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makbarnes · 3 years

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Endless Love

Chapter 2

It had been a few days since the escapade in the laundry room with Bucky and you were avoiding him any way you could. You heard screaming coming from his apartment and the door slammed. Looking out of your peephole, a man in a blue cap and a leather jacket was walking away and Bucky was watching your door. Flicking his hand back he shut the door behind him. You kicked one of Tatum’s toys and went back to what you were doing.

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Setting Tatum down for her nap and grabbed a cup of coffee while opening the file on your counter. Grabbing a pen and making a few notes. Hearing your doorbell you sit down your pen and open your front door.

“Delivery for {Y/L/N}.”

“That's me.” The guy handed you a clipboard and you scribbled your name on the dotted line. They then handed you a long box with a pink bow on it.

“Thanks…” Shutting the door behind you, you take the box over to your counter and open it. Revealing a huge bouquet of flowers you picked up the small note.

Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you…

~James.

Bucky had sent you flowers as an apology for kissing you the other night. The beautiful red roses popped against the cream tissue behind them. Grabbing a vase from a cabinet nearby you filled them with water and set them as a centerpiece on your small table. Chewing your bottom lip you opened your door again and glanced back in the direction of Tatum’s room. Stepping out into the hallway you left your door open and knocked on Bucky’s. Listening you could hear your heart racing about a thousand miles a minute. After a few minutes of waiting you knocked again but there was no answer. Hanging your head down you walked back into your apartment and admired the roses. Pushing them out of your mind for a little you decided to fix something for Tatum when she woke up. Taking some tortillas you spread out some peanut butter and strawberry jelly. Rolling them up into a small burrito you took a knife, chopping them into little rolls. Setting them in a line on a plate, you put away the jars and got another small bowl out. Getting a mix of fruit out of your fridge, along with some leftovers from the other day for you. Sticking the bowl into the microwave, you pressed a button, and put a mix of grapes, blueberries, strawberries, and some shredded coconut. Running them under the water, to get the chemicals off of them you laid them out in an orderly fashion. Grabbing a knife you cut the strawberries in half, along with the grapes and tossed the blueberries into the bowl, tossing them with some coconut. Hearing the microwave go off you set your leftovers on the stove as you heard Tatum waking up, and you went to her room, helping her out of the bed.

“Did you have a good nap?” Tatum shook her head and moved past you, to her small bathroom. Still being fairly new to the bathroom you always checked to make sure she knew, call it mother’s worrying. Waiting for her at the door Tatum tugged on your hand and you went with her to the main room.

“Are you hungry?” Picking Tatum up you set her in the yellow high chair that you kept in the kitchen, and set down the little table that connected.

“Apple, Orange, Grape, or Milk?” Setting down Tatum’s disney sippy cup on the counter you smiled as you could see her trying to decide.

“Apple.” You nod your head and got out the quart of juice you kept in the fridge, filling the cup. You secured the pink lid, and set it in the corner of the little table while you grabbed the plate and small bowl, setting them in front of her. You kissed Tatum’s forehead, before pouring yourself a glass of water, you moved one of the chairs from the table and sat it in front of her. Tatum grabbed a piece of a grape ,sticking it in her mouth and chewing it. Taking a bite from your food you felt something hit the side of your face. Instantly hearing Tatum start laughing you saw a blueberry roll into your view. Leaning over, you grabbed the piece of fruit and threw it in the trash can.

“Tatum, You don’t play with your food. You eat it like this.” Eating a grape from her bowl you booped her nose as she picked up one of her PB and J pinwheels, eating it quietly. Humming quietly while you two ate Tatum’s eyes locked on the flowers Bucky had sent you.

“Pretty red plant.”

“Bucky sent them to me.”

“Is he gonna be my Daddy?” Your face went pale and sent shivers down your spine . Tatum had asked about her dad a little before but you found a quick way around it. “Mommy?”

“Uh, no honey. Bucky just likes us, that’s all. He is just being nice.” Tatum’s smile faded a bit and you rushed over to the sink to clean your dishes while Tatum still ate.

“Hey, I have an idea. You wanna go to the park?” You asked her kneeled down beside her highchair. “Park, Park!”

“Then you better finish eating.” While Tatum ate the remainder of her food, you packed a small bag with a jacket for Tatum, along with your small first aid kit you kept and a change of socks.

You glanced around you and Tatum was eating her last bit of fruit, picking up the two empty bowls, sticking them in the sink, washing them quickly as Tatum finished her juice.

“Alright little missy, let’s go get you dressed.” Helping Tatum out of the high chair you walked with her to her closet and held her up on your hip.

“What do you want to wear?” Tatum tapped her chin. Copying what you did when you worked on the files and she pointed to her orange striped shirt that was paired with a pair of jean shorts. Sitting her off of your hip you grabbed her small orange clasp shoes. Moving Tatum toward the bathroom you grabbed a cloth and wet it with water. Going over her skin and face you wiped away any dirt and grime that was built up. Also wetting her hair and taking a comb to it. Pulling the shirt over Tatum’s head, you pulled her hair out from under the shirt and helped her into her shorts. Sitting her up on the counter you combed her hair back and scrunched it a little. Sticking an orange headband you pushed back her bangs and pushed a few strands behind her ears. Picking up her shoes you clasped them on her feet and she smiled happily at you. Getting her off the counter, Tatum grabbed your hand leading you out of the house.

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Arriving at the park Tatum rushed toward the swings and you helped her into the swing.

“Push me Mommy!”

“Okay, let me set the bag down.” Sitting the bag next to the swing’s post you pushed the back of the seat gently. Tatum swung forward slowly and you pushed her up as she swung back toward you. Tatum giggled as she went higher in the air, Swinging her legs along with her movements. After a few moments of pushing her Tatum turned her head back to you and pointed over at the track.

“Mommy! Look, it’s the man with the shiny hand.” You stopped pushing Tatum to see Bucky jogging around the track with his headphones plugged in his ears.

“Do you want to go say hi?” Tatum nodded at you and you helped her out of the swing. Grabbing the bag Tatum rushed a bit ahead of you and you followed after her. Tatum hopped in front of Bucky’s way and he stopped, looking down at her. Bucky kneeled down and pulled out his headphones.

“Hi.”

“Hey Doll, Where’d you come from?”

“Tatum...Don’t run off like that again. Sorry, she wanted to say hi.” Bucky stood up to meet your gaze.

“No problem, you two are welcome anytime, even just to say hi.” Bucky rubbed Tatum’s head and you picked at your nails a little.

“Thanks for the roses.” You played with your hair while Tatum glanced at the swings again. Tugging on your jeans Tatum pointed over at the swingset.

“Mommy?”

“What is it sweetie?”

“Can he push me on the swings.”

“I’m sure Bucky’s busy, why don’t you let me?” You took Tatum’s hand while she looked at Bucky with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, why I’d be glad to.” Bucky reached out his hand to Tatum and you nodded at her giving her the go ahead. She took Bucky’s outstretched hand while he led her over to the swings. Picking her up he placed her in the same swing she was in before. You set down your bag in the same place and leaned against the pole while you watched Bucky push Tatum lightly.

“Wee!”

“Careful, sweetie. Hold onto the ropes.” Tatum’s hands wrapped around the ropes while Bucky pushed her higher. Seeing the way Tatum was with Bucky made you more interested in him, than you should have been. Normally you wouldn’t let your child be a matchmaker but Bucky was great with her. Sweet, caring and cautious, answered every question and listened to everything she said. Smiling at Tatum you pulled out a bottle of water that you packed and took a sip from it.

“Do you want any Bucky? Tatum, are you thirsty?” Bucky shook his head while Tatum said the exact opposite. Grabbing her small sippy cup that you kept cold, Bucky stopped Tatum from swinging, and you handed her the cup. Tatum took a few sips before handing it back to you, tucking it back into the side bag Tatum gripped her hands together for you, wanting out of the swing.

“Can I go play on that?” You nodded your head while going over to a close bench with Bucky, sitting down next to you. Your eyes didn’t keep off Tatum for long while you chatted with Bucky.

“Ya know, I don’t send roses to most women.” Your face flushed a little, knowing where he was heading with this.

“Oh so you have a type?.” Bucky laughed a little at your sarcasm.

“Something like that. To be honest I haven’t seen anyone as beautiful as you in seventy years or more.” Blushing heavily you moved your hair a little to cover your cheeks.

“And I was hoping that you would go out on a date with me tomorrow night around seven?” You made direct eye contact with him, probably looking like a crazy person you were smiling so much.

“If I can find a babysitter in time.” Bucky took your hand in his own.

“She can come too.”

“Past her bedtime.” You waved your free hand over to Tatum who was starting to go down the slide and smiled the whole way down. Running over to you Tatum saw Bucky’s hand and your own.

“Mommy! Did you see that?”

“I did sweetie.” You picked Tatum up, placing her in your lap. Bucky stood up and said goodbye to you two before jogging off.

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Fixing the black sleeve on your blouse you pulled your hair back into a ponytail and curled the ends with a comb. Rolling your eyelashes over your index finger, you walked out of the bathroom to see the babysitter, Natalie rocking Tatum in her arms.

“I think someone is up past her bedtime.”

“I’m sorry, I tried to get her to rest but she wouldn’t” You took Tatum from her arms and bounced her a little.

“How do I look?” You tugged the skirt down a bit and smiled.

“Beautiful” Natalie cleaned up a little while you bounced Tatum around and started singing to her.

“Where are you going Mommy?”

“Well, Mommy is going to hang out with Bucky.” Kissing her head, some of her hairs got stuck to the lip gloss you were wearing. Humming a little tune you heard a knock at the door and motioned for Natalie to open it. Seeing Bucky in dark jeans with a light blue button up you smiled.

“Okay, let me just put Tatum to bed and I will be right out. Make yourself comfy.” Bucky came in and stood near the door not wanting to disrupt anything.

“But Mommy I want to go with you.” Tatum begged, clinging onto your black top.

“Sweetheart, It’s past your bedtime...How about I sing you a song before I go?” Tatum settled for that and you carried her off into her room. Pulling down the cover on her bed, you laid her on her back and handed her the small puppy she had left last night.

