C's corner: I toned it down this week from the smut and headed into rom-com vibes territory. Hope you enjoy.
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WARNINGS: none really, just stubborness, slapstick fall on ice, accidental crotch landing, holiday fic.
SUMMARY:
John Walker refuses to make two trips from the car in icy holiday weather because, in his mind, that’s basically surrender. You’re behind him scolding the whole way… right up until gravity intervenes, the groceries explode, and you slip trying to help, landing in the worst possible place. The eggs survive. His pride does not.
The cold bites like it's personal.
Your breath ghosts out in little puffs as you trudge up the last stretch of walkway, boots crunching over salt and stubborn patches of ice that refuse to admit defeat.
The porch light paints everything a warm, honeyed glow that would be romantic if you weren't currently carrying exactly one bag with exactly two sad onions in it while John Walker has decided to become a one man grocery convoy.
He's got plastic handles looped around both wrists, stacked up his forearms, two more clenched in his hands like trophies. A baguette sticks out of the crook of his elbow like it's trying to escape the situation.
"You're being ridiculous," you call, your voice sharp with worry and the kind of affection that always sounds like a scolding. "John, you are not a pack mule. We live on the second floor."
He doesn't even turn around. He just lifts his chin like a man who's survived war and refuses to be taken out by a second trip from the car.
"I'm not making two trips," he announces, like he's delivering a mission briefing. "It's cold. It's slippery. I'm efficient."
"You're stubborn."
"Same thing," he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
You close the distance behind him, the single bag in your hand swinging like a very passive aggressive purse. "If you slip, I'm not carrying you."
"You couldn't carry me."
"You'd be surprised what rage can do."
He huffs a laugh, steps up onto the first stair… and then the universe decides it's time to humble him.
It happens in slow motion and also too fast, like your brain can't pick a lane.
His boot hits an ice patch. His foot shoots forward. His arms, full of bags, flail in a heroic attempt at balance that has the exact energy of a man trying to out stubborn physics.
For half a second, he looks over his shoulder at you with wide eyes. There's a brief, wounded betrayal in his expression, as if he's personally offended the ground would do this.
Then he goes down. Not gracefully, not even a little.
He lands on his backside with a WHUMP that echoes off the building, the bags exploding around him like confetti at the world's most humiliating parade.
A bundle of bananas skitters across the walkway. A carton of eggs makes a miraculous, wobbling stop two inches from disaster. Something in a bag clinks like it's judging him.
And you?
You lose it.
A laugh bursts out of you so sharp it almost hurts, the kind that sneaks up and steals your dignity. You clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes watering.
John is frozen on the step, half sitting, half sprawled, staring at the sky like he's considering pressing charges.
"You done?" he manages, wincing. "Or you need to reenact my death scene a few more times?"
You laugh harder.
"Babe," he warns, voice low and scandalized. "This is an injury. I'm a victim."
"A victim of your own hubris," you choke out, wiping at your eyes. "Y-you looked like a tree falling in a storm," you gasp, clutching your stomach. "Just… timb..." Another peel of laughter cuts you off.
His glare flickers into a reluctant smile, because even he can't argue with that. "You are the worst caregiver."
Eventually, you wrestle your laughter back under control, wiping at your eyes.
Guilt nudges its way in past the hilarity when you see him still sprawled there, trying to shift with all the bags tangled around his arms.
"Okay, okay," you say, stepping forward carefully. "Are you... are you hurt? Tell me you're not hurt."
"I'm fine," he says immediately, then adjusts and winces in a way that suggests he is, in fact, not fine.
"John."
"I'm fine," he insists, but the words come out slightly higher pitched, which is always a bad sign with him.
You crouch, reaching out a hand to his shoulder. "Let me help you up."
He takes your hand like he's accepting assistance from an enemy combatant.
"Slow," you tell him, gentle now, because the laugh is still fizzing under your ribs but worry has slid in beside it. "Don't move too..."
He shifts his weight to sit up and you, in your concern, step a little closer.
Your boot finds the same traitorous ice patch.
The world tilts.
Your stomach drops, your arms windmill, and your brain has time for exactly one thought:
Oh no. Not like this.
