I’ll sub,” you offer quickly and Anthony looks up, grateful but hesitant.  It’s not your job. Getaway Productions still needs you for continuity but after ten years in you are pretty sure you can multi-task.  

Blindfolded and walking backwards.  

“You sure?”

“Yup.  Totally. I am a master at pouring brown bilge water into too thin paper cups.”  

Anthony grins.  Both of you have been there, way back in your resumes. It’s part of the biz.   “Thanks, Y/N.”

This is how you wind up an hour later with hot coffee dripping off your hand,   apologizing to the film’s tall bearded lead.  

The actors for the morning’s scenes are gathered in an unusually bleary group. Quiet but intent, listening to Joe’s breakdown of the sequencing.   You are just about to tap on “Steve Rogers’ shoulder and offer him a cup of joe when Dave Bautista, that mountain of a man seemingly wide as he is tall, shuffles in a little late.  

He crosses too close behind you, bumps his massive bulk against your shoulder and you are knocked straight forward.  

Into Chris Evan’s broad and muscled back.

“Fuck, what?”  Chris exclaims, turning around, surprised and startled as half a cup of black no sugar (ugh why was the lid too loose?) seeps into the dark Nomad suit.  

You stand there, appalled, shaking the liquid off your hand and trying to ignore the sting.   The coffee was hot.  Too hot.   Fresh out of the canteen and hopefully hasn’t burned his skin.  Oh god.  

“Mr Evans, I am so, so sorry!”  Your words are almost tripping over each other in your haste to apologize. “Are you ok?”  

“Fine. I’m fine,” he says, craning his neck and rubbing at the dark wet patch that spreads from his lower back to his buttocks. “Just wet.  Don’t worry about me.  Are you …??”   He looks up and his tawny brows tug together.  “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”    

 You’re not surprised.  There are literally dozens of people on the set and no reason for you to have met before.  You spend your days mostly holed up inside the production trailer.  

“Y/N,” you answer as Chris grabs the dripping cardboard tray and reaches for your wrist.  It’s red.  He’s frowning; holding it incredibly gently in fingers twice the size of yours.   “You’re burned.”

“It’s nothing,” you reply automatically, although it really isn’t. The skin is bright red and stings a bitch; the sharp pain getting worse by the minute.  You don’t have time for this.  Your job is to keep filming rolling, not slow it down.    

Gingerly, you wiggle your phone from your jeans back pocket, more worried for the moment that wardrobe needs a call.  Chris has Nomad’s tan gloves tucked into his belt.  God you hope that they aren’t trashed. It would ruin close-up shots. “I’ll get Lena to come down with a dryer, Mr. Evans.  I hope the stain won’t show.”  

“Fuck the stain,” Chris counters softly.  He steps nearer to get a better look at you.  The furrow on his brow gets deeper.  This close he is even bigger than you thought, smells like coffee and wet leather and spice, anything but threatening.  In the shade, his sapphire eyes look darker, mysteriously match the blue star stitched above his pec.  

 “You need this checked. It might blister.  And get infected.”   The litany of possible negative repercussions trails off mercifully but before you can protest he signals to another runner with a microphone. “Call the paramedics.”  

Shit.  That does it. The alert goes out and you both stand, waiting for the medical people to arrive when  both Anthony and Joe muscle through the group.  The speech is finished.  You realize that around your little world, Falcon and Winter Soldier, Star Lord and Dax have melted away, back to the Milano mock-up.  

Joe looks anxiously between you and Chris, at first uncertain who is the patient, but then he notices your hand cradled in Chris’s larger one.  “Y/N are you ok? What happened?”    

 “Accident,” Chris says immediately and you flush, embarrassed to have caused a ruckus and acutely aware of how unprofessionally close you are. You pull back a little farther, but he doesn’t let you go.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Russo.  I spilled coffee on Mr. Evans’ suit.”

 “It’s not nothing.  You’re hurt.  And call me Chris, will you please?”

 He smiles, lopsided and half-bashful, absently rubbing cool and soothing fingers next to your stinging skin and that’s all it takes.  A few awkward, fleeting minutes before the cavalry arrives and your heart will be lost— tumble down between life’s cushions where you don’t think to look—but in the moment you stand mesmerized, vaguely aware that Anthony’s talking quickly into his mike, motioning for the goulishly curious to be kept at bay.  Most oblige, except for a thin, fresh-faced and way too earnest guy in a Nasa hoodie and headset.  He’s hovering, trying to get Chris’s attention, because Nomad’s needed on set in twenty, but Chris insists on waiting until the call comes to actually take his mark; stands watching patiently while a blue-gloved EMT pronounces it “only low second degree”.

