#and listening to me blather on about these genuine jerks

[funkypoacher]

#44 (this one is solely for my own indulgence, sorry, lol), and #51 for the “Obligatory OTP Asks,” please (i’m not specifically saying july & daniel, but i *kinda* am)!

Who would dance in the kitchen making dinner? Would the other join in or watch from the doorway?

And

What’s a non verbal way they say I love you?

I combined them into one prompt rather than answer them straight-forwardly (as I do). And I am making pierogies a New Canaanite thing. Because… I can.

Anyways, have a little too much conversation and not enough action :)

Daniel/Courier

FoNV

“Holding Pattern”

Cutting willow branches to uniform length became busy work in the worst way. Planning to wattle a short fence, the futility was obvious: the only thing getting at her garden was the very-occasional rad-rabbit soonly dispatched by a bullet. But she felt compelled to do it—to erect superficial barriers where she could; to sever this from that, and mark, very clearly, what was hers and what still wasn’t. It was her upbringing—the prerogative of any NCR-born citizen. And despite July’s exile due to exaggerated crimes, she couldn’t deny her birthright to divide, conquer, and claim.

Putting the last revised willow branch on the ground with the rest, July, perched on a squat stool, brushed wood chips off her lap and perked her ears. There came another clang from the kitchen—the scraping of metal momentarily interrupted a low humming, melodious yet nonspecific, which, afterwards, resumed filling the air as it had the last twenty minutes.

July stood. She peered through the open door connecting garden to kitchen. Inside, Daniel was working at the table, portioning yellow, pillowy filling onto round disks of dough that were then pinched shut and placed to the side. The air was heavy with steam and the smell of potatoes; as Daniel put the next pierogi in a line with the rest, the occasional ad hoc roll of his hips or shoulders collected into a casual rhythm. Added to the soft, hummed tune, Daniel’s swaying became dancing.

It was surreal. To see anyone treating her kitchen as wholly their own offended some fairly deep instincts of both hospitality and territory, but, then, it wasn’t ‘just anyone’ going into her cupboards, or exploring her pantry, and, oh, despite the strangeness, the euphemisms weren’t lost on her, either.

When Daniel looked up, there was flour in his beard.

“Done out there?”

July nodded. Scrutinizing the table with over-mustered interest, she breathed deep, forced her brow into an expression of sweet curiosity, and wondered, “what are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” Daniel answered, smiling at the need to explain. “That’s alright, isn’t it? I mentioned using the flour and potatoes—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” July assured him, arms crossing tight at her chest. “You brought them, after all, which was very generous. I just—I mean, I should really be doing this.”

Insinuating herself, July snatched a circle of dough, slapped it in front of her new spot at the table, and spooned a portion of cheesy potato filling. She dropped it in the middle, flashing a genial smile that Daniel answered with a polite frown.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but it’s my home,” July established, pinching the dough edges carefully enough that she might’ve been working eggshells. “So, really, this should be up to me.”

The floorboards creaked under shifting weight. Wiping his hands on the towel previously slung over his shoulder, Daniel walked to the other side of the table, providing him the opportunity to scrutinize her face, probably. July kept her head bent so she wasn’t sure, but she felt his stare pacified by the only thing that ever brought him peace: seeking honesty.

“I see. Then you’ll be waiting on me hand and foot, I’m assuming. I’m to be a guest here.” 

July shrugged, gaze still away from him. “I suppose.”

The room paused with a silence so unlike minutes before, when the walls had been washed with the echoes of humming and clanging cutlery. Then, always heavy, always burdened and dramatic, Daniel sighed his particular, straight-from-the-gut sigh. July didn’t love to hear it, but it was, at least, familiar. 

“I’d hoped to be more than that. More than a guest.” 

July looked up. Reaching across the table—over a wooden rolling pin pilfered from the ancient general store, over flour dusting a table that she’d salt-scrubbed for nearly three hours, over utensils and bowls collected from everywhere until they made-up her domestic world—across all these things, July reached and grabbed Daniel’s wrist.

He flinched. There was an adage from somewhere about willing souls and weak flesh, but July didn’t think it could possibly apply to their situation. 

“I understand what I am to you,” July said, smiling with soft, sincere happiness. “I believe everything you said yesterday. This situation between us, though…” Her smile faltered. “It’s in a holding pattern I can’t abide. If we’re to be married, then fine. If you’re waiting for a blessing from you family—”

“I’m not.”

“Good, because it’s not going to come.” Letting go of his wrist, July straightened her posture. “Divided, conquered, and claimed. At least I’ve done what was expected of me.”

Daniel scowled. “This doesn’t have to be about my family. This is about what I believe, and what I think we deserve.”

“Deserve?” July looked down, horrified by that prospect. “Daniel, I know what you think we deserve.”

“This isn’t about the Sorrows, either. Or Zion.” Where July’s voice had exhausted in strength, Daniel’s gained. “This isn’t about any failure. To me, the vow of marriage is sacred. And I believe we deserve the righteousness that comes with waiting.”

‘Righteousness.’ Waiting. July appreciated where his mind was at—gone stuck filthy in a gutter—but Daniel’s collection of the things ‘this wasn’t about’ was mirrored by July’s, though, curiously, sex topped her own, private list of irrelevancies.

