#I NEED TO DRAW HIM BEING COOL TO SHOW THE GAP.. GOD FUCK ONE DAY. ONE DAY

[just-null-cult]

I wanna squish and smooch his cheeks 💙

You keep missing.. but it's okay, Noritoshi's happy to have your lips and hands brush his skin at all..! yet, he'd still prefer you stop missing the mark..

You're lucky he's fond of you, he wouldn't let just anyone squish his face as they pleased. though no one gives his cheeks kisses like you, so in a way this is a fair trade.

#noritoshi #kamo noritoshi #noritoshi kamo #noritoshi x reader #kamo noritoshi x reader #noritoshi kamo x reader #jjk #jjk fanart #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanart #YES MY HANDS KNOW A LITTLE ANIMATION. ITS ALL TO PUSH MY DOG BOY NORITOSHI AGENDA. #I NEED TO DRAW HIM BEING COOL TO SHOW THE GAP.. GOD FUCK ONE DAY. ONE DAY #I DIDNT MEAN TO GIVE HIM BORDERLINE LIP GLOSS //PUNCHING MYSELF #I READ IN A FIC THAT HE TAKES CARE OF HIMSELF AND HAS REALLY PRETTY LIPS SO IG HE WEARS SOME NOW #hey better to tempt you into aiming your kisses where he wants them

[wandsandwheezes]

Ares | F.W

WARNINGS // 1.8k // SMUT 18+, Ares!Fred AU, God!Fred AU, Unprotected Sex, Degradation, Overstimulation, Aggression, Shouting, Anger, basically PWP but there’s a lil plot.

A/N // Hi so, unfortunately I got inspired and this is the result whoopsie, basically me and @darthwheezely​ are hoes xoxo I don’t normally write Fred stuff.... but here we are so enjoy.

Ares is the god of war, one of the Twelve Olympian Gods and the son of Zeus and Hera. In literature Ares represents the violent and physical untamed aspect of war. Although Ares embodied the physical aggression necessary for success in war, the Greeks were ambivalent toward him because he was a dangerous, overwhelming force that was insatiable in battle.

–

You knew he was mad, from just the way he had stormed back past you, ignoring the glimmer of hope in your eyes as he continued his pursuit to the grand hall. You daren’t try to stop him, not when his skin was hot from fury and rage, instead you decided on letting him cool down, to no avail. Soon after his arrival home, all that could be heard was the loud clambering of chalices and dishes as he threw them in anger, the barrelling sound of his voice as clear as day as it echoed around every hall of your home.

Perhaps he needed distraction, although you feared he did not want to see you, you were adamant that you being there would do him some good in stilling the fury that bubbled inside of him.

You had attempted to pass the guards who were currently protesting against you going to see Fred, standing protectively in front of the wide-open entrance. These two burly protectors were the only thing that stood between you and your lover and that thought alone made you smile nonchalantly at the two guards, pushing past them quicker than they could stop you and protest.

You had just made it up the small set of stairs just in time for you to see yet another metal platter clamber against the once pristine wall, the beautifully prepared food disintegrating to shreds as it collided with the stone. His back was the first thing you saw, rippling muscles prominent through the thin veil of the purple cloak that covered one of his arms. You cleared your throat, a small voice practically whispering his name to draw his attention to you. “Freddie?”

“Little rose...You look glorious.” His tone of voice had shifted cleanly from the gravelly yells to the affectionate hum he had when he had set his eyes on you. The white chiffon draped sensually across your body, the delicate material struggling to keep your breasts from spilling while every curve of your body lay in wait, begging to be grasped. Your hair, while out of your face, had curled beautifully down your back, flecks of gold leaf and rose petals scattered across your locks.

With his eyes fixed on you and you alone, you made the choice to close the gap between the two of you. With every step towards him you took in his sweat covered chest and biceps, wanting nothing more than for him to wrap his strong arms around you, to hold his attention for just enough time for his anger to fade.

“You may be mine, but yet you flaunt yourself around the walls in that pathetic material for all to see.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his veiny hand reaching up to tug enough at the material for it to fall, exposing your chest for him, his aide and the various servants that were scattered around the hall, mostly trying to clear the path of distraction that Fred had caused. 

“Leave us.” He spoke quickly, eyes not moving from the way they were fixated on yours, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder and down your arm, lips inches away from each other. The soft breeze that flowed through the room had the fabric swaying as it hung at your hips, the faint chill of the air hardened your nipples as you stood before him.

“Truly, you’re so pathetic, aren’t you, petal?” His hot touch was tilting your chin up enough for him to control your movements. His lips trailing faint whispers of kisses down your neck, rendering you breathless, speechless and craving him entirely.

“Speak when spoken to, pet.” He growled, his vice-like grip on your jaw tightening, pushing your lips in a pout as you attempted to speak the words you needed through shaky breaths.

“I-I’m your pathetic girl, Freddie.” 

“That’s right, you are.” He was now hoisting you up effortlessly, large hands gripping possessively at your thighs as he adjusted the way you sat on his hips. As soon as he sat back against his throne, your knees were pushed further apart so that you could straddle him, his hands moving to keep you pulled in close to him, your hands messily holding onto his neck to steady yourself.

His touch alone had you seeking the relief your aching cunt was screaming out for, hips moving in the hopes of just a fraction of pleasure as your swollen clit dragged across layers of smooth fabric.

“Little one, what do you think you’re doing there, hm?” He tutted, a hand immediately finding the coils of hair, disrupting the rhythm of your moving hips and the intricately placed style of your hair. His harsh grip tugged away at the curls, displaying your neck for him.

“First you whore yourself out for everyone’s eyes, now you think you can sit there and get yourself off, did I say you could do that?” He snarled, lingering fingertips bruising your thighs as he stilled your movements with heated touch.

“N-No, Fred, ‘m sorry.” You whimpered, knowing that you were pushing your luck when it came to Fred’s temperance with anger. He would more often than not subject you to bear the brunt of his frustrations, his loathsome anger that overcame him as he dominated you. He wanted you to know that he was the God here, and that any other man for miles would kill to be him.

“Count yourself lucky I’m not parading you outside and showing every man and woman of this village just who makes you feel so good.” He chuckled, letting go of your hair, your upper body crashing down against his chest as his hands bunched up the pooling fabric at your thighs, shifting your hips to sit directly over what you needed from him the most.

“You’d like that though, bet you’d have preferred my aide stay watch us rut like breeding bunnies, isn’t that right, Jewel?” He was pulling himself free, letting his hard cock spring free. 

You found yourself nodding, at a loss for words as he teased your entrance, daring to push in with antagonistic flare. He wanted to have you begging for every inch, even if that took hours on end.

“Speechless already, youngling?” He smirked his mind tugged edge to edge with a passionate need to fill you. The second his cockhead has pushed past your entrance, you found yourself hissing.

“Don’t tease me, Freddie.”

“I don’t think you’re in a good position to be giving me orders here, little rose.”

“But I-” You went to protest, instead you were met with his hand wrapped around your throat, firm grip against your windpipe as he brought your lips down to his in a tempered kiss.

“Who’s in charge, say it nice and loud for me.”

“You, Fred.” You whined, his hand still wrapped around your throat, instead of praising you he squeezed a little harder and whispered as his lips grazed against your cheek.

“Louder, let those guards standing outside hear you.”

“You Fred, you’re in charge.” You hissed out, feeling himself pull your hips down to sheath fully inside you. He didn’t need to tease you anymore as he set a godly rhythm, fucking up into you with all the force and might entrusted in him.

Sex with Fred was like being in the clouds, he was able to send you into a state of euphoria every single time but you were greedy, taking every girthy inch he could give you, yet you begged for more. He simply would chuckle and oblige, giving you release after release that had you screaming and clawing at his back. You could handle it, especially the way he would have you a brainless mess so quickly.

He had you now bent over the nearest table he could get you pressed on, ass on full display for him as he pushed himself inside you once more, his cock filling you to the hilt over and over again, his thrusts rocking the creaky table loudly as lewd moans spilled from your lips, the sound mixing perfectly with his deep grunts of passion.

“Mine. All fucking mine.” He groaned, like a chant, repeating it again and again, hands pulling your hips back to meet his thrusts with a bruising touch as he claimed you for what you already were; his.

Everyone surely knew by now who was fucking you, who was causing you to scream out for him as you begged him not to stop, your stamina hardly touched as you craved another release.

This time he had you up against the stone wall, back pressed firmly against the harsh gravelly texture as he hooked a leg up on his hip, taking you as his forehead pressed against yours, you had both hardly removed any of the material that covered your bodies, instead working with the fabric until it flowed together in the open breeze.

“You want more, petal? I’ll give you fucking everything.” He moaned out for you, your hands cupping his jaw as your eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, unable to stop the wave of pleasure that coursed through every inch of your body. You couldn’t count the releases you had endured but you didn’t want him to stop. 

He had pushed you over the edge twice more before his own seed was released inside you, completely overwhelmed by the feeling. The way his hips stuttered and stilled before feeling his silky release mixed with yours dripping down your thigh, made you realise that he was more than just a God, he was your God and you were the luckiest woman in all to bed him at your desire.

“I love you, my radiant Goddess.” He murmured, nose brushing against yours as he cradled you into his arms, letting your breathing steady and your mind return back to him as his hands massaged over every roughly gripped inch of your skin.

You loved him too, more than he would ever be able to comprehend.

“What had you so mad, Freddie?” You whispered, reaching up to run a hand through his sweaty hair, smiling up at him lovingly. 

“Someone dared call you an easy whore, I had to show them that nobody calls you a whore but me, pet.” 

“Is that so?” You poked, leaning up to press your lips to his, the kiss lingering in entangled lips for a moment before his aide had burst into the room, forcing you to snap your head to look at the man who had coughed, Fred’s hands came to turn your body into face his, lifting the flimsy material to cover you and protect your modesty upon the intrusion.

“Sorry to disturb, but there’s an urgent matter with your Fa–” his aide spoke quickly, eyes avoiding Fred’s out of awkwardness.

“Tell my Father to go fuck himself, I’m busy.”

“Fred, don’t do that for me–”

“I’m busy, now go.” He spat, ignoring your protest, eyes following his aide as he scurried off hurriedly.

“Now where were we?” He smirked, tilling your chin up again before pressing his lips to yours again. 

“Ah, right here it seems.”

taglist //  @pansydaisy​ @feetoffthetablee​ @darthwheezely​ @http-caitwo​ @just-here-to-escape-from-reality​ @loony-loopy-lupinn​ @theweasleytwinsgirl​ @pandaxnienke​ @turtletaylor98​ @lumos-barnes​ @lumosandnoxwriting​ @amxrtentias​

#fred weasley #fred weasley fic #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x reader #fred and george #weasley twins #harry potter fic #harry potter #harry potter writing #harry potter smut

[knockknockchicagopd]

❛ BLACK JACKET WITH WHITE LETTERS ❜

❚❙ REQUEST BY ANON: Would I be able to request prompt 16 “You're mine. I don't share”. With Hank voight where they go to one of those police events and she works in his unit and they are a couple with her being younger and they dont have to be in police uniform so she wears a really nice dress and as he introduces her and talks to other people he knows, some of the men check her out and try flirt with her and he notices. Could there be a bit of smut if not that's cool to ❤❤

❚❙ HANK VOIGHT MASTERLIST.

❚❙ WORDS: about 3k.

❚❙ Warnings: swearing, unprotected sex.

❚❙ A/N: this writing hasn’t been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I’m sorry about that. If you find a description about body or a word out of place, or something that makes you feel uncomfortable / unrepresented, let me know by a private message and I will change it delighted.

❚❙ GIF credits: to my amazing @sonsofeorl.

❚❙ General tag list: @melblacc @rebelwrites @skyofficialxx @sesamepancakes @scarletsoldierrr @mondefantastique @that-chick212 @enbyamaro @inlovewith3 @ocetevasgirl @destynelseclipsa @miahelen @jadakiss13 @mcgreads @graniairish @teller258316 @i-love-scott-mccall @tclaerh. Hank Voight tag list: @sophie-writes. If you wanna be added to my tag list, send my a message! ⚡

Fortunately, it's been a quiet day, otherwise, you couldn't deal with a Districts event like the Commanders call them. A meeting that reunites every officer, inspector, detective, and whoever who wears ‘the blue uniform’; including special agents from the FBI. These last ones are the kind of man who pushes you out of your good mood with all that quackery about serving the whole country, the unlimited resources, the missions. Every time you hear a fed talking about how passionate and exciting their jobs are, you just want to punch their faces. Mostly, they're behind a desk while cops like you are protecting the streets of Chicago in the firing line. But, as Burgess and Upton said, it's time to have some fun. And anything else.

Since you don't have to wear that horrible uniform you use at official events, you have chosen a breathtaking black silk dress that fits your anatomy to perfection, falling from your chest, with a spaghetti strap neckline, to your ankles. And a pair of skyscraper highlights on the same color, with the small difference that the heels are tremendously golden. Your back is almost bare, being crossed by four fine strips, knowing it's going to give Hank some trouble. Oh, you're going to have so much fun tonight. You are very sure.

The soft make-up delights your cute, but lethal, outfit on point ready to leave Kim's house accompanied by your friends. You've arranged to meet at the party with the rest of the Unit since your future husband and Antonio needed to be from the start of the event, which means the three of you are going to earn more than some gazes by assisting alone, with no male figures by your sides. As if you need some kind of protection. Men (...).

Stepping out from your car and giving the keys to the parking attendant, who seems he's having a heart attack after watching you walk with so much cockiness and sensuality, you come into the party. The look you exchange with Kim and Hailey as soon as you check the reaction of the assistants, makes you draw a triumphant smile while raising your chin in some kind of greeting. You aren't going to stop now, leading your steps straight to your partners. Ruzek chokes on champagne with his eyes over Burgess, while Hank looks at you over the edge of his glass of bourbon taking a sip.

“You should work like that every day”. Antonio opines welcoming the three of you in his arms.

“I second that, brother”. Jay quickly adds making a toast with his cup of red wine.

“Bet you'd be the one who wouldn't work”. Hailey replies palming his chest, making you giggle.

In the meantime they continue arguing about the dress code, a strong arm gets placed around your lower back to push you somewhat closer, letting his hand fall over your hipbone. You know exactly what it means. Hank isn't the kind of jealous man, who needs to mark his territory like a dog. But you know that sometimes he feels insecure because of the age gap. He trusts you blindly, that's a fact, but he's human; he has fears and you understand it. Putting your left hand on the back of his neck, you caress his scalp almost unnoticeably, tilting your head to leave a gentle kiss on his cheek earning a satisfied grin from him.

“You look really beautiful tonight”. He whispers, watching you sideways as if it's a secret between you two.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I always try to do my best”.

Hank chuckles against his glass about to have a last sip till emptying it. Taking it from his hand, you pull yourself away to go to the bar and ask for two more drinks. You're thirsty and too sober to be a Friday night. Checking some emails on your phone while the bartender serves your order, you can't help but listen to some backtalk about your career. A couple of suited men combed as politicians and wrapped on a strong scent that throws your stomach. You try to ignore them until they're close enough from your position to offer you a hand in a formal greeting.

“Johnson and Derrick. FBI”.

The blonde one looks like a senior official, while the other looks like a newbie. Turning towards both, you come into the forced polite mood to stretch his hand firmly.

“(Y/L/N), Intelligence Unit, gentlemen. A pleasure”.

“The pleasure is ours, detective”.

“Special agent”. You correct him inevitably, even if it sounds arrogant.

“Special agent, of course”. Johnson replies with a nod of his chin. “I've read your file lately. I have no words to describe it. Graduated with excellent grades in Yale, two years in the Army, another undercover in a Cartel… And you also know how to fly a helicopter”.

“If you weren't from the FBI, I could think you've been stalking me like one of your serial killers, sir”. The sarcasm in your tone of voice earns your Unit's attention, very focused on the conversation between the feds and you.

“Who catches a monster without becoming one, right?”

The man introduces a hand under his jacket to offer you his business card. But you don't take it, just looking at it for a second before raising your eyes towards his.

“In your academy shows you to have the big balls to disrespect a Sergeant or a Chief, by trying to steal their officers in front of their faces? Because mine shows us to serve and protect the citizens”.

His gesture changes suddenly in a sight, hearing some chuckles behind you coming from Hailey and Kim. Raising both eyebrows as you don't get any reply back, you just nod before grabbing the two drinks you have asked for when they interrupted you. Coming back to your friends, you can't help but wrinkle your nose in a gesture of disgust earning more giggles from your partners. But it doesn't seem funny for Hank, who you know he's killing them in thousands of ways inside his head.

As the night passes, you notice Agent Johnson's eyes on you with no shame, starting to make you feel uncomfortable. Although you would be delighted to embarrass him in front of everyone, he has had enough from you. But this doesn't end there. Excusing yourself, you step to the terrace almost emptied to have some fresh air, knowing he's going to follow you. Maybe, to insist a little more. He was so interested in recruiting you to miss the chance.

And as you thought, he's that predictable. You don't turn because of his steps coming closer, but because he pretends to clear his throat to claim your attention. Crossing your arms over your chest, you tilt your head to a side feigning curiosity with a forced smile showing up on your lips.

“I would like to apologize for my behavior. In my profession isn't habitual to find agents of your characteristics”.

“For sure, sir. It doesn't matter”.

“You could have an extraordinary career in the FBI”.

“I already have it where I am. I don't need schedules, cheap suits, and an earpiece to succeed”.

“I understand your relationship interferes in your decision, but you do—”.

“I'm sorry, you said what? Did you…? Oh, god, I can't fucking believe it”. You can't help but laugh shaking your head. “I don't have any relationship as soon as I wear my badge, sir. And you are starting to cross a line you don't want to cross. Believe me”.

“Ma'am, don't misunderstand my words, nor my intentions. I just think ma—”.

“Nobody asked you to think, Johnson”.

Raising your eyes over his shoulders, you can see your boyfriend sipping his glass of whisky, joining the talk as he tries to keep calm. You know Hank to perfection. If he wasn't your boss, he would have punched him already.

“If you continue pissing off my agent, we're gonna have a problem”.

The man just nods, alternating his gaze between the two of you. Seems that he has admitted his defeat.

“Beautiful and lethal. You're a son of a bitch with so much luck, Voight. Take care of this diamond. Or she will end up wearing a blue jacket with yellow letters”.

“Uh-huh”. He replies as you continue remaining silent.

Passing your boss away back to the party, leaving you alone, you can't hide the proud smile that turns your gesture into a funnier one. Taking short steps towards him, you steal the glass from his hand to drink from it under his attentive brown eyes.

“Blue isn't my color. Not at all. I'm more into black”. You whisper referring to the jackets you are used to wearing in the Chicago department.

“Hm…”

“Imagine having your badge hanging from your neck all day like a collar. Do I look like a dog? I prefer to have it on my belt. And I'm already used to the disgusting watered coffee we make in the twenty-one”. As you continue giving him more reasons, your forefinger traces a path up from his chest to his nape. “And I have so much fun driving my Dodge all around Chicago”.

“Anything else you wanna add?”

“Hm… no. Actually, not. That's all, sir”. You reply puckering your lips, pulling yourself away some inches with a playful aura wrapping you both.

“Now lemme tell you something here”. Hank says then, leaning over your ear. “You're mine, I don't share”.

His voice and his characteristic raspy voice gives you some chills down your spine bone. Biting your bottom lip unconsciously while he stands up, you know the party is over for you and it's time to go home. Holding your hand and taking back his glass of whisky, you walk inside to say your goodbyes before leaving the fancy place straight to the underground parking. You are not going to lie saying you don't love his dominant mood when the occasion demands it.

As soon as you reach your car, you can notice sideways Hank making sure you're totally alone. He doesn't usually take risks of being seen in public too lovey-dovey, but it's not about it this time and you can't wait for him to go ahead with his intentions. Of course, he doesn't make you wait for too long to push your back to the copilot door, attacking your neck in the meantime his hands grab your hips stealing you a low gasp. Hank makes himself between your legs, urging you to surround his waist with one of them to close the distance that separates you, feeling the need he has to mark his territory, as rarely he shows.