{Heaven’s gift to me just the way you are, A new aged child from a distant star. It feels so good just to be, So close to your love. You are heaven’s gift to me...You are so sweet and pure, just the way you are. Mama’s precious jewel, and Mama’s rising star. There’s so much in life for you to see. And so much to be, you are heaven’s gift to me.}

Tatum’s eyes closed and you kissed her forehead before sliding up the gate, locking her safely in bed. You closed her door and carefully walked into the main room, where Bucky was leaning against the wall, close to the hallway and Natalie was sitting on the couch.

“Okay, she should sleep till I at least get back...if she wakes up play number three off of this CD. You tapped a case on top of a small stack and smiled at Bucky.

“Okay, I’ll be back around...when?”

“Actually we will be right across the hall. I figured we would stay close just in case something happened. Not that it will.” Bucky took your hand and led you across the hall into his apartment. Seeing two black sleek candles in between two place mats and two glasses with champagne. Shutting the door behind you as he led you over to the table, pulling out the chair you slid into it gently.

“You look beautiful as always.” Bucky complimented while he brought over two plates, sitting one in front of you and one in front of his seat. Popping the champagne bottle, he filled your glass half full and did the same with his own. Sitting the bottle down in the middle of you two and sat across from you.

“Bucky, this is…wow. Did you make this?”

“Yes, it’s vegan lemon asparagus pasta. I didn’t know what you liked or if you are a vegan or a vegetarian so I didn’t take any chances.”

“Oh no, I don’t have any reservations about food.” Bucky smiled as he watched you take a bite and smile at the taste.

“I heard you singing to Tatum. You’re a beautiful singer.”

“Thank you, I um, had a plan to go into singing but then I met Loki then Tatum happened and I went with my backup plan. Can’t raise a child if I became a nationwide star.” Bucky cleared his throat while you drank some champagne.

“Did Loki steer you away from your path of becoming a singer.”

“He was the type of guy who wanted to keep you under wraps all the time. Always wanting to know where I was, what I was doing, and who I was with. I was branching off, becoming a star and I guess Loki hated that he had to share me. But then when we found out about Tatum he started distancing himself from us, being away in Asgard more and it just wasn’t good.” You felt a few tears filling your eyes, and brushed them away while eating some more of the pasta. Bucky stayed silent for a few minutes and just ate.

“So Tatum has never met her dad?”

“Well he held her once right after she was born, but then left and I have never seen him since.” Finishing off your glass of champagne Bucky poured some more into your glass.

“Enough about heartbreaking...I hope you don’t mind me asking this but can you tell me about the forties?” Bucky’s face lit up and he patted his mouth with a small cloth, cleaning it off.

“Oh you would have adored it. I lived with Steve for most of my time before we went off to the war, but not to worry I didn’t leave any girl behind waiting. I hadn’t found the right one.” Bucky winked at you and a blush was rising to your face again.

“Now if we had gone out on a date back then. It would have been dancing, dinner and a movie. I would have taken you to my favorite club along with the most famous restaurant we had back then. Then I would end the evening with either a movie or a stroll down the street, walking you back to your house and maybe a kiss to end it. If I liked you enough.”

“Sounds amazing. Bet you were a heartbreaker.”

“No, I didn’t date much, couldn’t find anyone.” Giggling, you finished off your plate and Bucky jumped up instantly. Sitting the plates on his counters and clicking the radio, hearing smooth jazz starting to play Bucky held out his hand and you stood up, letting him bring you close to his chest.

“Bucky, I can’t dance.”

“Everybody can dance, Angel. Most people are horrible and don’t have me as a dance partner.”

“Do I sense bragging, Barnes?” Bucky swayed slowly with the music and you relaxed against him. Bucky followed the beat of the music and you smiled. You could feel the warmth coming off of his body. Spinning outwards from him you went back into his hold and smiled a little.

“So this is what dancing with James Barnes is like?”

“Hehe, Why, you bored already?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Mhm.” Bucky continued swaying with you and kissed the top of your head.

“Anything else I should know about the forties?”

“Well the food now is much better than then, also there are lots of more choices with clothes.”

“Sounds fun, when can we go?”

“If I could go back right now. I wouldn’t. I want to stay right here with you and Tatum and the Avengers.” Your breath got caught in your throat for a little bit before ignoring it. This was the best date you had been on since Loki left. The music stopped and Bucky twirled you out once more before offering you more champagne or something else.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Not at all.” Smiling at him you kissed his cheek and sat down on his couch, patting the pillow next to you.

“Can I ask you another thing? Why me? Out of any woman that you could have, you chose a single mother with a heartbreaking past.” Bucky wrapped his arm around you and sighed deeply.

“Well One, You are a beautiful woman who has a job and still can raise her own beautiful daughter. Two, After everything you smile and act like it is no big deal, You are standing proud and strong on your own little rock. Three, I can empathize with you, about what seems like anything in the world. Four, You’re awesome sense of style and five. Eh, you’re hot.” You ended up laughing at the last two and leaned closer into him. Feeling a force moving your lips closer and closer till you heard a small knock at Bucky’s door. You hung your head down and stood up to see who was out in the hallway. Natalie was standing outside with Tatum on her hip and her face was in that I’m sorry don’t be mad I ruined your date look. You walked over to the door and grabbed Tatum from her.

“What is it baby?”

“She has a temperature of one hundred and two so I thought she needed her mom. I’m so sorry.” Natalie yawned a little and you sent her home before she got sick. Bucky blew out the two candles and you bounced Tatum a little.

“The date was perfect, Bucky. Thank you.”

“Is there anything you need or that I can help with?”

“No, I’m just gonna take her home and keep a watchful eye on her.” Tatum coughed near your face and laid her head on your shoulder. Bucky walked across the hall and opened your door for you.

“You feel better and you keep your nights open.” Bucky kissed you on your cheek lightly, shutting the door behind him.

“No offense kid but you couldn’t have let us kiss?” You took Tatum into her bedroom and rushed to get her some medicine and the thermometer. Taking it again, seeing it was the same you fed her the dosage of some medicine before kicking off your shoes and standing in the kitchen. Hearing a knock on your door you sighed hoping it wasn’t anything important. You opened the door and Bucky was standing there with a can of tomato soup in his hand.

“Bucky, I have soup for…” You were cut off by Bucky slamming his lips into your own. He shut the door behind him and moved you up against the wall. Your lips in a hot synchronizing motion. Bucky dropped the can of soup on the small table without looking and felt your tongue teasing his own. Pushing back your own he felt every curve and indentation in your mouth before stopping.

“Goodnight.” Bucky winked at you before quickly leaving your apartment and heading back to his own. In shock of what just unfolded you pulled your hair down and licked your lips.

“Damn.” You muttered before heading off to take care of Tatum and hopefully get some rest after that.

NEXT CHAPTER

MASTERLIST

#comforting bucky #bucky smut #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #date night #backstory #daughter #sick kids #kissing #sexy #cute #fluff

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seraaphineee · 3 years

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rose quarts sink

#fairycore #aesthetic pics #fairytalecore #fairy aesthetic

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sunnytumbies · 4 years

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I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that!

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

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Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest.

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home.

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven.

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow.

Cal is not having a good day.

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach.

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through.

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much.

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits.

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans.

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles.

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone.

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay?

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day.

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything.

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course.

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it.

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears.

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?”

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it.

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.”

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot.

Some time later, Quincy comes for him.

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach.

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?”

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

“Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

“No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him.

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.”

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely.

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom.

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.”

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard.

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea. “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.”

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.”

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.”

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him.

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea.

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?”

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache.

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.”

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.”

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?”

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

#tiny-tum #perhaps it's for the better since i s2g that entire 500 words was the first sequence describing what amy baked but #i think they were like. better words!#i digress this is what we've got #Amy #Cal #Quincy #stuffing #stress eating #stress baking #belly rubs #dysphoria #side fic #answered #i think the reason im so unhappy with this is that i want quincy to be somewhat mysterious until the major fics are released but also i just #cant imagine anyone being super invested until they know more about these ppl #which is fair #but...yeah! hope ppl enjoy!#why am i so anxious about this

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blairlocke · 4 years

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Anywhere-But-Here: Amahlia & Johnny, Chapter One

Eyes forward, Amahlia peered through the windshield, raindrops now peppering and traversing the glass.

The deluge was sudden, as if a huge tub of water had just been poured on the KIA Soul, and the car almost seemed to shudder right along with her.

“Shit...that’s just fucking great.”

She was not going to make it in time. She needed that damn medicine. As it was, she could barely think straight to drive, her equilibrium barely hanging on, head spinning as if she’d drank a quart of vodka. She shouldn’t be operating a motorized vehicle, even on a perfectly sunny day, what with the cold from hell that had nearly annihilated any chance of looking like a team player at her new job. She could still hear the palpable skepticism in the voice of her new boss.

“Yes, I guess just come in whenever you’re feeling better...perhaps after a nice bubble bath and play date?”

Gawd, Mariah was such a bitch.

And that sounded about par for the course that was her life since meeting Matthew. She rolled her eyes at even the thought of his name, her mouth forming a sour and unbecoming rainbow.

With sullen resolve, she pushed the car on, the darkness and curtain of rain so thick that she could feel it bearing down. “Please, please, please.”

The sign was already dark when she crested the final valley and pursuant hill. “No! Dammit!”

She was a solitary swearer, the words daggers to be pointed only towards outer space, and mirrors.

An all night pharmacy would have been nice right about now, but it was not meant to be. That’s what happens when you move away from most signs of life. No longer was it quite so convenient to get what you might be in need of quickly. She did not miss much about her big city roots, except that. And now, back to the woods we go. Try again tomorrow. Or perhaps, Margie would be in there and have a heart...well, maybe not a heart, but some sympathy...or at least a fondness for accruing a few more dollars in the cash register.

*****

The time had gotten away from him again. The bar was due to close an hour ago. No one had noticed.

“Closing time.”

“You didn’t even call for a last call.” He blinked, frost settling on the Caribbean blue pools of his eyes, peering at the objector without life.

“Yeah, I did,” he lied pleasantly, slamming down the tip jar in melodious demand, change grinding across the bottom of the galvanized tin.

The patrons groaned, grimaced, and shuffled themselves off of rickety bar-stools and across a grimy floor, once a soft ivory, and now a cleachy peach.