“Do you…?” She swallowed. “Do you remember—?” She laughed. Taking a deep breath, July decided what this was least about was the weight on her chest: an oppressive sadness so great that it leaned on her throat. “Never mind,” she said with relief born of clarity. “Let’s just… Do what we’re doing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

July was convinced towards explaining by the warmth in Daniel’s tone. “It’s just…” The woman shrugged. “We’ve been here before. In this same holding pattern. Living in sin… or not, depending on your point-of-view.” She smirked. “Last time, though, it was about escaping everything going on here. Forgetting the fight; ignoring what would or wouldn’t happen when the White Legs were dead.” She looked him relentlessly in the eye. “But we were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yesterday you said you wanted what we used to have, but what we had was not this. I mean, we’ve both said last time was a mistake. So I—I don’t understand what you want. You said marriage, but what else?”

Daniel’s brow rose. “Are NCR proposals usually so specific?”

Mortified by her now-vocalized fears, July absently poked at a piece of rolled dough. “You’d be surprised.” 

Daniel repositioned himself at the table across from her. There was airiness in his movements; a natural freedom that was contrary to her rigid posture. “What I want is to make you dinner.” Picking up some dough in his palm, he went back to it: spooning up the potato filling, placing it in the middle, and pinching it together. “These are… Well, they’re comfort food for me. They’re not meant to be, I suppose.” Daniel smiled, absorbed in his work. “They were made by the women all pitching in and dividing the batch up. They’re good for when stores are low. Not many ingredients, but they are delicious.”

“So it’s women’s work?” 

“Not necessarily,” Daniel answered with a similarly smug grin. “There’s usually a man or two around, though often just to taste test, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

Dusting his hands off, Daniel half-filled the spoon. Walking around the table, he made his offer, and July, after looking over his expression, dipped forward. She took the spoon into her mouth; she might’ve wished for a bit more salt, except the way Daniel was watching her had her hungry in the way that any little thing satisfied, so the pierogi filling struck her as delicious. Not too proud of the sound she made as she swallowed, July covered her mouth bashfully, blushing.

“So, you wanted to make something that reminded you of home,” she accused him affectionately, hand still hovering in front of her mouth.

“No,” Daniel replied brightly, “I wanted to make you something special. Something you maybe haven’t had before. We’re going to make a home together, and I figured I’d start there.”

July choked on something she hadn’t been eating.

“I see.”

It was hard to say who was affected more by his words: July, who, looking up into his eyes, felt herself pulled forward, dreamy fondness and deepening yearning sapping her ability to stay upright, or Daniel, whose subtle movements closer seemed much more deliberate, and whose lips parted and chest swelled.

He gripped the table at their side, the spoon clattering away from his fingers. July tried not to go looking for the scent of campfire or soap as she inhaled, but she knew it was there: in his hair, and across his skin.

“There’s one more problem with this holding pattern we’ve got,” she said, voice low.

“What?” Daniel’s voice pitched with distracted, yet real, concern.

“Another night of you just sleeping on the couch might kill me,” July whispered across his earlobe.

It wasn’t the first time they’d barely dragged themselves away from an indiscretion. It was the first time that day specifically, but it wasn’t likely to be the last. So July forced herself outside again, leaving Daniel with the cooking.

Stealing a last look, July smiled to see that his humming and slow, off-handed swaying had returned. She was sure it would be full-blown dancing one day. And, of course, July was further thrilled to see he wasn’t shying away from meal-prep. It had always been a well-known fact that his cooking outshone hers. Whether or not it was done now as an expression of love was irrelevant: what mattered was they wouldn’t be suffering her burnt pot-roasts, as Daniel, unafraid of fixing her mistakes, took apart her last poorly-pinched pierogi.

#my writing #i just really want some peirogies guys #and maybe a beta cuz holy man -- i should probably have edited this #daniel #honest hearts #fonv #july wells #also thank u thank u a million times thank you for the questions #and listening to me blather on about these genuine jerks

[fancifulwhump]

i'm LIVING for your jaskier fics omg!! would you be at all interested in writing a prompt where Jaskier is riding Roach because he's not feeling well, but Geralt doesn't realize how bad the fever really is until he falls off? (if that's not interesting or too specific, I can try again! no pressure to write this!)

anonymous asked:  would LOVE to see a sick Jaskier with a cold while they’re traveling, and how Geralt would treat him being feverish and sniffly/how Jaskier would complain lol

AN:   absolutely! so sorry this took a hot second, but here you guys go  ---  hope you enjoy!  ;)

The language of Jaskier is above all a loud one... but just as subtle as any beast’s dialect, filled with intricacies and rhythms that Geralt cannot help taking note of the more he listens. It’s really not the same thing, of course. Non-speaking monsters really can’t use their words; they have no way to express how they feel, except by eating you. Jaskier hasn’t tried to do that. Yet. (Sometimes the way he eyes Geralt in the bath leaves him feeling the day’s not far off.) 

To the contrary — if anything, Jaskier is too verbal. He doesn’t know how to shut up.

Getting used to this took longer than Geralt would have liked. It also demanded considerably more patience than he realized he had. Somehow, staking out a monster’s lair for days in complete silence is bearable... but Sitting through one of Jaskier’s endless rambles is asking too much. Even Witchers can only endure so much.

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt demanded one day, cutting off the motor-mouthed fool in the middle of another tangent.

Jaskier blinked at him, as though seriously considering the question, then shrugged. “Not a talent of mine, really.”