“Second!”  Chris looks ready to freak out but the gentle-voiced paramedic explains that there are only a few small, pinprick blisters coming up.  Nothing that won’t heal quite quickly if you keep it clean and dry.  

“Mr. Evans?”  

“Mr. Evans?”  Nasa guy looks so pained he might combust.

“Coming Matt.”   The Russos, reassured it’s nothing serious, have already headed to the first scene set.  Chris sighs and meets your gaze. “Sorry.  Gotta go.”

“I’m fine.  Thank you,” you nod but he’s gone--a retreating smudge of sable in a sea of purple minions.  

It feels like the morning’s sunshine has been covered by bank of high, dark cloud.

Good grief Y/N. Get a grip.      

After that you sit in a hastily retrieved folding chair (Ms Saldana it says on back)  feeling a little bewildered and a whole lot rattled.  The paramedic slathers on a blessedly cool antiseptic cream; covers the burn loosely and orders you to get it checked tomorrow if it swells or oozes overnight.  You take some painkillers, rest for an hour or two on Russos’ orders but after lunch carry on again. certain that Chris has forgotten all about the morning’s mess, but then at 3 o’clock Matt finds you in the producer’s huddle.  

He hands you a note handwritten on a concession napkin.  

I don’t have your number.  Are you ok? -C  

Your eyes bug out.  Yes that certainly seems to be a phone number on the back.  

Omg.  

You pull out your iphone and, weirdly nervous, have to type the number twice.  

<I’m ok. And thanks!>    

Of course there will be no immediate response.  The actors’ phones stay mostly in their trailers when they are on set.  You try not to check for a reply, keep mostly occupied with  updating the afternoon scene list, when a telltale buzz fires at your hip.  

You swipe the screen with your other hand.    

 <So relieved. See you at D’s?>  

 D’s is Dene’s, the pub around the corner from the mini city of Getaway’s Atlanta hub.   The cast and crew often hang there at the end of a long hot day, for the Sweetwater homebrews and the chicken biscuits.  It’s tempting, though honestly you’d thought of nothing more than going home; lying down and just putting the day behind you.

But Chris.  Has asked. himself.  And it would be good to say thanks again: you weren’t sure he had heard you, having run off so fast.   The call sheet might say you start at the usual ungodly hour but Anthony had ordered you to rest.  

Come on, Y/N. What would it hurt?

You gather up your satchel, toss the gauze and polysporin the medic gave you into the zippered pocket and sling it over your shoulder, drive the two short blocks to Dene’s to make it easy heading home

 Once in the high ceilinged, noisy space you pull up a seat at the bar and get a soda—you are driving and took pain meds--striking up a chat with Will, one of the best steadicam operators you’ve worked with.  The two of you shoot the breeze a while before he downs the last of his bourbon, grabs his keys, mumbling something about his baby girl.

A minute later you feel someone looming just behind.  It’s Chris.  Freshly showered, in wet hair, grey shorts and t.  A cascade of butterflies ripple through your stomach.  You’ve hardly spoken to him before now, but being focus of that gaze—wow.  It’s even better than the hype.      

He leans on the polished wooden top, eyes worried and intent. “Hey Y/N,”

“Hey.”

“How’s the hand?”  He reaches out and punctuates the question with a caress on your elbow. It gentle, easy, part of the casual way he touches everyone, and no big deal.  Chris Evans, real life Captain America, is reputed to do this with everyone. Is handsy. Hugs as easily as breathing.  

Shut up stupid butterflies.    “Just stings,” you shrug. expecting him to make few minutes chat but somehow you both wind up deep in conversation.  The state of the union and all things Trump are covered, work travel and mindfulness.   He’s thoughtful.  And articulate.  Down to earth and inhumanly attractive.  There’s something a little wicked behind the almost-bashful smile.  

Your internal warning klaxons silently begin to blare.

He’s not for you.   Chris is known to be the world’s nicest guy. Golden-hearted (as Jenny famously announced) and worried about everything and everyone.  

“It’s fine.  Really,” you insist when he offers to walk you to your car, fretting that you haven’t planned for the next day off.  It is fine. You will take it a little easier. Show up at 7, instead of 4:45. but nothing puts him off.  