“It’s been a real pleasure. Take care, old timer. Never change,” he trailed off as the door croaked to almost closed.

“Fuck--off,” he muttered to the empty room.

He wiped down the counter with a brisk lack of care, then, traipsed towards the door, reaching for the handle to pull it shut, no easy task for the hinges had obviously given up long ago. Someone pushed on the door in just that moment, and life suddenly flared in his eyes in the guise of anger, and he instantly made the decision to yank it back open in a feral gesture of annoyance.

A gasp from the startled person on the other side, now tumbling forward towards him. Unsympathetic, he quickly stood back, knob still in hand.

“We’re closed.”

He would sorely regret not taking the opportunity to cop a cheap feel in the name of preventing her fall, for when the person, evidently a woman, managed to catch herself swiftly, and with expert grace, she rose to her full height, barely over five feet, and fixed him with the most politely cold stare that he had ever been subjected to.

“Thanks,” she said with smoldering and succinct precision, as if she had stabbed a knife into his gut. “I just needed to use a phone, if that would be at all possible.”

Her eyes were a steely grey, and almost lavender as a flash of lightning lit up the doorway, the lashes framing them plentiful and charcoal black. “What for?” His words were out of his mouth before he could think to call them back, and then, he remembered himself, and was glad that they had. Let her be on the defense. He wasn’t interested. She looked far too young for him anyway, by at least a good decade. Besides, what good was a woman. He took in her shapely legs, clad in black leggings, underneath a fitted tunic. Well, maybe they had a few uses. He quickly averted his eyes, grumbling under his breath. Not for the hottest bang in the universe was he even remotely tempted.

He didn’t wait for her response, just with reserved fury, he made one brisk wave towards the direction of the antique landline telephone at the end of the bar. It might have been white at some point, its curly cord tangled and gray in spots. And with that, after a swift glance past her into the parking lot, witnessing no headlights, and not even a car, he shot her only the smallest glance as he locked the door to any other customers that might be out at this ungodly hour in a rainstorm, and then turned his back on her. He didn’t even wait to hear her approach, he ducked into the back room, mouth tight, his high cheekbones standing out more prominently than usual as his lack of appetite had cost him a few pounds, he disappeared through the grizzled black curtain, that seperated the sparse makeshift office and studio space from the front room. His bed was half made, black on black on gray, and everything else in the room was relatively neat. There were only a few dishes, stacked on the floating shelf by the single window in the room. There was a coffee mug in the sink, a braided rug centering the space, a worn recliner facing a flatscreen TV, the single piece of eye candy in the room. Free weights hovered by the sliding closet door. He grabbed for the heaviest one and began his nightly ritual.

“Thanks for the phone.” He heard the low pitched, though very feminine voice call through the closed duck-cloth drapery. There was a hesitation from the voice’s owner.

He paused, casting his eyes at the curtain.

He viewed the partition with a serious and hard look as he stood and pushed it aside. To her credit, she neither looked perturbed, nor interested in his appearance. She did look a little relieved, finding her tongue once more.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into selling me a drink while I wait for the tow truck.” At the wry set to his mouth, his eerily blond hair longer than usual, a lock slipped forward to cover his raised brow. “Yeah, I know--closed.” She seemed to catch herself from a sigh, or perhaps an eye-roll. “It’s just been a really--err, crazy, night.”

He stared dispassionately down at her, her hair so dark and wet that it almost looked seal black. There were bags under her big lovely unearthly glowing grey eyes, but he decided in that moment that her mouth, pinched with something like pain, or possibly exhaustion, was the most becoming feature about her. Her lips were full and in the shape of a heart and of a perfect rosy hue.

“What’ll you have?” he requested, after the span of many moments. The sneer that masked the direction of his thoughts seemed to finally affect her coolness. She studied him for a moment before glancing back at the bar’s entrance.

“I’m sorry, it’s okay. No need to impose any more than I already have. Thanks for the phone. My cell died. Like I said, crazy night.” She said all of this while backing away and quickly picking her way to the door. “Have a good night,” she called over her shoulder, peeling the door back from its frame.

And with that, the bar was empty again. The energy that had seemed to charge the air, unbeknownst to him until that moment, lingered for a second, and then dissipated. A buzz of awareness--of what he was not certain--hung onto him, as if he was braced for something. He popped the top off of a beer, took a long swig, then a last scathing look at the door, and for the second time that night made his way back over to its flimsy perch to lock up. Lights out.

#anywherebuthere

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farmcorelynch · 5 years

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i accidentally wrote a draft for a pynch on a motorcycle across nevada fic but im too lazy to edit it and post on ao3

A/N: based on a really long convo i had with @egosumsomnium , nothing explicit happens but like,, adam has no chill so,,, (might fuck around and make it a proper fic, who knows? i am unknowable yeehaw)

The desert rain is worse than the rain back home, a miracle of impossibility falling from the humid sky and kissing an equally impossible boy. Adam Parrish leaned his damp back against the highway pillar, head tilted limply on his shoulder as he heaved his breath back into his lungs mixed with the pollution of Nevada.

A curtain of the night’s sorrow blankets him, his curls plastered wet on his forehead as he squinted at the barren wasteland of drenched sand and open lightning bolts. There was no one alive tonight but soon he would be one of the two souls in all of americana breathing fresh air, finally awoken from a hazy slumber that was his routined existence.

He fidgeted nervously, restless to satisfy a shameful famine slowly cultivating inside of him the moment Ronan asked him to ride to Nevada with him. Everything about the wait ate him inside out, especially since his desire was so close to being a tangible thing, real and solid for him to hold. He’s been starving for so long.

The world was asleep, the city was awake, and Adam was ready to throw out his sensibility down the cliff’s edge.

The loud rev of a motorcycle engine rips through the sound of heavy traffic above him and Adam rolls his eyes as the black smudge against the night horizon gets closer. A man in a leather jacket and a helmet circling him like a snake going in for the pray, the loud sound of his accelerator piercing Adam’s single functioning ear, making him dizzy and choking him with the smoke clouds that formed from the rubber tires.

“Hey stranger”

“Cycling in the rain is a safety hazard, Lynch”

Ronan rolled his eyes before giving him a smirk as Adam climbed onto the seat behind him, arms quickly tightening around Ronan’s waist and cheek making it’s home on Ronan’s wet back. He passed Adam his designated helmet, the one they both bought together a few weeks ago, before starting up the bike again.

Adam melts into him.

Adam sighed, resting his head in the crevice between Ronan’s shoulder blades, upset that the helmet, the leather jacket and the pouring rain made it harder for him to hear Ronan’s heartbeat as they sped past the welcoming sign to Nevada.

★

They were both countryside boys, the city a foreign land that neither was particularly fond of. It didn’t matter if Adam hated the pollution that attacked his lungs here or if the sounds of human vices were almost overbearing. Passing the bright city lights, Adam fell in love with neon streets and the empty promises of unthinkable wealth flushed against the stormy night sky.

It didn’t matter if heaven was punishing them for their futile devices of emptying their pocket linings in the form of a northern downpour, not when Adam could absorb the heat radiating off of Ronan like a campfire so shamelessly.

The moment they crossed the border together and completely intertwined, they were no longer simple country boys. Although there was still the dirt of Henrietta underneath his fingernails, there was nothing but the image of Virginia in Adam’s soul, the freckles splattered across his nose bridge the only evidence he spawned from hell itself in the shape of a double-wide.

In the city of sin and other mortal temptations, they were nothing but faceless strangers and a pair of burning bodies. Adam could almost imagine they were in love.

★

He was stranded in sin city with the devil, taunting him and his patience with that devious smile laced with poison and ivory. Shark-like, Adam had never seen Ronan like this, dripping with vices and malice. He’s heard the rumours, of course, the first thing Gansey tells him when the other boy introduced the two of them one particularly awful winter evening was that Ronan was dangerous. The red neon lights flash wherever Ronan Lynch went in warning, Adam still chose to prick his hands with thorns and barb wires.

He was a boy made of yellow caution tape and when he smiled at Adam, only one corner of his sharp lips quirking up, Adam could almost imagine the sound of blue and red sirens flashing through his wreckage.

Adam was an apocalyptic wasteland and it was all Ronan Lynch’s fault.

He’s never seen it for himself though, the way Ronan easily parted the crowd like an edifice, a god demanding attention and fear. Adam swallowed dryly as his tattoo seemed to expand with every confident step he took to the bar counter, scrambling quickly to his side.

By the time Adam slides into the empty vinyl seat next to Ronan, Ronan was already drinking a clear glass of liquid gold, gulping poison like it didn’t sting. Adam knew from experience the drink burnt, the frat parties Gansey dragged him to a rollercoaster he chose not to remember, but Ronan swallowed it down like mountain dew. A part of him was irritated his driver was getting tipsy, a much less sensible part of him couldn’t tear his gaze from the imprint Ronan’s lips left on the crystal glass.

“What are we doing here?” Adam sighed, pressing his cheek against the cool surface of the bar counter, ignoring the stickiness on his skin and digging his fingertips into Ronan’s jean-clad thigh.

Ronan gave him a look that made Adam preen, a ghost of impatience chipping at its prison of Adam’s ribcage, ready to break free with every minute Ronan tortured him without his touch.

★

They were heading straight to paradise lost, a private heaven that they artificially created with their own two hands. There’s an invisible rosary made from rose quarts slowly counting down the seconds they had left together, trapping them by the hips and pulling them closer. The beads clashed against each other and echoed as Adam slid his cold hands under the hem of Ronan’s shirt as they conquered miles of asphalt to the nearest closed doors.

Ronan jumped off the bike with a fluid ease that made Adam preen with mindless jealousy, the grind of his hips down on the leather seat leaving him brainless. Ronan watched him intently from the door of their motel room, snake lips wrapped around the bitter tip of a cigarette and sharp cheekbones highlighted by flickering neon lights as old as their combined ages. He looked like Judas then, taunting and ready to destroy Adam to a pulp, with his entire frame bathed in scarlet light. Adam walked towards him without lowering his gaze, accepting retribution wordlessly.