“Take me home”. You almost beg closing your eyes as his teeth are nailed on your most sensitive spot, earning a soft grunt that vibrates your body.

“I'm gonna take you here, sweetheart. Any problem?”

“Hell, no, sergeant”.

“Get in the car. Now”.

You don't complain, taking it as an order when he takes two steps back releasing your body and opening the back door for you. And the next minute passes too fast, rolling up your dress as Hank undoes his belt and unzips his pants. In just a sigh he's deep-buried between your legs. It's the first time you take this kind of risk, almost in public, and the horniness it produces is driving you crazy. With your lips almost touching the others, you moan uninhibited every time his hands on your lower back urge you to keep swinging your hips, sitting on his lap.

The way his eyes memorize every gesture drawn on your face has you breathless. It's a sensation you can't describe. Hank has some kind of power over you that you haven't experienced before, even if you think you're indomitable he always manages to make whatever he wants with you. And you know it. You let him do it. Just like right now, marking his territory with desirous bites and wet kisses all around your exposed throat. The most visible part of your body. He doesn't need to prove anything. He isn't the kind of man who needs to call out any other man who dares to lay his eyes on you. Everybody in this damn city knows you're more than his pupil and they're too scared to say hi, although there's always an exception to the rule. In this case, the FBI agents acting like carrion birds.

The mist clouds the windows, as the heat concentrated on your bodies makes you sweat slightly. Hank takes the control turning you under his body against the seat in a position that puts you to see the stars. Every move of his pelvis is accurate, hitting your g-spot, satisfied with how good his name sounds getting drowned between pleased moans once and again. With every push to your body, his dick is dug deeper through your tight wetness making him grunt into your ear, feeling more delighted than never before. And everything is because of the way you had to reply to that FBI agent in front of everyone, showing him how clear you have your preferences; not only because of your relationship, as Johnson pointed out. But because everybody in Chicago is aware that there's no better boss in law enforcement. There's no better Unit than the Intelligence one from the police department of your hometown.

As your legs get wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, one of his arms surrounds your middle back while his free hand flies straight to your throat. Keeping your eyes closed, the suffocating sensation within your lower belly continues growing with every thrust that steals the air from your lungs and races your heart over its possibilities. You're close. So close that your mind is a total blank, just focused on the way only he can make you feel. So good, so desired, so full of life. He knows it, he takes it in advantage. And he enjoys it more than anything.

“Oh, fuck…” Hank got you almost in tears because of the pleasure, traveling your hands to the back of his neck, nailing your nails there. “God… I'm gonna… Fuck, Hank, don't stop, please… Don't stop”.

“I won't, my love… Not till you give me what I want”.

His voice always plays dirty with your mind. The way he has to drag every syllable on his tongue with that husky voice that puts you to tremble, as he continues burying his hard dick inside you with no mercy, speeding up as soon as he feels your legs clung to his body slightly shaking. Because of the fewer insecurities he has about your relationship, he feels proud whenever he makes you reach that sweet sensation of the orgasm taking control of your anatomy. He doesn't care if he has to use his hands, his tongue… whatever. It's not only about sex between the two of you, of course not. But making you cum screaming out his name is an every-day-goal.

And you don't make him wait for too long, arching your back when a lash of heat hits your spine and the grenade inside your lower belly explodes. Your gasps fill up your car, while he continues fucking you harder than seconds before not showing any compassion to your exhausted body, looking for your lips to devours them desperately. His tongue starts a fight for dominance, winning over yours like every single time, in the meantime his fingers grips tightly your throat. Instinctively, you swing your hips in sync, provoking every move to go deeper among your shaky legs.

Hank can't hold it anymore, digging his cock to the limits of your guts, almost hitting your soul with a last strong lung. His warm seed fills you up completely, keeping pushing his body against yours, pressing both to the seat with his hands now placed on the headrest. It feels like a whole set of fireworks. Your moans complement his delighted growls to perfection.

“Don't move, please”. You beg with a thin voice thread, at the same time he rests his forehead on yours.

The two of you can barely breathe, trying to recover after an intense session of your favorite cardio workout. From nowhere, you can't help but giggle in unison. You can't believe you just fucked inside your car and with the risk of being caught in the act. A sergeant and one of his special agents. Even if it's your free night and you're in an established relationship, he's still your boss.

“I would miss working with you”.

“Huh?”

“If I get the FBI's offer”. You mumble, leaving clumsy kisses all around his face. “You're the best cop Chicago has”.

“You don't have to butter me up for a second round”.

Shaking your head briefly and laughing, you caress his scalp so gently as he sinks his face into your sweaty neck.

“Now you said so… maybe I have the fantasy of being bent over your desk”.

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, just… maybe”.

“Then maybe I could bring you to my office, before going home. There's some paperwork to attend to”.

#lemme know what you think in a comment! ⚡ #chicago pd #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd x reader #one chicago #hank voight imagine #hank voight x reader #hank voight

[tokisguitarpick]

balcony

characters: Pickles the Drummer x Reader

length: 1700+ words

listen this is really self indulgent but pickles’ back story hits me on a personal level. tried to phrase the mom self in a way that even someone with a good mom could see themselves in the reader but s/o to bitches who’s moms stress them out, we see you

You sighed, holding your own hand and staring up at the night sky, sat on top of Mordhaus. About three months into your employment, you had found the perfect place for lunch breaks, sneaking out with a joint mid-shift, anything. Up the emergency ladder, around the smokestacks, and over a large generator, there was a tiny balcony that no one seemed to know about and it was one of your favorite spots on the whole ship. And tonight, you needed it for the clarity it gave you. 

Nails bitten to the quick, you had spent a couple of hours pacing in your bedroom before making your way up here to sit in the peace and quiet and really just be alone.

“Doode, what ahre you doin’ up ‘ere?” Your eyes closed. Of course.

It’s not that you would normally mind Pickles for company. In fact, quite the opposite. Something about the drummer drew you to him and between his chill demeanor and frequent offers of hits off his joint, he was typically your favorite band member. But tonight, any company felt like more energy than you had to spend.

But it was your job to spend energy entertaining, safeguarding, and checking on Dethklok so you fixed your face into a neutral expression and replied, “I like to come up here when I need some fresh air.” 

Pickles swung himself over the generator with ease and plopped down next to you, both of you sticking your legs through the wide gaps under the balcony fencing and letting them hang down. “Oh yeah, me tooh.” As usual, the drummer brought with him the stale scent of alcohol and sweat, as well as the very pungent smell of fresh weed. “You know me, I like to be high.” Pickles chuckled at his own joke as you watched him pull a silver cigarette case from his back pocket but his laughter died on his lips when he met your gaze. “Sam’thin’ wrong?”

Your head tilted as you looked over yourself in your mind’s eye. “What do you mean?”

Slowly, Pickles raised a calloused thumb to your cheek and you felt him wipe away some wetness. Fuck. You hadn’t cried much and the cool night air had dried most of the tears as Mordhaus chugged forward but apparently, there was enough evidence left for him to find. 

“Yah knoow,” Pickles started, his eyes trained on his hand instead of meeting your own, “I’m naht really one for… talkin’ about feelin’s and shit. But ah, uh, I can listen?” His eyes were a deep, comforting shade of green, something you noticed when they finally met yours, his pierced eyebrows raising as he ended with a question. 

Your heart softened and you smiled softly, prompting a lopsided smirk from the drummer as he finally dropped his hand. He fiddled with the cigarette case in his lap until he produced a blunt and held it out for you. “So whaht’s goin’ on?”

Taking the blunt from him and then the offered lighter- a zippo with a dill pickle carved on the side-, you lit up and took a long drag before passing both back to him. The paper crackled next to you with his inhale and you stared at the sky again, breathing your hit out like a cloud in front of you. 

“My mom called.” No longer a happy notification to receive, the information turned your stomach. Ever since you had gone against her wishes and applied for the stressful, dangerous, terrifying job of being a managerial coordinator for the band Dethklok, she had turned into someone you could hardly recognize. Cold, petty, always passively asking for money and aggressively telling you how little you must care about her since you were always too busy to call her when she was free (not when you were, though. She was a busy woman and she couldn’t wait around all day just for a call). You assumed she was angry you hadn’t listened to her and was even angier that you didn’t volunteer those, frankly, sweet as hell Dethklok paychecks to appease her.

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Pickles make a sour face, his cheeks puffed with weed smoke. Releasing his hit with a cough, he passed the blunt and nodded. “I know that feelin’. When my mam’ calls, I send it straight tah’ voicemail.”

“Maybe I need to start doing that,” you mused quietly. Puff and pass, you moved your gaze down to watch the traffic passing on the various highways around the house.

“That bad?” Pickles asked, holding onto the blunt for a minute as he tried to fix a run in the burn. You didn’t mind, your high creeping up and the wad of anxiety in your stomach loosening. 

Turning your answer over in your mind a few times, you finally spoke when you realized you had been quiet for an embarrassingly long time. “She’s just different now. I feel like she’s not the same person I knew growing up and the person she is now… I don’t know if it’s a person I like.” You had wondered a few times if she was destined to become this woman but when memories resurfaced, you felt as though your current feelings tainted them and you weren’t sure what the truth was. “I just- I don’t know. Do you ever feel like your family would like you so much more if you just shut up and gave them all your spare cash?” 

This time, Pickles was the one who was silent for what seemed like a long time and when you finally looked up, you were surprised to see he had completely disassembled the blunt and was rolling a joint with the leftover weed on one side of the open cigarette case. It was balanced carefully on his thigh- full of a few dime bags of ground weed and spare rolling papers- but his face was angled towards you. “Uh, yeah. That’s all I feel when it comes to my family.” Bringing the joint up to his lips, he gave you a curious look, furrowing his brow. “Cahn I ask you sam’thin’?”

You nodded.

“Is yuhr mam’ hasslin’ you for money?” Lighting up with a couple of puffs, he passed the joint to you and leaned back on his palms.

That was the long and short of it from as far as you could tell, you mused. You took a deep hit, studying Pickles as you nodded again. Your high was hitting you and suddenly, the terse phone call that had been weighing on you seemed much less important than the physique of the drummer next to you. Long, deep red dreads flowed in the light evening breeze, drawing your eyes down his neck and shoulders. Almost always in a dark tank top, his muscular shoulders and arms stole the show, lithe and wirey from years of being a professional musician. God, he was hot. Sure, he was more than a little older than you, and balding just a little, and maybe unable to be sober for longer than a half hour without complaining. But otherwise, very hot. Your gaze fell to his hands, fingers with blunt nails spread to support himself, and the backs of his palms flexed with large veins.

You were only moments away from poking one when his voice broke your concentration. “Like whaht yah see?” Looking back to his face, Pickles’ smirk was now a full blown grin and he wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” you chuckled, the heat of a blush finding your cheeks as you puffed and passed the joint, “I’m kinda stoned. Your weed is always so fucking strong.” 

Pickles broke out into nasally laughter and you couldn’t help giggling yourself in response. “That’s why I get it, only the good shit,” he replied, still chuckling. He puffed then snuffed the joint and tucked it behind his ear for safekeeping as he sat up.

Unable to get a handle on the stoned laughter coming out of you, your giggle fit continued and you leaned over, resting your forehead on his shoulder. You put a hand over your mouth as you tried to relax. Pickles shifted under you, letting your head find his collarbone as he wrapped his arm around your waist. He seemed to freeze like that and if you had been sober, you probably would’ve stayed that way, savoring the feeling of closeness with your celebrity crush in such a private moment. There were over a million Dethklok fans who would kill or die for this to happen to them.

But you were high as fuck and didn’t like how stiff the embrace felt. You shifted yourself to lean more comfortably against him without realizing it, until his hand started to fall from your side. Instantly, you grasped his wrist and brought it back to your hip, murmuring, “You’re good.” 

Pickles laughed again, squeezing you and resting his hand on your ribcage. He was so warm, you could feel his palmprint burning through the thin cotton of your sleepshirt, so close under your breast that it made you shiver. “Oh, honey, I could get you tah’ say that a hundred different ways,” he stated confidently. It made your blush burn even hotter, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. Pickles, however, cleared his throat and muttered, “Uh, not like in a sexuhal’ harassment type way, just, uh, yah know… If you were down…”

You giggled again and nodded. “I got you, I got you… I’m down.” You erupted into nervous giggles and covered your face with your hand again. Unable to believe your own gall, you were about to dismiss your words with a quick ‘I’m joking’ but Pickles moved faster, goosing your breast with a bark of laughter.

“I’ll keep thaht in mind,” he said, seemingly to himself, his hand resting once again on your torso. You couldn’t say anything, your body alight with tingles radiating from your breast and your mind slowed, so you simply nodded against him. 

Quiet for a moment, you tried to settle your breathing while Pickles relit the joint and puffed in thought. Finally speaking up, he just said, “Seriously though, Y/N, I think you need to tell your mom to go fuck herself.”

#metalocalypse #pickles the drummer #pickles the drummer x reader #guys..............idk what his accent is i sat here trying to say words like him to understand where the accent hits but idk idek

[brawltogethernow]

So, I don't think I've ever asked you this... what IS the whole point of the Spider-Sense? It really seems like something that only exists for writers to ignore or work around when they want to inject Legit Tension into a story.

I’ve thought about this power so much, but never with an eye to defend its right to exist, so I needed to think about this. The results could be more concise.

Ironically, given the question, I have to say its main purpose is to ramp up tension. But it’s also a highly variable multitool that a skilled creative team can use for...pretty much anything. It does everything the writer wants it to, while for its wielder always falls just short of doing enough.

I went looking through my photos for a really generic, classic-looking example to use as an image to head this topic, but then I ran into the time Peter absolutely did not reimburse this man for his stolen McDonald’s, so have that instead.

A Scare Chord, But You Can Draw It

That one post that says the spider-sense is just super-anxiety isn’t, like, wrong. It’s a very anxious, dramatic storytelling tool originally designed for a very anxious, dramatic protagonist. I find it speaks to the overall tone of the franchise that some characters are functionally psychics, but with a psychic ability that only points out problems.

Spidey sense pinging? There’s danger, be stressed! Broken? Now the lead won’t even KNOW when there’s a problem, scary! Single character is immune to it? That’s an invisible knife in the dark oh my god what the fuck what the fU--

Like its counterpart in garden variety anxiety, the only time the spider-sense reduces tension is in the middle of a crisis. But in the wish fulfillmenty way that you want in an adventure story to justify exaggerated action sequences, the same way enhanced strength or durability does. Also like those, it would theoretically make someone much safer to have it, but it exists in the story to let your character navigate into and weather more dangerous situations.

For its basic role in a story, a danger sense is a snappy way to rile up both the reader and the protagonist that doesn’t offer much information beyond that it’s time to sit smart because shit is about to go down.

Spidey comic canon is all over the board in quality and genre, and it started needing to subvert its formulas before the creators got a handle on what those formulas even were, and basically no one has read anything approaching most of it at this point, so for consistent examples of a really bare bones use of this power in storytelling, I’d point to the property that’s done the best job yet of boiling down the mechanics of Spider-Man to their absolute most basic essentials for adaptation to a compelling monster of the week TV series.

Or as you probably know it, Danny Phantom. DON’T BOO, I’M RIGHT.

DP is Spider-Man with about 2/3 of the serial numbers filed off and no death (ironically), and Danny’s ghost sense is the most proof in the formula example of what the spidey sense is for: It’s a big sign held up for the viewer that says, “Something is wrong! Pay attention!” Effectively a visual scare chord. It’s about That Drama. And it works, which won it a consistent place in the show’s formula. We’re talking several times an episode here.

So why does it work?

It’s a little counterintuitive, but it’s strong storytelling to tell your audience that something bad is going to happen before it does. A vague, punchy spoiler transforms the ignorant calm before a conflict into a tense moment of anticipation. ...And it makes sure people don’t fail to absorb the beginning of said conflict because they weren’t prepared to shift gears when the scene did. Shock is a valuable tool, too, but treating it like a staple is how you burn out your audience instead of keeping them engaged. Not to go after an easy target, but you need to know how to manage your audience’s alarm if you don’t want to end up like Game of Thrones.

The limits of the spider-sense also keep you on your toes when handled by a smart writer. It tells Peter (everyone’s is a little different, so I’m going to cite the og) about threats to his person, but it doesn’t elaborate with any details when it’s not already obvious why, what kind, and from what. And it doesn’t warn him about anything else-- Which is a pretty critical gap when you zoom out and look at his hero career’s successes and failures and conclude that it’s definitely why he’s lived as long as he has acting the way he does, but was useless as he failed to save a string of people he’d have much rather had live on than him.

(Any long-running superhero mythos has these incidents, but with Peter they’re important to the core themes.)

And since this power is by plot for plot (or because it’s roughly agreed it only really blares about threats that check at least two boxes of being major, immediate, or physical), it always kicks in enough to register when the danger is bearing down...when it’s too late to actually do anything about it if “anything” is a more complex action than “dodge”.

Really? Not until the elevator doors started to open?

That Distinctive, Crunchy Spider Flavor

The spider-sense and its little pen squiggles go hand in hand with wallcrawling (and its unique and instantly identifiable associated body language) to make the Spider-Person powerset enduringly iconic and elevate characters with it from being generic mid-level super-bricks. Visually, but also in how it shapes the story.

I said it can share a narrative role with super strength. But when you end a fight and go home, super strength continues to make your character feel powerful, probably safer than they’d be otherwise, maybe dangerous.

The spider-sense just keeps blaring, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! God, why aren’t you doing something about this!?”

Pretty morose thing to live with, for a safety net! Kind of a double edged sword you have there! Could be constantly being hyperattuned to problems would prime you for a negative outlook on life. Kind of seems like a power that would make it impossible for a moral person to take a day off, leading them into a beleaguered and resentful yet dutiful attitude about the whole superhero gig! Might build up to some of the core traits of this mythos, maybe! Might lead to a lot of fifteen minute retirement stories, or something. Might even be a built in ‘great responsibility’ alarm that gets you a main character who as a rule is not going to stop fighting until he physically cannot fight anymore.

Certainly not apropos of anything, just throwing this short lived barely-a-joke tagline up for fun.

One of my personal favorite things about stories with superpowers is keeping in mind how they cause the people who have them to act in unusual ways outside of fights, so when you tell me that these people have an entire extra sense that tells them when the gas in their house is leaking through a barely useful hot/cold warning system that never turns off, I’m like, eyes emojis, popcorn out, notebook open, listening intently, spectacles on, the whole deal.

It also contributes to Peter Parker’s personality in a way I really enjoy: It allows him to act like an irrational maniac. When you know exactly when a situation becomes dangerous and how much, normal levels of caution go out the window and absolutely nothing you do makes sense from an exterior standpoint anymore. That’s the good shit. I would like to see more exploration of how the non-Parker characters experiencing the world in this incredibly altered way bounce in response.

It’s also one of many tools in this franchise hauling the reader into relating more closely with the main character. The backbone of classic Spidey is probably being in on secrets only Peter and the reader know which completely reframe how one views the situation on the page. It’s just a big irony mine for the whole first decade. A convenient way to inform the reader and the lead that something is bad news that’s not perceivable to any other characters is youth-with-a-big-exciting-secret catnip.

Another point for tension, there, in that being aware of danger is not synonymous with being able to act on it. If there’s no visible reason for you to be acting strange, well...you’re just going to have to sit tight and sweat, aren’t you? Some gratuitous head wiggles never hurt when setting up that type of conflict.

Have I mentioned that they look cool? Simultaneously punchy and distinctive, with a respectable amount of leeway for artists to get creative with and still coming up with something easily recognizable? And pretty easy to intuit the meaning of even without the long-winded explanations common in the days when people wrote comics with the intent that someone could come in cold on any random issue and follow along okay, I think, although the mechanic has been deeply ingrained in popular culture for so long that I can’t really say for sure.

It was also useful back in the day when no artists drew the eyes on the Spider-Man mask as emoting and were conveying the lead’s expressions entirely through body language and panel composition. If you wiggle enough squiggles, you don’t need eyebrows.