Miraculously, he did, for a moment. Despite all his instincts screaming to the contrary, Geralt nearly allowed himself to believe his outburst had worked... until Jaskier steppes on a twig, just a bit too loudly, then said, “I was asked the very same thing in bed not too long ago, actually, by this glorious milkmaid — granted, her accent was too thick to make out a word, so she might have been asking me to pass her my ruddy lute, who knows. But she was very enthusiastic —“

And that started him up all over again. Damn the gods.

In spite of it all, Geralt would be lying if he claimed to hate Jaskier’s blathering too much. Sometimes it’s... unique, not being constantly surrounded by silence. He wouldn’t call it nice, not be a long shot, but... it isn’t altogether unpleasant. Jaskier can make for entertaining company in his better moods, and he does keep things interesting. A routine pack of wargs can turn into a colorful job, so long as Jaskier is along to elaborate on it later. Geralt doubts he cuts such a striking figure “swinging his sword to the leaping beast’s belly”, as Jaskier’s latest gig claims, but...

Sometimes, it is nice not to be surrounded by silence. Even if that means putting up with Jaskier’s mouth more than he would like.

Case in point:

“Geralt.” A whine, then a cough, then a passionate sniffle. “Can we slow down? Please? I’ve asked thrice already —“

Four times. Geralt’s been counting. 

Gritting his teeth, he urges Roach a bit faster, conscious of the sound of struggling bard trailing a bit behind him. Jaskier makes no effort to be discreet when he moves, so Geralt can hear everything in perfect detail. The crunch of twigs beneath his heavy feet; the strain of his breaths, a bit more labored than they should be, a bit more congested; the way his chest rattles when he launches into another coughing fit. Even with a nasty cold, Jaskier’s loud.

“Just because I can’t catch it,” says Geralt once the latest fit has passed, “doesn't mean you need to cough on me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll be sure to aim my dying gasps towards the wilderness next time.” Backtalk is a talent Jaskier can’t help himself honing, even sick as a dog. His brows, foreword with childish petulance, draw even tighter together as he wraps both arms around himself, hunching in. A shiver courses through him; Geralt distinctly hears the rattle of chattering teeth. The second Jaskier catches his eyes lingering, however, he plays up his misery for the perceived audience, pouting and wiping at his face. Geralt rolls his eyes, looking away.

Geralt understands the patterns of many beasts, but Jaskier’s language was one of the easiest to learn. The Law of Jaskier: as long as he’s talking, he’s fine. 

And he hasn’t stopped talking since early this morning. No, not talking — complaining. Gods help him, Jaskier hasn’t stopped complaining.

He still stubbornly follows Geralt out on the road, however; in spite of his red nose and phelmgy cough, Jaskier refuses to be left behind. It wouldn’t be the first time he chose to linger in a particular village which Geralt went on ahead, but Jaskier insisted the last one one didn’t appeal to him — “Everyone looks half-starved there. No wonder, the food tastes like shit. At midnight I half-expect them all to gather into a mob, hunt down the nearest visiting bard, and fry him on a spit. I have just enough meat on my bones, Geralt, but I wouldn’t be tasty —“

That rant devolved into a coughing fit that left Jaskier doubled over on the side of the road for five minutes, gasping and heaving. Geralt actually had to stop and wait for him. By the time Jaskier recovered, raising himself shakily up from his knees on the dirt road, he looked a mess. His face was bright red, tears lingering at the corners of his eyes; his chest still heaved. That was the moment any sensible person would have turned back… but Jaskier simply steeled himself and carried on.

Fool of a bard, Geralt thinks now, listening to Jaskier’s heavy footsteps behind them. He’s lagging, slowing them both down. His scent has picked up something unfamiliar, an edge of sour sweetness that can only be a fever. At least he’s walking on his own… but he’s not walking fast, is the thing, and they have to walk fast if they want to reach the next town before nightfall. As it is, the prospect looks doubtful; Jaskier has slowed them enough already.

“As soon as we find a bed, I’m collapsing in it —“ Jaskier pauses to sniff again, and clear a hoarse throat. “Then not getting out for a year. A year, Geralt. You’ll have to — drag me by my feet or something.”

“Something,” Geralt agrees, his mind flashing to images of swords and steel. Oh, he’d get the damned bard out of bed.

The trail gets rougher as they make their way further into the mountains. Even Geralt stumbles in places, and he’s built for this sort of travel. He’s wearing the boots for it.  Jaskier is distinctly neither of these things. As Geralt’s must focus more of his attention on their way forward, he almost misses what’s going on behind him — the harshness of his companion’s breaths growing more and more labored, the way Jaskier’s coughs pick up force and frequency, the times he must stop — physically stop — to sneeze or hack his lungs out. Geralt tries to ignore it. He really does. But the fact that he almost manages, for about fifteen minutes, is what alerts him to a much more alarming fact.

Jaskier has stopped complaining.

As soon as Geralt realizes this, he jerks to a halt on the trail. Roach follows his lead… but Jaskier, his head down, doesn’t notice. Instead, he walks straight into Roach’s backside, nearly toppling off his feet. 

“Agh — damn it, Geralt.” Even his indignation sounds listless. “Give a man warning next time, will you?”

“How,” asks Geralt, through gritted teeth, “do you feel?”