The motel room was expectantly disgusting, unsanitary with the strange musky smell designated to old closets unopened for generations. It looked like a scene to a murder noir with it’s stained blue carpeted floors from the early 80s, the bathtub stained dark with an identifiable liquid and stark wide against the dirty white tiles. It was the perfect place for sacrifice, Adam’s desecration ritual to take place in the centre of the hellhole on a bare queen-sized bed, decorated garishly with cheap dollar store rose petals.

His nose scrunched up in distaste but didn’t mutter a single complaint, too distracted by worse things.

“Charming,” Ronan grunted with disdain from behind him around his burning cigarette, arms crossed across his solid chest. He flicked a rose petal off the bed, eyes burning holes into Adam. Adam scooped a palmful off roses into his hand before pressing his palm against Ronan’s cheek, watching as the red plastic rained from the gaps of their skin. He looked like Aphrodite’s and Ares’ child then, a spawn of love and war, helplessly cruel with the way he loved Adam. The sweet rose petals made him look beautiful in the most violent way brushing over his soldier’s buzzcut. Adam was ruined for anyone else.

Ronan blows smoke into his orbit and Adam catches his bitter lips in between his teeth.

Adam takes Ronan’s wrists between his fingers as they walked towards the bed, mouths still gaping against each other languidly. Ronan shuffled his feet backwards, free hand putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. The inferno underneath Adam’s skin was hot enough without it, a lighter that chased Ronan’s gasoline mindlessly.

There’s a hand cupping his jaw, Ronan’s fingertips brushing against Adam’s curls too tenderly for what they were doing. Adam opened his mouth willingly, snaking a hand down between their burning bodies just to feel more. He was wide awake.

The desert nights were cold, colder than any night in Henrietta, despite the scorching heat in the evening time. In tonight’s twilight, Adam won’t be shivering alone.

Ronan spreads his fingers wide and grips onto Adam’s hips, a vice as their hot breath mingled between them. Heaving chests pressed together, Adam sighed as he pulled Ronan closer by the belt loops.

He was a desert flower, his eyes snake-like and belonging with the hot sand, blue and piercing. Summer was in the air and heaven Ronan’s arms, securing and hazardous. Adam had found religion in the crevices of his mouth, tongues sliding and moving against a riptide.

Adam was sinking his fingers into soft cemetery moss, his teeth nipping at pale skin and blooming violets and lilacs all the way down the hollow column of Ronan’s stretched throat. Adam sunk into Ronan’s artery, feeling the life that sustained him on his tongue and swallowing his heartbeat, poisoning Ronan’s ichor with his own breed of venom. His chin brushes against a cold chain around Ronan’s neck, Adam pushes away the delicate gold cross to sanctify Ronan in his own way, a silent plead for worship.

And Adam saw Ronan bathing on the roof, pale moonlight drowning his already translucent skin. A fall of kings, Adam had repeated history and succumbed into temptation. Inviting shadows to possess him. Ronan danced on his grave.

And Ronan was dragging his face up, tilting his chin so that their breaths mixed again in the same atmosphere, a molotov cocktail that left them both drunk. Their lips brush, softer than Adam expected, softer than Adam thought Ronan was capable of. And from his bruised lips Ronan drew the hallelujah.

He wished his adoration of the other man was capable of fluorescing, bright and obnoxious like the yellow highlighters he used to outline everything he couldn’t understand. He wanted light, light like overly white hospital rooms and light like summertime sweetness. He wanted Apollo to rain his poetry on their withering bodies.

But they were in a lightless motel room, the pale moonlight their only source of illumination, hiding and scared in the shadows of their mutual secret, a secret that required two to keep.

Adam tried to ignore the image of Gansey’s disappointment shoe-horned into his imagination as Ronan let his thighs fall open and bracketed around Adam’s waist, an open early solstice sacrifice.

And when Adam lurched to devour Ronan’s oxygen again as his hungry hands roamed freely along the sharp mountain ranges of the god he loved, an eclipsed occurred where the sun met the moon.

Ronan compared him to the sun sometimes, when they hid from Gansey between classes and Adam taught Ronan how to read tarots he was too impatient to master. He would point to the sun card and the magician card, saying they were the same thing.

Adam didn’t agree.

Ronan was his sunlight, his solar rays blinding and painful to look at. If Adam stared too close, his eyes would water and his skin would dry out. Ronan offered more skin, Adam drank up his light greedily until he was sure all the darkness in him had corroded away.

Maybe they were both the sun and the moon at once, stark different and impossible to tell apart at times. Adam would be the sun if Ronan needed him to, he would be the moon if Ronan asked it from him.

Adam bit into the soft flesh of Ronan’s pale inner thighs, tasting pomegranate and bittersweet torture, Ronan twisting his fingers into Adam’s head of copper curls and twisting them like wildflower stems.

Helpless pressure wrapped around his head and smothered Adam in heat as Ronan cried out awful prayers that belonged exactly here, miles away from any church in the near radius. In that motel room, the two of them had created their own place of worship from nothingness.

Adam had always been an Icarus of a boy, since he was young and fighting tooth and nail to escape the skin and the name he was forced to wear. Now he was sweltering and melting under sharp affection, wings ripping off his back and feathers kissing his skin in the form of Ronan Lynch’s bitten lips.

He left evidence all over the crime scene. Bruises and bitemarks, red railroads and leylines across Ronan’s chest and down his tattoo from his fingernails. He wanted to ruin Ronan in the same way Ronan had ruined him, completely without anything left to salvage, dandelions and baby tears sprouting in the cracks of his dirt-flesh.

In the dark, no one could see the raindrops falling from his eyelashes and streaming down his cheeks like the dead sea. He cried blood when his body was flushed against Ronan’s. He was the worst believer and too good of a martyr.

#what the fuck is this #i blacked out and got possessed writing this sorry chief #pynch #pynch fanfic #pynch fic #pynch fanfiction #adam parrish #ronan lynch #trc #void makes content

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glorious-spoon · 5 years

Text

burn out before i wake

3.17 coda fic; Magnus-centric angst

On AO3

Waking up feels like wrestling his way out of a sticky, smothering cocoon, and when he finally manages to peel his eyelids open, even the dim morning light filtering in through the closed blinds makes his head ache. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and he swears he can actually feel whiskey seeping out of his pores. Smell it, too. On his side of the bed, Alec is still fast asleep; he’s not even touching Magnus, but the ambient heat of his body feels uncomfortably like standing too close to a furnace. He’s still mostly dressed and sweating through his clothes. It’s possibly the most disgusting he’s ever felt, and he lived in London before it had proper sewers.

So this is what a hangover feels like. What a lovely aspect of existence as a mundane that he gets to experience now.

Magnus levers himself carefully upright, moving slowly both out of respect for his pounding head and unsettled gut and because he really doesn’t want to wake Alec up. He has a feeling that when he does, Alec is going to want to talk, and they really… probably should, but he just can’t. Not right now.

There’s a glass of water and two round white pills on the bedside table. A note in Alec’s handwriting reads, sternly, DRINK ALL OF THIS WHEN YOU WAKE UP!!!

His Alexander. Always looking out for him, even after Magnus has made such a wreck of everything between them. Magnus sighs and leans over to pick up the glass, condensation smearing on his palms.

Everything about last night seems disjointed and hazy, especially after the last five drinks or so, but the blackout that he was half-hoping for hasn’t materialized. He remembers crashing into the solid heat of Alec’s body, how struggling to pull away somehow turned into clinging, weeping, the shoulder of Alec’s jacket going wet beneath his cheek as they sank to the floor together. Alec’s voice soft and frantic and then suddenly, deliberately calm, soothing him until he managed to let go, and then stepping back to the table for a glass of water, settling back down beside him and coaxing him to drink it in slow, careful sips.

Abusing his administrative access to take the emergency passages back to their room so they didn’t encounter anyone on the way there. Holding a cold damp cloth to the back of Magnus’s neck and stroking his back while he vomited up about about a quart of whiskey and then helping him out of his shoes and his jacket and tucking him into bed like a fucking child.

God. Magnus has probably had more humiliating nights in his four hundred years of life on Earth, but he certainly can’t remember one now. Shame curdles in his gut, thick and nauseating.

He must make a sound after all, because Alec shifts, rolls onto his back, rubs a hand clumsily over his face, and opens his eyes. There’s a crease from the pillow on one cheek, and his hair is a disaster, and he’s luminous, possibly the most beautiful person Magnus has ever seen. He seems as far away and untouchable right now as the sun.

“Magnus?” he says. His voice creaks with sleep. “How’re you feeling?”

“No worse than I deserve,” Magnus says honestly. He rolls the glass between his palms. “I’m sorry for ruining dinner.”

Something shifts in Alec’s face, an odd, heartbroken flicker. Magnus thinks that it probably wouldn’t be detectable to anyone who hasn’t spent hours cataloging all of Alec’s expressions, but he has, and he notices. He doesn’t know what it means, but he notices.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alec says finally, and he actually does sound sincere. “There’ll be other dinners. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

“That is a loaded question, Alexander.”

“Yeah,” Alec sighs. “I guess it is.”

“I feel…” Magnus shakes his head, sips from the water glass to prevent himself from putting any of the first five things that occur to him into words. Eventually, he comes up with, “I need a shower.”

A shower is good. A shower is actionable. He can wash the stink of stale whiskey off of him, at least; it won’t fix any of his actual problems, but maybe he’ll feel a little better.

“Okay, Magnus,” Alec says, very quietly.

He doesn’t feel any better.

He dresses to the nines when he gets out, a black tunic with a hundred tiny pearl-headed buttons that take him five minutes to do up without magic. He bought it in… Singapore, maybe? Somewhere in that general geographic area, at least, twenty years or more before Alec was born. Alec sits on the bed and watches him with an expression that’s more thoughtful than Magnus is used to seeing from him this early in the morning, and when he’s done, he says, softly, “Are you okay?”

“For a certain extremely limited definition of the term, yes,” Magnus tells him, because he’s done lying to Alec about things that matter. It hasn’t worked out well for either of them recently. “I smell better, at least. So there’s that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Definitely not.”

