#might just be my sinuses going crazy
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two wall guys on a wall
#adventure time#fionna and cake#fionna and cake spoilers#prismo the wishmaster#prismo#scarab the god auditor#prohibitedwish#< if you squint hard enough#i only learned recently that scarab shares a VA with testament in gg strive#FAN-WORKS#eyestrain#not too sure but my eyes do feel weird#might just be my sinuses going crazy
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Stay
description: Mikasa get sick and Eren comes over every day to bring her food and keeps her company but always leaves.
pairing: eren jaeger x mikasa ackerman (aot,snk)
alternate universe
****
After finally fitting the key into the lock, Mikasa sluggishly entered her apartment and closed the door behind her. She flinched at the noise as it irritated the headache.
She rubbed her eyes after dropping her belongings onto the floor. She took a deep breath and sighed. Today's been tough: work was long, she had a headache, her throat hurts, she's developed a cough, and she thinks she's about to get her period.
Everything is tough right now so she decided to take a shower. The hot steam loosened the congestion in her sinuses, which slightly relieved the dull ache in her brain.
She wrapped one of the fluffier towels around her body, groaning as she noticed the dry patch on her arm and the tiny bumps on her forehead.
Mikasa was putting on a pair on baggy sweatpants when she heard the door open and a loud familiar call: "Helloo! I’m here!”
She quickly tossed on an oversized shirt and walked into her living room to see Eren standing in the kitchenette, rummaging through the fridge for the grapes. The take-out containers he'd brought sat on the counter.
He noticed her before she said anything. "Oh, hey," he greeted with a smile. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, and Mikasa blamed her hormones for noticing the way his muscles bulged out.
Eren pointed to the door she just walked from. "Did you just take a shower?" She nodded. He used the same hand to then point towards the front door. "You should really lock your door. A stranger could just walk right in."
"A stranger did walk right in," she replied sassily, sliding past him in the tiny kitchen to poke at the takeout containers. "And ate all my grapes."
She eyed him with an amused smile as he sheepishly put multiple grapes into his mouth.
He pouted. "Sorry," he apologized for the grapes, trying not to laugh so he could chew, and put the grapes back in the fridge. “But seriously. It’s dangerous.”
Mikasa stared at him as she removed two plates from the cabinet. She appreciated the concern, but… c’mon. It was her.
But arguments weren’t worth drying out the cracks in her throat tissue. She sighed loudly, dramatically, wincing as the air touched her throat. “I’ll try.” She furrowed her eyebrows in thought. "By the way..." she continued, "How did you get by Reiner?"
Reiner was the building's security guard on shift tonight. He seemed diligent and she has witnessed him prevent someone from entering the building's locked doors before.
He shrugged. "He thinks I'm your boyfriend." He popped one last grape in his mouth before rummaging through the takeout containers.
"I brought ramen. Thought the steam might help," he continued, removing all the containers and arranging them properly, oblivious to how Mikasa stared at him, chewing on her bottom lip.
She blamed the fog of illness and her hormones for influencing her to think crazy thoughts and feel crazy feelings, for the extra beats in her chest.
She didn’t respond. “Are you feeling any better today?" He looked up at her, she could see the generosity in his eyes, she could tell he genuinely wanted to know.
A pleasant heat spread throughout Mikasa's chest. "He thinks you're my boyfriend? Why does he think that?" She crossed her arms, suddenly conscious of how close they were standing, how tiny her kitchen space really was. "And you never corrected him?"
He smiled and covered his mouth with his hand to hide his amusement, a melodic laugh falling into his palm. Eren noted that today's mental fog might be worse than yesterday's.
"It never came up." He was still smiling. He pointed to the takeout containers. "Ramen okay?"
Mikasa coughed in her elbow slightly before nodding, a light pink blush settling on her cheeks.
"Go sit down and I'll prepare everything," he said sternly. He reached his hands to her shoulders and forcibly walked her out of the kitchenette. Once at the doorway, he turned away to retrieve the bowls.
She opened her mouth to protest like she always did, do the dance they always do, but her bones felt heavy and the couch sounded so nice right now.
Eren walked over to the couch minutes later with the dishes, and she tried to squeal with joy but it came out like a croak. He placed the bowls on the coffee table in front of them, then sat right next to her, about one foot between them.
He slapped his palms against his thighs. “Well, can I get you anything before we dig in?” He laughed when he turned to face her and saw noodles poking out of her mouth.
She shook her head and slurped up the noodles. Eren searched for some movie that Mikasa eventually fell asleep during.
Just like yesterday, Eren carried the sleeping beauty to bed and tucked her in, whispering for soft sweet dreams before leaving, making sure to lock the handle lock upon exiting.
**************
Mikasa had woken up in her bed, knowing that she’d fallen asleep in Eren’s lap and he carried her here. A pink blush braced her cheeks at the thought and vision.
She checked her phone, recoiling as she suddenly processed a migraine in addition to the light sensitivity. Thank goodness she didn’t have work today.
She coughed, rubbing at her throat afterwards like it would magically soothe the irritated lining.
She remembered she had two messages from none other than the Eren Jaeger before shutting off her phone:
did you know you had a lock on the door handle?
Prick, she thought, rolling her eyes.
my shift ends at 10, i’ll come over after. expect brunch
Mikasa smiled at the word brunch then frowned at the reminding pulse of her headache. Maybe she could still have a mimosa or two despite feeling unwell. Maybe that’ll make it all less… noticeable.
True to his word, he had arrived around 11 at her door with bagels, french toast sticks, fruit, and smoothies. She was slightly less excited for the food now than she was before she had to move from the couch to unlock the door to let in the culprit who locked it in the first place.
“See, it’s annoying when it’s locked,” she said, skipping the greeting.
Eren shrugged, smiling and shaking his head, toeing his shoes off while balancing the food in his hands. Mikasa took the smoothies from him. “Not for me. I'd rather know you’re safe behind the locked door.”
He took the drinks back to place on the counter. Mikasa whined, “But I never remember and getting up to let you in when you’re always here is—”
She stopped when she processed the way he looked at her, the dull tiredness replaced with a new light, bearing a light smile as she spoke, ears perking like he was tuning to every word. She felt embarrassed, because she knew she didn’t have any real reasons, but she also felt… turned on. Because he cared so much.
“If you don’t want to keep unlocking it to let me in, get me a key,” he said it like it was obvious, like it wouldn’t be a big deal. Maybe it wasn’t.
She cursed the headache for the extra pain caused by thinking. She cursed the period for the increased blood flow to her pelvis and the fluttery feeling in her abdomen, the one that felt airier when he smiled at her.
He sighed, resting his hands next to his empty plate on the counter.
“I don’t mean to push you when you’re sick.” He glanced over at her, almost apologetic. “It’s just, I worry about you sometimes when I’m not here, knowing you’re here with the door unlocked and anyone could waltz in and do… whatever… and then…” His focus blurred as he trailed off. Mikasa watched him get lost in meritless worries. “And you’re sick right know, so…”
Mikasa took a couple steps forward so she was standing right in front of him, less than a foot away. His eyes snapped back to hers as the movement regained his attention.
She couldn’t explain why, but she reached her hand out and gently caressed Eren’s bicep. She stared at the shadows on his muscles near her hand while she did it, watched them distort over the folds and veins, getting lost in the pattern of her thumb rubbing on toned skin.
“It’s okay,” she murmured quietly, the air feeling a little heavier, a little more fragile. “I didn’t realize it worried you that much.”
Normally she’d pick on him, tell him he’s worrying over nothing because she’s stronger than him anyway. It must’ve been the combination of illness and period fog that made her more emotional, the fact that he even cared so much about something so small just because if had to do with her made tears well up in her eyes.
She wanted to move closer. She wanted to tighten her touch around his bicep, feel the tension and strength of the muscle as it folded under her grip. She wanted him to wrap her in his arms and hold her until she fell asleep, stayed as she slept.
Maybe being protected for once wouldn’t be so bad.
Eren softly rubbed her cheek in admiration before returning to dividing out the food, Mikasa’s arm falling to her side.
“You should really eat,” he said matter-of-factly, handing her a full plate and the smoothie.
She was still processing the abrupt change in conversation but took the plate in her hands, noticing the faint pink blush on his cheeks.
They walked over to the table this time, Eren mumbling something about how the position might help drain the congestion.
“Thanks, doctor,” she said enthusiastically, giving him a thumbs up. “I feel so much better like this.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re sick.” He ripped part of the croissant then pointed at her as she was slouched in the chair. “And you shouldn’t sit like that either.”
She locked her jaw and bit the inside of her lip. “Oh my god, stop telling me what to do!” she exclaimed, rubbing her hands against her temples.
The concern was overwhelming. The heat building inside her was overwhelming.
If she didn’t force him to leave now, the fog would continue to permeate her barriers, letting him in. She’ll fall into him on the couch, reaching for him, getting used to him in her sickly delusion.
“You should really leave.” He didn’t seem phased. She stammered. “I mean, you work with sick people all the time—you’re a paramedic!”
He smiled a little bit. He tried to hide it by putting his head down. “I wear a mask,” Eren responded simply, shrugging. “It’s not like we’re sharing spit anyway.”
He stood collected the empty plates. The image of the two of them tangled on the couch entered her head, kissing until she felt dizzy.
Mikasa blushed furiously at the thought, and it slightly bothered her that he didn’t seem flustered about the mental image at all.
“I want you to leave, Eren.” She stood up, standing awkwardly. She fiercely made eye contact, a hot stare lit by the fire she started, the one to burn the rooted need for him to stay.
He put the dishes back on the table. “No, you don’t,” he replied, his voice a smooth mix of calm and stern. “You don’t want me to leave.” It was sharp, like he was delicately toeing a dangerous line between an order and an observation.
“You want me to stay here.” He stopped walking in front of her. “You want to fall asleep on the couch with your head in my lap.” He said it with a straight face, like an irrefutable fact. He delicately brushed a strand of her black hair behind her ear. “And you want me to play with your hair. And you want me to carry you to bed after.”
And I want you to join me, Mikasa thought first, sending a rush of hot blood throughout her body.
She stared at Eren in an astounding disbelief riddled with embarrassment. She felt herself heating up, and she felt the sudden bolts of electricity at the friction between her legs when she squirmed in place.
He held her hand with both hands. “Just like we always do. It’s what you always want... when you're sick.” He looked away and he blushed slightly, then started dragging her to the couch.
It was a routine at this point. For a week every month, she was a little needier, cuddlier, and he was just a big bigger, like a big warm cushion, that twirled her hair and rubbed her skin and wrapped his arm around her every time.
She couldn’t resist; he was right. It’s what she wanted from the beginning, when he first showed up this morning. For him to have stayed.
*************
Mikasa woke up the next morning in bed, sighing at the small disappointment that Eren hadn't stayed again.
She wondered if he ever considered it, slipping into bed next to her after tucking her in; if he ever kissed her forehead goodnight, or said anything; if he turned around at her bedroom door for one last glance; if he hesitated before leaving the apartment; if he told himself he'd gain the courage to stay tomorrow.
She wondered how long he stays. When she asked him once, all he said was after the movie ends. She wondered if he sat right there, her head in his lap, his hand in her hair, until he fell asleep on the couch, until he physically couldn't stay anymore, until he had to leave for work.
She inhaled deeply. "This is not a feasible fantasy," she said out loud, her voice hoarser than yesterday. "Just like he said... I only feel this way during my period..."
She felt a sharp pang in her ribcage. Maybe she knew that wasn't completely true. It was just the only time she could somewhat reasonably express it and have something other than I have a crush on you to blame.
The phone ringing snapped her out of her thoughts. She checked the ID: Eren.
"Hey." Mikasa cringed at the scratchiness of her voice.
Eren's laughter carried over the phone. "Oh, damn. That's... unfortunate."
The smile formed on her face before she could repress it. "Shut up," she croaked out, "I just woke up."
“Oh, did I wake you?”
“No!” Mikasa was quick to dismiss the concern. She relaxed when she heard Eren sigh with relief.
“Good, good. It’s really nice out today; you should take a walk or something.” She looked out her bedroom window and could see some rays of bright sunlight breaking through the shades. “Not to tell you what to do or anything.”
It sparked a little laugh out of her and Eren smiled, pleased that the rest improved her mood. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
They settled into a comfortable pseudo-silence, their breathing mixed in with the inherent static into a pleasing noise. Mikasa stared out her window, admiring the blue sky and cherry blossoms. Eren observed different flowers at the small shop, trying to remember if she’d ever told him her favorites.
“Oh, I almost forgot why I called,” Eren said suddenly, deciding none were good enough and leaving. “Im double shifting today so I won’t be there tonight. I have tomorrow off though, so I can make it up to you then.”
Mikasa closed her eyes at the news, the unsettling feeling spreading from the pit of her stomach. “Oh, okay.” She deflated slightly, glad he couldn’t see her over the phone. “When tomorrow?”
“Whenever you want to see me.”
Always.
The suggestion rolled off her tongue before she could stop it; she was too distracted with how her heart swelled to notice the words until they were already spoken: “Come after work? I’ll leave the door unlocked.”
He chuckled airily, which made her smile a little. “Well, I would prefer if it was locked while you rested.”
“I’ll leave a key on top of the door. There’s food here too, so maybe I can prepare something this time,” she rushed out. She wanted to convince him.
It didn’t take much. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later tonight then, Mika.”
They ended the call and she snuggled back into her blankets, a cozy smile stretched on her face.
She dozed around the whole day, telling herself she’d get up and go for a walk and instead moving to nap periodically on the couch.
Around dinner time she walked to the door and unlocked it, falling back onto the couch with the tv on.
“How’s it going, Eren?” Reiner asked him as he entered the building.
Eren smiled and waved, still awake from that coffee during the second shift. “Hey, Reiner. Im good, how are you?” He stopped at the counter, resting his forearm against the cool surface.
“Not too shabby,” Reiner replied, smirking like things had been moving in his favor lately. A thought popped into his head and his expression changed. “Oh, how’s Mikasa doing? Haven’t seen her in a few days.”
“Yeah, she’s sick,” Eren answered, stepping back from the counter, “I should go check on her; Ill tell her you asked about her though.”
Eren walked over to the door once he heard the buzzer. They exchanged goodbyes and Eren took the stairs to the fourth floor.
He stopped at her apartment door. No lights were peeking through the cracks in the door; no keys left on the frame or under the mat.
He sighed and triple checked that it was her apartment before trying the doorknob, relieved but also saddened that it was unlocked.
He recognized the apartment even in the dark. Eren took his shoes off and quietly walked to the couch, smiling at the sight of her curled into a ball, bundled in three different blankets.
He removed his backpack and placed it on the ground before moving to crouch in front of the couch.
Eren reached out, his hand delicately displacing strands of hair from her face, his fingertips barely brushing against her soft skin. He was intermittently holding his breath, like moving the air would disturb her, like he was forgetting to breathe.