You slip, feet shooting out from under you, and gravity snatches you by the ankles and says, go meet your boyfriend.
You go.
Directly.
Right into his lap.
Except his lap is… not a lap. Not really.
Your body lands with full, unfiltered certainty right on top of his most delicate pride and joy region.
His breath leaves him in a strangled, high pitched sound you have never heard from him before.
"NGH—!"
The world freezes.
His eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out for half a beat, and then he sucks in a breath like he's just been personally unplugged from the universe.
"Oh my... John!" you gasp, scrambling instantly, hands splayed on his chest for balance. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."
He grabs your wrist, not rough, just desperate, like he needs to anchor himself to Earth. His face is locked in a strained expression of someone trying to stay conscious through sheer spite.
"Give me… a second," he manages, voice strangled.
You shift instinctively, trying to take weight off him, but the slight drag has him sucking in another pained breath.
"Stay still," he chokes. "Stay exactly where you are. Do not move. You're… making it worse."
You slap a hand over your mouth again, except this time it's to stop yourself from laughing and crying at the same time. "Oh my God, I just... I assaulted you with my entire body."
He grimaces. "You weaponized affection."
"I swear I was trying to help."
"You did," he says, and his voice drops into that familiar roughness even through the agony. "You just… helped too aggressively."
Your lips twitch. "This is why people make two trips, John."
"Don't," he warns, eyes squeezing shut. "Do not 'I told you so' me while you're sitting on my... ngh... reproductive future."
That does it.
The laughter breaks out again, louder this time, spilling over in helpless bursts. You drop your forehead to his chest, shoulders shaking.
He huffs out something that eventually turns into a reluctant laugh too, even through the pain. One gloved hand lifts, slow and careful, to settle on your back.
"Y'know, there are better ways to tell me you're into me," he manages hoarsely. "Less catastrophic ones."
You lift your head, still giggling, breath frosting the air between you.
"Look, if gravity wants you, who am I to stand in its way?" you say. "This is all science's fault."
"Oh, sure, blame physics," he mutters. "Not the human anvil who just pile drove my manhood."
You soften, guilt threading under the humor. One of your hands moves up to his cheek, thumb brushing at the cold-reddened skin there.
He looks at you for a long second, blue eyes still a little watery, breathing evening out.
"I will be," he says, voice low, "once I can feel my soul again. And once we get off the ice before you finish me off."
"Fair," you murmur.
Very carefully, very slowly, you shift your weight, bracing your boots better this time and pushing yourself up off him. He groans but in a less "I'm dying" way and more "this sucks but I'll live" way.
You bite your lip, eyes darting to the scattered groceries. "The eggs survived," you offer weakly.
John stares at you like the eggs have personally betrayed him too.
Then, incredibly, he starts to laugh, low and pained, the sound shaking in his chest.
"You're laughing?" you whisper, half relieved, half horrified.
"It's either laugh," he says, breath hitching, "or accept that I got taken out by ice and my own girlfriend in the same thirty seconds."
Your laugh bubbles out again, softer this time, more shaky. "I'm never going to live this down."
"Oh, you're living it down," he says, voice hoarse. "You literally lived it down. On me."
"Stop!" you squeal, covering your face.
He reaches up, tugging your hand away so he can look at you properly. His eyes are bright, cheeks pink from cold and humiliation and the fact that he's ridiculous even when he's suffering.
"Hey," he says, gentler now. "I'm okay."
You search his face, serious for a heartbeat. "Promise?"
"Promise," he says. "But we're never telling anyone."
You blink. "Agreed."
"Not Bucky, not Yelena, not..."
"Not even the mailman," you vow solemnly.
He squeezes your hand. "Good."
A gust of wind cuts through the walkway, reminding both of you that you are currently lying on icy concrete surrounded by bananas and dignity fragments.
You glance at the bags. "So… the whole 'no second trip' plan."
John lifts his head just enough to look at the grocery chaos, then lets it drop back dramatically. "The plan," he says, "has evolved."
"Into what?"
"Into you carrying the bags."
You narrow your eyes. "You just said I can't carry you."
He smiles, slow and smug even as he winces. "I didn't say anything about carrying groceries."