Underneath a flickering streetlight, Chris opens your car door, sets a hand on your lower back to lean over and say goodnight and a warmth that has nothing to do with Atlanta’s humid swamp begins to pool low in your belly.  

Oh oh.    

Of course in the weeks to come Chris’s golden retriever level of enthusiasm wears you down.    

First it’s “do you play charades?”;  then it’s  “we’re having a cast/crew baseball game…”   All correctly platonic and entirely above board.  No pressure.  First a Condessa latte shows up on your desk.  Then lunches with Mackie and Joe morph into casual dinner dates with just him.  Standing plans to watch MLB at Dene’s pop up because, if anything, you are more obsessed than he with Boston’s fabled Sox.  He’s a perfect gentlemen when he escorts you to a Pats game in the Falcon’s Nest.  

His fanboying over Brady makes you grin from ear to ear.

As you get to know each other better so many things get shared. You open up about your crazy gypsy life as an air force brat, how hard it was to be constantly on the move; how you love spontaneity because your dad ran your home like a fighter wing.   He talks about the pressure of being in the public eye; how hard it is to meet someone who understands that life but how much he craves some stability.  How much he misses Dodger when he’s away.    

The first hint it could be something different dawns when you find two ALDS passes and tickets for Logan airport clipped onto your white board.  

Anthony raises an eyebrow and just grins as you stand in shock.

Oh.

My.

God.  

(Boston is having an okay pennant run even with David Price on the DL list.)

You bolt from the set and arrive just in time to take your seat in the private box, smiling up at Chris as he hands you an icy Sleeper Street IPA.  

The bottle is covered in condensation.   It makes your fingers slide a little bit.    

“Watch that beer,” he grins, ocean eyes twinkling as he leans over to cover your hand with his.  He whispers “If you spill on me again this time I might have to take off my shirt.”  

Oh Lord. He’s isn’t.  He’s not…

He’s flirting, yes he is but you dismiss it.  Doesn’t mean a thing. Chris Evans flirts with everyone. Constantly.  You know this—it’s part of his innate charm.  He’s single, playing the field, rumoured to be with everyone from Scarlet to a newly-available Ana Paris.  And what would he, a star, want with you, second assistant producer and chief-fixer of whatever Anthony and Joe need done?   No way.   You’re just one of his many buds.  Filling the gap during the long months away.  

You both are thrilled to a see game.  Chris Sale, Boston Cy Young contender, is not at his best but you don’t care.  The food and drinks don’t stop.  You have the best view of Fenway you’ve ever had and you laugh, and laugh; the two of you teasing each other from the 1st inning to the 9th.

On the red eye flight back that night you fall asleep with your head upon his shoulder.    

The fall winds quickly on.  Filming goes on hiatus, you both head west to home, say keep in touch but of course he’s just being nice.  Somehow (Anthony?!)  Chris gets your private private number.  Friendly texts once a week give way to trash chats almost every day during L.A.’s World Series run.  Boston’s out but that does not mean you will stoop so low as to root for the National League contender.  He invites you over with fifty of his closest friends to watch the seventh game.  It’s loud and raucous, and of course in the sea of people you hardly get a chance to talk.  

You’re on your fourth whiskey sour, a little woozy and light-headed, stomach tied in knots because the Astros are down a run, when you feel the couch dip down.   

It’s Chris.  Big and warm, and little flushed, taking a ribbing from his pals.  The two of you are quite possibly the only Houston fans in a sea of Dodger blue but neither of you care.  

Josh Reddick is at the plate.  3-2, bottom of the ninth.  Clayton Kershaw winding up.    

You lean forward, eyes on the screen when he grips your hand for reassurance.  Your heart is fluttering.   It’s the thrill the game, nothing more-- he feels it too, because beside you his leg is vibrating at hundred miles an hour—like a greyhound in the gates.    

(Afterward, you convince yourself his slightly fuzzy kiss is only because Reddick hits a walk-off home run.)

In the weeks to come you find yourself simply checking in; texting to ask how his family are; how Dodger’s coping with his schedule.  It’s nice.  Easy.  No biggie because you’re just good friends.  

Your schedules stay stubbornly mixed up—you’re in L.A., tied to the editing booth and he’s in Dubai, Milan, or Boston every chance he gets.   Like the entire world you’re glued to his twitter feed: laughing at another video of ridiculously drunken enthusiasm when the Pats win again; fangirling every time another picture of Dodger shows up.  

