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banditnoo · 3 years

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My Castle of Ships {1/2} - Merlin One Shot

Summary | {A strange phenomenon had occurred when Arthur had been born by magic. He now had the ability to read minds. Nobody knew of his gifts. Arthur knew from a young age that sorcery was not welcomed in Camelot. With fears that his own father would banish or harm him, he kept his piece of magic to himself. A piece of magic that had become much less of a burden after he had been crowned king, and for moments like these; While he was bored and Merlin daydreamed.}

Tags | {Merthur, Magic Arthur AU, mind reader AU, Major Character Death}

Warnings | {Like one swear word? Angsty, but not as gut wrenching as 5x13}

a/n | {I’ve finally worked up the courage to post some of my writing on Tumblr! This has been cross posted to AO3 (Legendary_Julia) and Wattpad (GreaserGal19). Maybe one day I’ll get my usernames in order, but today is not that day. Part 2 will come out... at some point. This was suppose to be a stand alone story, but our boys deserve better. Thanks for checking me out, happy reading!}

~~~

{A strange phenomenon had occurred when Arthur had been born by magic. He now had the ability to read minds. Nobody knew of his gifts. Arthur knew from a young age that sorcery was not welcomed in Camelot. With fears that his own father would banish or harm him, he kept his piece of magic to himself. A piece of magic that had become much less of a burden after he had been crowned king, and for moments like these; While he was bored and Merlin daydreamed.}

~~~

Merlin was a daydreamer, he always had been. He'd often find himself thinking of Ealdor while he puttered about Arthur's chambers. Sometimes he would imagine what it would be like to rule his own kingdom, to make his own rules. While he scrubbed away at Arthur's hunting boots, he built his own castle. The citadel would be magnificent. The walls would stand tall, glittering with a hint of magic. Beautiful tapestries would hang from every wall, depicting anything the passerby's wished. A series of tunnels would wind throughout and underneath the stone walls, eventually connecting to water. Yes, the castle would have to be by the ocean. Merlin smiled to himself as he pictured it. The birds, the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores, and the ships. Merlin loved the idea of having ships. With a boat like that he could sail anywhere, do anything. That's what it could be, his castle of ships.

Arthur had to smile at the name. He too pictured the castle from his spot at his desk. He could only imagine the beauty of a kingdom Merlin could build with his magic. The Castle of Ships.

"Has a nice ring to it," Arthur muttered to himself, to caught up in the image to realize he had said anything aloud.

"What was that?"

"Hmm?"

"You said something."

"No, I did not."

"Yes, yo-"

"You're hearing things Merlin, go back to whatever it is you where doing. Maybe scrub a different spot before you muck up my good boots."

Arthur stood up abruptly, leaving a confused Merlin watch him briskly walk out of his chambers.

"He really has gone mad." Merlin muttered as he began to clean the other boot.

~~~

Merlin knew someone was listening. He's felt the presence in the castle for a long time, but could never quite pinpoint it. He had tried to call out many times. Perhaps there was a Druid somewhere within Camelot trying to communicate, or an evil doer with a presence too strong to ignore. But there was never an answer. He was always left alone with his thoughts, which he was slowing getting scared to think.

When the presence felt strong, Merlin would busy his mind with his daydreams. He would think of home, or add details to his imaginary kingdom.

He did his best daydreaming during round table meetings. The presence would always be strong in the throne room, the magic almost danced through the air. It was here that he added the finer details of his castle.

He constructed a grand portrait hall as Leon droned on about the months finances. The long room would have the most brilliant red carpet, lined with an intricate gold and black pattern. He could almost feel himself walking through the grand hallway as he leaned against the cold stone of the throne room walls. As he imagined himself walking along, he thought about whos portraits he would put on display. He would have his mother, of course, and Gwen, his first friend in Camelot. He could picture the cocky smirk on Gwaine's portrait and the valiant yet understanding look on Lancelot's. His eyes scanned around the round table, imagining all of his friends in their best Camelot red, striking wild poses for the artist. They eventually landed on Arthur, whose head was resting lazily against his hand, trying his best to listen to Leon. Merlin hummed to himself, placing Arthur's portrait at the end of the hallway. It would be the only place fit for his king.

He had heard once of a spell that made the portraits move within their frames, adopting the personality of its subject. He studied Arthur's face as he thought, committing every detail to memory. The way his golden hair fell across his forehead in soft wisps, and how his nose came to a gentle point, complimenting the rest of his face. His favourite feature of Arthur's has always been his eyes. A piercing blue that found him in any room they were in.

They were the same blue eyes that were staring at him now, Merlin realized, staring back, not daring to look away now. Their shared a million words with just a look, a conversation no one else would hear.

Are you as bored as I am?

When is dinner?

When will Leon stop talking?

How's the castle of ships coming?

Merlin's heart dropped. He was imagining things, right? He had to be. They weren't really talking to each other, after all. It was all in his head, somewhere Arthur most definitely was not. He was quickly becoming aware of the overwhelming sense of magic flowing through the room.

I know you're in my head. Make yourself known. I don't know what you want, but you won't be getting it.

Arthur was taken aback by the threatening tone in Merlin's voice. He hadn't realized that Merlin could sense the presence of his magic, or that he was so threatened by it. His eyes dropped quickly, looking at everything but Merlin in the corner of the room.

"Is everything alright, Sire? You looked concerned." Leon's address took Arthur by surprise. Sitting up as fast and as straight as possible, he voided his face of any emotion as he shook his head.

"Yes, yes. Everything is fine. We must ensure that patrol around the citadel continues. I've caught wind of a potential threat. A sorcerer."

"Are you sure, sire? I haven't heard of such a thing."

"Certain. I trust my sources," with a final glance at Merlin, he nodded at Leon, urging him to continue with the meeting.

~~~

Arthur's eyes followed Merlin around his chambers. He could hear his thoughts going a mile a minute as he absentmindedly straightened the pillows on the bed.

