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havenoffandoms · 3 years

Note

Hey congrats on 900 followers! Would I be able to request the touch starved prompt from your list with the pairing Aiden/Lambert please? Love all your writing!

Hello!! Thanks for requesting this prompt and this pairing! I’ve been on a right Lambden kick recently, so I felt inspired. I hope you like it!

Prompt 13: Touch-Starved

Pairing: Aiden x Lambert

Warnings: None

Prompt List

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together. Being stabbed to death in his sleep comes to mind, or having Aiden go all batshit crazy if Lambert dared to beat him at Gwent. Lambert has heard many rumours about Cat witchers in his long life. Cats are batshit crazy. Cats are emotionally volatile. Cats are backstabbing sons of bitches… literally and metaphorically. Cats are bad. Cats are evil, etc, etc. All these rumours circulated in Kaer Morhen long before Lambert even set foot in that ramshackle castle. He was too young to have witnessed the Tournament, but he heard the older witchers talk. Later in his life, when only a handful of wolf witchers were left after the sacking, Eskel gave Lambert a more detailed account of the Tournament.

“The Cats betrayed us, went on a rampage. Killed many wolf witchers in the process. Geralt and I lost many friends that day,” Eskel told him one evening, when the oldest surviving wolf was too far in his cup to notice that he was oversharing. “Radowit’s court mage Astrogarus promised the Cats monopoly on killing monsters within Kaedwen in exchange for attacking the Wolves during the tournament. Turns out Radowit was a backstabbing motherfucker himself. He ordered his soldiers to shoot all of the remaining witchers of both schools in the arena.”

“Lemme guess,” Lambert spoke, his own speech slightly slurred, “pretty boy saved the day?”

Eskel shook his head. “Fled. Mousesack helped him escape the massacre. Poor bastard never forgave himself for abandonin’ our brothers, but what choice did he have?”

Don’t get Lambert wrong. He’s not saying that Aiden is harmless, far from it. The guy’s lethal with his swords, deadly with a pair of daggers, not to mention a stealthy and clever thief. Aiden is mercurial, hot-tempered and a bit feral when he wants to be, and his morals are at best dubious. Whereas wolf witchers had their emotions beaten out of them at a young age, cat witchers feel too much, too strongly. Lambert’s witnessed Aiden flip tables when peasants beat him at Gwent, but he’s also witnessed the Cat shed a tear after bringing the news to a mother that her son did not survive the ghoul attack two villages down the road.

Lambert was apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but the Cat had never ceased to surprise him. The most unexpected trait Aiden has displayed to date is his insatiable need for physical contact. It’s not like Lambert hates being touched - he’s only human, albeit a mutated one, but still human. He enjoys a hug as much as the next person, especially when said hug comes from one of his brothers (or, dare he say, Vesemir) at the end of a long and difficult year on the Path. Lambert has also never begrudged a bed partner a post-coital cuddle session. Aiden’s need for physical contact is… on a whole different level.

The first time it happened, Lambert almost shoved the Cat off him and sent him packing, until he realised that Aiden was not only hugging him, but clinging onto him. His sharp nails were digging in the soft material of Lambert’s shirt, the fabric creaking in protest under the firm grip. When Lambert looked down, he noticed the pinched eyebrows and tears trailing down Aiden’s face. It wasn’t until a broken sob pushed past the Cat’s lips that Lambert reluctantly returned the embrace, arms wound tightly around Aiden’s trembling body. Aiden eventually settled in the safety of Lambert’s arms, his features softening as he sank back into a peaceful slumber.

Neither mentioned the previous evening’s impromptu cuddling session, but from that moment one, it was like someone had flicked a switch. Aiden came up with every possible fucking excuse to touch Lambert. Their hands would always accidentally graze each other when they packed up camp, or tacked up the horses. Aiden would bump shoulders with him when they were travelling on foot. If they sat next to one another in a tavern, Aiden would press his leg against Lambert’s, and if they were facing each other, a tentative foot would gently nudge Lambert’s shin and linger there. It’s not like Aiden was trying to hide his intentions, either. They rarely paid for two rooms anymore, because even if they did, Aiden would always end up in Lambert’s bed anyway, arms wound around Lambert’s body like a koala clinging to its mother.

Lambert doesn’t hate Aiden’s need for physical proximity, he’s just… confused by it. Aiden rarely takes any lovers to bed, even though he clearly craves physical intimacy. Lambert is more than happy to cuddle with Aiden, especially when they are forced to sleep under the stars and the early autumn frosts begin to settle over the region. It saves them from lighting a campfire, which may attract the wrong kind of attention to them. That’s all that’s ever transpired between the two, though… cuddling. Lambert enjoys the cuddling as much as Aiden does, but for Aiden it seems to be about more than mere enjoyment. The Cat simply refuses to go without physical intimacy which at times can be… alright, it can feel overbearing, but Lambert’s not about to complain, not when most humans turn away from him in disgust and contempt when he tries to chat them up.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Aiden almost develops a form of separation anxiety. He refuses to let Lambert out of his sight, going so far as to follow the man everywhere, and that’s the moment when Lambert snaps.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asks, his tone hiding none of the irritation he feels at being tailed by this overgrown tomcat. Aiden stops dead in his tracks, his eyes growing wide at Lambert’s words.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been following me since this morning… I have errands to run and it’s hard to do that when you’re breathing down my neck!”

Lambert instantly regrets his words the minute they leave his mouth. Aiden’s shoulders visibly sag at Lambert’s comment, his content expression melting into something sadder and the sight tugs at the wolf’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways. Aiden averts Lambert’s eyes shyly, the tip of his ears turning a pretty shade of pink as embarrassment washes over him. Lambert heaves a sigh. Way to act like a fucking dick.

“Sorry, Aiden. I… I didn’t mean to sound like an ass, but-”

“It’s alright, I… I knew this moment would come eventually.”

“What are you talking about?” Lambert asks, a confused frown etched on his face. Aiden doesn’t look at him when he replies in a voice far too small to belong to the lethal, cocky witcher Lambert has come to know over the past few months.

“You’re gonna ask me to leave for good. I get it. I… I’ll go back to the room and pack my things.”

As Aiden turns around to leave, Lambert’s hand shoots out and grabs a hold of Aiden’s wrist. Before Lambert’s brain has a chance to catch up, he finds himself pulling Aiden into a nearby alley, away from prying eyes of judgemental humans meandering the stalls of the midweek market. Aiden looks so unsure now, so vulnerable like this, and it makes Lambert want to wrap the Cat up in warm blankets and cuddle him and forget the world for a while. Instead, he settles on pressing Aiden’s back against the wall and draping himself around the Cat witcher as much as he can.

“That’s not what I meant,” Lambert breathes in the air pocket between them as he locks eyes with Aiden, “you’ve just been… especially clingy recently. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Aiden averts his eyes once again, but Lambert is quick to grip the other man’s chin and force Aiden to meet his gaze. Even that simple touch pulls a small hiss from Aiden, whose eyes flutter shut as he relishes in the feeling of Lambert touching him anywhere. Lambert purses his lips, eager for an answer.

“Aiden-”

“Winter is around the corner,” Aiden whispers, his tongue darting out to lick his suddenly dry lips. Lambert’s frown deepens.

“And?”

His question is met with a pointed eye roll from Aiden.

“And… wolves return to their dens for winter, don’t they? I was just… enjoying the last few weeks in your company before you leave and never come back.”

As the final piece of the puzzle slots into place, understanding dawns on Lambert. He pulls away from Aiden and the small whimper the loss of contact triggers does not go unnoticed. Something old and fragile aches in Lambert’s chest as the meaning of Aiden’s words sink in. Aiden isn’t just worried about being separated from Lambert for a few months, but he’s worried that Lambert will never come back.The wolf links his fingers with his Cat’s, squeezing softly as he leans into Aiden’s space and rubs his bearded cheek against Aiden’s jawline. The latter quickly melts under the soft ministrations, the soft content rumble deepening into a continuous purr as Lambert nuzzles the crook of Aiden’s neck.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Yeah, right,” Aiden snorts in response, “cause you’re so good with feelings and shit.”

“Not everyone’s a sappy sentimental bitch like you are,” Lambert teases gently, earning himself a half-hearted slap up the back of the head. “I don’t have to go back to Kaer Morhen this winter.”

Aiden tenses, his soft purring stopping abruptly as he takes in Lambert’s words. Lambert continues to rub his cheek against Aiden’s jaw, his neck, his cheek… wherever he can reach, the action meant to soothe the brewing storm in Aiden’s mind.

“It’s your home,” Aiden offers weakly, “I don’t want… I… it’s your home.”

“I can send a letter to the old man. Let him know I’m alive. We could find a den somewhere else… an attic somewhere, or an abandoned castle.” Lambert nuzzles the spot right behind Aiden’s ear, earning a pleased hum from the Cat. “Or you could come with me.”

“Sure. Cause that’s gonna end well…”

“That’s settled then. I’m spending winter with you.”

Aiden pushes Lambert away, their eyes meeting once again but this time, Aiden searches for any trace of a lie in Lambert’s amber gaze. He finds none, because Lambert is one hundred percent honest in his offer. He would ditch Vesemir, Geralt and Eskel for a year to spend it with Aiden… and the thought should scare him more than it does, truthfully. He’s only known the Cat for a few months, and yet… well, maybe Lambert was dreading the winter as well. How about that? It’s not like he felt equally anxious about leaving Aiden, it’s just… fuck off.

“You mean that?”

“Mhm. Fair warning… I hate the cold. If I’m spending the winter with you, you’ll have to find a way to keep me warm or I will bite your head off.”

In Aiden’s defence, he does keep Lambert warm all winter long. Their cuddling finally turns into something more, and from the moment Lambert and Aiden cross that fateful line there is no going back. Aiden becomes insatiable, always seeking Lambert’s body in some shape or form, never letting the wolf out of his sight again. Lambert may have been apprehensive about many things concerning Aiden when the two started travelling together, but it turns out that all his worries were for nothing. Turns out Cat witchers are still crazy, and feral, and mercurial… a tad possessive as well, something Lambert doesn’t hate... but they’re also the cuddliest sons of bitches on the Continent.

Lambert can live with that, he thinks.

Request a prompt.

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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yikesharringrove · 3 years

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Show Pony

Chapter 3: Roses Are Falling

Read on Ao3

Steve’s hand was sweaty in Billy’s as he pulled him through the crowds in the fairground, ducking and weaving between the people milling about.

Billy let himself be dragged, staring at Steve’s ass in his little denim shorts.

It had been one week since their date at the diner.

A week of Billy showing up to the rodeo, watching Steve compete in his event, and making out with him behind the arena.

It was fun, sneaking around together in the blazing summer heat.

He had even brought Max a few times, letting her wander around with some chick her own age she met. Apparently, her dad works at the rodeo or someshit. Billy wasn’t listening when she explained. Steve had been across the arena, taking off his flannel shirt and trading it for another one of his slutty little crop tops.

It was a gorgeous show.

But Max was somewhere eating her body weight in funnel cake while Steve took him into a tent labeled Employees Only.

There was an eclectic group of people sitting at the long tables in the tent, all greeting Steve as he pulled Billy through to a group of younger people sitting together at the end of one of the tables.

Steve pushed Billy onto one of the benches, perching right on his lap like that was totally fine. Like it was easy for Billy to just. Keep his dick in check.

The girl sitting across from them sighed heavily, raising one eyebrow at Steve.

“Shut up, Robin.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she was still giving Steve a very pointed look.

“You don’t have to.” Steve slumped back against Billy’s chest, no doubt petulant.

She shook her head, finally addressing Billy.

“I’m Robin.”

“She does barrel racing,” Steve leaned back, muttering the information into Billy’s ear. His breath was hot against Billy’s skin, and Billy had to fight down a shiver that crept up his spine despite the blazing heat.

Another girl was sitting next to Robin, a pretty brunette with doe eyes to rival Steve’s. She seemed vaguely familiar.

And then it clicked.

“Aren’t you in the pageants?”

She laughed softly.

“My name’s Heather. And yes, I’m reigning Miss Rodeo USA, so I’ve been with these guys and will be until the next girl is crowned. It’s been a good time.” She glanced over at Robin, bumping their shoulders together. Billy raised one eyebrow at Robin, catching her eye and making her flush slightly. He shot her a quick wink.

Steve shifted in his lap, putting one arm over Billy’s shoulders, winding his fingers through his little ponytail.

“So, Billy,” Robin tried to move the conversation along, rolling her shoulders back. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All bad, I hope.”

“Nah, just, I feel like I know you quite well know. Like, really well. Like better than I ever wanted to know a guy-”

“Okay, yeah, Robin. We get it. Thanks.” Steve squirmed slightly in Billy’s lap, the back of his neck and the tips of his ears a bright red color. It was cute. Billy didn’t realize when Steve’s cheeks went all pink, that, other, places of him flushed too. He wondered how far down that rosy tint on Steve’s cheeks went. If it was all over his chest, if it leads down to his-

Nope. Not going there right now. Not when Steve is sitting on Billy’s lap, and they’re in fucking public. Absolutely not. No thanks. Billy’s fine.

Robin squinted at him, and he tried to keep his face as blank as possible.

Steve sighed heavily through his nose, shaking his head.

“I’m getting a pop. Anyone else?”

Robin waved him off, and he was gone with a roll of his eyes.

“So, you’re the poor San Diego bastard. My condolences.”

Billy squinted at her.

“Not sure what you mean.”

She took a deep breath, looking at Heather briefly.

“Look. You know this little fling is just that. A little fling. Steve, he kinda, does this. Finds someone in every place we’re stationed, and has a month-long something with them. He loves attention but he’s too scared of commitment to do anything else. And honestly, I’m saying this all for your sake, because I’ve seen people get attached. He’s gonna eat you alive, and then he’s gonna leave, and it’s easier for you if you know that going in.”

Robin’s words settled like a fucking pit in Billy’s stomach.

Because, yeah. He, like, kinda figured that. He knew their time was limited. Knew that Steve would slip through his fingers. And really, that was fine. Billy thinks he’d be the exact same way if the roles were reversed, that he would be constantly moving from one person to the next, never getting lonely, but never getting deep, either.

He understands the whole commitment-phobe thing. Kinda takes one to know one.

So he gets it.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like shit to have it put. So plainly.

“I’m sorry. That was probably too harsh but, you seem like a nice guy, and Steve doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s not trying to hurt people, he just, definitely uses the whole traveling rodeo thing to his advantage.”

“Nah, I get it. Really, I kinda figured it out. He said he likes to make friends wherever they are. So, it’s fine. And I think sometimes harsh can be alright.” He doesn’t wanna make Steve’s friend feel bad.

And really, he did know what they were doing and what this was about. It just sucks having it confirmed by someone else. And put. So plainly.

“I’m really not trying to be mean. I just kinda wanted to prepare you. If this is gonna be something that hurts, maybe it’s best to get out now.” Robin had very pretty blue eyes and freckles all over her face. She seemed warm, and the way she was staring at him was with so much concern.

“Thank you. I get it, honest. I’d probably act just the same if I were him.”

“If you were who?” Steve had returned, slapping a can of root beer on the table in front of them, taking a seat pressed as close as possible to Billy, lifting up his arm to slide underneath it.

“Quit being nosy.” Robin reached out to muss up Steve’s hair, poking him in the forehead. “What are you two doing today?”

Steve shrugged, taking the bait and moving on.

“Wander the grounds. Maybe hang out at my place.” Billy’s interest piqued. He had no idea Steve had a place. “Might sneak out and go for a drive or something. You got any preference?” Steve leaned over the table, resting his elbows on top, placing his face in his hands, turning to look at Billy.

“We could kick around here. I gotta drive Max home later so we should probably stick around.” Steve grinned at him.

“Well, c’mon then. You’ve got plenty to see around here.”

Billy felt like Steve has already dragged through the entire grounds, he doesn’t know how there’s more to see.

But it turned out there’s a lot more. Because Steve’s place, as it turns out, is one in a huge crowd of trailers.

It was kinda out of Billy’s wildest imagination. Like what he’d picture an old-school traveling circus to be like.

People were milling around everywhere, Steve saying hi to almost everyone they passed. Animals were being led to and from the large arena and the makeshift paddocks that were set up in the open grass.

It was like nowhere Billy’s ever been before.

Steve led him through the maze of trailers to a smaller version of an old school Airstream near the back of the lot, still hitched up to the back of a much larger, and very nice-looking, RV.

Stevie Harrington was painted in curling dark green letters on the rounded metal door, a little cow munching on some grass painted below it.

“That your art?”

Steve snorted.

“ God, no. Robin did it for me a few years ago. That’s why it looks good.”