You both manage dinner once or twice but there’s no time to seriously hang.  You miss it. Intensely.  Somehow you’d become used to having him always there but there is nothing you can do.  

Ridiculous, Y/N.  You’re simply friends.  You’ll catch up when there’s time.

The holiday season rolls around and it’s time for the annual Getaway crew party.  You splurge on a kickass dress (red because it brings out the highlights in your hair) and Manolo Blahniks that make your legs go on forever, get your hair and makeup done just for no reason (honestly).  After a quick hi to Anthony and Joe, you collect a flute of champagne and drift through the crowd, winding up after many hugs on the deck beside the pool.

The lights twinkling in the blooming fuschias cast a hazy blush in the air.  It’s gorgeous and the perfect place to hide when you are trying to not too obviously peruse the crowd.      

You hear Chris before you see him.  His booming laugh echoes up from the lower terrace.  He’s there-- tanned; neatly trimmed and striking in a silver shirt and dark black jeans--- with Pratt and Mackie.  They’re out on the grass underneath the stars, surrounded by the bevy of blonds from accounting, joking and pounding tumblers of Chivas back.  

He looks incredible.  More than half-cut.  And occupied.  

You take a gulp of the exquisitely dry Cava and will your pulse to settle down.  He hasn’t yet noticed that you’re there.  Of course not.  The daily texting dropped off weeks ago but your stubborn, stupid heart can’t help but wish that he’d come looking for you.

Sweep you up in those huge strong arms and say he’d missed you too.

Because that’s what good friends do.

Yeah right.

You’re just telling yourself what an idiot you are when he throws back his head and laughs, wraps an arm around Jeanine (petite, perfect and probably enhanced) and your stomach twists.

Oh god.  You hadn’t realized your ‘problem’ had got this bad.

“Go on, Y/N.  Go over.”  

The words are whispered near your ear and you whirl, just barely keeping the bubbly in your glass.  

Jeremy Renner is smiling, mouth quirked to one side, kind eyes glinting in the glow of Christmas lights.  He’s not one of the cast you know that well so you stand, a little stunned while he waves his glass in the direction of the noise.  

“I mean it.  Go get him. Chris is crazy about you.  I told the idiot he was wrong but he’s convinced that you aren’t interested.”  

Aren’t interested?  But that means that he….

You slowly shake your head, nervously tucking a stray strand of hair back behind your ear.  Crazy about you?   Sure he’s flirted.  Kissed you once.  Kept in close touch but that had fizzled lately.  Jeremy can’t be right.  You know they’re close, but he has have misunderstood something that he said.  

What you and Chris have is not that kind of thing.  

The sound of laughter carries across the water.  You stare into your glass, hoping to find a little help but you know it won’t   Your normally spontaneous and ebullient self has been body snatched by a timid mouse.  

“It’s not my place.  I’m not.. ”  you mumble when you finally get your tongue to work.  

The flush that stains your throat and neck tells otherwise.

“Really?” Jeremy chuckles.  “Then why have your eyes been glued on him non-stop?”   He frowns down at the group for a moment before looking back up to you.  “Y/N, I’ve watched him dance around you now for months.  He’s trying to take things slow.  Not rush headlong for once into something new and keep it out of the press’s eye.  I told him he’s being too discreet; that he’s so careful you can’t tell what’s in his busy head but he won’t listen.”

Your mouth is flapping open like a fish.  Jeremy smiles wide and slow, nods when you can’t help yourself and look back down into the yard.  What if he’s wrong?  What if you make a fool of yourself?  What if he’s ready to move on?  

“I can’t…”  

“Sometimes you just have to take a leap.”

 The waiter drifts past again.  Jeremy silently pulls your empty flute from your trembling fingers and hands back a fresh round of dutch courage.  You raise it to your lips, swig the bubbly like water.  The knot of people around Chris has changed again, condensed to the two Chrises, Anthony and Sheletta, his wife and childhood sweetheart.  You’ve met her on set.  She’s lovely. Not too scary.

Jeannine is nowhere to be seen. .    

From beside you a piercing whistle makes you jump.  “Evans!” Jeremy calls and  oh fuck he’s done it—Jeremy has rolled the dice.  