Jaskier blinks, appearing to weigh the likelihood that his companion is genuinely concerned or just annoyed. Whatever he decides, he isn’t wrong. Instead of offering an answer, he makes an inarticulate ‘hmm-mmm’, shrugging his shoulders. Geralt’s hard gaze bores into him. Jaskier shrinks under it. After a moment, the pressure grows too much; he breaks. “My head is pounding, to be honest. Feels… dizzy. I don’t know. It’s cold out here.”

“You have a fever,” Geralt observes. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, then laughs softly, like he’s not surprised. “Right, yep, that makes sense. Figures you know me better than I do…”

He breaks off into another fit of coughing, which leaves his entire body quaking. Geralt has to actually grab his shoulder to steady him, just in case Jaskier should tumble over. As soon as he’s regained some kind of composure, though, Jaskier pulls away.

“I’ll be fine.” This time, there isn’t a trace of whine in his voice; he isn’t scraping the barrel for pity, but being deadly serious. “Not too long to the next village anyways, is it? I can make it.”

Geralt eyes him for a long moment, weighing the likelihood of getting there in a reasonable amount of time with Jaskier lagging behind. It’s not good. They’ve been making poor time as it is, because he’s had to slow his pace for the damned bard, but Geralt would prefer not to camp along the road overnight. (Because he doesn’t feel like sleeping on hard ground; not because Jaskier in his current state needs a warm bath and bed. Absolutely not.)

He sighs through his teeth. “Get on the horse.”

“What?”

Either Jaskier’s fever is high enough that he can no longer comprehend the common tongue, or he really is an idiot. “The horse,” Geralt emphasizes, patting Roach’s hindquarters in preemptive apology. “If you ride her, we may make it to the nearest village before nightfall.”

This is the one and only time Geralt has ever offered his precious horse; Jaskier knows this, as well as he knows this chance will never come around again. Maybe he’s just an opportunist. Maybe the promise of a roof over his head is that tempting. Either way, Jaskier doesn’t weigh his options for long before doing the sensible thing and getting on the damn horse.

Roach whinnies, making her displeasure at the entire situation clear. Jaskier isn’t helping matters, a dead weight on her back. The horse stamps her hooves, shuffling in dismay, but a look from Geralt chastises her. For the moment, getting the bard out of the woods will have to be more important than her dignity.

No, Geralt doesn’t like it either. One look at Jaskier’s face, though — the hollow-eyed pallor, and the distance, as though he’s drifted out to sea already — reminds him why it is necessary.

This time around, they are able to set a much faster pace. Roach keeps up, just as Geralt knew she would, even carrying the burden that is Jaskier. The sick man doesn’t help his case; rather than ride, Jaskier has both arms braces against Roach’s neck, clearly focused on just keeping his balance. There’s a precarious list to his posture which Geralt keeps an eye on, but he doesn’t actually fall; every time it seems like he might, he rights himself, and a new dawn of clarity rises over his face. It lasts only a moment, of course, before fading away… but it’s something.

It isn’t long before the woods begin to thin out. Geralt tracks their location by the trees, and by the hues of purple and gold beginning to blend together on the horizon. They haven’t far to go, and enough time to do it. Unless they run into any roaming monsters on the way…

He takes his eyes off Jaskier, and there’s the mistake. He forgets. When Jaskier was complaining, at least he was present; by airing his grievances he ensured that he could not be ignored. This quiet Jaskier is a foreign one, and Geralt isn’t used to him. So, he makes a mistake. He looks away, and doesn’t look back… until a gruesome thud echoes from behind him.

Geralt stops dead in his tracks. Roach lets out a distressed whinny. Jaskier says nothing at all.

“Fuck!” Geralt hisses, rushing back to the bard’s crumpled body. Face-down in the dirt, Jaskier makes no attempt to pull himself up. When Geralt hauls him upright with both hands on his shoulders, Jaskier groans, head lolling against his own chest. 

Mud stains his cheeks, and a bruise is sure to form where he hit the ground hard. Even when Geralt seizes his face, though — and damn it, he’s on fire, worse than Geralt thought — Jaskier proves incapable of focusing. An incoherent murmur passes through parted lips. It does exactly nothing to alleviate Geralt’s minor panic.

“Jaskier! Wake up!” Is he even asleep? Geralt can’t tell. “Say something!”

He means it, and the realization comes as an icy shock — never did he imagine he’d ever miss the bard’s incessant prattling. Yet in the sudden absence of Jaskier’s voice, silence rings louder than ever, and it’s smothering Geralt to death. He should have seen this, should have known, should have realized, damn it —

“Jaskier,” he hisses, hauling his companion to his feet. The full weight of Jaskier’s limp body melts against his own. When Jaskier’s burning forehead falls against Geralt’s shoulder, he shrugs, trying to rouse him… but nothing does the job. Even when Geralt, grumbling furiously, is forced to haul Jaskier back up onto Roach and leap up after him, the fever permits Jaskier to do little more than melt against him. His head lolls, eyes half-open and staring into nothing. Worse than it all, he is completely silent.

For once in his life, Geralt misses the damned bard’s complaining.

#the witcher #sickfic #jaskier #taylortut

[blaathers]

Redd and Blathers maybe,,,,,,,,,,,

send me a character and i’ll list... // accepting!