Honestly he expected for her to be asleep, so he was more than okay with sleeping on the couch and waking up to her the next morning.
Eren tucked his arms underneath her armpits and knees and lifted Mikasa into his arms. Her head fell into his shoulder, a soft warmth on the chest.
He liked this part, when he could hold her. It felt special, knowing she felt comfortable enough to fall asleep around him, that she'd regularly be so vulnerable with him. Then there was the warm, fuzzy feeling that erupted when he gently placed her on the bed, a protective longing temporarily satiated whenever he placed the blankets over her.
Mikasa's eyes opened softly when Eren was pulling the blanket over her shoulders. He withdrew his arms and stood up from his crouching position. She blinked repeatedly to wipe some of the fog from her mind, to speed up the time her eyes needed to adjust.
He was checking her water bottle when she sat up slightly. "Please stay," she pleaded quietly, hoarsely. If it weren't so quiet she wouldn't have even heard herself.
Eren opted for sitting on the bed instead of crouching again and rested his hand on her covered thigh. "I will," he replied delicately, barely louder than her own sentence, wondering if she still had a headache. "I'll be here when you wake up."
Mikasa placed her hand over his. "Stay in here... please..."
It was too dark to see his expression and her eyes were struggling to adjust. She felt like she couldn't breathe, not because she had stopped breathing, but like each breath just wasn't enough.
"Okay," he answered softly, "okay." He stood up and moved to the other side of the bed, crawling under the sheets to the middle.
Instantly Mikasa was glued to his chest, his arms wrapped around her as she happily snuggled into the warm, firm pillow. "Thank you..." she mumbled against his shirt fabric. She listened to his steady heart beat, smiling as she felt his nose press to her head, relaxing deeper into him as he inhaled. "Anything for you," he breathed out, absentmindedly pressing a kiss to her hair.
#eren jaeger#eremika#eren x mikasa#mikasa ackerman#aot#snk#jjkeremika#i have to tag myself bc i wrote it lmao#eremika fanfic#eremika fluff#friends to lovers#eren yeager#attack on titan#shingeki no kyojin#eremika thought cabin
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actually i will post just a little. i’m still reeling and it’s hard to articulate all my emotions. i was sobbing my eyes out during the concert and for a while after and even after sleeping my sinuses are still so screwed up from crying lmao.
so during the concert, kaf transformed into “KAIKA” - her real life self. the girl behind the voice who is kaf. she’s going to be releasing the music she writes herself under the name KAIKA. kaf will continue to coexist alongside kaika.
it actually makes a lot of sense, i’ve always said that kaf is not just the girl voicing her but a multimedia art project made by a large variety of people. now that she is older it makes sense she wants to stand on her on two feet and sing her own songs as herself, as ballsy as a move this might be for a “vtuber”. kaf can continue being the art project that she is and the expression of numerous people while kaika gets to be herself in full.
i’m so happy for her. it’s been crazy watching kaf grow over time, i still have a signed letter from her from when she graduated high school… to think when she debuted she was 14 and now she’s revealing her true self in front of a massive packed stadium. piedpiper talked about how he wanted to let her take as much time as she needed to work on her self written songs and how he doesn’t want to rush her art and it really paid off. this is a perfect outcome really
i feel truly blessed to be able to hear directly from the girl that voiced the art that has saved my life, carried me through some of the hardest times i’ve ever been through the past few years. kaf has brought me together with so many people, she’s impacted my art and writing, she is a plush that i hold for comfort and a voice i listen to to fall asleep or to cry. and kaika is the one who gave her life all this time
i’m processing a lot that i can’t even articulate but i love kaf and i will continue to support her & kaika for as long as i can
oh and btw 💙 they made kaf’s oc real. that’s a design she made herself and they gave it a 3D model and then she dueted tokyo shandy with kafu. bless
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Enhypen - June Reading
Note: Please remember to take this with a grain of salt ! please enjoy <3
Jungwon
So Jungwon is on a relationship (it happened very recently), however things are going a little quick and he isn’t sure about how to feel over everything. His partner wants things to be official and serious between them, but he is still not sure about what decision to take.
Things are going overall okay with his career, he is wasting a lot of energy on different protects
Physical Health: some sensitive areas such as his kidneys, bladder, lower back and insulin levels are a little crazy Mental Health; He feels a little isolated
Heeseung
Heesung keeps trying to find love, however it’s still not working and despite being nice and trying to be careful with his potential partner, he is comes off to them too authoritative or with an energy that is too heavy and they end up running away from him. He is just not ready for love. Also, he isn’t able to find love, because there’s someone around him that is just so negative that their energy is clouding Heeseung’s.
I see something new coming from Heeseung (solo project? Solo cover. Dancing? Aye something else ! It’s a surprise !) It might happen next month or around this summer. He is very committed but he struggles to keep going. But he has the strength enough to work it out
Physical Health: Physically he is having some sexual troubles, urinary. But also sinuses, his neck and ears, his vocal cords are a little shaken, he needs to look over it. Mental Health; He is very tired, exhausted even and he is currently suffering emotionally, probably from loneliness
Jay
So It seems like Jay is on a new relationship that started a few days/weeks ago. They have both met through mutual friends and things are currently going very smoothly, but I personally don’t know if it’s going to last. For now it’s new and they are learning to know each other.
I see that’s something is going to happen concerning Jay and his current career, a see something new, a change of some kind (might be bad.. might be good)). In any case, jay is discussing with his company about this new thing coming for him
Physical Health: physically he is feeling like his Boyd is old and tired Mental Health; He is very agitated and he feels very lonely lately
Jake
Based on my reading, Jake had a huge argument with his partner which resulted on them breaking up with each other. He really wasn’t expecting it, and he feels very frustrated and angry towards his partner for this decision. Jake has been spending time with his friends in order to forget about what have been happening on his love life. He needs to regulates emotions as well
There’s good things for his career, he is on a good spot, things are working as he wants them too. He knows what to sacrifice in order to get what he wants
Physical Health: He needs to be careful around his chest, heart and blood pressure Mental Health; He feels a little hopeless, he doesn’t sleep well either
Sunghoon
For now Sunghoon is single. He isn’t closed to the idea of being in a relationship and he has been meeting quite a few potential love interest through his work and schedules. But for now he is more focused on his work and on his family, since they have been playing a lot of influence on his life lately
He keeps accepting new work proposals and his career really is seeming good and full of success as long as he keeps thinking for himself and taking his own decisions.
Physical Health: He isn’t very stable, I feel like he has been suffering a lot of headaches, almost chronically Mental Health; Unstable as well, he doubts a lot about himself, insomnias and stress, a little bit of dark thoughts and feelings
Sunoo
Well I wasn’t expecting this but Sunoo cheated on his partner so they are no longer together. He was honest about it, he told his partner directly that he slept with someone else and they ended up leaving each on their side. Sunoo has been taking time for himself and reflected on his own actions as well
When it comes to his career, there’s good things coming for him, even if it seems like some of his projects might make some people around him jealous. He focus on his wrk and on his own creations. He is very eager to show people what he is able to do
Physical Health: X Mental Health; Healing
Niki
As you guys might know, Niki isn’t really allowed to date anyone, and due to that, he thinks his life is pretty boring concerning his love life. It seems like he tries to hide and lie about the fact that he secretly tries to talk and see people. Like he sin’t allowed but the boy Is still trying to flirt and get to know people in secret
Something didn’t worked out for Niki, but it’s okay since another partnerships and projects will be able to emerge with his hard work. He still needs to take a few decisions about what he wants to work on and what he wants to show to his fans.
Physical Health: X Mental Health; He isn’t okay mentally, I really see that he is suffering on an emotional level, and the worst is that he keeps silent about it. But Niki really should try and seek help so this illness doesn’t get too much for I’m to handle
#Enhypen#Enhypen astrology#Enhypen tarot#Enhypen reading#Enhypen headcanons#Enhypen reactions#Enhypen scenarios#Enhypen imagines#Enhypen blurbs
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A Sneezy Season at Santa’s
Chapter 9: If It Ain’t Broke…
Info About This Choose Your Own Adventure
Martha rubbed the side of her nose, squeezing one eye shut.
“You’re right…I can’t get much of anything done while I need to sneeze. All this stohpping and starting’s really - hihHIH-!”
Cherry nodded.
“Besides,” she added, “it’s a safety hazard. If you’re too busy with your nose to watch what you’re doing, you could make the wrong cut — on the toy or you!”
While Martha tried to wheeze out a reply, Cherry leaned to whisper in your ear.
“Good eye! If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you already went through training.”
You chuckled nervously, thinking about the real reason you suggested getting Martha to sneeze. You can only imagine what it looks like beneath the bandana. Red, flaring, shimmering with mess…you could hardly stand the wait.
“Why don’t you take care of Martha?” Cherry said, adjusting her overall straps. “I’ll make sure that none of the others are having as hard a time as she is. Besides, you seem to be pretty good at this sort of thing.”
As innocent as the comment was, it made your heart jump into your throat. Was it really that obvious?
But, before you could think up an excuse, Cherry was already gone, talking with the other toymakers. Martha, who had recovered from her recent hitching fit, motioned for you to follow her.
“Here, why don’t we go to my bench? There’s a whole lot of stuff you could use there.”
You swallowed, but obeyed her without a word.
The workbench was sectioned off from the main workshop with a small iron divider, only leaving enough room for a wooden table full of toy parts and a wide, worn workbench. Martha sat down on it, hands on her knees.
“Alrighty, let’s see…I’ve got some feathered material in the top drawer, faux fur under it…that’s about it.”
Your heart was thundering in your chest, but you managed to stammer out a question: what usually made her sneeze?
“Eh, not much. I’ve been working with sawdust, animals, and dirt all my life. Not many things make me…make me need to…hiiih-!”
She blinked a few times, then sighed.
“But something in here’s got my nose itching like crazy.”
You open the first drawer, and find the feathered cloth. You pluck one out of the material, suggesting that, maybe, perhaps, if she doesn’t mind, we could try to tease out her sneeze with a feather anyway…?
She shrugged.
“Why not? I haven’t had a chance to mess with my nose yet, so that might be just what I…n-need-!”
Martha takes her bandana off. An upturned nose, with slender but flaring nostrils, quivered as it made contact with the chilly workshop air.
“H-Hold on…I think…I…guh-! Huh-!”
It looked for a moment that the sudden draft of air would be enough to tease out a sneeze. However, Martha was soon rubbing her nose again, just as frustrated as before.
“Ngh…never mind. Alright, give it your best shot.”
Martha leaned forward, offering her nose to you. With ginger movements, you begin to trace her nostrils with the tip of the feather. She snorted, wrinkling her nose.
“C’mon, don’t fool around! I’ve got another shipment in - gah-! HAH-!”
You shoved the feather deeper into her nose, twirling it farther into her sinuses. Martha snorted again, her eyes beginning to water.
“That…hih-!…feels…so…GAH-!”
Martha’s chest rose as she gasped in as much air as she could hold.
But, just as suddenly as it started, the sneeze stopped short. Martha groaned.
“Ugh…snf! That was so close! I could feel it!”
It went even more poorly with the faux fur. Though Martha’s nostrils flared, she didn’t hitch once.
“At least it’s closer now. Right…here.”
She crossed her eyes to look as she pointed to the middle of her nose.
“If only I could find out what I’m allergic to. One sniff of that and I’d never stohp-!”
As Martha busied herself with her nose again, you took a quick glance around the workshop.
Maybe it was the sawdust? No, she’s worked around that for a while. And why would she only be sneezing now?
Maybe a new kind of paint? Then why was everyone in the workshop sneezing, not just the painters?
Certain material? Well, no one was rubbing it on their faces, so that couldn’t be it.
You looked down at Martha’s bandana, which she had set on the table. The cloth had a simple snowflake pattern, with alternating whites and blues.
But there was something else too.
You looked closer.
Small yellow flecks seemed to dust the front of the mask.
You picked up the mask, lifting it to your own nose. Immediately, your nostrils flared, and before you could stop yourself -
hhhh’PTCHHHHH!
You lifted the bandana away from your face, covering your nose with the crook of your arm. You seemed to have found the culprit.
Emboldened by your success, Martha took the bandana, brought it to her face, and took a deep inhale. Her eyes suddenly widened.
“U-Uh oh…”
Her nostrils quivered with a new vigor, and her eyelids fluttered.
“I-I…hihHIH-! HIH-! H-HAAH-!”
You leaned back in your chair instinctively.
This was going to be a big one.
Martha’s eyes crossed, and she put a finger under her nose to try and mitigate the damage. But it was far too late for that. With her lungs filled with as much air as it could hold, Martha’s nose had done all it could.
“HYAAAA’SHOOOOOOOO!”
The force of the sneeze almost knocked Martha and the chair backwards. While it didn’t cause an icy wind like Cam, it sure had power — even without magic.
Martha lifted her hand, her nose trembling again.
“I thingk I’b gonna - HYEEESH’SHIIIIIIIIIEW!”
This sneeze was even stronger than the last, even making the iron divider scrape against the floor.
Luckily, twice seemed to do the trick. Martha scrubbed her nose with the back of her arm, a satisfied look on her face.
“That sure was sobething,” she said, sniffling. “Well, at least we know what’s causing everybody to sdeeze.”
You examine the bandana again, careful not to get too close to it. Upon closer inspection, the flecks looked like some sort of pollen. You could even see a few green pieces of stem staining the fabric.
“Well, that exblains it,” Martha said. “There aren’t a whole lot of flowers around here, esbecially ones that have pollen. Wouldn’t surprise be if we’re all just allergic to sobe new plant.”
You agree, trying not to look at Martha’s nose for too long. Martha laughs, clapping you on the shoulder.
“At ease, soldier. C’bon, relax. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”
“Good news!”
Cherry came from behind the divider.
“Hardly anyone else seems to be having trouble with their work! And anyone who did, I asked them to take a break from their work. Feeling better, Martha?”
Martha sniffled. “Fid as a fiddle. Or, well, fid enough to ged back to work. With a new bandana, of course.”
You told Cherry about the strange pollen powder you saw on Martha’s bandana.
“That is odd,” she said. “We have hardly any flowering vegetation around here. Any crops that we need is usually shipped here, or grown in our greenhouses…but we don’t grow any flowers.”
Cherry’s aura began to dim in worry.
“This is too strange to be a coincidence. Maybe we should…”
She shook her head.
“But we can’t just derail the tour, especially for central office and HR business. I certainly don’t want to drag you into anything.”
You think it over.