Take This Handwave and Never Ask Me a Logistical Question Again

This ability patches plot holes faster than people can pick them open AND it can act as an excuse to get any plot rolling you can think of if paired with one meddling protagonist who doesn’t know how to mind their own business. Buy it now for only $19.99 (in four installments; that’s four installments of $19.99).

Why can a teenager win a six on one fight against other superhumans? Well, the spider-sense is the ultimate edge in combat, duh.

Why can Peter websling? Why doesn’t everyone websling? Well, the spider-sense is keeping him from eating flagpole when he violently flings himself across New York in a way neither man nor spider was ever meant to move.

How are we supposed to get him involved with the plot this week???? Well, that crate FELT dangerous, so he’s going to investigate it. Oh, dip, it was full of guns and radioactive snakes! Probably shouldn’t have opened that!

Yeah, okay, but why isn’t it fixing everything, then? Isn’t it supposed to be why Peter has never accidentally unmasked in front of somebody? ('Nother entry for this section, take a shot.) That’s crazy sensitive! How does he still have any problems!? Is everything bad that’s ever happened to characters with this powerset bad writing!? --Listen, I think as people with uncanny senses that can tell us whether we are in danger with accuracy that varies from incredible to approximate (I am talking about the five senses that most people have), we should all know better than to underestimate our ability to tune them out or interpret them wrong and fuck ourselves up anyway. I honestly find this part completely realistic.

*SLAPS ROOF OF SPIDER-SENSE* YOU CAN FIT SO MANY STORIES IN THIS THING

The spider-sense is a clean branch into...whatever. There is the exact right balance of structure and wishy-washiness to build off of. A sample selection of whatevers that have been built:

It’s sci-fi and spy gadgets when Peter builds technology that can interface with it.

It’s quasi-mystical when Kaine and Annie-May get stronger versions of it that give them literal psychic visions, or when you want to get mythological and start talking about all the spider-characters being part of a grand web of fate.

Kaine loses his and it becomes symbolic of a future newly unbound by constraints, entangled thematically with the improved physical health he picked up at the same time -- a loss presented as a gain.

Peter loses his and almost dies 782 times in one afternoon because that didn’t make the people he provoked when he had it stop trying to kill him, and also because he isn’t about to start “””taking the subway’’””’ “‘’“”to work”””’’” like some kind of loser who doesn’t get a heads up when he’s about to hit a pigeon at 50mph.

Peter’s starts tuning into his wife’s anxiety and it’s a tool in a relationship study.

It starts pinging whenever Peter’s near his boss who’s secretly been replaced by a shapeshifter and he IGNORES IT because his boss is enough of an asshole that that doesn’t strike him as weird; now it’s a comedy/irony tool.

Into the Spider-Verse made it this beautiful poetic thing connecting all the spider-heroes in the multiverse and stacked up a story on it about instant connection, loss, and incredibly unlikely strangers becoming a found family. It was also aesthetic as FUCK. Remember the scene where Miles just hears barely intelligible whispering that’s all lines people say later in the film and then his own voice very clearly says “look out” and then the room explodes?? Fuck!!!!

Venom becomes immune to it after hitchhiking to Earth in Peter’s bone juice and it makes him a unique threat while telling a more-homoerotic-than-I-assume-was-originally-intended story about violation and how close relationships can be dangerous when they go sour.

It doesn’t work on people you trust for maximum soap opera energy. Love the innate tragedy of this feature coming up.

IN CONCLUSION I don’t have much patience for writers who don’t take advantage of it, never mind feel they need to write around it.

#spiderman #peter parker #spiderverse #spidey #marvel #danny phantom #one day you'll see what i'm doing with it in the project i'm collabing on w/ my brother and then you'll all be sorry and hopefully impresse #mirrorfalls #asks answered #essays

[phoebe-of-ivalice]

FFXIV Write 2021 Prompt #5

Using a random word generator I got the word 'possessive'.

Possessive (adjective): demanding someone's total attention and love.

Placing under a cut due to length.

The Rising Stones had been usually quiet for the entirety of Phoebe’s recent return. With the Scions still on the First, Tataru and Krile were kept busy as ever researching and tending to their corporeal forms. Even Ephemie was off for the night, per Phoebe's request that she take a break. There was no need for one person to wait on her when the poor girl could use a break now and again.

Phoebe had helped herself to a drink behind the counter, pouring a large glass of whiskey. She sighed as she kicked back at the table, feet on the edge as she sipped on her tumbler. It had been a long day and this was a well-deserved reward. Tataru had called her earlier that morning via linkshell, asking if Phoebe could watch over the Scions while she ran some errands. Krile was gone for the day but would be returning later that evening.

It had been demanding work with that many patients to care for. All of them needing to be fed, washed, and rolled in their beds as not to develop sores from being in one spot too long. Clothes need to be changed, the wash to be done... the list had seemed endless. She didn't mind, she cared very much for her friends and felt she owed them this much at least. Everything had been checked off of the to-do list that had been left behind for her.

It wasn’t often she was able to enjoy pure silence. A clock ticked somewhere in the background, mesmerizing in its rhythm. The drink she had seemed to be affecting her more than usual, most likely due to how exhausted she was. She set her glass down on the table as she felt her eyelids begin to drift closed.

Phoebe had only enjoyed a few moments of sleep before the door to the Rising Stones came crashing open. She startled, her chair almost tipping completely back with her in it. A heavily armored hand gripped the back of the seat to steady and right it. Phoebe had been surprised and turned to lecture the poor scion that decided to scare her so.

She whipped around to find no scion, but the former Azure Dragoon standing before her. Their eyes locked, his mouth turned downward into a scowl. She smiled at him, having not seen him in what seemed like ages after coming back from the First.

"Estinien! How are you?" she said, giving him a wide smile. The dragoon stared back, face unchanged. She was puzzled, why did he look so angry with her?

"Is everything alright? Estinien, say something...." her eyes shifted awkwardly under his intense stare. He finally moved, grabbing hold of her shoulders tightly. The gauntlets he wore bit through her light cotton shirt sleeves, to the point she was sure it would draw blood. She tried to wriggle away from him, but it was impossible due to how strong he was.

"Stop, you're hurting me. Please!" she begged him as she tried to pull away. Estinien proved to be too strong even for her, who pushed her backward until she fell onto a nearby table. He was so close, their noses brushing slightly. He finally spoke.

"You left," he growled. His eyes churned like an angry ocean during a storm.

"What do you mean I left?" she was genuinely confused.

"You disappeared, no one knew where you'd gone. I... I couldn't find you. I searched for days at that bloody tower for any sign. And now you show up here out of the blue as if nothing happened," he was barely controlling his outrage as he spoke through clenched teeth.

"Calm down, you can obviously see I'm perfectly fine. Now let me go!"

"No! Don't you understand you, foolish woman? I... I can't lose you. I've lost everything else in my life and I can't..."

"Estinien, I understand you were worried. I in no way knew I would be pulled to another shard, trust me. However, I do have a job to do for the Scions. You can't just hide me away from danger every time it rears its ugly head. I have responsibilities to this star," she said, jutting her chin out and trying to pull away from his iron grasp.

"Fuck Hydaelyn, fuck Eorzea... they mean nothing."

"What are you even saying? And who are you to have any right to tell me where I can and can't be? You who's always sneaking off to gods know where. How is that fair, hmm? Is this why you came all this way, to yell at me?"

Estinien's fist crashed down onto the table next to her; he knew it was wrong to imply that she belonged to anyone alone... yet he wanted her to be his. Instead, he had to share her with the entire primal-cursed world. He loosened his grip to give her freedom. She sat up completely, smoothing her clothes as she eyed him.

"You are one of the most stubborn people I know. How can you be such a contender on the battlefield, and yet such an utter oaf when it comes to these things," she shook her head as her rage began to simmer.

"I meant what I said. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you,” Estinien said, looking away as his cheeks tinted a slight pink. He wasn’t one to normally express his emotions, only having done so in the heat of the moment.

“Hey, it’s ok,” she leaned over trying to catch his attention, “you’re allowed to feel things. I know what it’s like to lose everything. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Estinien looked into her deep brown eyes, and only found genuine concern there. He removed the cold steel gauntlets, dropping them in the table as he closed the gap between them. He gently tilted her chin up, leaning in to softly seal his lips to hers. She eagerly accepted, deepening the kiss as she pulled him in closer to her. Behind them, the main entrance door creaked open and closed.

“Oh! Pardon me! I’ll just go back outside!” squeaked out the tiny voice of one very overwhelmed Tataru. Phoebe smiled up at Estinien as they reluctantly pulled apart. She knew that Krile and Tataru had been looking for him for some time; he’d want to escape as quickly as possible. The time had come to part ways again.

“No, it’s alright Tataru. I needed to go check on the Scions and Estinien was just about to leave,” she called cheerily to the girl. She stood up, fetching his lance from the corner by the door as he put his gauntlets back on.

As they walked out into the cool night air, Phoebe turned to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled him down to her, pressing their foreheads together in a moment of reassurance.

“Go on, I promise I will stay out of trouble if you do the same, alright?” she said quietly to him as she pulled back to look into his eyes. He nodded wordlessly, a small smile spread across his face. She kissed him one last time and waved as she made her way back inside. A part of her went with him as he left; the part that would always be his.

#FFxiveWrite2021 #FFxivWrite #prompt 5 #possessive #oc: phoebe venatrix #estinien wyrmblood

[wayhaving]

8 & rory/a for the physical affection prompts? 😊

my head’s getting heavy, pressed against your arm

HI!! TYSM!! (i lovvvveeee your writing btw!!!) 🥺😭💕

(again this is so so so old, i’m finally finishing all these like MONTHS old prompts. 😭)

8. brushing hands by accident

she’s not drunk.

she’s not.

the wobble of her too-high high heels, nor the smeared streaks of mascara around her eyes, nor the strap of her deep red dress falling down her shoulder told the story of a drunk woman, which she is not.

at least that’s what she’s telling herself.

what she’s not telling herself, is the all-true story of the night, and the events that unraveled leaving her to her disheveled state—and if she has her way the amount of alcohol she’d consumed would leave it that way, completely unbenknownst to the mistakes she’s made tonight.

the moon shines heavy on her, interrogating and illuminating all that she wishes to hide, and she feels vulnerable. vulnerable to the things that go bump in the night, ones she’s so woefully aware of now, but more so vulnerable to the people.

the people of wayhaven, her friends, her family, her team. and really, just the one specific member that has her turned all inside out, except now she’s completely bare and it’s not his fault (and she almost wishes it was).

they can see her. their eyes are on her. the eyes are watching and they can see her stumble on the sidewalk with her purse clutched lazily in her hand. they can see her with tears in her eyes and messy dark hair that’s fallen out of its intricate updo.

and as much as rory wants to lay the blame on everything but her, (on the night, on the present, on him—adam) she has no one else to blame but herself, and that’s possibly worse than anything else.

she sniffles, running a hand down her face, the cool air of autumn a welcome breeze to her reddened face but a terrifying sting to the rest of her body—the tiny maroon dress did nothing for insulation.

it was a beautiful dress, with ruffles down the side hugging her curves, low on her chest showing everything it needed to and more, held up by thin straps. when she put it on, she didn’t think she was doing it justice, and now, it feels even worse on her skin.

a stupid, stupid mistake.

an expensive one, and now she has to pay.

but even still, the mistake doesn’t live up to the pain, it doesn’t live up to the sting of rejection or the gullibility of her actions. a fool, she thinks, i’m an absolute fool.

to think he was interested, to think he truly meant those apologies, and all they were good for— platitudes whispered like sweet nothings in my ear and i fell for it.

and then she thinks, perhaps, she’s desperate, looking for affection and validation in anyone, because of who she couldn’t get it from. but then fuck that, love is not life and they should never intertwine, and she’s never thought of herself to be so helpless but here she is, wide-eyes rimmed with red, heart dutifully open and on her sleeve. because love is in her heart and she has a lust for life.

but she’s not like this, she doesn’t do this.

she doesn’t dress up like this, drink as if it’s the end of the world like this, cry a river on the sidewalk like this.

but, he’s got her fucked up like this, drunk under a streetlight like this, making critical mistakes like this.

and she hates it, loathes it, abhorred by the choices she’s made to garner attention from the only man she’s ever wanted it from, it makes her skin crawl. that he has such an effect on her. that she brought herself to this conclusion, that... bobby was her salvation.

and she was wrong.

she knew it when he called her late at night asking if she wanted to get dinner soon. she knew it when she bought a sexy red dress from the store at the very same time adam’s patrol was cutting through town. she knew it when bobby was an hour late to the restaurant. she knew it when bobby had called her baby, and apologized, kept his hand on her thigh. she knew it when he left in the middle of date.

she knew it when she found him in the alleyway on the phone.

she knew it when she heard him say, “i’m pulling the information from her now.”

“yea, she’s easy—she has no idea.”

and she knew she fucked up. she knew he could never change, that he’s just the same as he was during her college days. just as sleazy, and just as manipulative, playing on her weaknesses.

and it’s sucks, falling for the obvious. being told there’s a shooting star in the sky, and looking up only to be the fallen victim, laughing-stock. when he said jump, she jumped and didn’t even ask how high.

she decides it doesn’t matter, not now at least. it comes and goes in waves, and right now she’s determined to hold on to a little bit of her dignity. she wipes her hand under her eyes, black-stained tears collect on her fingertips, as she sniffles and takes in a shaky breath of air. it stings as it infiltrates her lungs.

the sky is inky, beautiful purple’s and blue’s, a sky she’s never appreciated before but it offers her some clarity. the stars whisper, a testament to her sins.

high-rising red brick buildings surround her as the town square comes into view, there’s a lack of people wandering around, and for good reason. the clock atop the library reads ‘1:34 am’.

rory doesn’t even see the man across the street, aviators tucked into his shirt, hands shoved in the pockets of his hands. and even though he’s close enough to tell, she doesn’t see the way his brows furrow.

he’s a million miles away and he’s just across the square, hidden behind evergreen leaves and branches sticking out like thieves in the night. and he watches, from afar, wondering, feet twisting. does he go?

there shouldn’t have been a doubt in his mind. that once he saw her in obvious distress, his arms should be around her but things are never cut so clear. things are never left out to dry like this, and feelings are so messy. yet adam wants so badly to get his hands dirty. he’s a white shirt and she’s every bad decision he’ll ever make.

so, even though it takes a second (several, actually) he makes his way over to her. his hands are nervous in his pockets, he can feel the cool air on his face like he’s never felt it before, it freezes, cuts on his sharp jaw. everything is amped up around her.

and it’s dangerous to feel things so intensely—feel these feelings, at all.

when he nears her close enough, she turns her head. immediately, her posture strengthens, she picks up her fallen strap, and forces a smile.

“detective.”

“agent.”

his mouth twitches and he threatens to say something he’ll regret, stops himself from gathering her into his arms, and taking her home. reprimanding her for her decisions, brushing the hair from her face and telling her it’ll be alright. leave her warm and comfortable and say goodnight like all of the good boyfriends do. like real people do.

but he doesn’t even bridge the gap.

he thinks it’s already been burned.

he shouldn’t have said it to her. said that she means nothing to him. that she’s just a causality. a mistake. an error.

he shouldn’t have turned his back. shouldn’t have left her wanting. shouldn’t have kept her tucked in his pocket, folded up in discretion. shouldn’t have held her once and said never again. shouldn’t have left her in the rain standing at the warehouse door. shouldn’t have kissed her and forgot the taste. shouldn’t have told her goodbye and shouldn’t have held her eyes in his own.

he shouldn’t have loved her. love her. he shouldn’t have kept it to himself.

but he did, and he does still. he still feels the ignorance on the outside, terrible sweetness in his veins. someone should’ve told him honey burns more than vinegar.

and somehow his heart never intervenes. but god, it longs to. but he knows irrationality, all too well, and it always stops him. always pulls him back. the draw. he’s never as far along as he wants to be.

an apology is on the tip of his tongue, cliches tipping the scales—its love. it’s love. it’s love. but the words are lost on him, as they always are. if only he could tell her.

so he sheds his coat, and before she can object he places it on her shoulders. he hears a sniffle as she pulls it closer. she doesn’t say anything, but the smile has faded and her lips are tight.

he doesn’t say anything either, instead he walks alongside her, hand dangling at his side. afraid to push her over, push her away. he swears, the trouble his mouth makes.

it’s minutes. or hours. time is malleable between them. it never makes any logical sense, like everything else trapped in their perfect storm. but rory’s apartment comes into view much quicker than either of them likes.

and then his hand brushes hers, and she stops. she turns to him and pulls her hand to her chest.

in the moment she wonders what to say, if there is anything to say. she’s content with the silence, everything has gotten so foggy, distant in her head, it’s all so fucked in her mind. there’s not much left to interpret, thoughts speakinf like tongues,

but adam opens his mouth, and rory cuts him off with the wave of her hand.

crickets scream quietly behind them.

“don’t,” she whispers. “you don’t have to say anything.”

adam wants to speak, by god, he wants to tell her everything he’s held back and all the problems he’s made and all the things he could resolve if only—

if only nothing, no ‘ifs’, ‘buts,’ or ‘whens’.

but then he was never a man of many words.

he waits, waits to gauge her reaction, but she walks past him, gathering her keys in her unorganized purse. stomping up the stairs to her apartment door, and adam follows. for safety, he thinks, but he’s there like a lost puppy.

she jams the key in the door, but she doesn’t turn it.

and then.

her forehead falls heavy on the doorframe. slumping down, and a burst of tears. adam works quickly to hold her up.

“i hate you,” she says, as he cradles her. head pressed against his chest as one arm reaches past her and to the key nestled in the door. he opens it, and pushes through.

“i know.”

he doesn’t bother to turn on the lights. he doesn’t need to. through the living room and through the kitchen, all the way to the bedroom in the back, he carries her, sets her down gently onto her sheets.

“i hate how much i need you.”

she sits up, and before she can protest he helps her with her heels.

“i hate how much i want you.”

he sets the heels by her bed, drops her purse on the nightstand.

and then he leaves into the kitchen, pours her a glass of water with a cup from the cupboard he knows they’re in because he knows her, he knows her space. he knows her home.

and he enters again, with the water, and an ibuprofen for the raging headache he knows she has.

“i hate how much i love you.”

he doesn’t stop, even though the shock should, but all he can do is drag his head across the floor in disappointment, in a somber sadness that only he created for himself.

“i know.”

so, he tucks her in and he kisses her forehead goodnight. he clicks the door shut. and in a whisper as quiet as he can manage—

“i love you, too.”

#yea this is cringy!! #what abt it!! #the wayhaven chronicles #twc detective #detective rory parker #twc #adam du mortain #writing

[undinoble]

Crazy long text ahead i warn you, just explaining some process I went through while drawing this Frank and Julie low light dying thingie, probably gonna drop some wips along the way, you may want to see… idk, dealer’s choice

!TRIGGER WARNING! Violence, death, suicide. Proceed with caution.

Well where do we begin? The inspiration maybe?

Exploring the magical world of Spotify when a band came in, one of the first songs (if not the first one) of theirs I heard was Partners in Crime by Set It Off, you know, love at first sight, love for their voices, their music style, aaand the lyrics, OH BOI the lyrics, check it out:

“You’ll never takes us alive We swore that death will do us part They’ll call our crimes a work of art You’ll never takes us alive We’ll live like spoiled royalty, lovers and partners”

Dunno, for two passionate juvenil delinquents that just wants trouble this line really fits to me, the dreamy couple feels invencible.

“Everybody freeze Nobody move Put the money in the bag Or we will shoot Empty out the vault And me and my doll will be on our way”

It’s actually interesting to think of the Legion robbing a bank, it’s not like troublesome teens didn’t do that in movies c’mon, it’s a small city, they wear masks, ez!