"There is something on your mind," Arthur said, not moving his head from where it rested in the crook of his elbow, all but laying on the table.

"What makes you say that?"

"I can see it in your eyes." Their eyes connected from across the room, but Merlin looked away quickly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again,

"Something is troubling you, and I want you to tell me. Please, Merlin, there is no need to lie."

Merlin was fighting with himself, and Arthur didn't need to be a mind reader to see it. They stayed like this, Arthur looking at Merlin and Merlin looking at the floor. They both felt the heavy magic in the room, but neither acknowledged it.

"Have you ever missed a place you've never been? A place that never really was?"

"I never took you for a philosopher, Merlin," Arthur couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face, or the fondness in his eyes, "if this is about your mother, I've told you. She is more than welcome here. I know how much you think of her."

"No, it's- that's not quite it."

'Not thinking of running away, are we?" Arthur's smile grew bigger as he spoke. He knew that's what it was, Merlin had been thinking about it for weeks. He wasn't worried, though. He knew Merlin would never leave without a goodbye, and a chance to convince him to stay. The guilty look in Merlin's eyes confirmed what Arthur already knew.

"I would never! Who would deal with your royal ass everyday if I left?"

"It's a simple fix, really. I would just have to come with you. Make sure you don't get yourself killed."

"Arthur Pendragon on the road? I don't believe it for a minute." Merlin smiled as he spoke. He imagined the two of them running away, into the castle of ships.

Many sleepless nights had allowed Merlin countless hours to add onto the castle. In the late hours of the night, he added gardens and ballrooms, imagined the wind on his face as he held tightly to the mast of a massive wooden ship. Those same nights, Arthur would lay awake in his own chambers, halfway across the castle, and imagine the beauty for himself as he listened to Merlin describe his castle grounds in a way that a child listens to his mother read a bedtime story.

"I am perfectly capable, thank you," Arthur rose form his spot at the table, making his way over to the bed and trying his best not to sound too amused, " and put some wood on the fire, would you? We've got an early morning tomorrow. We're travelling to Annis' land. She wishes to discuss the safety of both our borders villages."

"Is there a reason I was not told of this sooner?"

"It's simply business, Merlin. There's no need to worry. Get some sleep, you'll need it for the journey."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Merlin muttered as he left, shutting the door tightly.

"I heard that!"

"Go to sleep!"

~~~

The knights laughed loudly as their horses carried them down the well-beaten trail. An agreement was reached between Arthur and Annis about the protection of the border villages, making it much safer for villagers in each kingdom to travel through the border forests.

"Smile, Merlin! We're celebrating!" Gwaine gave Merlin's should a rough pat as his horse rode up alongside Merlin's. He held out a water skin, no doubt filled with ale, and gestured it towards Merlin.

"You're always celebrating, Gwaine." He took a long sip before handing back to Gwaine, nodding his thanks. He would need a drink if he was going to deal with the knights for the ride back to Camelot.

Merlin turned to his daydreams as their journey back continued. He was picturing a beautiful courtyard, lush with apple trees and all kinds of flowers, when his magic started to tingle. He hardly noticed it at first, brushing it off as the change in the wind, but the feeling kept growing stronger.

Someone was watching them.

They were just leaving Caerleon's borders through a valley, the perfect place for an ambush. Merlin looked around, uneasy. His body tensed at every little sound as the forest came into view. He was fighting with himself. If he told Arthur, would he believe him? What if it really was nothing? No, his magic wouldn't deceive him like that. He looked at Arthur, who was riding a short distance in front of him.

Merlin didn't even have to call his name for Arthur to turn around. As soon as their eyes met, a look of concern filled his face. His hand came up, signaling the group to stop. He looked toward the tree line, signaling for his men to do the same. Much to Arthur's horror, it was deathly quiet. The birds stopped chirping and the wind seemed to stop howling. The air around them was still as the group looked around.

"Did you hear something, sire?"

"No. That's exactly the issue."

"If we are quick, we can make it to the trees. Find safety in the forest."

Despite Leon's suggestion, nobody moved a muscle.

They continued looking towards the trees, before Merlin gave Arthur a hard nudge. Getting ready to tell him off, Arthur turned quickly on his horse before following his line of sight. Standing atop the rocky hills on either side of the valley were dozens of men wearing loose black and brown clothing, swords and bows drawn, pointed at the much smaller group of knights.

"AMBUSH!"

The horses started going crazy, whinnying and thrashing in an attempt to throw off the knights. Swords were drawn as the bandits began to yell, running down the hills at all angles. They were outnumbered, far too outnumbered to stand a chance against even the weakest opponents. Arthur unsheathed his sword, trying to regain control of his horse.

"Head for the trees!"

Picking off only the first attackers, it was a race between time, the bandits, and making it to the cover of the woods. Taking a sword from one of the bandits bodies, Merlin was quick to follow Arthur. With his heart pounding in his ears, he could no longer hear the commotion of the fight. He could only hope he was losing them.

~~~

Merlin's head was spinning as he stumbled through the thick underbrush of the forest. He had lost his horse when he lost sight of Arthur. He dragged his stolen sword loosely behind him as he tried to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder. The bandits had been quicker than he thought, and had much better aim than what he'd like to give them credit for. He had barely cleared the trees when the arrow struck his shoulder, no doubt coated in a poison that his mind was too foggy to identify.

Things had gone downhill very quickly after that. The sun had set what Merlin could only guess was hours ago. The forest was so dark he could hardly tell which way was up. He was ready to give up finding the others. He had wandered for hours, they could've been halfway back to Camelot by now.

Merlin had stopped for a moment, leaving heavily against a tree to try to catch his breath, weighing his options as he grimaced at the pain shooting through his arm. He stayed there for a few minutes, waiting, listening to the forest. He heard the magic in the forest as it flowed through every tree, every leaf. There were owls in the distance, and the sound of insects flying by. And footsteps? Although the sword was in his good hand, Merlin was weak as he swung blindly behind him. Hearing the dull thud of metal on metal, and a familiar grunt, Merlin dared to turn around.