#snz#snz kink#snzblr#snz things#snezblr#snzario#snez kink#snz scenario#snezario#snzfic#snz fucker#snz prompts#snzfucker#snz thoughts#snzzzzz#snz fet#snz blog#whump
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Tips For Portraying Allergies In Writing
There are all sorts of posts out there on how to portray things in writing. Emotions, action, dancing, being drunk, competitive ping pong, etc. And enough people have allergies that you'd think this doesn't need one...but I realized today that it kind of does. First off, there are different kinds of allergies. I can't speak to a lot of them - such as food allergies* - because I don't have that problem. Feel free to reblog this and expand. Second off, there are a lot of different symptoms for different allergies and they crop up differently in different people. For instance Mum and my cousin are both allergic to cottonwoods, but while they both have eye problems, Mum's itch and are accompanied by a scratchy throat while my cousin's just water like crazy.
So today at work as I was struggling to eat my last break snack in between breaths, I decided I'd make a post with some details of allergy suffering that are a bit more interesting than the usual 'the person with hay fever sneezed and looked through watery eyes'.
Here we go. Feel free to use any of this, to add to it, to provide medical reasoning, to commiserate, whatever.
You can develop allergies. I feel like most people know this, but it bears repeating because it can be an interesting detail. When I was younger, I went through a phase where orange juice made me break out in a rash, but that went away. I was first tested for actual allergies in my 20s and had nothing. I am now allergic to dust mites and grass pollen. I had a former coworker who developed an allergy to chocolate...which she loved. You can have lots of character angst with this! Also people who have known you for a long time frequently display a certain degree of surprise unless they've gone through a similar experience.
Everyone knows how to cure allergies. EVERYONE. The second you say you're suffering, you will be treated to an endless barrage of 'Oh, use this steroid spray! It fixes everything!", "You need X brand of saline nasal spray. It's the only thing that works!", "Have you tried Y brand antihistamine? I swear by it!" Never fails. Now, if you've developed your allergies, it's best to listen to all of this and look into it. I've tried all of the above except the nasal sprays because I am super leery of anything that might mess with my sense of smell. The saline sprays don't work for me, but I've found one brand of antihistamine that...helps. Usually. Depending on the day. Once you've been dealing with them for awhile, though, you've heard most everything and the whole things just gets very annoying.
Meds can stop working. This can be abrupt or gradual, but when there's only one thing that works for you, it sucks big time.
Symptoms are generally not consistent. They will be better or worse depending on the time of day. They will change over the course of the allergy attack. I'm not sure all of the reasons for this. A lot of people have problems in the morning, when allergens have managed to settle in their system overnight (and if your problem is dust mites, bedding is a huge place for them!). I also get them really bad at night, to the point that when I first started having problems a coworker was convinced I needed to dust my bedroom because nothing I said could convince her that 'night' meant 'after sunset regardless of location' and not 'in bed'.
Combining the last two points, the meds that work well on one set of symptoms may not do so well on later ones. Last Wednesday when the pollen level spiked and I woke up in the middle of the night unable to breathe, one pill had me back to normal. The next two and a half days were itchy eyes, low grade sinus pressure, and just enough post nasal drip to be uncomfortable and make my throat scratch, but it would have been So Much Worse without the meds! As we've moved past that stage and into the 'well, there's not much actual pressure, but my sinuses are packed with concrete and I sound like it', they've stopped doing anything, which is super annoying. Why? See the next point.
As stated above, it's quite common to have allergy laden characters sneeze every time they're near an open window, but somehow, unless it's a cartoon, they never pull out a handkerchief or grab a facial tissue to deal with the after math. I've four handkerchiefs that need washing from the past three days at work. People really don't address other issues. Having to sleep with your mouth open, which leads to bad tastes, dehydration, poor sleep, etc., for instance. Or, the one I alluded to in the intro - having to choose between breathing comfortably and eating. One of the reasons soup is such a good go to at this point is that you don't have to chew, so the fact you basically have to inhale, intake food, swallow, exhale, inhale again is a bit more doable. Actual chewy foods are terrible and eating neatly with your mouth closed is not happening, sorry. Brushing your teeth is also incredibly unpleasant.
Year round allergies can still have 'seasons'. Dust mites, for instance, see upswings in autumn, when everyone turns on their heating units and leaves are falling everywhere, etc., and spring...which I believe is mating season. I know my doctor told me why that one, but I can't quite remember. Pretty sure it was mating season.
While having people give you 'must use' remedies is annoying, there is still a certain comfort in other allergy sufferers, especially ones who show the same symptoms in much the same manner. One of my coworkers who also has grass allergy asked me a question today in a not-quite-so-nasally-but-still-congested voice and immediately responded with recognition and sympathy to the tone of my reply. We spent a good several minutes comparing notes and yup, same symptoms start to finish. Misery does indeed love company.
And that's all I'm being able to scrape out of my sinuses brain right now. I may add more later, as things progress, or other people say things that remind me of other things or...you know. Whatever. In the meantime, I hope someone finds this useful.
*it's worth noting that while I'm not actually allergic to food, I have a weird and annoyingly inconsistent sensitivity to tomato products. Pizza sauce has never bothered me, but tomato based spaghetti sauces run the gamut from 'fine' to 'my lips tingle' to 'I have a mouth full of fire ants that have flayed the skin off of my tongue'. The same product will give different results on different days, although fortunately the last one only happened twice when well meaning friends served me 'nice organic tomato sauce'. Best guess is it's something to do with the acidity.
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Infinity Pool: I once was lost, but now I’m filthy.
You're a writer. You wrote a book, but it's been about six years since then, and you've been bone dry for inspiration.
You're beginning to question whether you ever had any talent at all.
You decide that the best way to kick writer's block is to go to a resort in a foreign country, engage with murderers and other degenerates,
get shot at, soak yourself in a world of clones and death, and maybe have an orgy or two with some strangers.
Sound like a good idea?
It's a great idea if you're Alexander Skarsgard (playing James, our writer).
He even dragged his lovely wife (played by Cleopatra Coleman) along. He married rich; she's funding this crazy plot.
Nothing quite like murder to clear the sinuses and creative struggles.
James meets a couple (Gabi and Alban) who after helping him out of a serious situation (sort of), then lead him into the craziness I described above.
Look, the casual moviegoer has probably not even heard of this movie. And honestly, there are plenty of reasons for you not to watch this smut. So, let me save you the time. I watched this smut so that you don't have to :)
But, as far as the horror movie fans... well, yeah, still good reasons not to watch this smut.
Maybe you've heard that this movie is STRANGE, GORY, and SEXY. Two out of three ain't bad. Idk about sexy.
I mean, if you call an orgy between mostly middle-aged people, who are simultaneously splattered with all kinds of bodily fluids (it's a juicy movie:) including blood, and also wearing creepy masks, sexy... then maybe some of these scenes will do it for you.
Some might say "What about Mia Goth? Sexy, right?!"
I think those people are confusing "sexy" with crazy and manipulative.
I've been there, especially when you get a few drinks in you; you'll start seeing "sexy" all over the place, but... nope, it's just crazy.
This movie IS gory though, but not as much blood as I thought it would have. Movies like "Saw" and "TC Massacre" are way worse/better in that dept.
And, STRANGE? Oh, yeah...
I feel comfortable saying that it's one of the strangest movies you'll see all year.
These masks
This pool
Whatever the hell this is
My buried lede of clones
At times, naseating directing style
punching and stabbing people to literal pulp
Freaky, unneccessary images
And I loved all of it!
All of the above!
I could have done without the orgy stuff, but maybe that's gonna be Brandon Cronenberg's (the director) signature.
Random, Nasty, Horror Movie Porno. So, maybe we should just get used to it. Perhaps it'll be the new trend.
I can see it now - Leatherface pauses (mid-kill), puts down the chainsaw, and takes off all of his clothes, slowly, to Sam Smith’s “Unholy”.
The violence is gross, but artistic (somehow).
People rave about Mia Goth's performance (and it's excellent), but I was also impressed by Skarsgard. Well, as much as one can be impressed by the acting in a horror film:) He was good though!
There's a group of rich people who Gabi (Goth) introduces James to, and they are horrible. I loved hating them! They're the type of people in horror movies that you can't wait for the monster to get to, but then you realize, they ARE the monsters.
It is a purposely uncomfortable movie.
I loved the character of James. He doesn't quite belong anywhere in this movie. He never really has any clarity of what's happening to him.
And neither does the audience. The only thing that's clear is that he's getting pulled closer and closer towards a dark place.
The ending will have you staring at the screen trying to figure out what the hell you just watched.
Let me help you:
There's no mystery. No hidden meaning. No layers. You'll have to accept that what you watched is all that there is.
It's dissatisfying on purpose. Sure, I guess you could derive some social commentary if you wanted to, but... meh.
You want a lesson? - I'll give you one.
When you get lost in life, and lose your sense of self, don't stay there long or you will be taken advangetage of... and sure as hell don't go to some foreign land with weird laws.
Instead:
Frequent a bar. Go to church. Go to Disneyland. Buy a sports car. Have sex with people 20 years younger than you (legally:).
Join that cult you’ve been thinking about.
Do something different with your hair.
Normal stuff, you know??
No Mia Goths and no clone orgies.
Did I have any problems with the movie? Not really. I've heard the complaints from others, and they're mostly valid, but I'd counter by saying that that's why I loved it!
I'm proudly in the minority, but... Grade: A+* from me.
(asterisk* - AGAIN, it’s weirdf AF, but that’s right up my alley)
Have you ever gone on a trip outdoors and gotten dirty? You're bothered at first, but then you get more dirty? And after that. you just don't care anymore. You're all in.
Afterwards, you could say to yourself "Wow, I'm a filthy and disgusting human being. What's wrong with me?" OR say to yourself
"Wow, that was fun and thrilling." and take a shower. It's up to you.
#InfinityPoolMovie#johnpraphit#Moviereviews#smut#praphitproductions.com#AlexanderSkarsgard#MiaGoth#HorrorMovies#BrandonCronenberg#Praphit#Monsters#richpeople#artsy#violence
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8/9 - 12:51PM
Whoops. I kind of forgot this blog existed, lol, my bad.
Not much has been happening though so that's alright. Here's the rundown regardless for anybody who might be bothering to keep up with this blog (I know at least two of you, hello!).
So far, everything is healing up pretty well. I haven't really needed painkillers in quite some time, though I've taken some once or twice when my chest happened to have more shooting pains/twinges than usual. Not because I needed it - the pain has been manageable - but because I am kind of worried that if I don't take pain meds, it'll get worse, and I'd rather kick it before it gets to that point. Nothing crazy though, I haven't had the oxycodone in a while.
Itching isn't as bad finally, though it is still frustrating. We've been changing out bandages and cleaning the grafts, which look gnarly as hell but are progressing well, I think. The steri-strips over the incision marks is starting to peel off as the stitches beneath them dissolve. I'm going back to the medical centre again for a post op appointment on the 11th, which is also when I'll yet again attempt to contact someone about that goddamned paperwork.
Ah yeah, the paperwork. Where I'm at there: apparently I was denied paid medical leave because I'm like, 50 hours short of having worked at a real job for an entire year. I wasn't going to bother appealing the decision because like... it's not as though I can magically provide another 50 hours of work out of nowhere, I doubt they'll approve me.
But shortly after I got that news, I got an email from work basically stating that I should appeal it, because if I don't get medical leave approved, all they can do is put me on a thirty day leave of absence, and then I have to use my PTO to cover any other recovery time.
I personally think that sounds like horseshit, especially since (wrong form or not), they have a doctors' note written by my surgeon in his own handwriting stating that I'm not supposed to really go back to work until September 9th. So what exactly can you do except allow me to recover for that long? Firing me over it (since by the way, I don't even have enough PTO, since I've only accrued maybe thirteen hours in the last half a year) seems illegal.
But whatever. I'm gonna appeal it. However, unless I want to actually meet with a court and have a hearing - and I very much do not - what I can do instead is just request a review or something. Unfortunately, for that, I need the correct paperwork - which if you recall, is floating around in Red Tape Hell somewhere in the far off distance.
So I'm gonna wait another day to see if that paperwork gets back to me, but if it doesn't, what I am going to do is contact my social worker - he called that same day I was dealing with this shit at the medical centre and when I told him what was up, he said that if this isn't taken care of in a week, to call him and tell him and he'll try and get people moving.
Unrelated - I hope - but I got a horrible nosebleed the other night too. Like... I'm not gonna get too graphic but it was freaky. Lots of coagulated gross shit and way more blood than I feel is normal. I used to get terrible nosebleeds when I was younger due to stress and cold/dry weather usually, and I could breathe much easier when it stopped, so I'm pretty sure that it wasn't anything serious, just a combination of factors and my congested sinuses finally clearing out somewhat. But I'm trying to keep a mental eye on things just in case it might be something to worry about.
And that's where I'm at with that.
Otherwise... life is about the same as usual. I just play video games, watch videos, try to spend more time reading or drawing or anything but looking at a screen because I do that way too often. I've been obsessed lately with WolfQuest, an oooold game I used to adore as a preteen that I recently rediscovered. You play as a wolf in Yellowstone, and it's centred on realism/teaching you through gameplay about Yellowstone's wolves. I like it.
Mentally: stressed. It was nice up until the 4th or so to just. Not have anything to freak out about. But of course with the nonstop haranguing by my job and the inability to get medical leave squared away ASAP, it's right back to frayed nerves.
Which I hate but hey, capitalism.
I'm stressed about money, and already thinking maybe I should try to be... I dunno. Doing something worthwhile, as in, worthwhile to society so that I can get money to scrape by with, but I'm not physically capable of most things right now. I just really wish I could find an at-home job that I could survive on so I didn't have to put up with this, it's destroying me mentally, and I'm not even WORKING right now. (Which is part of the problem while simultaneously meant to be the solution.)
I'm trying to distract myself as best I can from the thoughts though, because I never get to just exist without stressing about work, and I want to make the most of it before I'm thrown headfirst back into the Rat Race.
And that's about it, yup. Anyway, I'll try and update again soon.
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What does emotional abuse feel like?
Two nights ago my left arm went numb. I could feel it tingle all the way down. I had been having issues with being exhausted and random chest pains. I thought I might be close to having a heart attack. I couldn’t go to the hospital because that would mean I would have to leave the kids with my husband. The thought of something happening to me terrified me. What would happen to the kids? The older 3 would be with their Dad. The youngest would be with my husband. That terrified me. In that moment, I tried to reach out to the person who loves me most, my husband. But he got mad. He started yelling at me and making it about him. “Why don’t you go to the doctor?” He said. “I did,” I said. “I went to the cardiologist today.” “Well then, don’t you think you’re okay???” He yelled. I told him he was being cruel. He disagreed as he continued to yell at me while I had chest pain and scared I was close to having a heart attack.
My husband apologized the next morning, said he was “out of line.” I was too numb for it to matter. I was determined to get out of this crazy cycle. I sent a message to my cardiologist. I told her I was going to get checked out when my parents got here. But I didn’t. Because deep down, I had that fear that my husband was right. “I am being ridiculous,” I thought. I didn’t want to go waste someone’s time in the ER when I was totally fine. He was right, I did go to the doctor yesterday. I must be fine. I told myself I must have an infection from my sinus surgery. That would make sense. It would be making me feel tired, probably affecting my blood pressure, and I did have some pain in my sinuses yesterday. So I convinced myself that was it. I called my ENT to get checked out. He said he didn’t see an infection, but did remove some things from my sinus to help with any pressure I might have felt. “Great,” I thought. Now I am two for two.