The hinges on the door squealed when he pulled it open and led Billy inside.

It was hot in the airstream, and Steve turned on the solar power to get a small fan moving air through the place, propping open the door and the tiny window above the table.

“Home sweet traveling home.”

“Damn. This ain’t too bad of a setup.”

It really wasn’t. Sure, it was small, but it was perfect for one person. A tiny kitchenette faced the minuscule bathroom. The far sides of the trailer were taken up by a dining area, a table with booth-like seating, and a queen-sized bed taking up the opposite side, a small closet smushed between the bed and the kitchen.

It was immaculately clean, not totally what Billy had expected from Steve. The bed was made, an old-looking, worn-out stuffed horse placed neatly in front of the pillows.

There were pictures pinned up on little string light clothespins on the wall the bed was shoved against, and Steve even had a few posters over the booth seats.

“It’s kinda nice. I saved up for a while to buy it. It’s kind of a lot being trapped in an RV with your parents, let me tell you. I’m still hooked up to theirs, and when we move I ride with them, usually, but at least I’ve got some space to myself.” Steve looked down at his feet. “Plus, I kinda figured, this is about as close as I’ll ever come to living on my own.”

“I really do like it. You’ve made it real nice in here.”

Steve looked back up to him, smiling proudly.

“We don’t have to like, hang out in here. I just thought I’d welcome you in. To like, say, you know, if you’re ever around but don’t wanna hang out doing the same rodeo shit all the time, we could, like, spend some time in here.” Steve’s cheeks were going red.

And Billy was fairly certain he knew where this was going.

So he took the metaphorical bull by the horns, and wrapped his fingers in Steve’s literal belt loops, and pulled him close enough that their lips could touch.

And apparently, Billy was right. Because Steve kissed him back immediately, and fervently, sliding his arms over Billy’s shoulders and pressing into him enough to move Billy back a few steps until his knees hit the bed, and he fell to sit on it.

Steve wasted no time climbing on his lap, kneeling straddling Billy, pressed together as close as possible.

Steve broke the kiss, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily and Billy attached himself to Steve’s neck, leaving wet kisses in his path down the long column of his throat.

“God, fuck. Can we-”

“ Yeah. Yeah, Baby,” Billy was breathless as he replied, getting both hands under Steve’s ass and flipping their position in one fluid motion, getting Steve on his back, his legs wrapped around Billy’s waist.

“Get the door.”

Billy pressed a long sucking kiss to Steve’s neck before pulling away, slamming the door closed as Steve drew the blinds on the window above the bed and turned on the air conditioning unit in the ceiling.

“It’s gonna get super fucking hot in here if we fuck.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Steve laughed at Billy, rolling back to lay properly on the bed, taking his stuffed horse and tossing it on the table behind Billy.

“I don’t want her to have to see this.”

“Fine by me.” Billy was back on him in a second, pushing his hands up Steve’s shirt, yanking it off him as fast as possible.

Steve was so fucking gorgeous.

He had a light tan all over his body, with definite paler parts where his shirts usually sit.

And he was fit. His muscles weren’t as bulky as Billy’s, but he was obviously strong.

Billy leaned over him, tasting the salt on his skin as Steve began fumbling with the buttons of Billy’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders so roughly one of the shoulder seams groaned, threatening to rip.

Billy took that as his cue to pull away from Steve again, shedding his shirt and kicking off his shoes, helping Steve out of his little short shorts.

He was wearing this excellent pair of boots, deep red with white embroidered stitching covering the boot.

Steve leaned forward, moving to pull off the boots.

“Wait, no. Leave ‘em on.”

Steve looked at him.

“You call me a hick all the fuckin’ time, and now you’re here saying you wanna fuck me in my boots.”

“It’s hot. You’re like the chick from Footloose .”

“Aren’t you gay?”

“Hot is hot, Steve.”

Steve huffed a laugh, putting his leg back down, letting Billy settle between both of them.

“So, are we gonna talk about the girl in an eighties movie, or are you going to fuck me through this mattress?”

“Alright, bossy. You got lube?”

Steve huffed, poking Billy’s chest until he moved off him.

Steve sat up, crawling to the end of the bed, digging through the laundry in the hamper for the bottle of lube.

Billy stared at him.

Mostly, he was just staring at his asshole. It was so perfect and pink, and looked buttery and soft.

And Jesus, he really just wanted to lick it, to get his face buried between Steve’s cheeks and go to town on the pretty pink furl of muscle.

And, well, what’s stopping him?

Absolutely nothing.

He got up, following Steve’s path until he was behind him, taking each cheek in one hand.

Steve froze where he was digging through the laundry, Billy’s breath puffing between his cheeks.

“What are you-”

And then Billy licked up his crack, his tongue dragging all the way up from his balls, flicking once against his hole.

“ Billy .” Steve spread his legs, pushing his hips back into Billy’s face, wordlessly asking for more.

So Billy gave it to him.

He opened his mouth, licking all around his rim, pressing his tongue just slightly inside, sucking on the soft pink flesh, making Steve’s breath hitch and whines pour out of his mouth.

“Fuck, you’re good at that.”

Billy responded by pulling back, and spitting on Steve’s hole.

Steve was taken by surprise, if his soft gasp was anything to go by. He dropped his head against the bed, biting onto the blanket.

Billy just kept going, using his lips and tongue and teeth, opening him up and getting him wet.

“Fuck, Billy, please just fuck me. I want you so bad .” Steve’s voice was pitchy and breathy, muffled in the blanket.

He was grinding his hips forward and back, pressing himself against Billy’s tongue.

Like he wanted nothing more than he wanted Billy’s tongue in his ass right then.

And Billy certainly wasn’t complaining, not at how fucking nice and soft his asshole was against his tongue, how he tasted kinda clean and kinda musky at the same time. It was heady and Billy would happily spend the rest of his stupid life with his face buried between Steve’s cheeks.

Something smacked against the top of Billy’s head, and he pulled away briefly to find a bottle of lube on the bed, the one that Steve had no doubt tossed over his shoulder and accidentally accosted Billy with.

“That fuckin’ hit me in the head, you piece a’ shit.”

“I don’t care,” Steve whined, pushing his hips back even further, spreading himself out more and more for Billy to hungrily take in. “Just finger me and fuck me !”

“Bossy.”

Steve huffed, shifting his head around until he could look back at Billy, his brows pinched in a little scowl, giving Billy a dirty look that was equal parts adorable pout and sexy scowl. He looked like the grumpiest little slut.

And Billy indulged him, squeezing out a big glob of lube, meticulously coating his first two fingers with it.

“I know what I like, and I get what I like.”

“Jesus, I thought all them girls were the rodeo queens. Not you .”

“I’m the queen of getting my fucking way. Now for the love of God, put your fingers in me.”

And Billy couldn’t do anything but indulge him.

He began with just one finger, sliding it slowly and deliberately down to the last knuckle.

Steve sighed as Billy’s finger entered him, relaxing his upper body into the bed, somehow canting his hips up even more, his back arched as much as Billy’s ever fuckin’ seen.

So Billy took a chance, pumping his finger in and out a few times, pulling it nearly all the way out, only to replace it with both fingers. He moved slowly, simply fucking Steve with his fingers for a moment, watching Steve as he crooked his fingers downward.

And Steve moaned, and it was like he became a puddle. All his muscles relaxing and unwinding as Billy curled his fingers, pressing deeply against his prostate, rubbing tiny circles into the small bundle of nerves.

“God, Bill. That feels so fucking good,” Steve said through a throaty moan. Billy was slowly moving his fingers in and out of Steve, pressing down into that wonderful spot each time he was buried all the way to the knuckle. “Add another. Please, I want you in me.”

Billy had to palm himself to relieve some of the pressure of his own dick, flushed red and oh so painful where it was hard against his stomach.

But he did as Steve told him to do, drawing out his two fingers to press in a third.

There was something of a shift in the sticky airstream. As those three thick fingers sank into Steve, it was as though both boys agreed to move faster. Steve began pushing his hips back and forth, fucking himself on Billy’s fingers, matching the steady pace Billy had set with his hand.

Billy was tugging his fingers in and out, pushing into Steve’s prostate with each movement, the lube creating a squelching noise as they picked up the pace.

And finally, Steve had enough.

He moved his hips forward, sitting back on his heels to look at Billy over his shoulder.

His face was flushed, his bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat, his pupils blown wide, making his already dark eyes seem nearly black. He tossed Billy a condom, and Billy caught it against his heaving chest.

Steve’s breath caught as Billy ripped open the condom wrapper with his teeth, looking like some kinda fuckin’ animal, rolling it onto himself with a practiced hand.

“Billy, I fucking want you-”

Billy cut him off by pressing himself against Steve’s back, kissing him harshly as he felt him up, his hands roving, touching every bit of Steve he could possibly manage.

Steve had his own mission, reaching awkwardly behind him to take Billy’s stiff cock in hand, fumbling slightly as he lined up the flushed head of his dick with his slicked-up hole, teasing himself before urging Billy to push on in.

Their lips lost touch from one another the second Billy began moving his hips forward, their moans mingling in the space between them.

“God, fuck, Stevie.” Billy could hardly control himself. He so wanted to let loose, start fucking wildly into the tight heat of Steve’s body, take him as hard and fast as possible.

He let his hands drop down and settle on Steve’s hips. He could feel the firm muscles tensing under his hands, like Steve was barely keeping himself from rocking back to fuck himself harder and faster on Billy’s cock.

And that’s what pushed Billy over the edge.

He pushed Steve forward until he was back in position, face down, ass up. His hands gripped Steve’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, and Jesus, Billy hoped to fucking God Steve had dark marks in the shape of Billy’s fingers for days and days. And he let himself go for it.

Steve was making these breathy, punched-out noises, like with every harsh thrust of Billy’s hips, all the air in his lungs was being forced right out of him.

Billy was slamming them together, pulling Steve’s hips back as he surged his own forward, pulling out almost entirely each time. He was relentless, taking Steve like a goddamn animal right there on the once neat bed.

Neither of them was going to last long, they both knew it.

Billy had taken so much time opening Steve up with his lips and tongue and fingers, Steve wouldn’t even be shocked if he came completely untouched, falling apart with only the attentions Billy has granted to his hole.

Until Billy reached around him with his left hand, still gripping Steve’s body with his right.

He took hold of Steve’s leaking cock, brushing his thumb over the slit to collect some of the glistening precum, drawing his hand tightly down the shaft, moving at an agonizingly slow pace compared to the buck of his hips, keeping Steve on the edge of something, making everything way too much and definitely not enough.

And there was nothing Steve could do.

He felt fucking helpless as Billy pounded him. It was taking all his energy not to just melt into the mattress at this point and let Billy have his way with him.

But Billy was getting close, too close to keep this game up for much longer.

He sped up the movement of his hand, his fist beginning to pump faster and faster over Steve’s aching cock. He wanted him to finish first, wanted to watch as Steve writhed and moaned about.

It didn’t take long. Less than a minute of Billy jerking Steve as quick and rough as he was fucking him, and Steve was spilling out onto the blanket below him, nearly yelling out while his hips convulsed and his fingers twisted until he had a white knuckle grip on the blanket.

Billy could only just hang on, fuck and jerk Steve through it, only letting his grip on his cock go a little slack when Steve finally relaxed a bit below him.

Billy pulled out, snapping off the condom and taking his dick in hand, finishing himself off all over Steve’s lower back, watching his thick cum drip down the slope of his ass.

“ Fuck. You’re so hot,” Billy said, totally in awe. Steve was even hotter than normal wearing nothing but his bright red boots and Billy’s spunk.

Billy took a cloth from the tiny bathroom, getting it a little wet to wipe the cum off of Steve as he lay stretched like a cat on the small bed.

“Thank God I don’t have to ride tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll be able to sit, let alone get in a saddle.” He threw a wink over his shoulder at Billy, bending his knees to let his feet kick up behind him, crossing his ankles in the red boots.

“We should make the best of our good fortune, then. I’ve got a few more rounds in me.”

“Billy Hargrove, you fuckin’ devil .”

#yikes writes #show pony #lemons #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #rodeo au

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missturtleduck · 3 years

Note

hi i saw ur requests were open and i would love if u could do a sokka x reader :) where reader is really shy and he likes to tease her and flirt with her to see her all flustered but she denies him actually liking her bc she thinks it’s just his personality to be funny like that. but then there’s the classic oh no there’s only one bed thing? thank you!

Ooooh I loved writing this! Tropes? Love them. Fluff? So fun, so sweet. I hope you enjoy, anon, and have a very happy holiday! <3

Teasing

Sokka x shy!Reader

It was a well-known fact that Sokka was a tease.

Now, he wasn’t a tease in the common sense, more that he took some joy in being a so-called comedian. Y/N seemed to be the person in their gang that got the brunt of his teasing. Every time he came up with some sarcastic quip, she would laugh along with everyone else – though most of the time she was the only one who found him funny – but then there were the other times.

She had been sparring with Zuko, who was surprisingly adept with swords for a bender, when Sokka had come by whistling with faux innocence. As he took a seat on the floor, his eyes were trained on the fight. Feeling his blue-eyed gaze boring into her, she felt her entire body flush. Steadying her breathing, Y/N pushed down the flustered flutter bats inhabiting her stomach. A frustrated cry escaped her lips as she pinned Zuko’s blades to the floor with her own.

“Sokka,” She breathed out, hating how hot she felt. “Sokka, w-what are you doing?”

He grinned. “Just enjoying the view. You know, I always thought red was Zuko’s colour, but you are boasting a lovely shade today.”

Absently, Y/N put a palm to her face, only becoming more flustered as she realised her skin had in fact became darker. As the blood rushed faster through her body, she looked desperately at Zuko for some reprieve.

“Sokka, are you here for any reason other than being a complete clown?” Zuko said, sighing in pure exasperation even as Y/N had him pinned.

The boy ignored him completely. “Has anyone ever told just how adorable you are? Because you really are.”

“Sokka,” Zuko said again, his voice less patient. “Go away before we make you.”

“Alright, alright,” He tutted, hands in the air as if in surrender. “I’ll leave you two to your dance lessons. Call me if you fall; I’ll come and catch you.”

Waiting for him to be out of earshot, Y/N groaned, dropping her sword and freeing Zuko. Her entire face was on fire. Sure, it was a metaphor, a hyperbolic one at that, but if Zuko decided to shove his ignited palm in her face, it would not manage to be as hot as she was feeling now. It might be slightly less sweaty. Ew.

Lowering herself to the ground, she sat, stretching out her aching limbs, pouring water over her roasting head. Y/N, needless to say, was mortified by Sokka’s teasing, but when was she not? She was somewhat shyer than her female friends; Katara had this maternal instinct about her that kicked into overdrive as soon as someone seemed needy. It was honestly scarier than the Avatar State. Toph was just... Toph. The girl was at least four years younger than Y/N and utterly terrifying, approaching people and situations with no fear. Then there was Suki. Suki had a knack of getting people to like her, being the loveable, charismatic leader, she was.

And that left Y/N.

Y/N struggled being heard in many a conversation. Ask her to take a compliment? No. No. Not happening. No thank you. Her shy demeanour was labelled cute by a few different people, though they all seemed to be joking – especially Sokka.

“Do you want me to sort him out for you?”

Y/N looked up, meeting Zuko’s very serious gaze for just a moment before staring at the ground. “No, it’s okay. He’s like that with everyone.”

“What?” Zuko frowned, slumping to the ground too. “What are you on about? He doesn’t flirt with everyone!”

“That wasn’t flirting!” She insisted, feeling that bashful flush creeping in again.

“He was just teasing, like he does with everyone!”

Zuko’s lips quirked. “He called you adorable.”

“Yesterday, he called Momo adorable.”

“He said you flushed was your colour.”

“And he said that red was yours, sunshine.”

“Oh, Y/N, I’ll catch you if you fall!”

Y/N stammered. “He could have been talking to either of us!”

There was some silence between them. Y/N didn’t usually mind sitting in silence with Zuko, who was just as awkward as her most of the time. However, the wide, toothy grin like a catgator’s was highly disconcerting.

“Zuko, I don’t know what you’re seeing, but he wasn’t flirting,” Y/N said finally, quietly commanding. “He’s just messing around like he usually does.”

The prince sighed, suppressing his mischievous grin. Raising his swords, the pair charged each other again.

✦

In the midst of a war, there wasn’t much space for fun. With the constant movement between the Western Air Temple and many significant locations to build their defences after the Day of Black Sun, Y/N found she hardly had time for anything other than training and strategizing. Sure, she may be considered meek when compared to her peers, but her mind was sharper than her blade.

