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shijiujun · 4 months

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A Summary: The Spirealm | 致命游戏 (Kaleidoscope of Death 死亡万花筒 Live Action) & Why You Should (Eventually) Watch It

Talk about the most short-lived drama release ever, not even totalling two hours if I recall. Creating this summary as I've seen a handful of confused friends, so here it goes!

It's going to be a long review because I sped through all 78 episodes and only properly watched the first two doors, but I got you. You'll get both the brief book rundown and the drama parts!

If you just wanna see the bromance (LOVE) parts please skip to section 4!!!!

1. Overview

Title: The Spirealm (kinda awful I'm sorry it's a mouthful) or 致命游戏 which means fatal game

Adapted From: Danmei (BL) Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu

Novel Prints: There are GORGEOUS Thai, Vietnamese, Simplified and Traditional Chinese versions printed, AND Singapore publisher Rosmei has signed the license for the ENGLISH version, probably going on sale this year (preview is here). You can still access fan translations by Taida on I think wordpress and someone else on Tumblr sorry bad memory (they did half and half each) if you'd like to read it for context. It is one of my FAVE danmeis EVER and I am a die-hard OG book fan, check out my full danmei review here.

Total Episodes: 78 (20 minutes each with the exception of last episode which 10 minutes, with several BTS not that I think we will get to see all of them yet)

Where to Watch (LOL): Erm considering that iQIYI China AND International took the episodes down, there is no legal way to watch this, BUT thanks to some cnetz with super fast and great wifi, we managed to get ripped HD versions without subs. iQIYI is very hard on copyright though, they've taken down several subbed and unsubbed versions already on YouTube, but you should type the titles of show into Twitter and the top tags will tell you where to access the raws and very little subbed episodes, that may also be taken down at any point. I have the Chinese raws but as it's hosted on a cloud, I had to pay to access it.

Main Characters: Lin Qiushi & Ruan Nanzhu/Ruan Baijie (in the novel) and Ling Jiushi & Ruan Nanzhu/Ruan Baijie (in the drama)

Produced By: iQIYI so for SURE they won't film it fully BL even if the original is, but I've seen enough bromance cuts

Main Actors: Xia Zhiguang (Ruan Nanzhu/Ruan Baijie) + Huang Junjie (Ling Jiushi)

2. Summary

Book (drama follows closely if not removing the supernatural premises): Lin Qiushi, a designer, opens the door to his home one day from inside and sees 12 iron doors outside. Confused, he opens one of them and arrives at a snow covered village in the mid of winter, and meets Ruan Baijie, who's a pretty, unusually tall and whiny/timid woman. They realise that they're in a horrifying door game, and they'll have to find a door and a key to get out, while battling a long-haired, human-eating deity. They, along with a few others, have to survive day after day until they get out, and on the first night, two people have died in gory ways. Ruan Baijie and Lin Qiushi partner each other, and despite seemingly timid and crying all the time, she saves Lin Qiushi a few times mysteriously, and Lin Qiushi finds himself trusting in Ruan Baijie.

They get through the door together and when they leave successfully, Lin Qiushi realizes that the people who died in the door will die in real life by some freak accident too - car accidents, forced suicides, a robbery gone wrong, a lift trapped in the air and going ablaze, and more. That night, Lin Qiushi wakes up to see a super handsome and tall Ruan Nanzhu at his bedside and this man feels familiar to him, but he can't put a finger on it. All he can think of when Ruan Nanzhu says his name is Ruan Baijie (ahem he would later find out who it is of course). Ruan Nanzhu takes him to his mansion in the suburbs where he meets a group of other people just like them, who're forced to go through the doors for survival. Ruan Nanzhu then invites him to join Obsidian, his organization.

Through various doors, Lin Qiushi grows and supports a super intelligent and powerful Ruan Nanzhu, falls in love with him, gets through many many scary doors with him and some of their other team members, makes friends, loses them to the cruelty of the doors as they ponder over what the door means, and what being alive/dying means.

And at the end of it, at the end of of it all, when they're all good and living their life, Lin Qiushi also finds out what Ruan Nanzhu's secret is, and the lengths to which Ruan Nanzhu went to, just to be with him.

Drama: Ling Jiushi is a VR game designer who gets pulled into a game, and he meets Ruan Baijie (in his male form) right off the bat (SO NOT CROSSDRESSING I AM SAD). All the parts are actually the same as the novel, albeit with the game setting and Ling Jiushi and Ruan Nanzhu's identity adjustments to suit the game premise. Most of the other doors and their lines are the same, just that the ending is a bit more confusing than it could be. There's a big bad as well and they actually show the opposing organizations when in the novel, these other organizations aside from Obsidian didn't even actually have a face or goal to them.

3. Characters

^ Them in the book (based on manhua that never got to go live LOL) (RNZ/RBJ left, LQS right)

^ Them in the show (LJS left, RNZ right)

Ruan Nanzhu/Ruan Baijie: MY HANDSOME CROSSDRESSING INTELLIGENT ALOOF BUT WHINY (WHEN IT COMES TO LIN QIUSHI) SASSY BOSS!!!! He's super mysterious and super thick-skinned too, and all he wants is Lin Qiushi's attention the moment he meets him. He's intrigued by Lin Qiushi's calm and his brains and the way he handles things, and has a lot of trust for him right from the get-go. This is also shown in the drama itself. As the leader of Obsidian, he cares a lot for his team members and his friends even if he doesn't show it most of the time, and the last thing he wants to do is lose Lin Qiushi, and he would do ANYTHING for Lin Qiushi, ANYTHING!!! Just look at him whining:

Ling Jiushi (Lin Qiushi): In the novel he's super calm, has quite a lot of brains, a little bit of a blur in the beginning but he's super smart as well. Worries a lot for Ruan Nanzhu and is also a loyal friend to some of his only friends, and feels a lot when he loses them. Falls gradually in love with Ruan Nanzhu in the novel, like they just belong together. In this drama, Ling Jiushi holds that same trust for Ruan Nanzhu, but in demeanour he seems a bit more like a klutz and and not as cool as he was in the novel, but I guess it's acceptable. Literally like the only thing he loves more than RNZ (maybe) is his cat Chestnut LOL and RNZ is NOT really happy about that but Chestnut LOVES RNZ

Yixie and Qianli: CUTEST TWINS ;-; WHO TREAT RNZ and LQS as their big brothers LOOK AT THEM BOWING AND RNZ/LJS like parents LMAO

A handful of other characters who will keep turning up and get your hearts ;-;

4. ALL FAVE BROMANCE MOMENTS + TROPES

THEY TOUCH EACH OTHER A LOT LIKE HOLDING HANDS AND TOUCHING FACES, PIGGY BACKING?!?! DID I MENTION FACE TOUCHING

WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP THEY HELP EACH OTHER WHEN HURT OR GET HURT FOR EACH OTHER

AND WHEN THEY WAKE UP IN BED THE OTHER IS AT THEIR BEDSIDE

AND DID I MENTION HE FEEDS HIM IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

AND THAT THEY DATED UNDER THE FIREWORKS LIKE THE NOVEL DOES NOT EVEN HAVE THIS SHIT

AND THE KABEDONS

AND FINALLY RUAN NANZHU RIZZ OMG

5. Settings

They REALLY OUTDID THEMSELVES. THIS JUST FROM DOORS 1-6:

THEY LOOK EXACTLY LIKE THE NOVEL DESCRIBED!!!!

6. Overall Thoughts

PROS: This was NOT a cheap production, I'm telling you, they followed the cases very well and there're a lot of super recognisable lines, if not ALL of them, even if they changed the cases a little. I think they did it because in the novel originally, the author DOES leave a lot of details hanging like someone dies and you know he had a background and there are some shady things happening but the author NEVER actually goes into detail. So the drama did their best to cover these loopholes, even if it felt a little awkward at times. Money went into settings and attires and every damn thing, this looks EXPENSIVE. And if you've ever imagined each door and the bosses inside in your head, you might have felt chills go down your spine because damn did they really colour the book's settings for me (despite its differences). DID I MENTION that Xia Zhiguang really got the damn memo and he was a passable Ruan Nanzhu/Ruan Baijie who knew how to turn on his BL eyes. PLUS they really did some of the character deaths really well - they're technically some of the biggest parts of this story so ;-; (not two main of course)

CONS (maybe): They did away with the supernatural/horror premise and replaced it with a GAME premise, which means that there's a scientific element to it and the try to explain away stuff with the game, including the ending. I don't 100% get the ending, but the feel/vibe is about the same. Might not be for hardcore reader fans tho! They skipped out on a couple of doors, some of which were my faves, but it's fine, it's long enough LOL. They give away/explain some of the clues and surprises super early which means you don't get that added boom at the back as well. Despite that, I have to say they tried to round up the loopholes from the book as much as they could and give it an explanation while tying elements/conspiracies across doors (probably also to save cast fees LOL). And as always it's not a solid ending, it's an open confusing one, and even more confusing than the book itself because THERE IS NO CERTAIN HAPPILY EVER AFTER WITH HUBBY for it (there is in the book tho, they live together happily every after). Secondl,y, I'd say HJJ's acting is a bit stiff and OOC compared to the novel, but Xia Zhiguang really made up for it.

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HOPE THIS HELPS YOU GUYS!!! But I guess if you need subs it's going to be a long LONGGGG ride, considering that iQIYI doesn't seem to be going to be able to put it up anytime soon CRIES.

#the spirealm #致命游戏 #zhi ming you xi #kaleidoscope of death #kod #kod la #danmei #dangai #bl drama #asianlgbtqdramas #死亡万花筒 #lin qiushi #ling jiushi #ruan nanzhu #xia zhiguang #huang junjie

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aspiringhorrorauthor · 2 years

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As is tradition with Dracula Daily, let me give you today’s Cultural Lesson Based On Today’s Entry. Let’s talk about money.

See, if you’re thinking Dracula and the characters are handling what we see today as British money, don’t be fooled! Dracula is set in the 1890s, and they use an entirely different money system to what we use now, it just seems on the surface that it’s the same.

For context, if you didn’t know, Britain uses pounds (£) and pence (p) as the currency now, with 100p to £1. This is called decimalisation, and has been in practice since the 1970s. Before then, we were the last country in the world to still use the Roman monetary system.

In the Victorian era, there were 3 used measurements of currency: Pounds (L), Shillings (s) and pence (d), which was written in that order: l.s.d, so a sink in a shop may list the price as 1.7.2, which would be 1 pound, 7 shillings and 2 pence.

Now lets break those down a little more. There are 240 pennies to the pound, and 12 pence to the shilling. That makes 20 shillings to the pound. Most working class laborers would be using shillings as their highest coin in day-to-day living. You could get a pint of beer for a couple of pence. A pound was an incredible amount of money to your average person (maybe less so to the fancy characters of Dracula).

But I want to talk about the coins.