"It's a good thing you've got sticks for arms," Arthur huffed out a weak laugh as he took the sword from Merlin.

When Arthur pulled him into a hug, Merlin was ready to defend himself, but he was to tired too do anything but lean into the cool metal of Arthur's chainmail. A gentle 'hmff' was all he could manage.

Arthur took Merlin by the shoulders and held him at arms length, giving him a once over. It was hard to see in the dark, but he could see the blood that coated Merlin left shoulder and arm, and now his own hand.

"I would never leave you behind! How could you think that?" Arthur sounded heartbroken as he gripped onto Merlin's good arm tightly.

"I didn't- how-"

"You didn't need to say it out loud for me to hear you."

Confusion was evident in Merlin's eyes as he scanned Arthur's face, looking for any trace of a joke, but he found nothing.

"It's you, isn't it? That presence, that magic... It's you?"

"It always has been."

The magic danced between them, like it had a thousand times before, but there was no fear behind it, not this time.

"You're hurt."

"I noticed."

Merlin leaned into Arthur's arm, trying to stay steady.

"Can you walk? Let me take you to the others. We've set up a camp, we'll be safer there."

"Only if you carry me. Like a damsel in distress."

"Absolutely not," Arthur scoffed as he picked Merlin up bridal style, slinging his good arm around the back of his neck, making sure not to move him too much.

"Hey! I was kidding, you prat! Put me down!"

"Would you rather I drag you? Quit your complaining. If your swing at me was any indication of your strength, you wouldn't have made it another step." Arthur tried to hide the growing concern in his voice. He looked down at Merlin's face, which was now rested against his shoulder, and he could tell it wasn't good. He only now got a good look at what had happened, and his heart sunk. He had had knights that couldn't recover from a wound like that, where the arrow was haphazardly ripped out in an attempt to get rid of the poison it was laced with.

"Merlin?"

"Hmm?"

"Tell me about the castle. The castle of ships. I'm sure there's parts that I've missed. I can't be in your head all the time."

Merlin smiled, closing his eyes as he shook his head against Arthur's shoulder,

"It's a stupid idea."

"It can't be that stupid, you put a lot of thought into it. Have you ever thought of becoming a storyteller?"

The laugh that came out of Merlin was short and hoarse, but Arthur needed him to keep talking. They were still a long walk away from the camp, and Arthur was willing to do anything to get Merlin there alive.

"I didn't realize I had such a way with words."

"Please?"

"What would you like to hear about, my lord."

"I won't hesitate to drop you."

Merlin let out another laugh, much rougher than the last one, that quickly turned into a fit of heavy, wet coughing. Arthur continued to walk, the only sound being his boots hitting the ground for a long time before Merlin began to speak.

"The grand hall, it would stand alone from the rest of the castle. It would have a long, stone pathway for guests to walk along as they gathered for feasts and balls. It would be lined with rose bushed and allium flowers, the dark purple ones."

There was another coughing fit before he continued, "the double doors, they would be engraved. With dragons, fairies, things of magic. Did you know your shoulder isn't very comfortable?"

"I wouldn't imagine, with it being covered in armor and all. Tell me about the boats. They are my favourite part."

"What about them? I've never seen a ship, only the pictures in Gaius' books. They're fascinating, aren't they?"

He could hardly finish his sentence before he started coughing again. It shook through his whole body, making him ache.

"Come on, Merlin. Keep talking. Give me something, a thought, anything. It's not long until we'll be back with the knights. Elyan will fix you right up. Good as new, right?"

Merlin gave a weak smile, "good 's new..."

"Why do you find ships so interesting? They are just big, fancy boats."

Arthur could hear Merlin's thoughts, still going a mile a minute despite him thinking almost nothing at all.

" 's exactly it. They're big, they're fancy."

"Is there a spell for that? Could you create one?"

"A spell for what?"

"Building things. Constructing this castle, making ships."

"I'm sure I could figure it out."

Merlin shifted in Arthurs arms, trying to make himself more comfortable before hissing out in pain and trying to reach for his shoulder.

"Are you trying to bleed out? Quit moving!"

Arthur's words came out harsher that he intended, though there was sadness in his voice. Merlin continued to wiggle until Arthur dropped his legs. Keeping one hand around Merlin's waist, he used his other hand to keep a firm pressure on his shoulder. Against Merlin's protest and Arthur's better judgment, they continued walking through the dark.

"We're not going to make it in time." Merlin was leaning heavily into Arthur's side, barely keeping his footing at he stumbled over another tree root.

"We're going to make it. You're not going dying on me now Merlin. That's an order."

"When have I ever listened to those?"

Merlin stopped walking, forcing Arthur to stop next to him. Letting himself fall to his knees, he landed with a small 'thump' on the cold ground, the blanket of pine needles and leaves welcomed him. Arthur lowered himself after him, keeping one hand at Merlin's side, his other hand reached out to rest against Merlin's cheek, keeping his head steady as he closed his eyes.

"Keep your eyes open Merlin. Come on, looks at me. Say something."

"Remember my story, won't you? You've heard me tell it a thousand times. Built that castle of ships. For me?"

"I won't build it unless your there to see it. Open your eyes, Merlin, please." Arthur felt hot tears roll down his face as he looked at Merlin. His friend, his best friend, his only friend, was going to die.

Merlin opened his eyes slowly, only getting them halfway opened before they became to heavy to move. Arthur moved the hand on Merlin's waist to his back, gently pulling him into another hug. They sat like this, in silence for a long time, Arthur not daring to pull away.

Arthur started to hum a gentle tune in a last ditch effort to break the silence, not trusting his own voice to not break if he spoke. It was a tune he had caught Merlin humming hundreds of times. It reminded him of the warmth of the castle, how comfortable he was when he watched Merlin go about his duties from his spot at his desk, listening to the story of a magnificent castle being built and the mighty ships that gave it it's name. It reminded him of all the times he had to stop himself from revealing his piece of magic to Merlin, to tell him that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't hated.