Redd redd redd redd --

favorite thing about them: he’s just... a bastard ok. an absolute swindling bastard and I love him for it. Not just that, but from his passwords and characterisation, he’s not JUST a bastard - he’s a very complex one! HE’S MULTIDIMENSIONAL AND I LOVE THAT ABOUT HIM. He’s also a very human example of “i didn’t do nothin’” but yOU DID. THIS IS ALL UR FAULT MAN. WHY YOU ALWAYS LYIN TO OTHERS AND URSELF.

least favorite thing about them: Obviously there’s that stuff that went down with my boy Nook. ;--; First, decency. Second, redd why did you have to be a materialistic jerk that was ur friend right there you should have lISTENED TO HIM -

favorite line: “You won’t regret it! ^^” REDD THAT PAINTING I BOUGHT WAS DEFINITELY GENUINE NO NEED TO BE SO OMINOUS ABOUT IT AND MAKE ME QUESTION ANY AND ALL LIFE DECISIONS

brOTP: Ooof... Redd is a lonely boy ;; I can’t really think of anything for this one since he doesn’t interact with that many people. All I got is Blathers rivalry & Redd bonding w/ the Nooklings and learning to be a better person from them... idk ... OH SNAP WISP AND REDD THO (pictured: toxi running to her graphics tablet)

OTP: I won’t go too much into this one since I know you’re not fond of it, but NookRedd! It just. Has to be written a certain way for me. Like please acknowledge what they had was unhealthy and unless Redd goes through some crazy character development ( AND HES INHERENTLY AWFUL / SELFISH SO THAT’D TAKE A LOT ), it still will be. also just saying now but hateships are valid af. both interpretations rule.

nOTP: Same case as brOTP tbh. pLEASE LET HIM INTERACT WITH MORE PEOPLE, NINTENDO.

random headcanon: The reason Redd turned out like he did was because he was scapegoated for being a fox all his life. This is why he’s so jaded and fake, because he’s met MANY people in his time who were the same, even when he was nice to them. Self-fufilling prophecy y’all. Also another reason why he squints at the islanders’ kindness.

unpopular opinion: redd is clearly a bad guy here (esp next to nook, who isn’t even a bad guy at all). nook is an honest businessman who cares about people and redd scams innocent people for money who cares about no one. why is this even controversy

song i associate with them: This only reminds me I need to make a playlist for him, but this one maybe?

favorite picture of them: grabs a blog icon i made that RUINED ME AND THIS POST

and blathers --

favorite thing about them: HE’S A NERD. I LOVE HIM SO MUCH. HE’S SO PASSIONATE ABOUT HIS STUFF AND THAT MAKES ME SO HAPPY. in the ova he will ramble on and on shamelessly and i love him so much. HES ALSO JUST??? really cool??? SQUARES DOWN WITH REDD WHEN HE TRIES TO CON BREWSTER. TRIES TO GET OVER HIS FEAR OF BUGS FOR CELESTE’S SAKE. HE’S DOING HIS BEST. i dont care if that was more than one thing in this house we sTAN BLATHERS THE OWL

least favorite thing about them: i love blathers with all my being what is this nonsense

favorite line: definitely the line about being chased onto his car by a snapping turtle that one makes me laugh so much

brOTP: w/ Nook!! Their friendship makes me so emotional. T--T I also saw this hc around somewhere that Tom helped pay off Blathers’ student loans and i love it so much. Also Brewster. ALSO FLICK AND BLATHERS. WE TALKED ABOUT THAT ONE TOO AND IM STILL EMO. I need to draw them T--T

OTP: Not sure who I ship with him tbh. :thinking emoji:

nOTP: Tbh kinda with Nook? Mostly because I’m not sure about the age range. Nintendo aren’t clear across the games ;--;

random headcanon: since redd is also in this post, redd is banned from the museum. insert montage of redd trying to sneak in and blathers constantly kicking him out.

unpopular opinion: Blathers treats all the bugs with respect... and that means he goes into the bug exhibit armed in tactical gear to make sure this is done correctly! they’re the bane of his existence, but he will look after them u-u also he’s very scared of bugs and was traumatized just let him live

song i associate with them: wonders, by the script. T--T

favorite picture of them: I would defend that smile w/ my life

#asks #i wrote all of redd's section again JUST FOR REDD #HE WOULD NEVER APPRECIATE IT BUT I DID IT ANYWAY #slightly-gay-pogohammer

[avengerofyourheart]

Cheap Thrills (reader x Bucky Oneshot)

Characters: reader, Natasha, Sam, Clint, Tony, Bucky, OC Mark. 

Summary: A bet within the Avengers becomes a battle of the sexes, with you at the center of it. Who will be victorious and could it somehow help you snag the man of your dreams? 

Song Inspiration: Cheap Thrills by Sia

Warnings: drinking, sexist behavior? Mild violence mentioned, very subtle mention of sexy times. 

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: This was supposed to be a short one, but eh. I’ve been living in the land of heavy angst with You are My Heaven and intense stress in my real life so when this fun, fluffy idea popped up, I ran with it. I’m working on a lot of other stuff so be patient, please! As always, I appreciate your feedback. Love each and every one of you!! 

Masterlist

_________________________________________________________

“Uh uh. No way.”

“It’s true, trust me.”

“You wanna bet?” Clint challenged the redhead across the table from him.

Natasha leaned forward and held his gaze, not an ounce of doubt in her demeanor. “Absolutely.”

It was too early in the morning for this childish banter, you thought from your seated position at the far end of the long kitchen table. You slumped forward, dipping the tea bag in and out of the steaming mug of liquid before you, then setting it on the small saucer beside it. Wrapping your hands around the cup’s warmth, your eyes unfocused as you continued to tune out the blathering of your teammates. The only other person in the room paying them no mind was Bucky, who was slouched in a cozy chair, thoroughly engrossed in a book.