I spoke to a lawyer yesterday. Because I am not working, she thinks if I can, that it would be better to wait it out until I’m done with grad school. While I know I can’t handle it, I know I can’t afford to leave.
Fast forward to this morning. I received a reply back from my cardiologist’s nurse this morning. It said: “Where did you go get “checked out” so that we can get the report? And how is your blood pressure now?” I still feel frozen when I read it. What the heck was I going to tell them? “Sorry, I’m just crazy, I didn’t go in” ? And the quotes around “checked out,” what the heck was that supposed to mean? Ugh. “I am crazy.” I thought to myself. I spiraled from there, right back into the cycle. It was different this time. I could see it, I knew it wasn’t right, but it was the only thing that made sense. I text my husband:
Me: You’re right. I’m just an idiot. My cardio’s nurse sent me a message asking where I got “checked out,” and I don’t know what to say to her. Because I shouldn’t have messaged them to start with.
Him: You’re not an idiot. You’re just trying to take care of yourself and I’m sorry I didn’t see that when you told me the other night. I really am sorry for how aggressive I was during that argument.
Me: No John, I’m just a fucking crazy person. Because nobody believes a word I say. Not even about my health. So what does that say about me? It’s fine, you were right. You don’t have anything to apologize for.
Him: I wasn’t right. I was just mad and said something I shouldn’t have. I don’t want to argue. I’m not going to agree that you are a crazy person because I don’t believe that.
Me: You don’t have to agree. I’m letting you know I agree with you. I’m sorry you have to deal with me.
Him: I don’t deal with you. I love you. You’re my wife and I should be more compassionate towards you
Me: You being mad when I am scared doesn’t make sense. Me being ridiculous and you getting tired of dealing with me, makes sense. I’m not arguing. I’m not going to text anymore. I’m sorry for texting to start with. I should get better at holding stuff in.
And just like that, we cycled back around. He can do no wrong, I am the problem. It doesn’t make sense, and yet it’s the only thing that makes sense.
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nftn: missed messages
(bucky barnes x female!reader, shield)
summary: y/n has been gone on assignment for three weeks, and she hasn't heard a single word from bucky. meanwhile, sam wilson grills bucky about her, and an embarrassing secret comes out.
warnings: two idiots in love and oblivious, sam ribbing bucky and reader relentlessly, convos via text, one facetime call, lots and lots and lots of fluff.
word count: 4,434
a/n: this is a continuation of the 'nostalgia for the new' universe, taking place while reader is on her long three week mission (as mentioned in the og fic), before any feelings have been declared between them. enjoy :)
series masterlist - masterlist
“You good?”
Sam’s voice shook Bucky back to reality. Not a moment prior, he had been staring out the window of the caf, watching the horizon, as if your beacon had indicated that the quinjet was less than a hundred miles from home. Tony had been as impressed as he was annoyed with the amount of reprogramming it took to hack the system you, Agent 257, had created to monitor Bucky, but he did it, because Bucky had been a complete basketcase the first time you were sent off-the compound (at least… the first time since he met you). But no such luck.
Your beacon was nowhere to be found on his screen.
Bucky nodded at Sam’s question. His head swiveled to his phone, but the thing was lifeless. Fully charged, ready for action… but silent. His eyes traced the flat and unremarkable device. He sighed.
“This is stupid.”
Sam chuckled. “You’re just mad Tony won’t let you watch radar yourself.”
“She’s in Siberia--”
“Wow!” The Falcon checked his watch. “You made it ten entire minutes not bringing up Y/n, apropos of nothing!”
“What if she walked straight into--” Bucky stopped himself and gritted his teeth. Sam leaned forward, pushing his own coffee mug aside.
“Into a Hydra base? Where they put you on ice, buddy?”
“Yeah.”
“She might be.” When Bucky’s gaze snapped up to Sam’s, his friend frowned. “You get that, right? She’s spec ops, Buck. That’s what she does. She might very well be infiltrating a Hydra cell, and you’re gonna have to make peace with that.”
“I know,” Bucky strained. He sipped his scalding coffee and refused to wince as it burned its way down his throat.
“You’re a worry-wart, old man.”
Bucky scrubbed over his face with his hands. There was no denying it, not to Sam. “Dreamed last night that the quinjet went down over Moscow.”
“Your girl is not gonna get shot outta the sky.”
“Not my girl, Sam.”
“Oh, my mistake. You’re having nightmares and staring off longingly into the distance because you were really hoping to borrow a Louis Armstrong vinyl to play on that cherry red record player she bought you for your birthday, and if her plane goes down over Russia, you won’t be able to ask. Right? And you’re worried about her going into a Hydra base because it just gets real cold in Siberia, yeah? But not because you care about her more than any being, alive or dead. Just some good ole’ fashioned Bucky Barnes concern.”
“You don’t gotta act like it’s so crazy, Sam!”
“The night before she left, I wandered into the floor five kitchen to make myself a nice dinner, because I deserve it, and what did I see, Mister Barnes? Oh--right. You, sitting sans shirt, between her knees, as she very meticulously massaged the shit outta your fucked-up neck. Man--you are off base by about a hundred degrees. Do you know what that means?”
“Enlighten me--”
“You’re. OBTUSE.” Sam grabbed the cup of coffee in front of Bucky, and drank very deeply, never breaking eye contact over the rim--daring his friend to deny what just seemed so freaking obvious. The mug clattered against the table again, empty.
Bucky’s head fell back against the padded booth. He stared up at the ceiling. Thinking about you like that made his whole chest wanna cave in. A memory flashed of the night before you left on your assignment--your cheek pressed to his, hugging him from behind… your lilac soap infiltrating his sinuses, while you admitted very softly…
“Don’t know what I’m gonna do without ya, Buck.”
“You’ll be a lot more productive,” he had laughed, trying to quell his own panic about what missing you would feel like. It had been bad enough when you took a sniper’s bullet to the arm in Prague--he had nearly burst a blood vessel once you reported in, and practically bit off his tongue trying to hold back his relief when you were actually able to walk off the quinjet unassisted. But that had been a three day assignment, and there was no telling how long this one was going to take. The only sure thing was that you were going to be away, and he was going to have to bear being alone.
Your cheek had gotten a little wet next to his.
“You ok, doll?”
Lips had pressed against his temple briefly, and you had merely sniffled and tried to smile. “Sure. I’m okay.” And then you had slid down next to him on the floor, and watched the rest of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg with your head on his vibranium shoulder… still sniffling.
Say nothing of the absolute agony of watching you walk up the ramp of the quinjet, look back over your shoulder at him, and say in the softest, sweetest voice he had ever heard: “Be seeing you.”
Bucky tossed the idea around in his mind.
“…okay, let’s say she… were... my girl.”
Not just ‘Doll’ in his contacts, lighting up his mornings with your grinning contact photo (which Nat had blessedly assigned to your profile for him when she got tired of listening to him talk about what he was gonna tell you when you got home), as you rang to beckon him down to the track.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Hypothetically.”
“Yeah. Just. Paint me a picture.”
“What?”
“…what does that look like?”
Sam blinked, and tried his best not to smile. “Like, how it looks when two people are committed to each other, or how it would look different from your current situationship?”
“...The second one.”
“Seems to me all that’s missing is a label,” Sam sighed. “Jesus, Buck. I’ve never seen two people who were so crazy about each other. You’re her moon. I’m just...” He trailed off and shrugged.
“What?”
Sam sat forward and folded his hands on the table. “Okay, let’s say Y/n isn’t your girl already, for the sake of arguing.”
Bucky mimicked his posture and shrugged. “She’s a nice person, Sam. Maybe she’s just being polite.”
“I’m sorry. Are we both talking about Y/n? She suffers no fools. On second thought--I am also mystified about why she spends any time with you.”
Bucky couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he bit it back. “Three weeks is a long time, she… she hasn’t checked in, and--”
“She rewired your bike. She won't shadowbox with anybody but you. She calls you from three floors away to see if you’re ready for dinner, even though you’ve been cooking with her every single night for two months,” Sam said, exasperated. “I could set my watch by y’all on a normal day. But, she’s on assignment! You know how dire it is to stay covert until it’s absolutely clear.”
“I guess.” Bucky’s cheeks were flushed.
“When are you going to accept that she’s not hanging around you because you’re some kind of pet project? Is that what’s going on here? You’re afraid she’s not really into men over the age of one-hundred, so she knocks on your door with a pint of ice cream at two am out of pity?” Sam discreetly glanced down at his phone and swiped upwards.
Bucky was hypnotized by the depths of his empty mug. He couldn’t really answer that. Somewhere, really deep down… past the self-loathing and seven decades of not so much as looking at a girl, let alone centering his life around one like he did You… he knew Sam was right, but.
What if?
***
Your phone sat in the bottom of your backpack for most of your mission, turned off; having any traceable electronics powered up while undercover was a recipe to get made, but three weeks into your mission to Siberia, you no longer had to worry about being targeted. The principle was intercepted, and all you had left to do before going home was meet Agent Coulson in the hotel lobby in the morning. It meant that you might actually get some shut-eye, in a hotel that was far too expensive for the likes of a SHIELD agent (but lucky for you, your cover identity had been an heiress to a hotel fortune, and Nick Fury liked to spend the government’s money, so your room had gold crown molding and a bathtub big enough to bathe a horse).
Except that, once you powered your phone up, there wasn’t a single text from Bucky.
Messages filtered in over the next few minutes, most of them from Sam Wilson. A few from Steve (“Hello, Y/n. Best wishes for your assignment, hope all goes smoothly. Steve.”) and others--even one from your mom--but no Bucky.
Scanning the time-stamped messages before you, Sam had been sending you weekly (sometimes daily) updates about Bucky: whether or not he had eaten, what movie Bucky had “forced” him to watch and then immediately talked through, how many times he got reprimanded by Steve for breaking the gym’s punching bags clear off their chains. He was fine. The boys would have seen to that. If you had any cause for alarm, Sam would’ve made that clear, or gotten you a message through the proper channels when you were unreachable via cell.
It had just been so long since you had seen Bucky, and a part of you wondered if it was a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ Reaching out to him first, now that you were safe, felt… uncertain. Especially after crying on his shoulder the night before you left, and not having any correspondence from him since.
Getting his phone number months ago had required an intricate dance: convincing him it did not signify impropriety to send messages back and forth, and that he really ought to share his number with you, inciting a bit of jealousy by showing that you already had Sam and Tony’s numbers saved in your contacts--what ended up convincing him was a mixture of pleading eyes and an appeal to his hypervigilance: “I would like to be able to reach you, Bucky--what if it’s an emergency, and I don’t have my comm, or it’s down, or I’m stranded? Then I’ll be able to call you right away, and you can send help. It’s a failsafe.” He had acquiesced, after giving you a stern lecture about losing your comm in that completely made up scenario, and how you were to call him at any time of day if you were in “real danger.”
You called him regularly, when you were home. You’d text him something in the dead of night you didn’t want to forget to tell him in the morning, and he’d bring it up the next morning on your run. He was the emergency contact in your phone book: ICE Sgt. James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.
Staring at your inbox, you were struck by a thought that touched a nerve: Bucky never really reached out to you. Not via phone. You had thread after thread of texts with Sam, Steve--a group message with the two of them and Natasha, directly related to mission-motivated Bucky-sitting, aka. Agent-257-is-on-assignment-everybody-distract-the-Winter-Soldier. Even Diane in Medical occasionally sent you texts about men she thought were cuter than Bucky Barnes (her current fixation was Brock Rumlow, a heady reminder that she had garbage taste--and also that you shouldn’t go drinking with other SHIELD agents or you WILL end up exchanging phone numbers with the wrong coworkers trying to plan a ‘girls day.’).
The only messages in your thread with Bucky were yours, texting him “hey, it’s Y/n!” when he first gave you his number, and then dozens of little anecdotes. He always brought them up in person, but. Never did you receive anything back.
You had failed to mention to him that you’d quite like it if he just… sent a little text here and there, especially when you were away for extended periods of time. Maybe that was where you went wrong. You didn’t ask him to, so how would he know that’s what you wanted?
Still… you sighed and thumbed back through Sam’s updates. There was no mention of concern for you, there, just recognition of your own worries about Bucky. Sam had definitely taken you seriously when you requested a steady stream of information, and you were really grateful for that. You could see why Bucky got along so well with him, even if they bickered almost constantly. You typed out a quick message to ‘Sam Eagle.’
"Hey, Wilson. Back on the grid, checking in."
Not two minutes later, the Falcon replied. You did the math… counting back from local time, it would be still fairly early in the morning in DC. Not so early for Avengers, but still. You opened his message, eagerly awaiting whatever update he deigned to type.
Instead, you received a photo.
Of Bucky Barnes, staring into a massive cup--your coffee cup, the one that said Vermont is for Lovers in red cursive, with a chip out of the handle from the first time Bucky accidentally snuck up on you before you were properly caffeinated. The kitchen staff wouldn’t have been happy about him bringing a personal mug into the caf, especially one so big as to drain the self-serve carafe. You chuckled.
Ugh. There he was. Your heart was in your throat to see him--how his hair had grown out a little, almost long enough for him to tuck it behind his ears again.
You zoomed in on his face, but you couldn’t really see his expression. His eyes were a little droopy, definitely underlined in black circles. That was consistent with Sam’s assertion that he wasn’t sleeping much. Beside his mug, his phone lay face up but the screen was black. He had a dark grey T-shirt on—Steve had probably gone on a run with him, and that’s what he usually wore. The photo had clearly been taken surreptitiously over the edge of the table.
The photograph was followed by a text, next to an icon of Sam the Eagle from the Muppets:
SAM: First of all. Good! Happy/very relieved to hear it.
SAM: Secondly:
SAM: This is one sad man. If he finds out you texted me first...
You blushed furiously.
"What did you do to him??"
SAM: Ma’am.
SAM: How dare you.
SAM: I am doing my best!
"You cheer that old man up right this second!"
SAM: Won’t work.
SAM: You'll have to kiss it better.
"Baby steps. Tell him to text me?"
Maybe Sam could make it happen with some gentle friend pushing. You snorted. Sure. ‘Gentle’ pushing. Sam’s strong suit.
SAM: What do you mean ‘baby steps?’
SAM: …
SAM: Y/n. Be honest.
SAM: Have you not kissed him yet? This looks like a man who hasn’t been kissed in 70 years.
"SAM."
SAM: I’m entitled to know as his babysitter.
SAM: and primary best friend.
SAM: please?
SAM: please?