The quiet song came to an end and Arthur stopped, listening to the sounds of the forest and hoping to hear a voice amongst the gentle rustle of trees, but he heard nothing. There wasn't a cough, nor a cry or a snarky remark, not even a thought. It was quiet, deafeningly so as Arthur began to cry. Long, ugly sobs were the only sound as he pulled Merlin closer to him, begging, pleading for him to move, get up, say something, kick him, yell at him, anything.

But alas, there was nothing. Only silence as Arthur continued to cry. He cried for the loss of his friend, his dearest friend. He cried for the loss of the kingdom they never got to create with each other.

He cried, sobbed, begged, and bargained. But that too, only ended in silence.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

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Of something beautiful, but annihilating🚬1

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, violence and abuse, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of death [other warning to be added throughout series]

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader’s husband brings home an unexpected houseguest.

Note: So i just worked my ass off and retail is always crummy this time of year so I’m gonna escape with some sweet Arvin Russell writing.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The spring air was warm as the breeze swept over the low fence and fluttered the tails of shirts hung across the line. You grabbed two pegs and a swathe of damp fabric and stretched it over the cord, pinning it in place before moving along. Your old machine had taken much of the day to wrangle and had even received a kick. It was decades old, an heirloom inherited with the old country house and much more clunky than the modern machines. Not many in the county had anything more than the old wringing machines.

Roy would be home soon. Your husband hated to hear about how the wringer jammed so easily and the fear that your fingers might again be bruised by the mechanism. Even so, you were certain it wouldn't last for much longer. It's rattles foretold its imminent fate. You'd be back to a bucket and board soon enough.

As you hung the last piece, Roy's oil stained overalls, you heard the putter of the truck. You picked up the woven basket and headed for the gate along the front of the house. You waved as he pulled up, tires loudly mulching the dirt, and you stopped short as he came to a jagged halt. He wasn't alone and you were stillwearing your grimy and wet apron.

Roy pushed his door open so roughly it creaked. He stepped out and gave an exaggerated stretch as he glanced across the roof of the truck and slammed the door.

"Don't forget your bag, boy," he growled at the other man as he felt around the chest pocket of his overall for his smokes. "Looks like you're too late for laundry day."

"Roy?" You unclasped the gate and opened it as Roy stomped across the gravel and lit up a smoke, "How was your day?"

You peeked over at the other man who climbed out of the truck. He wore similar overall, though they were unbuttoned over a greasy white shirt, and he was shorter and thinner than your husband. He reached back into the truck and grabbed a long military style duffel before he swung the door shut.

Your husband grumbled and blew out a mouthful of smoke.

"We have a guest?" You asked as you stayed by the gate.

"Arvin Russell," Roy flicked the ash away, "You remember I was talkin' 'bout renting out the attic."

"Um, yes," you blinked as the other man, Arvin, neared meekly. Roy had mentioned the idea once when he noticed the way his truck had started rumbling. "It'll need a good dusting."

"So you better get on that." Roy coughed. "What's for dinner?"

"Meatloaf," you answered and turned back to smile at the other man as he bowed his head and passed through the gate.

"Hello, missus," he said kindly, "Nice to meet ya. I work with your husband, says you're a fine cook."

"The one thing she can do," Roy muttered as he ambled up the steps of the porch and dropped onto the bench sat by the window. "You go grab us some bottles."

You closed the gate behind Arvin but he waited for you to precede him before going any further. He was surprisingly polite for any man who worked at the shop.

"Yes, Roy," you hid your disappointment. Those nights when Roy started drinking before dinner rarely ended well.

"Can I just have some water?" Arvin asked as he followed you onto the porch, "Please. I didn't get to my lunch today so I'm not really feeling like drinking."

"Of course," you said, "If you're hungry, I got a box of crackers and some cheese I can bring out."

"Thank you but I'd hate to spoil dinner." Arvin sat on the end of the bench and kept his bag between his feet as Roy threw away his cigarette. "Thank you both for having me."

You nodded and quickly skirted inside. You were a bit confounded by Roy's sudden burst of generosity. He rarely did anything for anyone else. To think he'd offer a room to a coworker was unlike him.

You went to the old fridge, marked with dings and dents, and wiggled the handle until it opened. You remember the day you Pa had broken the handle, he'd always promised to fix it but had only managed to make it worse. You missed him. It was easy to miss him in this old place. His wedding present to you and Roy. It was too tragic he hadn't lived long enough to see you enjoy it.

You grabbed a brown bottle then filled a tall glass from the tap. You went back to the door and opened it with your elbow. You handed Roy his beer as Arvin stood to accept his glass of water.

"Thank you," he chimed but your husband only popped the cap of his beer with his teeth and glared out at the yard.

"Well dinner is in the oven still. I'll just be finishing that before I get started in the attic." You told Roy but he only shrugged and gulped down the beer. "Let me know if you boys need anything."

"Peace and quiet," Roy snarled. "S'all I need right now."

Arvin gave a sympathetic look and traced his thumb along the side of the glass. You hid your discomfort and retreated inside. That was just Roy. He was always in a mood after work. An hour or two and he would mellow out. The beer would surely help.

🚬

When you finished supper, you called the men in to eat. Roy started his second beer as Arvin remained quiet and awkward at the table. You didn’t say much as you pondered the work still left to be done. You had to tidy the attic before the night ended and collect the laundry from the line. You would also have to clear the table and clean up the mess of your cooking.

You stood before the men finished. You scraped your untouched scraps into the dish of leftovers and placed the glass lid on it. You scoured the loaf pan as you listened to the clink of cutlery on plates and set the pots on the drying rack. You returned to the men to gather their empty dishes and Arvin thank you as Roy belched and stood with a satisfied but gruff rumble.