“Our paper faces flood the streets And if the heat comes close enough to burn Then we’ll play with fire ‘cause

You’ll never takes us alive”

THIS. This is so a Legion thing to say. Can you imagine their masks all around the streets as a warning like “HEY, WE ARE HERE, FEAR US” I love this

“Here we find our omnipotent outlaws Fall behind the grind tonight Left unaware that the lone store owner Won’t go down without a fight Where we gonna go He’s got us pinned Baby I’m a little scared Now, don’t you quit He’s sounded the alarm I hear the sirens closing in”

The second big moment, the adrenaline along with the instrumental is crazy for real

“The skies are black with lead-filled rain A morbid painting on display This is the night the young love died Buried at each others side”

THIS. (again) is the main theme of the drawing, it’s where the inspiration flood over me, the scene was clear in my mind, c’mon if you read till here there’s absolutely no reason not to listen to the song you won’t regret im not even getting payed to show it off

ACTUALLY FORGET IT- i just won a sub on Cody Carson’s stream WHAT IS LIFE??????? Thanks Max!!!

I totally didn’t draw this while listening to the music when i should be working what are you talking about??

Hold the sketch, focus on the gun. It’s dope aint it?

Anyways, here goes the lore, along with the music lyrics I filled up the gaps, well, Suz and Joey are not around, maybe doing school stuff Julie didn’t feel like doing so she decides to hang out with Frank in the meanwhile, they’re on the lodge, bored, upset about the world cause it’s what teens do in their free time, listening to one of their mixtapes, probably Frank’s, the more hardcore one when the idea hit: what if they try some good mischief? “There’s a small banks a mile from here, want some adrenaline babe?” And oh of course she does, grab your mask, here we go

Sorry, not a big legs-drawing fan…

They grab their knives, put on the masks, get ready, drive to the bank. I didnt really think this part through, the song says it all. Long story short - they rob the bank, the police arrives, the action begins.

They brought their knives, didn’t expect the cops to show up with guns, damn they didnt even know little Ormond cops had actual guns. After long minutes of hiding on the bank safe the couple decides to fight their way out, they would be more useful alive than dead so laws could apply, but that went out of question once Frank stabbed the first bank employee on his triumphal way out, the police don’t think twice before shooting to protect the citizens inside.

Frank and Julie have too little time to react, the stress and anxiety kicks in, they go feral, crazy cinematic bullet avoids, for a moment it’s possible to get away. It all happened too quick, but in Julie’s vision it went slow motion. She just saw a cop leaning behind a car, aiming directly at Frank, even her fastest reaction wasn’t fast enough to stop the trigger from popping. With tears in her eyes she watches as the bullet hits her boyfriend right in the chest. 

She snaps. One target in mind, she sprints to the cop and stabs him over and over until she’s sure he won’t see the sun set ever again. She takes his gun and rushes towards Frank who is kneeling against a taxi holding his torax, she screams that they must go to the hospital immediately but he refuses, hospital would be just a quick stop on his way to jail. No fucking way. 

He demands to go back to the lodge, the cops are too busy helping their wounded partner to look for them, they think Frank may be dropped dead somewhere on the street after multiple shots, the two of them must flee before the cops realize the mistake and go hunting for them. NOW.

Julie side-carries Frank back to their car, the lack of a license of her own won’t stop her from driving as fast as the car can. Breathing heavily while constantly telling Frank to hold on, they will find a way out, they must do. Oh what a fucking stupid idea holy SHIT. 

The travel takes half the time it usually does and still feels like hours. The car gets all red with Frank’s blood that keeps leaking. Once they arrive, Frank wants to go upstair, Julie shouts at him to keep next the central campfire once he should grab some heat (and for god’s sake why is he still carrying the money bag they stole????), anyway he gets the last word and they climb the stairs up and lay on the bed, Frank hisses from the pain but also sighs in relief for the soft spot under him, ignoring Julie cursing besides him, saying she can still call an ambulance, she doesnt want to lose him, Suz and Joey will be devastated, although he just replies with the phrase they were saying sooner that day “They’ll never take us alive”.

After 20 minutes of agony, low whispers of memories of how they met, what they had been through together and a huge amount of blood moisturing the covers, Frank says he’s feeling light-headed, Julie looks at him and he’s paper white, the blood loss is finally getting to him, she wants to cry, scream, curse and stab that damn cop a hundred times again, but all she does is cuddle her head harder against his shoulder and tell him she loves him, that she will keep his legacy alive, with Joey and Susie, she will revenge him. He chuckles and slowly feels the life being drained from his weaked body until everything goes black.

Julie need a few seconds to process. Frank died. For real. He was good a few hours ago, he was right. They would never take them alive. Death could do them apart, but, he never said for how long they would be apart.

She reaches for the gun on the hand under Frank’s body. THAT DAMN GUN. She aims it to the side of her head, never leaving Frank’s side on the bed. Triggers it.

“Partners in crime”

Damn did I just write a fucking fanfiction? This shit is way longer than I expected, did anybody even get down here?

Well, this is the part of the drawing where i left cause I just couldn’t afford to work on it, have in mind everytime the file were opened the whole lore came in my head, and fuck did i feel dizzy writing it all down. Hell the bloody details get me, seeing Frank so white with a blue undertone simulating the lifeless body gave me headaches fr. My escape was drawing other things until the courage to finish it came back. It was easier because the story kinda faded away from my mind, the drawing became “lighter” to deal with.

Well, guess that’s it. I hardly have this big insight while drawing, to visualize the finished piece on my brain and it’s just so fucking cool, making art with so many mixed feelings along, and overall pride, cause i feel so proud with the result you have no idea. It isn’t perfect tho, but i like it anyway. So, thank you so much if you made it all the way here. gonna sleep now for fucks sake im gonna pass out bye

#dbd frank #dbd legion #dbd julie #dead by daylight #frank morison #julie kostenko #frank x julie #art #art process #drawing #illustration #creative process #fanfic #fanfiction #dbd fanfic #trigger warning #death #blood #suicide #wip #work in progress #dbd fanart #set it off #partners in crime #digital art #digital illustration #digital drawing #dbd frank x julie #world needs more of them as a couple #gonna draw ghostfrank next tho

[parkersjiggle]

Tony bored at work, and peter right here, looking up at him from his spot between his legs, on his knees under tony's desk and blowjobbing him.

Hey! Hope you don’t mind but I took some creative liberty and made it public blowjobs. It’s my first time writing anything with smut so, hope u like it.

TW: smut, public blowjobs, accidental voyeurism?

———

“Fuck,” Tony sighs, leaning in closer as he grabs Peter’s shoulders and shoves him down on the table in the executive meeting room. His stomach churns with a feeling of arousal and want. “Kid, I know we shouldn’t be doing this in here, but you just look so pretty right now.”

Their bodies are close enough for Tony to feel the heat radiating off of Peter. Tony snaps. He closes the gap between them, kissing Peter harshly. His mouth is hot and soft against his; it’s messy and rough. Just the way Peter likes it. When Peter gasps, Tony licks into his mouth, tasting him, drawing a loud moan from the back of Peter’s throat. Peter’s hands grip at Tony’s hair, pulling him in closer as his tongue pushes against Tony’s.

Tony comes up for air, gasping. Peter’s a little breathless too, pupils blown, lips parted and just the tiniest hint of beard burn on his chin. He takes great pride in the boy’s undoing. If this is the last thing Tony sees, he’s pretty sure he’ll die a happy man.

Tony dips down to kiss peter’s jaw, trailing rough kisses down his neck, scraping his lips and tongue along his throat. He sucks a bruise into the skin above his collarbone and Peter inhales sharply, shuddering. “Please, Mr. Stark, please.” Peter voice cracks over a moan and if it’s not just the hottest thing Tony has ever heard, God.

But as quickly as it started, it all comes to an end when they hear the door creaking open. 10 AM meeting. Pepper. Shit. Why didn’t he lock the door? Tony Stark is so, so, so screwed.

Luckily Peter’s quick reflexes save the day and he manages to hide under the table just in time.

“Tony?” Shit. Tony must look like a disheveled hot mess right now. “What are you doing here already? In fact, what are you doing here at all?” She questioned. “I believe you sent an email yesterday? Something about a meeting discussing the new prototype that I just had to be here for.” He responded casually, clearing his throat. “Yeah I did, but you never listen to me and now you’re not only here, you’re also early. What’s going on?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’ve been such a good boy this week, Pep. I truly don’t deserve this suspicion. You want me here and then when I show up and do as I’m told you start doubting me? Make up your mind, woman.” Tony playfully rolled his eyes. Pepper looked a little guilty for distrusting him. “Alright then, the rest of the board will be here any second. Sit down while I get you some water. You look like you need it.”

Tony sat down and when Pepper had her back turned, he quickly shot Peter a warning look that said “behave or else.” However, the smug smirk that masked Peter’s face predicted nothing but mischief.

-

“Mr. Stark, I’m so glad you could grace us with your presence.” One of the boardmen said. What was his name again? David? Dennis? Dumbass? It didn’t matter. He seemed a little surprised, as if he didn’t expect Tony to be here. Well, who could really blame him.

“Uhu, I’ve got places to be, people to do so can we speed this up maybe?” He responded with a wink. Pepper just looks at him, with that arch in her brow raised in a way that signifies annoyance... he got that look a lot.

He really really tries to pay attention, but when nimble fingers fumble with Tony’s belt buckle, undoing it surprisingly quickly and hands slowly start to palm the growing bulge in Tony’s pants, his mind goes blank.

Hands immediately turn to the front of Tony’s slacks, tugging at the zipper. Suddenly he feels a warm mouth at the bulge in his briefs. Tony feels his cock twitch. “Jesus,” he says on exhale and everyone turns his attention to him. He manages to recover from his slip as quickly as his hazed mind allows him; “Why are we going on and on about the hardware and software integration? Move on to the next topic, we get it.” It’s not like they weren’t used to him being snarky, it’s all Peter’s fault anyway.

Peter takes his cock out and Tony gets sidetracked by the feeling of cool air hitting his aching cock. And then, fuck, Peter leans forward and softly kisses the tip. He knows he’s doomed, that all semblance of coherent thoughts are long gone. Peter knew just how to touch him, how to pleasure him. They’ve been together long enough to know what makes the other tick, what makes them fall apart into a pleading and trembling mess. Tony puts all his effort into maintaining a stoic expression.

Peter laps at the head of Tony’s cock once it’s pressed against his lips, digging his tongue into the slit just to hear Tony’s breath hitch. Peter pulls his own cock out of his boxers, squeezing it. It’s making a mess in his lap. His mouth stretches around Tony’s cock, sinking lower slowly. His hand, still wet from his own leaking mess, wraps around the part he can’t quite reach, stroking him into his mouth. Tony’s fingers curl around the table and he’s having a really hard time keeping his breath under control and his hands to himself.

Tony couldn’t help it; he let out what seemed like a painful moan when Peter’s tongue was doing something very interesting to the underside of his cock.

Pepper actually had the decency to look worriedly at him “Tony? Are you alright? Are you sick?” He swallows “Yeah actually I think I might be coming down with something. You know what? Meeting adjourned. See you all tomorrow. There’s the door” he waved in the direction of the door. “Leave.”

“But, sir, this is very crucial. We must-“ the boardmen quickly got interrupted “Dismissed.” He gave the man a cruel state that clearly stated “I’m the boss here.”

The second everyone left, Tony yanked Peter from underneath the desk by his hair, not entirely unpainful.

“Up on all fours, slut” Tony demands as he quickly unbuttons his dress shirt, cocking bobbing in the air. He’s dizzy with need, and his lips move of their own accord “You know Daddy’s gonna have to punish you for being such a bad needy boy, right?”

“Please, punish me Daddy.”

#starker #tony x peter #peter parker x tony stark #starkerfic

[sunmoonandeddie]

feelings are fatal (16/24)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader, past steve rogers x reader

word count: 3,336

summary: After the events of Endgame, you struggle to come to terms with what you’ve lost, though you’re learning that you still have something to gain.

chapter warnings: swearing, violence, heavy kissing

masterlist

a/n: Here we go, y’all.  Sorry it’s taken me so long.  Also... surprise!

“What are we going to do?”  You clung to Bucky’s side as a girl might cling to her boyfriend after a long day at the amusement park, resting your head against his shoulder.

He shook his head, feigning as though he was looking for the car.

In reality, he was looking for an exit that wasn’t swarmed with HYDRA agents.  You two couldn’t go back since there were even more looking for you in there.

Even with your costume change, you didn’t look that different from before.

It also didn’t help that your mind was still reeling from the kiss.  Sure, you had said that it was because PDA makes people uncomfortable and sure, you probably wouldn’t have kissed him otherwise because Lord knows how the last time you kissed him went, but–

You shook your head to clear your mind of the memory.  You could replay the kiss later, right now you needed to get out of here safely.

And the sooner that you two got out of there, the sooner that Morgan and Pepper and the others would be safe.

God, it was all your fault.  You should’ve known that it wasn’t a good time for you to be going out with them.  Not with everything that had been happening.  With the way HYDRA had apparently been targeting you, you shouldn’t have been with them.

“Hey.  Stop that.”

You looked up at Bucky to find his icy blue eyes already on you.  “What?”

He wrapped his arm around you as he went back to looking for an exit.  “You’re in your head.”

Fuck.  Sometimes you forgot how well he could read you.

“There’s no way Pepper or the others blame you,” he said, his hand rubbing your arm soothingly over his jacket that you were currently wearing.  “It’s not your fault, malen’kaya, so stop blaming yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging his hip with yours as you wove through the cars.  “How’d you know?”

“Because your brain is remarkably good at convincing you that everything that goes wrong is somehow caused by something you did and it makes you feel like a failure.”

Well.  Shit.

You huffed as he let out a laugh, squeezing you tight.  “But I’ll always be here to tell you otherwise.”

You rolled over for the eighth time in twenty minutes, sighing as you tried to find a comfortable position.  The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:18 AM and you didn’t think you were going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon.

Natasha slept soundly beside you, her gear thrown over the chair on the other side of the bed, along with yours.

It had been a rough few weeks sleeping on the quinjet, and you’d all finally stopped at a sleazy motel if only so all of you could rest for more than three hours at a time.

And yet, you hadn’t gotten a wink.

Your hand covered your mouth as you stifled a giggle, seeing the sight in the other bed in the room.

Sam, Steve, and Bucky were all crowded into one full sized bed.

The argument that had first happened over sleeping arrangements when you got the room had been exhausting.  Steve hadn’t wanted to splurge on two rooms and didn’t want the lot of you to be separated.  Wanda and Vision were already in a motel a few miles away, getting some much needed alone time.

There had been several different sleeping combinations that you all talked about and subsequently fought about.  There was Steve, Sam, and you, or Steve, Bucky, and you, but Steve didn’t want you sleeping with another man in the bed, even though you’d pointed out how ridiculous it was.  Then there was the possibility of Steve, Natasha, and you, but Natasha had quickly pointed out that she didn’t want the blond super soldier trying to make out with you (something he was prone to do when you managed to get a motel room) while she was in the same bed.

And so, Natasha and you, the two smallest members of your current team, claimed one bed to yourself while the three men (two of which were the size of river barges) took the other.

They looked like sardines in a can.  Steve was in the middle, sleeping on his side since the two others were prone to arguing.  Sam was on the side closest to your bed, his mouth hanging open and showing off the cute gap between his teeth.  Bucky was on the side nearest the window, his metal arm hanging off the side of the bed and his dark brown hair covering his face.  The comforters that they’d been sharing were half hanging off the bed.

You’d had to go down to the front desk to ask for those extra blankets since you were the least recognizable Avenger.

You’d also been the one to get the room while the others snuck in through a back hallway.  They wouldn’t be too happy to know that there were actually five people in the tiny two bed instead of just two like you told her.

Carefully, you slipped out of the bed, glancing back to make sure that you didn’t wake Natasha.  But she didn’t so much as stir, too deep in sleep to notice the lack of your warmth.

The cheap carpet was rough under your feet as you tiptoed to the glass doors that led out to the balcony.  You had to take extra care with the curtain that had been shut tight.  The glass door opened with a soft clink, opening surprisingly smoothly.

The cool night air was a welcome reprieve as you leaned against the railing, looking down at the small pool that was lit up a fluorescent blue.  There was a small diving board and slide that looked like they’d been built in the seventies.

You closed your eyes as you relished in the feeling of the window tangling through your hair.  You were close to the ocean, you knew that much.  Maybe Florida?  The seashell comforters and shower curtain definitely pointed to yes.

“You’ll catch your death out here.”

You jumped, turning to see Bucky standing in the doorway.  He was illuminated only by the light from the pool and the moon above.  The metal of his arm was hidden by his henley, his hand glinting in the light before he shoved it in the pocket of his sweatpants.

“I don’t know how you can wear that,” you said absentmindedly.  “Since, you know, you and Steve run hot.  And there’s three of you in a bed.”

He shrugged, coming to stand next to you.  He made sure to stand on your left, so his right arm was the one closest to you.

He probably didn’t think you would notice.

“I don’t like the cold,” he said, his voice a mere whisper in the night wind.

“Maybe you should retire here,” you said with a faint smile.  “Warm sand, sunny beaches.”

“It rains all the time.”  He leaned against the railing, his metal fingers clinging softly against the metal.  “And New York is home.”

Swallowing, you looked down at the rippling water in the pool.  “I’m sorry you got dragged into all of this.  I know you just want to go home.”

“Not your fault.”  He bit his lip as he followed your gaze.  Before all the HYDRA stuff, he’d have jumped in and pulled you with him.

But he wasn’t that man anymore.

Being so close to Bucky sent your heart pounding, and you were desperately hoping that he couldn’t hear it.

Or if he could, that he wouldn’t think you were afraid of him.

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get back to New York?” You asked, rocking back and forth on your heels.  “Like, when all of this is over?”

“Nap,” he said.

It took you a moment to realize he was making a joke, and you snorted, covering up your mouth.

He seemed delighted in your giggles, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.  “I want a real New York hot dog.  From a street vendor.  And covered in relish, ketchup, and mustard.  And then I’m gonna take myself to the cinema and spend an entire day watching movies.”

“Mind if I join you?” You asked with a weak grin.  “I haven’t been to the movies in…  Well, in forever.”

“Doesn’t Steve ever take you?”

“He was always too busy.”

Which was true.  There was always some mission to go on, some meeting to attend, some paperwork to finish.

“I kept promising to wait to watch movies with him, and then he was never able to go,” you said, frowning as you realized just how often you made plans with your boyfriend, only for him to cancel for work.

“That’s… awful,” Bucky said.  His voice was so low and gravelly, almost like a purr.  He was looking at you as though he was about to say something more, but he just turned his face back to the pool.

You rubbed one ankle against the other, trying to hide how sad it actually made you.  “I knew what I was getting into when I started dating him.  Captain America comes first.  Always has.”

“I…”  Bucky broke off, shaking his head.  His jaw clenched in frustration.  “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is what it is.”

“We’re running out of time,” you said, half to yourself and half to Bucky.

The HYDRA agents were starting to close in, searching the rows of cars.

“Bucky,” you said softly, your heart racing.

“I know.  I’m thinking,” he snapped, clearly stressing out.

It wasn’t like either of you to panic over an ambush, but you’d never had to worry about Morgan or the other kids before.

“We could try the kiss thing again,” he said.

You tripped, catching yourself on his arm.  “You want…”

The HYDRA agents were drawing closer and closer.

“Just go with it,” he said as he tried the door of the SUV parked to your left.

Thank God, it was unlocked.

He pulled you inside, the leather seats squeaking under you two.  Through the front windshield, you got a glimpse of two agents coming up to the car.

Right as they got closer, Bucky pulled you to him, his lips meeting yours.  This kiss was much different than the one inside the park.

It was… passionate.  Raw.

His hands held your face so gently, though.  You wavered, the strength of the kiss starting to knock you backwards.  He wrapped one arm around your waist, dipping under the jacket and holding you tight to his chest.  You could feel every ridge of his steel arm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

He carefully maneuvered the two of you so he was sitting down and you were straddling his lap.

A fire spread under your skin from where he was touching you, lighting up your nerves.

Without thinking, you rolled your hips down against his, eliciting a deep groan from the super soldier.  His metal arm tightened around you, squeezing you to him.  His lips trailed from yours, attacking your neck and nipping at your ear.  There was something suspiciously hard pressing into your leg, but you couldn’t stop to… properly investigate.