“Okay,” Alec says again. He hesitates, worrying at the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger with his blunt nails, then says, without quite meeting Magnus’s eyes, “Magnus, I’m sorry. I wasn’t--I should have been paying more attention, I shouldn’t have assumed you were okay now just because I wanted to believe that we could—”

“Stop,” Magnus interrupts quietly, and the rush of words cuts off like a door has slammed between them. He presses his thumbs to his aching temples, trying to press out some of the foggy pain. Unsuccessfully. Alec still isn’t meeting his eyes, and that makes it easier, somehow, to find the words. “I didn’t want you to know. I’m a proud man, Alexander. Do you think it’s easy for me to be this weak? To see you look at me like—”

Like the way Alec is looking at him now, expression soft, eyes wide and worried. This time Magnus is the one to look away, and Alec shifts, pushing away the covers to stand and cross the room, to take Magnus’s hands in his. There’s something tentative about it, like he’s expecting to get slapped away, and it breaks some small part of Magnus’s heart to see it.

“You’re not weak,” he says, very firmly.

Magnus sighs, curling his fingers around Alec’s. “I am. Right now, I am.”

Alec wants to argue. He has that stubborn expression that always precedes some kind of declaration, but this time it doesn’t make it out of his mouth. He squeezes Magnus’s hand instead, lifts it to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Very sure,” Magnus says, although he’s not. Part of him wants to grab onto Alec like he did last night, to sob out all of his grief and frustration and icy fear into the heatsink of his body. It’s only a small part, though, and unlike last night it’s not the one in charge of making decisions. He pulls his hands away from Alec’s, pats his shoulders. “You should go get ready for work. You have to be at the ops room in half an hour.”

“I’m the Head of the Institute, I can take the day off if I want to.”

“And do what? Hang around here waiting for me to have another alcohol-fuelled breakdown?” Alec flinches, and Magnus scrubs a hand over his face, abruptly disgusted with himself. He just can’t stop, can he? “I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

“It’s fine.”

“It really isn’t,” Magnus says, and he means the whole damn mess of a situation, but he pulls Alec down for a brief kiss anyway. “I’m not going to drown myself in a bottle of whiskey in your absence. Go take a shower. Keep your siblings from bringing about the end of the world before breakfast. I’ll go… I don’t know. Run some errands. We can--” He hesitates. “I will talk to you about it, I promise. But not right now.”

“Okay,” Alec says finally. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Go.”

The shower is still running when he starts idly picking up the scattered clothes on the floor. His own crumpled pants and jacket, which will definitely need to be professionally cleaned. There’s no way he’ll trust a bespoke jacket to an Institute laundry more concerned with getting ichor out of combat gear, and it’s not as though he can just magic away the spills and stale drunk-sweat anymore.

Dry cleaners, that’s the word. He’ll have to locate a reputable one in his now copious free time.

He lets the pants fall from his hands, then sinks down onto the floor, and then, because Alec isn’t there to see it, drops his face into his palms, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until white spots bloom in his vision.

Everything is so fucking difficult now. Even such a stupid little thing as laundry is a reminder of what he doesn’t have anymore.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, breathing harshly in the stillness of Alec’s bedroom, the sound of the shower in the other room distant and faded, before he finally manages to lift his head. He scrapes a hand over his dry face, and then he stands up, picks up the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, and goes to drop them in the hamper, and as he does something drops out of the pocket of Alec’s good pants to land with a clatter on the floor.

A box. A little round silver box, just about the right size for—

Like looking out the wrong end of a telescope, Magnus remembers again the candlelit table, the roses, the carefully beautiful setting of it. Alec’s nervous, distracted, happy tension yesterday morning.

Alec, standing up to get him a glass of water and pausing for a moment at the table to pick something up and pocket it, the sudden slump of his shoulders.

Fuck.

He really does ruin everything, doesn’t he?

Moving like he’s in a dream, he flips the lid of the box open. It shouldn’t be a shock to see the Lightwood crest, but somehow it is. The ring feels heavy in his palm, and when he slips it onto his finger, it fits perfectly. The last person to wear this was Maryse, who definitely doesn’t wear the same size as him, so Alec must have had it refitted.

It looks good on his hand. Magnus splays his fingers out, staring at it, and just for a moment allows himself to imagine an alternate version of last night where he could have sat down across from Alec and enjoyed the way his smile looked in the candlelight. Where he could have been delighted by the sight of this, where he could have let Alec slip it onto his finger and leaned across the table to kiss the smile off of his mouth—

The shower shuts off. Magnus yanks the ring off with fingers made clumsy by haste, jams it back in the box, and tucks that back into the pocket of Alec’s discarded pants. He leaves those on the floor, shoves his own clothes into the hamper, hesitates, listening to Alec move around the bathroom. His chest feels numb and bruised, his throat tight.

If he stays here, Alec will ask him what’s wrong, and Magnus has already used up his daily quota of sobbing into his boyfriend’s shirt. He shoves his feet into his boots instead, and slips out of the room without a sound.

#shadowhunters #sh spoilers #malec fic #my fic

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thevikingwoman · 5 years

Text

more time travel AU! I know I labelled this angst, but I promise IS a romance with all it entails.

start | previous chapter | next chapter || start on ao3 | read this on ao3

Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | post Crestwood, time travel | romance, angst rating: gen, romance, light angst

Temporal Arrangements, chapter 3

Iwyn finds the bathing chamber easily enough. A doorway on the opposite end of the bedroom leads to another large room, one where the walls and floors are rose quarts, and soft light spills from floating orbs. There is sink and a tub and shelves with soft white towels. The tub has metal pipes and faucet, and with a few tries she manages to get hot water filling the bath. It must be some sort of strange magic, and she is happy it just works. She is in no mood to go ask Solas for help.

She strips, folding his shirt neatly.

She steps into the tub and dunks her head under the water, so hot it almost scalds her skin. It is a welcome distraction. She wishes it would clean the thoughts from her head, along with the dirt in her hair. She finds a flask with a clear, vicious liquid that creates a foam when she rubs it between her fingers. A soap, made liquid somehow. More magic, more strangeness. Even the Inquisition with all the resources Josie works to provide, has wooden tubs, filled by water heated in her fireplace, the soap a hard brick scented with lavender -- if she is lucky. The liquid soap foams easily, between her hands and in her hair (she is sure there is still mud in it somewhere from that blasted, rotten, temple). It has a pleasant smell; sandalwood, a hint of vanilla and something else. She realized it smells like Solas, and the scent comforts her.

“Fuck.”

She manages to stop herself from throwing the glass vial across the room.

Childish anger will do her no good, but she doesn’t know what to do with her thoughts. Solas was the one to raise the veil. He felt it necessary, but now he wants to remove it again, no matter the cost. A cost he thinks could destroy everything in the world. He’d lied to her, or in the very least hidden truths she never imagined. He chose to run when he could have told her, chose to end their relationship rather than trust her. He picked his cause over her. Part of her admires his dedication, but she still wishes they could have talked about it. There must be some other way, some way they can find together. What had he planned to do, after they beat Corypheus? Grab the orb and run? Bring down the veil then and there, when they finally defeated him, possibly wrecking more havoc than Corypheus ever could?

She needs to push these thoughts aside. They need to go back, and she isn’t sure how without Solas. Getting home and dealing with Corypheus must be her top priority. What happens after… maybe there is still time to change his mind, now that he told her, maybe she can...

A knock on the door interrupts her and her thoughts. She mumbles something affirmative, and three elves step through. A tall and pale woman, her black hair piled in top of her head in an intricate hairdo. A short man with long and curly brown hair. Another tall woman, with deep brown skin and cloud of hair surrounding her face.

“I’m Tialha, and this is my assistant, Ryil.” The last woman gestures towards the man. “We’re here to take some measurements for clothes.”

“And help you dress.” the first woman adds. “I am Alina.” She unfolds a towel and holds it out expectantly, and Iwyn can do nothing else but step out of her bath.

Iwyn dries herself and accepts Alina’s fussing and Tialha’s measuring. She pulls string of light from her fingers, magic to help her craft. She lets their busyness sweep her up, talk of fabrics and colors and evening and daytime outfits. It occupies her mind, but it doesn’t escape her notice that they don’t question Solas needing a whole wardrobe for some unknown woman. She wonders about his influence, or whether this is a normal occurrence. They keep adding outfits to the list, and it seems resources are not an issue. She hopes they will be home before she can use them all.

They leave, and Alina, who has been sorting through the set of dresses she has brought, unfolds one in a pale pink color. Iwyn knows better than protest than she can dress herself, from the insistence of servants and helpers in Skyhold, and in Orlais at that blasted party. She is still not familiar with this kind of process, but it is not entirely foreign. She should thank Josie, if they get back. When they get back.

The dress itself is simple, soft fabric fastened with gold clasps at her shoulder. A decorative rope of twisted gold sit below bust and across her waist, and high slits allow freedom of movement. She still misses her armor.

“This should do nicely, my lady, though it is a little dated. I am sure no one with notice, with you being such a… novelty from the countryside,” Alina says. Iwyn isn’t sure if it is a backwards compliment or insult.

“Thank you, Alina.”

The other woman nods. “Now, your hair. Sit.”

There is nothing for her to do but comply. She wonders if this is going to be a daily occurrence, if no one here can dress themselves. Solas looked like he had, he had looked almost familiar in a simple tunic.

Alina steps back and regards her. “Better. Just a little – “ she turns and grabs a small flat box from an upper shelf, dips her fingers inside and brushes them over Iwyn’s cheekbones. “Wonderful.”

Iwyn regards herself in the mirror – gold dust on her cheekbones, her hair piled high on her head. She wonders why Solas has makeup in his private bathroom. Does he have company often? Often enough to have gowns lying around, to have someone leave their makeup? She doesn’t like it, ridiculous as it is. This is his past, and she always knew he had one. She didn’t expect it to be… this. But She can’t help but wonder about what sort of women, or men, he knew back then. Back now. She exhales. It is not her business, and she doesn’t even care anymore. She doesn’t.

Alina leaves with her thank you, and it does feel nice to be refreshed, to be dressed nicely and have her hair done. The bath calmed her and she enjoyed Alina’s attention, if she is honest. It felt good to have someone care just about her. Here, she is not the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. They must believe her a minor noble, and just herself. Even if she knows that they are loyal to Solas, they cared for her, and not her title. She glances in the in the mirror again. It looks like she belongs now, among the wealth and magic. She runs her hand over the fabric of her dress, feels its rich softness. She smiles at herself, and draws centering a breath. She hasn’t sorted out her feelings about Solas, and everything he revealed, but now she knows she can face it.