See, a penny was not the lowest coin in circulation. That was a farthing, which was worth ¼ (a quarter) of a penny. Then next was a half penny (or ha’penny if you prefer). Of course there was the penny. Then there was a two pence (tuppence) and a three pence (thrupence) piece. Then you had your half shilling (sixpence, pronounced more like sixpunce, with a ‘u’ rather than an ‘e’), and the shilling itself (twelve pence, remember? Also known colloquially as ‘bob’). Then you had the florin, which was 2 shillings exactly (24 pence). From there you had your half crown, which was worth 2 shillings and six pence, for a total of 30 pence (though you’d never call it that), and then a crown, which was 5 shillings. From there the next step is the half-sovereign, worth half a pound (120 pence, or 10 shillings), and finally the gold sovereign coin, worth £1, or 240 pennys, or 20 shillings.

Yes, that’s genuinely the method of money these characters are using. Some old people insist it was easier than the current system.

Here’s some more fun money facts in case they come up later!

A guinea is a pound and a shilling (1.1.0, or 252 pence), and was used to make things seem a little cheaper to wealthy buyers. It’s used from time to time in Victorian books so it’s worth knowing.

The correct way to read out prices is ‘[x] and [y]’, so say you were selling something and wanted a shilling and fivepence for it, you’d ask for “1 and 5”. This is often used for the stereotypical cost of a half a crown, so when someone in a period drama asks for “2 and 6”, what they’re asking for is 2 shillings and sixpence.

There is a fairly obscure coin that I’m not sure was in circulation at this time which was nicknamed ‘The Barmaid’s grief’, it was only used for a few years. This was worth 4 shillings and was the same shape and (very nearly) size as a crown (5 shillings). So people would buy a pint of beer, the barmaid would pick up the coin in a hurry and not realise that it wasn’t a crown, and give 4 shillings back along with change from a shilling for the beer. So people made money from buying beer. It was not a good time to be a barmaid.

#Dracula daily #money #british money #Yes I also laughed when i found out old british money was written as Lsd #For someone who is not all that interested in coin collecting I love knowing about the old coins!#My dad was a bairn when they changed the coins around. His dad used to keep the old coins for him from the shop and give out the new coinage #Some people of a certain age get the value of shillings mixed up because post decimilsation a shilling could still be used and was worth 5p.#I worked as a social historian for one summer can you tell? I was paid £8.75 an hour to tell people this. So you guys owe me like £3.50 #For my work here.

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callmelola111 · 1 year

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guilty conscience ☆ part four

← part 1 , part 2 , part 3 ⭑ part 5 →

synopsis: it’s your first year at college and you’re 1,500 miles away from home. you’d feel completely alone if it wasn't for your attractive roommate ellie. will this attraction complicate the already uncharted territory? or will she be the answer to all your problems?

|✯| pairing & wc: college!ellie williams x roommate!reader. wc: 3.2k

|✯| cw (by part): 18+ themes (MDNI), fem reader, SMUT (18+ ONLY), modern au!ellie, HEAVY ANGST, frequent swearing, sexual tension, cat lol, fingering (r receiving), oral (r recieving), kinda nipple play, dom!ellie, sub!reader, public-ish sex, ellie is a cheater cheater pumpkin eater (i think thats it but lmk if i missed anything)

a/n: honestly was getting fed up with myself writing this part. like goddamn bitch can we get a happy ending already? so much angst and drama from ellie that you might just wanna beat her tf up. it gets so slutty though and i love it. i hope this is feeds the ache for y'all, lmk cause this is my first attempt at smut!! anyways, thanks 4 the support and much love from me to you <;3

After that special night with Ellie, you realized there was no more ignoring the situation at hand. She left you feeling empty just as quick as she had made you feel full. And you cared so much for her, despite the fact. No matter how much you wanted to stand your ground, your mind always got stuck on the possibilities. The possibility that Ellie was feeling everything you were… The possibility that there was a happy ending in sight… The possibility that Cat meant nothing.

With all these feelings circling your mind, you felt too biased to make the right decision when it came to her. You decided it was time to tell Dina. You quickly picked up your phone and gave her a call, inviting her out to coffee. Thankfully Dina offered to drive, as you were still stranded at Ellie’s bandmates place. 10 minutes later, she was out front honking.

Dina greeted you with a squeal, “Hiii love!! I missed you!”

Before you could reciprocate her greeting she spoke again, “Wait who’s house is this? How was last night? Oh my god Y/n, did you hook up with someone?? Pleaseee tell me!!” Dina’s thoughts were going 100 mph trying to guess the context of this little rendezvous.

“That’s why I asked you to coffee. Trust me, I’m going to explain everything.” Your mysterious answer left Dina even more intrigued. The both of you arrived at the coffee shop, ordered your drinks, and took a seat at a little table in the corner.

“Soooo… TELL ME ALREADY,” Dina exclaimed impatiently as you fidgeted in your seat not even sure where to start. You stared through the shop window at nothing in particular as you mulled over the timeline of Ellie and you. Dina could see the cogs in your brain turning and knew this conversation was going to be about more than a silly little one night stand. You finally spoke 3 words, “it’s about Ellie.”

“Ellie? God I should’ve known, I’m literally your best friend!!”

“It's fine D, I’ve been pretty radio silent about my love life on purpose. See, it’s much more complicated. Like a gut wrenching, sick and twisted, WLW heartbreak kind of complicated. How long can you stay and talk?”

“I’m all yours babe, give me every last detail. I'm serious,” Dina urged. So, you did. The debrief took a total of 3 hours and 2 iced coffees to get through. It felt so good getting everything off your chest.

Dina gave you just the right advice too, “Communication is key.” You knew it was stupid but talking about it upfront was the last thing you had thought to do. It seemed too scary to face Ellie like that, but you knew it was the right choice. Sure it was hard dealing with these feelings and you wanted answers, but you also lived with this girl. You owed it to yourself and to her to figure out this bullshit. You didn’t want to be in a constant state of tension and resentment every time the two of you had to be around each other (which was all the time).

After a morning well spent, you and Dina said your goodbyes and she dropped you back off at your dorm. You walked through the front doors and swiped your student ID to access the elevator. You leaned against the cold, metal walls as you brainstormed how to approach Ellie. You had a good idea of what to say up until you were opening the door and coming face to face with her. She made you forget everything. But, despite your blank mind, you were determined.

“Ellie, we need to talk, seriously.” You tried to assert yourself, but your breaths were shaky from nerves. Ellie looked up from her desk nonchalantly and gave you a blank stare like she had no idea what you were talking about. This really pissed you off.

“Don’t give me that fucking look Ellie, you know exactly what I’m talking about. How could you just leave me like that?”

“Hey relax, it’s not like that.” she stood up and answered calmly, which made you want to slap her even more. Ellie could put on a game face better than she could ever be vulnerable. No matter the damage her lack of honesty caused.

“It’s not like that? Be real with yourself for one fucking second Ellie.”

“Fuck you bro, I don’t need this shit.” she retaliated, not meaning a word she spat out.

“FUCK YOU!” you shouted, moving into her space. Instead of moving back, Ellie stayed right there with you, standing her ground. You felt the heat of her body against yours and an erotic sensation growing between your legs. Your eyes began to glaze over with tears of desperation, she had this unexplained power over you.

“Ellie, I- I can’t keep doing this with you.”

“Can’t keep doing what?” she asked. It’s like Ellie needed you to admit it first before she could even acknowledge it on her own. She longed to hear your passionate confessions and anguished pleas.

“I can’t keep beating around the bush with you. I like you Ellie and it’s driving me fucking crazy because you act like you could care less. You taunt me with your stupid sexy charm and stupid flirty touch just to run right back to Cat. But right here, right now, you can’t deny the tension between us. I need you Ellie.” Tears began to stream down your face and you wiped them away with haste. A beat of loud silence echoed through the room before Ellie finally answered.

“I don’t mean to tease, but there’s just so much at stake when it comes to me and you. Can't you see? I know I’m a piece of shit. I mean, here I am with a perfectly fine girlfriend, yet inches away from my roommate, hardly able to resist her touch.”

“Then don't Ellie. Forget about everyone and please just kiss me.” You were practically begging, it was so pitiful. Ellie placed a hand to your shoulder and shoved you against the wall.

“God Y/n just STOP IT!”

You melted under her agonizing touch, “W-why not me?” You stuttered and took in her hot breaths that hit your face as she panted through her frustration. It wasn’t much longer till the two of you could no longer restrain.

Ellie stared at her dirty converse to avoid your pleading eyes, “I just can’t, I can’t cheat. I'm not a cheater.” She was shaking her head profusely as if to rid her mind of the lustful thoughts that consumed her. She wanted you so bad it hurt. You took her face in your hands and lifted her gaze to yours in a last attempt.

“Ellie-,” you gasped, as the aching became unbearable. You’d surrender to her touch right now if she only asked. As Ellie looked back at you, she wished Cat didn’t exist, you were all she ever wanted and you were right there. She just had to say the words and you’d be hers.

Ellie’s head fell into the crook of your neck in desperation. Her hands moved up and down your clothed body searching for some sort of release.

“Ellie please, I need you.” you whimpered into her ear. The vibrations sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine and just like that she snapped. All her morals disappeared as she found your wrist and grasped it firmly, leading your hand to the waistband of your pants.

She whispered back, “show me.” With her permission your hand darted down to the ache. You slid your fingers through the mess Ellie invoked with just her words before stopping on the big ball of nerves that begged to be touched.

Before you could ease the yearning down below, Ellie interrupts, “I said show me.” A smirk grew upon her face as she watched you discern the meaning of her risky comment. You retrieved your fingers in obedience to Ellie and were prepared to do whatever else she asked.

Immediately, Ellie took your sticky fingers and brought them to her plump lips. Slowly she planted kisses from the tips of your digits down to your knuckles. It felt like a dream. Of course, Ellie knew she should stop, but when her freckled nose caught the sweet smell of your juices she dreamed of tasting them too.

“Put your hands back in your pants.” she demanded with agency. Back inside they went, fingers quick to locate your empty hole. You couldn’t take it, your middle finger gently slid in and a breath escaped your open mouth. You shut your eyes and an in-and-out rhythm ensued. Ellie grew wet herself as she watched you writhe with pleasure. She couldn’t help but tell you.

“I love watching you touch yourself like that.” Her comment evoked a strained moan from your lips as you imagined her fingers inside instead of your own. Ellie cupped her cunt, trying to fight her infidelity but failing miserably.

“Can I see your fingers again please? I- I wanna taste it.”

“Need me that bad?” you teased, like you hadn’t been dreaming of this moment for ages. But Ellie had no time for games and took matters into her own hands. She captured your fingers herself. Her tongue flattened to the length of them before her mouth completely closed in on the treat. She sucked with vigor until your flavor dissipated.

“Tastes so good” she hummed, eyes blown out with pleasure.

“How about you really taste it?” you taunted. The twisted and erotic nature of the interaction left you in a trance.

“You know I can’t Y/n. It- It would be wrong.” Ellie spoke as if sucking your roommates slick right off her fingers wasn’t just as much of a betrayal as any sexual act. At this point morals felt so out of the question but your words from nights before continued to repeat in her head.

“Me? Mess it up for you? Don’t worry Ellie, you can do that all on your own, believe me.”

She was at odds with herself, not knowing whether to dive in head first or run away while she could.

“Please Ellie, I need you inside me.” you begged. She brushed the back of her hand down your face apologetically and planted a kiss on your forehead.