After watching Aang master firebending, Sokka masterminding a prison break, and Katara nearly murdering a man – all with Zuko’s help – she had some whiplash. She might even say that she had been somewhat blindsided by them, but she didn’t particularly mind. It was when they moved onto Ember Island, however, that Y/N found there to be an issue. In all the excitement, or terror, of being separated from Haru and the others, and possibly murdering Sparky Sparky Boom Man, the gang ended up hiding out on Ember Island.

Spirits, did Y/N love the sunshine. The sand? Not so much, nor the swimsuits. Nevertheless, she much preferred it to Aang’s beloved ancestral temple.

“Okay,” Zuko said as they all collected together in the house, “So there’s a bit of an issue.”

“Fire Nation?” Katara asked, eyes narrowing.

“Worse,” Zuko said, voice grave. “There are seven of us, and only six beds.”

The teenagers all looked between each other with varying looks of embarrassment and disgust. It was Toph who spoke first.

“Well, I for one do not want to share a room,” She scoffed, stomping her foot – a reminder of her power. “I can already hear all of you when we sleep on the ground. I am not missing out on my chance for a quiet night of sleep.”

“That seems fair,” Zuko hummed as he pulled a hat off of a dresser. “Everyone else, unless they have some reason why not, will put their name in here.”

Sokka whined, pointing his finger at the heir of the Fire Nation. “Fine! But they should get the biggest bedroom.”

Y/N swore Zuko smirked. “Done.”

Sat on the floor watching him write names, the group waited anxiously to see who would be sharing a room at least for that night. Mixing up bits of paper, he seemed to be building up some bravado, akin to a showman about to pull a jackalope out of a hat.

“Sokka.”

The boy cursed under his breath as Zuko continued on with his little show, the piece of paper disintegrating as easily as a leaf floating in a breeze.

“And Y/N!”

She met Zuko’s eye, entire body hot, sending a psychic message along the lines of sprits, no, Zuko, no, please, Zuko, don’t do this.

Despite the fact that Y/N knew Sokka was only joking with his teasing, somewhere along the line she had ended up falling for it – for him. It was sudden and violent, the way a meteor crashed through the atmosphere, roaring, brilliant, and completely obliterating anything in its path. Currently, Y/N was that metaphorical meteorite, burning up and crashing into the earth.

Since Zuko apparently couldn’t read minds, she chanced a glance at Sokka. She expected some sort of joke, a quip, anything. Instead, he was deadly silent, stony in his face, staring too at Zuko. Was he blushing, or was she making it up in her head? This question soon slipped from her brain as she those baby blue eyes were staring straight at her.

Tui and La, Agni, spirits above; he hated her.

“Cool!” She said, though it came out more like a squeak. “I’ll see you tonight, I guess.”

“Y/N, we have the entire day before- “

She cut Suki off. “Yep, busy today! Busy, busy, busy. Plenty of strategic planning to do before the big day!”

And she was gone. Even Aang, renowned creator of the air scooter, had never seen a person move so fast, and Y/N wasn’t even a bender. In her haste, she didn’t catch the sly looks, nor the disapproving one courtesy of Katara. She definitely didn’t catch the shy grin on Sokka’s face, muddled with complete embarrassment. Getting as far away from the house as possible was her current goal, and she achieved it with insane speed – and longevity.

For an entire day, Y/N managed to see none of her friends, excluding Appa and Momo. Her animal friends seemed very concerned and very interested in her noughts and crosses diagrams in the black volcanic sand of Ember Island. It was only when Yue began to rise above the horizon that she thought it would be safe to come out. With what felt like a walk of shame, she trekked back to the beach house, a sleeping Momo cradled in her arms like a baby. Even Appa, who had been occupied with all sorts of made-up games throughout the day, was beginning to sway, eyes drooping, weighed down by sleep. Settling them down in the warm sand, Y/N climbed the wooden stairs.

Being quiet used to get her everywhere unseen; it didn’t work that night. Wordless, her friends’ good night wishes falling on deaf ears, she entered the biggest bedroom, alone. Falling face first onto the bed, she muffled a frustrated scream into one of the too many decadent pillows adorning it. Heaving herself onto her back, Y/N groaned dramatically with the effort it took. This bed was so soft. She tried to think of a more comfy, luxurious bed she had ever been on – and failed. The four-poster frame was casting odd shadows across the dark room. It felt especially lonely.

She felt especially lonely.

Sitting up, a low rumble filled the silence. Her stomach was apparently rather unhappy with the distinct lack of food during the day. Y/N had forgotten about that. She weighed up the options; go out and face embarrassment, or skip dinner for the first time in her life. Fortunately, she needn’t think long.

“So, everyone’s going to bed, and I remembered you hadn’t eaten.”

Sokka.

Of course.

“Oh,” Was all she could manage, mentally kicking herself for her utter lack of articulation. “Th-thanks, Sokka.”

Flicking on the light, the shadows no longer seemed odd, nor did the room feel lonely. There, in the doorway, stood Sokka. He was pretty – something that always took Y/N by surprise even though she saw him every day. Sure, he hadn’t grown into his gangly limbs yet, but he was getting there. His shoulders had gotten broader, his arms larger from training. She couldn’t help but imagine how comfy he’d be to lie against, how warm his hold would be.

“I brought snacks?”

Opening her mouth only to close it again, Y/N felt like a fish thrown mercilessly out of water. Instead, she managed a timid pat on the bed. He was slow to react, slower to move, and she only felt more inadequate. Whatever Zuko thought he saw at the temple was wrong.

“Wow, this bed is soft,” Sokka gasped, bouncing lightly on it like a small child. “It’s like sitting on a cloud!”

Y/N couldn’t stop the giggle that passed her lips as she took a slice of fruit from the platter he had brought in. For the briefest moment, infinitesimally small, Sokka ceased with his childish antics and just looked. Brightening, he seemed to thrive – delight – in her laughter, continuing to goof about with the numerous pillows and posh looking decor.

“Whoa.”

Y/N looked up at him from her laughing, stomach aching with joy. “What?”

“I didn’t know you could get prettier,” He said, brows furrowed, eyes sparkling.

She turned mute in an instant, feeling that all too familiar flush again, only this time it was close – more intense. Silent, she took another piece of fruit, eating it in moments, anything to give her time. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”

He frowned. “What? No. I’m not- “

“It’s okay if you are!” Y/N insisted, her smile plastered on and her heart aching. “I know you joke about with us all, and it’s just how you are. It’s not a bad thing, and I know you’re just joking and- “

“Y/N,” Sokka said, almost incredulous. “I’m not joking. I have never joked about that kind of thing with you.”

She stopped dead. “What?”

It wasn’t a question – well, not to Sokka at least. That one word was her address to the universe. It was astonishment, frustration, incredulity, sheer joy, so many emotions all wrapped into one simple word. The moments that passed between that word and their locked gaze spoke a thousand more words, sang a hundred more emotions.

“You didn’t know?”

Her head was empty. “Prettier?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Sokka chuckled weakly, moving the platter to the side.

“Prettier,” Y/N repeated slowly, looking up at him, “As in I was already pretty?”

“Erm, yes?”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Tui and La, yes.”

Oh.

“Okay,” She said, testing the waters, “And you like it when I blush?”

“Yeah, you look cute,” He admitted, sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Looking down, bashful, she recalled training with Zuko. “The word you used was adorable.”

No words came in response to that, only a gentle hand on her cheek. Guiding her face up, Sokka looked at her and saw her. Y/N could see him reaching for words that danced in his mind and away from his grasp, so many more pretty, teasing words he could say. But he wasn’t teasing, not really. He certainly wasn’t when he pressed his lips to hers. It was sweet and easy to melt into; she didn’t need to be shy, not with him.

They shared more sweet kisses, laughing under the moonlight in that fancy bed they got to share. Fruit, a bed, kisses; they shared them all, drifting into an easy sleep as the moon began to slip away into daylight. Basking in the prospect of a lazy morning, they made the most of it.

They weren’t even mad when they found out Zuko rigged the entire thing.

#atla #fic request #anon request #sokka x reader #sokka x shy!reader #the beach #sokka #platonic zuko x reader #fluff #aang #katara #toph #suki #oneshot #missturtleduck

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

Text

Happy Birthday to my dearest Disney Spouse @dani-dandelino! You’ve been such a rock for me and I absolutely adore you ❤️ I hope you enjoy this little modern Jaskilion AU that I wrote for you! 🥰

Thank you @funkylittlebard for beta-ing!

____________

The thunder rumbled outside the window, the rain hammering down on the pavement as headlights flashed intermittently. Storms had never been Dandelion’s favourite so Jaskier had insisted they build a pillow fort as a distraction. That was how Dandelion found himself caught under a mess of couch cushions and blankets, his head in Jaskier’s lap. There were fake tea lights stationed around the cramped space, lighting up the den with flickering orange light, fairy lighting pinned into the cushions above their head. It was cosy, made even cosier by their matching onesies. Jaskier had a tiger, and Dandelion had been forced into a lion version. Normally, he preferred to wear something a little more refined and he’d never really seen the appeal of onesies, but Jaskier had pouted at him and he’d been putty in his hands, and he had to admit that it was comfy.

The fort had been a good idea. He could barely make out Jaskier’s face in the dark, but he could see enough to know that his boyfriend was smiling down at him.

“Sweetheart?”

Jaskier’s hands didn’t stop running through his scalp, and his boyfriend hummed under his breath. The same song that had been playing at the restaurant where they had their first date. Dandelion wondered whether his boyfriend remembered.

“I love you, dearest.”

“I love you too, dear heart,” Jaskier replied, a soft happy sigh to his voice. “Did I tell you about the incident at the dog park today?”

Dandelion smiled, Jaskier had told him twice already, but he knew that the actor was trying to distract him from the storm, so he shook his head. “You know, I don’t believe you have?”

Jaskier cackled. “It was fucking brilliant, I was out walking Roach, because Geralt’s out of town on for an interview, and Valdo bloody Marx just strolls up to be with that rat that he calls a dog…”

Dandelion closed his eyes, focusing on the soft tenor of Jaskier’s voice, listening to every cadence, every hitch in his breath. He knew the words by heart at this point, but Jaskier’s voice soothed him. It washed over him like waves lapping at the sand, constant and ever-changing. The heat of the sunrays against his skin, warming his soul right down to the tips of his toes. Dandelion would be able to pick out Jaskier’s voice from even the largest of crowds. He was so attuned to the melodic tenor that had become the soundtrack to his life, that Dandelion could hear Jaskier long before his boyfriend came into sight.

The actor was a natural-born storyteller, they’d often joked that the brunet had to sit on his hands to stop himself from waving them around like he was trying to land a plane. He was funny, flirty and brilliant. Dandelion was completely smitten. They’d met on set, as most people in the industry did. Dandelion was the writer and showrunner for a rather delightful show about monsters and monster slayers, heroics and heartbreak. Jaskier was playing a charming young bardling and Geralt, his witcher friend and love of his life.

Dandelion had been completely blown away by the natural chemistry between Geralt and Jaskier, but once they’d wrapped Jaskier had texted him out of the blue and asked if he’d like to get dinner. Apparently, he’d been pining over Dandelion since day one, and when Dandelion had assumed he was laughing with Geralt over some flirty inside joke, Geralt had actually been teasing Jaskier about his crush.

The blushes had all been for him.

That had been three seasons ago and now they were living together in their studio flat in London. It was a luxury that Dandelion had never expected when he started writing as a child and later on as a teen starting to write, some honestly questionable, fan fiction… and now here he was, a showrunner and lead writer on his very own TV show with his cute actor boyfriend.

It was beyond his wildest dreams.

“Lion?” Jaskier’s hand brushed against his forehead, sweeping the hair from his face. “Are you even listening to me?”

Dandelion grinned sheepishly and repeated back a random part of the story, but by Jaskier’s pout he knew he’d gotten it wrong. “I’m sorry, darling, I was just so lost in thought about your beauty and your voice is so ethereal, so radiant, so….”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Flattery will get you everywhere,” Jaskier giggled. “Ooh shall we watch a movie?”

Dandelion rolled over and sat up so he was pressed against Jaskier’s side. Jaskier giggled and wrapped his arm around Dandelion’s shoulder. He was always astounded by how strong the actor was under the puffy costumes he wore on set, with arms almost as muscular as Geralt’s, broad shoulders and thick thighs. God, he was so weak. Dandelion himself was tall, taller than both Geralt and Jaskier, but he was slender like the flower he named himself after.

“The Lion King?” he asked, trying his best to sound pathetic and whiny so that Jaskier would give in. His boyfriend preferred The Little Mermaid, but it was stormy and Dandelion was stressed so really they should get to watch his favourite film.

“Hmm,” Jaskier replied, sounding a little too much like Geralt for Dandelion’s liking. It was a rather annoying habit that Jaskier had picked up having spent so much time on set with his co-star, honestly without Dandelion’s smooth words in his mouth, Jaskier was a bit of a mess.

“Oh come on, Jask, my darling, light of my life and—”

“I’m not pretending to lift you up like Simba.”

Dandelion grinned and launched himself at his boyfriend, knocking them both to the ground. “Pinned ya!” Dandelion giggled, rubbing his nose against Jaskier’s.

Jaskier made a show of rolling his eyes but pulled Dandelion into a kiss. It was nothing they hadn’t done before but it still had his heart racing and the world seemed to spin.

The world really did seem to spin as Jaskier flipped them over, knocking the electric tea lights flying and one of the blankets of the roof caved in around his boyfriend’s shoulders. Dandelion giggled and took advantage of Jaskier’s distraction as he tried to free himself from his blanket cage. Their positions were flipped again and Dandelion pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead.

“Pinned ya, again,” he said, trying to mimic Nala as best he could. He even gave Jaskier his best doe eyes.

His boyfriend pouted up at him, bottom lip quivering, fringe knocked almost completely off his forehead, so Dandelion really couldn’t help pressing another kiss there. It was just so large.

“Stop it,” Jaskier grumbled and swatted him out of the way so he could mess with his fringe.

“Never, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you too, dear heart.”

“Do you love me enough to watch The Lion King?” Dandelion teased, brushing a thumb along Jaskier’s cheek. “My gorgeous, beautiful boyfriend.”

“I love you enough to watch nothing but The Lion King for the rest of my life, darling.”

Dandelion’s breath caught in his throat. The rest of life was a long time… that was, well that was a big commitment and… “That almost sounds like a proposal.”

“Ah, umm, well..” Jaskier stammered, his face flushed a deep red, dipping down beneath the zip of his tiger onesie into the thick chest hair that was only just visible.

Dandelion pulled back, sitting on his ankles, still straddling his boyfriend’s waist. “Jaskier…”

“No. No, no, no… it’s not. I wouldn’t….”

“Oh.”

“No! I mean… not like that, umm… I. Well, I had a plan?”

Dandelion felt his eyes go wide as his entire world stopped, narrowing down to just this wonderful idiot beneath him. “A plan?” he squeaked.

Jaskier stammered and stumbled over some nonsensical words until Dandelion leaned down to kiss him, hands cupping Jaskier’s face, brushing along the line of stubble that was starting to grow. His boyfriend melted into the kiss and hummed happily, fingers landing on Dandelion’s thighs.

“I love you, my dear,” Dandelion whispered against Jaskier’s lips, “and I would watch nothing but The Little Mermaid with you for the rest of my life…. if you asked.”

Jaskier scoffed. “You wouldn’t.”

Dandelion cocked his head. “Metaphorically speaking.”

“Oh… Oh… Oh shit, fucking cock. Wait here!” Jaskier all but shoved him off of him, and Dandelion went flying into the remaining cushions and blankets, knocking their pillow fort to ruins.

Dandelion was left, stunned, in the middle of the living room. He shielded his eyes from the sudden bright lights, having adjusted to the dark of the pillow fort. The room suddenly felt very dark and very empty. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, twirling the ends between his fingers. “What the fuck just happened?”

Jaskier was clattering about in their bedroom, a familiar stream of curses followed his boyfriend. It was usually endearing but there was an anxiety in Dandelion’s chest that seemed to weigh him down, taking away the colour that usually filled his life. He groaned and buried his face in his hands.

He’d ruined everything. Jaskier was packing his suitcase. He was probably already calling a cab, maybe booking a room at a hotel.

A loud clash of thunder made the building shake and Dandelion squeaked, throwing a blanket over his head. “Fucking, bloody storms, fuck!”

A hand on his shoulder startled him. He felt Jaskier’s legs wrapped around him and suddenly there was a second person under the blanket. Blue eyes lit up in the glow from Jaskier’s phone torch.

“Hey?”

Dandelion swallowed. “Sorry.”

“I just had to find something, I couldn’t do this without it.”