You were vaguely aware of the two HYDRA agents peering into the windows, their chatter barely audible over the feelings in your head.

“Just a couple sneaking in a quickie,” one of them said, seemingly a little embarrassed by the fact that he had looked in on the two of you.

A whimper escaped your lips as Bucky squeezed your hip, leaning his forehead against yours.  He seemed to be just as breathless as you, his chest heaving.

“We should…  We should wait a little longer before we leave,” you said, your hands resting on his chest.

He nodded, his nose brushing against yours.  The bill of his hat knocked softly against your forehead.  “Yeah…  Yeah.”

The two of you sat there, neither of you daring to move.  The air was hot and thick with tension.

A giggle fell from your lips and you hid your mouth, your eyes crinkling as you looked down at Bucky.

“What is it?” He asked, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Natasha would be so proud of our spy skills right now,” you said, breaking out into laughter.

He quickly followed after, his body shaking from the strength of it.  His chest vibrated as you leaned your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes.  “She would.”

And the strangest thing, was that Steve hadn’t crossed your mind once.

“I think this is the most quiet we’ve gotten in months,” you said, breaking the soft quiet of the car.  The atmosphere had shifted, going from being fiery hot to soft and sweet, tender.

“That’s because Sam isn’t here,” Bucky said, running his fingers through your hair carefully.

“Shush, he’s your best friend.”

“So are you.”

Biting your lip, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck.  “You’re my best friend, too…  Though Morgan might be a little more best than you.”

He smirked, holding you tightly.  “As long as it’s Morgan, I’m okay with that.”

Speaking of the kid, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket, groaning as you saw a slew of text messages.

From: Pepper

Let me know when you two are safe.

From: Pepper

Hello?

From: Pepper

Are you two okay?

From: Pepper

What’s going on?

From: Pepper

I will call the police and report you two as missing if you don’t answer your goddamn phone.

Bucky chuckled as he read the texts, shaking his head.  “She’s in full mom mode.”

“Yeah, but you’re a hundred year old man.  If anyone has a mom mode, it should be you,” you teased.

“You’re a minx,” he said as he helped you gently off of him, setting you on the seat beside him.

You straightened out your hair and your clothes, suddenly remembering that you had just been grinding on him a few minutes before.  “We should go,” you said as you peered out of the windows, not spotting any HYDRA agents.

“Yeah,” he said, coughing and readjusting the hat on his head.

Biting your lip, you took a moment to just look at him.

You’d found yourself doing that a lot lately.  Just looking at him.

He was pretty.  Of course, you knew that already.  You’d known that since you first met him.

Even when he was all dirty and greasy and more often than not, blood-splattered, he was gorgeous.  He was sexy and dangerous and it made you want to be rebellious.

But now, there was something softer to him.  There was a kindness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when you were a teenager.

There was a love in your heart that wasn’t there when you were a teenager.

The love that you had for him all those years ago had been a puppy love.  Young and fresh.  You were clinging onto the one person that protected you, had guided you.

But this…  The love that was burning in your heart for the man sitting next to you was something completely different.

It was fiery and passionate and all consuming and holy shit, you were so in love with him.

You could try to tell yourself that it was just like, that you were just in like with him, but you would be lying.

But with that fire, there was a comfort.  You knew that he was the person you could turn to about everything.  He was the one that you wanted to tell everything to, every dirty little secret, every bit of joy that you found in the new world that had been created after the Blip.

He was your joy.

Your eyes burned as you felt tears rim your eyes, and you quickly turned away as you dried your eyes.

“Ready?”

You turned back to him, your eyes still stinging just a little.  “Yeah.”

But you watched, almost in slow motion, as he lunged for the door behind you.  “WATCH OUT!”

The doors on either side of you swung open, revealing HYDRA agents that had been hiding out of your sight.

“RUN,” Bucky shouted at you as he punched at the man behind you.

But it was all a blur, and you were in such a small space.

How could this have happened?

You were almost on auto pilot as Bucky managed to get out of the van with you, his hand in yours as the two of you bolted.

How could you have been so reckless?

Your feet pounded against the pavement as he pulled you forward.  The two of you were dodging bullets as the agents raced after you.

“Malen’kaya, you have to run left, okay?” Bucky said as you ran.

Suddenly you were grateful for being forced into five in the morning runs for several years.

“Do you hear me?!”

“Yes!” You shouted back, though you were confused as to what was going to happen.

“Remember that day you kissed me?”  He squeezed your hand, though he didn’t risk glancing back at you.  Bullets were ricocheting off of the cars.  “Head for that spot.  I’ll meet you there as soon as possible.”

“Don’t leave me,” you said, shaking your head as you clung to him.  There was a panic rising in your chest like a tidal wave.

“I have to.  But I’ll come back, I swear.  I’ll find you.”  He did glance back at you then, making you realize that there were tears in his eyes.  “I promise.  It’ll all be okay.”  He swallowed, dodging a Ford Focus.  “Ready?”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded.

“On three.”

You could do this.

“One.”

You were trained for this.

“Two.”

Besides, Bucky said it would be okay.

“One.”

He would find you.  He promised.

The two of you bolted in opposite directions, much to the confusion of the agents.

As you kept running, you were glad to note that there were no civilians in sight.  Someone must’ve sounded an alarm and gotten them to stay out of the way.

Your nails dug into the palms of your hands as you ran, pushing even harder as you saw the sign for the New York City Aquarium up ahead.

A glance behind you told you that there were only three agents on your tail.  The rest’ve them must’ve gone after Bucky.

You stopped in your tracks, skidding a little, before turning around to face the three agents.  They were so shocked by your ballsy move that they barely had time to register what they were doing.

You left them incapacitated on the black top, feeling much more at ease as you approached the Aquarium.

It was completely empty.

Your heart was pounding against your rib cage as you finally made it to the shark tunnel, relaxing as you saw the great beasts swimming above you.

“Hello again,” you greeted softly, pressing your hand to the glass.  A tired smile worked its way onto your lips as you leaned against the railing, watching the sharks, while you waited for Bucky.

Maybe…  Maybe when he got here, you could tell him how you felt.

After all, that kiss…  Well, you couldn’t kiss someone like that if you didn’t mean it, right?  You doubted that even Natasha could fake that sort of feeling.

You perked up as you heard footsteps coming towards the shark tunnel.  “Bucky?” You called out, heart fluttering as you headed for the entrance.

But you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw the agents that were standing there, a black HYDRA symbol emblazoned on their jackets.

The blood was rushing in your ears as you turned to bolt for the exit, only to find several more HYDRA agents blocking your only way out.

You were trapped.

“Sorry,” the one leading the group said as he raised his gun, stepping forward.  “I’m not your Bucky.”  He pulled the trigger.

And then everything went black.

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction

[goldenraeofsun]

‘cause right now you're mine

set in this verse

THURSDAY, APRIL 2nd

Dean 12:01 You didn’t tell me you led Carver Prep’s quiz bowl team???

Castiel 12:15 It’s in the middle of the school day and you’re texting. What kind of example are you setting for your students?

Castiel 12:16 I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t relevant.

Dean 12:17 Haha smartass I’m having lunch in my office Youre texting me back so i see right through you And of course it’s freaking relevant

Castiel 12:20 How?

Dean 12:21 Because I got tapped to coach Edlund High's quiz bowl team this morning!

Castiel 12:21 Oh no.

Dean 12:30 Oh no is right buddy

Castiel 12:37 I thought you coached the softball team.

Dean 12:37 I can do both You’re dating a very talented man

Castiel 12:49 I know that. I just didn’t know it extended to quiz bowls and softball in addition to blow jobs and breaking and entering places to give blow jobs.

Dean 12:52 What the fuck is wrong with you I’m in school! My lunch hour is almost over I’ll have to get up from my desk very soon This is all your fault

Castiel 12:59 :)

Dean 1:00 Just for that No blow jobs for you tonight

Castiel 1:07 :(

 MONDAY, APRIL 6th

Dean 11:55 I bet I can grade more midterms than you today

Castiel 11:58 I know better than to make bets with you, Dean Winchester.

Dean 12:03 It was just a kiss I bet you’re just pissed you lost

Castiel 12:04 I can’t engage in PDA in front of my niece and one of my students at a school event!

Dean 12:04 Youre such a prude

Castiel 12:06 Unlike some teachers, I maintain boundaries between my personal and professional life.

Dean 12:07 Prude.

Castiel 12:09 Did you text me on a Monday afternoon just to harass me about my reluctance to kiss my boyfriend in front of minors?

Dean 12:11 Huh Boyfriend

Castiel 12:20 Dean?

Dean 12:21 What?

Castiel 12:22 Is everything okay?

Dean 12:23 Other than *my boyfriend* refusing to even entertain the idea of a friendly wager?

Castiel 12:23 Yes, other than that.

Dean 12:23 No

Castiel 12:25 That’s good. You scared me for a second.

Dean 12:26 I did?

Castiel 12:26 Are you okay with being my boyfriend? The long gap between our messages made me realize we haven’t talked about it before.

Dean 12:27 I mean it’s a little weird My 16 year old students have boyfriends “boyfriend” seems a little I don’t know Juvenile We’re not 16 anymore, Cas Thank god.

Castiel 12:30 Would you prefer “partner”?

Castiel 12:31 It’s just whenever I hear someone call their significant other “partner” I can never tell if they are talking about their life partner, same-sex partner, police partner, or if they are cowboys. That was a joke! Ignore this. I remember how much you like Westerns. “Partners” is off the table.

Dean 12:31 HOWDY YALL THIS IS MY PARTNER CAS

Castiel 12:31 Please never introduce me to someone like this.

Dean 12:32 Only if you watch Tombstone with me tonight

Castiel 12:33 Can I still grade my midterms?

Dean 12:35 You’re killing me here Cas Yes

Castiel 12:40 I’m your huckleberry

 SUNDAY, APRIL 12th

Castiel 2:19 Good luck with the softball game today!

Dean 2:21 You’d better make it up for me for missing this one Its the semifinals

Castiel 2:22 I will. Say “hi” to Claire for me.

Dean 2:27 What the hell? Why is she here? We’re not even playing Carver

Castiel 2:29 She has a crush on Kaia Nieves

Dean 2:30 Ohhhhh That explains a lot

Castiel 2:30 She thinks she’s being subtle.

Dean 2:37 I see that runs in the family Subtle as a brick wall. All of you.

Castiel 2:38 Excuse me, you had no idea about my feelings for you back in high school.

Dean 2:49 So? Charlie said you were obvious as fuck But it didn’t matter since I was a dumbass

Castiel 2:50 I prefer oblivious Less dumb Less ass

Dean 2:57 How dare you My ass is a goddamn gift. You take that back right now

Castiel 2:59 Of course. Don’t you have a game to coach?

Dean 3:01 Shit you’re right

 TUESDAY, APRIL 14th

Castiel 11:18 I know how I can make up for missing that last softball game last weekend

Dean 12:01 Sorry The kids called me out for texting you 5 mins before the bell last time How the hell did i get stuck with a class full of narcs

Castiel 12:03 It’s probably karma For all the rule breaking you did in school

Dean 12:05 Hey I wasn’t that bad

Castiel 12:05 You frequently defaced school desks and returned library books after their due date.

Dean 12:06 I’m dating a narc too???

Castiel 12:07 You didn’t ask what I have planned.

Dean 12:07 OK i’ll bite What do you have planned babe? Please tell me it’s not another documentary on bees That was depressing The grand canyon one was cool though

Castiel 12:10 Speaking of narcs

Dean 12:10 This doesn’t sound good

Castiel 12:11 When I had to get my extra copy of Camus from my car, I stumbled on Miriam at the edge of the parking lot with a few more students. They were skipping class and smoking marijuana. Naturally, I reported them to the administration.

Dean 12:13 Not helping your not-a-narc case

Castiel 12:13 They received detention for skipping class.

Dean 12:13 And the drugs?

Castiel 12:13 I may have neglected to report the drug use.

Dean 12:14 Seriously?

Castiel 12:14 I still confiscated it. Research evidence shows marijuana has negative effects on the developing brain.

Dean 12:14 I guess that’s fair

Dean 12:15 Hang on Do you still have it? OUR brains are old as balls Seriously, are you telling me you have weed now?

Castiel 12:15 Surprise?  I can throw it out if you’d prefer to do something else tonight.

Dean 12:15 Dont you dare!!! I’m going to get a six pack on the way home, download the last Star Wars, and we’re gonna do this right Your place or mine?

Castiel 12:16 I have been neglecting laundry lately. Yours?

Dean 12:16 You’re on This is going to be so awesome

 WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15th

Dean 12:06 Did you really mean to invite me to dinner with your brother?

Castiel 12:09 I didn’t mean to bring it up when we were high, but the invitation still stands. Claire told him we were together. He wants to meet you.

Dean 12:11 Oh

Castiel 12:11 You do not have to say yes.

Dean 12:13 I’ll go It just took me by surprise

Castiel 12:13 I don’t want to pressure you.

Dean 12:14 Youre not pressuring me

Castiel 12:14 Are you sure?

Dean 12:16 Look, I just know your relationship with your brother is complicated And I don’t want to stick my foot in it By accident or some other way

Castiel 12:20 We’re in a better place than I’d like to admit. I spent a long time resenting Jimmy for the time he had with Father. But it wasn’t his fault Father was a bastard who had a second family he preferred to be with. Jimmy was barely in middle school when Father started going on his “business trips”

Dean 12:21 Jesus christ You told me bit about it back in high school But I didn’t realize it was a second family situation

Castiel 12:21 Mother kept it from us for years. I still haven’t forgiven her for it.

Dean 12:21 Are you OK?

Castiel 12:22 I’m fine. It was a long time ago.

Dean 12:22 That stuff takes a long time to get over.

Castiel 12:22 I suppose.

Dean 12:23 Is it okay if you stay at mine tonight?

Castiel 12:24 Our next date isn’t until Friday

Dean 12:24 I don’t want to wait until Friday to see you

Castiel 12:27 Can you pick me up at Carver at 4pm?

Dean 12:27 You got it More time with you and my baby Win-win!

 FRIDAY, APRIL 24th

Dean 11:51 Are you sure what I usually wear to school is OK?

Castiel 11:53 You texted me nine minutes early?

Dean 11:53 Shut up I had to bribe my kids For NINE extra minutes Friggin tyrants

Castiel 11:54 What did they extort from you?

Dean 11:54 I promised to throw out their lowest pop quiz grade

Castiel 11:54 That isn’t too bad.

Dean 11:54 I was already planning on doing it

Castiel 11:55 Clever of you.

Dean 11:56 You’re not just dating a pretty face But getting back to dinner with your brother Is a regular button up OK? The tie hides most of the sloppy joe stain

Castiel 11:56 I’m sure you look very handsome

Dean 11:57 I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not

Castiel 11:57 I rarely manage sarcasm in-person. What makes you think I would attempt it over text?

Dean 11:58 Good point

Castiel 11:58 You’re a very good-looking man, Dean. I’ve known this since we were 15.

Dean 11:59 Stop it you’re making me blush

Castiel 12:01 It’s the truth.

Dean 12:04 Alright, alright I’m already sleeping with you No need to butter me up

Dean 12:05 It’s just I remember how you used to talk about him The perfect big brother

Castiel 12:07 More like the perfect student and perfect son. Jimmy was honestly too busy to be much of a brother. The 11 year age difference didn’t help. When I was in high school, he already had the perfect nuclear family on the way.

Dean 12:07 Exactly

Castiel 12:08 Exactly what?

Dean 12:08 You’re lucky I know you And I know you’re not drawing this out on purpose Look, i want to make a good impression, OK? he seems like a hard guy to please.

Castiel 12:09 I That’s very admirable of you, but it’s entirely unnecessary.

Dean 12:10 He’s your family

Castiel 12:11 And I understand family is very important to you, but it isn’t the same with me. It would be very nice if dinner goes well, but if it does not, I will not care in the slightest.

Dean 12:11 Really?

Castiel 12:11 Truly.

 SATURDAY, APRIL 25th

11:16 I’m sorry for my dad.

Dean 11:17 Who is this? 

11:20 Claire Novak

Dean 11:21 How did you get this number?

Claire 11:23 Alex Jones

Dean 11:24 How did Alex get my number???

Claire 11:24 It was on the softball permission forms How did you not know this Didn’t you draft them?

Dean 11:25 It’s been a while I’m a very busy man

Claire 11:25 Sure. Anyway, my dad was a dick.  Totally out of line last night

Dean 11:26 Shouldn’t you be texting Cas about this?

Claire 11:26 I don’t have his number

Dean 11:26 Cas wasn’t kidding when he said you guys weren’t close

Claire 11:27 Nope.

Dean 11:27 Well I am very close with my brother He’s a lawyer out in California

Claire 11:27 Good for you???

Dean 11:29 It doesn’t sit right with me that Cas doesn't have a real relationship with his family

Claire 11:31 That seems like Uncle Castiels business

Dean 11:33 But Jimmy isn’t Cas’s only family SO if you ever need a place to crash, i’m always available

Claire 11:35 Maybe my dad was right And you’re secretly a perv I’m not staying with you you freak

Dean 11:35 Jesus christ, I’m trying to say, if ALEX isn’t the only girl on Edlund's softball team you’re getting buddy-buddy with, it’s fine You should get a chance to explore that part of being a teenager While STAYING SAFE But don’t let your parents stand in the way of that side of your life

Claire 11:41 Dad wouldn’t kick me out

Dean 11:42 Maybe not. But if you are at all uncomfortable, just give cas a call I’ll forward you his contact info now

 “I might have told Claire she’s always welcome at my place if she comes out to her parents,” Dean says as he pockets his phone. He turns his back on the pile of sparkling clean dishes drying on the rack by Cas's sink. Dean adds, “Hopefully she’ll ask you before she goes to me.”

They hadn't really discussed the disaster of a dinner with Jimmy and Claire. A few tense words on the drive back to Cas's house, a tacit acknowledgement in the morning not to mention it until after coffee and breakfast. But then Cas brought out his homework for the weekend, even while last night's argument scratches at the back of his mind like a fly trapped in a windowless room. So Dean did the dishes and texted Claire.

Cas looks up from his juniors’ final exams. “You were talking to Claire?”

“She texted me first,” Dean says defensively.

Cas sighs and caps his pen. It’s blue, because red pen, according to Cas, is too traumatizing a grading implement. “I’m very sorry about last night.”

Dean waves his apology off. “You warned me it could go sideways.”

Cas’s brow furrows. “Still,” he says slowly, “I told my mother and Jimmy I was gay a few years ago. I think it was easy for them to ignore it as long as I didn’t have a boyfriend in the picture.”

Dean fiddles with a dishrag as he hovers by the sink. “Was Jimmy a jackass to your other boyfriends?”

“What others?” Cas asks wryly. “None of them were ever serious enough to pique Jimmy’s interest.”

“Really?”

Cas nods and gestures for Dean to take a seat at the kitchen table next to him. He holds out his hand, which Dean takes, bemused. “I don’t know why Jimmy thought religion was an appropriate introductory dinner topic. I could tell he was trying to genuinely understand our… lifestyle, to use his word, but-”

“I got angry,” Dean says looking down at their clasped hands.

“You didn’t say anything I wasn't thinking,” Cas says simply. “I’m glad you reached out to Claire.”

“It seems like she needed it.”

“She doesn’t have a lot of adults in her life she can rely on to be in her corner,” Cas says diplomatically. “I’ve tried, over the years, but I can’t relate to her at all.”

Dean laughs. “Of course not. Teenage rebellion wasn’t really your style.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Cas says, his voice dry as chalk, “you’d be the perfect person to talk to her. The cool kids speak their own language. How could I forget?”

Dean smirks. “It’s full of references you don’t get.”

“Don’t remind me,” Cas says darkly.

Dean leans in for a kiss. Eyes dancing, as he whispers, “Relax, babe. You were always the coolest kid in school to me."

#destiel #destiel fanfic #fanfic #teacher castiel #teacher dean #established relationship #fluff #text fic #the story of us verse #profoundnet #rae writes fic

[darlingpetao3]

The Honeymoon (Harry Wells x Reader)

Rating: M (Smut)

Summary: When Harry whisks you away to a romantic beach-side getaway, your honeymoon kicks off right away into some steamy festivities to celebrate your marriage.