A single tear fell as she said, “I just can’t do this. I have to go,” and turned towards the door. Ellie disappeared out of the room and you sunk to the floor, defeated once more. I guess old habits really do die hard.

After Ellie left, she didn’t show back up to your dorm for the next 3 days. At first you were pissed off and hurt, but the longer she was gone, the more that bitterness turned into worry. She became the only thing on your mind. You had tried calling and texting but to no avail. Out of desperation, you even decided to ask Cat in class. Dina supervised from afar as you confronted her.

“Cat, I know you don’t like me, but can I please just ask you something,” you said with hesitance.

“Great observation! You’re right, I don’t like you. Now, what do you want?” she snapped.

“It’s about Ellie, I haven't seen her in 3 days and I’m really worried. Do you know where she is?” Cat paused to think before she gave you an answer.

“She’s been staying at my place. Is there a problem? I mean, I am her girlfriend,” she scoffed. Truthfully, Cat hadn’t seen Ellie for the past 3 days either but God forbid she let you find that out. She didn’t want you thinking you had any sort of chance with her girlfriend now that she seemed to be getting iced out too.

Of course, her plan worked just how she wanted and you were just about ready to give up on Ellie. You walked back to your dorm dragging your feet hopelessly. When you arrived you were greeted by none other than the girl who’d been fueling your worry.

“Ellie? What the fuck. What are you doing here?”

“I mean, I live here right?” she answered while rummaging through her things. Here she goes again, pissing you off like usual.

“I thought you did too until you went awol for 3 whole days without saying a thing. If you wanna stay with Cat that bad just tell me. I don’t need you sparing my feelings. You’ve already done enough.” Your anger spoke for you and Ellie was baffled.

“Cat? What makes you say that? I’ve been at my parents this whole time.”

You snapped, “Don't lie to me Ellie, I know you were at her place. If you love Cat so much, just be with her and leave me the fuck alone.” Ellie then grabbed her guitar and slinged on a backpack.

“Fine, I will leave you alone. I have a show to be at anyways.” And just like that, gone again.

You replayed the past hour in your head and considered the fact that maybe Ellie was telling the truth. Cat was never known to be a saint, so her lying all of the sudden seemed likely. This time, instead of waiting for Ellie to come back around, you decided to chase after her.

You quickly threw on a revenge outfit and put on some mascara. You stared in the mirror at your black mini skirt and tight crop top. You couldn’t deny it, you looked fucking hot. The peak in confidence pushed you right out the door and to the venue of Ellie’s show.

When you arrived her band was already on stage playing. You realized this was your first time ever hearing them together and decided to really soak it in. Ellie looked so happy doing what she loved despite all the drama happening off stage. She was even better than you thought. You watched as she plucked the strings and bobbed her head along with the beat. You hated how much it turned you on. The tattoo you loved so much was on full display and her arm muscles flexed with each chord. She’d occasionally bite her bottom lip in concentration and it drove you wild. Her set finally finished and you were more than pleased, mentally and physically. Ellie got off stage and you quickly ran after, shouting her name.

“Hey can we talk please? I wanna say sorry.” you explained.

“Fine, come with me to the bathroom, it’s quieter there.” She grabbed your hand and led you. You pushed yourself up to sit on the marble counters that housed the sinks. Ellie looked you up and down, waiting for you to speak. She took note of how good you looked before frantically spewing an apology.

“I’m sorry for accusing you of lying. I was stupid and asked Cat if she had seen you recently. Of course she told me you’d been with her and I blindly believed.”

She seemed to be listening so you continued your ranting, “I really hate to fight Els. I miss having fun with you. I wanna move on from everything and just be happy. Together, me and you.” You looked up to flash her some puppy dog eyes when you noticed her attention being diverted.

No matter how hard Ellie wanted to pay attention to what you had to say, she couldn’t help but stare up your skirt. Your positioning on the counter gave her the perfect sneak peek of the space between your legs. Once you had caught on to her pervy behavior Ellie fumbled to save face.

“Shit sorry um, I was just, uh, you have cute panties.” She then flashed you a sideways smile trying to make up for that dumpster fire of a “save”.

“You don’t have to apologize, Els.” A cocky look spread across your face and Ellie recognized what game you were playing.

“Well then I’d just like to say, the wet spot on them is even cuter.” Your face turned hot as you registered the fact that the same girl who made you soak through your panties was about to be the one to take them off.

Ellie slotted herself between your knees as you sat on the counter. Shock turned to hunger in a matter of seconds as you practically consumed each other. Her mouth engulfed yours as if there was no need for air. You desperately clung to her body, using your legs to pull in closer. Ellie grabbed at your chest as she slipped her wet tongue into your desperate kiss. You gasped into her mouth when she found your nipples through the thin fabric of your top. She twisted them with power before removing your shirt completely. Ellie separated from your mouth for just a split second to admire the beauty before her.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” she gushed and then used both hands to push your legs apart. Your cunt was on full display through the soaked fabric, your skirt bunched up around your hips. Ellie used her calloused fingers to trace the delicate folds peeking from the cloth and you jolted as she brushed past your sensitive spot. She hooked into your panties to scootch the fabric to the side before you suddenly interrupted.

“Ellieeee, we’re in a public bathroom.” She pouted at you with desperation. Ellie needed you now. Out of pure impulse, she grabbed you by the hips, hands cupping your ass, and stumbled with you into the big stall.

“Take them off” she demanded. You seductively slipped the pink, lace thong you were wearing down to your ankles. The cold air alone on your exposed folds was enough to send a sensation through your body. Ellie retrieved your littered painties and shoved them into her pocket for “safe keeping”. She remained on her knees in the tight bathroom stall and began planting kisses on your inner thighs. These kisses turned into small bites as the shared arousal became overwhelming to your senses.

Ellie eventually found her way to right where you wanted her. Her fingers spread you apart taking mental note of each delicate fold. You gasped in pleasure, as if to urge her to continue. The wet sensation of her tongue finally met your aching clit and a sultry moan escaped your lips. Your opening clenched at the contact as she coached you through the bliss that was her mouth.

“I know it feels good but you gotta be quiet for me baby. Just breathe.” You had barely gotten the hang of keeping calm before her fingers dove in to give you twice as much satisfaction.

You gripped Ellie’s forearm for support as she twisted in and out of your throbbing cunt. She was determined to make you feel good. She needed to make up for her bad behavior.

With that thought in mind, she dove back in with her mouth followed by the curling of her fingers inside you. You couldn’t help but screech and Ellie quickly shot a hand up to cover your mouth. So goddamn noisy. As she continued, you inched closer and closer to the precipice of an orgasm.

The bathroom brimmed with the wet sounds of Ellie’s tongue lapping you up, her fingers assaulting your hole, and the moans she did her best to muffle. But, suddenly, those weren’t the only sounds that filled the room.

“Ellie? Baby, is that you?”

← masterlist ⭑ part 5 →

taglist ☆...

@machetegirl109 @gold-dustwomxn @menatoia @ximtiredx @robinismywifee @elliepricefield @alexpritch @jokirxmae

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justlikeeddie · 5 months

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all of layton and nikita's strictly dances ranked CORRECTLY by ME

14. Samba, Week 1

unfair to have to rank this one really because nobody really knows what they’re doing in week 1. FASCINATING to go back and watch this though. obvs this is strong in the context of a first week dance! but knowing where they’re going to go from here… this is the one and only time you can see that nikita is dancing layton through the steps and keeping him afloat. they’re not yet a PARTNERSHIP here. they don’t KNOW each other!!! anyway good luck to these boys with navigating what they are going to experience over the next three months <3

13. American Smooth, Week 10

the infamous bottom-two dance. a result which i believe was undeserved!!! but the american smooth IS the most boring category on strictly unfortunately, so it’s a humble placing for this one. i did not love their outfits, for once! why don’t they go together. why does nikita look like peter pan. however, obviously i liked it when they both picked each other up and did a little skip in the air. also enjoyed how much craig enjoyed being bammed up by the ending.

12. Rumba, Week 12

controversial to place this so low in the ranking perhaps?? obviously this was a complex routine that they performed beautifully AND was very tender and intimate. but the rumba is the second most boring dance on strictly after the american smooth i’m afraid I’M SORRY. however, points awarded for nikita saying afterwards that dancing this felt like the rest of the world fell away and they were the only two people in existence. girl what

11. Salsa, Week 5

a great dance! fun! good vibes! their first lift! followed by a bit that i like where nikita has to sort of kick layton upright again. loses points ONLY for being perhaps their least homoerotic dance, which one of them, i guess, has to be.

10. Tango, Week 6

all the ingredients for greatness are here. TANGO. HALLOWEEN. layton is in high goth drag. nikita looks a bit like paul gross as geoffrey tennant as hamlet in the flashback sections of slings and arrows s1. but weirdly i don’t think this dance quite lives up to the level of drama i expected from it. having just rewatched it i think it’s because they’re ACTING like it’s a MELODRAMA, and it FEELS like they’re acting, as opposed to the way they usually totally inhabit the narrative of a dance. however. the switch from this vibe into the denouement - the BACKFLIP (fuck!!!) - and then the breathy, drawn-out final moment, which they suddenly ARE inhabiting, braced over each other and staring into each other’s eyes like they are ON GOD going to fuck in the middle of the dancefloor, is astonishing. once again i am asking the bbc if this is what they thought they were going to air

9. Cha-cha-cha, Week 4

okay. we are entering the section of the list where everything from here on down pretty much makes me feral. layton is everything in that jumpsuit. the THROW into the SPLITS. the raw sexual dynamism somehow contained within nikita taking layton’s coat for him. unbearable.

8. Charleston, Week 12

off the charts crazy. how can people move like this. they CARTWHEELED across the STAGE for what felt like YEARS. points only deducted for the fact that when nikita cried in the interview afterwards because he loved layton so much he had to do it in this extremely silly outfit.

7. Quickstep, Week 2

they danced the equivalent of a gay leyendecker illustration in week 2. IN WEEK 2 THEY DID THIS. they’re having so much FUN here. and to follow up on the week 1 ranking, the transformation from them feeling like a professional and a celeb to two people actually dancing together happens SO fast. it’s only a week later, but already something’s changed; layton’s totally at home in the routine and nikita’s REALLY enjoying it. it’s just so nice and i love them so much :’) also the quickstep is one of my favourite strictly dances because it’s inherently funny watching grown adults run full-pelt around a room and occasionally do a little skip. perfect 90 seconds of television.