Dandelion chewed at his lips and pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s, breathing in the honied chamomile scent of his shampoo. He’d been overdramatic again. He should have known, but sometimes it wasn’t always easy.

“Dandelion, I. Umm… well I never learnt the speech I had prepared, but… will you watch only The Lion King with me for the rest of my life?” Jaskier whispered, his voice cracking at the end, and Dandelion felt a tear trickle down his cheek, only then realising that he was crying.

Even in the dark under the blanket Dandelion could see the open ring box in Jaskier’s hands. He wasn’t kneeling on one knee, legs still around Dandelion’s back as they sat opposite each other in the ruins of their blanket fort.

“Only if I can watch The Little Mermaid with you?”

“Metaphorically speaking?”

Dandelion laughed, a sobbing mess of a laugh, and he pulled Jaskier into a kiss, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s neck. “Yes, you stupid idiotic fool. Bloody hell.. Yes.”

“God, I love you,” Jaskier whined and crashed their lips together once more.

#the witcher #jaskilion #jaskier x dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #wolfie's witcher writing

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thyra279 · 4 years

Text

Aziraphale is right on Armageddon

I’m not entirely sure how posting/reposting on Tumblr actually works, so I’m making a post of what was originally a response to this excellent post by ileolai I really think that Aziraphale is given quite a hard time for how he handles things in relation to Crowley leading up to the Apocalypse.

In defence of my BAMF boi Aziraphale (referring to the TV series as I don’t remember all the differences in the book):

No, he shouldn’t have told Crowley at the bandstand that they aren’t friends/are over, he should have told Crowley when he knew the location of the Antichrist, and he might have been naive to think that he could change the minds of God/the Metatron/a higher authority. I hate that he lies to Crowley after figuring out the location of the Antichrist.

Crowley’s (admittedly desperate) plan, however, was romantic af but not any better morally or much worse practically. It would not have worked long-term. It would have been selfish, short-sighted and cowardly and gone against everything they stand for and believe in.

If they HAD actually escaped (for all they know, at least, discounting Adam’s choices), Armaggedon would still have gone ahead, the War would’ve taken place, and one side or the other would have won. The winning side would realise either straight away or eventually that one of their own had deserted from the war. Whether the next day or in a few millennia, eventually, surely, someone from the victorious side would have come across them somewhere.

(Might’ve taken me three run-throughs to capture the screenshot because I kept getting too caught up in watching the scene.)

Also, again, there’s the sticky moral issue of the two abandoning Earth and all the creatures thereof to the sole custody of either Heaven or Hell. The world would have ended, Crowley and Aziraphale would have been together, yes, but always looking over their shoulder, and only for a limited time until they were discovered and punished for desertion/their relationship.

Now, it seems there were two other things they could actually do. First, Crowley’s other suggestion: Kill the Antichrist, murder a child. Comes with its own lovely set of moral dilemmas #utilitarianism. Not something either is particularly keen on doing, although it is Aziraphale who gives it a go: He IS willing, in the end, all other options exhausted, to kill in order to save them and the world. (Granted, it kind of makes sense that he should do it; he’d at least be thwarting evil whereas Crowley would be going directly up against “his side”. But still, it’s going directly against the Great Plan.)

The only option that could possibly, potentially, mayyyybe work is to convince a higher-up to actually get the whole Armageddon called off. It’s the only way to save everything - the world, humanity, Crowley, their relationship; the only potential long-term solution. So, he goes to see the Archangels, to get them to either call off the war or (possibly?) kill the Antichrist. Aziraphale tells them some of what he knows, but he is smart enough not to tell his superiors that he already knows where the Antichrist is. He lies to them too and keeps the information to himself until he knows what the Right thing to do is to save the world.

Don’t think I’ve seen this talked about this anywhere: While speaking to Archangels, he also tries out quite a clever plan to help out Crowley, whose massive cock-up and cover-up in the wrong Antichrist fiasco will be found out as soon as Warlock reaches Megiddo: He suggests to the Archangels that Crowley did it all on purpose to trick Aziraphale and keep the real Antichrist safe.

(adorbs)

He’s not exactly making himself look great here, but it’s worth it if he can convince the higher-ups that Crowley is really a demonic strategic genius who was actually protecting the Antichrist all along.

After the Archangels tell him to piss off and the Bandstand scene (RIP), where he declares that can’t be on their side anymore and Crowley is the one to leave, he tries to get to Gabriel once again, which obviously fails. After Gabriel’s “What are you?”, he looks at him running off towards the bandstand, which is in focus although it isn’t in the rest of the scene and reminds of us him and Crowley, and we get the lovely, romantic (?) “I’m soft”. It’s pretty clear already that he has no intention of fighting in any war (or against Crowley). Then, after telling Crowley’s he’s being ridiculous for wanting to run away (and Crowley saying he’ll run off and forget about Aziraphale), he tries once again to explain why the war shouldn’t happen to the archangel thugs and to get them to see what they, as angels, should be doing and why it is vital that the world (and A and C’s role in it) continue.

He is clearly terrified. The archangels clearly aren’t there with good intentions, and yet he Stands Up to them and tries to make them see reason: They shouldn’t want the war, that’s not what they, the angels are there to do - they should be upholding one side of the moral coin, letting humanity choose between good and bad. (As an aside, I love all the “Aziraphale is terrible at being an angel” fun, but I - and probably god, and possibly even Aziraphale himself - think that he is the best angel: Even with the Arrangement, he has actually been doing the exact job of Heaven and Hell, upholding this careful balance between Good and Evil, allowing people to choose, navigating via his own moral compass, and taking care of humanity ever since giving away the sword, as a good principality should). He’s already saying pretty clearly that he’s on the side of The World, that he doesn’t want the war.

His last hope for actually avoiding the Apocalypse (and saving his and Crowley’s continued existence together) is God herself. Obviously and beautifully, he doesn’t get through, and the Metatron is no better than the other bureaucratic, dogmatic, powerhungry arsewipes in Heaven. He’s exhausted all other options, all hope of a long-term real solution for him and Crowley, and so he calls up Crowley to let him know Adam’s location so that they can go off in desperation and try to stop/kill the Antichrist. It won’t save them, but it might just be possible for them to save the world.

After his discorporation, he takes a very public, burning-all-bridges stand in Heaven and gives a metaphorical two-finger salute as he yeets back to possess people like a demon. He finds Crowley and is very much set on the task at hand - getting to and stopping the Antichrist - even though he and Crowley clearly have a lot of personal shizzle to discuss. At the Airfield, finally, he’s the one who actually does try to kill Adam to save the world.

Also, Aziraphale comes up with the brilliant distinction between the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan, which implies that Heaven and Hell might be going against God, and that he and Crowley (and Adam) might just under Her protection, and would give Crowley and himself an out if only their bosses were flexible/good enough to see reason.

When it works and Armageddon IS actually avoided, he greets Gabriel coolly and unwieldingly while Crowley tries out a sycophantic (and fabulous) grovelling bow.

He has Taken A Stand and he’s not moving. For all that he frets and wiggles, he’s the guardian; constant, secure with a steady, certain inner moral compass that is much too good and intelligent to constantly align with Heaven. Crowley is the snake; wiley, slippery, flighty, constantly moving (and I mean that in the best way, I love Crowley as much as Aziraphale).

He grounds Crowley. When Crowley is finally giving up, saying goodbye to Aziraphale, refuses to give up, knowing exactly how to get Crowley moving again - pulling out another card in his… infinite variety… of ways to surprise and touch and steady the demon.

Morally, it’s like that old philosophy conundrum, the trolley problem with more heartbreak: If you could only save one, would you save your loved one or a group of strangers? When push comes to shove, Aziraphale cannot let himself throw the random bunch of strangers to the wolves, choosing his own unhappiness over the unhappiness of humanity. Add to that the fact that avoiding the Apocalypse is also the only long-term way to possibly save Crowley their relationship. (TV) Crowley is more concerned with saving Aziraphale and himself. Not a bad instinct; a very human one, in fact. His world IS Aziraphale, he moves around the angel, grounds himself in him. Aziraphale’s own happiness and well-being is contingent on Crowley being in the world, but he is willing to sacrifice that to save the actual world. He IS committed to Crowley, it’s just that Crowley can’t be in Aziraphale’s world if the world doesn’t exist. Aziraphale might owe Crowley an apology for throwing him under the cart for this, but he’s a damn good person/being and a really damn good angel.

I was gonna tie this down better to this thought I’ve been thinking a lot, but this got so long that Imma just gesture vaguely towards it, it’s not hugely related to the events of Armageddon: Aziraphale has to be constantly selfless everywhere except for with Crowley. He gets to be selfish in his relationship with the demon. Crowley, on the other hand, can only ever be allowed to be selfless and good through his relationship with the angel. Aziraphale being selfish allows gives Crowley a space to be giving and loving (in whatever way) and kind.

I know there are already lots of lovely fics out there exploring these things in profound and beautiful ways, but I got started on this essay journey, and I was damned if I wasn’t gonna finish it too.

So *sniffs* yeah.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #its ineffable #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale and crowley #crowley and aziraphale #armageddon #trolley problem #damned if you do #bamf aziraphale #good angel #armageddidn't #guardian of the eastern gate #principality #good boi

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datodinicshit · 4 years

Text

Saturday July 11th 2020

Devotee Challenge: Loki

How do you perceive Loki?

For the majority of the past six years I have perceived Loki mainly through emotional feedback and colors and very very rarely in dreams. I've always jived with the lanky redhead aspect that many see in the art that floats around in the Lokean circles. But I have also seen Loki as this aspect that is very much an "on the road" Trickster Face, with a heavily Lord of the Rings' Strider look to Them, but with brown skin, eyes like molten gold, and a broad sturdy build. I met that aspect in astral once and was absolutely delighted to, because it was one of about 5 singular meetings where I could actually see and identify Loki.

It wasn't until this year that I fully grasped why I could barely "hear" or "see" Loki.

I work closely with an aspect of Loki who is nonverbal or mute at times, and visually impaired or blind at times, and sometimes both.

So much of my past dealings with Loki and my perceptions of Loki have been filtered through emotional senses, and with an understanding that "Loki is quiet." Early on, this used to worry me. I would worry that Loki was hurt or exhausted or in need of a safe space to just rest. And so that is what I build a relationship on. I offered everything I wanted from Loki: safety, home, love, protection, laughter, somewhere to belong, family and acceptance.

So. I believe I get Bound Loki the most. Bound Loki or "Older Loki" or "been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, founded the support group and now I need retirement funds, Loki."

That's not the only side of Loki I get, but it's who I consider "home base."

That's how I perceive Loki when He's not a Xe or Them or Fox. Because I also perceived Loki as genderqueer and gender-fluid and non humanoid at times as well. Loki is after all a shape-shifting trickster and don't need no stinking gender or body rules, so put a star next to that or something.

Methods of Communication:

Best for me: tarot, dreams, empathy, synchronized signs, music, trance.

Loki prefers: I'm still working on this with Loki. It's been brought to my attention since discovering Loki is nonverbal / visually impaired at times that They want to work on communication more with me.

Historical: Runes. Universal methods? Prayer in general?

Is Loki often compared to other deities from different pantheons or cultures?

Yes. Loki is a trickster. They're compared and contrasted with or against other tricksters. Even, and this bugs me, with the Christian Devil or Satan. Loki is held up against beings such as other Trickster Spirits like certain Native American tribes' Coyote or Spider. And other pagan gods like: Hermes, Set, Mercury, and Manannán.

And the Chinese historical hero the Monkey King. And the Japanese god Susanoo. Just. You get the picture.

What kind of relationship do you want with Loki?

I want the relationship I've got with Them. One built on love and trust and companionship and the understanding that has blossomed from 6 + years of steady unwavering presence, even in times of silence and pain.

I want what I've got. I want what's good for us both. I want to never ever let Loki go. I want to grow with Them, alongside Them, closer to Them.

That's what I want. At least presently. There's always room for more.

Are we platonic?

We were. For years. We aren't anymore. As of about May/June of this year.

Do I worship them? Yes. Loki is 1/3 of my inner familial circle of gods. And Loki is the central pillar and the foundation of my faith. Loki is the blood of my spirituality and lives in the heart of it. He has an altar, though has always said it wasn't needed. (I buy Loki shit and They haven't minded in the past 6 years, so I see fit to keep it up.) The altar may not be needed but Loki appreciates the care.

How does your relationship affect your everyday life?

Loki keeps me sane. Loki is a constant in my daily life and has been since I came to Them. They're present everywhere I can shove pieces of Them. I wear and make jewelry that reminds me of Loki. I decorate my room with artwork that makes me think of Them. (Odin has also taken over Decor.) The media I love to consume. The blogs I've kept for years. The friends I've made and treasured. Loki is everywhere. And I wouldn't have Them any other way. Loki is integrated and rooted deeply in the garden that is Me. I prefer it that way. Loki is my comfort and safety. Loki is home.

What are Loki's interests outside of canon/lore?

Spongecake. They like it. *snorts* I had to. Sorry not sorry.

Well, I'd like to talk about the Super Soft shit we enjoy together. Loki is a bigger cuddler than I think they get credit for. Like, our naps? Hugs? Sharing blankets and curling up together? Fuck yeah.

Now, you must consider I work/live with a Loki who is A) a source of safety to me and B) hurting and tired a lot. So yeah. *shoves a Loki mug across the table* Fill that shit up with physical affection and positive touch.

*tries to think of shit that's not quite so gooey*

*buffering symbol*

Loki, for all that They're a mover-and-shaker, likes quiet. Loki appreciates sharing space calmly with people. Downtime and relaxing activities are a good. Whether it's bubble baths or watching mindless fluff TV or coloring books or just sitting together. Chilling out is a thing Loki likes and we enjoyed together.

"There's a time for work and a time for play and a time to sit the fuck down and rest." R&R is a Good in whatever form.

Loki also enjoys water. Like swimming, but also, Loki uses water metaphors and imagery with me a lot, even though They're fiery and whatnot. [Insert soundclip of Bruce Lee: "Be like water."]

Recon or No Recon?

No. No Recon. We die like Millennials at a family reunion during mealtime discussions. LOL I do both old and new things with Loki. But we're a free form, free-flowing, do-our-own-thing pair and I like it like that.

Is Loki proud or remorseful about Their lore?

Yes.

Both.

Both is good.

Look, part of being a trickster is teaching lessons in unorthodox and sometimes upsetting ways. But healing comes from the upset. New growth after the seasonal burn. That's Loki.

But Loki is not incapable of remorse. No God is incapable of remorse. But also, I feel the need to mention that while lore and history are very important to learn and acknowledge, the lore is not the be-all end-all. God's learn, adapt, grow and change just as we do.

What does Loki expect from the relationship?

We had a discussion. I got hit in the feels. Basically, we're on the same page. Loki expects me to continue growing with Them and expects to remain my safe harbor. The one I love in this deep-rooted way.

#lokideity #lokean #loki*#upg #personal #devotee challenge

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call-me-jerusalem · 4 years

Photo

You guys know how much I love this scene. In the past I have even hijacked @hemisphaeric’s post and wrote meta about it. Now, I wrote a fic. It’s already posted at AO3, but I wanted to share it here as well, so I can attach this pretty screenshot that took me forever to capture, because it’s right before the scene changes, it’s literally the last frame we see.

This fic is what happens next.

Petrichor

Helsinki falls asleep in your arms and that’s why you cannot move.

No, wait. That’s not right. Not Helsinki, no.

Mirko.

You sigh to banish the air from your body. You are now a set of clean, empty parts, empty lungs, empty chest, empty heart. All that room just waiting to be filled up again. You have told him your sins, but you never asked for forgiveness. He acquitted you all the same.

You rest your back against the door so you can hold him as he sleeps. He gave you something when you thought you had nothing else to hold on to.

You know you will be here for a while, so you say his name. Only for yourself, yes, but you say it, quietly. It’s a prayer, almost. You want to know how it feels on your tongue, against the roof of your mouth. This sacred offer.

It’s the only part of him you haven’t tasted yet.

“Mir-ko.”

It’s not that different from Martín, you think. Two syllables, two lives, two lovers who never got to use the words, two broken mirrors. There are so many pieces to be put back together now.

“Mirko.”

He still does not stir, face buried against your chest. He must be so tired.

You wonder if he managed more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last couple of days. You should have known it, come to think of that. You were responsible for him. For them.

For her, as well.

You close your eyes and you can almost picture him sitting by her sickbed, waiting for her to wake up from your mistake. She could make mistakes, he said, but not you.

You wonder if he prayed, then. It didn’t matter if he did, and it certainly didn’t help. Gandía found her first.

Gandía found him second.