When she returns to Solas’ study, he is back at his desk, scribbling on piece of paper. Food is set out by the sitting area; breads of various shapes, cheese, fruits, and pastries. There is a pot of hot tea, and she knows that is for her. There is a tight, warm feeling around her heart, before she remembers that she is still upset.

“This looks delicious. Thank you Solas.”

She can still be polite.

“Of course. Eat please, I am just going to –“ he looks up at her, and pauses. “I… I need to finish this.”

He keeps staring a little longer.

Iwyn sits and starts eating. The food is delicious, and she is pleased with Alina’s talents and Solas’ staring. It feels a little petty, but she will take what she can get.

“I’ve determined an approximate timeline for where we have been displaced to,” Solas says when he joins her. “I have also outlined some details about your assumed identity, should people ask.”

She nods, and notices Solas picking 3 pastries for his plate. She wonders how much of his true self she has seen. She doesn’t know which she would prefer. How can the man she knows, the man she loves – loved, want to violently upheave the world, without a care for the people in it?

“What about the device, and getting back?” She doesn’t want to be stuck here, and she is not sure how Solas feels about it. She will find a way back to her own time alone, if she has to. She can worry about her feelings later.

“I have not learned much. As I said, I was unaware that Dirthamen was tinkering with time magic, but the magic was clearly his. However, I found an invitation for a soiree he is hosting in a few days. We should attend, and find out as much as we can.”

“Good.”

She is relieved that he is working to get them back, and that he is willing to share the information.

Next, they go over her cover. She is posing as a commander in his army, and she gets a garrison, and hometown and a service record. Far enough away to that she should not get too many questions about people she should know. Closely associated enough that there should be no questions about how she met him – Lord Fen’Harel. She still doesn’t know who that is, and again she pushes that thought aside.

“We should also continue the… deception that we are… together. I apologize, but it will make certain things easier.” Solas’ words are formal, his left hand picking at his right sleeve. The tunic looks clean and new, there are no frayed threads.

“I’m sorry for your – inconvenience.” She knows he ended what was between then because of all the things he couldn’t say, but she can’t help to wonder what it meant to him. It’s not fair to doubt him, when she’s seen the pain in his eyes, but she is hurting too. “Was it ever real to you – or are you already used to pretending?”

“Never doubt that what we had was real – Iwyn, I…. it’s...”

He reaches across the table, and brushes his hand against hers, a pulse of his magic following. Her heart beats wildly.

There is a loud knock on the door, and a man enters without waiting.

“Apologies, my Lord, but this is urgent. Lady Andruil has demanded your presence, as well that of others.”

“Demanded?” Solas turns, frowning.

“She was adamant, it appears to be about her slaves. I could send your regrets. My Lord.”

“No, we will be there. Just give us a moment. Thank you, Elas.”

#dragon age fanfiction #solavellan fanfiction #nor dragon age #solas #time travel au #solas x iwyn #temporal arrangments #thanks everyone for waiting and enthusiasm #<3 #this is short and non-dramatic #sorry this will be mostly a quiet romance?#but I hope to hit the feels of the characters #viking writes #published 12/27/2018

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despair-tummy · 5 years

Note

How about a Chihiro stuffing Celeste and playing with her fat belly, butt and boobs?

Here you go

Chihiro sighed, his eyes sore and aching from staring at the computer screen before him. It wasn’t that he disliked computers, in fact, it was quite the opposite. He was the ultimate programmer, he loved computers and he especially loved designing code and experimenting with technology. But helping a company take care of a complicated computer virus wasn’t his idea of a fun time, in fact, as of late his idea of a fun time was starting to branch out.

A small buzzing sensation from his cellphone signalled that he had gotten a text message. He glanced behind him, not wanting to be caught from his recent employer and get in trouble for being on his phone during work hours. But he couldn’t help himself, he needed to look at something else for a change. Maybe it was Mondo asking if he wanted to grab dinner with him and Kiyotaka, or Makoto inviting him out for a coffee?

But instead of any of the normal text messages from his friends and colleagues, he was greeted with an image. The photo didn’t include a face, but it didn’t matter. As soon as he saw her milky white skin and the abundance of pillowy cleavage, that was more than enough to give Chihiro an idea of who sent it. His face turned red and he immediately stuffed his cellphone back into his pant pocket, silently praying that no one saw the text message for the brief second he looked.

Well, at least it gave him something to look forward too when he left to go home. Chihiro took a deep breath to try to still his racing heart before he returned to typing away, making a mental note to make a few stops along the way home.

….

He finished dealing with the virus and wasted no time rushing out of the building and to his car. Normally he would have stayed and say goodbye to everyone, but his girlfriend wasn’t very patient. Odd, wasn’t it? Someone as meek as him with a girlfriend who sends him racy pictures while he was at work, Chihiro was surprised by the revelation himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain or question it. Especially with what Celestia brought out in him, she brought out a side to him Chihiro never knew he had. And that was going to come out yet again as soon as he got home, but first, he had to prepare.

He made four stops along the way, the first one was to a high-end bakery for a slice of chocolate and hazelnut cake, a slice of strawberry cheesecake, two croissants (one almond and one chocolate) and a chocolate dipped cream puff. Then it was to a candy shop run by the best chocolatiers for a bag of those chocolate truffles Celestia loved so much, although Chihiro’s wallet would beg to differ. A quick stop at a nearby florist for a dozen red roses, then finally a trip to the grocery store for a quart of heavy cream.

With everything he needed for tonight, he drove back home in record time and proceeded to carry his load inside. Easier said than done since although he intended to work out to build some muscle, he never got around to it. It wasn’t like he was putting it off, it was just Celestia kept him very busy when he wasn’t working. She had high standards, but Chihiro could handle it, he liked spoiling her. Chihiro huffed as he made his way inside, carefully setting his bags of goodies down on the counter, but still holding the bright red roses.

“Celeste, I’m home!” he called, unable to keep himself from smiling as he awaited her presence.

Sure enough her thundering footsteps could be heard. At first Chihiro didn’t know what to make of the world of feedism and Celestia’s desire to become be his feedee and him her feeder, but each clip he watched of women and men gorging themselves with fattening food and guzzling down weight gain shakes with funnels and rubber tubes, he realized he definitely wanted to become a part of this taboo little fetish community. And he was enjoying every bit of it.

Celestia smiled as she strode into the room, clad in just a black lace bra and matching undergarments, complete with a pair of black stockings.This attire on,y brought more attention to just how long they have been practicing feedism. Every part of his girlfriend’s body was had gained a good amount of soft flesh. To her once slim and dainty legs that thicken to the point where they rubbed together constantly, her paunchy gut grew and sagged, covering the front of her panties completely. Her once flat chest has graciously ballooned out into pillow like masses, while her face, although not quite reaching a second chin yet, definitely gains some additional softness, especially in the cheeks.

“My, is that all for me?” she smiled brightly, taking in the sight of all the goodies. Her scarlet eyes shifted from the treats to him. “You spoil me.”

Chihiro smiled and handed his lover the bouquet of roses. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

“Of course not, that’s the appeal of this fetish.” Celestia happily hummed and took the roses, giving them a sniff. “These are beautiful, go fill a vase of water for them while I get everything together.” she said, handing back the roses as she went to gather up the goodies.

He was well aware Celestia was only offering to do that just so she could get her greedy hands on the treats, but Chihiro wasn’t going to call her out. Her greedy approach to eating was charming, especially in the world of this kink. While Celestia took the goodies to the living room, Chihiro opened the cupboard under the sink, pulling out a glass vase. He then filled it with water before removing the roses from their plastic wrapper then plopping them in.

Chihiro set the roses on the windowsill before going to the living room. There the buffet of luxurious treats were all laid out on the coffee table… well almost all of them. Celestia was already nearly done the chocolate croissant, flakey crumbs and a smear of milk chocolate coated the corners of her thin and lightly glossed lips.

“You started without me?” Chihiro frowned sadly.

“Forgive me, but you know I adore my carbs.” his girlfriend apologized before popping the last bit in her mouth. “And you know I can’t resist chocolate, it is my weakness.” she licked her lips clean. “But with that out of the way, let’s begin.”

Celestia sat crossed legged on the couch, her gut resting peacefully on her lap. Her face beamed with an inviting look as she waited to be fed. Chihiro smiled and made his way over and sat next to his feedee.

“What shall we start with?”

“Surprise me, dear.”

Chihiro looked at the spread and decided on starting out with the slice of chocolate cake. He unwrapped the black plastic fork that came along with it, and with the slice of cake in one hand, and the fork on the other, he speared a piece and brought it to Celestia’s mouth. The gothic gambler let out a satisfied hum as she chewed the combination of chocolate ganache and chopped hazelnuts.

“Delicious,” she commented once she swallowed.

“You know, when you first introduced me to this community,” he began as he continued to feed her the cake that was rich with chocolate and bitter with hazelnuts. “I never understood why everyone used cake, it seemed so repetitive and boring at first… but the more I watched and the more cake I fed you, I finally understood why.” Chihiro brought another forkful to her lips.

“Do you now?” Celestia asked as she happily accepted the forkful.

“I mean look at it, so many flavours. Chocolate, vanilla, lemon, carrot, and even ice cream cake and cheesecake exist,” he explained. “It’s so indulgent, you can get it cheap or splurge on something more high quality. And you can get real messy with it, make a complete pig of yourself. It’s truly a fascinating food.”

“Indeed, it’s one of my favourites.” Celestia licked some frosting off her lips. “But it appears we’re down a slice.” she giggled, gesturing to the now empty box that one housed the slice of cake.

Chihiro chuckled and set the box aside and went for a cream puff. He smiled and brought the chocolate dipped pastry to her mouth, Celestia immediately took an eager bite, causing white cream to ooze out of the goodie.

“C-careful, the filling might end up on the floor,” he warned.

But he needn’t worry, Celestia was already on it and dragged her tongue across the desert, lapping up every bit of filling that came out.

“Chihiro, do you really think I would let a perfectly good cream puff go to waste?” she giggled before taking a second bite.