6. Viennese Waltz, Week 3

ok so this is actually one of their lowest scoring dances on the show. but NOT according to my ranking. this ought to feel as faux-dramatic as the vampire tango but it doesn’t. something is HAPPENING between them in this dance and it’s real. i could write paragraphs about the eternities contained within the long, long seconds of them holding each other after it’s over, which goes on for long enough that the editor just has to like. give up and cut away from them. i’ve been linking to the bbc’s youtube clips throughout this post, but if you have access to iplayer i strongly recommend you watch this dance as aired (i have linked to the timestamp for your convenience) in order to see the full effect of this ending. there’s something about the combination of… the sincerity of the dance. the gender of it all. the refusal to break character. nikita’s slightly baffled-looking parents in the audience lending whatever the fuck is going on here a bizarre frisson. i’m completely obsessed with it

5. Jive, Week 7

the first thirty seconds of this dance genuinely make me feel like i’m coming up. overwhelming transition from the sexy sexy opening section (why are they dressed as little sailor boys? why are they touching like that?) into the supercharged beat of the side-by-side. people pay good money to feel like this. as has been pointed out, the jive is not a traditionally racy dance, and my question to nikita as choreographer is: why

4. Showdance, Week 13

cunt. cunt. cunt. cunt. the absolute fucking serve of the matching slutty magician elbow-length gloves. nikita dropping his hat while layton executes everything perfectly. obviously in the finale, homophobia won <3 but my god. they ATE. no notes.

3. Paso Doble, Week 11

i have said this before. but dancing to BACKSTAGE ROMANCE. in a show where i (facetiously) believe they may be experiencing a BACKSTAGE ROMANCE. seems illegal. anyway. this dance is insane. almost worth them being in the bottom two in week 10 in order for them to produce the unbridled energy of this comeback. as a category the paso doble has similarly melodramatic energy to the tango, but this performance is so unlike the slightly campy vampire number; they’re IN it, they’re living and feeling and breathing every moment. something about the mood of this dance, the power dynamics of it, nikita on the floor looking up at layton in awe as he emerges at his absolute fucking fiercest - happening in THIS week, rising above the stress of relegation and the overwhelming tide of online hate, is, like, pretty incredible, tbh. also the series of searingly erotic snapshot poses at the beginning of this routine are among the worst things i have been subjected to on this show, and as you may be gathering from this list, this is a crowded category.

2. Argentine Tango, Week 8

god it was a TOUGH GODDAMN CALL on these top two places. and tbh i think this is actually, truly, their best dance. the sheer SKILL here… whatever the move is where layton has to jump in the air and kick his little leggies around… stunning. i don’t really have a comical paragraph to write about this because i genuinely think it’s an incredible piece of dance and there’s not much more to add to that. however, extra points for the truly unhinged decision to do some dom nikita roleplay at the end? again, please watch this one on iplayer to experience the full unedited effect.

1. Couple’s Choice, Week 9

as i say. probably, technically, the argentine tango is better. but if i think about any element of this routine, i immediately black out. i cannot stress enough that he is standing on his back. he is STANDING. on his BACK. nikita choreographed this dance and he was like. i want you to stand on my back. PLEASE don’t worry about it. watching this routine is like looking into the sun. if i saw two men doing this in the club i would have to politely turn away to respect their privacy. also sorry to do this for a final time but i also need you to watch this one on iplayer because nikita stays on that pole at the end for so much longer than you are expecting and then does something sooooo unnecessary. this dance should be expunged from the internet so that i never have to contemplate it again.

#strictly come dancing #scd #if u knew how long i have spent thinking about this. you would say. don't you have a full-time job? and i would say PLEASE leave me alone

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ghostflowerdreams · 7 months

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Audio Drama Recommendations, Pt. III

Click here for part one and here for part two. Recently, I've been drawing a lot, which gives me plenty of time to listen to audio dramas and podcasts. These are the ones I liked the most and found entertaining enough to recommend to others. This is not in any particular order, either.

The Green Horizon – is a sci-fi comedy drama created and written by Paul Walsh. It is sponsored by Faustian Nonsense, an indie entertainment network. It currently has three seasons, with each episode being about 20 - 30 minutes long, but later on it increases to 30 - 40 minutes. A fourth season is said to be coming out soon as well.

It is set in the year 2261, and it focuses on a ne'er-do-well Irish space captain and his rag-tag crew, as they traverse a war-torn Galaxy in search of fame and fortune. [ONGOING]

It was a little chaotic and rough at the beginning, but it does smooth out and become more polished. I can definitely tell that they up their game with the improved sound effects and production quality. The voice actors and the writing for the audio drama does an excellent job at bringing their characters to life, which made it very fun to follow along.

If you like Firefly, Red Dwarf, Orville, Cowboy Bepop, and so on then I think you may enjoy this too.

DERELICT – is a sci-fi narrative audio drama from award-winning science fiction author J. Barton Mitchell, and produced by Night Rocket Productions. It currently has one season titled FATHOM, which consist of 10 episodes with each one ranging from 40 mins to an hour, mostly the latter.

Something has been found at the bottom of Earth's ocean. An ancient artifact that can only be described as a giant door, inset into the sea floor. It becomes known as the Vault. A gigantic enigma, buried and forgotten...nineteen thousand feet down.

To study the artifact, the galaxy's most powerful corporation, Maas-Dorian, has built a massive, self-contained, secret laboratory base surrounding it, named FATHOM. It's objective: unlock the secrets of the artifact and discover what it holds. But some mysteries should remain buried. And some doors should never be opened... [ONGOING]

DERELICT started as the first project set up as a kickstarter. They produced one episode to entice backers, but then the pandemic happened, and they didn’t raise enough money for the rest of it. Instead, they worked on a prequel season called FATHOM. It's where the story really starts, and I highly suggest you listen to it before listening to "DERELICT E1 - Through the Gate."

I hope they redo the DERELICT's first episode because there's a bit of disconnection from it and FATHOM. For example, Sarah and Agent Blayne already know each other. She mentions it to the others, but the conversation they have with each other doesn’t make it seem that way.

Never mind. I apparently confused this Sarah with the Sarah in FATHOM. Can't blame me for thinking that when I heard the name Sarah and that she was already familiar with Agent Blayne.

Deviser – is a sci-fi horror audio drama created, directed, acted and produced by Harlan Guthrie. The same creator of Malevolent. It's a 7-part limited series, with each episode being about 20 mins long.

Son wakes up aboard a spaceship bound for earth in an effort to recolonize. What he discovers, however, will change everything he knows about his world and himself. [COMPLETED]

It's not for everyone, so please do not ignore the content warnings because there's graphic description of violence, self harm, body horror, gore, animal death/being hurt, and what not.

Victoriocity – is a detective comedy audio drama written by Chris and Jen Sugden, directed by Nathan Peter Grassi and produced by Dominic Hargreaves. It is an entirely independent production. It has two seasons, containing 13 episodes in total, and each one is about 30 to 45 minutes long. There's also a feature-length special and a up-coming third season with the help of a kickstarter.

It is 1887 in Even Greater London, an alternate steampunk Victorian London, where Queen Victoria reigns even after being assassinated eleven times, thanks to the wonders of modern science.

In this vast metropolis, Inspector Archibald Fleet and journalist Clara Entwhistle investigate a murder, only to find themselves at the centre of a conspiracy of impossible proportions. [ONGOING]

It's put together so well, and I see why people say it gives off strong Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett vibes to it. So if you like their works, then I wouldn't be surprised to hear that you like this too.

Impact Winter – is an apocalyptic vampire audio drama created and written by Travis Beacham (Carnival Row, Pacific Rim). It has two seasons containing 22 episodes in total and each one is about 17 to 30 minutes long.

“They came after the impact and the firestorms. When the sun went dark. Like they’d been there all along. Just waiting.”

In the British countryside, a band of survivors forms a resistance in the fallout shelter of a medieval castle. Darcy is a battle-tested vampire hunter who is at the front line, leading the charge to save humanity. Meanwhile, her younger sister Hope wants life to return to normal so she can go above ground and know what it’s like to live again. And she just might be willing to risk it all. [ONGOING]

It has a stacked cast led by Holliday Grainger (Cinderella, Great Expectations), Esme Creed-Miles (Hanna, The Legend of Vox Machina), Liam Cunningham (Games of Thrones, Hunger), Himesh Patel (Station Eleven, Tenet), David Gyasi (Interstellar, Carnival Row), Caroline Ford (Carnival Row, Nekrotronic), Chloe Pirrie (Emma, Carnival Row), and Bella Ramsey (Games of Thrones, The Last of Us).

This reminded me a lot of the film 30 Days of Nights (2007) with a little bit of Reign of Fire (2002), which were both fun films to watch. I think if you like those two, especially the former, you'll enjoy this or at least be entertained by it.

A Voice From Darkness – is a scripted paranormal horror audio drama. It is written and produced by Jac Rhys. It currently has two seasons, containing 20 episodes in total and each one is about 20 to 30 minutes long. It also has 7 bonus voicemail episodes and 15 Patreon exclusive episodes which are longer than the main episodes. A third season in the works as well.

Join parapsychologist and radio broadcaster Dr. Malcolm Ryder as he helps those who suffer the supernatural, paranormal or otherworldly problems on his call-in radio show. It is also interspersed with segments, one of which is called 'Today In Odd America' that delves into the origins of a holiday, local traditions, and history. [ONGOING]

If you like Welcome To Night Vale then I think you'll like this too. A Voice From Darkness is a bit more serious and not as long-drawn as Night Vale was, with a perfect mix of storytelling and lore. It also reminds me a bit of The Magnus Archive too.

How i Died – is a mystery audio drama that brings a "new twist on the true crime genre." It is an Audiohm Media original production, co-starring Vince Dajani as Jon Spacer and Shaina Waring as Sheriff Fran Crowley. It currently has three seasons with 39 episodes in total, not including bonus episodes. Each episode is usually about 20 mins, give or take a few minutes.

Bodies are piling up in the strange town of Springfield, and forensic pathologist Jonathan Spacer intends to find out why. But, Jon isn’t without his own secrets… He can talk to the dead, for starters. [ONGOING]

Ooo, a character that can speak to the dead? It's always so interesting to see what they'll do with their ability and where the creators take them. This has been entertaining, but at times I do think they can do better in developing their characters a bit more. For example, I can count on one hand the number of times Crowley doesn't get angry. Though to be fair, Jon isn't an immediately likable character, but that does change the further you go...sorta.

The Amelia Project – is a comedy fiction audio drama created, written, directed, produced and edited by Philip Thorne and Øystein Ulsberg Brager for Imploding Fictions and The Fable and Folly Network. It currently has four seasons, with a fifth one on the way. There's about 72 episodes, not including prologue, special, and BTS episodes which would up the total to 122. Each episode also varies in length from 20 to 45 minutes long.

The Amelia Project is a secret agency that fakes its clients' deaths, then lets them reappear with a brand-new identity. A black comedy full of secrets, twists... and cocoa. The series starts as a succession of interviews with clients who want to fake their deaths, then slowly a larger narrative begins to emerge... Each episode tells its own story, but we recommend starting with Season 1. [ONGOING]

It was fun to listen to while I was drawing or washing the dishes. I could also follow along without becoming too distracted by it, either. I was worried it would be one of those that take a while to get to the main overall story, but thankfully it did not. It will definitely keep you entertained and interested to know what will happen next.

Community Cat News – is a neighborhood news show done from the perspective of cats. There's currently 13 episodes so far and each one varies from 5 to 12 minutes long.

Local News: The human is opening the fridge! Will we get a taste?

Foreign Affairs: What are those squirrels up to now?

Traffic: WHY is the bathroom door shut again?

Every episode is sponsored by Meow Meow Puffytail, Feline Rights Attorney, who is ready to sue your human for even the slightest inconvenience. [ONGONG]

It's cute, light-hearted, and funny. I didn't expect to enjoy this as much as I did. It even uplifted my mood.