A/N: Basically shameless no-plot smut under the guise of a honeymoon XD The idea(s) came to me during my holiday in a super nice hotel room, so I couldn’t not write them into a story. I hope you all enjoy this xx

3,895 words

You and Harry are all hands and giggles and freshly-married grins as you both attempt to make your way into your honeymoon suite.

Married! You’re married!

Mrs. Harrison Wells!

Man, it feels nice to finally say. After a real-life slow burn, you and he have finally tied the knot. And it’s not just you that feels the relief of having made it official - Team Flash had been waiting for this for ‘eons’ according to Cisco.

When you reach your suite’s door, Harry is already leaving open-mouthed kisses to your neck and it’s suddenly like you can’t even remember how to open a door.

“Are you going to attack me right in this hallway, Hare?”

“Mm, thinking about it,” he replies. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s a joke or not. You wouldn’t put it past the man (your husband!).

Upon first entry into the exclusive room, you spot your luggage already waiting by the door thanks to the hotel staff. The place is swanky beyond all belief and how on all the Earths had Harry pulled this off? You suppose being a rich, famous, and celebrated scientist has its perks.

The view outside the floor-to-ceiling window is to die for. Curling waves crash onto the private section of the golden beach below you and the sunset looks so incredible that you’d think it was fake if someone only showed you a photo of this.

But it’s difficult to even take it all in because Harry’s hands are securely on your waist, lips on yours with delightful greed after he catches up to you viewing the sunset at the window. Your hand reaches back to hold his head of perfectly coiffed hair, still in place from the ceremony and reception. Though, it won’t stay that way much longer if you have anything to do about it. Harry peppers more kisses down to your bare shoulder.

“You’re not going to enjoy the view?” you ask.

“Oh, I am.”

“But that sunset, Hare!”

“Nothing will pry my eyes away from my wife.”

You turn around, and when you do, the strap from your romper slides off your shoulder and down your arm. Even your clothes want to come off already at the way Harry so much as looks at you. His fingers tentatively move to the strap, keeping his eyes on you, as if to monitor how far he can go with this until you’re out of your clothing before him. You say nothing and let him undress you. Your one-piece article drops to the floor. In closing the slight gap between you, your lips turn up as you unbutton his crisp white shirt. Intensely, he watches your fingers dance while they work the buttons.

“Honey, I think you need to invest in some sort of one-piece article,” you mention casually then proceed to his belt, “you have too many layers.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Harry chuckles. “Besides, it’s the best thing in the world to watch you undress me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You whip the belt out from the loops of his trousers like a professional. But a professional what? Porn star?

Harry lets out a playful growl-laugh at that and unzips his pants himself - now far too eager and needing to be in control of how quickly he can defile his new bride.

Romantically defile, though.

Okay, but with a dash of filth.

Marriage was going to be very magical.

Harry won’t stop smiling at you as he encroaches in on your space, essentially pinning yourself to the window. The coolness of the floor-length glass is very much welcome against your back, especially when your husband is making you so hot right now.

“You don’t think the bed would be more fitting?” you check, knowing in your mind the damn bed can wait its turn.

“We’ll get there, too, don’t you worry,” he assures you.

“Good answer.”

Harry plants a kiss on your wanting lips, restrained at first - as if wanting to savour the romantic bliss of spending these cherished honeymoon days and nights with you. But your kiss is like a poison to him; it always has been, turning your restrained and sensible man into this wild thing who wants nothing more than to please you and see and hear you being pleased.

Harry’s hand, which has been cupping your cheek, slides down the skin of your neck, over your practically-nothing-bra, to rest a moment at your hip. His fingers dance near the top of your panties (that you had picked out specifically for a moment like this for him to destroy). His mouth starts slow in its movements against yours again. He’s thinking.

“Harrison, you don’t need to think, remember?” you breathe against his parted lips. “But you do need to touch me or else I might have to ahhh-”

Your head tips back on the window at the feel of Harry’s perfect fingers between your legs. They explore and easily discover the intensity of your slick desire.

“You were saying?” Harry asks cheekily, leaning in to taste your skin just below your ear. You breathe out a laugh.

“Nothing, oh delicious husband.”

While one hand wraps around to clutch his rippled back, the other holds onto his equally impressive arm. And with one leg hooked around his, you suddenly wish you had more limbs to cling onto him with. God, his fingers… they’re so excessively coated with you now and they’ve found their perfect little plaything to swirl around. No amount of lip biting can save you from the whimpers Harry draws from you.

“I love it when you do that,” he whispers in your ear.

“Well, I love it when you do t-that, ugh…” Your eyelashes flutter at his attention to your begging clit. Reaching down with what mental capacity you still have, you reach into his pants to feel him. He’s hard and twitching and probably dying to delve inside you this instant. You take a second to shimmy out of your panties and pull his length (arguably yours now, in a sense) towards your throbbing centre where you coat him with your slickness. You watch in your task, but Harry continues to watch you instead.

“Ready?” you ask him.

“I like that you’re asking me that question.”

“Well, are you?”

“I’ve been ready for longer than you know.”

Just as you will never tire from hearing him bring you coffee in the mornings, say your name, or hold your hand, you will also never tire of the feeling of Harry entering you. Your body welcomes him in and holds on tight, never wanting him to leave.

Your moans effectively express the need in which your body wants more of Harry. It always wants more. It’s a good thing he’s yours now, ‘til death do you part.

“Harrison, God, yes…”

“(Y/N)...”

“More. More.”

“Hold on.”

He meant literally. Harry hoists you up so that you’re straddling him, back pressed to the window. You feel yourself sink further down onto his cock at this new angle. He fills you up wholly and easily slides repeatedly into you. Your hardly-covered breasts rub against Harry’s chest - nipples taut with the friction behind the scant white lace.

You moan at the ceiling, revealing your neck to him. Harry takes this as an invite and latches on, licking at your heated skin in between kisses to your collarbone. He sucks a fresh mark there, the first (of potentially many) honeymoon hickies.

It is also a good thing you both will likely not leave this room. You may get mistaken for a woman with a severe disease with how many love bites you’re expecting from this man given his and your bedroom history…

Harry’s driving you up the wall with each thrust you take eagerly and voicing it just as much. His heavy breathing fans down onto your chest, undoubtedly making you sweat all the more.

The coiling sensation flames within you almost too quickly, but luckily, thanks to those sounds Harry is making, he may not be able to hold off either.

“Almost…” you pant. “Almost…”

“Come for me, Mrs. Wells.”

You grin wildly as your eyes squeeze shut. “Give it to me, Harrison, yesss fuck-”

And oh, he does.

He strikes you inside perfectly and fully in his final few thrusts, all the while stimulating your clit at every motion in and out. Your legs tense around him and the heels of your feet dig harder into his lower back.

You choke out his name and bite his lip when you come, feeling yourself squeezing around his cock in a wordless, satiated beg for more even though he’s finishing inside you. His shaky sigh causes you to shiver. Good shivers.

After pulling out from you, you immediately cling to Harry again. He won’t let you touch the ground, and instead carries you over to the California King bed just a few steps away where you both topple onto the mattress, once more all giggles.

“That was…” he starts.

“It was…” you agree. Harry leans on his arm while resting his head in his hand and stares at you. “You’re doing it again.”

“Better get used to it, Mrs. Wells. You’re stuck with this now.”

“Thank God. There’s no one I’d rather be stuck with. Especially someone who’s fantastic in bed. Or… window, for that matter,” you joke.

Harry laughs and pulls you closer for a sweet kiss. He wipes his thumb gently over your bottom lip after.

“I love you,” he tells you, almost like he still can’t believe this is happening to him. Like he can’t believe he has found this happiness again. And you still can’t believe that he’s found it with you.

“And I love you.”

There’s a short pause - one where you are positive Harry is thinking again.

“You don’t think we should have, you know…?” He gestures to the bed. “Instead of…?” He motions to the window.

“Use your words, big boy,” you giggle.

“You know, the phrase you sometimes use.” It’s hard to tell if his cheeks are pink because of exertion or slight embarrassment.

You rack your brain for what that could mean.

“‘Make love’?” you offer, on the verge of laughter, but hold back because he really is so adorable. Even if he can’t utter that particular phrase. “God, you are the cutest man. Grumpy? Cute. Shy? Cute. But no, I’m quite content with what we did over there. Besides, we have all night to ‘make love,’ Harry.” You lean forward to press another kiss to his curling pink lips.

The two of you spend the next little while making out like crazed teenagers, though technically the term ‘newlyweds’ would suffice in this instance as well. At some point though, you do manage to pry yourself from your husband to unpack your bags a little. Harry watches as you do, eyes lingering on every inch of your nearly naked self. His face switches back and forth from awe to glee to aroused over the course of twenty minutes.

The toiletries were the last items to unpack, and you could practically sense the impatience diffusing from his pores. So with your man obviously raring to go again, you coo, “Oh, husband?” and drop the last of your lingerie to the bathroom floor in clear view of the open door for Harry to see. You hear his feet hit the floor and the sound of his pants hurrying to come off. Turning on the shower, you step in first to feel the spray of the water. Goodbye gross travel-sheen, hello cleanliness.

With a touch of dirtiness.

Harry gets under the showerhead with you, and you press your back against the tiles. He pushes his drenched curls back with his hand, and wow, yeah, okay, maybe he’s the sexy porn star in all of this. No, he’s better. He’s real.

And he’s all yours.

A fact that is always fun to remember.

You drag your teeth over your bottom lip. Slowly, you turn around to place your hands on the shower wall and turn your head to catch Harry’s eye. The man stands there, lips parted slightly. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. You fix your footing and back your ass up against his groin to make little gyrations. Harry looks up to the ceiling with his eyes closed, lets out a small groan, and instinctively sets his hands on your waist.

He presses himself harder against your ass and you can feel him growing stiffer once more. You make a knowing chuckle at how you’re able to turn him on like no tomorrow. Harry’s hands start to roam upwards on your wet body, one resting on your rib cage while the other cups your breast.

As he massages you, you let out a breathy moan and continue to rub up on his body. In return, your husband takes your nipple in between his thumb and forefinger to knead it. Harry presses a kiss to the crook of your neck, to which you are already feeling yourself turning to mush at his every touch.

While he continues to caress you expertly, you reach around to take Harry in your hand, feeling him rock-hard now. You play with him a little - pumping his shaft until his own hand finds yours on him. He aids you in guiding him to your ready heat from behind. You helpfully sink onto him as he enters you - your heady voice muffled from the water in your ears, but it echoes around the four corners of the roomy shower. Your hands brace yourself against the wall as Harry gives you precisely what you need in terms of roughness and speed. He leans in close so you can hear his heavy panting and feel his breath on your neck. One of his hands gathers your hair and moves it to one side over your shoulder. The simple and considerate action is enough to keep you melting inside.

“Oh, Harry, please-” you cry when you feel yourself nearing the brink of your imminent and likely stellar shower-climax. Harry’s fingers dig into your hip, and at your plea, brings one hand down around between your legs to spark your fiery orgasm so much quicker.

He positively pulses inside your core and you can feel your walls beginning to increasingly constrict and release around his cock until the point where your pussy squeezes so tightly around him, that it’s even more difficult to continue his push deeper inside. With erratically jerking hips, Harry curses, followed by another moan made in perfect staccato. He’s hot when he spills into you - a deep, glorious groan of your name surrounds you in your whitened, starry vision.

“Damn…” you exhale, taking a moment before turning around to kiss your man under the continuous spray of the water.

“How very eloquent,” Harry teases, hearing in his voice on the brink of a chuckle.

“Shush, you.” You press another kiss to his perfect lips. His and yours both inch upwards into grins between pecks.

Naturally, the two of you stay in the shower until the water runs cold - a rude interruption from the magnificent shower kisses. But that just leads to stepping into the hotel’s lavish, fluffy white robes, and laying in bed together. And arguably, this is just as pleasant.

Room service is most definitely ordered, of course - an amazing spread accompanied by a red wine and chocolate-covered strawberries. Your dinner even comes with a little note wishing you both congratulations on your nuptials. Mr. and Mrs. Wells.

Nope, still not over it!

Harry offers you a strawberry, holding it up to your lips.

“Oh, so you’re feeding me now, are you?” you tease. “Not scared I’ll bite?” 

“Not in the slightest.”

Wrapping your lips around the fruit, you take a bite and the sweetness bursts into your mouth like fireworks. You hum in delight. Harry’s eyes darken at your happy little sound as if on cue. His fingers still have a bit of the melted chocolate and berry juice on them, so you gently grab ahold of his wrist and pull his hand to you, taking his fingers in your mouth.

You don’t think he meant to let his mouth hang open like that.

You swirl your tongue around his fingers to lick off the rest of the lingering taste of the dessert until there’s nothing left. But it doesn’t matter. You keep it up anyway and start to gently suck at his fingers. Your eyes close and you smile.

His voice floats into your ears in a single word, “Bed.”

Standing up immediately, you take Harry’s hand, making him get up too, and lead him over to the bed. You undo his robe’s belt and shuck the hotel garment off of him. Harry, bless him, takes his time in disrobing you no matter how badly you know he wants to rip the damned thing off you. You know that look in his eyes.

He wants to take every nanosecond, he wants to be slow, and savour every part of this, and at this point - hell yeah, you want that, too. You want to get lost in your own little world of just you and Harry and let it last forever. Harry removes his glasses in one suave motion to the lounge chair beside the bed, eyes never once leaving you. They never do.

Crawling backwards on the bed, Harry follows you until he has you boxed in underneath him. You can practically feel his body radiate heat with how hot he is for you.

His mouth tastes your lips and takes his sweet time doing so. But it’s not just your lips - he tastes every part of your skin as he works his way downward, hands touching everywhere and burning little finger-sized holes into your skin. His hold on your thighs is gentle yet firm when he spreads your legs open for him. He bends down between them and plants a soft kiss to your sex.

And again.

And again.

Until they’re a little less chaste and slightly more ravenous. And definitely more focused on eliciting those whimpers he loves so much from you.

Harry’s open-mouthed kisses cause you to tremble - so tender, slow, and deliberately gentle. Your eyes flutter and you suck in a breath when he licks a stripe upwards. Your thighs may have clenched around his head for a moment there, but he looks up at you through those gorgeous thick lashes of his and damn if that isn’t an image you want to have photographed in your mind forever.

You bite your lip, and your husband dives back in for more to taste. You watch him enjoy eating you out thoroughly, or at least what you thought was thorough because just as he begins to circle his tongue around your clit, Harry expertly adds his fingers inside you as well. You toss your head back on the huge cloud-like pillow and let out a happy whine.

“Better than the strawberries?” you ask shakily, unable to hold back the tiny giggle after the question.

“Undoubtedly,” he answers, coming back up and making sure to kiss you to show you first hand. You hum into the kiss and roll Harry over so that you’re on top of him.

“Mm,” Harry hums back, “I don’t think so.”

“Hm-?” In return, he rolls you over onto your back again. You stare up at him with curious eyes. But he loves it when you’re on top…?

“I’m going to make this so good for you, (YN),” Harry promises. “This is about you tonight.”

“No,” you say, “This is about us.”

He steals a kiss from you so willingly given, and you feel him position himself at your entrance. You’d hold your breath if Harry hadn’t already stolen that from you too.

You accidentally bite his lip a little during the kiss as he pushes inside you. Harry lets out a surprised exhale.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you apologize with what little air you have in you.

“Don’t be,” Harry tells you, in which he continues to kiss you like they do in the movies. Your fingers rake up his back, leaving invisible lines in their wake. “In fact,” he says roughly, “you can do that again if you like.”

You giggle again until your kiss is all smiles and teeth. He slides inside you and out at such a calculated speed, you feel yourself around every perpetually-impressive inch of him. Your hands snake up to hold his head closer to yours, burying themselves in his wildly sexy and curly dark hair. His own hand caresses your leg on its journey north, then hitches your thigh up.

His eyes are entrancing, but you’ve always known that - a strikingly clear blue - it was the first thing you noticed about Harrison Wells when you met him. His eyes. They captured you from that moment and they’ve never let go of you. They never will and you’re thrilled about it. The way he’s looking at you now… you’d be almost embarrassed to say you could get off to that alone. His look is unwavering - like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of his new bride when she comes.

His thrusts inside you have noticeably increased in speed, no longer the sensual, taking-your-time kind of pace. You can feel it whirling around like a hurricane as your body starts to jerk up and meet his thrusts each time, feeling desperate to have him hit that sweet spot. You take his face in your hands so that your foreheads touch, your lips merely ghosting each other as you breathe one breath. 

“I love you, God, I love you.”

“Harrison, Harrison, I love you, so, so, so much-”

Your shared confessions of love, gentle calls of each other’s name, and outcries of passion bring you together even closer than before. The previous times this evening were all fun and arguably dirty, but this was entirely different. This was the two of you finally coming together and taking the time to show and share the love so perfectly. You didn’t think you could love Harry any more than you already did, but every day, every moment you spend together proves you wrong. There’s always so much more to love about him.

Harry is looking at you again, the way he does, resting on his elbow facing you. He looks entirely too much like a sex-god for his own good. He doesn’t even need to try.

“What?” you ask.

“I just can’t believe how lucky I am,” your sweetie-pie, love-machine husband replies.

“You? No, I’m the lucky one, here,” you laugh. “I never thought I’d find love and then there you were, practically crashed right into me in the Cortex when you first showed up.”

“Well, I never thought I’d love again, and yet here I am- here we are.”

“You know? I think we’re both pretty damn lucky, my husband.”

“That we are, my wife.”

You rest your head on his chest, his steady breathing helping in making you drift off for the night. Harry never once lets go of your hand in his on his stomach.

And while you may have fallen asleep, he’s almost there himself but manages to give one last thanks to the Multiverse for making him indeed the luckiest man on all the Earths.

#reader insert #harrison wells x reader #harrison wells imagine #harrison wells fanfiction #harry wells x reader #harry wells smut #harry wells imagine #earth 2 harrison wells x reader #earth 2 harrison wells imagine #the flash fanfiction

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Just Feel Better.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes/ Reader. Warnings: Mentions of suicide, self-harm, depression, etc. Author’s note: Welcome to my super-duper angsty as fuck Endgame compliant Bucky Barnes/ Reader story.

"She said I need you to hold me I'm a little far from the shore And I'm afraid of sinking You're the only one who knows me And who doesn't ignore That my soul is weeping..."

Perhaps life was always meant to be difficult.

Before the blip, things were maybe, at the very least, tolerable. It wasn't easy, but it sure as hell wasn't this hard either. Your days used to be spent on the grounds of the Avengers Compound, whether it be writing, training, or just watching as the lazy white clouds drift past you. Back when you had a family, back when you had Natasha, and Tony, and Clint, and Steve, and Sam and hell, there was an occasion when even Bucky made you feel welcome in his space.

You belonged to this stupid, dysfunctional family, and you were happy.

But perhaps your life was never meant to have it's happily ever after. Not in the way the fairytales described it. Perhaps you were never meant to have your prince charming, never meant to have your family. Because in the blink of an eye, or the snap of fingers, it was gone. Everything you had worked so hard to build, so hard to keep close to you. It was gone in piles of dust and grief.

Over the course of five years, everything became so much harder for you. There were gaps in conversations around the dinner table, days that would go by in silence, the compound was virtually empty on the off chance you found your way there.

Sometimes it gets too much to bear. Sometimes it gets so hard, so intense that you don't know where to turn; what to do, nor how to get through it all. Steve tries, and god does he try. He tells you stories, he holds you as you cry in grief over your lost loved ones.

He spends five years trying to help rebuild you, and you will always love him for that.

You soon figure out that the nights are the worst.

When you can hear your own breathing in the pitch black as you stare up at the ceiling. The window is slightly ajar so the nightmares can crawl in and consume your whole being. Just like they had so many nights before. You can hear the scratching of the tree outside on your window; the scratching you're sure will drive you slowly insane, yet you can't find the need to care anymore. You don't feel like you have much to live for these days anyway.