And you can’t bear to think about what would have happened if Tokyo and Bogotá had arrived only two seconds too late. You stare in horror and awe at the purple bruises around his neck, scattered where the rope kissed him deeply and slowly, took his breath away.

You thought he would be heavier, here, somehow.

Maybe it’s just the way half of his body lies on the floor, legs curled against yours, chest against your lap, his head on your arms. His beard tickles your naked skin, but you don’t dare move. He must be tired, because he heard your confession, then he cried himself to sleep.

It’s the debris scattered on the floor that bothers you. It stings against your legs, but still, you don’t move.

You try to distract yourself. You try to add up the bullet holes around the room, but you lose count twice before you finally give up. They’re everywhere. They’re on the doors, on the walls, the windows, the floor covered with empty shells.

Like a beach after the hightide, a paved street after a hailstone storm.

The air is heavy with wood dust and it dances before your eyes. You can’t see very well, but it feels familiar.

You remember being inside a cathedral with Andrés, on your first time in Europe. Maybe it was Notre Dame, or Cologne, or la Sagrada Familia, it does not matter now.

He was the artist, he knew the stories behind each fresco, and you only wanted to see where the cornerstones were laid. Now he’s gone, so he won’t care if you don’t get the place right for this metaphor.

It’s the stained-glass you think about, anyway. How it filtered the sun into beams of coloured light.

You try not to breathe in the dust, afraid it would fill your lungs and pierce you from within. You close your eyes again and try to remember the cathedral, the light, the mass, the singing. You can’t help thinking about the hymn you all sang not even an entire day before. It feels a lifetime ago.

Her lifetime.

It was her life and you traded it for ninety tons of gold.

It’s seems much better a bargain than twenty pieces of silver, and you think maybe you should go and find a rope with your name on.

But you cannot move, because you don’t want to wake him up. He’s had enough. He has lost enough.

“Mirko.”

You say it again, a little louder this time.

You wonder if she knew his name. You never heard her say it out loud, but after two years of traveling together, she must have known, surely? He must have told her. She was in love, after all. Can you be in love with someone you don’t know completely?

He could.

He said he knew you from the beginning and you can’t help wondering exactly where, when... how? How did he find out? What gave you away?

Was it something you said? Something you did? Something you let slip in one of those nights you let him have you?

After the chapel, you promised yourself you won’t let it happen again. If no-one knew you wanted them to stay, maybe it wouldn’t hurt that much when they walked away, too.

Maybe someone told him. Maybe he heard something during all those months before the Mint... but before you can entertain that idea for too long, though, you chuckle. Andrés would never have admitted he failed.

Not even Sergio knew, not the whole story, surely. He certainly didn’t know about the chapel. He lacked most social skills, our Professor, but he was never a cruel man. Would he have made you sit there for two months and stare at his brother’s face if he knew?

Oh.

Maybe that’s how he found out.

He must have noticed the way your eyes avoided that space on your left, how your voice faltered, sometimes, when you talked about the plan, the times you tried to make justice to his favourite bits and pieces, when you tried to not let it show, every time you tried to compensate, to fill up the space that used to be his.

How could you keep singing by yourself a song written for a duet?

It hurts, still, but when you close your eyes, it’s her face you see, shoved through a door, wood splinters like a crown of thorns. She was in pain.

Somehow, you knew she wouldn’t make it. You knew every word of that hymn. Your mother used to sing it in the choir, but Gandía stopped before the third stanza. It was an important one.

There, that’s how it goes:

You know what I have In my boat there is neither gold nor swords Only my nets and my work

He told you she volunteered first. How she agreed to melt gold to help the family she never had, but that was not her dream, nor her abducted lover, nor her mistake. You all send her away in a wooden box.

It was the same one the Browning was brought in.

And you cannot forget there were tears in his eyes, when you pressed the button to close the doors, when he put down his harmonica. There were tears in his eyes when he restrained himself and didn’t shoot Gandía. There were tears in his eyes an hour ago, when he offered you his name, his losses, his future.

And what did you give him back? If he already knew who you are, you didn’t offer nothing but a name to put on it.

“Martín?”

You can’t say exactly when your silent tears turned into ugly sobs, when your whole body began to shake. You never meant to wake him.

He disentangles himself from you and he stares at you, a hand on your face.

You try to focus on him, but your eyes deceive you and your tears blind you, and still, you can tell he looks like he knows exactly what he sees. He presses a kiss against your forehead, and you bury your face in his neck, taking it all in.

You think he smells like blood and gunpowder and the air does not feel so heavy anymore.

Maybe it rained and washed it all away.

Tú sabes bien lo que tengo, En mi barca no hay oro ni espadas, Tan sólo redes y mi trabajo. Pescador de Hombres

#palermo x helsinki #helsinki x palermo #palsinki #helermo #palermo | martin berrote #helsinki | mirko dragic #nairobi | agata jimenez #berlin | andres de fonollosa #lcdp palermo #lcdp helsinki #lcdp nairobi #lcdp berlin #lcdp: fic #my fic #lcdp

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cutegirlmayra · 4 years

Text

Lavinya the Red Fox’s part in Soler’s story

This is for @solerwolf21‘s story, where he was wondering if I’d let Lavinya have a cameo for it!

Here’s the scenario he gave me for my Sonic OC (Who is OP and basically Genie-like from Aladdin. Just a jester, comedy relief character to be honest, but as brilliant as Jack Sparrow’s accidental tomfoolery)

Our chat:

solerwolf21 : Alright if your down theres two the first is like an intro to the character if you want but basically shes doing some task around the base (leave that up you) and she's about to bite it in doing the task but Soler comes to help her and we learn that they know each other (this definitely isn't the first time he's helped her)

The second is later on Shay escapes and Soler, Shadow and Sally are late to get there but someone is distracting him turns out is its our girly (again you can go nuts with whatever it is shes doing) but before Shay could get in a hit Soler comes in for the save again and though he tries to scold her slightly she feels she's saved the day (which she sorta did lol)

cutegirlmayra : Lol sounds legit how Lavinya behaves lol My first idea is that he's trying to get past her and she slams her hand into the wall to block him and looks up like, "Hey, you're hot." and he's like really confused. "I didn't say that out loud." And he's like, "Are you an idiot?" and she goes, "Wow, but you said that out loud." lolololol

I wrote this immediately after:

First part:

It wasn’t long before the base was trying to recover, and work continued with only a minor set of hiccups…

“HYUK!” A red fox with strange blonde hair suddenly flung her back up from bending over to collect some files out of a cabinet. “Hyuk! Hyuk!” she seemed to have hiccups, and looked around for some water.

Not finding any, her tails suddenly shot her back and made her jolt towards what looked like a corner. “Ow! Hey!” the tail, as though having a mind of its own, felt around a moment before finding a cooler and began to pour a drink.

When it presented the drink to her, she sighed in relief, “HYUK!” she quickly took the cup and drank down the water, holding her breath to try and get rid of the hiccups while the tail seemed to ‘shake it’s head’ at her stupidity to even manage her own life.

“Office work…” she plugged her mouth to not hiccup, when nothing came out, she slowly opened the hand like a barn door… looked down to her mouth to wait… and then continued, “Isn’t really my forte…”

She was startled again when Soler walked by, seeming troubled and maybe focused on staying lost in his thoughts before his foot crinkled a piece of paper in his speedy walk.

“Huh?” He bent down and picked up the paper, amazed by it’s importance before examining the rest of the room. “Why are all these documents scattered everywhere?” He must have thought they were still being ransacked, so the Red fox girl quickly ran over to aid him.

“N-no-no! It’s just a light hurricane of hiccups.” She wagged her hands out in front of her as though to calm him, but he thought she was speaking metaphorically and sighed.

“Lavinya… why is it there’s always a hurricane of something when it comes to you?” He helped her picked up the papers, “You’re more suited for something where you can move around… maybe not something as delicate as… paperwork organizing.” he looked at the crinkled pieces of important papers and sighed again, ‘Who put her up to this anyway?’

“Hehe… yeah… well,... my portal hopping and poofing doesn’t exactly suit well with the princess…” She gulped, feeling her nicely cooled throat by the cold water as she did so. “They say I’m too dangerously unstable for a mission…. Since I could compromise things, and I’m not too good a messenger since I either forget or lose the message in the process. And last time, my brilliant tape recorder was almost stolen by Eggman’s forces too… soo…. I’m kinda here.” she looked around the office, showing her disdain but also sorrow at being so useless to everyone. “I can’t control my powers… so I can’t really follow directives.” she picked up another paper, and her tail swished to do the same, holding it up to her like a mouth of a creature.

She smiled sweetly and took it, “Anyway, that must be hard to understand, right?”

He looked down, thinking hard about what she said. “Actually? I completely understand.” he flopped the papers down on the desk and walked by her, patting her shoulder. “You’ll master your abilities in time. Keep at it. I know there’s a special word and symbol we can’t say or draw around you, but besides that, you’re kinda impossible to defeat, right?”

“Defeat?” She looked a little offended, “What am I? A monster to you!?”

“Well, you do say your tail is a evil mastermind.” he jokingly pointed to her tail, which at the time, was acting like a normal tail. “Who’s to say you aren’t just covering for your random tendencies to cause trouble?”

“I don’t mean too!” She slammed the papers on the desk and stormed after him. “Hey! Soler! Wait!”

“I’m leaving you in the hurricane.” he waved behind him, smiling slightly at how silly this crazy girl could get, but knew in his heart her circumstances weren’t so far off from his own… except, they were completely different, but the feelings and desires to be enough for others were the same.

----

Situation 2:

Shay flexed through the dust of his latest attack, brushing off the rubble and then cracking his individual fingers, “My poor neck…” He taunted, cracking it before rolling his shoulders as though just coming out of a leisurely spa-day. “Now… where is that charming brother of mine..?” he turned to what looked like an office, room with the wall crumbling away from it. “They don’t just kill themselves, now do they?” he continued to march with a purpose before seeing a blonde but red fox girl stick her head up, trembling, from below a desk.

He smirked, seeing the fear. He gestured for her to slowly withdraw back behind the desk, and her blue eyes just simply blinked at his gesture.

He held a finger up to his mouth as though she should remain silent, and continued towards the door.

However, before he could reach it, she slammed her hand into the wall just before the door, putting her elbow up to loop her hand behind her head, and pretended to seem like she was just chilling there.

She stuck up her lower lip and continued to play it cool… even seeing his eyes… slowly… narrow to a deadly, hostile glare of annoyance.

She thought fast, “You’re hot.” she slipped out, checking him out in a humorous way that was completely faked.

Confused, he just narrowed his eyes and slightly withdrew his neck back at her appalling display. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing out loud, I can assure you.” While her hand was behind her, she silently kept snapping it, waiting for something to randomly happen. A rubber duck poofed in behind her head and landed behind her. As it squeaked about hitting the ground, rolling till it’s head got in the way, he slowly turned to glance down at it, then raise an eyebrow.

“Eh heh, office decor. They say it’s like your home so…” she stopped herself from furthering that awkward sentence…

She kept snapping and many random items fell from behind her. A miniature rowboat, a toy snake, a slinky, a stuffed puppy, before Shay finally had enough of it.

“Are you an idiot?” he grabbed her hand that was--not so secretly--snapping and shoved her back against the door.

“Ow!” she flinched, her eye twitching slightly at the pain. “Well, you said that out loud.”

“I won’t say this again.” He leaned in and softly spoke out such harsh and cruel words, twisting his grip to really tighten and pain her arm further. “Get out of my way, witch.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

She flexed out her hand and fell back through a portal.

Out of surprise, he let her go, amazed as the vortex looked so incredibly pitch-black with other minor colors swirling around that he honestly thought she just did something magical. He felt around the space, unable to see anything, before the red fox girl’s head popped out from the ceiling.

“Yoohoo!” she called and he turned around to blast a Chaos beam at her, but she was already portaling to another spot in the office. She blew a raspberry as he suddenly was playing whack-a-mole with this strange fox girl.

“What kind of power is this!?” he stepped back and slid on the rubber ducky, causing him to fall on the rowboat which blasted a horn. He covered his ear and turned, but that triggered the toy snake which clomped on his nose. “AH!” he jumped up to his knees but the Red Fox girl grabbed the slinky by having her two arms stick out of the portals, making a pretty twisty bow as she locked his legs together.

He tried to get up but stumbled from the horrible knot and fell down again, unable to move much but he did struggle.

As he fell, she removed the soft puppy plushie as his head hit the ground hard, and then proceeded to look at the puppy as though not sure how this would help but started whacking him with it.

The door opened and seeing her friends, she held her hands up and swayed them over her face, “Hurricane~” she teased, knowing only Soler would get the reference.

She had stalled him just long enough, and that was honestly her goal.

“Lavinya…” Sally marveled, seeing him struggling to break the slinky and realizing that her power made it an unordinary slinky. “Did you do this?” she looked at her in awe.

Lavinya flexed like a strong man a few times, her tail joining her, “Well, ah-ha, yeah, I did~” she showed off, “But I was honestly going for a sword…” she deflated herself a bit and let her arms dangle down from her hunched back in front of her. Her head also seemed despondent.

“Hmph, maybe you’re not just a clown after all.” Shadow walked by her, rubbing her head as her entire character changed to sudden glee, and he went to finish the ‘rope-tying’ she had started.

“ENOUGH!” Shay blasted the room with a Chaos Blast that had each of them shoved up against a wall.

“Offph..! He hit the mole…” she joked, even while in pain, and slid to the ground. He was strong enough to finally break the strange alien slinky as the rest of Lavinya’s summoned objects suddenly poofed out of existence once she was hit and fell to the ground.

She gripped her head, and as he grabbed her tail--which mimicked biting him, as though it had regained it’s separate personality from her again--looked as though ready to rip her to shreds.

“I’m not very fond of games…”

“Lavinya!” Soler swung a punch to a--once again--distracted Shay and helped her up. “What did I say about trouble!?”

“Sally… S-Shadow…” Lavinya weakly pointed to them as Shay’s eyes shook.

“Oh no.”

-need more @solerwolf21? lol it was fun xD- (This is based on my commission I made for him as well.)

I JUST REALIZED THAT THE COOLER WOULD HAVE FLOODED AND THE RUBBER DUCKY SLIP AND FLOATING ALONG THE SLIPPERY FLOOR WOULD HAVE MADE SO MUCH SENSE AND BEEN SO MUCH MORE FUNNY LOLOLOL

Note: My spell check is the WORST on the planet, so if there’s some errors forgive me T-T

#cutegirlmayra #solerwolf21 #lavinya the red fox #sonic oc #cutegirlmayra oc #me ocs #me sonic ocs #me writings #lavinya dabble #me dabbles #me prompts

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taehyungsgrowl · 5 years

Note

I was only pretendending with Jim. Make it as sad as u can

Friends don’t kiss - Jim Mason x Male!Reader

A/N: This has literally been in my ask box since.. January. I’m really the worst; I’m sorry. But now that both my angsty miniseries are completed.. why not start another, right?

I got inspiration to tackle this after talking about some Jim x Male!Reader concepts. I understand this was probably sent with the intention of Jim x Fem!Reader, but uhh here we are. I hope you all enjoy this. I think I’ve made it pretty obvious that my favorite genre to write is angst so! Please let me know what you guys think.

Trigger Warning: angst, mentions of homophobia + battling w figuring out their sexuality, light sexual mentions (no smut), violence

Plot: Jim and his friend face the judgemental society of Palos Verdes and battle their own inner demons.

Word Count: 2k

Confusion ran through Jim’s mind.

“What are we doing?” Jim asked breathlessly into the boys mouth, “Just go with it,” he groaned in response, darting his tongue into Jim’s wet lips.

Now he sat alone in his room with his thoughts for company.

Y/N had dodged Jim’s questions about what it was they were doing. Besides the frequent late night car rides that were often filled with smoke and brushing lips. What were they? Jim loved Y/N. Even before he kissed him.

Y/N was there for Jim since he first arrived to Palos Verdes. He took Jim under his wing and became his friend.

He didn’t want all that to just be thrown out the window because of it.

But selfishly, Jim wanted more. He wanted more than just late night kisses in secrecy. He wanted to laugh in dinners under neon light signs. He wanted to hold Y/N’s hand and drag him out of parties and kiss him against a wall. He wanted everyone to know.

He didn’t know what he wanted them to know. Hell, Jim himself wasn’t sure what that was. He just knew that he wanted to be more than friends.

Jim’s attention focused on the faint sound of the waves crashing furiously in the distance. One after another. It hypnotized him back to that night. The night they let their guards down for the first time. The first time they allowed each other to feel the other.

Jim’s attention was tied to the smoke.

Tied to the intangible. Tied to something that would slip between his fingers if his hand reach out to grasp it.