"You and I both know that he operates on a different timeline."
SAM: I knew it. I really should slap him upside the head.
"Don’t bully him about this, Samuel. I don’t want you to scare him off!"
SAM: Oh you don't huh? Mmkay.
SAM: You have a crush on him, that's embarrassing.
"I swear to god."
SAM: You went away, this is your fault. I think he’s gonna crawl inside that coffee cup.
SAM: Do you want this sad sad man to suffer any longer?
SAM: Also literally the only thing you had to do to earn this devotion was jailbreak his ankle monitor and play his music.
SAM: I could've done that.
"Yeah but you didn’t."
SAM: Please put me out of my misery.
You laughed, and the sound filled the corners of your far-from-quaint hotel room.
"Wanna see a magic trick?"
SAM: ...Can you teleport, orrrrr?
"Deploying emergency protocols."
You squished down against the wall of pillows behind you, and raised your phone. You snapped a photo of yourself with your sweatshirt pulled up, super cozy, warm light from the bedside making your eyes glow a little. It wasn't actually your sweatshirt. It was Bucky’s, which you stole from him, and which he would immediately recognize.
You typed off a quick message to accompany the image:
"Out of danger. Hope you’re doing okay. Missing you. Home tomorrow. :)"
Minutes passed, but your phone lit up again.
SAM: Oh my god.
"What?"
Another photo came through. This time, Bucky was sitting back against the booth with both hands covering his face.
"What’s he doing?"
SAM: ...My man’s crying.
"SAM!!"
SAM: Wait--smiling? Laughing. Dude looks crazy, I am not sending you another photo of him, you will run the other direction.
SAM: Now his forehead is on the table.
SAM: I think he’s talking?
SAM: Definitely hearing your name, and a string of cuss words not heard since Truman was president.
SAM: You broke him.
"Do you think he’ll answer if I call him right now? Did he tell you I texted him? Sam???"
SAM: People are staring at us.
"I’m gonna call him."
SAM: I don’t know what he’s gonna do if you do.
"Leave him alone!!"
SAM: Oh, trust me, this is the most entertainment I’ve had in my life. Call away.
Your hands were shaking, but you quickly pulled up his profile in your contacts (with the grainy photo of him offering you his arm) and made the split second decision to make it a video call. You had only used that function once on Bucky, and only when you were cooped up in bed, too sick to come out of your room to watch a movie with him. He had stayed on the line with you the whole film, giving you a prime view of his every expression taking in the beauty of Amelie for the first time.
The call rang and rang, twisting your stomach into knots the size of baseballs.
Finally, it was picked up--
“Sam?” You chuckled when the gleeful face of Sam Wilson popped up on your screen. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He winked, and then his gaze darted off camera. He winced, shook his head at you pointedly. “Hi. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Okay, dad. Why are you answering Bucky’s phone? If I wanted to ruin my sleep schedule in order to talk to you, I would’ve called you.”
“That is the rudest thing I’ve heard in my whole entire life!” Sam gave you a demonstrative thumb’s up, and gestured for you to continue, pointing off screen as if whatever you were saying was working.
“Truth hurts.” You cleared your throat, willing the bravery to stick with you. “Please, Wilson… I’ve been gone for three weeks, and all I want is to see ole’ Blue Eyes. I’m homesick, sleep deprived, and the longer you hold me hostage, the more likely I am to kick your ass the moment I touch down tomorrow.”
“Mmm, I dunno, Agent. I don’t think he even remembers you.”
Your eyes widened, and you stared Sam down with a what the fuck is wrong with you glare. “If you make a mind control joke right now, I’m going to murder you.”
“And I will let her--” The phone was ripped out of Sam’s hands, while he made feeble protests out of view. The camera wobbled towards the ceiling, words were exchanged in annoyed and hushed tones which you pretended not to understand as can you be cool for once in your life? And I’m not the one hyperventilating--and then there HE was.
In the palm of your hands, inches from your face and yet thousands of miles away, Bucky Barnes grimaced at you. Emotion which you knew was there, but hadn’t felt like a threat when speaking to Sam, made itself known. Your eyes immediately welled, and in turn… Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Hey, hey… it’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m here.”
“Hi,” you whispered. You tried to smile at him, but god. Missing him didn’t even begin to cover it. There was a sprinkle of annoyance at him in it. Remembering he had just apparently had a miniscule breakdown made you stifle as much of your own sadness as you could. You didn’t call him to cry at him, after all.
“Hi, doll. Boy…” Bucky let slip a shuddering breath and shook his head. “It’s been that long, huh?”
“You okay?”
You clocked the bloodshot eyes, the stubble he had let get long enough that it just had to be itching him like crazy… He glanced off camera. Sam must’ve still been there because Bucky made a series of expressions and hand gestures (one of them very ungentlemanly, which he caught himself making in frame, and gave you an apologetic sigh). The phone lurched for a second, Bucky’s eyes tracked from right to left, and then he propped his phone up so he could be hands-free. You imagined that your tripod was the Vermont is for Lovers mug.
“Been better,” he finally admitted, folding his arms. “You?”
You winced. “If you call a hairline fracture on my ankle ‘okay’...” The cast had been all but forgotten in the excitement, but… better he knows now than when you walked off the plane on crutches. Wouldn’t want a repeat of the sniper incident. Bruce Banner would kill you personally if you gave Bucky any reason to panic.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”
“Suffice to say stilettos don’t mix with marble staircases.”
You had successfully taken out your target, extracted the body and made the handoff unseen, despite being at a charity gala, and... then slipped going up the staircase without a drop of liquor to blame. Coulson had made the most annoyed and yet oddly pleasant chuckle over your cast in the hospital, charmed all the nurses while doting on his silly дочь, and spent ten minutes of the drive back to the hotel reminding you why it was “so important that agents don’t get injured on the job if they can help it, because winding up in the ER in any country could expose a cover in an instant--”
“You’re gonna need to stay off it for a few weeks,” Bucky said, as if he was already planning out how your daily routines would need to change. Of course he was--this was Bucky, the man who had redressed your stitches twice a day, every day, until the bullet hole in your shoulder was just a faint scar shaped like a heart, if you turned it on its side.
You couldn’t help but smile. “I’m gonna be so bored!”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said quickly, “it will pass by so fast. What’s a few weeks, huh?” But the sentiment hit you both right between the eyes, and he stared at you through the phone. Sure. What was a few weeks?
“Miserable,” you murmured.
He nodded faintly. “Me too.”
“You, uh… you too busy to text a girl?” Your throat was dry, and the panic was real, but you kept your voice soft. Teasing even. Bucky’s face flushed like mad.
“I--I, well. No. Not too busy,” he said, suddenly very occupied with studying the palm of his metal hand. “I just… I wanted to. Thought about it a lot, considering I knew I couldn’t just call ya. The thing is… I don’t, um. Jesus, doll, my phone is complicated. It does way too many things. It’s all Greek to me, and uh, I gotta admit that I don’t actually know how to text--”
“You don’t?” Sam exclaimed off-camera. Bucky glared at him.
“Buck--you need a lesson?”
He looked back at you and nodded once. You couldn’t help but smile at him--not like you were laughing at him, but like there just wasn’t anything sweeter than finding out that he didn’t text you because he didn’t know how.
“I’ll show you tomorrow.” You promised.
Bucky scratched his head, but he smiled that one-sided tight-lipped smile that he only ever showed You.
“Sure, doll. Say--what’s this about you not sleeping?”
You slid further down the pillows and lay on your side, so it was like you were side-by-side. “I was worrying.”
“About?” He rested his cheek on his palm. He was so unassumingly adorable, and very likely still sitting across the table from Sam, in a public cafeteria--and he didn’t care.
“You,” you breathe.
“I’m fine,” he protested, but he frowned. “You should try to get some rest, especially if… you’re coming back tomorrow.”
“Coming home,” you corrected him. “Meet me at the hangar, Buck?”
“I’d like to see anybody in this god-forsaken place try to stop me from being there. Including your sorry ass, Wilson--I see you.” He didn’t even look up at Sam, he just winked at you.
You couldn’t help yourself. Your hand went up to cover your face in joy--not embarrassment.
“Tell her I will also be there--”
“Sam says he’s sorry, but he’s gonna be really busy tomorrow,” Bucky said.
“Watch yourself, Barnes, or I’ll have the whole compound in that hangar, throwing her a parade--”
“Good. She’s earned it.”
He rolled his eyes, and shared a small chuckle with you, as if to say can you believe this guy is my best friend? But you could, because Sam Wilson really did keep Bucky safe and whole for you. Yes, he looked exhausted and worried, but he didn’t look disheveled. He was eating, bathing, and clearly getting exercise. His blue eyes were still fierce and determined.
He tilted his head. “Lookin’ sleepy. Want me to stay on until you fall asleep?”
You yawned, and nodded. What an impact he had to straighten out your mood… the tension released from your spine, your heart rate calmed.
“Nice sweatshirt, by the way.” His eyes twinkled.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Bucky laughed. “I know where you live.”
Your eyelids were so heavy, but… god, you had to say it. “If I fall asleep, just… I missed you so much.”
“Still current, for me, especially after getting to see your face. It doesn’t feel fair that I gotta wait, now. But you know me. I’ll be following your beacon all the way home.”
You fell asleep sometime soon after that, to the sound of Bucky faintly humming something old and gentle and familiar.
***
You woke up in the morning to a notification from Sam Eagle.
No text accompanied it, but there was a photograph of Bucky with his arms crossed at the wrists, flat on the table top, chin resting on his knuckles. He was looking at his phone, which was propped up on a mug that read Vermont is for Lovers in red cursive.
Smiling.
Part 1
Part 3
tag list: @morticiaofthedead @peterhollandkait
message, comment, or reblog with request to be added to tag list! :)
#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#james bucky barnes#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x reader#nostalgia for the new by realjane
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Bucky wanted to read her fanfictions and she always declined. So he begged and begged and begged... until she finally gives up and let him read one. 'Cause who could really say no to Bucky making puppy eyes?!
Let me know what you think about it
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size!Reader
WC: 1.5k (I am apparently incapable of writing a drabble)
A/N: Thank you again for another awesome request! I was basically cackling the whole time I wrote it. Want to read about how Bucky and this reader got together? Check out their origin story in my To Be Wanted series! Only warning in this one is the usual swearin’ like a sailor.
----
“See, this is why I always order Thai food. I can never do it justice.” You frown over your wok, mixing the noodles around with a wooden spoon hoping it will somehow make your creation taste better.
“I’m sure it tastes great, doll.” Bucky walks up next to you and grabs a noodle, tilting his head back as he drops it into his mouth.
His eye twitches almost imperceptibly and you groan.
“It’s good,” he coughs out, trying with all of his strength to regain his composure. “I think you just went a little too hard on the chili paste. I can feel my sinuses clearing up though, which is good, right?”
You roll your eyes. “Can you check the recipe on Pinterest again? I swear I put in the right amount.”
Bucky walks over and picks up your iPad. Right as he’s scrolling to find out if you should have used 2 tablespoons or 2 teaspoons of chili paste, a notification banner pops up and he accidently taps it, opening up your Tumblr app.
Omg! This fic is amazing! The way Bucky is there to support the reader. My heart completely melted! Your Bucky stories are amazing, Y/n! <3
Above the comment is a photo of him. It’s a shot from the news where he’s helping a civilian stand up after one of the attacks made by The Red Hand.
“Uh….love? What’s this?” He holds the iPad up to you and you shift your gaze over to him.
You drop the wooden spoon into the wok as all of the blood drains from your face. You’re frozen in place for a millisecond before you pounce on Bucky to grab the device from him. He’s never seen you move so quickly and it catches him off guard.
“Bucky give me the iPad right now,” you fling your arms toward it and he pulls it away, both amused and a bit concerned by your reaction.
“Wait, what is this? Is it something I should be worried about?”
You see a flicker of panic flash in his eyes and you stop flailing. You close your eyes and let out a deep sigh.
“No, I mean, I should be concerned because if you read that I’m probably going to combust and you’re going to dump me and run for the hills.” He furrows his brows in confusion and you slowly lift up your hand. “Can I please have that back before I have a mild panic attack?”
He stares at you, trying to gauge your emotions. All he can see is panic and sadness and it breaks his heart so he instantly gives in and hands you the iPad.
“Don’t worry about it, love. I trust you.” He leans forward to give you a chaste kiss.
You let out a pained groan against his lips and Bucky is once again confused.
“Ughhhh I hate hiding things from you.” You lock your iPad so the screen goes dark. “Okay, fine, I guess this conversation is happening. Remember when we first started dating and I, uh, mentioned I used to read and write stories about….us being a couple?”
Bucky nods, trying not to reveal any emotion to you that might make you spiral into a panic, and you continue.
“Well, that was one of those stories I wrote. I stopped looking on Tumblr basically as soon as I met you because it got all weird and meta and I got super uncomfy by the idea of reading fanfics - that’s what they’re called - about my new friend/now boyfriend Bucky Barnes. And then we started dating and I was all happy and shit and I totally forgot that those fics were still out there. Obviously I haven’t written any since then because that would be weird for...many, many reasons. Someone must have found an old one and commented on it. I’ll delete it. I’ll delete all of them. I swear. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I should have been more on top of this.”
Bucky stares at you, lips pursed and you grimace, afraid of the next words that are about to come out of his mouth.
This is so weird, Y/n. How could you do this?
No wonder you didn’t date anyone before me.
Obsessed much? (Okay, he probably wouldn’t say it like that but STILL).
No, what Bucky said next was much, much worse than what you could have imagined.
“Can I read one?”
Your mouth drops. Closes. Drops again. You blink rapidly.
“I’m sorry, I just hallucinated. What?”
Bucky points to your iPad, a sly grin forming on his face. “I want to read one of your stories.”
You take a step back from him, horror stricken as you pull the iPad closer to you as if you were protecting your collector’s edition of ‘Throne of Glass.’
“Absolutely not.”
Bucky steps forward and you step back. He chuckles. “Come onnn, doll. I want to know what your fantasies were about me before we got together.” He laughs harder as the look of horror on your face grows more manic.
“Bucky, I know you’re a super soldier and could probably punch me into the sun with your metal arm, but I promise I will fight to the death before I let you read one of these fics.”
You and Bucky continue this dance of him stepping forward and you stepping back until you feel your legs make contact with your couch and you fall back into a sitting position on its arm. Bucky uses this opportunity to tower over you, his arms resting on the couch so that you’re pinned between them.
Then, he pulls out the big guns.
His gaze softens, blue eyes shining into yours. His bottom lip puffs out and he gives you the most adorable, sexiest pout you’ve seen in your whole life.
“Please, love?” He says it with a slightly higher pitch, almost like a whine and it still sounds like honey to your ears. He even nudges your nose with his like a freaking sociopath.
Damn.
You close your eyes, let out a breath, then open them back up to him. “I hate you.”