“Now wait a minute,” a third voice joined the argument, “If we’re gonna do this, we gotta level the playing field a little. Nat could do this in her sleep. We need someone a little more…down to earth. How about Y/N?” Sam gestured toward you.

Blinking a few times, you finally broke out of your stupor. “Hey! I was only half listening to your stupidity, but I think I’m offended.”

Sam smiled apologetically, “I’m just saying, you did say ANY girl could do it with the right tools…”

Your eyes widened, fuzzy brain finally catching up to what they were implying.

“And I meant what I said…” Nat clarified, a wicked smile growing on her painted lips as she met your eye.

“Oh no…” you groaned.

___________

12 hours later, you found yourself squeezed into a much shorter and tighter dress than you would ever normally wear. You perched on a barstool, playing with a thin red straw in between sips of your fruity drink. It wasn’t difficult to act bored and alone at a club, as you were instructed to do so. Any other Friday night, you would be back in the comfy sweatshirt and yoga pants you were wearing this morning, perfectly happy to be marathoning something on Netflix. However, after Nat got a hold of you, you barely recognized yourself. Nails painted, hair expertly styled and feet strapped into a sexy pair of heels, you were ready to party. Theoretically.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like going out on the town. Clubs just weren’t your thing and wearing uncomfortable, borrowed clothing wasn’t at the top of your list of enjoyable activities. But this was Natasha’s game; you were merely playing your part.

Taking a sip of your drink, you caught the eye of a good-looking man at the far side of the bar. Looking away quickly with a smile, you then turned back to find him still staring. You held his gaze for a solid 6 seconds before glancing down bashfully, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. When you raised your eyes, the man was heading up the bar toward you. Gotcha.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offered with a smile, getting the bartender’s attention.

“I’d love that, thank you,” you accepted, gesturing for him to sit beside you as the bartender approached.

“A drink for the lady, a uh…” he waited for you to respond.

“Vodka Cranberry. Thank you.”

“I’m Mark,” he introduced himself, offering his hand.

“Y/N,” you responded, briefly grasping it in a shake. Firm, but not too firm.

Conversation flowed for a good ten minutes, at which point Mark asked you to dance. He led you onto the dance floor and you let the beat take over, dipping and swaying your hips from side to side. Hands in the air, you threw your head back and felt the rhythm flow through you. This was the part you enjoyed. Ridiculous as this night had been, you did love dancing. Except for that one guy who got a little who hands-y. You had taught him a lesson, though, and sent him on his way only slightly worse for the wear.

Mark was the fourth guy you had been able to snag tonight. It was a little absurd how easy it was. At the beginning of the night, you had walked right through the velvet rope into the club with a mention of one of Natasha’s aliases. No cover charge. All night you had used different tactics. Brash and boastful: approaching a man and demanding, “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink, handsome?” with a slight pout. Next was dancing suggestively and hooking your finger toward a guy at the bar, enticing him to dance with you. Then there was the “You look familiar, don’t I know you from somewhere?” approach, which had worked with the hands-y guy, unfortunately. Lastly, there was the bored, lonely woman seen from across the bar that worked on Mark.

You actually hadn’t wanted Natasha to be right, but somehow the evidence was in her favor. An afternoon of coaching from her and the perfect outfit, you had the men eating out of your hand. Ridiculous, really. There wasn’t any genuine interest in any of the men on your part, in fact you’d had your eye on someone else for a while. The experiment alone kept you going, so after a little time spent with each man, you faked a phone call or ducked into the bathroom until he lost interest. Thankfully your head was clear, the four “cocktails” bought for you actually being all Cranberry and no vodka. You had explained the situation to the bartender beforehand and he agreed to your charade with an amused smile.

A few songs blend into each other as you lose yourself in the beat, Mark’s hands on your hips with a sheen of sweat upon your skin. The dancing was fun, but you were getting tired and figured your point had been made. Suddenly opening the small clutch purse in your hand, you pretended to read a new message you had falsely felt buzzing from your phone. You faked a look of shock on your face and immediately stopped dancing, making your way to the edge of the dance floor.

“What? What’s wrong?” He had followed you.

“I’m, uh…I have to go. Family emergency. I have leave right now, I’m sorry, uh…” You had forgotten his name. 

“Mark. I understand. Can I walk you out?”

You nodded somberly, gathering your jacket from coat check. One of the perks of a high-end club. Stepping outside into the cooler night air, the noise level dropped to an almost deafening silence. A few cars passed and you paused, considering how far to take this. Sucking in shallow breaths, you let yourself get worked up about this supposed-emergency.

“What’s that name of the, um…that app? For rides? I d—don’t…I can’t remember…” you became flustered.

Mark gently placed a hand over yours, “Hey, hey…it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a cab.”

He stepped into the street and whistled, easily bringing a taxi to a stop right in front of you. Quite impressive, actually. He opened the door for you, but spoke before you could slide in.

“Y/N, I’m sorry about…whatever you have going on. I’ll cover cab fare. How far are you going? All I want in return is…your phone number?” he asked, hope in his surprisingly kind eyes. You almost felt bad for deceiving him.

“Oh, um…”

In the time that you hesitated, a large man had silently stepped up to the pair of you, taking ahold of the taxi door.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve got it from here,” the long-haired brunette spoke sternly.