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ryuwonieebae · 10 months

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𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓

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𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 (에스쿱스), Imagines, One-shot

Genre : fluff, romance

Pairing : Dad!Seungcheol x fem!reader

Warning : use of pet names, Scoups is scared of y/n!

A/n : This fanfiction is purely based on my imagination only. It's totally fictional. I hope this is good enough to make you guys happy. I'm still learning to write creatively. Thank you for supporting me. It means a lot to me. Thanks to my besties too<3...

When you thought that your daughter is a soft girl but boy she proved you wrong...

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"Mommy! mommy!" your 5-year-old daughter came running excitedly while calling out to you. Her excitement made you curious. With her tiny steps, and her dimple smile which she inherited from her dad, she looked even more adorable.

"Slow down, sweetheart. You might fall" you said in your most calming tone, slowly crouching down to her height.

"It doesn't matter. But what matters now is that I punched a boy!" she stated while giving you an innocent smile while your jaw dropped.

"You did what!? Choi Seung-hee! It's not–"

"Before you scold me listen to the story. So, actually what happened was (a huge sigh). I-was-minding-my-own-business-when-that-kid-came-and-started-teasing-me-and-it-made-me-angry-an–"

"Okay okay enough, I got the point but still punching someone isn't a good deed, right"

Seunghee nodded

"What if he tells about it to his parents? You might get scolded, sweetheart" even though you were disappointed, you couldn't be mad at your daughter. After all, she's just 5.

"Don't worry, mommy. I blackmailed him by saying that I'll will smack him again and again if he told about it to anyone" that's when you realised who could be behind this drama.

"You know what? Go to your room, dear. I'll talk to you later" with a reassuring smile, you sent your daughter back to her bedroom.

[FLASHBACK]

"Yah! YOU! ASPARAGUSEU! How DARE you touch my book!?

"I just touched it! You shorty!"

"You touched it!" you hit his head so hard that he felt like the whole world started to spin. Anger took over 10-year-old Seungcheol as he pulled 8-year-old y/n's braid causing her to flinch. You roared and pulled his short hair back which ended up being a big fight for no reason.

The front door opened revealing excited Seungcheol with two bouquets, one larger than the other filled with colourful roses and chocolates while the other one was decorated with baby breaths and a cute teddy bear.

Seunghee ran towards him with a wide grin, showing off her dimple. Seungcheol dropped his things and carefully placed the bouquets on the ground while crouching as soon as he saw his adorable daughter heading towards him. He scooped his daughter and embraced her, placing kisses all over her face.

Seunghee giggled and whispered something in Seungcheol's ear which he responded by nodding his head. He carefully put his daughter as if she's fragile. He made a shushing sound cutely and tiptoed into the house like a pro thief with his daughter following her dad's act.

"CHOI SEUNGCHEOL... "

Seungcheol stopped in his tracks and turned around only to catch the sight of you shooting death glares at him. He was panicking but managed to form a fake smile.

"I need an explanation" shiver ran down his spine at your demanding tone. No one would've expected the most fearsome person to be scared of his wife. Seunghee sprinted away while Seungcheol went after his precious wife.

"Explain"

"Babe, Seunghee told me that a kid is teasing her. I don't want our daughter to be bullied so"

"So?"

"I'm the one who told her to punch the boy"

"Do know how problematic and spoiled she could become if you kept telling her to hit kids and spoiling her. I wonder if she has anger issues at this age"

"I know but don't you think she has to know how to protect herself and about her anger, I don't think you need an explanation. We're her parents after all"

"She's just a kid, Cheol. Plus, as her parents we should take proper action by telling to the teacher not influencing her to hit someone"

Seungcheol took hold of your hand and made you sit on the soft bed when he noticed how much you were getting stressed. He slowly caressed your hand leisurely and pestered a kiss on your temple, washing away all your stress.

"I'm sorry, okay? Don't forget that we also used to be like this when we were her age"

Seungcheol apologised sincerely and fondled your 7-month belly delicately.

"You shouldn't be stressed, remember? It's not good for our baby"

"Sometimes I indeed wanna punch your papa but I'm afraid that his charming visuals will be ruined. Life is cruel isn't it?" you questioned your unborn baby who had no idea what was going on.

"Look who's speaking about cruelty" Seungcheol rolled his eyes in a teasing way only to earn a hard smack from you.

"Okay okay calm down my raging wife" he uttered while patting your head, embracing you, and planting butterfly kisses on your neck and your belly. You tittered stroking Seungcheol's blonde hair knowing how your unborn baby will grow up having a big sister like Seunghee.

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domaystic · 1 year

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Domaystic 2023 is back!

link to bigger image: click here

[Image description: a blue clothes hanger with clips where socks are drying under the sun; among the socks the word domyastic is separated in three parts and hanged as well. On the right side: the list of 31 prompts and 5 alternatives.]

Hello! This is THE post for DOMAYSTIC 2023 :D

Domaystic is the combination of “domestic” and “May” and it's a prompt event run on May based on the domestic trope: anything inside, outside, beside the house or that has that normalcy flavor of everyday life.

If any of these prompts inspire your muse, please, don’t hesitate and join!

Text prompts

01 Housewarming 02 A stash of... 03 List 04 Packed lunch 05 Learning something new 06 Under the same umbrella 07 Stained clothes 08 The things in that drawer 09 Mistaken identity 10 Bath 11 Volunteering 12 Crisis 13 Taking turns 14 Parade 15 Junkmail 16 Sleeping habits 17 Marked date on calendar 18 Discount at favourite store 19 Police at the door 20 In the nearby park 21 Handmade gift 22 S/o on the local news 23 Small couch 24 Secret language 25 Misdialed calls 26 Sounds from above 27 Passage through a fence 28 Recycling 29 Lottery 30 Feeling of doing nothing 31 Midnight snack

Alternatives

A. No, no, don't lift it! B. There's a ... in the room! C. Stop the car, now! D. Look, I made it work! E. Oh, I can't wait to do it!

Text prompts in German: click here Text prompts in Spanish: click here Text prompts in Italian: click here Text prompts in French: click here

Lots of text under the cut!

General rules and guidelines

All fandoms or original content are welcome.

Any kind of media is welcome: fanfiction, fanart, fanmixes, puzzles, diy art, quizzes, podfics, edits, fic recs or whatever it is you feel like doing. That’s all good.

No restrictions in ships, size, min/max word count or the language you want to write into.

As last year, feel free to mix the domestic prompt with anything you like: more drama and lots of crying? YES! The thrill of an investigation for the disappearance of your characters’ fave socks? YES!

There's one prompt for each day for a total of 31 prompts + 5 alternatives with an exclamation point at the end (predictable!).

You can share your work on any platform you like. If you share it on tumblr and tag the blog, I’ll reblog it.

Combine more prompts together? That’s fine but I will reblog the entry only once here on tumblr.

Combine these prompts with another event? Fine too.

You don’t have to do all the prompts to join the event. Do the ones you enjoy.

The event is consistently checked upon during the month of May, but in case you want to share your creation at a later date, you can. I just reblog on a lower pace after May is over.

As for the reblogs, last year I gave myself a bit of an headache, so this time I’d like to try it this way: once the day of the corresponding prompt comes, people will post their work and then I’ll reblog it when that day comes for me too. Does it make sense? I hope so. I’ll miss the world clocks but let’s just trust each other.

AO3 collection

The domaystic2023 collection is open from May, 1st: click here - all the info and prompts are also on the profile page of the collection.

In your tumblr post I ask you to:

Mention the blog in your post @domaystic - tracked tag: #domaystic2023

State clearly the fandom name or if it is original content

State clearly if it is sfw or nsfw

State clearly which prompt you used

In case of lengthy posts, use the “read more option”: ctrl-shift-k on rich text; [[*MORE*]] on html (remove asterisks)

Please, TAG PROPERLY. If there are any trigger warnings, I will base my own reblog on your tags so, please, take even a moment longer to carefully tag it. I hope all participants to stay safe in this event.

Here’s an example:

blablabla my story is beautiful, look @domaystic !

#domaystic2023 #day1 #[extraA - E if alternative prompt is used] #[fandom name or oc] #[sfw or nsfw] #[trigger warnings that I get from your post] tw

If you have any question feel free to send an ask, inbox is always open. :D

Hi, @thebigbangblogproject can you reblog this?

#domaystic #domaystic2023 #post about the event #domestic trope #prompts #multifandom #prompt event #prompt list #fanfiction #fanart #edits #I hope all the essential infos are included ò_ò #edit of the 1:15pm NOPE I typed some link wrongly ... now everything should work ouch

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vex91 · 4 months

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Too spicy

Chapter 10: Special

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

3rd's POV

You laughed at the tweet Wony made "Isn't she exaggerating it a bit? We're just writing a song, nothing weird" Yujin looked over your shoulder to see what you were looking at and soon she was giggling too "Well you know Wonyoung" You chuckled nodding. Then you turned your phone off and focused on the paper sheet in front of you "Okay let's get back to this beauty" You said and took your pencil again.

"Did the company said if they want it on our next album or not?" You asked Yujin but you were met with silence. You turned your head to see what was going on and was met with Yujin observing you with a smile "What is it?" You chuckled at her flustered face when she noticed she was caught "Nothing... you just looked... ehh cute. That's all" You smiled a little at the compliment. Yujin was always like this with you, she openly admired everything about you and never failed to share how amazing she thought you were. She was your number one fan in everything.

When you two were together Yujin always made you feel loved and seen. She tried to always show you that you deserved everything best in this world and it never failed to make you fall for her harder. No amount of love you had for Jimin could ever compete with the genuine love you had for your leader. She was just too special in every way.

"How about including some feeling of missing the other person?" Yujin asked as she scanned what you already had. Missing the other person huh? Sounds too familiar for some reason. You nodded agreeing with her "Yeah that sounds good, I'm sure a lot of people will be able to relate to it" You said a little quieter this time and this made Yujin confused. Why were you suddenly sounding down?

Before she could ask you about it your phone went off, your sister was calling "I need to take it" You said quickly excused yourself and took it "Hi baby sis" Chaeyeon said, in the background you could hear Eunbi and Hyewon talking about something but it was hard to tell about what exactly "Hi unnie, what is it?" Chaeyeon smiled at the sound of your voice, lately you've been so busy that you didn't had time to spend with your family, most of the time you were with IVE members "I miss you, do you have some time off soon?" You thought about it for a second "I think I'm free this weekend" "Great, we're gonna have a sleepover with Itzy members so you can't say no now" Chaeyeon laughed and you accepted your fate. Well you were happy to finally spend some time with your sisters and friends.

"Can I invite Chaewon too?" You asked hoping to spend some time with her too "Yeah but don't invite Sunghoon, it's a girls only sleepover plus he so has a crush on you and I don't approve" You rolled your eyes at her response "He so does not unnie, well see you in a few days" You hang up with a small smile. You were definitely excited for the weekend.