His pout turns into a boyish grin and he gives you a quick kiss. “You love me.”
You groan. “Hopefully you still love me after this, Buck. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
You stand and open up your iPad, scrolling through your masterlist and finding what used to be one of your favorite fluff pieces. You begrudgingly hand it to Bucky and he sits on the couch.
Unable to sit still during this agonizing experience, you proceed to pace around your apartment like a crazy person and resort to cleaning the inside of your microwave which you haven’t done in a few months so it’s a good thing that Bucky is reading your fic so that you could get that out of the way. You probably won’t have a boyfriend in a few minutes but at least your microwave will be spotless.
You only steal a few glances at Bucky as he reads, mortified each time as you see his eyebrows move in every possible direction. Up, down, knit together, were they criss-crossed at one point?
Finally, after what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Bucky lets out a soft grunt, placing the iPad down on his lap. He looks up to you and you give him a weak smile.
“Alright, let me have it, Buck. Give me your worst. Be honest. Also, I love you.”
Bucky glances down at the iPad and then back at you.
“Well, I have a few questions.”
Your right eye twitches. “Hm?”
“Now that you’ve met me, do you still think my eyes are an all-consuming storm of blue?” You groan. He grins. “Or do you think my jawline was cut from marble created by the gods?”
This time, you breathe out a laugh and you walk over to sit on his lap. You take hold of his chin.
“Bucky, I don’t think I could ever come up with the right words to describe you. The real thing is quite literally a million times better than anything I’ve ever written.”
His eyebrows raise. “That is...probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten in my whole damn life.” He leans forward and kisses you, and you sigh into the feeling of his mouth on yours, relief flooding through you.
You pull away, eyes skeptical. “So, you’re not thinking about how you can escape and never see my crazy ass again?”
“On the contrary, love, I’m thinking about how I can convince you to buy this gorgeous green dress you apparently wore as my wedding date. The one that showed off your cleavage in a way that made Bucky’s brain melt.”
The two of you burst out laughing and you lightly shove his chest. “Sure thing, Bucko. How about I work on the dress situation and you work on ordering us Thai food so that we don’t lose our taste buds from whatever the hell I just made.”
-----
Thank you for reading! Feel free to check out my other stuff here. :)
Taglist: @ceo-of-daichi @biiskuitx @forgetthisbull @eclipses-and-moondust @abcdefxkyou @jackiehollanderr @billionsofbeans @abitgryffindorky @lovelylostminds @mija-just-breathe @semlohkratz @bratty-longbottom-replies @carrotfantasimp @cremedelabrulee @ant1r3al1ty @th-e-mg@laura-moehrchen @emma-the-duck17 @sunnyjane4 @rosaline-black @parodsal000 @vicmc624 @abrunettefangirlnerd @officiallykuute @edityourwishingwell @mymindslabyrinth
***This was the original tag list for the To Be Wanted series. If you would like to be removed from the taglist for any other stories related to this series, feel free to DM me! And let me know if you would like to be *added* to the taglist for any other future stories featuring these two knuckleheads. :)
#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky x y/n#to be wanted#james bucky barnes#marvel#mcu#plus size!reader#plus size#fanfic#fanfiction#sebastian stan#inbox
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What Happens When Scientists Become Allergic to Their Research
https://sciencespies.com/nature/what-happens-when-scientists-become-allergic-to-their-research/
What Happens When Scientists Become Allergic to Their Research
Bryan Fry’s heart was pounding as he stepped back from the snake enclosure and examined the bite marks on his hand. He had just been bitten by a death adder, one of Australia’s most venomous snakes. Its neurotoxin-laced bite could cause vomiting, paralysis and — as the name suggests — death.
Fry, at the time a graduate student, had kept snakes for years. Oddly, the neurotoxins weren’t his biggest worry; the nearby hospital would have the antivenom he needed, and, although data is limited, people who receive treatment generally survive. Anaphylactic shock, on the other hand, might kill him within minutes.
“Anaphylactic shock is the single worst feeling you can possibly imagine,” recalled Fry, now a biologist at the University of Queensland in Australia. “It is just insane. Every cell in your body is screaming out in mortal terror.”
Fry, who had spent his life admiring and eventually studying venomous snakes, had become deathly allergic to them.
Bryan Fry observes a cobra on a trip to Pakistan. He is now deathly allergic to snake venom.
(Courtesy of Bryan Fry)
While most cases are not so extreme, anecdotal reports and expert analysis suggest that it is far from rare for scientists, students, and laboratory technicians to develop allergies to the organisms they study. Perversely, some allergy researchers say, it is the researchers’ passion for their subjects — the close observation, the long hours of work each day, and the years of commitment to a research project — that puts them at such high risk.
“It is true that some things cause allergies more often than others, but the biggest factor is the frequency of the interaction with the study organism,” said John Carlson, a physician and researcher at Tulane University who specializes in insect and dust mite allergies. “You probably have about a 30 percent chance of developing an allergy to whatever it is that you study.” While data is limited, that estimate is in line with research on occupational allergies, which studies suggest occur in as many as 44 percent of people who work with laboratory rodents, around 40 percent of veterinarians, and 25 to 60 percent of people who work with insects.
Federal guidelines suggest that laboratories have “well-designed air-handling systems” and that workers don appropriate personal protective equipment, or PPE, in order to reduce the risk of developing an allergy. However, interviews with researchers and experts suggest that there may be little awareness of — or adherence to — guidelines like these. For scientists working with less-common species and those engaged in fieldwork, information on what exactly constitutes appropriate PPE may be very limited.
Many researchers, perhaps especially those who do fieldwork, are used to being uncomfortable in service of their work, Carlson points out. “I think that a lot of researchers are so interested in the process of the research,” he said, “that they aren’t really considering the long-term effects that it could have on them.”
In general, allergies develop when the immune system overreacts to a substance that is usually harmless, or relatively harmless. The immune system monitors the body for potentially dangerous invaders like bacteria, fungi, and viruses. Sometimes, for reasons that are not well understood, the immune system identifies something benign, like pollen or animal dander, as dangerous. To help mark the intruder, a person who has become sensitized in this way produces antibodies, or types of proteins, to identify it.
When that person comes into contact with the substance again, the antibodies flag it as an invader. As part of the response, immune cells release compounds like histamine, which irritate and inflame the surrounding tissues, resulting in allergy symptoms.
Although some risk factors have been identified, researchers who study allergies are often unable to determine exactly why this overreaction occurs in some people but not others. But it’s clear that, for some substances, repeated exposures can increase the likelihood of an allergic response.
While anecdotes of allergic scientists abound, research into the issue is scant. The best documented are allergies to rodents, which are ubiquitous in biomedical research. But some scientists report allergies that are almost completely unstudied, potentially because relatively few people — at least in wealthy nations in which many allergy studies are conducted — regularly come into contact with the organisms that cause them.
For example, while most people avoid regular contact with leeches, University of Toronto doctoral student Danielle de Carle goes out looking for them. De Carle studies leech genetics in order to figure out how different species are related to one another and to understand how blood feeding evolved. To study the leeches, she first has to catch them, and like other researchers in her field, she uses her own body as bait.
“We wade into swamps and stuff, and we let them attach to us and feed from us,” she said. For most people, leech bites are relatively painless. When de Carle needed to keep the leeches alive in the lab, she would let them feed on her then as well.
Doctoral student Danielle de Carle now uses sausage casings filled with pig blood to nourish the leeches she studies.
(Courtesy of Danielle de Carle)
After about a year and a half of this, she started to notice symptoms. At first, the bites became itchy, but the more she was exposed, the worse it got. “The last time I fed a leech — which I try not to do anymore — my entire hand swelled up so much that I could hardly make a fist,” she said. “It itched like crazy.” De Carle said that, when she’s out hunting leeches now, she can avoid an allergic reaction if she removes the leech after it attaches itself to her, but before it starts to feed. For the leeches she keeps in the lab, she’s switched to feeding them pig’s blood from a butcher shop instead of letting them feed on her.
Nia Walker, a Ph.D. student in biology at Stanford University, has also begun reacting to her research organism. Walker studies how genetics influence coral bleaching resistance and recovery. She began to notice rashes on her hands during her third trip to conduct fieldwork on corals in Palau, an island nation in the South Pacific. “And then each subsequent trip after that, it got more and more extreme,” she said. “It got to the point where my face would bloat and I’d get welts on my hands from touching them.”
While her symptoms are especially intense, Walker said she’s not the only member of her lab who has developed a sensitivity. By now, she said, everyone in the lab has “developed a slight irritation to corals.” Walker has been able to manage her allergy by using protective equipment and over-the-counter antihistamines. “It’s sad,” she said, “but it’s also pretty funny.”
Sometimes, allergies that scientists have picked up during lab work can spill over into daily life. More than a decade ago, evolutionary biologist Karl Grieshop worked in a fruit fly lab in which bananas were a key part of the flies’ diet. Ever since, he said, his throat gets itchy every time he eats a banana. Jon Giddens, a doctoral student in plant biology at the University of Oklahoma, said that he didn’t have any allergies before he started studying Eastern redcedar, a small evergreen tree that is widespread in some regions of the country. But now, even though it’s been more than a year since he last worked with the species in the field, he has year-round nasal allergy symptoms, he thinks from the redcedar pollen in the air.
Likewise, Brechann McGoey, who received her doctorate in ecology and evolutionary biology from the University of Toronto, said she didn’t experience hay fever before she started her graduate work. But after repeated exposure to ragweed pollen during experiments, she developed symptoms like post-nasal drip and persistent cough. Even though she no longer works with the species, she still gets hay fever every fall during ragweed season. “It’s a souvenir from my Ph.D.,” she joked.
Reflecting previous research on occupational allergies in veterinarians, most of the researchers who spoke with Undark did not seek medical attention or get a formal diagnosis for their allergies.
Biologist Nia Walker attaches an ID tag to the base of a tabletop coral on the northern fore reef in Palau. Everyone in the lab she works in has “developed a slight irritation to corals,” Walker says.
(Dan Griffin / GG Films)
In many cases, scientists report that their allergies are annoying but manageable. But sometimes, the allergies force researchers to make major changes.
Entomologist Chip Taylor began his career studying sulphur butterflies as a Ph.D. student at the University of Connecticut. When he started his own lab at the University of Kansas in 1969, he had every intention of continuing to work with the species. But, he said, “by the time it rolled around to 1973, I realized I was so allergic to these butterflies.” Taylor began to experience asthma-like symptoms whenever he worked with them.
In the summer of that year, during a research trip to central Arizona, Taylor and a colleague rented a trailer to use as a workstation to process butterfly wing samples. “I could not go in the trailer,” he recalled. “I slept outside with my back up against a tree so my sinuses and my throat could drain.” To manage his symptoms, he was regularly taking prednisone, a powerful anti-inflammatory drug that can have serious side effects. “I decided that I had to get out of working with those butterflies,” Taylor said. “I had to readjust my career to work on something else.”
Taylor spent the next few decades studying killer bees. He returned to butterfly research in 1992, when he started the monarch butterfly conservation program Monarch Watch. Taylor said he’s never experienced any symptoms while working with monarchs — maybe, he guesses, because the two species produce different types of pigments.
Fry, the biologist who became allergic to snake venom, also said his allergy has shaped his career. The venoms of different snake species share similar components, Fry said, so someone who is allergic to one type of snake is likely allergic to many types. Because of this allergy, Fry also has to be extremely careful even around venomous snakes that are usually not dangerous to humans.
“Whenever I work with these animals now, I look like I’m going into the Hurt Locker,” he said, referencing the Oscar-winning movie about U.S. Army specialists who defused bombs in Iraq. “So, of course, in the tropical sun I’m absolutely melting.” Those limitations, he said, have made working with snakes less enjoyable. “I can’t just blithely interact with these animals that I find so absolutely fascinating, knowing that death is just around the corner at any given moment, even from a snake that normally wouldn’t be a medical problem.”
Fry survived his encounter with the death adder thanks to a snakebite kit containing injectable adrenaline and antihistamines, as well as a quick-thinking friend who raced him to the hospital. The allergy, he said, has caused him to redirect much of his research to studying venoms in other animals, including Komodo dragons, slow lorises (the world’s only venomous primates), funnel-web spiders, and box jellyfish. “I’ve managed to turn it into a good thing,” he said, “but it’s been nevertheless very frustrating.”
Allergy experts say that reducing exposure is the key to preventing allergy development. Exactly how much the exposure needs to be reduced is less clear, and increasing protection may be costly for institutions and inconvenient for researchers.
Some laboratories that use mice and rats have equipment and policies designed to reduce exposure to allergens. These labs install ventilation systems for the cages, use a robotic system to clean them out, house fewer animals per room, and provide an area for workers to change out of allergen-contaminated clothing. PPE such as masks, gloves, and gowns can also help researchers reduce their exposure.
But actually applying those preventative measures can be challenging, said Johanna Feary, who studies occupational lung disease as a senior clinical research fellow at Imperial College London.
In 2019, Feary and several colleagues published a study of seven research institutions in the United Kingdom that performed research on mice. They found that facilities that used individually ventilated cages, instead of open cages, had dramatically lower airborne allergen levels. But even that was not sufficient to prevent technicians from becoming sensitized to mouse allergens. The facilities with the lowest levels of sensitization were those where workers also wore properly fitted masks. The research, she said, demonstrated that, at least in the U.K., the development of allergies to lab animals “is probably preventable in almost all cases.”
But Feary said that lab animal allergies continue to be a problem for many people. “We should be getting better at it,” she said. “I’m not sure we are getting better at it.” The main reason, according to Feary, is that it can be costly to install equipment that reduces allergen exposure, such as those robotic cage cleaners, especially if it requires renovating older facilities.
It’s also hard to accurately assess the magnitude of the problem, she said, especially given that conditions and practices differ widely around the world. While well-run facilities will monitor workers’ exposure and health, “at the other end of the scale, you have filthy places with poor health and safety,” she said, where recordkeeping is patchy and people who develop allergies may simply feel compelled to seek work elsewhere. “So, it may look like everything’s fine, and nobody’s got any symptoms, but actually all the sick people have left,” Feary said.
It may also be the case that only the best-run facilities will report their data, she said, while the rest will simply not engage. Indeed, several years ago, when a group of Duke University researchers attempted a nationwide survey of the incidence of anaphylaxis associated with lab-animal bites in the U.S., only 16 percent of facilities even responded.
And with less well-studied allergies, there’s simply little information available regarding prevalence and what sorts of protections are sufficient to prevent their development. Several scientists living with allergies, though, said they think that more information and awareness could help increase the number of scientists taking precautions in their research.
Fry said there is more awareness of snake venom allergy than there was when he started formally studying snakes in the late 1990s. But, he added, “it’s still not as well-known as it should be.” Researchers in the field, he wrote in a follow-up email, can be reticent to talk about venom allergies. But, he said, “I’m quite candid about it because, you know, this is life-saving information.”