There would be times when Steve was there, broken in his own grief, his hands roughly gripping you as he thrusts into you.

You both know that you're not in love with each other, it's just two friends mourning.

Four floors up seem almost appropriate; leaning on your steel and glass railing. The large thick glass which separates you from the concrete ground below. How easy it would be to just climb and just free fall to the ground. You don't know why you don't, but the part of you, the sensible part of you tells you that you can't bring more grief to your friends, you try and rebuild what you can with what you have.

Drawing one last breath from your only comfort, you threw the still-lit cigarette over the balcony and walked back inside; wondering what was really keeping you back.

Was it the promise Natasha made that they would find a way to bring everyone back? Was it the pain in Steve's face when he came to visit you at night?

He was there for you when Tony and Natasha died when you collapsed on the floor in a fit of tears. It was his arms around her, his voice whispering, promising that everything was going to be okay and that everything was going to get better.

James Buchannan Barnes, the man who, not that you knew it then, would become the singular most important person in your life.

Steve was gone. Tony was gone. Natasha was gone.

And you felt like you were crumbling inside.

Promises were made to be broken.

You can deal with the heartbreak you had endured over the past few years, you can deal with the worried looks the new team would throw at you, the way they stop talking when you walk into the room. What you can't ever deal with, something you can't understand, is the sympathy.

Steve held your hand in his own withered hand, both of you staring out over the lake with tears in your eyes and your heart pounding furiously in your chest.

"Look after him. Give him that same light you gave me all those years ago," You need each other.

The looks they threw you for weeks after; maybe they saw something had changed in you; something had finally snapped.

Because something had changed in you, no one could really put a finger on it, but the weight of the world had settled on your shoulders, and you didn't know how to shake it off no matter how hard you tried. You tried to be okay, you tried to keep your promise to Steve and show Bucky that the world can be a beautiful place, you kept him out of his head when you noticed him thinking too much.

Somewhere along the way, Bucky Barnes became your best friend. And you tried to be okay for him. Except you weren't. And he noticed. Because you weren't you anymore. You weren't the girl who would bounce into the compound every day with a smile on her face, her nails painted some bright and happy color; no.

You had changed, broken.

Hallow.

Bucky, as per usual, was the first one to notice it. Most likely because he was the closest one to you. Almost like your best friend.

At first, it was just the tears which would fall when the doors were closed, then it was your cool demeanor when you placed a gun in the face of a suspect you were interrogating and took the safety off, that was when alarm bells started ringing.

That wasn't your style.

Sam was the first one to pull you aside and asked you if you needed to talk; which, of course, you denied needing. He knew better than everyone that you did need to talk; you needed to cry, shout or hurt someone. Because he knew you weren't dealing with this the way you should be.

Bucky comes by your apartment at least once a week; just to make sure you're okay. Just to make sure your cupboards are stocked, your bills are paid and you're eating properly. He sees your laundry in one corner as you sit on the recliner chair, your laptop on your lap and the music on the tv blaring through the speakers.

“Hey'” He says to you as he steps into the threshold. He watches as you spin round to face him; dark gray circles under her eyes. You look so different without any make-up on.

He couldn't see the marks under your eyes due to it at the compound; but now...God, he realized that you needed him more then he thought. You looked like hell.

“Hey, Buck” You replied, closing down your laptop and sitting up straight.

You watched as he comes around in front of you and sits on the couch; leaning forward with his arms on his knees. He stares at you as if he's trying to figure you out; yet, he quickly realizes, you look as though you don't want to be figured out anymore.

There was once a time when he could make you smile, back in Wakanda,  when he would say something and you would have a quick and witty comeback which would put even Sam to shame; but these days, ever since the aftermath of the snap, ever since your family died and broke apart.

You were broken.

He knew that there was once a time when you would take pride in your appearance, he would watch you sometimes, before the snap,  you would look absolutely beautiful, he found you beautiful before, but when you dolled yourself up, he found himself catching his breath. You would spend about an hour every morning putting your make-up on; picking out an outfit that was fashionable yet workable.

Nowadays, you would throw on whatever you felt like wearing; not caring if it was still dirty or too big for you.

He was worried about you.

Because he had been there, so many years before. He knew what it was like to feel lost, to feel broken and hallow and not knowing where your place was anymore.

Bucky stood up and picked up one of your shirts “When was the last time you did some washing?” He asked you, noticing you stare up at him; not seeing any signs of life inside your once bright eyes.

“I dunno. A while I suppose” You shrugged as you placed the laptop on the desk beside your chair.

“Have you talked to anyone yet?” He asks you; sitting back on the couch “Sam?”

You can't breathe. Every time you do it gets more and more painful. Like a thousand bricks sitting on your chest. Weighing you down, crushing you slowly. “No”

'Why not?' Talk to me.

You don't know. Maybe because you feel like you're a burden. Like your problems are so small and insignificant that they're pointless. Yet, every time you push them away; they crush you again. All your problems weigh down your life until you feel as though you can't take it anymore. So that simple leap from the fourth floor doesn't seem so hard to do.

“Because it's just so hard” Almost too hard.

Bucky walks over to you and crouches down in front of you; his piercing blue eyes staring at you; trying to find something on your face which gives away your emotions. He places his hands on gently on your knees and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “Why?”

Because I'm suffocating.

“It hurts too much Buck” You, for the first time in too long, allows the tears to fall from the back of your eyes.

Tony died and you couldn't help but feel like it was your fault. If only you had been that little bit quicker, if only you had reached Thanos in time to reach the stones before him.  He had a family, whereas you had no one.

It would have been easier for you to sacrifice yourself.

Steve left and you felt like your one last ally was gone. You wondered if Pepper blamed you for Tony's death the way you blamed yourself.

Always hurting someone.

There was absolutely no doubt in your mind about that; you were always hurting someone. If it wasn't from someone taking offense to something you said, it was from you physically hurting them. Shooting them; breaking their hearts. And it killed you almost twice as much.

You wonder if there was a time when this wasn't everything; the pain was so constant in your mind, in the pit of your stomach that it sometimes felt as if you were going to be physically sick. There were times, more than once, when the knife in the second draw of your kitchen was that little bit sharp; and your wrists that little bit too welcoming, but you never could.

Because you were too much of a coward.

You'll never tell anyone that; because you're going to keep it all locked away; like you always does. You're going to keep your fresh, raw emotions locked away in the pit of your stomach because you don't know any other way to deal with them.

The grief was overwhelming inside you. You had never known someone's death to affect you as much as these had. You felt like you were sick yourself; like there really was nothing to get up for.

“I'm here. No matter what” Bucky promises you.

His eyes telling you that he wouldn't have it any other way because, while he and Steve may have been partners and best friends, you were the girl who, unbeknown to her, had stolen his heart away a long time ago.

Before she became who she is now.

“It hurts” You whispered as you clung to his tight-fitting black shirt; feeling him hold you back as the tears fell from your eyes.

“I know it does. And I promise you'll be okay. I've told you this so many times, that I feel like I'm repeating myself with you” He chuckled slightly as you reluctantly let him go and looked around.

You looked around at your apartment, empty cups, take-out boxes, and plates littered your lounge. A small pile of laundry in one corner of your house; you felt surprisingly empty.

He stood up and pulled you up with him “Look, we both know that Steve isn't coming back. No one blames you for Tony. They wouldn't want you to be doing this. They would want you back, he one who could put Sam back in his place with just one comment, the one who would spend a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom because she doesn't think she's pretty enough without it; we want the old you back'” He said; his voice was almost begging.

You swallowed the lump in your throat; you had never heard Bucky beg for anything. And it was all because of you.

You had reduced him to this; begging.

Because it's what you do. You hurt everyone around you.

You don't mean it, but you do it.

And sometimes that hurt comes back for you.

Some call it karma.

You call it fate.

You feel as though fate is laughing at you; that some celestial being is mocking your every move. Making you suffer because they find it amusing to watch you hurt. To watch you feel so cold and so unbeing.

“Come back to us” Bucky pleads as he stares at the tears falling down your cheeks. He places his hands on either side of your face and whispers so softly that you aren't even sure that you heard him properly “Come back to me”

You're so scared. You can feel yourself shake under his touch. The suffocating feeling returns in your stomach and you don't know if you're strong enough to fight it off anymore.

I don't know how.

You don't need to say it; because he sees it in your eyes, the way you're struggling. So gently, as if you were about to break; he stroked your cheek and looked at you “Please”

It was that last please that broke you down; you nodded and clutched your arms around his large, muscular frame. “'m so sorry'” You said as he rubbed your back up and down; reassuring you that you didn't have to be alone anymore. That he was going to be there for you no matter what, that he was there to protect you.

And; so carefully; you pressed your lips to his. So softly at first then harder. Your need for him became so apparent that he didn't know if he had the will power to push you away; he didn't want to seem as though he was taking advantage of you but; you had both seen this coming for such a long time that you both no longer wanted to fight it. You had been through so much stuff together; fought nail and tooth to get here.

And now you were.

Because he promised you that everything was going to be okay.

And it was one promise he intended on keeping.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #Marvel #Winter Soldier #Endgame Compliant #Trigger Warnings

[imnotcameraready]

Enjambment (chivalry au)

A/N: it’s the first not-main-story story!!!! wrote this while tryna figure out how to get from point a to point b, and it doesn’t really fit in with the story’s Flow, so it’s gonna be its own lil part! it’s also got a little bit more character building for the Playwright and the Artist, if anyone wanted that lm a o — they’re good bois, they’re just. really bad at being good bois. 

also i kNOW chapter 11 came out like, last night, but  ,. ., ., .. . ive had this sitting ready for literally a week ., ,. ,..  sorry for bombarding y’all with this au :’’D

WARNINGS: self-deprecation, self-hate, touch starved, threats, cursing/swearing, destruction of property, destruction of art (ewe)

Words: 2085

AO3 link to this story; AO3 link to chivalry’s main plot

MASTERPOST! <-- i dont think this story is understandable without reading the other parts, hence im plugging it so much  ; v; i’m sorry y’all ilu <3 

chivalry taglist: @starlightvirgil​ @forrestwyrm​ @daflangstlairde​ @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake​ @k9cat​ @patromlogil​

general tag: @jemthebookworm​

hope you enjoy!! <3 <3 <3 

The Playwright didn’t like admitting he was wrong. He often wasn’t. Having the position of an omniscient narrator meant he got to be right a lot, which was one of Roman’s favorite things.

But his argument with the Artist may not have been one of those “right” things. The Playwright leaned on the table, twirling a pencil absentmindedly as he contemplated. He wasn’t entirely wrong, no. The Artist had to keep in mind the safety of the other Sides. If anything happened to any of them, Thomas would be hurt, and Roman would riot. Every bit of him, except for…. The Playwright winced. On the other hand, this in-fighting was exactly what they should be countering. Sure, everyone disagreed and that was the purpose of this dismantling, but the Playwright was above these squabbles. Should be above them, figuratively, because in physical space, he very much was above them.

Apologizing would be the logical thing to do.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t enjoy entering the medieval town, didn’t like going deeper into the Imagination, but it seemed he would traverse there more often.

The sound of a paper flipping caught his attention. His eyes shot open as he looked around the room. No one was there.

But he’d definitely heard movement. The Playwright swallowed down his fear. “Hello?” he called out.

Nothing. None of the costumes had moved, none of the shoes or benches or any of his paperwork.

Wait, no, there was something. The Playwright moved a few scraps to the side and picked up an envelope. This hadn’t been there before.

Cordial invitation of Roman ‘Playwright’ Sanders to the Entry Gala — in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s welcome to the Imagination.

The Playwright’s eyes widened. Oh, fuck.

He tore the envelope open and read its contents.

The Artist wept.

He ran his hand along the ruined canvas — ruined by his hand, torn open with his own knife and dirtied with his tears — and pressed it fast to his chest.

Why was he so mean? Why did it hurt so much, for his creations to be picked at like vultures and a carcass? Wasn’t that the point, wasn’t that how artists improved?

Ah, who was he kidding. He wasn’t a real artist at all. Just a name he’d selected when they first started this game.

The Artist was so wrapped up in his lamentations that he didn’t hear the soft sound of paper falling onto the floor beside him.

He shouted again, cradling the broken mess of canvas and wooden frames. All good artists got second opinions. No one was safe from criticism, and there was always room for improvement! He should know this, he DID know that, it was reasonable. But hearing it from the others always made him so anxious—

He sniffed, wiping his face with the paw of his sweatshirt. If he was falling apart this bad, it must mean he was losing this challenge thing. But thinking of anxiety and then, well, Anxiety, Virgil…. the Artist wished he’d gotten to meet the two, too. Like every other bit, he did love them.

The sound of debris being scattered, then a surprised yelp. The Artist sighed, curling up tighter. God fucking damnit.

“What—I’ve—Artist?!” the Playwright asked.

The Artist was sat against the wall, cradling a bundle of broken paintings to his chest, previously white sweater dirtied with layers upon layers of paint. All around him, every painting that has previously been neatly stacked in the room was torn to shreds. Broken pieces of wood and canvases halved were strewn around the room in piles, or one thick pile, with only a small circle of ground around the Artist. Sketchbooks were torn, even the drawing tablet was — okay, the Playwright wasn’t going to look at that and think of the physical monetary price, because none of this was real. Holy shit, the Artist had put a hole into the wall of his house. There was a hole? He’d punched a hole into the wall? Good heavens.

The Playwright, in an effort to not damage any of his art, accidentally appeared on top of one of the piles. He fell over, landing on his butt amongst the shreds, and looked around wildly.

“What happened?” he asked once he caught sight of the Artist’s frozen figure in the corner, still since he arrived, “Did Dragon—”

“They weren’t good enough, so I tore them up,” the Artist whispered into his own folded arms.

The Playwright’s brow pinched in worry. That had happened only a few times before, where a single work had been so terrible that the Artist ripped it to shreds in anger, but he’d never done….this. And he especially wouldn’t have done this, since he had numerous pieces he wanted to show the other Sides.

He drew in a breath as his mind filled in the gap.

“Oh, Artist, what did they say?” the Playwright whispered, pushing himself up and slowly making his way closer.

“Nothing. Get away.”

He grit his teeth. The Artist was going to be difficult, wasn’t he? Now, now, it wasn’t a good time to lose his temper. He came with a job to do, and he wasn’t cruel enough to leave the Artist to be upset alone. And he needed his help. This was purely logical.

He wanted to laugh. Being logical was so taxing; how did Logan do it all the time?

“Artist. I’m not leaving,” the Playwright sat in front of him, “I take it that Logic and Morality didn’t take well to your paintings?”

He glanced up at the Playwright, quick enough to now show an expression but slow enough that the Playwright caught a glimpse of his tearstained eyes.

“They–They said my art’s unfinished. Logic did.”

The Playwright frowned. “Wait. That’s it?”

The Artist curled up more, and the Playwright gently put a hand on his forearm. “Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it  judgy. I just….that’s something you’ve complained about, too.”

To that, the Artist shot him a small glare. When the Playwright put it like that, then the Artist’s reaction seemed childish. “Yeah, but,” he sighed, “I didn’t want them to say anything about it.”

“Then why didn’t you warn them about it?” the Playwright asked, confused.

“Look, I don’t–I don’t know!” the Artist tossed the painting he was cradling aside and ran his hands through his hair, “It all happened so fast, and Padre was getting mad at me for not letting Child stay here. It—they both got upset at me, and they interrupted my painting, and Padre kept hugging me and it felt weird.”

The Playwright exhaled. He put a mental pin on the hugging thing — a similar thing had happened to him the other day, and he would have to talk to the others about what may be occurring — and then scooted closer again, sitting beside the Artist.

“Seeing as I wasn’t there, I cannot speak to what your argument may have been about. But I know that Logic and Morality wouldn’t have wanted to intentionally harm us.”

“How do you know, Pencil pusher?” the Artist hissed, though his words held an emptiness that betrayed his disbelief.

“Because they wouldn’t. They’re calloused, but they wouldn’t hurt us. Maybe Prince.”

The Artist snorted. “You really hate that guy.”

The Playwright smiled. Good. He cleared his throat and threw up his hands in the Prince’s signature style. “Hoo hoo, look at me, I’m a Disney Prince and I like singing songs and being an idiot!” he said, mockingly emphasizing a mispronunciation of “Disney.”

That got the Artist to laugh, shoving the Playwright gently. “Hey, hey, Disney’s cool! I’ll defend Disney to the death,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

The tension returned, but only slightly. The Playwright didn’t want to push him, but he was a little impatient for the Artist to pull himself together. His feet gently tapped against the ground in a small, familiar tune.

After what seemed like ages, the Artist let out a breath.

“....I did….overreact. A little,” he said. “The knife was too much.”

“A lot. Wait, did you say knife?”

“Yeah. I, um, I lost it a little.” He rubbed the back of his head again, looking up at the Playwright. “Thank you for sitting with me.”

The Playwright smiled. Wonderful. He patted the Artist’s arm comfortingly. “If I cannot comfort myself, then what am I doing?”

They both shared a small chuckle at that. It was easy to forget that they were two parts of a much more cohesive whole.

It was also easy to forget that the Playwright had something else he wanted to ask. He clapped, sitting upright and startling the Artist.

“Sorry,” he put his hands up, eyes blazing with new worry, “I actually came to ask something else — did you get invited to the party?”

The Artist’s brow furrowed. “The….party? No?”

“Oh, come, you must have,” the Playwright looked around.

The same envelope he’d received prior was sitting beside the Artist, on top of some of the ruined paintings. He picked it up and found two more envelopes beneath. “Great Ben Jonson, you got Logic and Morality’s invitations, too,” the Playwright flipped through the three cards and handed the one addressed to the Artist, to the Artist. “You must not have noticed it earlier. I got a letter similar, this morning. From Dragon.”

“From Dragon? Fuck, how’d he find us?” the Artist read the front and flipped it over again, tearing it open.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he just sent it to the location of whoever said Logic’s name last night. I also don’t know how he got backstage to deliver mine,” the Playwright read over his shoulder, “I honestly came here hoping to find the other Sides. We need to warn them.”

“We do? About what?” the Artist shot him a frown, but the Playwright just gestured to the paper, so he read the invitation.

His eyes scanned through it once. His body slowly tense as he realized what was being asked, and he flipped it over, checking all around the letter and the envelope that there wasn’t more.

“This,” the Artist reread the letter once more before lowering it and staring, stricken, at the Playwright, “This is a fucked up joke, right? Like, it’s gotta be a joke. Dragon’s Disney pranking us, without friends.”

“I don’t want to hazard that,” the Playwright stood up and motioned for the Artist to get up, “We need to find the others and warn them. If Logic and Morality’s invitations are here, then they must not know, and it’s a safe bet that if they don’t know, then Anxiety and Deceit don’t know, either.”

The Artist pushed himself up, rolling his sleeves up and wiping his face slowly. “He wouldn’t hurt them,” he mumbled. “Why’s he mentioning Prince, too?”

“I don’t know. And after what he did to Damsel?” The Artist rolled his eyes as the Playwright continued, “I don’t think Dragon would hesitate to hurt them, and he’s using the concept of Prince as bait.”

Goddamnit, he was probably right. The Artist rubbed his eyes and fixed his glasses. “Alright. I just,” God, he was hideous. “Should I change?”

The Playwright squinted. “Have you not left your house since this all started?”

“No,” the Artist looked at him like he was stupid, “Why would I?”

Alright. Alright, this was a predicament. The Playwright blew out a lot of air, eyebrows raising as he tried to figure out, in the most concise way, he could tell the Artist that he wanted to throttle him. His attire was absolutely not correct for the setting that they’d established, and he couldn’t fathom WHY the Artist wanted to parade around a medieval town looking like THAT.

No, you know what? It was fine. Sleep was walking around in a leather jacket, it’s FINE. Perhaps the Playwright was the only one who cared about the sanctity of the setting.

Meanwhile, the Artist looked around and waved his hand. The torn paintings all disappeared, leaving the room empty, looking larger than ever. The hole in the wall faded away, establishing itself as a solid wall once more. He looked down at his outfit and simply wiped it, the paint stains all disappearing as his hand passed over them, revealing a creamy-white color once more.