In hindsight he can almost laugh at the metaphor. His friend - so close, so tempting to touch only to have it vanish before his eyes.

Y/N’s head tilted towards Jim. He felt the sea in his eyes bore into him. The depth of Jim was much more than met the surface; Y/N felt lucky to be of the few allowed that privilege.

Y/N extended his hand towards Jim, offering him the lightened joint. Jim’s slender hand found its way wrapped around Y/N’s wrist. Their hammering heartbeats were drowned by the sounds of the darkening ocean before them. Y/N could feel the tension rising in his stomach. Jim leaned closer. He’d never felt safer in his life. He let the stars above them protect them as his lips met Y/N’s.

Jim would swear he felt the shift in Y/N’s mouth kissing him back. The fleeting moment ended and they both pulled away.

“I, uh,” Jim laughed, attempting to hide his embarrassment. Friends didn’t kiss. “sorry, bro.” he pulled on the back of his hair, nervously.

Y/N coughed, looking down at the sand, “No worries, man. It stays here.” He took another long drag of the tightly wrapped joint. Y/N peeked at Jim from below his lashes. His large hand grasped Jim’s bodysuit clad thigh, “It’s all good.”

But it didn’t stay there. It followed Jim everywhere he went. They weren’t sure how or when the change happened, but it did. Stolen kisses and light strokes of skin were the new norm for them. And it confused Jim immensely.

Apart from confused, Jim couldn’t help but feel the anger build in him.

“Why don’t we go out?” Jim suggested moments before, “Let me take you out, like,” he coughed into his fist, “like a proper date, I mean.” He sat on the floor, with his back pressed into the navy blue comforter of his bed.

Y/N furiously pressed into the buttons on the controller, staring blankly at the screen. “We don’t.. We don’t have to do that, Jim.” Y/N avoided meeting Jim’s sky blue eyes. Jim held the the depths of the ocean and the possibilities of the sky in his eyes.

But Y/N was too afraid to submerge in them. Too afraid of what they’ll think. Too afraid of being.

“Yeah..” Jim didn’t seem to pick up on the underlying tone of Y/N’s no. “But what if I want to.. Take you out.” he paused between his words. He heard the sigh escape Y/N’s lips as he set the controller down.

“Come here,” Y/N patted the bed, inviting Jim up. Zero hesitation, Jim lifted himself up and on the bed in a blink. His face was held by two large hands, pulling him in closer.

Y/N kissed Jim gingerly. Savoring his taste; attempting to erase his worries.

“Y/N..” Jim spoke against his friends kiss, “What are we doing?” he turned his face, giving Y/N access to his neck. Y/N brought his lips back to his, “Just go with it..” he kissed his again.

And Jim wanted to go along with whatever this was, but he couldn’t and he knew that.

“Mm,” he failed to suppress a moan, “no.” he shook his head. “Y/N…” he pushed the boys chest back, “Stop.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, “Jim..”

“I - I can’t.. I can’t continue doing this,” Jim gestured in the space between them, “Without knowing.. What this is.” annoyance evident in his voice.

Another heavy sigh. “What is there to know? We’re friends, Jim.” Y/N tried to relax back into the mattress. Friends.

“Bullshit,” Jim got off the bed, “Friends don’t kiss. Not like we do.” he crossed his toned arms over his chest; defensive body language on display.

“Maybe I should go.” Y/N again, was met with the incapacity to face Jim with the truth.

The tension in the room was palpable. Jim felt caged in. All he could do was nod and stare as his best friend walked out his door.

The shrill sound of his phone ringing broke him out of the trance like sadness that washed over him. Buzzzzz Buzzzzzz Buzzzzzz, the phone dragged across the wooden nightstand. The glimmer of hope he felt thinking if Y/N calling, quickly disappeared when he saw the name CHAD burn brightly on the screen.

Jim brought the phone to his ear, allowing the rambunctious idiot to talk first.

“AYYYY JIMBO!” Jim hated the name. “‘Rent’s are outta town and I’m going all out, boy!!” he could hear his other friends yelling in the background.

“You coming or not, bro?” Chad asked,

“I’ll be there.” short answers is all he could manage now. Pushing the rejection down into his lower abdomen, he swore he wouldn’t think of it tonight. That was a problem for future Jim.

***

Y/N’s dad’s voice echoed in his mind. Words of hate that spewed out of his cracked lips engraved in Y/N’s brain. His fear stemmed from something much deeper than himself. Terms of aggression directed at love. Conflict stirred with Y/N.

I never should have let it get this far, his own brooding voice of reason repeated in his head.

The buzz from his back pocket made him jump. “PARTY @ Chad’s” the message read. Shoving it back into his pocket, he went home and decided that a party with pretty girls and booze was what he needed.

***

Empty cups and bottles littered the pathway to the door. Jim walked into the house that vibrated with the low bass of the speakers.

“Jim! Hey! It’s Jim!” Chad slurred out, draping his arms around Jim. “Here. You need a drink, buddy,” he laughed shoving the bottle of vodka into Jim’s chest. Chad stumbled out of Jim’s grasp and continued on his host path, greeting anyone who walked in the door with the enthusiasm of a used car salesman.

His lips latched around the mouth of the bottle; he tilted his head back allowing the briny liquid to dribble past his tongue. Grimacing in the way is burned his throat, Jim continued to swallow back the alcohol.

Bodies becoming blurs and word spilling without thought - Jim was drunk. Drunker than he wanted to be, if he were being honest. “I don’t know you know like you just,” Jim doubled over, hands on his stomach as he laughed at his jumbled speech, “Dude, what the fuck am I saying?” Jim tried to keep focused on the person he was talking to, but the blank stare looking back at him told him the stranger was on another playing field.

Shaking his head and waving him off, Jim stumbled down the beige colored hallway. Multimillion dollar homes used to intoxicate the youth; Of course no one cared as long as they stayed out of their hair.

Numb fingertips scraped along the textured walls. Jim’s lean body tripped against a wooden bedroom door. Hazy thoughts led him to turn the knob.

“Oh shit!” he took a step back taking in the sight of the brunette sitting on the man’s lap. He couldn’t see his face, but the girl’s face was burning as she reached down to look for her shirt.

That’s when the man’s face was revealed to Jim.

Y/N.

Jim’s face fell; there was no hiding the hurt in his heart. Intoxicated state making his emotions far more prevalent in his actions. “What the fuck?”

Y/N was frozen still. Jim’s hardened stare and tensed jaw said it all. “I.. get outta here, man.” his eyes wandered back to the girl. She clutched her white blouse to her chest. She looked between both men, confused as to what was going on.

“Fuck you, Y/N.” tears stung his eyes as he approached the bed where Y/N sat, wide legged and paralyzed.

“Y/N..” the girls small voice rang in the room as she grabbed on to Y/N’s arm in fear. Fear of Jim.

Jim’s eyes were glazed over, but not by the alcohol. His eyes were glassy in cold anger.

Y/N’s shirt found itself fisted into Jim’s hands as Jim pulled him up by the collar, giving him a hard shove to his chest.

“Jim!” the girls sharp voice was ignored by the two. She scurried out of the room, getting away from the scene unfolding.

Y/N wasn’t inebriated, he was registering his thoughts as Jim attacked his broad chest. He grabbed Jim’s hands trying to pin them at his sides to keep him from hurting himself or him. He knew Jim carried a mean punch; especially when pissed. And he hadn’t seen Jim this pissed since some asshole messed with Medina at the beach.

Snatching his arms back, Jim pushed harder. Y/N found himself slammed against the wall. The frames around him shaking by the impact.

“I thought you liked me,” Jim wiped at his face angrily. The redness around his nose and eyes mirrored the red he saw when he found Y/N with the pretty brunette in lace.

“I’m not raising a fucking homo.” his father’s words played in his head. The words he said when he found a note Y/N had written about the way he made a boy laugh in the 6th grade. “What do you think everyone would think of me, huh?” he’d storm around the room. “You’re gonna find yourself a pretty girl and forget about this fucking nonsense.” the note was crumbled by the roughness of his father’s hands.

Maybe it was the memories flooding back to Y/N or maybe it was because he found himself at loss for words. Staring into stiffness of Jim’s usual softened features, Y/N felt so much hate. Hate towards himself. Towards his father. Towards Jim.

“I was just pretending, Jim. I didn’t think you.. were taking it seriously.” he held Jim’s gaze. Shoulders squared and ready to refute anything Jim spat back.

Only he wasn’t ready for what Jim threw back at him. The crashing of white knuckles into his nose, sent the back of his head meeting the wall with a bang. Hot blood trickled down his lip and past his chin.

A fit of anger washed over him, shoving Jim back with everything he had in him. But Jim’s force was stronger; the build up of his fury was only amplified by the vodka he’d consumed. His movements were clumsy, but they were forceful. He tackled Y/N on the floor, pinning him to the ground as his fists collided with his face again.

Seeing raging white, the last thing he remembered was a strong pair of arms lifting him up by his shoulders and carrying him away.

Bruises and blood being that last thing Jim saw of Y/N.

Tagging: @codyfernss @maso-xchrist @infernal-langdon @langdons-rep@starwlkers @langdonsoceaneyes @michael-langdon-appreciation@cryptid-coalition @flowersiren@daadddysprincesss @ticklish-leafy-plant@queencocoakimmie@ghostiesbedroom@theharvestgirloffire @kykybright98 @kaigitana@lovelylangdonx@jimmlangdon @michael-langdxn @gremlinkween@langdonsinferno @americanhorrorstudies @et-tu-bitch@yourkingcodyfern@eternal-langdon@asstichrist @sammythankyou @astir-bread@snowandicicles@avesatanormalpeoplescareme @jim-mason2@sweetlangdon@kinlovecody@cameronmonaghantrashaf @divinelangdon@fallenangel4996@langdonscody@litenbaby @1-800-bitchcraft @lvngdvns@lunedieu@wroteclassicaly@bbyduncan @mega-combusken @langdonsdemon @coollangdon@lathraios @venusxxlangdon @ladynuwanda @langdonsboots

please lmk if you wanna be untagged! or added to the taglist!

#LMK WHAT U THINK #please be nice lol #jim mason #jim mason x reader #jim mason x male reader #ttopv #The Tribes of Palos Verdes #jim mason angst #angst #cody fern #male x male pairing

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everythingcollided · 6 years

Text

Radiation [Peter Parker]

(credit to owner)

Summary: Peter decides to finally tell her how he feels, but he’s too late.

Word Count: 2,058

Warnings: Swearing, Angst (i guess), Peter is wHIPPED, the metaphors and similes are strong with this one, oh yeah there’s fluff too

A/N: No one asked for this but I was in a mood so read my unedited garbage and request if you want your own piece! and just a random shoutout to @beautiful-writings cause she’s always here.

He was finally going to do it.

Twirling the sunflower stem between the pads of his fingers, soul on fire, nerves tied together and running through his blood. Peter can barely breathe, but he’s sure about this. He’s spent years loving her and it’s time to admit it.

It’s the last day of school and no one’s sure why or how it became the Midtown Tech equivalent of Valentine’s Day. Paper hearts litter locker doors, teddy bears holding chocolate are being carried down the hallways in the arms of interlocked couples, and roses nurtured in plastic wraps are just about everywhere Peter looks.

He wouldn’t usually participate in it. Going home to mope seemed like a better option than approaching her and getting rejected. But this year, for some reason, he’d flipped his perception and decided that - what the hell - he’d give it a try.

He’s regretting that decision right about now.

“Come on, dude,” Ned says for what Peter feels like is the fifth time. His hands are digging into his shoulders and Peter knows it’s to keep him grounded. He’s been smiling since the beginning of their last class, and it’s not helping him at all. “Look, there she is, go get her.”

His hands are shaking so badly he’s scared the petals are going to fall off of the sunflower.

It’s her favorite. Peter’s well aware she likes things simple, and he’s respecting that. Opposed to the hundreds of rose bouquets he’s seen today, he just has a singular flower and a question that will hopefully be met with a yes.

All he really wants is a chance.

Ned spins and shoves him into the masses moving about, hurrying to get out and start their summer. Peter has enough time to turn around with a panicked look and see the thumbs up his best friend is sending him before he has to move in fear of getting trampled.

God, he’s sweating. He rubs a palm against his shorts.

She’s standing in front of her locker, turning the dial. Her hair is tied back so that he can perfectly see her furrowed eyebrows, lips pressed together as she concentrates. She’s wearing the school sweatshirt and some athletic shorts, looking flawlessly lazy and like everything he’s ever wanted.

Peter hides the flower behind his back with one hand and tries his best to do something casual with the other. His heart is pounding. “H-Hey.”

Hey eyes flicker to him, brightening. “Hey, Peter! How’d your last exam go?”

“Um, fine. Great, actually.” His palm involuntarily rubs at his neck, and he startles at the moist skin. “You?”

She rolls her eyes and tucks a rogue hair behind her ear, turning back to enter the last number of her combination. “Terrible. Halfway through one of the essay questions I started falling asleep so most of it just looked like chicken scrat-“

She stops when she flings open her locker, annoyed expression falling blank. Then she glances at him, alight with confusion and...something else.

Something that looks a lot like hope.

And that’s when Peter’s heart gets crushed.

Because before he can even ask what’s wrong or peek over her shoulder to find out, Mason Daniels appears out of thin air with his blinding white smile and deep voice. “Do you like it?”

Mason Daniels is the reason why Peter and Ned have never really held out hope for girlfriends. He’s quarterback of the football team, not bad at all when it comes to good grades, and anyone in the school will admit that he’s incredibly good looking.

Peter’s confidence takes a nosedive.

Like what?

Her eyes are wide as she reaches into the small space and brings out a fluffy, caramel colored teddy bear. There’s a bold red heart held delicately between it’s paws and all Peter can do is stare.

He’s so stupid.

Everything suddenly seems pathetic. All Peter has is a flower and a voice still undergoing the horrific cracks of puberty. Mason stands a head taller than him, rigid with the assurance that only a guy like him could have. There’s obviously no competition here.

But, Peter also has the promise to love her.

What does Mason have?

“It’s so...cute. That’s really sweet of you, Mason.” She gushes and Peter’s heart splits in two.

He guesses a promise isn’t enough. He’s still Peter Parker, and she doesn’t want him.

His chest is hollow and painful bundled into one at the glee in her smile, the pink flush on her beautiful face. He’s never regret being bit by that spider until now. The misery curling around his stomach is multiplied by ten and he hates it because it makes him want to cry.

He wants to sob until his throat is raw and until the pain blooming in the spaces between his ribs is washed out. He wants to curl into Aunt May’s side like he did when he was a scared seven year old boy with nightmares.

But he can’t, he can’t because he has to stand here and still give the girl he’s in love with her sunflower. Peter doesn’t want to keep it. The second he’s out of sight he knows he’ll smash it into the ground and he reckons she’ll take better care of it.

After all, she is the Sun.

And so he calls her name before she can go running into the quarterback’s arms and runs the stem behind her ear. He pretends that he saw it at lunch and thought of her and tries not to think about the nice lady from the flower booth and the ten dollar bill sitting in her cash register a half hour away.

He pretends that she doesn’t look like summer and happiness, all warm skies and soft grass.

He pretends that she doesn’t burn him. He pretends that her smile doesn’t light him on fire and reduce him to ash because they’re best friends and only best friends.

Best friends don’t burn for each other like Peter does for her.

And that’s all right.

He pretends it’s all right.

She smiles at him and there’s a twinge of sadness lacing along her lips. It looks a lot like a goodbye and Peter has to get out. Water is pushing against his resolve and he has to get away before he cracks.

He stares at the vibrant petals of the plant so he won’t catch himself in her eyes. “H-Have a good summer.”

There’s a break in his voice, and with that the dam crumbles. The flood blurs his vision and he turns away before she can see. He already resents himself for crying; he doesn’t need her to see him vulnerable like this. Mr.Stark never cries, never lets people see him exposed.

Peter is once again reminded that he can never be like Tony Stark.

It almost hurts more than knowing he’s not good enough.

He ends up sitting on the steps outside of the school. May would kill him if he got injured because he was stupid and rode his bike while simultaneously crying. Plus, she’d been really excited about today. Peter didn’t want to watch the disappointment show on her face. Not yet.

So he hides his face with one hand and pretends to look through his Twitter feed with the other so no one will come over to ask him if he’s okay. Giggling couples come and go, sometimes stopping to kiss against the bricks of the building and stomp all over Peter’s emotions.

He feels like shit.

It’s been fifteen minutes and he still feels like shit.

His eyes are irritated from wiping at the trails before they can move and his chest aches from holding in the noises. He wants to stop hurting but he can’t because of that damn spider and because of her.

It’s always her.

The metallic cling of the door opening sounds again and dread pools at the thought of hearing more love.