Walker, the coral biologist, said more research on allergies among researchers would be helpful. “A lot of these things can be addressed if you knew to look out for it,” she said.
Early-career scientists generally receive thorough training on proper handling of biohazards and harmful chemicals. Institutions often provide extensive safety plans for fieldwork to help researchers prepare for the various risks involved, from dehydration to hypothermia to bear attacks. But scientists may learn little about the potential for developing allergies to seemingly harmless organisms.
“I feel like maybe there’s a bit too much of a casual attitude about protective gear,” said McGoey, who developed an allergy after doing research on ragweed. “Maybe especially if you’re working with a plant or animal, where it’s like a natural thing, and you’re not in the lab with a chemical, maybe people are just not careful enough.”
“As silly as it sounds, just maybe having more emphasis on using PPE and the consequences of not doing it would be kind of nice,” said de Carle, the leech researcher. “It can be really easy to just think, like, ‘Oh, I don’t really need to wear gloves; I’m just touching flowers or whatever.’”
Carlson, the allergist, said that even well-informed researchers can get caught up in their enthusiasm for the work and rationalize not taking the proper precautions.
In 2009, Carlson worked on a project that involved collecting data on house dust mites, microscopic arthropods which cause nasal and respiratory issues in millions of people worldwide. Despite his expertise, he neglected PPE. “I know all this,” he said. “I know I should be wearing a mask, but it’s hot, and it’s sweaty, and I don’t have a boss telling me what to do.” As he worked, he developed a runny nose and itchy eyes — the first steps toward a full-fledged allergy. “I pushed through and I ended up hyper-sensitizing myself,” Carlson said, to the point that even getting down on the ground to play with his then-young children made him “absolutely miserable.”
Carlson is saddened thinking about those scientists who have to give up the work they love due to allergies. “I really do feel for these folks doing their work and developing an allergy,” he said. “The more we get the word out there, the better.”
Hannah Thomasy is a freelance science writer splitting time between Toronto and Seattle. Her work has appeared in Hakai Magazine, OneZero, and NPR.
This article was originally published on Undark. Read the original article.
#Nature
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Damn validation hits different when its from your favorite Shigaraki poster.
No but really creepy obsessed Shigaraki can like get it however it he wants it. Just like that act of having blood on your hands from killing someone "accidentally/on purpose" and Shigaraki making you touch him and in turn touching you with the blood of your friends that he spilled to get your attention is like 🥵🥵🥵. The manipulation, the bloodshed, the unhealthy relationship that's gonna result cause like. You jumped at an opportunity to kill babe, in the end you're just like him. Or Shigaraki forcing you to hold the knife or whatever and kill your remaining friend(s). Its hot and romantic if you think about. Just like spilling blood together even if its accidental is AMAZING
I honestly can't write for shit, I just have ideas and run on sentences but I'll take whatever scraps you throw my way❤
Thank you so much! ❤️ 💕 I’m telling you, it’s a fuckin’ awesome idea. Look, on some level, a lot of us were simpin’ for these slashers. Especially when it came to the ones that got a little too close and personal. One going crazy for you and using your weaknesses against you? Holding your friends lives against you and bending you to his whims or else? Top tier.
Mmmmhmmhmhmmhhaaaaahahaaa okay so I tried my hand at a quick one, just him being a total bastard. You know, cause why not. I can technically make it more crazy and romantic as opposed to ‘total psychopath holds me captive’, but this is what ended up coming out atm. I hope it’s alright! He is not nice, because I never write him nice. He’s actually a complete bastard, but you know.
Tomura shoves you through the rocks and fauna that line the camping area and forward toward one of the craft cabins, practically carrying you at this point because your own legs are too weak to hold your own body weight.
A quick flip of the switch to turn on the ugly, yellowish flickering lights reveals he's got one of your fellow councilors tied up and unconscious with their head lopped over on their shoulder, a little dribble of blood trailing down their temple from where he hit them with the butt of the knife. You're shaking in his grip as he gently guides you in front of the chair, rubbing up and down your arms in a way that is likely meant to be comforting but gives away his already barely concealed excitement.
"You said you'd do whatever I ask, right?"
Dread blooms, threading through your ribcage and squeezing, suffocating your lungs and anchoring your gut to the floor in abject horror. Bile rises up to tickle your esophagus as he presses the hilt of the blade to your palm- still slick with blood and caked with the viscera of your fellow campers- your friends. You tear your face away. You can't look. You can't look.
"I want you to prove it to me."
His hand constricts across your chin in an iron grip and yanks your face back toward them, your tears pooling in the slats of his fingers. He gently curls each of your own fingers around the knife- so gently in contrast to the way he's lodged against your jaw- before releasing you and shoving you forward.
“You’re going to kill them. I even made it easy for you. He’s out cold- no screaming, no struggling, none of the obnoxious stuff I had to deal with. All you gotta do is push the knife in to prove your loyalty to me.”
The dam breaks and you fall to your knees, shaking your head as the knife falls from your hand and clatters to the floor, spinning aimlessly on its axis. Sobs catch in your throat, hiccupping relentlessly through the choked gasps and guttural blubbers.
“I-I can’t! I won’t! You can’t make me do this! Please, Tomura-”
He rolls his eyes, plucking the knife from the floor before threading his hands through your hair to the scalp and jerking you back up to your feet and into his arms again. Your teeth clench at the pain, another sob wracking your spine as you almost double back over.
“I can make you do anything I want- Don’t forget what this is.” Releasing your hair, he curls an arm around under your tits, holding you upright, his other pushing the knife back into your sweaty palm, hand curling around yours to guide you. “Don’t forget what happens if you don’t do what I ask. I’ll even help you, if you’ll stop your incessant sniveling.”
He moves forward, bringing you with him closer to your target, brandishing the knife entwined in your hands. The sharp blade catches on the collar of their pastel camp shirt, moving lower as Tomura calculates out exactly where to move- he won’t drag this out just to hurt you. He might be cruel, but he’s not a monster.
“Right there-” The tip sits point blank, scaling downward below the inner part of the left clavical bone- stopping approximately between the fourth and fifth ribs and angling the knife upward. Hours of volunteering to teach the camp anatomy lesson tells you as much. “We’ll push it in together right there. It’ll be almost instant, I swear-”
“Please- I can’t-”
“You can.” He cranes his neck and kisses your hairline, and you recoil as much as you from his affections. “And you will. For me.” A hideous giggle as he kisses at the shell of your ear. “And for yourself.”
His hand moves forward, taking yours along with him, and the tip of the blade dents in the billow of your victim’s shirt. Your hand shakes, fingers trembling, but guided by Tomura’s movements, it nudges in deeper, and you meet the first level of flesh.
“Now just push it in-”
A small patch of blood begins to bloom outward from the point of contact, piercing his skin as Tomura wedges the blade in deeper with a slow, fluid movement. You could swear that as it embeds further into his skin, that his body quivers and tightens-
“C’mon- Almost there. A few more inches and you’ll be done-”
At this point, he’s the only thing anchoring your hand to the handle, more his efforts than your own. He’s definitely taking far more pleasure in this than you; A terrible, carnivorous smile sliced across his face as he claims your faltering fingers beneath his own. He’s made it perfectly clear what’s to become of you if you dare to defy him, but even as the proverbial guillotine looms above your neck, every instinct in your body screams to shove him off, to run, to hide where he can never find you.
But he’s stronger than you- faster too- made sure to impress upon you that he’s smarter as well. He’s made a point of telling you in explicit detail what will become of you if he has to chase you down again, but the impulse is thrumming through your veins side by side with the adrenaline that makes you nauseous. Even if you could fend him off- even if he couldn’t catch you- you could never go home. He’d spent months planning this down to the marrow. Every little detail orchestrated to look like the handiwork of an unhinged and underappreciated camp councilor- you.
There’s so much blood. On him. On you. Dribbling down the front of the unconscious councilor’s shirt and staining the pastel a stark red that blears your black and white pulsating vision. You can feel his heartbeat in the knife, you swear you can-
“Almost there, baby-”
The blade stills as it meets a meaty wall of resistance and you know it’s reached the his heart. Tomura’s body shivers against yours, knife almost fully driven into the thorax now. You try not to think about how much time it must have taken him to study, how much he must have researched avoiding the sternum and the cage of ribs meant to protect the vital muscle if only to force you to bend for him this way.
“You wanna know something fucked up?” He removes his hand from yours, leaving you gripping the hilt for a split second before you yank yourself backwards, sobbing openly as it stays put, stiffly wobbling slightly from the lack of support once you both withdraw. You turn away from the body, smacking into Shigaraki’s chest even as you try to shove him away. He cradles your face, hands crusted with blood tracing the curve of your cheek, smearing your tears across your skin. “He could technically live through this, if I let him. The heart closes punctures on its own if allowed to do so. At least long enough help could get here.”
“Please-” You whine, voice cracking and sinuses draining into your throat and clogging your airway in your distress. “Please! We can leave together, we can go wherever you want! Just call him an ambulance and we’ll go. I’ll go with you willingly, we don’t have to-”
“You’ll come with me anyway, you dumb little slut. I don’t think you’re quite grasping what’s happening here.” He seethes behind clenched teeth, fingers twisting in your uniform. “But I guess you have a point. He doesn’t have to die.”
“Please- Please just-”
“Convince me then.”
He pushes you down to the floor again, landing on your knees before him. His hand finds the back of your head, grinding your face onto his crotch hard enough you can feel his stiffening cock against the soft of your cheek.
“What? We don’t have time-”
“Better hurry then. Tick tock, princess. I didn’t put a whole lot of effort into finding out how long he can survive.”
Nausea curls up in your gut once more but your fingers still find his zipper, shaking and blinking back tears as you unbutton his trousers. You try to ignore the mocking laugher bubbling in his gut as you fish his cock out from the barrier of fabric, hesitating slightly when your fingers close around the velvety skin of his shaft, hot and throbbing to the touch.
“I don’t know what will be a bigger disappointment- if you don’t know what you’re doing or if you do.” He jeers, taking his dick out of your hands only to slap it against the side of your mouth a few times as he yanks his pantline down enough to free himself fully. “I guess we’ll find out. Either way, you’ll catch on to what I like, won’t you? You were always such a quick little learner.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to rebut, shoving the head of his cock past your teeth in a way that seems almost too eager- like a virgin would. You don’t know much about Tomura- had never even really spoken to him before these past few days, but if you had to guess, judging by the way he’s already breathing heavy and looking down at you with manic eyes and sweating profusely from the nape, this is probably the first time he’s ever been touched intimately like this.
“C’mon!- Suck me already-”
It’s not a surprise. He’s brash and rude and a total loner and butted heads with everyone else from the start, and now he’s responsible for countless deaths as well. He probably never found time to woo anyone between his plotting and abhorrent personality. At least it plays in your favor to some degree, since chances are he’ll cum sooner rather than later. The thought of having to take him down your throat makes you sick, but if it’ll save your friend...
You stick out your tongue past your lips, allowing him to slide his length down your throat without obstruction, blinking your bleary doe eyes up at him as you kitten lick his cock. He shivers with every lave of your tongue, his musky scent invading your nostrils as you try to repress your gag reflex to allow him deeper.
“Oh, fuck yes-“
He stutters his hips, rolling them against your face until you’re flush with the course and curly white litany of hairs nested at the base of his pelvis. His musky busk clogs your senses and cloys up your sinuses, but you’re determined to please him- this isn’t about you anymore- so you shove down the disgust and focus on pampering his cock as best as you can given the circumstances.
“Shit- you’re such a little slut for me. Look at you go, taking my fat cock like a pro-“
You purse your lips around him, locking an airtight seal around the base of his prick and covering your teeth with your lips. The edges swell your lips with every bob of your head, but his moans clue you into the fact that you must be doing something right, so you ignore the discomfort in favor of taking him further down your throat instead.
His hand finds the crown of your head again, closing around your scalp and forcing his cock down into the depths of your throat as he shoves you deeper until your lips are practically pressed against his navel. Gagging is inevitable, as he’s not exactly small, but you try to remind yourself to breathe through your nose instead- though the hot, heady air near his groin does you no favors.
“Come on, baby, take my dick- fuck, you’re such a good little whore for me- suck my cock- fuck, such a good girl-“
He’s close, he’s so close you can taste it. The slimy consistency of precum coats your mouth and he’s throbbing against your throat- he’s almost ready to cum, just a bit more, just a bit-
The tangy smell of blood and arousal sits heavy in the air and even as you want to cry, you swallow him further, closing your throat around him and massaging him with the silken cavern of your throat, letting him fuck your mouth to his liking. Drool spills from the sides of your mouth, swollen lips puffed around his shaft, and he looks at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
“Gunna cum- gunna come down your fucking throat- you’ll swallow it all-“ his other hand clumsily slaps against your cheek, massaging your cheekbone with hands still blood-wet. “Take it all, you fucking whore- fuck, so pretty, so pretty, all mine now-“
He throbs and you can feel it, cum spurting from his cock down your throat and into your belly. You almost gag, having to force down the sputters with a red face and weepy, bulging eyes. He doesn’t relent his grip, keeping you stuck on his cock as he moans loud and unabashed enough that it leaves you humiliated even as you know that everyone else in the vicinity too long gone to hear it.
You try to swallow it down, try to stomach it all, but it proves just a bit too much. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he’d been withholding for a while. Tapping his thighs, coughing around his length until he finally has the wherewithal to take the hint, he withdraws from you as you cough up small bits of spittle and cum onto the knees of his jeans and your own mouth. You fall down onto your side, hacking up bits of liquid that clearly went down the wrong pipe as he tucks himself away back in his pants.
He kneels down before you, patting your back in a condescending manner with a sinister, lofty smile. You try desperately to get a word out between convulsions, and it doesn’t help that he’s pulling you to your feet before your vision can clear itself, yanking you up into his arms and over his shoulder with one careless heave.
“You did real good, baby- I can’t wait to fuck that tight little cunt of yours when we get back- You’re so perfect- Fuck that was incredible, everything like I dreamed but better-”
You pound on his back, pointing at your friend. They sit limply, knife still jabbed in their chest. Their skin is a sickly pale color, blood running down and pooling in their lap and absorbing into the fabric of their clothing.
“Call- first- please-”
“Huh?” He looks back at the chair and the body tied down to it, grin faltering slightly. “Oh. They’re gone. Long gone. See?” He turns on his heel, bringing his shoe up to kick at the butt of the knife, lodging it deeper into the corpse with one quick stomp of his shoe. There’s no movement, not even a cry or a whimper or a rattle. “They were already dead. I stabbed them in the back of the neck earlier. It was quick, if that makes you feel better. They didn’t feel a thing-” He pats your ass, giving it a quick smack. “But you sure did, didn’t you?”