“That’s good enough,” the Playwright snapped, grabbing a fist of his shirt and tugging him forward, “Come on.”

#chivalry au #roman #roman sanders #ts roman #ts fanfic #sanders sides au #this is truly a sanders au lmasdlkghasldfkj #sanders sides #my fic #fic #now i get to do all the designs for the next part oh hell yes #i love designin fancy #its always s O FUN C ASLDKFHASLKDSHASLKDHASHLDKJSFF

[hystericalrogertaylor]

Reconnecting (Chapter Seventeen)

Pairing: Ben Hardy!Roger Taylor X Reader

Word count: 1693

Summary: (Y/n) and Roger have been friends since the cradle. When they’re suddenly pulled apart and reconnected years later, they both can tell that the relationship has evolved. They lead very different lifestyles now. Can they continue what they had, or go for something more, with this gap between them?

Warnings: Talking about anxiety/anxiety attacks, mentions of sex, cussing

A/N: Pffffff I’m way off of my updating schedule. I’m updating this from a hospital bed lmao. Nothing bad, just having a minor operation tomorrow morning. I’ll make a post about this, but I probably won’t be that active tomorrow, and that’s why. Enjoy this chapter!

My masterlist with all my other stories and the previous parts of this story can be found there! Reblog this with feedback if you liked it! Or if you didn’t like it and want to vent about how shitty it is, reblog it anyway! 

~~~

Three months after first laying in bed with Roger as a couple, you were squeezed into his bunk on the bus as the vehicle rumbled down the road, away from Market Square Arena in Indianapolis. He had his shirt off, with the curtain drawn to give you two some privacy. He was sweaty, but you didn’t care as you lay on top of him, kissing him passionately. He had his hands up your shirt, his fingers almost tickling you as they gently ran up and down your sides.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily as you buried your face in his neck. “You looked really good tonight.”

He let out a low chuckle, reaching a hand down to squeeze your ass. “I always do better when you’re watching.” You tried to make it to every show, but sometimes Reid needed help with some manager stuff, or sometimes you were in pain and wanted to lie down. The wound had healed really well and you rarely needed to take it easy anymore, but there was the odd day when you had to sit out of the day’s festivities.

You smiled, pressing a gentle kiss onto his jaw. “No, I mean you looked really hot. I just couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you.”

He smirked, slowly rolling over until he was on top of you. “Well, to be fair, I’m always thinking about kissing you.”

You blushed, turning your face to the side. “Stopppp.”

He used a finger to tilt your face back towards his, pressing a short kiss on your lips. He sighed, twirling a piece of your hair. “God, you’re beautiful.”

You bit your lip, bringing his face back down to yours a few seconds later. He moaned quietly into the kiss, putting his hand on the wall of the bunk above your head.

“Ugh, guys, there are other people trying to sleep here,” Brian grumbled, rustling around in his much-too-small bunk. “I was gonna let it slide, but you guys sounds like you’re dying to fuck each other. Not cool.”

Roger broke away, rolling his eyes. “I’m well aware that these bunks are too small to fuck in. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

You sighed. “Rog, I’m right here.”

“Oops, sorry.” He grimaced, remembering you don’t like hearing about his past hookups, which was reasonable. “Brian, I’m allowed to kiss my girlfriend.”

“Until it wakes us up,” Freddie chimed in. “I love that my favorite couple are happy, but I’m exhausted. So please, speak quietly.”

You chuckled. “Goodnight, Freddie.”

“Goodnight darling, use a condom.”

“FREDDIE!” Roger shouted, eliciting a loud shushing noise from Brian. John continued to sleep soundly.

---

A couple weeks later came a series of three concerts in Santa Monica. Reid decided it would be best for the band to stay in a hotel for that time period. Freddie researched the most lavish hotels in the area, and found one similar to the hotel in Liverpool. He purposely got four rooms so you and Roger could share. Not that you minded; it would mean less cramped sleeping than on the bus, and you still got to be with your boyfriend.

The concept of having Roger Taylor as your boyfriend still baffled you sometimes. James had made you feel worthless in the final months of your relationship, and now someone as amazing as Roger was willing to publicly admit to being in a relationship with you. The thought made your heart swell.

And Roger couldn’t understand how he managed to end up with you, either. He was a notorious womanizer of the rock world, which made long-term relationships very difficult; look at his relationship with Gayle. All they did was shag and fight. Now, he was able to do normal relationship things, like staying up late and giggling, kissing whenever, talking about deep topics, and cuddling. You were a serial cuddler, and Roger loved it. He loved holding your body against his and feeling the warmth radiating off of you. It was the time spent with you, in those intimate moments, that made Roger happier than he’d ever been.

“I have an idea,” Roger said, sitting down next to you on the couch in your room.

You pulled your knees to your chest, setting your book down on the table next to you. “Well, do tell.”

He cleared his throat. “So you know how the pier is only a few minutes’ walk away, right?” You nodded. “Well, what if I took you there tomorrow, after the show, as our first official date as a couple?”

You’d been talking to Roger about a date, but he’d been so busy during the whole tour that he hadn’t been able to put anything together. You were okay with it, you just wished it could’ve been different. Now, you were smiling as wide as you could. “I would love that,” you said.

Roger returned your smile, tackling you into a hug. You both fell off the couch, lying on the floor next to each other. You began to laugh, while Roger pushed his hair out of his face, staring up at the ceiling.

“Whoops,” he breathed, chuckling. “Sorry.”

You grimaced, trying to ignore the pain in your stomach; the scar didn’t like aggravation like that. “It’s fine.”

He rolled over, hovering over you with his elbow on the floor. “Did it hurt the scar?”

“A little, but it’ll be fine tomorrow morning.” You tried to sit up, but before you could, Roger brought his lips down to yours. You put your head back down on the floor, pulling him on top of you. He put his forearms on either side of your head, holding himself up. Your hands explored his chest over his shirt, feeling the muscles bulging after the exercise he got by playing the drums at the concert. He broke away, moving his lips down to your neck. You groaned, digging your fingers into his hair.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Roger murmured into your skin.

You nodded. “My scar hurts.”

He placed a kiss on your forehead before standing up, holding his hand down to help you up. You pulled yourself up and walked over to one of the beds, gently laying down on your side. Roger lay down next to you, pulling you into his body. You sighed in contentment, drawing circles on his chest with your finger.

“Goodnight, love,” Roger whispered.

“Goodnight, Rog.”

---

The pier was scaring you, if you were being honest.

For some reason, you were worried you’d turn around at any moment, and he would be there, a knife in hand, ready to end you. You knew it was irrational, he was in prison on a different continent. But your anxiety was flaring up, and all the people around you didn’t make it better.

“What’s wrong?” Roger asked as you nudged the hot dog he’d bought you, not even taking a bite.

“I’m anxious,” you answered honestly. You didn’t see any point in hiding your worries from him.

He sighed. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

You shook your head. “I love being here with you, I just don’t like being around all these people.” You took a shaky breath. “I’m too worried he could be in these crowds.” Roger’s sad eyes made you wish you hadn’t said anything. You didn’t want to be a burden to him. “Forget it, let’s just--”

“Wait.” He grabbed your hand, squeezing it. “You know how we can get out of these crowds?” You frowned. “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel.”

You smiled. “That sounds fun,” you whispered.

Roger held you close as you made your way through the throngs of people towards the giant wheel. You stared at your feet, not looking up at anything until you were in line for the ride. Roger had his arm around your waist, trying his hardest to make sure no one bumped into you.

Once it was your turn, Roger paid a small fee and guided you towards the compartment that would be yours. You sat down next to him, placing your head on his shoulder as the machine began to move.

“Thank you,” you said, looking into his eyes. “I feel like I would’ve had an actual anxiety attack if I’d stayed down there longer.”

“No problem.” He wrapped an arm around your waist. “Your fears are not irrational. But just know I’m here to help you and keep you safe. No one’s gonna touch you.”

You sniffled, a few tears running down your face. “You’re amazing.”

He smiled. “Only for you.”

The ferris wheel stopped, and you noticed you were at the very top. “They must be letting someone else on,” you reasoned.

Roger looked over the side of the car. “Wow,” he said. “You’ve gotta check this out.”

You peered over the same side, gasping at what you saw. All the lights, the skyline, and the ocean at your back all worked together to create the most beautiful scene you’d ever seen. It was breathtaking. The world had never seemed so beautiful.

“Roger, this is…” You looked over at him, finding him staring at you. “What?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “You are the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

You hid your face in your hands. “Ahh, I’m blushing.”

He grabbed your wrists and pulled your hands away gently. “Can I kiss you?” he asked slowly. You nodded, and he slowly placed his lips on yours.

It was something else. The cold breeze gave you goosebumps, causing you to shiver and move closer to Roger. He wrapped both arms around you, almost pulling you into his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tilting your head to the side.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, pulling away and placing his forehead on yours. His lips still brushed against yours, and you wanted nothing more than to kiss him again.

“Yeah?” you responded.

“I…” He trailed off, moving his eyes to look at the ocean before looking back at you. “I’m having a great time.”

You nodded. “I am too.”

He reconnected his lips to yours just as the wheel began to spin.

Taglist:

@thessxoxo @roger-bang-the-drum @slavsher @sabbrrriinnaa @i-ship-it-ironically @blissfully-queen @oyoke@borhapqueen92@girlpluto @secretsweetscollectionblog@bentaylorrogerhardy@16wiishes @emmieliabedelia @onevisionliz@mr-stank-i-dont-feel-so-dank@rebelrebelyourefaceisamess @cosmicsskies@thewinchesterchronicles @florenceivy @benhardyseyes@letmelivetaylor @destiel-stucky4ever-loki-queen @holding-onto-cas

#ben hardy #queen #roger taylor #brian may #gwilym lee #joe mazzello #freddie mercury #john deacon #rami malek #bohemian rhapsody #roger taylor x reader #x reader #x reader fanfiction #queen fanfiction #reconnecting

[ra-lek]

I have watched mr robot so many times and I am still confused to why they picked “red wheelbarrow” as season 2 and 3’s symbol and how it ties the show together? Where did it come from? What’s the actual significance of it?

aalright first thing’s first- i’m so sorry for the long wait. i’ve been busy & all over the place but i wanted to give this ask my full attention because i’m beyoNd excited to get into it!! 

second- this gets long. like, very long. so if you’re cool w that; buckle up, click on that ‘read more’ and let’s go: the red wheelbarrow

i’m gonna attempt to explain all the questions above- to the best of my ability. but to do so i have to make something clear: as you will see in my analysis below, or if you’ve, y’know, seen the show- mr robot does not play episodes in chronological order. or scenes, for that matter. 

there was absolutely no way to know anything about a red wheelbarrow until the end of s2- so, naturally, there are going to be gaps in my list. but in order to fill them, we need to see what we missed out on once s4 comes out. (this is basically my apologies in advance if some questions are left unanswered)

so, some facts: the red wheelbarrow is a poem written by william carlos williams & published in 1923. it’s a real, existing poem, and the first time it appears in mr robot is actually in the FIRST season. and that’s exactly why it’s such a staple to the rest of the story. 

but you see, the scene itself is split into puzzle pieces across 3 seasons.

so let’s treat it as such. i’m going to list & highlight important scenes in each season the best i can and then we’ll piece it all together, sounds good?

SEASON 1

this is the very base of the series. so it’s not surprising the red wheelbarrow is nested within it. trust me, if i attempted to piece everything together in one post it’ll be longer than a fucking bible so i’m only going to focus on the god night™

okay, so- the first time some shady shit happened was in episode 8 when we saw an SUV parked at coney island in which tyrell and mr robot were sitting & having a discussion. tyrell starts the conversation by saying he has to know what mr robot is planning because they were meant to be allies; that they want the same thing & he wants to be involved. 

mr robot responds with flat out telling him he’s wrong- that there’s nothing they could possibly agree on. tyrell demands more explanations and mr robot is so fed up at this point he goes to leave only to be pulled back by his shirt. tyrell asks “aren’t you forgetting i know about your dirty little secret? there are people close to you who wouldn’t be happy if they knew what i know” to which robot replies casually. they’re both too smart to allow pettiness to dictate their actions, there’s no benefit to either one of them to say those things to anybody- and that the best thing for tyrell to do when it comes to HIM? is nothing.

the scene ends there but transitions into mr wellick coming home lookin’ like a wreck and downing half a bottle of vodka- this surprises joanna since she actually heard some good news from tyrell’s lawyer- but he interrupts by telling her none of that matters; because there’s this tech he met a month ago, talks about his motives a bit to a very concerned woman at this point- and when he mentions not seeing what’s above them- she asks what it is exactly. he responds, “god.”

at this point into the show, the ‘who is mr robot’ reveal hasn’t happened yet. 

the conversation he had with tyrell happened the day before it, actually. since, in the same episode, elliot gets to find out who his family is- and the episode ends with mr robot saying “it’s time to talk.” and the reason i know this is because the following episode starts and,

episode 9. 

suddenly, it’s morning. elliot is freaking out and yelling and he’s confused and we’re confused and we’re yelling and mr robot is not helping at all by being so goddamn vague but there is one sentence that stands out and that is - “especially since that unprompted visit from tyrell wellick last night”

he is referring to the car scene only. because both he and tyrell came home after that talk- so it is not a 5/9 attack they did then. because, once again, there’s a sentence mr robot says: “i’ll explain everything. tonight.”

alright then so how do i explain the fact darlene was in elliot’s room looking for his meds after the reveal scene and THEN tyrell entered? – it’s actually pretty simple, it didn’t happen the day of the reveal. 

because, remember, elliot realized who darlene was the day before. she is concerned because he forgot again. those are the meds she’s looking for- they never acknowledge HIM.

once she leaves, and says she’ll be back with the meds soon- it’s understandable why she’s been looking for elliot for quite some time earlier in the episode and why mr robot came to elliot’s apartment at night- but they only had the ‘talk’ in the morning.

that same, unfortunate night for elliot tbh, tyrell enters the room and says he’s been waiting for darlene to leave. he approaches him for the first time, tells him how he strangled a woman and how he knows everything elliot’s been behind. that’s he’s the one constant in the sea of variables. so, he puts on his ‘fighting’ gloves and-

next thing we know, we’re in the arcade. elliot talks about changing the world and whatnot- says no one else is involved- tyrell very beautifully says “well it’s you and me now” and the episode ends with elliot looking over to the popcorn machine.

this is the night of the 5/9 attack.

we know, because elliot wakes up in tyrell’s car- 2 days later- and is met with world destruction (the song) playing in the background. you know what i mean- the deed has been done we don’t have time for this.

one more thing to point out about s1 before we wrap that one up is: when elliot searches for tyrell, joanna recognized him as the young tech her husband told her about when he was going on about god or whatever. she asked him when she last saw him and if he seemed strange- elliot replied with “a week ago” and “no” which she found funny because, the last time she saw him, he was acting very strange. 

SEASON 2

elliot put himself in jail out of spite. anyway, as i said, not a lot of time to decipher everything so let’s get to the main meal. we get some teasers about tyrell being a wanted criminal associated w fsociety and the one behind 5/9. that’s all the info we need cause the piece we’re searching for here is in episode 12.

we get the full version of the car scene!! this time, we see elliot as mr robot- delivering the same line. however, we were lead to believe that once mr robot exited the car it was the end of the scene but no no no no no- tyrell now opens his door and calls out to elliot.

he’s desperate and just wants to be a part of this project honestly so he says there’s something between them and he can feel it. now, mr robot/elliot says “you’re only seeing what’s in front of you. you’re not seeing what’s above you” tyrell asks for an explanation, doesn’t get one, and so he decides to fight cryptic with cryptic and recite the poem we mentioned like 7 hours ago.

“so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.”

now mr robot/elliot is intrigued. he lowers his head slightly and tyrell explains how his father used to quote that old poem all the time, how it meant so much to him, that it had been the only english he knew. so today, tyrell is using it as a reminder. a reminder of him, and a reminder of what he never wants to become.

i’m going to take one more paragraph to dedicate to this season and say: no this is not the only important thing. i’m just trying to not spiral out of the main focus. but if you’re interested you can send me an ask about red wheelbarrow spottings and meanings in s2 by just sending “godot?” and i gotchu, granted, in a few days- but i gotchu.

SEASON 3

this is where we get the full picture. well, sorta. because we don’t know exactly what happened after they part ways. but it’s okay, it’s not like the show is over.

now, a psychology break: elliot alderson suffers from dissociative identity disorder. (shocker, i know) mr robot is an alter. but you know a fun fact? most DID cases have more than just one alter. there’s at least two besides the host personality. and they all serve a specific purpose in order to keep you alive and help you cope with extreme trauma. 

mr robot, as we’ve seen him, is a protector. the moment tyrell put on those beating gloves it was a trigger and mr robot took over. same for when those neo-nazis were punching elliot, same for when he took a beating from ray’s men, and so on. — point is: alters come out with a help of a trigger. just how elliot says talking to darlene makes him see mr robot more often, for instance.

this is important because, even though neither he nor mr robot remember the quote, elliot can’t stop thinking about red wheelbarrows. he’s named his journal after it, he draws wheelbarrows in it.

the red wheelbarrow. something tyrell associated with his father whom he despised. something about that changed something in elliot- it could’ve been a trigger, it might’ve pulled another alter forward.

so, without further ado, let’s paint:

how about we pick up from what we see in s1e9. since, all of this happens in that day. welcome to 5/9

elliot remembers leading tyrell into the arcade, he remembers looking at popcorn. and that’s it. (he says so at the beginning of his journal, too) elliot switched with mr robot for enough time to remember tyrell and popcorn. but also there’s just something about wheelbarrows that keeps ringing in his head during his time in prison.

next, everything is from mr robot’s perspective. he slowly reaches for the gun, aims it at tyrell, fires- but nothing happens. this leads tyrell to an impressive conclusion: they’re gods. he insists they were destined to be together and work together. so he says “now i understand- when you told me i wasn’t seeing what was above me” and while he goes off we see mr robot’s face frowning with confusion because.

“what the fuck are you talking about?”

he doesn’t remember saying that, doesn’t remember the poem. but he disregards all of that once tyrell drops on his knees and aims the gun at his own head. he wants to test fate once more, so they do. which is when mr robot decides tyrell is just the right amount of crazy to save him from himself.

as the hacking is happening, the dark army arrives. irving, walking in, explains the honeypot situation which was reported to the FBI (dark army owns them) so. they’re here.

remember, elliot had discussed the honeypot with whiterose- not mr robot.

irving sees the gun on the table, sees the situation, casually threatens both of them in this very charming way of his. it’s very clear they’re fucked and have to comply with what the dark army says. they ask mr robot if he knows how to drive that SUV out front- he says yes. irving explains they will be taking care of tyrell, cause now he’s the most wanted criminal there is- and robot is advised to drive it to a location elliot wakes up in season 1 finale.

above him, glasses with an usb containing the ‘boardwalk fail’ clip. 

NOW,

tyrell got taken to a cabin, kept away from the world, chopping wood and asking where elliot is, chatting with irving occasionally- until one day he wakes to see some unusual things, among which is mr. williams if you remember, that’s the last name of the poet- but doesn’t have to mean much. 

he asks him questions, until he proves he’s loyal to them. however, he says he is only loyal to elliot. which is a good answer- because the DA is now giving him a laptop and they’re starting to work on stage2. but then;

“the operation will be called the red wheelbarrow, mr. alderson’s request.”

THAT is how it ties everything together, where it came from, who said it, the only thing left to decipher is why it stuck. maybe we can leave that for another time?

there are plenty of different interpretations when it comes to the poem, honestly. it seems tyrell’s resentment towards his father, and mr robot calling elliot’s dad a zero- was what got to elliot, or whoever it was, that can relate.

lemme know what you think!! i hope you’re satisfied w the answer and, again, im so sorry for the long wait. 

if there are any mistakes just keep in mind it’s 7am right now and i need some mercy.

#a very very long post #im not even gonna proofread it im so tired im gonna go straight to bed #mr robot #elliot alderson #tyrell wellick #/mine #shutupneil