Arvin watched you as you tried to ignore the pity in his face. You knew your husband wasn’t the most loving or vocal, but he was yours and he worked hard. You turned away and went back to the kitchen. You finished washing the last of the glassware and dried it before stacking it in the cupboards.

As you passed through the dining room, Arvin was gone and you could hear the buzz of the radio from the front room. Roy always liked to listen to the game after he ate. Sometimes you sat with him and crocheted or read but not often.

You tiptoed upstairs and found the footstool hidden in the bottom of the linen closet. You climbed onto the step and reached up to unhook the cord of the attic door. It dangled down and you pulled it carefully as you backed off the stool and kicked it away. The steps unfolded and you barely stepped out of the way of their descent as the heavy wood thumped against the carpet.

It had been a while since you ventured up to the third floor. There was only dust and forgotten memories up there. You slowly made your way up and sneezed as you reached the top. A wall of boxes blocked the window along the front of the house and shrouded furniture sat beneath grimy sheets.

You started with the boxes. You took one and peeked under the flaps. Some old oil lamps hoarded by your father from his own parents. You awkwardly made your way back down to the second floor and placed the box at the bottom. When you had them all down, you’d take them into your father’s old room to store. Perhaps you should sort through them at last and get rid of the unneeded artifacts.

You were six boxes deep when you were startled by a shadow in the open hatch. You exclaimed and nearly dropped your armful as Arvin poked his head through and peered over at you.

“Arvin,” you gasped. “My apologies, this place is a mess.”

“Not so bad,” he climbed up and stood, “You need some help?”

“Don’t be silly, I can manage--”

“You’re right. It’s a mess,” he insisted, “A lot for just one person.”

You stared at him and gave a small smile. He was funny. He neared you and reached out for the box in your arms.

“How about this, I’ll stay on the ladder and you bring the boxes to me and I’ll take ‘em down.” He took the box gently from you, “It’ll be much quicker.”

You looked into his soft brown eyes and let him. He backed away and cautiously made his way down the ladder. You turned and grabbed another box and he reappeared through the hatch. You handed him the box of figurines and he retreated once more. You carried on and soon, the boxes were stacked high on the lower floor.

“Alright,” Arvin climbed up and dusted off his hands, “Already lookin’ better.”

He neared the old sofa against the wall and pulled off the sheet. He coughed as the dust was kicked up and it soon turned into a chuck as he waved away the cloud.

“We can keep this here,” he draped the sheet over his arm and pulled the next from the tall lamp with the glass shade, “Move this into the corner,” he continued on and peeked under a sheet before unveiling the tall shelf, “If you don’t mind, of course?”

“Not at all. We should’ve sold all this years ago.” You teetered on your heels anxiously. Every piece reminded you of your father. “There’s a cot folded up over there,” you pointed behind a hidden end table, “But that wouldn’t be much better than the floor.”

“It’ll do,” he assured you and turned to sit on the sofa. He bounced as he hugged the sheets. “This isn’t too bad.”

“Well, there’s a bed down in my pa’s room. We could try to bring it up tomorrow. If you don’t mind offerin’ a little more help.” You wrung your hands. You were never very good with strangers and Roy’s friends often weren’t much nicer than him. You were tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I think I could do that,” he stood and wiggled his nose as a sneeze threatened. “You got a broom? Maybe a duster?”

“You’ve done enough, I can finish it--”

“Ma’am, I’m a guest in your home. I might be paying for the room but it doesn’t make you my maid,” he intoned, “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t think I’ve eaten so well since before my momma died.”

“Oh, I’m… sorry,” you uttered. “I--”

“Now, don’t be sorry,” he cooed, “Nothing to be sorry for. I assume you lost your daddy if his bed is free.”

You nodded dumbly and blinked.

“Well, at least let me take these,” you reached for the sheets and he hesitated before he let you take them. You struggled to keep them balled up and hugged them against your hip as you turned back to the hatch. “I’ll bring you the broom.”

“Thank you,” he said behind you and you looked back at him as you took your first step down the ladder, “You let me know when you bring that washin’ in and I’ll help you fold.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I want to. Makes me feel a little better about stealin’ your attic,” he assured you.

You looked down and slowly descended. As your feet met the carpet, you sighed and looked around at the boxes. You couldn’t remember a time Roy had ever offered to help with anything. If it wasn’t to do with his truck, he couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger.

🚬

You were completely drained by the time you retired to your bedroom. You were still on edge, your exhaustion laced with anxiety as you unbuttoned your blouse. You sat on the side of the bed as you slowly undressed. It was still absurd to you that another person, barely more than a stranger, was living in your home. In your father’s house.

It changed your whole routine. You couldn’t help but go over it in your mind. That meant three plates, not two, for every meal, that meant the laundry basket would fill up quicker, than meant the shoes tracks in the front entrance would need to be mopped up more often. That mean you had to act like your marriage was truly happy.

You pulled on your night gown, the short sleeves tickled your upper arms as you dropped your clothes in the wicker basket on your chest of drawers. A framed photo of your parents’ wedding day sat beside it and on the shelf beside the door, was your own wedding portrait.

Three years wasn’t so long but it felt an eternity. You couldn’t quite recall when Roy had changed. When the beer had started to taint his kisses and his words. When all pretense fell away and only the man remained. The brutish country boy with the churlish demeanour.

Maybe the first day of your marriage. Maybe. You were so nervous on your wedding night that it angered him. You’d mend your dress one day, hopefully when you had a daughter of your own so you had something to promise her.

Or maybe a week after the wedding, when you broke the vase gifted to you upon your nuptials and it shattered across the floor. Roy’s booming voice and his boulder-like fists.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, a month in when the world went black with his hand on your throat and you awoke alone on the kitchen floor.

Maybe a year when your finger was dislocated by a slammed door. Maybe the next year when you couldn’t sit for the pain in your hips. Maybe the one after when he’d grown impatient for a child only to find your sheets soaked in blood.

Maybe it had always been there, from the first date, but you’d simply refused to accept it. Not you. Not Roy. You loved him and he loved you, didn’t he?