You wail and kick and scream, energy renewed as his horrific deception and that sickening feeling in your gut plunging further and further into sick. He only cackles, easily keeping you under control with one hand slung around your waist and his shoulder digging into your gut.
“Good call though. Can’t be leaving the murder weapon behind. Memories of our first kill together and all.”
He yanks the knife out in one swift movement, body slumping over from the momentum and you see the ghastly wound right at the base of the back of his neck.
He was already dead. He was already dead.
#Morgana and friends#nsft#tw noncon#hot slaughter#lmao#written hastily do not judge me#watch me make up a shitload about anatomy and death because I don't know#stabbing someone in the heart is one of the few things I've never done before
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Home Remedy
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Hannibal Lecter x Reader
Warnings: Language.
A/N: Just a short little fluffy fic.
Word Count: 1,192
“Please. I look like I’ve been hit by a car.”
__
A rather unpleasant noise bellowed through your bedroom as you blew your nose for the hundredth time that day. If you were a celebrity, you would NOT want to be caught dead on camera anywhere at this moment. Your nose was rubbed raw, your eyes were sunken in, your cheeks were slick from the watering of your eyes. You looked, for lack of a better term, like a hot mess. It was probably just a cold. It was autumn time when the seasonal colds and flu came around. Considering you weren’t completely knocked on your ass, it was just a cold.
Still, that didn’t make things any less miserable. Your nasal passage was blocked every way to Sunday (which had given you the most striking headache) and sickly tears leaked from your eyes. On top of this, you were slightly fatigued and very cranky. You had been sick for about two days now. Everybody knows that the second and third day of sickness is the worst. You had been somewhat productive throughout the day, but the late afternoon hit and you crashed.
Hannibal was on his way, he had called because he “felt something wasn’t right” and when you told him you were sick, he dropped everything to come by. You didn’t really ask him to come over. Honestly, you didn’t want anybody seeing you like this. But if you were going to be in a serious relationship with him, you had to start letting him see you in your less attractive times.
Sure enough, you heard the rattling of your front door, signaling his arrival. Usually he would knock, but he got the notion that you’d never come and answer the door if he did. So, he used your spare key that was not so well hidden. He had been meaning to ask you about it.
“[Y/N]?” His accented voice called.
You lifted your head slightly from your stack of pillows, the thumping pain in your head getting worse;
“Up here!” You croaked out pathetically.
You fell back onto the bed, your head feeling like it would explode at any moment. You heard shuffling and footsteps coming up the stairs. Then you saw him standing over you. He cocked his head to meet your gaze, noting that you were basically under the covers;
“Hello in there,” He greeted; “How are you feeling?”
You groaned in response, pinching the bridge of your nose to relieve some pressure in your head.
“I figured as much,” He rummaged through the bag in his hand, pulling out a bottle of aspirin; “Two of these should help.”
You sat up, graciously taking the pills with the water on your bedside table.
“For a woman so sickly, you look just as beautiful.” He complimented.
You normally would blush and shy away from him, but you weren’t really in the mood for his antics;
“Please. I look like I’ve been hit by a car.” You griped.
He grinned in an amused way, sitting on the edge of the bed;
“You never did answer my question, dear.” He replied.
“Oh. I feel terrible. Do you know how many boxes of tissues I’ve gone through today? Four. Four whole boxes!” You exclaimed.
He raised his brows, surprised at your energy. The average person wouldn’t be up for such conversational time that you were currently having.
“That’s a lot of tissues.” He commented.
“I know! It’s insanity. I didn’t even know the body could produce that much...mucus.” You said amazed.
He moved on to his next piece of advice, the real reason he came over. He knew you likely had not eaten, because you tended to get lazy when you weren’t in your best shape.
“I think it would be wise for you to eat. I make a delectable chicken soup. Hot tea would also be beneficial.” He stated.
In your several months with Hannibal, he was very connected with his culinary senses. You had yet to figure out why. His words resonated with you, the heavy growl in your stomach being audibly heard. He took that as his cue, encouraging you out of bed and into the kitchen. Your kitchen was smaller than his. Definitely not as decorative and fit for cooking. However, he was a flexible man, so he could adjust.
He had brought everything he needed; carrots, celery, chicken (of course), onion, star anise, noodles, etc. He never came unprepared. He started with boiling a kettle of water to make tea. Hannibal was a strict believer in tea and what it could do for the body. You watched quietly as he boiled the water, prepared, and presented you with a cup of piping hot tea.
“And what kind is this?” You asked, taking the cup.
“Echinacea tea,” He responded; “It comes from a group of flowering plants in the daisy family. It boosts the immune system and is rich with antioxidants. I took the liberty to stir in a little honey as well. It makes it less bitter.”
You sipped the tea slowly, marveling at how it felt so good on your sore throat. It didn’t taste the best, but it was comforting. Hannibal sliced the carrots and celery, diced the onion, and prepared the chicken to be cooked in the broth on the stove.
You weren’t sure if it was the tea, the aspirin, or the smell of the food, but your headache was gone and you were beginning to feel a little better. It didn’t take him very long to cook the meal. Apparently, chicken soup isn’t that complex. He ladled it into a bowl, sliding it across the counter. You finished off your tea and gingerly began to spoon the soup mouthful by mouthful. It was nothing short of delicious and it felt very homey. The carrots were soft and sweet, the chicken was salty and fell apart in your mouth. It was the best thing you’d eaten all week.
“This is incredible,” You admired; “I really appreciate it.”
He was proud of his creation, but prouder that you were enjoying it.
“It’s my pleasure. Nothing to it,” He shrugged; “You’re beginning to look a little better.”
Truth was, you already felt better. It was crazy what a cup of tea and bowl of soup could do. He watched as you downed the bowl without a hitch. Your content sigh as a sign that you were satisfied. Now, all you needed was a shower and a good night of rest.
“I think I’m going to take a hot shower. Clear out the sinuses, you know?” You proclaimed.
“Of course. That would be wise.” He agreed, taking your bowl away.
A sneaky smirk riddled your face;
“Actually, Hannibal, I’m still feeling a little drowsy. I think I might fall asleep in the shower.” You hinted.
He was amused;
“Is that so?” He played along; “Well, I suppose I could lend a helping hand then. Just to ensure you don’t completely fall over.”
You cheerily agreed, leading him up the stairs to your shower and later to your bed. Perhaps, being sick wasn’t all THAT bad. Maybe...just maybe;
You wouldn’t mind being sick a little more often.
#hannibal#hannibal lecter#hannibal imagine#Hannibal TV#hannibal nbc#hannibal lecter x reader#hannibal lecter imagine#hannibal lecter imagines#hannibal lecter x reader imagine#detectivehannibal
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No. 5 - I’VE GOT RED IN MY LEDGER
betrayal | misunderstanding | broken nose
a/b/o dynamics, omega!dean, beta!cas, doctor!cas, alpha!sam, always female sam, jealousy, violence, claiming bites, mentioned mpreg, implied past rape
~
~
Sam doesn’t try to evade the punch. No: she welcomes it.
The sound is as nauseating as it is satisfying. It’s Dean who ends up yelping. Castiel winces from a not-so-safe distance.
“You happy?! Huh?!” Dean cradles his hand. Sam remains apathetic until the blood shoots up her sinuses. She chokes, covers her mouth. Leans away to spit, and her nose looks broken, and Castiel tells them so, and Dean says, gravelly: “Good.”
Castiel tends to both siblings. The misery in Sam’s scent doesn’t quite outpower her general satisfaction over what she’s done. Castiel clenches his teeth and finishes patching her up. Clean break. Her face swells rapidly.
“You know I had to do it,” the Alpha repeats, her huge hand careful on Castiel’s healthy arm—he flinches, regardless. Sam blinks. A little girl in there, somewhere. From ages ago. Tender, if she chooses to be. “They would have sniffed it out. I had to.”
Just because Sam is right doesn’t make it right.
Dean continues to withdraw. Barely responds, refuses to drink. It’s ninety degrees in the car and Castiel has to climb into the back with the Omega to hook him up with another IV. Sam keeps facing the steering wheel, but her eyes do flicker to the rearview an awful lot.
If Dean’s body could, it would wind out and away from every touch. Castiel can’t omit much from his already-careful ministrations. There is only so much space he can give Dean, now. Even if they do make it to their destination tonight, forcing Dean push through will be a gamble with his life.
They make it. Castiel grabs his bags and gives the Jeep a last, grateful pat on the overheated hood before they leave it behind. The stolen plates they don’t bother to take with them.
The border patrol gives them an understandably curious look. Castiel smacks their passports down onto the narrow surface in front of their window.
“We got mugged. Please proceed. He needs medical attention.”
The patrol’s eyes switch back and forth between the papers and Sam and Dean. The weak whistle whenever Dean manages a breath, the steel of Sam’s eyes, her posture. Dean’s limp arm over her shoulders, her hold—on him. Carrying, like Castiel had done, back at the house. Ages ago, it feels like, instead of the actual twenty-something hours. Castiel nods at Sam, and Sam doesn’t nod back, but they get their passports and they continue, and nobody stops them.
Castiel’s contacts arranged everything as discussed. Sam is visibly taken aback, but she doesn’t address Castiel until after they put Dean to bed, until after Castiel set him up as best he could to ensure Dean makes it through the night. When he turns to stand, Sam is already there, waiting. In the door frame, her arms crossed. She took her jacket off, finally. They lock eyes, and Castiel can tell the Alpha isn’t out for a fight, not now, and he can only hope it’ll stay that way. At least until Dean is conscious again. Or, better yet: stable.
“Sorry about your arm,” she says, in the kitchen, trailing him. Water. Food. They should eat. Castiel searches the cabinets for something quick and substantial. “I’m real sorry, man. I’ve never… I had no idea I could get like that. Seriously.”
Castiel turns to face Sam. She cringes, seems to hold onto her arms more than keeping them crossed. Her left eye is swollen so bad she must barely be able to see out of it. Part of Castiel delights for the sight.
It’s dark, blue. Deep night, faint music from a tourist dive bar across the street. Terracotta tiles. Like a vacation home, because it is. Was. Is, sometimes, when it’s not used for situations like—theirs. Now.
“What you did was incredibly stupid. You almost killed him. I fear less about my arm than about the risk you obviously pose to your own brother, Sam.”
Sam winces. She seems smaller, now, with all her fuses blown, with her brother marked and barely-alive in a bed behind an ajar door but at least he’s safe, at least they—made it this far. Castiel caves, frowns; puts down the cans of food. They should sleep. They should all just—sleep.
“What—were you thinking? I had it all set up, we were gonna give him suppressors, pheromones, it wasn’t—Christ, you’re his sister, not his—”
“I had to.” Castiel stares, but Sam just keeps shaking her head, staring back. “I had to, doc, I… When I saw him, caught his scent again, I knew I—I’m not taking any more chances. I’m just not.”
Castiel sighs. He frowns down at the cans, gestures. Sleep. Eat. You don’t have to think. In fact, you can’t, so what’s the point? “Would you help me with this, please?” he asks, and the Alpha’s rigid stare dips a little softer with it. She steps in as Castiel steps back to lean against the kitchen counter, to drag his healthy hand down his face. Sleep. Just this, then you can sleep. “I can’t exactly—do it with one hand. … Thank you.”
The sleep Castiel finds that night is shallow, but it suffices in making him clear enough to look after Dean like Dean needs. Castiel moves quietly on habit. Sam snores through her broken nose on the floor next to the bed on the side where Castiel is not working. She took off her boots at some point, her jeans. Dragged a sheet and a pillow from a linen closet, because Castiel on the couch surely didn’t notice. Castiel counts Dean’s heartbeats. He exchanges the IV bag and the bedpan. When he returns with the washed-out latter, Sam is awake, sitting on the bed. Holding Dean’s hand, the bruised one. Castiel narrows his eyes and proceeds with his care. Sam doesn’t try to interfere.
“Move, please,” Castiel says. Sam just looks at him. Castiel points at the bandages Sam’s thumbs are skirting around oh-so-carefully. “I need to change the dressing. Yours, too, while I’m at it.”
Sam suffers, but she only moans about it a tiny bit, fully aware that this is of her own making. Broken noses are nasty, though. Castiel hands her something for the headache. She swallows it dry without hesitation.
“You are very much alike, I will give you that.”
“Yeah. I mean, he raised me, basically.” Sam nods, still drowsy with sleep. If Castiel asked, she might fix them a round of coffee. “After Mom died, and then after Dad disappeared…it was just us. We only had each other.”
“‘Disappeared’?”
“Loan sharks.”
Castiel deflates, nods. He sits back down with Sam, runs his hand back over his head, his messy, grimy hair. He looks back at Dean. Sam does, too.
“When Michael came and found us, when he saw—Dean, it was a done deal. Was supposed to be about paying back, he said, at first, but Dean never came back, so I figured.” In Castiel’s peripheral, Sam nods. Slow, deep in thought. In memories. Dean’s face is perfectly motionless in his sleep. A false peacefulness, but a peacefulness at last. “I searched, but I never came up with anything. Nothing. Not one hint where they were. So, eventually, I thought: okay, I’ll go into law, I’ll find sources and contacts, and I’ll… And now, he’s just—here.” She blinks, fascinated. She again holds Dean’s hand in hers. “It’s crazy. I never thought I’d…”
She doesn’t continue. She doesn’t have to.
~
Everything takes Dean time. More time than he’d like. Sam has to actively hold him down when Castiel breaks it to him that no, he can’t stand up yet. Dean likes that even less.
“Are you kidding?! Why did you get me out of that damn hole if I can’t even use my own fucking LEGS now?!”
Castiel warns, “You will fall and you will hurt yourself,” and Dean proves his point once they leave him to calm down. He growls, snarls. Feral, a fox with a beartrap on its leg, and as useless as Castiel’s, “Dean, please be logical about this,” is, Sam’s open-handed slap to Dean’s cheek is effective.
Castiel flinches; gawps. Stares at Sam, who is calm, pinched; and Dean is shocked too but he stops arguing, at last. Lets them haul him back into bed, still obviously angry and denying any further conversation or contact, but there is no other accident when Castiel and Sam leave once more. The lack of remorse in Sam’s scent sours Castiel. He’s never—siblings, for Christ’s sake. Orphans, left to their own devices, but—this is mayhem. As if Dean hadn’t gotten his fill with Michael already.
In the kitchen, subdued but pressing: “You will stop disciplining him in that way. I will not allow it.”
“Or what?”
“Or I—Jesus, girl, he was locked in a cell, for years, by a pathological sadist! What else do you have to know in order to NOT press every single one of his trauma response buttons?! Jesus Christ—” Castiel paces to the kitchen counter. He doesn’t put much care into being tender with the coffee machine. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you Winchester lot sure goddamn know how to be fucking sensible.”
#whumptober2021#no.5#broken nose#supernatural#fic#violence#mentioned mpreg#implied past rape#a/b/o dynamics#THE wincestiel thing#hellhoundsprey
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