Chris looks up, finds Renner’s wave and then his eyes go wide. His handsome face flushes and he bites his lip.  Shakes his head wonderingly and mouths ‘You look beautiful”.  

To you.  The girl he’s been crazy about all these months.

Oh god.  OK.  That’s it.  

 You walk down the terrace steps and into a new life.

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

MLB is Major league baseball and ALDS is  American League Division Series :)

tags.  @sweet-empowerment  @miss-cap21  @brooklyn-to-battlefields @inkwellsandmagicspells     @maggieskeleton   @imagine-cats96  @mewsiex  @yourtropegirl     @its-forevermore  @dirajunara    @s0eul   @our-sharona  @avaalons     @lumelgy   @mycapt-ohcapt  @mypatronusismrpricklepants  @3dsaunt   @mrchristopherrobert   @our-jasmine-universe  @rayleyanns   @s8sense   @tinaferaldo     @callamint  @emilyevanston   @interstateofmind   @lilnerdy   @666themarkofthebitch    @thestarlighthotel    @doloreschanel   @pegasusdragontiger   @zkkn ; @missfirstavenger   

#he followed me home #sian22redux #writes #baseball #chris evans #reader

[abundantchewtoys]

Hiveswap ‘17-10-08 : I’m all about that base-ment

The time has come to descend once more! I wonder if there's going to be a cutscene? In any case, we can expect our first monster fight to occur real soon!