"Unnie" You walked back into the room immediately catching Yujin's attention "What is it?" She asked putting her phone away and giving you her full attention, another thing you loved about her, she always made sure you knew that she cared about anything you said "I'm gonna spend the night at Itzy's dorm during the weekend" You sat back down next to her as she nodded "Okay, I hope you'll have fun" She smiled before looking back at the paper you both were working on before.

You hoped that this would be your occasion to rest from all that you and Jimin drama but oh how wrong you were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: After being rejected multiple times by Jimin, Y/N decides to stop running after her. A year later she debuts in a new girl group, with a totally different image and meets Jimin again but this time she doesn't care about the older girl much to her surprise. Shockingly Jimin starts developing feelings for Y/N and decides to win her heart back.

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Taglist (Closed): @rosiehrs @jisooftme @jeindall777 @ehcyps @mightymyo @nasyu-kookies @sewiouslyz @awkwardtoafault @pandamiswifey @hibernatinghamster @pigeonoftheskyrat @impossiblesharkcashrebel @justme-idle

#aespa x reader #aespa reactions #yu jimin x reader #karina x reader #yu jimin #karina #yu jimin smau #karina smau #aespa smau #smau

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astxrwar · 4 months

Text

drops of blood [1/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Off-screen violence. Series will enter gray territory in later chapters; angsty guilt-ridden stalking, exhibitionism, consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. teehee.

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

When you’re a teenager— no, not even, when you’re a preteen, in middle school— a crew of surveyors for a Russian oil company finds a plane frozen in the Arctic. You’d just finished up the section on World War Two in history class; two weeks ago you’d been sitting in a hard-backed chair with the lights off trying not to fall asleep while watching a Netflix documentary about the life and death of Steve Rogers, the prototypical American Hero, that your teacher put on presumably to get out of having to actually teach. You had to fill out a worksheet about it. You had homework asking about the ways that national ideals of heroism have changed over time. You spent a whole class period talking about that, comparing and contrasting Captain America and Iron Man. You had to write a five-paragraph essay about whether or not you thought the American Hero archetype would even exist without Captain America’s death.

Except Captain America is not dead.

Captain America is alive.

It is 2012, and a lot of things are popular. The Hunger Games. Gangnam Style. The new Batman movie, the one with Christian Bale. A type of teenage and pre-teenage girl exists—has existed, will continue to exist— and while there was NSYNC and Backstreet Boys and whatever the fuck else in the 90s; right now there’s Twilight and One Direction and Justin Bieber.

Captain America comes out of the ice. Captain America is 6’4 and muscular and blond and blue-eyed and unfailingly kind, and then he goes on to join up with a bunch of other people—superheros— and saves the world.

The end result, the one that anyone with a brain could have seen coming a mile off, the one that gets referenced by late-night talk-show hosts and poked at in grocery-store gossip rags and sometimes said outright in interviews with the guy on national television, is that Steve Rogers— Captain America— kind of ends up rounding out the “teenage girl obsessions during the ‘10s” list.

And—

Well.

You were never big on any of that.

Your friends were, though, and so you let yourself be dragged through the onslaught of new Netflix specials and you dutifully and appropriately emoji-reacted to every Battle of New York youtube compilation and Vine edit they sent to you and you even went to the movies to watch the new remastered docudrama about the life and now the not-death of Steve Rogers, and—

You never really liked blonds, so.

His friend, though—

His friend was kind of cute.

Sergeant James Barnes. Twenty-eight, dark-haired and blue-eyed and attractive, in a charming, boyish kind of way.

Fast forward ten years. There’s some weird drama with a helicarrier and some entirely anticlimactic fight at an airport and then an alien kills half the population of the world and then they all come back again, courtesy of Iron Man’s sacrifice and your middle school history teacher one-hundred-percent predicting the future with the whole “the American Hero trope is dependent on the hero’s death” shit that you totally didn’t understand at the ripe age of twelve—

Anyway. Life happens, basically. You grow up. You’re not even friends with those girls anymore. Not uncommon. And that crush on cute little baby-faced James Buchanan Barnes lasted all of something like three months— one of those fleeting childhood infatuations you have on people who are safely unobtainable, like rock stars or fictional characters or guys who are very, very dead— after which time you never really thought about it again.

And now you’re twenty-three and working closing shifts at a coffee shop in Brooklyn while figuring out what your life trajectory is even going to be, adjusting as best you can to your fucking daily customer base having quite literally doubled in the last six months, that part of you that’d read his entire wikipedia page on a phone with an actual physical slide-out keyboard at two in the morning an entire eleven years ago so far away it feels like something even less than a memory.

Except one night in April this guy walks in. He’s dark-haired and blue-eyed and wearing a leather jacket and matching gloves; he comes up to the counter and he makes startlingly unbreaking eye contact that freaks you out a teensy bit— a lot— and orders a coffee, black, and nothing else, and you stare right back kind of temporarily immune to the weirdness of it because you know him, why do you know him—

It clicks as you’re pouring the coffee into a reinforced cardboard cup and it stuns you so completely that you almost overfill it and wind up less than a second away from burning the shit out of your hand.

Sergeant James Barnes.

He looks the same, kind of, but also not at all— you sneak glances at him while you fumble for a lid, the harsher angles of his cheekbones and the wider set of his jaw, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the lines setting into his forehead and the way he doesn’t really have any of the baby fat left in his face that he had in all the photos you’d seen of him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you give him his coffee.

His smile, or his attempt at it, looks more like a grimace than anything.

You expect him to leave, then, but he doesn’t— he goes over to one of the tables in the lobby, the one by the window in the corner of the room, and he sits there and he drinks his coffee and he stares out at the street. It’s dark already; late November, almost December, the solstice approaching. It’ll be a long while before it’s still light later than 4:30.

He stays there for a long time, and the awareness of him prickles at the nape of your neck as you work, filling orders for a dwindling trickle of customers and starting the long and arduous process of cleaning up everything for close.

Sometime around 9:30 you go into the back to try to get started on dishes; the doorbell chimes when you’re about halfway through, and you grumble under your breath and rinse soap suds off of your forearms and resolve to pretend you hadn’t lost track of the hose and accidentally soaked the whole of your shirt from about the sternum down—

There’s nobody waiting at the counter when you come out, though.

And Sergeant James Barnes is gone.

You expect it to be one of those things. Everyone in New York has one of those things. They’re great party stories. One time I sat next to Denzel Washington on the subway. Michael Keaton bought a phone from me when I worked at Apple in Midtown. I ran into Steve Buscemi at this one mom-and-pop bagel place.

I served coffee to Captain America’s not-dead friend in Brooklyn.

Except next week, same day, he’s there again.

The lady in front of him is getting something stupid complicated and being annoying about it. Two pumps caramel, two pumps vanilla, two creams and two skim milk, three sugars and make sure to melt it first, if you don’t, I’ll know, Jesus Christ, make your coffee at home—

The guy who is maybe potentially Barnes laughs.

You said that out loud, apparently. Mumbled it under your breath, or something, quiet enough that the lady hadn’t heard, just shot you a suspicious look and sipped at her drink and then left without a thank-you, apparently satisfied. It’s just you and him now, your coworker off doing food prep in the back room and the lobby empty.

Somehow, he’d heard you. And he’d laughed. It was a weird sound, sharp and rough and cut short like he hadn’t meant to and like he’d tried to make himself stop; his expression is flat, and he’s not smiling, but there’s something— lighter, about it, than when you’d seen him last.

“Black coffee?” you blurt out, before he can say anything.

He blinks. He’s doing that thing again— the staring.

“Easy to remember,” you say, by way of explanation. “Simple.”

His mouth twitches at the corners, not really a smile, yet, but still— something. That lightness to his expression, impassive as it is, hasn’t faded. “Yeah, just black,” he says. “Thanks.”

You make it for him— ‘make’ is a stretch, you pour it, and that’s all, really— and he takes it back to that same spot by the window in the corner, nurses it as he looks out into the street, the sky cast that bruised purple color when the sun’s gone below the horizon but the light hasn’t faded, yet.

You try not to stare.

Same deal as the last time; he stays.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drifts from the back room, “You want to sweep the lobby or do the dishes?”

“Lobby,” you reply, extremely fast, thinking about last time and the hose mishap and how your shirt hadn’t dried until basically the end of your shift, but also thinking about maybe-Barnes sitting by the window and how part of you really fucking wants to know. Even if it’s not him, if it’s just some particularly uncanny lookalike, you wonder if it happens a lot. The being mistaken.

You make it through about maybe five minutes of actual lobby-sweeping before you become physically incapable of resisting your curiosity.

“I always got pretty good marks in history,” is what you tell him. Because saying “are you Seargant Barnes” seems kind of— rude.

He stiffens, and he drums his gloved fingers on the lid of his coffee cup, and he doesn’t look up or say a word.

“Your photo was in a bunch of the textbooks,” you add, twisting your grip on the broom handle, back and forth. It’s definitely him. The haircut. His face. Older, a lot less boyish, but the same eyes. “Sergeant Barnes. 107th.”

He doesn’t look at you. Speaks very deliberately. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

There’s this bright jolt of satisfaction at being right, followed pretty quickly by a pang of guilt at the thought you’d irritated him.

“Oh—um, no, definitely not, I’m sure it’s— annoying, probably, getting recognized,” you say, stumbling over the words. “I— sorry, I shouldn’t have— bothered you.”

He does look at you, then. He stares. You’d been fidgeting, still, but under the force of his gaze every muscle in your body goes tense and still, frozen solid, and nerves prickle up at the back of your neck, raising the hairs there. You have to fight back the urge to shiver.

“No,” he says. “It’s never happened before. Don’t— don’t be sorry.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your hands resume their twisting around the broom handle before you abruptly decide you do need to actually finish the chore you’d set out to do.

You tell him one last thing, before you go back to it. You’d always kind of felt weird about saying this kind of stuff; it gets touchy, particularly after Vietnam. Not really a great practice to get into, the whole “thank you for your service” schtick, because a lot of them don’t see it that way, and every war after that was even more complicated and your opinions on those are— similarly complicated. But World War 2– that was different. It wasn’t US military overreach. It was necessary. And he’d been drafted, you remembered that.

“Hey,” you say, very soft. “I just— Thanks. For— you know. Serving, when your numbers came up. It couldn’t have been easy, I mean.” you clear your throat, shift your weight, suddenly feeling very self-aware. “Coffee’s on me, next time, okay?”

Something flickers across his expression, like a ripple over the surface of a lake. Whatever it was, it’s gone before you can make sense of it.

You spend most of the week thinking he won’t come back next Friday. But he does. There’s nobody in front of him in line, this time, and like the time before your coworker is off in the back, which means it’s easy to slip him his coffee and conveniently forget to ring it out.

“Thanks,” he tells you, his voice a lot quieter. Softer, too.

You smile at him. His mouth twitches back, like maybe he’s not sure if he should return it, but wants to.

He takes the seat by the window again.

He keeps coming back. You try to make small talk but it feels stilted and awkward. It kind of makes you sad, a little bit, seeing him sitting there for hours, alone.

On your day off, in early January, you go grocery shopping.