The door slammed and shook you from your sombre recollections. You looked up as Roy stumbled in. He snickered darkly as your eyes met his and his legs wobbled beneath him drunkenly.

You slid off the bed and turned to plant your elbows on the mattress. A prayer before bed, as your grandmother had taught you. Another sarcastic chuckle aimed in your direction as Roy’s stained white tee missed the basket.

“On your knees for me already,” he sat beside your elbow as he unbuckled his belt.

You couldn’t focus on your inner recitation. You could smell the alcohol on him, the stench of oil and his sweat. You clutched your hands together and cleared your throat.

“Why didn’t you call me?” You asked calmly.

He frowned and stood to shove his pants past his knees. He kicked the jeans away and fell heavily back to the bed.

“Call you?” He sneered.

“To let me know about our guest?” You wondered innocently. “I could’ve readied for him better.”

“Workin’,” he growled. “I don’t got time to be callin’ you with my head under an engine. Fuckin’ Christ.”

“There isn’t a bed in the attic.” You said.

“So. Arv’s small enough. I’ve seen him sleep on a stool.” Roy spat.

You hid your chagrin behind your hands as you pressed them to your lips.

“Why’d you bring him?”

Roy’s nostrils flared and a fist formed atop his hairy thigh. “I gotta explain to you?” He snapped. “He paid me outright and he been sleepin’ at the motel since he started.”

“Mr. Dace has a room--”

“Mr. Dace lives twice as far as we do. I did the kid a favour. He saved my ass his first day.” Roy stomped his foot. “Woulda burned down the whole garage if he hadn’t caught that leak.”

“Kid? He that young?”

“Couple years younger than you, I s’pose, maybe less,” Roy rubbed his cheeks and shook his head, “What’s it matter to you?”

“Curious,” you said quietly and closed your eyes as you rested your chin on your knuckles.

Roy was quiet. He let out a long, thick breath and the bed jolted beneath your arms.

“You finished bleeding?” He asked gruffly.

“I’m praying, Roy,” you insisted.

“How long’s it take you? I’m sure God’s heard it all before.”

“Don’t talk like that, R--”

You squeaked as he grabbed your wrist and wrenched your arms away. He rose and lifted you with him. Always a strong man, he moved you like a puppet to his will. He took your other wrist and pulled you against him.

“You know, I don’t even care if you’re bleeding.” He turned you and shoved you onto the bed. You cried out as you bounced so hard you bit your tongue.

“Roy, please, I’m tired,” you stared up at him fearfully as you pushed yourself up on your elbows. You could taste blood.

“You’re my wife. You do your duty.” He pushed his underwear down as his cock twitched. “You got energy to wash all them clothes, you can lay on your back for your husband.”

“Roy--”

“Shut up!” He shouted. “We got company. I don’t need ya keepin’ him up with your whining.”

You closed your eyes as he fell onto you. He crushed you beneath him as he tugged your skirt up harshly. He pushed your legs apart with his knee and you braced yourself for his painful intrusion. Even so long into the marriage, you had never grown used to his touch.

He retracted his hand and began to touch himself. He stroked his cock as he swore under his breath.

“Fuck. Come on.” He moved his hand quicker and rubbed his soft tip against your folds. “Open up.”

He forced his dick against your entrance and tried to push inside. He was still half-flaccid and struggled to get further than an inch. You balled your hands and sank your head into the mattress as he thrust. He fell out of you, softer than before.

You opened your eyes sat up on his knees and looked down at his limp dick. He gritted his teeth as you watched him.

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he punched your stomach as hard as he could and you wheezed as you folded in on yourself. “Can’t even keep me hard.”

“Roy--” You hissed. “I’m s--”

“One more word and you’ll be real sorry.” He pushed himself from between your legs, making certain to pinch you as he did.

He stood and turned. You barely moved out of the way before he sprawled over his side of the mattress. You held your stomach, a painful pressure lodge there, and rolled to the edge of the bed. You reached over and pulled the chain on the lamp.

As you laid back, Roy caught the back of your neck and kept you in a painful limbo.

“On the floor,” he jarred your neck as he tried to throw you off the bed. “Like the dog you are.”

You slid off the side and landed sharply on your knees. You stifled a shameful sob and lowered yourself down onto your side. You bent your knees and cushioned your head on one arm. You stared into the void beneath the bed as the frame groaned beneath Roy’s heavy body.

“Goddamn bitch,” he uttered groggily. “Fuckin’--”

His words turned to snores as he finally drowned in his bellyful of beer. You listened to his jagged, drunken breaths as you shivered on the cold wood. You closed your eyes and recalled the first night you’d slept on the floor. You’d been in much poorer shape and it had been the dead of winter.

At least, you didn’t have to sleep next to him.

#arvin russell #arvin russell x reader #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #series #the devil all the time #of something beautiful but annihilating

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thebadgerclan · 3 years

Text

Grateful

Pairing: Severus Snape x reader

Summary: One year after the battle...

Not requested, but I wanted to write something fluffy for the 23rd anniversary of the Battle Of Hogwarts ❤💛💙💚

Severus’ eyes slowly opened, and as they did, slight dread and anxiety filled him. He didn’t need to look at a calendar to know what day it was, he knew exactly what day it was: May 2nd. One year ago, Severus had nearly lost his life, left you, his darling, beloved wife, alone in the world. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he survived: three weeks in the hospital wing and intensive therapy, spells and potions of his own creation, and most importantly, your unwavering support and affection pulled Severus through, allowing him to return to health.

But even a year later, Severus still suffered. A number of things could trigger a flashback, causing him to zone out as he relived the horrors of his past. His flashbacks never caused him to be violent, but they sometimes sent him into a bit of a depression. Those episodes were few now, but the nightmares were still quite frequent. Severus would wake, screaming in horror: screaming for you, for Voldemort not to kill you, not to kill him, or, most often, just crying out “No! Please, no!”