--- If we do have a strife, I think the controls might be more icons than word-commands like how it was in Homestuck, but we'll see! I wonder, maybe the strife attacks are made through combining the flashlight with stuff - basic attack, tap dance attack, ballerina attack... --- Wow, that piano key drop as we enter the basement! The music here does NOT feel like just a remix of the House music. This really sets the tune for a dreadful exploration of the dark nethers of the mansion. Heheh, Joey's flashlight automatically is on. Guess we don't get a say in where it is illuminated and where not. Okay, so here we have some more of the stuff we saw in concept art. Hula girls wearing explorer hats, the typheus minion (maybe Grandpa killed more than one, maybe he's going to unearth this thing from the junk pile at some later date and bring it to Hellmurder Ilsland....) Goofy narwal head, more blue ladies... And the washing machine, dirty laundry and all. Or maybe it's the pile of unclaimed items, solo socks and all that. Locating the washing machine in the basement always struck me as typically American, but I could be wrong. I just think it's way more convenient to have to do one less set of stairs every time you bring dirty clothes to or take washed clothes from it. There's also the kettle for the central heating. Eesh, does that mean Joey and Jude have to bring wood down every so often from the garden? No sight of where the tube highway comes out of the wall down here. WASHING MACHINE : Pffff, 'you call it a "washing machine"'. Sarcasm, of course, but now I wonder what Dammek, being a lowblood, would call it? "Clothing regurgigator", probably, or something equally squicky. MIX + W.M. : Heheheheh, can't blame us for trying, though, narration, can you? ... In the middle of making combinations, my eye is caught on the knight armor wearing boxer shorts. I just... will be ignoring that, thanks. SHOES + W.M. : Touché: though the machine does make rhytmic noise (from time to time), the power is still out so Joey wouldn't be able to demonstrate, at the moment. POINTES + W.M. : They don't have a dryer! Welp, all their clothes are probably hung out on a line to dry, so at this point, they're probably been ruined by the monsters outside. BATTERIES + DIRTY LAUNDRY : Imagine if Joey would wield some dirty socks containing rocks against the monsters though. But this isn't that kind of game. She's not here to maim them, she just wants to pacify them... By bludgeoning their skulls with a heavy-duty flashlight. :P POGS + DIRTY LAUNDRY : Welp, this command results in Joey: Mental Breakdown, apparently. But she has a point: they're Home Alone, and now monsters are wreaking havoc. She shouldn't be the one acting adult in this situation. GREEN KEY + DIRTY LAUNDRY : ... Well, that actually spurred an action from Joey! Polishing her key, namely. SHOES + DIRTY LAUNDRY : Joey says there's a heap of boxes on the far wall MADE to be tap-tumbled on. Is that a reference? Will we use it for cushioning in our fight against the monster? Ah. So we CAN acknowledge the knight in shining armor (and boxers). Well... woo hoo? POGS + ARMOR : Oh, wait! This had come in one of the trailer before, I remember it. ... Yeah, that sure is a sad, upsetting sound the pog makes there. GREEN KEY + ARMOR : Oh, is it time to visit the land of Metaforgotten again? :P SHOES + ARMOR : Hmmmmm, Joey (or the narration) is being oddly specific about firebreathing lizard being a thing of the past. Can't say they're lizards, per se, but is this a reference to the axolotl associated with Green Sun powers, from the concept art? POINTES + ARMOR : ... they're a little 'rusty'. You magnificent pun-making b'st'rds, I salute you! HULA GIRLS : Oooooh, so Joey thinks Grandpa's been exploring the Pacific these past few years! Does that mean something actually clued him into the existence of the Frog Temple?! But what could it be? Did he maybe find other ways into the Medium before, that are now inaccessible? Is that how he came by a Typheus minion already? Oh, and there the far side comes into view! I reckon the power box is close to the wall of boxes, maybe we'll even get interrupted by the monster as we try to interact with it. POGS + HULA GIRLS : Oh, so there's a game of "milk caps" that pogs is based on that came from Hawaii! Interesting background detail. TREATS + HULA GIRLS : These things ARE awfully big, aren't they? I suppose Grandpa must have had his reasons for buying them, but I shutter to think what. Maybe he just wanted to create a garden luau at one point. SHOES + HULA GIRLS : ... Again a prompt mentioning the wall of boxes... Is the monster maybe hiding underneath it?? BLUE LADIES PAINTINGS : ... I was just commenting on how some of these we already saw hanging around. But Joey points it out as a plot point. Grandpa has backups that he doesn't look after. The allusion Joey makes to this behaviour made me think about how he cared more for Jade than Joey or Jude. But Blaperile has a point, it could also be a reference to how Grandpa completely ignored Nanna but still collected all these paintings because they reminded him of her. I get that Joey resents him, a lot, and for good reason. But I wonder if, in this particular instance, Grandpa's behaviour came from being scared of the prophecy Betty Crocker made, that Nanna and Grandpa would sire children? Maybe he was scared of having kids with someone else after meeting and subsequently losing Ms. Claire. Of course, it could be he was just afraid of making contact with her (he IS Jake after all). MIX + NARWHAL : N'aww, I knew it. Even to monsters, Joey wouldn't wish any actual harm. Veterinarian in heart and spirit! TREATS + NARWHAL : Pffffff, the deadpan is hard with this one. Looking further ahead for a moment, it would seem as if the mug in the foreground is clickable, but more likely clicking there will trigger some sort of scene? SHOES / POINTES + NARWHAL : I love these little combination prompt pairs. Going further into the basement... THERE's the actual wall of boxes she's talking about! AND IT'S FILLED WITH BETTY CROCKER BOXES!!!! Well, if that isn't a reference that Condy might have something to do with the monsters! ... And the mug is apparently clickable in