You snort, then reach forward, brushing a kiss to his forehead. "Okay, Captain Efficiency. Let's get you inside."
He holds out both arms. "Up."
"John..."
"Up," he insists, voice turning all soft command. "I'm not staying on the ground like a discarded action figure."
You brace your boots, careful of the ice now, slide an arm behind his back, and help haul him up with the exaggerated patience of someone handling a very stubborn piece of furniture.
He stands, shaky for a second, then straightens, rolling his shoulders like he's trying to pretend this didn't happen.
You point at him immediately. "No hero walking. If you're dizzy, if you're hurting, if you..."
"I'm not..."
"John."
His jaw tightens. Then he exhales. "Fine."
"Good." You scoop up the bananas first like they're evidence. "Inside. And you're getting an ice pack."
He grumbles. "I don't need..."
"You do. And you're drinking water."
He looks offended. "Water?"
"You got hit by… me. That counts as an impact injury."
His eyes flick over your face, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "God, you're cute when you're bossy."
"Move," you warn, but you're smiling too.
You both shuffle inside, the warm air hitting your faces, the door clicking shut behind you like it's sealing away the scene of the crime.
You kick off your boots, grab the nearest grocery bag, and start ferrying items inside in rapid, angry efficiency.
John leans against the counter, watching you with the look of a man who has lost a battle but won the war because you're still here, still fussing, still laughing under your breath.
He clears his throat. "You know…"
You glance over. "What."
"If you wanted to jump me," he says carefully, "you could've just said so."
You whip a dish towel at his chest. "I DID NOT JUMP YOU."
He catches it, grinning. "Felt like it."
"You're unbelievable."
"And yet," he says, stepping closer, slower this time, hands settling at your waist with gentle certainty, "you're still gonna kiss me."
You try to glare, but his fingers are warm through your sweater and his eyes are bright with that stupid, impossible tenderness.
So you give in.
You kiss him, quick and sweet, then another that lingers, your forehead pressed to his.
"I'm sorry," you murmur against his mouth.
He hums. "Apology accepted."
"And you're not carrying all the bags again."
He sighs, dramatic. "Fine."
"Say it."
"I will not carry all the bags again," he recites like it's torture.
You smile, satisfied. "Good."
He leans in, voice low, playful. "But for the record…"
You tilt your head. "For the record?"
He smirks. "Next time you land on me like that, I'd prefer it without the ice and in a bed."
Your face heats instantly. "John!"
He laughs, truly laughing now, and pulls you into his arms like the whole world is warm and safe and yours.
Outside, the ice can keep being smug.
Inside, you've got him upright, your groceries intact, and a new shared secret that will haunt you both forever.
Or at least until the next time John Walker decides gravity is optional.
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Well accidents happen. As erotica webtoon artist has his assistant Mu Yeong (KO CHAN BIN) pose in a somewhat compromising position. And after tripping over a throw pillow Seon Ho (SONG SEUNG HYUN) joins his assistant in the compromising position just as his producer walks in. (Awkward!)
Another fanfiction, this time inspired by Lvngdvns Crimeverse. And still full of misspelling and conjugation of course !
Something was wrong. Duncan took out a cigarette, which one of his henchmen quickly lit, and he watched the surroundings as he exhaled. James, the man he was meeting with would be there any minute. The place was deserted, his agents had checked that there were no problems. The guy was an old customer, he did not have much to fear. And if he tried something, he would be dead even before he had moved a finger. But something was very wrong. Michael was late. Michael was never late. He should have arrived well before him, be the first to check the premises, to give orders. Then he would have stood with him, slightly behind, ready to take out his famous knives. He would have lit a cigarette and tended it to Duncan. Where was he ? If he had a problem with another case, he would have warned him. If he had been attacked, he would have already brought back his assailant to allow Duncan to play with him before he finished the man. Duncan could not imagine Michael losing. But what if he was shot by a sniper? Surprised by a whole group of assassins? No, it was not time to panic. James was coming, he had to keep calm and focus on this exchange. One thing at a time.