“Peter.”

His head whips up and there she is. She’s all soft edges and eyes and she’s always, always been beautiful to him but with the sunlight bouncing against her hair she’s ethereal. The knife in Peter’s gut twists.

He remembers how disgusting he must look a second too late. Worry melts into her and she takes the space next to him, her fingers pressing against his collarbone and bringing his heart back to life like it’s forgotten she was the one who flattened it in the first place.

“Hey, look at me,” she murmurs. Her breath ghosts against his ear and he shivers but he doesn’t obey. She smells like vanilla and she’s too close. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Peter can’t help but glance to his right. He should say yes, but all that comes out when he sees her empty hands is, “Where’s your teddy bear?”

He watches her eyebrows furrow at the croak in his voice. “I gave it back to him. Thought it was rude to accept it if I didn’t feel the same.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to hers. They wash over his face and she frowns. “I thought it was from you.”

“What?”

“The bear. I thought it was from you.” She mumbles her way through the words but she never once casts her gaze away from him. They don’t really make Peter feel better. All it does is explain why she looked so shocked when she opened her locker.

“Oh. I thought you wouldn’t want something cliche like that.”

“Peter,” she sighs, and suddenly she looks so worn down, like she’s on the verge of tears too. “Why did you get me the sunflower?”

“Cause it reminded me-”

“Stop with the bullshit. I can tell when you lie.” Scooting closer, hand moving to grasp at his forearm. Desperation shines with the reflection of the Sun in her eyes. “Tell me the truth. Please.”

Peter doesn’t want to, but she’s under his skin. Forever under his skin. “B-Because I wanted to...ask y-you out.”

She smiles. Really smiles, like she’s intentionally trying to wreck him. “Good.”

Hand grazing his jaw and staying there, tucked warmly against his skin, she pulls him into her lips. His arms go to her waist without him thinking about it, clutching the delicate material in his fists.

That bundle latched onto his lungs feels like it’s being drawn out through the breath they’re sharing. She tastes like the strawberry chapstick she’s used in all the time he’s known her, and again he’s thousands of embers buoyant in the air electrifying around her.

But this time she’s blazing with him, igniting him with the wildfire of her lips and the inferno of her touch.

Peter doesn’t mind being reduced to ashes anymore.

The pull away is slow, like she doesn’t want to leave but the air demands it. Peter’s scared to open his eyes to something fake, something his mind created under the pressure of breaking.

But there she is when he does, crouched into herself, lashes fluttering, fingers pressing against the skin of her lips. She looks disoriented and red in the face and Peter’s mind isn’t working correctly but it still knows that she’s radiant.

“S-So,” he starts, rejecting the urge to touch at his own mouth. It was searing with the memory of her and Peter couldn’t wait to incinerate more. “Do you want to go out...with me?”

Instead of responding with words she’s back on him and maybe he won’t ever breathe properly again, but if she’s there to share her breath with him he doesn’t care one bit.

“Yes,” she breathes against him. Hair tickling against her flushed cheeks, eyes luminous and the surest he’s ever seen them. “Oh, and thanks for the sunflower. You’re right; that bear was too cliche for me. Total deal breaker.”

She giggles at her own words, clutches his shirt. “Well, that and the fact that I’m into someone else.”

Even though he’s sitting down Peter’s still weak at the knees. He hums in acknowledgment.

“Really into someone else.”

She’s trying to kill him, that playful spark gives it all away. He’s not giving that to her though, she’s already gotten enough reaction from him today.

“Good.” Is all he counters with. She rolls her eyes.

Peter kisses her face until she smiles.

#peter parker #spider-man #peter parker imagine #spider-man imagine #mcu #marvel #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #tom holland #tom holland imagine #peter parker x reader #tom holland x reader #spider-man x reader #peter parker fic #fluff #peter parker fluff #lyd writes

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robustcornhusk · 7 years

Text

wondering why i get more harassment than i used to; awareness of other people

there’s too many other factors - moved from suburbs of a mediumish city in the southeast to university to big city on the west coast, went from driving everywhere to a shut-in to walking&transit, went from being bigger and tougher than (others in my reference class) to smaller and weaker than (others in my reference class), changes in how i dress, from unaware of others to hyperaware (at least compared to my old self, and compared to some of the people around me)...

and i know that i get less of it than other people

(it is made certain that i am aware of this)

... holy fuck, do i get way more street harassment and weirdness now than i did when we all thought i was a girl. dirty looks and comments, when alone (slurs, “is that a man or a woman?”, ...) and and my partner (”y’all’re cute!” at best, “abomination” and worse, five minute long monologues about how it’s clear that we’re “soulmates”); people follow me, even into restaurants and stores, and grab me and don’t let go even when i start screaming; physically assaulted on the subway with bruising that lasted for weeks.

(nonpublic, more anonymous...contributing to a similar erosion of safety: the building i lived in broken into more than half a dozen times in a year.)

(once in high school, i bumped into someone. they got upset, put their hands on my chest, shoved me hard-"holy shit, you’re a girl! I’m sorry.” and ran the other way.)

a double-edged sword: be vigilant at all times, because if you don’t pay attention for a second, you’ll get got; being vigilant means being aware of the 99% of insults that would never escalate and wouldn’t have ever hurt you if you had just been unaware

it feels like... around 21, 4 years ago, i suddenly became very aware (but that’s not quite the right word) of other people (became suddenly aware that my models of other people were incomplete, unhelpful, needed to be developed further). suddenly, but over a period of months. multiple factors: living with housemates (not alone, roommates, family), later stages of brain development, i tried [redacted] many times that year, had a lot of free time (dropped all my classes, wasn’t working).

i think it’s around then, too, i started to have issues being in some public places. fine: airports, walking through crowded places, friends, places where i knew what to do and was interested in it like movie theatres or climbing gyms. not fine: crowded places where i didn’t know what i was supposed to be doing or couldn’t focus on what i was supposed to be doing and if i thought it would be visible that i didn’t know and that i wouldn’t be able to leave: classes i’d missed, standing-room events like book readings or concerts, long flights, ...

and i can’t remember, fully, if these things bothered me before. i think less. i can’t tell, to what extent, it’s 1) i was bothered by these things before or 2) i was not bothered by these things before and A) the problems i have identified now are new and B) the problems i have identified are old.

it’s definitely that some of these i was okay with when younger (planes? i love flying! concerts? hell yeah) and some, not so much (inexplicably went from Excited to I WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET OUT of group trip to [place i was very interested in] as a middle school student, and in retrospect i wonder than my sudden anxiety is related to this...).

i guess two years ago was when the Emotional Labor thing became... a big thing? and at first i followed it with great interest. now... when it comes up, i flinch. i feel like i’m not doing enough, like i can never do enough. i was raised to do this, but i failed at it; i am perceived as someone who was not raised to do it.

it feels sometimes like i am being hit with both at once by people around me: you were raised to do this, so do it, but you’re perceived as someone who isn’t expected to do this, so any annoyance you feel doesn’t count. anyway, you’re trans! you were never really a woman, you weren’t really raised as a girl, so it’s fine, right? this is fair.

i can’t tell to what extent this is actually implied or stated and to what extent my brain is making demons.

the person who brings this up most often now... it’s frustrating to me because they talk about how it really opened their eyes, made them want to work to keep the shared space nice, ... ostensibly, i cook, they clean. in practice, i cook and clean up half as i go; they clean up half the remaining; i come back at 10, see it unfinished, see them not present, and clean it myself. later they tell me “I was going to get that!”. when i leave it at 10, i come in the next morning and find it still undone.

(”The feminist hope for equality was that images of femininity would become more realistic, more self-affirming, more attainable, not that images of men become as equally destructive and insane. The fact that that's the kind of equality we're moving towards is even scarier, and has to have destructive effects on our psyches”)

i don’t know, right? they have some of the same brain problems as i do. it took 20 years of concerted, painful effort from others and me to get me to be a clean person who gives a shit about their surroundings. if it takes that much effort, maybe it’s not a good thing to try to get other people to meet this standard. maybe it’s bad.

and on the other hand, our kitchens and bathrooms have ants and this person has watched me spend hours this week cleaning our kitchen and their bathroom, left the room when i started delegating tasks to people (”We’re just going to grab [cookies], we’ll be back in a bit,” they said, walking down the hall, talking to our other housemate for half an hour, finally leaving, coming back 1.5 hours after they said they were leaving... after I’d already cleaned all of it up.)

the last couple of nights, i had dreams of ants in my bed, crawling on me.

i saw it suggested once: an autistic programmer explained that it appeared that sexism in tech affected her much less than allistic women, because she wasn’t aware of it. she was enthusiastic about a project; in backchannels people talked shit about her doing it, but because she was unaware of social cues, she was never emotionally affected by it: she wrote the code, she shipped it.

i know that, being aware of what other people might be thinking, doing, planning, i’m less likely to accidentally step on literal or metaphorical toes. it’s exhausting and it keeps being exhausting. for everyone, it’s probably better that i keep doing it. but ...

#i do not want to see or be seen by gender #king midas has the ears of an ass

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vicioushyperbolizer · 7 years

Note

Nurseydex prompt where the team forces Dex and Nursey into a closet or supply room or some small space so theyll talk and deal w the UST and finally get together but once the door is closed Dex starts having a panic attack either bc small space (memories of bullying? Claustrophobic?) and bc he's forced to talk FEELINGS w Nursey and its all 2 much and Nursey tries to convince the team to let them out while also comforting Dex thru this and ends with them getting out and start (secretly?) dating

So, I deviated away from the prompt a little. Mostly because I didn’t feel like Bitty, who had been locked in a closet before, would even a LITTLE bit approve of this plan if he had been consulted. Hopefully you like it.

Dex wasn’t freaking out. He wasn’t. Except, yeah, he totally was freaking out.

“Dude, you spend your summers on a boat, how are you claustrophobic?” The fact that Nursey wasn’t the least bit bothered just made things so much worse.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not claustrophobic. I just don’t like closed spaces. And it’s different on a boat.”

Dex was going to fucking kill Holster. Maybe Ransom, too, since they did everything together and he probably had a hand in it, too. Once they got out of the basement supply closet, that was. At least Holster turned on the light before he locked them in.

He should have known better, honestly. When he got an urgent text saying that one of the pipes in the closet was leaking everywhere, he knew it sounded off somehow. For one thing, Dex couldn’t remember there being pipes in the supply closet; they were on the other side of the basement entirely. For another thing, it was the middle of the day and the only person who would be at the Haus would be Nursey, who had a midday break on Tuesdays and Thursdays that he used to nap in Chowder’s room.

Or at least, everyone else was supposed to be in class, but it was undoubtedly Holster’s voice that he heard as the door slammed behind a sleepy-faced and half-dressed Nursey.

“Work out your shit, dudes. I’m on a mission to relieve the Haus of any and all sexual tension before I graduate. I’ll be back for you two later.”

It took about two minutes before Nursey gave up his half-assed efforts at trying to open the clearly locked door. It only took Dex one and a half before it started getting harder to take a full breath.

Okay, so maybe he was a little claustrophobic. And maybe he was a lot freaking out. And maybe verging on hyperventilating and a full blown panic attack. He tried to remember the techniques his childhood therapist taught him to calm himself down, but he couldn’t focus.

He was stuck in a cycle of cantbreath-breathingtoofast-needmoreair-cantbreat.

Dex came back to himself with a warm hand on his shoulder and a steady stream of words flowing around him. His back was braced against the door and Nursey was crouched in front of him, looking more serious than Dex had ever seen him.

“There you go, just like that. Breathe with me. You back with me, Will?”

He nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He felt his face flush in embarrassment. Dex couldn’t fucking believe he had a panic attack, his first in over two years, in front of Nursey of all people.

Nursey sat back on his haunches, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry I was chirping you about being claustrophobic. I didn’t know it was actually a thing. It never, like, come up before.”

The way he moved brought Dex’s attention to the thick bands of ink on Nursey’s bicep, the powerfully corded muscles of his forearm, and the fact that he was incredibly shirtless. Dex barely held down the hysterical feeling laughter that was bubbling up in his chest.

The horrifying and hilarious truth of the matter was that Holster… wasn’t wrong. Or at least, he was half right. Dex was embarrassingly attracted to Nursey. He thought it was hiding it well, but apparently not. Jesus fucking christ, he was minutes out of a panic attack and his first thought was to ogle Nursey.

He had to find a way out. Between the stress of being stuck in a fucking closet (literally, in this case, because fuck knows he’s used to being stuck in the metaphorical closet), and the stress of…. Nursey, he wasn’t sure if he could handle it. And who knew how long Holster would leave them there.

Dex scrubbed a hand over his hair. “It’s whatever, man. Like you said, never came up.”

He tried his best to think about anything except the walls of the closet, and just how tight the space felt. Dex focused on the scratchy feel of his hair on his palms, the hole in the toe of his sock, the place where his leg was flung out and it brushed against Nurse’s soft cotton sleep pants. The place where his jeans felt a little too tight, where his cell phone was pressed into his thigh.

Goddamn it. Of course, his fucking phone. With fumbling fingers, he tried to pull it out of his pocket. The flush reignited under his skin. Stupid fucking panic attacks and stupid fucking anxiety and stupid goddamn Holster. The more he struggled with it, the more difficult it was to shove his hand into his jeans.

Dex felt his heart rate rising, his blood pumping in his ears, and hot tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Nursey seemed to understand what he was trying to do. He slowly pulled Dex’s hands away from his pocket and slipped his own nimble fingers into the denim before quickly pulling out Dex’s phone. He handed it to Dex only long enough to swipe the unlock code, then Nursey took it back and quickly began typing away.

When Dex noticed that his hands were still shaking, a fresh wave of tears tried to push its way out. The anger helped him get the panic under control, just a little. He pressed his palms down on the concrete, hard, trying to visualize pushing all the way through the foundation.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed sitting that way, how long Nursey spent texting on his phone. He zoned out until he felt a warm hand cover his own. He looked down, amazed at how warm Nursey was and how cold his own was.

“Bitty’s on his way. Think you can make it another five minutes or so?”

Dex nodded. It’s not like they had any other choice, anyway. Nursey nodded back, before he cleared his throat.

“So…” Dex had hoped they could avoid the whole talking part of things, just sit there until Bitty let them back out. Apparently, Nursey actually wanted to talk, though. Dex didn’t have the energy to try to fight him on it.

Dex let his head knock back against the door. “What?”

“I’m not, like… bothering you, right?”

Dex could barely contain his laughter. Generally, the answer to that question was yes, Nursey was bothering Dex. His fake chill demeanor, his stupidly pretty face, the chirps Dex desperately wanted to be flirting but weren’t. It all bothered Dex way more than he wanted it to.

“Probably, but what specifically are you talking about?”

Nursey looked… Was he blushing? Dex lifted his head so he could get a better look at his partner. Yes, definitely blushing.

“The, y’know. The whole sexual tension thing. The flirting.”

Dex couldn’t figure out what Nursey meant. It was the right subject, but Nursey wasn’t telling Dex to back off, because he was making things super awkward, and couldn’t he just see that Nursey wasn’t interested?

Nursey must have read the confusion on Dex’s face, because he followed up with, “I don’t try to, but apparently i don’t try hard enough not to. If it makes you uncomfortable or whatever, I can stop.”

“Wait, what? But I was the one flirting with you.”

They stared at each other, wide-eyed for a second. Dex leaned forward, moving slowly so that Nursey could pull back if he needed to. He pressed their lips together, a barely there kiss. And then another, and another.

A few seconds later, shouting from upstairs broke them apart.

Bitty yanked open the door looking the picture of a southern storm. He quickly looked Nursey and Dex up and down to make sure they were okay, then turned on his heel, and started marching back up the basement steps. Dex was very glad that he wasn’t Holster right now.

He picked himself up from the floor, then held a hand down to Nursey, who threaded their fingers together once he was standing. They both leaned in. Dex was so ready to put the whole mess behind him, and maybe definitely make out for the next two hours. Suddenly, Nursey pulled back.

“But, like… How does working on a boat work when you’re claustrophobic?”

Dex rolled his eyes, but pulled Nursey back in for another kiss.

#prompts #answered asks #anonymous #my writing #nurseydex #william poindexter #derek nurse #holster's good intentions are going to kill someone one day #or get him killed #Anonymous

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lunarfanfics · 7 years

Text

Jade & Sapphire: Heat

Rating: E Pair: Annie Leonhart & Eren Yeager

NSFW Prompt: #16 in a public place (for @kuchel2077 i know you asked me for one of these but then i never got around to it, my bad. I’m not much of a smut writer lol

[Ao3] [FF.Net]

One. Two. Three. Four. Duck. Swing. Block. Counter. Duck. Counter. Swing—“Fuck!”