You spend about 25$ in total and you make a split second decision to grab something out of the ordinary that’s on-sale. Dude was raised during the Great Depression, you guess he’s not the most experienced in the realm of the great big world of Weird Things You Can Purchase At The Modern Day Grocery Store. It’s meant to be a sort of peace offering, a look-I-can-be-normal-about-it, let’s-be-friends kind of deal, if he’s going to keep hanging around the coffee shop. You’re not sure if he, like— wants that, friends, or if maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be alone, but you figure it’s worth a shot.

Part of it is that he interests you. Part of it is that your job, as much as it sucks less than a lot of other service jobs, is very mundane, very normal, often very boring, and James Buchanan Barnes being a regular customer is easily the most interesting and least boring thing that has ever happened to you at work. Or— ever, honestly.

And maybe that’s selfish, to want to talk to him for that reason, but— whatever.

On Friday, like last week, you get there and you clock in and you try to casually scan the lobby, the floor littered with straw wrappers and crumpled napkins and empty sugar packets, the tables tacky with flavored syrup and coffee stains that you’d need to clean later, chairs around them arranged haphazardly and not pushed in, and—

And in the back corner, sitting low in his seat, baseball cap tugged down and shade over his eyes and fingers drumming restlessly against the side of a paper coffee cup, is James Buchanan Barnes.

The excitement you feel, then, is not really the kind you’d expected to— the last time you’d thought about him had been middle school, and even if it’d been just that three months, you remember with startling clarity that girlish, daydreamy kind of interest, how it felt, pleasant and mild and entirely harmless. Whatever you feel right now is not like that at all. It’s sharp and it’s visceral and it’s real, not a fantasy or the result of your imagination, not directed towards some fiction of a person that functioned as a safe receptacle for the things going on inside your head, but an actual individual human being.

It’s just interest, just curiosity, what you feel— you don’t have a crush on him, it’s not like you’re still in middle school and still interested, like that, in even just the general category of person that crush had represented. And the person sitting in the lobby isn’t the person– the fiction– you’d even felt that type of way about, anyways. You don’t know him, and he’s obviously nothing like the guy memorialized in every Captain America docudrama miniseries on Netflix. No, James Buchanan Barnes is a real human being, a very different human being, one that’s a stranger to you and you think— you guess— probably just as much of a stranger to that other, safer, softer, more boyish version of himself.

You keep thinking about how he looked at you, unbroken and unwavering and eerily fucking precise, how his eyes hadn’t even move at all, focused so intently that it’d made the hairs on the back of your neck raise and goosebumps prickle across the tops of your shoulders and all the way down your arms and your gut instinct yell, loudly, there is something not right about this guy!

You’d read his Wikipedia article again. It’s been updated since; lots of shit came out since 2012. You’d heard about the Winter Soldier stuff, but reading about it in detail— it’s bad. There are probably several things that are not exactly right about him, now. That’s fine, though. The way the world is these days, there’s stuff not right about everyone.

You’re occupied with a steady and annoyingly constant stream of customers until about 8:00, making coffees and sandwiches and trading on and off with your coworker in the back room, where you’re trying to get the brunt of the stocking and dishwashing done before they leave at 8:30. You’d been fucking busy, and you’re annoyed, you got cream from the dispenser machine all up one of the sleeves of your sweater so you’d had to take it off, and there’s fucking caramel sauce stuck to the hairs on the flat of your forearm near your wrist and gluing them to your skin and that grocery bag of fruit is sitting on the back table next to your jacket and your gross sweater and your house keys and it’s staring at you. Accusingly.

Your coworker leaves.

You steal a careful glance over the coffee machines at the lobby, just checking, just to make sure that he’s still—

And he is.

Cool.

It takes you a few minutes to kind of— dredge up the guts to go talk to him, another few more for the last trickle of late-night coffee-getters to start to finally taper out, and then you do it. You gather your resolve and your nerve and whatever else, courage, too, probably, and you go out into the lobby and you stand in front of his table and you wait for him to, eventually, look up from where he’s been staring, kind of sullen-looking, out of the window.

“I looked it up,” you blurt out when he does, before you can think better of it, “Online. Apparently supply chains were really small, in like. The 30s. So people could get stuff, right, but a lot more of it was— local. You know that, obviously, but, um.”

He just looks at you. Unblinking.

“Anyway,” you say, trying to ignore the weird kind of twisty feeling of your nerves in the pit of your stomach; jesus christ, he stares, a lot, “Anyway, I had this neighbor when I was a kid, right, and he was— his family, they were refugees. Immigrants. He was learning English, but I made friends with him by using my allowance to buy things at the grocery store, like, weird things, stuff that he’d never had before. So we could— try it. For– fun. And I thought– well. There was a sale, today, so.”

You gesture to your hand; awkwardly, helplessly, god, this is weird, like ice-breakers on hard mode, if the ice were less like a frozen-over pond and more like one of those miles-deep Antarctic glaciers. A tissue-thin plastic bag, the knotted top of it held in your fist, the lone fruit inside just kind of– sitting there.

He finally blinks, and then he shifts back in his chair, and he looks at you some more, his gaze unwavering and solid and heavy like it has actual, physical weight to it, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders and forcing you into the ground. “Are you— have you been trying to make friends with me?” he says, in a tone that’s kind of incredulous and a lot disbelieving and tells you absolutely nothing about whether or not he’d actually be amenable to that.

Whatever.

Fuck it, you think, and then you lift your chin and you meet his eyes and you make yourself stare right back, stubborn and deliberately unflinching. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I have.”

His expression– it’d been flat, impassive and unreadable, but something cuts right across it for a fraction of a second when you say that, quick and sure as a knife. For that one heartbeat of a moment he looks expressive and alive– you think he might even look stricken, actually, and you wonder far too late if maybe this had been a mistake, if you’d upset him. Done something wrong.

But then it’s gone, so quickly that you think you must have imagined it.

He leans back in his chair, and he looks down at his empty coffee cup as he taps it absently against the table, like he’s thinking it over. When he looks back at you the sum of his features are wholly neutral, except for his mouth, which is quirked up at the corners, just a little– not a smile, not with the way his lips are pressed together, into a hard, unwavering line, but it doesn’t look like something bad, either. It doesn’t look negative.

“Okay,” he says. “All right, shoot.” He jerks his chin towards the bag in your hand. “What’ve you got?”

You tear the side of it with your fingernails and dump the contents on the table. “Pomegranate. Had one before?”

His mouth twitches up more, and this time it does look like a smile, the beginnings of one, like he’s repressing it. He clicks his tongue and stretches his legs out under the table and shakes his head, just a little. “Yep,” he says. “Struck out on your first try.”

“No way Mr. Great Depression is more worldly than me.” You decide you’re going to interpret that as an agreeable reaction. There’s only one chair at his table, so you drag one over from nearby, the legs making this awful grinding sound against the tile floor. “I’ve never had one, so I’m taking half. Only fair.”

You fumble in your pocket for your knife to cut into it. He stares at it, when you pull it out, and then stares at you, “What do you have that for?”

Some nameless tension inside of you unwinds at the realization that he’s not just sitting there in stone-faced silence, anymore.

“Walk home after close,” you reply with an easy shrug; the conversation no longer feels like the world’s most awkward one-person performance or like actually physically pulling teeth, and that’s— pretty cool. Feels like a victory. “I usually finish at like, eleven-thirty. Not super dangerous, or anything, but better safe than sorry.”

Barnes makes a disapproving sound— what you think is a disapproving sound— under his breath when you flick the blade open, and grabs the pomegranate from the center of the table. “Too short,” he says, jerking his chin at it in your hand, “Gonna be a pain in the ass, let me.”

The knife that he pulls from what you think must be a sheath on his boot is a straight blade without a handguard, matte black and tapered to a point and without a doubt longer than four inches. Long enough to halve the pomegranate in one clean cut, sharp enough to bite into the laminate surface of the table underneath, just a little.

“That’s definitely not street legal,” you say, mostly joking.

Barnes stares at you. It takes you a second to realize that’s— new. Relatively speaking.

“New York made anything over four inches illegal, plus butterfly knives and switchblades,” you inform him. “I think in the 50s.”

He makes some noncommittal sound of what you assume is probably distaste, and stows the knife back in his boot.

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’m not a snitch.”

He doesn’t smile, but his expression lightens a little.

On the table, the pomegranate is split neatly in half, and the little pebbled fruits inside the open skin glint in the warm light from the overhead fixtures. Like flecks of garnet. Or drops of blood.

“Could get these in the fall, sometimes,” he says, looking down at it. “Used to pick the bits out with a sewing needle. Made it last all afternoon.”

Your brain conjures up the image of the baby-faced Barnes, maybe sitting on the curb or the front steps of a building. You wonder what the details of the memory are. You wonder if little scrawny Steve had been there, or if he’d been alone.

You don’t ask.

“I don’t have a sewing needle,” is what you do say, “But—“ your nametag is clipped to your shirt, a flat slip of plastic with a pin on the back, and you unfasten it and slide it across the table.

Behind you, the door hinges creak and the bell chimes and you sigh, long-suffering, and get to your feet with an exaggeratedly affected eye-roll.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him, “Customer.”

You go to take the order and then midway through making it the doorbell sounds again. Midway through making that, same deal. This happens, at night, a trickle of customers just fast enough to keep you working nonstop, now that you’re the only person running the store. It goes on for something like ten minutes, which irritates the shit out of you despite the fact that it is technically your job. It’s nine-thirty at night and you’ve been at work for six hours and what you want to be doing is picking this dude’s brain, not making fucking coffee and bagels.

And also because a part of you is aware that he usually leaves around now.

He’s still there, though, when you come back; on the table there’s the husk of one half of the pomegranate, this pale and washed-out color like corn silk, and a neat pile of seeds on a recycled-paper napkin. Barnes has the other half and he’s poking out little grains of red with the safety-pin end of your name tag and biting the pieces off the tip, breaking the fragile skin between his teeth. He looks— calmer. Kind of wistful.

You realize this must be the first time he’s done this since he was a child, all the way back in a Brooklyn that doesn’t look anything like this one. Living alongside different people. Walking different streets. Breathing different air.

“That’s for you,” he says, nodding at the little bits of red, the empty husk, “I thought— since you’re working.”

You blink at him, and then you smile, a small, grateful one. Something flashes in his eyes, when you do; you aren’t paying much attention to it, still thinking about him, being so out of time. How strange this all must be. How much you really did mean it when you said you wanted to be his friend.

Barnes seems to realize when he brings the pin to his mouth again that it’s attached to your nametag. “Sorry,” he says, stilted and stiff and awkward-sounding, again, “I— you probably don’t want this back, now.”

“‘S fine, you can throw it out, if you want— I have so many.”You slide back into the chair and fish out of your apron pocket a blank one that you’d grabbed from the back, not knowing he’d gone and picked all the seeds out of your half already. “I forget them in my pockets, they keep ending up in the washing machine.”

His expression relaxes, a little. He catches the kernel of fruit at the end of the pin between his teeth and bites down until there’s a burst of red in his mouth. Stabs another, works it free of the shell, the flimsy little white membrane around it wilting in on itself. You watch him do that for a minute, contemplative and silent. His mouth is red. His tongue, too, when it darts across his bottom lip. Makes you think about rocket pops from the ice cream truck in the summer. Makes you wonder if they had those, back then.