“Bucky? What’re you doing here?” you gawked.

“Who the hell…Y/N, do you know this guy?” asked a confused Mark.

“Yes, he’s a…friend. I’m sorry I have to go,” you muttered and stepped into the cab with Bucky sliding in after you, the car speeding off seconds later.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded gesturing to the scene you had just left behind. “I knew what I was doing and I didn’t need rescuing. Nat and I had a plan in place. I would give an address a few blocks from the Tower and she would pick me up. Even a fake phone number matching the burner phone in my purse in case he checked it. I’m no damsel in distress, Bucky. I can handle myself just fine,” you assured him, slumping back against the car seat after finishing your rant.

There was a moment of silence followed by his swift exhale. “I know you can.”

You heart flipped in your chest. “What?”

“I know you can protect yourself, I never worried about that. In fact, I was pretty impressed with how you handled the jerk who tried to grope you. Subtle knee to the groin and a few choice words to get him to leave, I’m guessing?” Bucky smirked in your direction.

A smile tugged at your lips, chest swelling with pride. “Something like that. What were you doing there anyway? You hate clubs possibly more than I do.”

The taxi paused under a street light, finally giving you a chance to take in the muscular man beside you wearing his usual apparel of jeans and a snug Henley. He had thrown on a leather jacket and left his shoulder-length hair down. Not exactly suited for clubbing, but for him it was a good look. Although for Bucky, there was really no such thing as a “bad look”.

“I was, uh…supervising the operation,” he answered, staring straight ahead as he cleared his throat.

Taking in his body language and inability to look your way, you narrowed your eyes at him in suspicion. “You were watching me.”

He scoffed, “What? I…no, I was observing from a safe distance. You know, so both sides could accurately decide the outcome.”

Folding your arms, you doubted his claims. “Uh huh. Whatever you say…”

“So how did it go? Have we reached a verdict?” he asked in curiosity, eventually meeting your gaze.

“I’d call it a success. A whole night of drinks, dancing, and debauchery without spending a dime. That was the wager, correct? Although I don’t recall you being included in the bet, so I will repeat my question: what were you doing at the club?” you inquired, quirking an eyebrow.

Bucky had been in the room when Clint, Sam, Natasha, and yourself had agreed to the stakes of the bet, so clearly he had overheard. Natasha hypothesized that any woman could use her feminine wiles to get what she wanted without having to pay for anything for an entire night. Clint and Sam had more faith in men, claiming that a fluttering of eyelashes and well-fitting dress wasn’t enough to turn their heads and open their wallets. Clearly the scales were tipped in your favor considering Nat was literally schooled in seduction, but agreements were made and consequences offered when the winner was chosen. One more cab ride and you would know for sure.

“I was…curious,” Bucky began.

“About what?”

“I wanted to see you all dolled up,” he blushed at his admission.

Placing a thumb and finger on either side of his chin, you turned his face toward you before releasing him.

“And?”

“You look gorgeous, Y/N, no matter what. I like your casual look but it was interesting to see this different side of you. Definitely turned my head, along with a few too many others for my liking…” he trailed off with a clench of his fists.

“Careful there, Sarge. I’m not sure green is your color,” you grinned.

“What, me? Jealous? I wasn’t…I’m not….” he struggled to finished his sentence, but you got the point, your smile fading.  

Just then the cab came to a stop outside Avengers Tower.

You saved the both of you from humiliation by speaking first. “Relax, Barnes. I was joking. Besides, I don’t know why it matters. You’ve never shown any interest in the past, so why should you be jealous?” you answered cooly. Despite your calm demeanor, you were hurt. You’d been crushing on Bucky for a few months now, but it seemed your subtle flirting had all been for naught.

You climbed out of the cab quickly as a grateful escape, leaving Bucky to select a few bills and hand them to the driver before following you to the door. He stopped you before entering the building.

“Wait! Wait, Y/N,” he lightly grasped your wrist, suddenly nervous now that you were face to face. “You’re right, I might have been a little jealous. Truthfully, if you hadn’t handled that hands-y douche yourself I might have ripped his arms off. No one deserves to be treated that way, regardless. But even with the other guys…I just wanted to be the one who caught your attention and, you know… flirted with you and danced with and….”

Struck with courage by the words tumbling out of his mouth, you grasped his face in your hands. Eyes flicking down to his plush mouth, you leaned forward as he felt the shift in the atmosphere and grew silent, then meeting you half way. Your lips brushed his lightly at first, then becoming more heated, each of you nipping and pressing and tasting. Bucky’s arms encircled your waist to pull you closer, your hands lost in his chestnut strands. The flame of desire began to consume you, warmth emanating from your belly outward. Your lungs were on fire, desperate for oxygen. A loud car horn sounded, startling you. Breaking apart suddenly, you took a step back with chests heaving.

Before you could speak or react, a sleek, expensive car pulled up to the curb and an angry redhead climbed out.

“What’s the matter with you, Barnes? She had it all under control. You jeopardized the whole operation,” yelled Natasha as she approached the two of you, then taking in your rumpled clothes, tousled hair, and blushing faces.

You cleared your throat and smoothed your dress with your hands. “Don’t worry, the evening was a success and we have a clear winner: us,” you grinned triumphantly.

“What?” both Nat and Bucky asked simultaneously.