Jaeger heaved, scrambling to pick himself up from the impact of Annie’s knee jamming into his gut. He stood half-way, but a cough had him doubling over, wrapping arms around his bare stomach, and hissing out another curse. Annie delicately placed her foot down with all the grace of a dancer, cocking an eyebrow at him, scrutinizing his behavior, his faults and his inability to do anything the right way. Which to her, was just another nuance of saying Annie’s way.

“You left yourself open, that’s why you got hit.” She ridiculed him, tucking strands of blonde behind her ear. “Never leave an opening, even when you believe you’ve got an advantage.”

Eren’s response was to spit phlegm onto the dirt, he tried to glare at her; but only managed a shifty-eyed squint since the sun was beaming its harsh rays down onto his face. Shadis picked the hottest day for field training, as always, he just loved watching them all suffer. Eren scoffed, still wounded breathless from Annie’s kick. “You’re impossible.”

“Not impossible.” She panted, equally out of breath. “Observant, more likely.”

Ever observant Annie. Eren rolled his eyes, “That’s why you’re impossible.”

“It’s not that hard to read your opponent, Jaeger.” She was mocking him again. With one hand on her cocked hip; she stood at a mere five-feet, but he always felt like the smaller one under that wintry gaze of hers, even as she stepped in closer, having to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

“Patience, and discipline, Jaeger.” She enunciated each word, “That’s what you’re lacking, maybe practice that more, and you’ll have the slightest chance of defeating me.”

Being this close to her without engaging in combat; Eren could now see the perspiration beading on her hairline, how low her bun sagged onto the nape of her neck, and how flushed her usually colorless complexion seemed. A faint rosy pink dusting across the bridge of her nose, tanning both of her cheeks and her shoulders.

It looked almost as if she were, blushing. Such an outlandish emotion he knew a girl like Annie Leonhardt would never show. But this heat wave was making him all to dizzy, and he began to take more of Annie into account…like how prettier she appeared when touched by the sun. It didn’t help that she had discarded her beloved hood, as well their uniform jacket.

Yes. He was sparring Annie Leonhardt shirtless, while she trained him in an under shirt that bared more of her toned stomach than his over baked brain could handle. But he handled it. For the sake of pursuing his desire to learn from the taciturn blonde. Goddesses only knew how much he was going to handle today.

“Hah,” He huffed, “I have a better chance of defeating Mikasa than.” He attempted to lock eyes with her, but she was quite literally right under his nose, so he just rested his attention to the crown of her head, besides if he lowered his chin anymore, he wouldn’t even be looking down at her face, nor would he be considered a decent gentleman.

Annie’s icy stare narrowed imperceptibly, a tick that came whenever Mikasa Ackerman was mentioned within her vicinity. “You have a better chance of defeating Armin, perhaps.” She folded her arms under her chest, and that made everything difficult because her breasts were pushed into his view. Jaeger had the respect to avert his eyes, quickly.

“Uh-huh, yeah.” A cough. He took a step back, it was far too humid for them to be standing that close anyway; he could hardly handle his own body heat, let alone another person’s body heat radiating onto his own.

His mind chose to screw him over then, because now a frivolous image was shoved to the fore front of his brain. Body heat…Sharing body heat…Sharing body heat with Annie Leonhardt. Oh fuck.

Eren swallowed; his throat parched, and his chest heaving with sweat, his entire back covered in dirt, and sand. He needed to leave, dunk his head in a bucket of ice maybe; but Annie had already noticed. She perked an eyebrow, tilting her head to the side. “Is something wrong Jaeger?”

Yes! “Nah,” He shrugged nonchalantly, “Just thirsty, I think I’m gonna’ get some water and—uh I…I think I’m done for the day too, actually.” Annie regarded him with a skeptic stare, giving him a once over that left him feeling a little more than naked. “…Alright.” She sighed.

He gave a weak smile, and a thumb up, then he ambled over to pick up his dusty shirt from their pile of clothes tossed off to the side. His uniform jacket and shirt was tucked underneath her white hood, so it prevented her clothes from getting dirty. Sneaky one, she was.

He was just about to shake it off, when a small pale hand snatched the garment from him, Eren startled, looking down to meet Annie, who was flapping invisible dust specs from her hood. He thought she was insane to want to wear that heavy thing again; but then she took the hood by the sleeves, tying it around her waist, so the back hung off her behind. Now that was a look she pulled off well.

In his head Eren thought, damn. But outside, he just openly stared, mouth slightly agape, shirt slipping from his hands. Annie had to snap her fingers in his face to jolt him back to reality.

He blinked slowly, “Huh?”

“Come on, Jaeger, let’s get some water in you before you die of dehydration.” She touched his elbow lightly, and his attention was thrown to that one tiny touch, he wobbled when she tried to push him toward the Girls Barracks; two water pumps were available near the back, as the boys were out of service.

It just threw him off guard, or off his metaphorical horse, as he was already far thrown off his guard. He wasn’t even on guard to begin with. Eren was aware of the fact that Annie did not like being touched; and she did not just go around touching anybody, her hands were either hidden in the pockets of her hood, clenched in a fist, or planted on her hips.

Casual touching was not a thing for her, it was forbidden as smiling was to the blonde. And yet, she had her hand on his elbow, guiding him into the cool shade, behind the Girl’s barracks. She was touching him.

“You’re touching me…”

If Annie heard his indistinct mumble, she gave no indication that she did. She dropped his arm, and started to crank the rusty old handle of the water pump, grunting as tried to push every drop of water into the bucket below. Eren was left leaning against dry wood, goose bumps went up his forearms; and he realized than that he had yet to put his shirt on.

He wondered if anybody noticed Annie taking him away somewhere… both being in an out-of-dress-code state. It would certainly be an immediate punishment from Shadis, should he discover them. And any trainees who did see were going to spread gossip, because that’s just how other teenagers were. Nosy, and annoying.

Well, who cares. Eren threw his shirt over one shoulder, slumping against the wall of the barracks, the wood chips dug painfully into his back, but it was nothing to him by now. Besides, that little bit of pain distracted him from staring blatantly at Annie’s biceps as she pumped away.

Athletic, small and pretty, and smart. His brain was practically singing a tune to it. Why? Why now? Eren swiped sweat off his brow, swallowing again. He wasn’t in the right mind. Annie was so usually scary to him. It had to be the heat, the heat! Suddenly a bucket was shoved right under his face, water sloshed onto his chin.

Annie was there holding it up to him like an offering, “Drink.” Was all she said.

“All of it?” Eren took the bucket from her, Annie shook her head. “Leave some for me too.”

So he did. He drank from the bucket—that he prayed to the three goddesses was clean—and once he got his fill, and his throat wasn’t feeling scratchy or raw, he passed the bucket to her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He smiled when she finished drinking the last bit of water. “Thanks for that.”

“Hm,” Annie made a little noise, placing the bucket down to her side, “Yeah, you don’t look so well, I figured you needed a break.”

“You figured?” Eren snorted, now feeling a tad more refreshed. “You don’t look like you’re at one hundred percent either, y’know.”

Annie cocked her head to the side, “I don’t?”

“No, of course not.” Eren pushed off the wall, stepping into her space, like she had done. “I mean look at you,” His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the exposed skin of her shoulder, “You’re all red.”

Her robin egg blue eyes briefly glanced to his hand, and Eren knew he was crossing the line there. But she didn’t comment on it, or shrug his hand off. She just…stared, rather curiously at him. Not a hint of disgust, or anger evident on her flushed face. So, he gathered up all of his Jaeger confidence, and took it a step further.

“You’re always over-exerting yourself Annie.” Eren mused, and with his unusual soft voice came the feather light touch of his fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder, skin reddened just like he said, he was careful not to press the pads of his fingers against her skin too roughly…she was touch sensitive, he knew that too. He didn’t want to scare her away.

“Maybe,” He rasped, because his throat was suddenly feeling so dry again. But he wanted to sound cocky. “Maybe you’re the one who needs patience, and discipline?”

His fingers rested on the pulse line of her neck, her skin was warm there; well it was everywhere especially, but there, it felt like the blood beneath her flesh was boiling. For some reason…that excited him. Eren parted his lips, going to say something, but not a word came out. So he tried for her name.

“Annie?” She wasn’t saying anything, in fact she hadn’t moved at all, frozen like a statue of porcelain underneath his palm, her blonde fringes shrouded her eyes. Eren took that as a bad sign, he deflated, feeling his ego shatter at his feet, and with it, something else equally fragile.

He dropped his hand, backing away from her. “I’m sorry...I didn’t— I’m sorry.”

He hoped she would forgive him. But the sentence hissed out of her clenched teeth spoke other volumes.

“Just, who do you think you are, Jaeger?” Her wintry gaze snapped up to meet his again; and—goddesses—it was a burning, smoldering gaze. The ice had melted away, revealing a burning heat. Fuck. He wanted to get burned. This heat wave was not doing him justice.

“Huh?” She pushed at him, hard. “Huh?!” She pushed him until his back slammed against the wall of the girl’s barracks. He grunted from the impact, his shirt slid from his shoulder onto the ground. From within the barracks came muffled sounds; feminine exclamations of ‘What was that?’ and ‘Where’d that noise come from?’.

Why were the other Trainee girls back so early? He should be worried they heard; but he was far too busy entertaining the seething blonde in front of him; the blonde whose piercing eyes said she wanted to eat him alive. Whose hands were currently running down his chest, blunt nails raking down his abs and down, down, down…Until he heard the pop of a button. He nearly lost his breath. Holy Shit.

Oh sweet Maria. Eren closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. It’s a hallucination! The heat wave had finally breached his mind, and he was going insane!

“…Eren, hey, hey.” Two small hands reached up, gently grabbed his face, and tugged him until he felt the ghost of her breath on his lips. Oh. He peeled open his eyes, and they were met with a stormy simmering blue. How beautiful.

“Are you,” Annie licked her lips thoughtfully, and he mirrored the action, both gazes were drawn to each other’s mouths, “Are you okay…with this?” She brushed her finger tentatively across his waistline.

Oh. She was asking him permission…And here he thought chivalry was dead. Well, since they had already gone this far; he answered with quite a simple response. He kissed her.

It was just a plant of the lips. A simple peck, the same way Franz and Hannah would kiss in public. It was quick, but when he pulled away, he saw it wasn’t enough. For neither of them. No. He yearned for her; and Annie could be a very greedy person, she cupped his face in her hands and pressed her body flush against his, and her lips, tinted a bright pink, sought his once more.

Goddesses. His brain was turning to mush. Her lips were full, and wet, and pliant against his own hungry kisses. He felt light-headed, resting his russet hands on her pale naked waist, he wanted to kiss her there, too. He wanted to kiss her everywhere. A tingling sensation racked his nerves, heat flowing into his body; her own heat. Eren knew he was not going to be satisfied with just kissing. No. He wanted to touch her too. He wanted—he craved her hands on him, her pretty petite hands, calloused from fighting, but still so dainty. So very Annie.

She nipped at his bottom lip; and while he groaned, distracted from her assault; one of her hands disappeared from his face, and was snaking down his stomach, dipping into the waistline of his uniform pants; still, not quite touching him, but teasing him. Her lithe fingers leaving a searing touch wherever they trailed; right across the bulge of his undershorts.

A soft gasp left his lips, and she licked his parted mouth, then grinned, so coyly, it made his innards twist into a wretched knot. She slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his undershorts, tugging them down some, freeing him from its confines; he hissed as her fingers closed around his length.

“Ah.” Her hand other hand caressed his jaw, before joining the other one in tormenting him. Eren buried his face into the crooked of her neck, panting heavily, he was coiled so tightly around her. Her body heat, and scent over coming him. Fresh Lemons, sun, and earth, and sweat. That was all her. Now it was all of him too.

He cussed once, whining into her shoulder, as her thumb slid over the tip of him; slick with his own liquid. Her eyes were closed as she worked him, humming sweetly against his collar bone. “Shush.” She nuzzled his jaw, he could feel her lips quirk up against his burning skin. “They’ll hear us…is that what you want Jaeger, hm?

The other trainee girls. Eren gulped audibly, he’d forgotten all about them. They were dismissed to the barracks early. Which meant that Mikasa could be among them! He bit into the plush of his bottom lip, groaning low in his throat. Or Christa…or Sasha, or Mina, or any girl who bothered to get to know him. The boys would be getting dismissed soon too…they’ll all have to use the water pump. What if one of them saw him and Annie—!

“You’re twitching.” She licked a hot stripe up his neck, grasping him a bit harder than before. He choked on his spit. “You’re not thinking about other girls…when I’m right here, Are you?”

“Ah—nah, n-no. No.” His breath grew ragged; shortening to little hot puffs blowing onto Annie’s nape, making her loose blonde tendrils flutter bewitchingly in the air. Eren swallowed, shakily raising a hand from her waist, he reached up, and tugged the clip from her hair free, throwing it off to the side. He felt triumphant when she growled against his throat, and then a hot flash of pleasure coursed down his spine as she sunk her teeth into his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck.” She was killing him. He was so close. He felt like he was going to combust; he felt too tight in his own skin, too itchy, too raw, he gave a few restrained thrusts into her palm, muttering nonsense into the shell of her ear. His breathing hot and erratic. He didn’t even know what he was saying,

“Please, please, please…”

Eren fisted his hand into the strands of Annie’s silver blonde hair, bringing her closer to him. Knee’s bowed, and legs trembling; sweat rolling down his temple. Rising to his peak, her name left his lips in sigh that sounded like a prayer; and he spilled into her clenched fist.

“Shhh…It’s alright.” Annie cooed, the warmth of her hands left him, and he breathed a little easier. He couldn’t move than, not after a racking bodily sensation such as that. Goddesses have mercy on him.

“Eren?” Annie untangled herself from his hold, just enough to look him in the eyes. Every inch of her exposed skin was tinted pink, such a pretty color for her, she looked so lively this way. Frazzled light hair, and sun-kissed skin, little pants coming from her parted rosy lips.

She was staring at him, a serene blanket of warmth in her curious blue gaze. Eren was struck dumb. He could only stare back, still stuck in his hazy after bliss.

“Um,” She averted his eyes, shyly. “So…that was good?”

The wiring of his brain zapped the life back into him, he blinked, the shine of awareness coming back into his teal eyes. Where was he again? Oh. Right.

“Holy shit, Annie.” Eren shook his head, eyes rounded in disbelief. “I mean holy shit.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Your hands are magic.”

She shrugged, wiping her hands on her undershirt, the corners of her lips quirked in the barest hint of a smile. A real genuine smile. Eren’s heart lurched into his throat, he swallowed it back down. He really fucking liked her. He laughed. So suddenly overcome with elation, and then leaned down to gather her in his arms. Annie wriggled in his embrace, putting a hand on his sweaty chest.

“Eren, wait, your pants are still—“

“WOAH!”

Both trainees jumped out of their skin; jerking away from each other so quick as if scalding water had been poured between them. The two stared at the fellow trainee who blinked owlishly at them; and, very, very slowly started backing away.

“Connie!” Eren faced the smaller boy, but failed to notice his disheveled state of dress—that being front of his pristine white pants popped open, slung low on his hips, and the very obvious stain of his undershorts…In full view.

“Oh.” Connie put a hand over his mouth. “Y-you, you guys were…”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Eren stressed, but it was too late for that. Annie pushed him behind her, to save him from making even more of a fool of himself.

“Don’t. Say. A word.” Her eyes, and threatening tone pierced through the poor boy; Connie swallowed, backing up so far, Eren swore he probably saw Annie as an actual predator. He nodded frantically, putting his hands up.

“O-okay, okay! I won’t. I swear, Cross my heart!” Connie made a messy zigzag motion over his chest.

That’s not a cross. Eren thought, but it seemed to satisfy Annie. She gave jerk of her chin. “Beat it bald boy.”

Connie backed another two steps, and then ran; Eren believed the other trainees might think titans have been lurking behind the Girl’s barracks with how crazily fast he took off.

He watched Connie go. And then, remembered his pants. He pulled them up, and buttoned himself. Feeling slightly out of place.

“Ugh, I need a change of under wear.”

Annie came around to his side, holding his shirt…She was wiping her hands on?!

“Hey!” He snatched his shirt from her, “What the hell?!”

“Oh what?” She scoffed, an odd mischievous glint in her eye, a new side of her he hadn’t seen yet. “You dirtied mine, it’s only fair.” She patted his thigh, and sauntered over to the water pump, to fetch more water for them both.

Well. Eren sighed. At least his thirst was quenched.

#snkfic #J&Sfic #ereani #ereannie #annie leonhardt #eren jaeger

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