The agreement was found very quickly. James was not stupid, he knew he was not interested in looking for trouble. But he made the mistake of asking where Pretty boy was. His absence was noticeable, the atmosphere was not as tense as usual. He knew, just when the question had escaped him, that he had to be very careful about the next words he was about to say. Duncan was visibly upset. His face remained stoical, but it emanated from him a murderous aura. He seemed to say, "Why, why are you interested in it, you know something?" No, he did not know anything. He had just noticed that Michael was not there. And Michael was always there, like a good watchdog. Everyone had noticed it and everyone knew it was not normal. A dispute maybe ? Trouble in paradise ? If he wanted to live, he had to change the subject quickly. Very quickly. He did his best to speak only of the agreement, possible future collaborations, but the look Duncan gave him... If a look could kill.
"I hope ..., James stammered, I hope we do business again. All together."
"Yes. All together", Duncan repeated icily. Then he threw his cigarette butt at his feet and walked to his car. James would live. This time.
Once in the car, Duncan immediately called Michael. No answer. He tells the driver to go faster. Or rather, he screamed at the driver, who hastened to accelerate. Something bad must have happened. "No, no, no," Duncan kept repeating to himself, calling Michael again and again, still falling on the voice mail. Michael was not at the office. Nobody had seen him all day. Duncan rushed to their apartment. Empty. No sign of struggle, no blood. Maybe he was with (Y/N) ? But he would have dropped out. He would have called. He decided to call them, and, surprise, no answer. He calls the office, and they have not seen (Y/N) either. Nobody knows where they are. Duncan was starting to panic. Did someone hurt (Y/N) ? Was Michael in a fight ? Was they being hurt ? Or worse ? And he, he was useless. The Brain of the team, the Boss. Unable to protect his lovers. Preferring to make a shabby deal, rather than looking for them, than to come and help them. Was it to late ?
For the first time in years, Duncan Shepherd starts crying... with rage. And he begins to destroy everything that comes to hand. The living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. Everything. He is still crying, tears refusing to stop flowing. He swings the chairs against the walls, kicks the cutlery he has previously knocked down in his madness. Where are they ?! Hysterical, he calls Kai to knows if they have some news. If they found something, anything. He tries to calm down, but too late, Kai panics. The whole office panics. At the other end of town, even James panics. If someone dared to touch (Y/N) (which is stupid), if someone had the brilliant idea of picking on Michael (which is REALLY stupid), then this man is dead. Duncan will track him down, torture him for days, weeks, and kill him as slowly as possible. Everyone knew what had happened to Dandy. The fool had thought that insulting (Y/N) would not have too much consequence. He had just insulted them. Nothing really bad. The cops who had discovered his corpse still had nightmares.
Duncan ends up crumbling on the couch. The crying and carnage had exhausted him. He was scared to see, looking at the ceiling without saying anything.
"What's that fucking mess?"
Michael. Michael was there, behind him. Safe and sound. Duncan turned slowly, aware of the pathetic scene he was offering to his lover. And at (Y/N), who was looking at him with big, bewildered eyes. (Y/N) whose left arm was in a plaster. Duncan got up quickly to go to them, to see if they were injured elsewhere.
"What happened ?" he asked.
"It's up to you to tell us, said Michael. Did you want to change the decoration? We could have hired professionals."
Michael was making fun of him. Nicely but after that day, Duncan was not in the mood. He grabbed him by the collar, thrown him against a wall and shouted at him: "Where were you ?! You did not come to the meeting, you did not pick up, (Y/N) is wounded ! Tell me, NOW !"
"It's ... it's my fault", said (Y/N) in a small voice. They were defending Michael. It only made him angrier. Without releasing his grip, he turned to his other lover, taking a calmer tone.
"Kitten ... It's not your fault. It's not your univers, it's up to us to protect you."
"But...", they said shyly.
"No. If there are wrongdoers, it's Michael and me. I should have been there, he should have avoided that."
And there, against all odds, Michael giggled. Just a little bit. He laughed while talking about the security of (Y/N). Duncan had to restrain himself so as not to strangle him. The relationship between Michael and (Y / N) was complicated. They often quarreled, but they cared for each other. At least that's what he thought.
"That makes you laugh ?"
"Yes", said Michael, who had picked up a neutral expression, but still seemed a little amused.
"I'll give you a reason to laugh."