“We won. It all went according to plan and I didn’t need money for anything. Which is a good thing, because…” You grabbed the clutch purse you had dropped on the ground, then opening it. You removed the cheap burner phone before turning the clutch upside down to show nothing else inside. “I didn’t have a backup plan for that. Luckily, Bucky was willing to help our cause. He paid for the cab home.”

A smile stretched across Natasha’s lips to match your own, then facing Bucky.

He finally understood your meaning, cursing his chivalry. “Dammit.”

“I ain’t got cash, but I got you, baby,” you teased with an affectionate pat of his stubbled cheek.

“Alright, I’ll see you two upstairs. Nice job tonight, Y/N,” Nat winked at you before climbing into the car and peeling out to return it to Tony’s garage.

Returning your gaze to Bucky, you saw a look of hurt and disappointment upon his face.

“So…I was just part of the plan?”

You immediately sobered, “No. Absolutely not. There may have been a lot of faking for me tonight, but this?” You pressed a lingering but gentle kiss to his lips. “This was anything but fake.”

A bashful smile returned to his face as you grasped his hand and pulled him inside.

_____________

The following morning, you were snuggled on the couch with a mug of tea. Natasha sat beside you with her usual cup of coffee, enjoying the view as much as you were.

“I can’t believe you’re making us do this. It’s ridiculous and demeaning,” Sam protested, tightening the tool belt around his waist.

“Oh, and the French maid outfits you originally selected for us isn’t? If you get to be sexist, then so do we,” you declared, raising a hand toward Nat and she smacked it.

“That’s right, boys. Now that you’re properly dressed for the job, here is your project,” the redhead smirked, pointing to several thin boxes leaning against the far wall.

Since you and Nat had won the bet, your punishment for the boys had now come to fruition. Sam, Clint, and Bucky were all three shirtless with tool belts slung on their hips and each wearing a hard hat.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Wilson. I know I look good,” Clint flexed as he sauntered over to the boxes and examined them.

“Oh, I’m confident in my body, that’s no problem. Those little Allen wrenches, they’re the issue. Why do we have the tool belt if all we need is that stupid tiny wrench? And isn’t the hard hat a bit overkill?” Sam questioned as he surveyed the instructions.

“Uh uh. The hat and belt completes the look. You agreed to this, fellas,” you smirked.

Clint piped up, “I am curious why Metal Man is here. When did he become a part of this?”

“When he chose to interfere and nearly sabotaged our plan. So he gets proper punishment, like the two of you,“ Natasha answered.

You could tell Bucky was uncomfortable, crossing his arms over his bare, sculpted chest. The weighted tool belt tugged his jeans down a little more than usual, offering a delicious trail of dark hair down his defined ab muscles. You caught his eye, though, and gave him a wink. He returned it with a smile as memories of the events last night caused your cheeks to flush.

After Natasha left the two of you downstairs, a few kisses led to a heated make-out session in the elevator which was followed by a swift removal of clothing in your bedroom. This morning, you could feel the soreness in certain previously underused muscles after so much heavenly activity. No regrets though. Feeling a bit more confident under your admiring gaze, Bucky joined the other men and began to unpack the contents of the boxes.

Just then, Tony walked past the common room which all five of you currently inhabited and headed for the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and grabbed a bottle of expensive sparkling water, taking a swig. As he turned around, he surveyed the scene before him for the first time.

“Clearly I missed something,” he spoke, walking forward slowly. “I didn’t know the Village People were in town.” You and Natasha snorted. “And what is that pile of crap doing in here?”

“Hey, now, that’s not a nice thing to say about Barnes. Only I’m allowed to insult him,” Sam joked, while Bucky glared at him.

“Shut up, Wilson!” you snarled, throwing a book in his direction and feeling victorious when he winced as it struck his thigh.

“Actually,” Tony clarified, “I was talking about that pile of scrap wood the Swedish dare to call furniture.”

As part of the punishment for the men, not only were they to dress like hot pin-up construction workers, they also had to physically construct something. So you came up with the idea of IKEA bookshelves.

“Don’t worry, Tony, they’re going in my room. It’s mostly just to prove a point and piss them off. They lost a bet,” you explained.

“Wait a minute. You three actually bet against these women who are clearly smarter than you and they literally took the shirts off your backs?” Tony gestured to you currently wearing Bucky’s Henley over your pajamas and Nat had slipped on Clint’s sweatshirt.

The men avoided Tony’s gaze, unwilling to respond.

“Basically, yeah,” you grinned proudly.

The billionaire narrowed his eyes at the men, “Well, I’m a little ashamed of my gender, but nicely done ladies.” You and Natasha held up a hand and he slapped each one as he walked behind the couch and out of the room. “You’re cleaning up the mess when you’re done, fellas,” he hollered from the hallway.

“Would you like to wear the maid outfits for that part, gentlemen?” you joked, eliciting a snort from Natasha.

“You know,” Bucky strolled over to you, hands resting on the arm of the couch. “That was a cheap trick, getting me to pay for the cab.”

You smiled, tugging on his belt loops as he leaned down for a kiss. “I know. But I do love cheap thrills.”

_______________________________________________________

Heyooooo. Now that’s some eye candy. I hope that was kinda fun! I’ve been using this song to pump me up to get stuff done after long days at work when all I really wanna do is sleep. :) I appreciate any comments, asks, replies, messages, whatever. I love talking to you guys! Hopefully I’ll be able to finish the other fics I’ve been working on, but work has been kicking my trash. Fingers crossed!! 

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