Chihiro felt his face flush red as he watched her. They did this plenty of times, but each and every time just made him blush so much, seeing her eat tons just did something to him that he couldn’t explain. But the one thing was for certain, he wanted to keep doing it. Once the cream puff was eaten and Celeste licked his fingers clean, he decided to give her the little thing of chocolates.

“I stopped by that chocolate place you loved so much.” he smiled and gave the bag a shake.

“Gimmie!” Celestia snatched up the bag out from his dainty hands. She used her teeth to rip into the bag and tipped the bag towards her mouth, causing an avalanche of chocolate truffles to fall into her mouth.

Her cheeks puffed out from the sheer amount of chocolates, but she still managed to messily chew them.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one feeding you?” Chihiro reminded.

Celestia tried to talk, but it was completely incoherent from how full her mouth was. It was only when she swallowed she could talk clearly. “Thirsty, heavy cream, now,” she ordered, paying no mind to his call out.

“Greedy tonight, aren’t we?” he teased and unscrewed the cap to the quart of heavy cream. “Here you go.” he brought the quart to her mouth and tipped it, allowing the liquid to pass her lips.

She managed to guzzle down at least half the quart before pulling away and letting out a giant burp.

“My, excuse me.” Celestia smiled and wiped the heavy cream residue from her mouth with her arm. “Thank you, my love, I needed that.”

“A-Anything for you!” he loved it when she praised her.

Chihiro then selected the slice of strawberry cheesecake, taking a moment to admire the pretty shade of pink the cheesecake was. He got a piece on a fork and brought it to Celestia’s awaiting mouth. She quickly devoured said piece and it wasn’t long before Chihiro fed her a second forkful of the creamy cake.

“I’m surprised they still had that cheesecake in stock at this hour,” Celestia commented as she noisily chewed.

“Me too, I was planning to get a slice of red velvet, but when I saw the cheesecake I knew I had to get it.”

“Next time get all three.”

“I-I don’t think my wallet would like that.”

“Budget around it.”

Easy for her to say, but for his girlfriend, he would be more than willing to try to accommodate her expensive tastes. With the cheesecake done, Chihiro reached for the last dessert item, the almond croissant.

“Think you can finish this?” he asked.

“Of course I can.” Celestia grinned and stared at the croissant, her mouth watering just at the very sight of the flakey pastry.

As soon as Chihiro brought the croissant within eating range, Celestia took a big and greedy bite, moaning in pleasure as the taste of sliced almonds, buttery pastry and almond filling danced on her taste buds,

“Mmmmm.” Celestia moaned as she chewed.

He smiled and brought the treat to her mouth again, which was met with another large and messy bite, crumbs and filling stuck to her mouth. Sure enough, once she swallowed that bite, she wasted no time shoving the last bit into her mouth. Soon after a heavy swallow Celestia used her tongue to lick away any remains on her thin lips.

“That was delicious.” she mused in delight.

“You uh, aren’t done yet.” Chihiro reminded, picking up the quart of heavy cream and gave it a good shake to show it was half full.

“But of course, I could use a drink to wash it all down.”

Chihiro brought the quart to Celestia’s lips and right away she drank deeply, managing to down the rest of the heavy cream in record time. She let out a second loud burp and wiped her mouth on her arm.

“Excuse me, thank you, that was all very delicious.” she smiled and lazily got into a lounging position, which only brought more attention to her midsection that was taut from the amount of food she had eaten. She glanced straight into the programmer’s eyes with a wicked grin. “What are you waiting for?”

She didn’t need to tell him twice, Chihiro eagerly grabbed her midsection, although firm and bulging from all the food she ate, it still had that softness Chihiro adored. He gave it a firm shake, listening to all of the sweet feast inside of her gut slosh around, as well as watch her fat jiggle.

“I-I think if we start paying more attention to your calories, then we could probably double your weight by the end of the year.” he stuttered, eyes locked on her flabby midsection.

“I’ll leave all the calculating up to you,” Celestia spoke, he noticed a mischievous little glint in her eyes.

Before he could even get another word out or try to prepare himself for whatever she was going to do, Celestia leapt at him, pinning him down on the sofa.

“Celes-“ he was cut off when Celestia plopped her mountainous soft breasts on his face.

“Go on, do what I love.” she urged with a giggle. “You know you want too.”

At first glance you wouldn’t have pegged Chihiro as the kinky type, admittedly was still very meek and wouldn’t dare talk about anything sexual as casual as some people like Miu or Toko’s split personality, Genocider Syo, admittedly before coming across the world of feedism, Chihiro could be considered vanilla and sex and fetishes weren’t something that he typically had on his mind. But after being shown this fetish and practicing it with his girlfriend, they were definitely always lingering in his mind somewhere. Whether it was from sexual photos from Celestia or having two massive breasts resting on his face, it was always somewhere in his head.

Knowing that the only way to regain his sight from the blockage of pillowy flesh in his view was to give her what she wanted, Chihiro shoved his head deeper in the depths of her cleavage and began to vigorously shake his head. Her breasts bounced and jiggled wildly with each movement of his head. He pondered why Celestia might like doing this so much. Maybe it was because when they first started dating she was on the flat side and couldn’t reap all the benefits of a fuller chest? It was tempting to ask her… he made a mental note to ask her something once he finally had regained his sight.

She giggled and finally freed him, looking at his sweaty face. “My, tired already?” Celestia teased, bringing a perfectly manicured red nail to stroke his smooth cheek.

“A… a little,” he confessed sheepishly.

“Well, too bad,” Celestia smirked and took one of his hands, guiding them to her plump rear. “Because I intend to keep you very busy.”

Chihiro felt the blood rush to his face as well as to his groin as his fingers sunk into the fat of her round bottom. He had a sinking feeling he would have to call in sick for work tomorrow.

#stuffed ronpa #My fics

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cwprnest · 4 years

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Where To Watch The Big Game in Atlanta

Below are a few of our favorite options where football fans can catch all the action of The Big Game on Sunday, February 2, 2020. From the ultimate viewing party at STK Atlanta to mouthwatering takeout specials from Firepit Pizza Tavern, we’ve outlined a few football-infused happenings that are guaranteed to be better than any living room.

Enjoy a Pre-Game Brunch and The Big Game at The Shed at Glenwood Nestled in cozy Glenwood Park, The Shed at Glenwood is bringing the heat for The Big Game on Sunday, February 2, 2020. Brunch lovers can relax at the expansive bar or grab the crew and enjoy an unforgettable, pre-game brunch with favorites such as Southern Chicken Omelette, French Toast and Peaches, Crispy Springer Mountain Farms Chicken Biscuit, and much more. Fans searching for a spot to cheer on their favorite team can also take advantage of The Shed’s brand-new 104” screen and enjoy a build-your-own burger special which includes french fries and a frosty brew for $20. For more information, visit www.theshedatglenwood.com  or call  404.835.4363.

Catch The Big Game at Park Tavern in Piedmont Park Football fanatics are invited to visit Park Tavern in Piedmont Park, located in the heart of Midtown, on Sunday, February 2, 2020, for a high-energy Big Game Viewing Party. The  perfect place to catch San Francisco go head-to-head against Kansas City, Park Tavern’s  expansive covered patio boasts plenty of seating, stone fire pits, hi-definition, flat-screen TVs, a 20' x 10’ big screen, private cabanas and much more.  Beginning at 6:30 p.m., sports enthusiasts ages 21 and up can take advantage of Park Tavern’s all-inclusive package which includes an open premium bar and fan favorites including burgers, wings, and much more for $54. For more information and to purchase tickets, visit www.bigtickets.com/events/parktavern/big-game-2020 or call (404) 249-0001.

Root For Your Favorite Team at STK Atlanta Known for its high-energy atmosphere and exceptional, signature and seasonal offerings, STK Atlanta is celebrating The Big Game with the ultimate viewing party on February 2, 2020. Beginning at 3 p.m., football fans are invited to root on their favorite team while watching numerous screens throughout the lounge and restaurant. STK is also offering its popular, wallet-friendly Social Hour specials including $2 fresh oysters; $5 select beer, signature Lil’ BRGs served with truffle fries, watermelon, feta and olive bites, and chimichurri hummus and pita chips; $6 Justin Cabernet Vievite Rose; $7 select specialty cocktails, smoked pork belly burnt ends, daily ceviche tostada, and bone-in filet lollipops; and $8 jalapeño cheddar grit croquettes, tuna tartare tacos, and shrimp cocktail. As if that wasn’t enough, revelers can enjoy a Halftime Shot Show, Live DJ performance, and much more. STK’s full dinner menu will be available from 3 p.m. to 10 p.m. For more information  about  STK, please visit  www.stkhouse.com. 

Tackle The Big Game At Dantanna's Buckhead Whether football fans are in it for the game, the commercials or the half-time show, Dantanna’s Buckhead is the perfect destination to tackle the Big Game on Sunday, February 2, 2020. Fans can reserve and guarantee where they want to sit in the bar or restaurant in advance on a first-come, first-served basis for $65, which includes unlimited access to an impressive, all-you-can-eat buffet created by Executive Chef Brad Parker. This year’s mouthwatering smorgasbord features an array of offerings including a smoked brisket carving station, snow crab legs, oysters, wings, mashed potatoes, signature favorites, desserts and more and much more! Team-themed dishes will also be available on the buffet. Fans can get a taste of San Francisco and dive into Dantanna’s house-made Rice-A-Roni, Cioppino with house-baked sourdough bread, “Explosive Chicken”, and fortune cookies. Guests looking for a little Kansas City flavor can sink their teeth into pork ribs, burnt ends, cheesy cornbake, and hickory pit baked beans. To top it all off, guests in attendance will automatically be entered into a drawing to win one of two 50 inch VIZIO 4K HDR TVs. While reservations are encouraged, football fanatics are welcome to enjoy the game at Dantanna’s Buckhead and Downtown without a reservation as well. To make a reservation at the Buckhead location call 404.760.8873 or visit, www.dantannas.com.