It was then that (Y/N) intervened, placing themselves between him and Michael. They seemed scared by the turn of events, and a little... ashamed?
"Duncan, it's my fault. I fell !"
"During a fight? A leak ? Michael pushed you?"
"No !" Michael and (Y/N) had spoken at the same time. (Y/N) seemed to hesitate for a moment, stamping on the spot. Michael just readjusted his shirt.
"I just... fell in my bath. And... I broke my arm. Michael was waiting for me in my living room, he came to help me and his phone fell into the water. He noticed it when we were in the hospital... "
(Y/N) 's face was now crimson. Cute. So that was all? A bathing story, nothing more. He had almost killed James, he had screamed at all the employees, he had destroyed the apartment and he was about to hit Michael ... because of a bath.
"I'm sorry", blew (Y/N).
"Not me, said Michael suddenly. It was very fun."
Duncan had a little mischievous smile. He approached Michael as if he were going to kiss her and whispered in his ear : "Because you saw our kitten naked ? You like to see our kitten naked?" Michael became very pale. He stared at Duncan, then (Y / N) who had not heard anything, and then, like a robot, he left the living room without saying anything. Duncan turned to (Y/N) : "Next time, don't do it without me. Understood ?"
(Y/N) did not understand anything, except that they were with two morons. Everything was perfectly normal.
I’m almost 60 years old and I have never broken a bone before. Well, I am sure that I have broken a toe, but there is nothing you can do for that. I guess I was due.
Writing helped me get through my last traumatic experience, when my ex left me, back in 2014. So I thought writing would help me again.
I was working at a bridal show, for my full time job, and during the set up of our booth, I…
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Also note: what you can lift, matters less than what you can carry.
Let’s just put it this way: I ordered some boxes of food and energy drinks from Amazon earlier this week and got my packages today.
And the box with the liquids (the almond milk for my cereal--good for cereal and shipping at room temperature, and the energy drinks) ended up extra heavy. I thought I’d be okay since I could lift the thing once to get it to the elevator. But the carry from the elevator to my apartment went a little badly. :) Legs gave out. I fell and banged up my knees and the box took a bump too.
As far as botches/accidents go it could have been worse. Nothing’s broken so far. I can still stand and walk, it’s the bending/unbending that’s difficult. And the goods survived--only ONE quart out of the six, of the almond milk, partly exploded and got leaky, the others survived. The energy drinks all made it out untouched because Monsters, how SHOULD they feel, creatures lie here?
*lol* Enough weirdo humor though, I’m sure the endorphins will wear off soon enough. Point is my legs are likely going to be roughed up for a week or two, but I’ve dealt with worse knee injuries before. I’ve taken rougher abuse. Like, from people, not just gravity and chaos and my being out of shape. :) I honestly think I’m okay--not good but not needing a doctor right away either..
This is what I get for being too greedy and getting the 24-pack of Monster Reserves I guess. :) They are good though.
“Fatality in Gravenhurst,” Toronto Globe. November 4, 1931. Page 3.
---
(Special Despatch to The Globe.)
Orillia, Nov. 3. - ‘Accidental death,’ was the verdict of the Coroner’s jury tonight in the case of the death of Charles Davidson, aged 60 years, who died in the Orillia Soldiers’ Memorial Hospital Saturday as the result of an accident in which he was hurled to the pavement in Gravenhurst as he was trying to board a moving motor truck. Dr. M. M. Fisher, Gravenhurst, testified that the immediate cause of death was perforation of the lung, caused by crushing of the chest. Henry Dryland, driver of the truck, said he did not know how the accident had occurred, but he felt a jolt before the truck stopped. He had afterward taken the injured man to the doctor’s office. While being questioned Dryland was overcome with illness.
Reviewed by Ami Title: Accidental Fall Author: Shae Connor Heroes: Greg/Keith Genre: MM Contemporary Length: 63 Pages Publisher: Dreamspinner Press Release Date: September 21, 2016 Available at: Amazon and Barnes & Noble Add it to your shelf: Goodreads Blurb: When it comes to relationships, college roommates Greg and Keith are polar opposites. A recovering addict, Greg avoids sex because it’s…