“Did all that work for nothing, huh?” he says, after a while. You startle out of your thoughts and blink at him, nonplussed; he glances down at the pile of seeds on the napkin. “Thought you wanted to try it.”

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Oh, yeah. Duh.”

The first gem-glittering marble of fruit is softer than you’d expected and ruptures between your thumb and forefinger, staining the pads of them all red. You think about summer, as a kid, when you’d fall and scrape your hands on the asphalt hard enough that they bled. It’s almost the same color.

The second time the seed is firmer and it bursts sharp and tart and faintly sweet between your teeth. “Kind of like cranberries,” you say, taking another.

The pile is gone quickly, leaving just the napkin, the juice, like a dark wine stain. You lick your fingers clean. He’d been staring, the way he kind of always stares, but when your lips close around your thumb, he looks away.

You learn a bunch about food in the 1940s, mostly by accident.

Mangoes were a thing; they’d had some growing down in Florida, and you could get them seasonally. Pineapples used to be so rare that rich people would display the whole fruit as a centerpiece at parties and things, way back in the very early 1900s and up through the Great Depression, too; but by the time the 30s rolled around you could get the canned kind at the store. Watermelon was a thing, too, but they all had the solid, jet-black seeds you weren’t supposed to swallow; somebody’d bred those out of the commercial ones sometime after Barnes had slipped out of time.

“I gotta just go straight for the really fucking weird stuff,” you muse, mostly to yourself. It’s late and it’s quiet in the shop and it’s raining outside, the street slick and black and reflecting the light from the lampposts. He stays later, now, leaves closer to 10:30; you’re kind of proud of that. That he seems to like you, your company. Or at least doesn’t dislike it.

“You could just ask,” he says, sounding just the slightest bit exasperated, “If I’ve had something before.”

“No,” you tell him, deeply serious, “No, that fucking ruins it, Barnes, it ruins the surprise.”

He looks at you blankly. A few seconds too late, you realize you’ve never actually said that, out loud. His name. You don’t call him Sergeant in your head anymore, it seems too formal, but James seems too intimate, and you hadn’t asked— hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted to pry— if he still thinks of himself as Bucky.

He doesn’t say anything.

Barnes it is, then.

Gooseberries used to be way more popular, all the way up into the 1920s, even though technically it was made federally illegal to grow them a few years before he was born. It was an attempt to stop the spread of this fungus that’d jump from the bushes to pine trees, killed huge swathes of them up and down the Northeast, decimated the lumber industry. He tells you his Ma used to make tarts and pies from them, in the fall when they were in-season, but eventually the farms upstate started getting shut down, and it was too expensive. The federal ban lifted in the 60s, you learn via Google, but production never really ramped back up again— they didn’t even have them at your regular grocery store, you’d had to go all the way to Trader Joe’s.

They taste kind of like green apples. He’d looked the way he did with the pomegranate, that first time, wistful and softer and like he’s remembering. It’s really the most you’ve ever seen behind whatever practiced and controlled exterior he maintains, beyond flashes of almost-smiles and eyebrow-raises and pointed looks. You want to peel that veneer off like peeling the skin from a fruit, get underneath it, get to the flesh of him; when this thought occurs to you, you bury it immediately, as deep as it will go.

“White pine blister rust,” you read aloud off of your phone, crossing the lobby to his table, coffee cup in one hand. You set it on the table for him and he reaches for it with a mumbled thanks. “That’s what it was called, the fungus-thing. According to wikipedia.”

Barnes blinks at you. He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, even though it’s still probably a little too hot, not that it matters to him; and then he sets the cup down and frowns and says, “What the fuck is wikipedia?”

You laugh without meaning to.

The skin slips, a little, whatever’s underneath peeking out, bruised and soft and bloody, but then you blink and he’s fine. Watching you, expression light and practiced. Whole, again.

In February something happens.

Your coworker tells you before he leaves, pulls you aside in the threshold of the door to the back room to mumble, “there were some dudes out back by the garbage when I took it out before. I was getting bad vibes, I don’t know, just— be careful.”

There’d been a string of robberies through the borough, all within some convenient distance of the subway line, and the store is probably three blocks away from one of the platforms. The back door is one of those that opens only from inside the store, the other end flat and lacking a handle; you leave it propped open when you run to take the garbage out. You’re not stupid, is the thing. The guys, whoever they are— it could be nothing, but it could be that they’re waiting. Waiting for it to be just you, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the opportunity. You have a knife, but it’s a flimsy ten-dollar gas station piece of shit, mostly for intimidation and not for actual use; you’re also well aware that using knives in confrontations tends to make things worse rather than better. Bring that shit out and you’re asking to get it taken from you. Asking to have it used on you.

You could try to call the cops, but more than half of them have been requisitioned by the GRC, and you know what they’d tell you. Unfortunately at the moment we’re understaffed and can’t afford to respond to predictive calls. Please let us know if and when something illegal occurs. Practiced and perfunctory and something people joke about in your neighborhood, because there’s really nothing else any of you can do. Your coworker can’t stay, either; he can’t afford to pay the babysitter another hour, not on minimum wage.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine.”

And it is okay. You will be fine.

Barnes is there.

It’s a Wednesday, so it’s just sheer fucking luck that he’s here at all; he must be able to see it, in your face, when you come bursting through the little swinging gate-thing and out into the lobby, because his hands tighten into fists where they’re resting on the table.

“Oh my god I’m so glad you’re here,” you say, breathless and frantic and very much meaning it.

There’s a flash of something on his face that makes you think of heat lightning or splintering ice of the second right before a pomegranate seed bursts between teeth. You are not thinking enough about things that aren’t your immediate anxiety to register it.

“I need your help,” you tell him.

He grows progressively stiffer as you explain the situation, and when you’re done he says nothing, just stands up and pushes his chair in and says, real low, “I’ll go— talk to them. Don’t worry.”

The bell above the door chimes when he leaves.

You stand there at the edge of his table for what feels like some impossible amount of time, every muscle in your body wound up like a spring, jaw clenched so hard it’s starting to drive the beginnings of a headache somewhere on the top of your skull—

He comes back.

“Are you— did they—“ you break from nervously picking at your fingernails to make some vague and anxious gesture. Barnes looks fine, unscathed, cool and neutral and controlled as ever, but when he looks at you it makes something base and instinctive deep inside of you buzz with— alarm. Or— something.

“They were just— being stupid, just drunks,” he says, and maybe you’re imagining it, the thread of tension in his voice. “It’s fine. It’s all— it’s fine.”

You feel yourself visibly relax. “Oh, god, thank you so much, dealing with drunk guys is— it’s the worst.”

He flinches, when you say the first words, just a little, his eyes almost closing and the muscles around them going just briefly tense, like he’d managed to suppress most, but not all, of the instinct. “You don’t— you don’t need to thank me.”

You study him for a minute, like maybe if you look hard enough that flicker of whatever it was would come back, linger long enough for you to make sense of it.

“All right, fine, no thanks. Thanks rescinded,” you say finally, bemused. “I’m going to refill your coffee, though.”

You say it with your hand already half-outstretched, close enough that he can’t stop you even with his reflexes, and whatever entirely reactive and entirely accidental noise of triumph you make when his hand closes around empty space is— not on purpose.

His mouth twitches, the closest you’ve ever seen to an actual smile.

Something in your stomach flips.

You shove that shit down, too.

When you come back with the coffee he’s sitting back in the chair with his legs stretched out and he’s staring out the window again.

“Thanks,” he says, when you set it down.

“Oh, so you can thank me, but I can’t thank you?”

His mouth twitches again. “Yes.”

You make some entirely performative tch sound of affected annoyance as you retreat back behind the counter; you still have to take the garbage out, clear out the pastry display case, start emptying and scrubbing down the coffee pots you’re not using now that business has slowed to a crawl.

“Are you still coming Friday?” you call out to him, over the hum and hiss of the espresso machine running through the automated cleaning program, the milk foaming wands steaming in pitchers of sanitizer water, all of it loud enough that you’d never be able to hear him over it, something you realize too late, “Sorry, hold on, I should have asked before I—“

“Do you want me to?” His voice is clear and close and you startle reflexively; he’s at the counter, at the register, staring. Always staring. You thought in the beginning you’d get used to it. It’s not uncommon; those with power stare, and those without cast their eyes down and away. It’s the nature of customer service jobs in New York City. You meet a lot of powerful assholes in suits who make more money than you probably will ever handle in the entirety of your life, and they look at you and talk at you rather than to you, like you’re nothing, a rodent or an insect or something even less than that. You’ve never once flinched away from any of their stares, and never so much as felt like you wanted to, either.

James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t look at you like that at all. He doesn’t look at you like you’re lesser. He looks at you like he can see you— like he can see right through you, like you’re transparent, like everything going on in your head is out in the open, visible, vulnerable, or maybe like he just wants it to be. Like he’s looking for a door hidden somewhere in the minutiae of your expression, some way to force himself inside and pull all of your thoughts and secrets out like unraveling a spool of thread.

He doesn’t look at you like you’re not human. He looks at you like he knows, precisely, intimately, exactly how human you are, and that’s—

Kind of worse. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s definitely weird.

You realize with a start that he’d asked you a question, and you’d been silent for way too long. You tear your eyes away from him and focus on pulling all the cup lids out of the tray at the edge of the counter, sweeping the donut crumbs and sugar crystals and coffee grinds out and onto the floor.

“I mean—,” your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth and it trips over the words, the syllables, stumbling and uncertain. “Not if you have plans, I— you don’t have to.”

“I never have plans,” he scoffs, scathingly self-deprecating, and then there’s the steady rhythm of his fingers drumming against the counter and you feel it on your neck, the hairs raising there, that he’s staring at you still, “I just—since I came today, I thought maybe you wouldn’t— I don’t want to bother you.”

You freeze, stack of iced coffee lids in one hand, half-lowered back into the now-spotless tray.

You force yourself to look back up at him.

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, stressing each word, like it’s important. It is important. “You’re— I like you. We’re friends.”

That thing, from before, the almost-maybe-flinch; it happens again, and you feel your own expression do something reflexive in response, your lips part and your brow furrow in the seconds before you can school your features back to composure. Whatever he does, the control he has over his affect; you’re not very good at that.

“Besides,” you say, into the silence, eyes cast back down and focused on filling the lid tray, “I found something you’ve never tried before, this time. And since I paid for it already, you are, in fact, contractually obligated to be here.”

He laughs, the same kind of laugh, the only kind of laugh you ever get from him; the cut-short one, like he doesn’t mean to, like he’d tried to stop it.

Like he couldn’t.

Barnes leaves at about 10:45, and you bring the trash out right before he goes, just in case. You wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for the fact that you were still kind of nervous and had your phone in hand, shining the washed-out beam of light back-and-forth across the little fenced-in area by the dumpster, trying to keep the garbage bag at arms’ length to avoid getting some disgusting coffee sludge mixture on your shoes where it’s leaking out of the corners.

The light catches on it. It glitters, captures your attention, red against the sun-bleached gray concrete. Pomegranate seeds. Shards of garnet.

Drops of blood.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #i'm uploading all of the things to tumblr. finally.#fic; drops of blood

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