Your arms were the only thing that would soothe him, bring him back to reality. You’d shush him gently, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, and drying his tears until he was ready to fall asleep again. And if he wasn’t ready to sleep, you’d light some candles and sit with him in your arms, reading, talking, or just sitting in silence, enjoying each other’s presence. It was safe to say that without you, Severus wouldn’t have made it through the past year.

Severus felt his heart quicken, feeling a bit ill, and he shifted restlessly. You’d woken a moment ago, knowing that Severus would likely be anxious and on edge today, and you opened your arms to him. He snuggled into your chest, wrapping his arms around your middle and holding onto you as if you’d float away if he didn’t. “I’ve got you,” you said softly, kissing Severus’ forehead and rubbing his back, holding him close. “You’re alright, I’m right here. You’re not alone, Sev, you’ll never be alone ever again.”

He nodded, nuzzling closer to your chest. You held him for a half hour, kissing his head occasionally, before easing him out of your arms. “Come on, sweetheart,” you said, sitting up and pushing the covers off of your legs. “We’ve got to get dressed.” Severus nodded, slowly getting out of bed and puttering into the bathroom. His anxiety was much greater today, but you’d expected that. Most days, almost every day, in fact, Severus would get up and dressed without your prompting him and make his way either up to breakfast or down to his classroom. But today, on the one year anniversary of the final battle, he was feeling especially fragile.

And that was alright, you’d made sure to tell him that multiple times in the past few days. You yourself were feeling a bit on edge as well; the losses and traumas feeling fresher, closer to the surface than they had in the past year. You pulled on your dress robes, braiding your hair back, and pulling your Order of Merlin, First Class, over your neck. You set Severus’ own Order of Merlin on the dresser and waited for him to come out of the bathroom. He did, a moment later, dressed in his usual black robes, looking a bit sad.

“Come here,” you said, holding your arms open to your man. Severus walked into your arms, resting his chin on your shoulder as he hugged you. When he pulled back, you pulled his face down to kiss him, lips soft against yours. Severus was hesitant to pull back, but when he did, he cupped your face in both of his hands. “I love you so much, my Y/N,” he whispered, and you smiled softly, going on your tiptoes to peck his lips. “I could not have survived this past year without you.” “I love you too, Sev,” you responded, looping Severus’ Order of Merlin around his neck. “I love you so much. Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

The pair of you made your way up to the Great Hall, hand in hand. Headmistress McGonagall had arranged a ceremony to honor everyone who was lost in the battle. She’d told you and Severus that your role would be small: all you would do was stand amongst the Hogwarts staff while McGonagall and some of the dead’s family members spoke, and lie a flower on the memorial site outside. She knew that Severus wasn’t ready to speak, nor were many of the people who fought in the battle, and she was more than willing to accommodate.

Minerva bustled over to you and your husband as you entered the hall, a small smile on your face. “Y/N, Severus, good, you’re here. Now, here are the flowers,” she handed you both a rose. “And you’ll be standing next to Professor Sprout. Any questions?” Severus shook his head, a far away look in his eyes, and you took his hand and squeezed it, letting him know you were there. “No, thank you, Minerva.” The witch nodded, dashing away, and you turned to Severus. “Hey, are you alright?” Severus nodded, but he was still staring at the wall. “Look at me, Severus.”

He did, and you could tell he was on the verge of panic. “Breathe with me, love. In...and out. Good, again. In… and out. Alright, now repeat after me: ‘I am safe’.” “I am safe,” Severus repeated back to you, color returning to his face. “I am alive, I am here.” “I am alive, I am here.” You nodded, kissing the back of his hand. “Good. Are you ready, Sev?” He nodded, but this time, it was convincing. “Yes, I’m ready.” Filled with a new confidence, Severus, walked with you into the Great Hall, head held high, taking your place next to Professor Sprout.

The ceremony was lovely, tributes, stories, and memories of the fallen shared. Harry Potter and his fiance, Ginny were there with their godson, Teddy, the son of two of the dead, alone with Ron and Hermione. Dozens of Hogwarts alumni were there to pay their respects and to support their friends and family. The ceremony drew to a close, and everyone filed out of the Hall and into the grounds to see the new memorial.

The memorial consisted of a large block of white granite, the names of everyone who was lost in the battle engraved. One by one, the professors, survivors, and family members proceeded up to the memorial and laid their rose atop the stone, some stopping to say a few words, others too overcome to stay more than an instant. You and Severus went up, still holding his hand, and laid your roses down, tears spilling down your husband’s cheeks.

He turned, walking away from the memorial, and you followed him, his hand still clutching yours. Severus stopped when he arrived on the shore of the Black Lake, looking out over the water. You came to stand at his side, and Severus put his arm around you, pulling you closer, tucking you into his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, hand resting on his chest. “I still can’t believe it’s over sometimes,” Severus said, hand rubbing up and down your arm. “Some mornings, I think I’ll wake up and we’ll still be at war.” You nodded against his shoulder, stepping a bit closer to him.

“I know, Sev, I do too. But it’s over, and we’re free. We’ll never have to feel like that again. We have the rest of our lives to just live: to love each other, to do whatever we want. We just have to live.” Severus tightened his arm around you, looking over at you. You did the same, and he tipped your chin up to kiss you, lips molding against yours, He turned to face you, as did you, and Severus looped his arms around your shoulders, and you wrapped your arms around his torso, both holding each other as close as possible. “I love you, my sweet,” he whispered, lips not an inch from yours. “I love you eternally, I will love you for the rest of my life.”

You kissed him again, trying to pull him closer, but you were already flush against one another. “I love you too, Sev. I will always love you.” When you pulled back, you rested your cheek on Severus’ chest, and your husband continued to hold you, swaying back and forth gently. “Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful,” he said, stroking your back. “Grateful to be alive, grateful for you, for your love, grateful for every single thing that this world can offer.” You lifted your head, looking into Severus’s eyes. “I’m grateful too,” you said, cupping his cheek, teaching his cheekbone with your thumb. “For everything, But especially for you. I love you, Severus, I will always love you.” “And I love you, Y/N. Forever and always.”