its own right, pfffffff. And there's the power cabinet! Half-shut, so I wonder how the circuits were tampered with, exactly? Did the monsters not come down here for that intent but just chewed on the powerlines or something? I like that What Pumpkin was able to use the template at least in this way. It's the most they could probably do, copyright-wise. Lots of pink items in this corner of the basement. Reference to Condy too, probably? Plus, the MUG triggers a narration about the sitter, who would've appreciated the colour, too. Kind of creepy, considering what happened to Roxy in B2. Heh, the prompt talks about Grandpa's "special reserve" of booze, and the mug itself says "I <3 'STACHES". Staches, stashes... GREEN KEY / SHOES + MUG : It's actually nice to see Joey doesn't allround pity her sitter, it's just... Today she could've really used her. The skiing equipment looks kind of out of place here, I wonder what's the story here? MIX + SKI POLES : Nice time management skills, sweetheart! BATTERIES + SKI POLES : Another dud! CHERUB KEY + SKI POLES : So Joey doesn't really know whose these are, but if they're her mom's as she starts to think, she would jump on taking up skiing immediately were it not for circumstances, she says. POINTES + SKI POLES : Joey the ballet history geek, heheh. Hmm, okay, so the farthest left box of Crocker stuff implies that it's actually food implements. ... Make sense. Not sure what I was expecting. Shoes, for some reason, due to the shape of the boxes. BATTERIES + BOX : Ooooh, Betty Crocker name drop! Awesome. CHERUB KEY + BOX : Confirmation that all these appliances are Grandpa's, none are Ms. Claire's. It's a mystery to Joey, not to us, but probably not going to be clarified in-game at all. Of course, why wouldn't Ms. Claire have used any of these? Maybe she cooked with all fresh ingredients and with traditional cooking wares. OOOooh, the pile actually prompts different reactions from Joey! Hah, okay, the moving of the junkpile is its own separate command. SHOES + BOX : Someone has an anvil to drop on us. Okay, the pile contains a couple of semi-unethical appliances. Well, uh, yeah, that would seem like kind of the norm for Condy, but what would have been their use in a PRE-apocalyptic society? Ah, phew, MOVING the junkpile doesn't do anything, since it's too dangerous to do by hand. BATTERIES + PILE : Yeah, Joey, "step up your game"! HINT HINT. POGS + PILE : Narration is getting downright impatient with us. :P TREATS + PILE : Joey starts wondering if the monsters were magically summoned. Well, maybe they were SCIENTIFICALLY summoned. CHERUB KEY + PILE : Now I imagine Grandpa using a bulldozer to clear a room for more of his items. So, now to solve the puzzle for real! Ooooh, we weren't interrupted but instead got our first cutscene! Hah, cool! The boxes fell down and Joey moved them over to the side. I actually didn't think cutscenes of any short except the humorous would be this short, I figured we'd get attacked by the monster! I wonder if we'll be able to get the power on and get out of the basement in one go or not? Maybe we need to get back in here to retrieve the attic key after we lose it, as the spoiler we saw at one point seemed to indicate. POGS + CIRCUIT BREAKER : The only thing flipping at this point is the narration. If she had an exile, at this point it'd be screaming at her. :P It would be sweet if flipping the breaker would show us the house from the outside regaining power! ... And of course, this would seem like the perfect moment to do a perspective switch and have us be Jude for a change. In the past. :P ... OKAY. THERE WAS A CUTSCENE, YEAH. But the monster is HERE. Maybe not the long, legged one from the intro, but certainly A long, legged one. I do like that even the basement is suddenly much better lit. Often, the least efficient bulbs are down here. ... Is that a blue spirit-like mask in the bottom left corner? Oh fuck. Blaperile notices the monster's off to the right of the screen! Here comes our first strife! But first, wasn't there a prompt on the ski poles telling us to get the power on already? *looks it up* Yeah, the MIX + SKI POLES. ... Okay yeah, that didn't change. ... Well, guess there's no stalling it! Here we go for the strife! OKAY NEVER MIND, IT IS THE ORIGINAL FLAVOUR SNAKE MONSTER! Well, time to get even! Look at that design though, nice! As tall as Joey. In fact, I kind of hope What Pumpkin is going to bring out a figurine of it! I think it looks appropriately creepy, with human-like teeth, arms and tiny legs. ===> ... Wow. WOOOOOW. THAT WAS INTENSE! I mean, after it became apparent we weren't loosing health, it was just a matter of enjoying the different attacks and defensive moves! "GOTTA HAND IT TO YOU" "LEGGO OF THE PAST" "LET'S DO LUNGE" "CHECK PLEASE" "ASSAULT AND BATTERIES" "PEACE TREAT-Y" "INSUFFICIENT TREATMENT" "STRETCHER LUCK NEXT TIME" And I saw Joey make a different face before the strife started than inside. So, okay, we had some difficulty descerning how to 'win'. It turns out we needed to 'charge' our ballet moves using the tap dancing, heheh. Because Joey's muscles weren't prepared to pirouette away like that right away! Realism strikes again! Also of note, just like in the darkened trophy room, the walkie wasn't working. No backups for you! "PRIMA ABSCOND, YO", though, hahahah. So the snake monster was just too high level for us to engage it directly. Joey's still too inexperienced, but I have hopes we'll get to defeat it or something of equal level later on! Now that we're back in the kitchen, the regular House music is playing. We have the opportunity to explore everything while it's lit up, now. And Jude is contacting us, to congratulate us on the successful quest, I suppose. But we'll keep that for tomorrow. Good game, gents! I wonder if the monsters influencing the walkie talkie and radio has any further connotation beyond general creepiness. It would be something if they turned out to be powered by Void powers. We sure could use a Rogue of Void, in that case.

#homestuck #hiveswap #reaction #upd8 #hiveswap liveblog #spoiler alert #joey claire #grandpa harley #joey's babysitter #B1 mom #mom lalonde #hellmurder island #the frog temple #)(ic #the condesce #B1 roxy