Host the Ultimate Football Viewing Party with Firepit Pizza Tavern Hosting a viewing party this year and don’t feel like whipping up a feast? Tailgaters can kick it up a notch and impress their guests for The Big Game with mouthwatering takeout specials courtesy of Firepit Pizza Tavern in Grant Park. From fiery wings to hand-tossed pizzas, football fanatics can enjoy Baller Upgrade Packages for ten people which includes three pizzas, 30 wings, and Tavern Dip Pint for $80. For parties of 30, fans can enjoy 10 pizzas, 100 wings, and Tavern Dip Quart for $250. Customers can upgrade to all specialty pizzas for $25 and $90. Revelers who only want to chow down on wings can choose from tasty sauces including Buffalo, Unicorn, Garlic Parmesan, and Lemon Pepper. Orders can be placed for 10 pieces for $11, 20 pieces for $22, 50 pieces for $50 and 100 pieces for $110. Of course, fans are welcome to belly up to the bar and enjoy The Big Game on Firepit’s flat-screen TVs. For more information or to place an order, visit firepitatl.com or call 404-995-4777.

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alissaguevara-blog · 4 years

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7 Flower Treatment Tips

Many people tend to be annoyed by how short-lived a bouquet maybe after they obtain it home. They may neglect that fresh-cut plants remain living entities that may be motivated to last a lot longer under the right conditions. The following advice can help make your blossoms go longer.

1: Replenish water frequently. Change the water completely every 2-3 days.

Plants drink a great deal of drinking water! It isn't uncommon for a big flower set up to suck up all water in a vase within the first day or two you own it at home. Keep carefully the vase full to guarantee the bouquets do not dry and wilt. Plants are also highly vulnerable to bacterias that accumulate as stems sit in water. By changing the water in the vase every couple of days, even if the drinking water hasn’t been consumed, will help keep the flowers fresh much longer (and prevent that horrid rotten smell that evolves if you let them sit down quite a while). For large formal plans, carefully suggest the vase more than a kitchen sink to allow drinking water drain without disturbing the look. Then re-fill the vase by softly pouring drinking water near the top of the blooms.

2. Cut at least a fifty percent in . of the stem off your plants before you put them in a vase and every time you change the drinking water.

As flowers sit out of the water on your trip home, the ends of the stem dry and the cells die, which makes it problematic for the flowers to soak up water. By cutting the stems just before putting them in the water again, you expose fresh tissue that can suck efficiently up the water much more. When you cut stems when you change the drinking water in the vase a couple of days later, you remove cells at the tips which may be breaking down as soon as again expose fresh tissues that absorb more drinking water.

3:Keep your plants away from heating and bright light.

Sometimes people think they ought to collect their vase of blossoms in a sunny windowsill since that's where a herb would be happiest. However, slice plants are the contrary of potted vegetation. They are in their maximum perfection. Sunlight and warmth will cause them to become “mature” and therefore quicken their demise. Instead, maintain your cut bouquets in an awesome dark spot if you want these to last so long as possible.

You can also check out: www.flowersdelivereduk.org.uk

4:Avoid sitting down your blooms beside ripening fruits or vegetables, bananas and apples especially.

Ripening fruits produces an odorless invisible gas called ethylene. This gas is safe to humans, but instead fatal to plants. The technology behind it is really as such: in the herb world, flowers will be the precursor of fruits. Once a blossom is pollinate, it starts to build up into fruit so it can develop seeds and begin the vegetation cycle once more. Ethylene is the gaseous hormone in the flower that induces that blossom to drop its petals and be fruit. As the fruits mature, it proceeds to provide off ethylene. When you sit down your vase of blossoms next to ripening fruits, you’re revealing them to the gas and they'll decide they’d better drop their petals just how Mother Nature meant.

5:After you get rid of your last arrangement, be certain to clean the vase/container very thoroughly in hot soapy water or, even better, in your dishwasher.

Bacteria build-up in dirty vases and don't go away because the vase dries out. Once you add drinking water again, the vase will once more be filled with bacteria as well as your new bouquet will go through the same bacterias that wiped out the last bouquet. Give your bouquets a brand new clean environment free from bacterias and they'll last a lot longer.

6:Use “bloom food” for some flowers.

While changing water almost every other day roughly is often just like effective to make blooms go longer, adding those rose food packets that include packaged flowers is advantageous as well. This is also true if you’re forgetful/sluggish and won’t be changing your plants’ drinking water regularly. Furthermore, to “nourishing” the bouquet, these food packets include a bactericide that maintains water fresh for a day or two much longer. You may make your blossom food with the addition of about 1 teaspoon of sugars, 2 teaspoons of lemon juice and a 1 teaspoon of bleach to your vase before adding in regards to a quart of warm plain tap water. It is well worth noting that we now have a few blossoms that usually do not like bloom food in the vase. A few of these are zinnias, glads and sunflowers.

7:Use clear scissors when trimming.

If you are using dull old scissors or snips to cut your bouquets, you are smashing often, and damaging thus, the cells/cells by the end of the stem. Broken cells cannot absorb drinking water as effectively as healthy cells. Clear scissors ensure a clean cut that leaves cells unharmed (except the indigent few that undoubtedly get sliced up).

For great alternatives to asda flowers or tesco flowers delivery, check out Bunches.co.uk

#flower care

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kasherri-blog · 5 years

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I Wish You Knew

I want it to sink in,

Like rose quarts in a

Shimmering lake.

Fester,

Like a bruise

On a midsummers day.

And occupy the space

In that beautiful head;

I do not give a fuck.

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actfact2-blog · 5 years

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Raspberry Rose Jelly

Home » Rose Water & Orange Blossoms Blog – Fresh and Classic Lebanese Recipes » Techniques » Raspberry Rose Jelly

Raspberry rose jelly is a beautiful way to enjoy ultra-pure raspberry flavor with no seeds. The rose water makes the raspberry taste even more raspberry!

Everyone has a texture thing of one sort or another, don’t you think? My texture thing is not extensive, really it’s not. Oysters? No problem. Pate? Yes please. Labneh and mayo, just fine.

But Ice chips? Hellz no. Grainy hummus? Um, never.

And while we’re at it: berries with lots of little seeds? It’s a love-hate situation. Raspberries (and their cousin the blackberry) when eaten fresh, their seeds don’t much get in the way or bother me. I can ignore them for the whole fresh berry experience.

But boil razzles down for a jam or a sauce, and the seeds are now front and center. They get in the way and I find myself getting kind of down on my second-favorite jam for it (apricot is #1, always).

It doesn’t help that my mama can’t take the seeds even for one second. And that woman loves her jam, daily.

When I mentioned during our annual raspberry-picking expedition that we’d be making jam, she said, “not for me.” Geez Mom, that’s the main thing we do with our raspberries aside from eating as many as possible out of hand in the first day after picking, or covering them in chocolate, before they start to go soft. I knew why though, and no sooner did I say the word “seeds” than she was nodding knowingly and pointing to her teeth.

This is the moment that pushed me over into the jelly vs. jam camp. Like the raspberries themselves, jelly for me has always incited mixed feelings. The word jelly takes me to the grape jelly of all of our childhoods (or at least my friends’ childhoods), and all I can think of is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich I don’t want to eat. But jelly in the context of a French gelee, or jelly in the context of jell-o, and I’m in love.

To add to my blossoming jelly excitement, a few years back Dan and I popped in on his mom Louise, who was sitting at her kitchen island enjoying a taste of the raspberry jelly a friend of hers had made (raspberries were on sale at Meijer, two for $5. It was mid-winter in Michigan, so a great deal). She made the visit more special, as Lebanese ladies always do, by putting a little spread out of the jelly, some toast, and some labneh. Cup of coffee.

We ate every last bite of that bright pink, sweet-tart jelly (super selfish of us not to leave enough for another round for her next morning at least…),, and while we have enjoyed countless abundant meals in that there kitchen, this one that stays with me and gives me intense homemade raspberry jelly cravings.

What surprised me in my raspberry jelly research is that you need nothing more than the fruit itself, sugar, and lemon juice. Natural pectin and the lemon work their magic to give the jelly it’s gel, so no additional pectin is necessary. But there are plenty of recipes that do include the pectin (like Sure-Gel), or another high pectin fruit like apple, and that’s all good too.

I wanted pure and simple for my jelly intro, and to see if the method without added pectin really work, so my only addition is a couple of teaspoons of rose water. You won’t taste rose so much as more raspberry flavor, which rose water does so beautifully to any red berry it touches.

What I discovered is not to expect a jelly so stiff that it’s like a jell-o cup when you spoon some out. My raspberry rose jelly is a bit softer than that, but I store it in the refrigerator and that also contributes to enough body to spoon and spread.

Put on your apron for this project, my friends. Red will splatter, and you want to enjoy the raging pink rather than be irritated with it. Keep tasting spoons at the ready, because the flavor and aroma explosion is too good not to taste every step of the way. Then find the best loaf of bread available, same goes for the labneh (if you can’t have actual labneh, try Fage whole-milk or 5% from the yogurt aisle). Cup of coffee. Now the only texture thing you have is one to love.

This simple jelly recipe sets up from the magic of lemon juice and the natural pectin in the raspberries. You can process your jars to can for shelf-life, or keep them in the refrigerator to extend their life. Honestly, in the refrigerator with no processing, I've opened jars many months after summer and they are still perfect. With this jelly though, I fear there won't be any left to enjoy at a later time.... I use a varied array of jar sizes and shapes, faceted ones especially show off the jelly's color. Sort the raspberries well, but I don't wash mine, to preserve the glorious raspberry essence. Raspberry jelly is perfection on a piece of good toast slathered with labneh. My sister likes hers in cocktails.

4 quarts raspberries

2/3 cup water

4 1/2 cups granulated sugar

Juice of 1 lemon

2 teaspoons rose water

In a large, heavy pot, combine the raspberries and water. Stir constantly and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes.

Line a fine mesh sieve with a few layers of dampened cheesecloth, set over a large bowl in the sink, and pour the raspberry mixture through, catching the juice in a large bowl. The juice should measure about 4 cups.

Clean the large pot of any residual raspberry pulp and seeds. Filter the juice back into the pot, again through the sieve lined with a fresh round of dampened cheesecloth layers. Add the sugar, lemon juice, and rose water. Bring to a boil and cook for 10 minutes, then skim off the foam. Return to a boil and cook until the jelly reaches 220 degrees on an instant-read thermometer.

Ladle into clean jars, and close the lids tightly. Store in the refrigerator.

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Source: https://www.maureenabood.com/raspberry-rose-jelly/

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