#severus snape x reader #severus snape x you #snape x reader #snape x you #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter reader insert

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kaylaxwrites · 3 years

Text

Street Kid

Pairing: (platonic!) Frank Castle & Reader Words: 1.9k Request: “hi :) can you do a platonic frank castle imagine where he is in a fight and looses alot of blood and end up passing out in an alley but a street kid (16/17 yo female) stitches him up and saves him and later he runs into him and they develop a father-daughter relationship? thank you so much!” (anon) A/N: I don’t know if this is what you wanted, and my mind blanked half way through when trying to come up with some father/daughter scenarios, so that aspect of it probably isn’t the best. But!! even though requests are technically closed, I’ll also some father/daughter requests for if you have any specific situations/scenarios you wanted to see. Just because I feel really bad that I couldn’t write what I wanted to see so it’s probably not what you wanted to see lol

Warnings: reader has an ambiguous background of being kicked out by her parents and she’s homeless and also somewhat-graphic description of stitching somebody up. but it’s a punisher fic, so you know

You ducked through the alley, taking the shortcut you always took. You stumbled to a halt when you noticed a body laying on the ground. Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, you thought as you inched closer to the man, letting out a breath when you noticed the rise and fall of his chest. You hesitantly leaned over him, toeing him with the edge of your shoe. “Buddy…uh, you okay there?” you asked, nudging him a few more times. It wasn’t until the fifth nudge until he finally gasped awake, wildly swinging at you the instant his eyes opened.

“Woah, woah, woah,” you called, stepping back several feet. “Chill, dude, you’re fine.”

It was a few moments for him to calm his breathing and gather his surroundings. “Who’re you?” he grumbled, words almost slurred.

“Uh…Y/N. I was just walking by and I saw…” You noticed his wide away of injuries then. He was so bruised and bloodied, you weren’t sure where one wound ended and another began. Blood obscured his face so you couldn’t make out any details as to who he might have been. But the skull on the chest was a dead giveaway. The Punisher. “I think you need a hospital.”

“No—no hospitals.” He stumbled to his feet but crashed into a dumpster, unable to find his balance.

“Uh, yes. Yes hospitals.”

“M’fine.”

“Uh-huh. Is there…is there anyone after you? You look like you got the shit beat of you. They won’t be coming back, will they?”

“No. No.”

You sighed. “Glad that’s settled. So if no hospitals, you got anyone I can call? You got friends?”

“Look like I make friends?”

“No.” You looked around and sighed. “Well, I wouldn’t feel like a good Samaritan if I left you all by yourself. You wanna follow me or…?” He huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh, but hesitantly shuffled behind you after you started walking.

You kept pace with him as you navigated to your home. No, house? No…place you slept. The abandoned building that acted as the roof over your head wasn’t much, but it was all you had. After your parents had kicked you out a year and a half ago—and your subsequent emancipation—it was the best spot you could find. The shelters were always overcrowded and no landlord in their right mind would lease to a sixteen-year-old, so you settled. At the very least, you were able to spend money earned from your two fast food jobs on things other than rent. Like food. And a nice sleeping bag. And, useful in instances like this, a well-stocked first aid kit.

You held open the gap in the chain link fence for the man to wince his way through. In any other instance, you’d feel hesitant to let a stranger—a grown man, no less—into what acted as your home, but this was the Punisher you were talking about. Even though he…killed…people, you read enough in the news to know that his moral code—however skewed it was—wouldn’t let him hurt women or kids. As you fell squarely into that category, you figured you were safe.

You kicked open the door to your building and led the Punisher up the stairs to the room where you camped out. You directed him to sit on the dusty table at the center of the room. You pulled out the first aid kit you had, as well as a couple clean towels you had nicked from work. You set those on the table next to the Punisher before pulling the 48-pack of water bottles out from under the table. You wet a towel with one of the bottles and handed it to him. He started cleaning his face until he could finally see clearly through the blood.

“You live here?” he asked after taking in the room fully. You noticed his eyes lingered on the sleeping bed and mat framed by battery-operated string lights in the corner of the room. Then he finally took in your appearance. “Jesus, you’re just a kid.” And your age, apparently.

“I’m eighteen!” you tried to defend yourself. Frank arched an eyebrow, eyes sliding to your stuffed animal still propped up on your pillow. You sighed, looking down. “Sixteen. And a half,” you added after a moment. As if it would help your case.

“Where are your parents?”

You crossed your arms defensively. “It’s a long story.”

“Fair enough.” He looked around the room once more. “You got a mirror I can use?” You nodded and slid a half-shattered mirror from behind the door. He nodded his thanks and stepped over to the mirror, sliding his shirt and vest off with a grimace.

You puttered around while he did whatever he needed to fix himself up and clean himself off. You tried to avoid looking over at him, the blood making your stomach queasy. You were able to ignore him until he caught your attention half an hour later.

“Kid,” he called. “Kid. Hey, kid!”

It was the last one that startled you to attention. You jumped and turned to face him. He was cleaned and stitched up. For the most part. He definitely looked a lot better than when you saw him for the first time. But you still thought he should go to the hospital. Punisher or not.

“I need your help,” he continued.

“How am I supposed to help?” you asked.

He turned to show you a gash on the back side of his ribcage. “Needs stitched. I can’t reach it.”

“And you want me to…” You gulped.

“You got anyone else here to help out?”

“Well…no.”

He gestured you over and then pressed a needle and tweezers in your hands. You eyed the curved suturing needle warily. “I’ve already sterilized everything. I just need you to close it.” He braced himself against the wall with his opposite arm.

“I—I don’t know what to do.”

He pulled your hands so they were against the wound. “You gotta pinch it closed then about half a centimeter from the edge slide the needle in and straight across.”

You followed his directions and gagged at the feeling of the needle sliding through skin. “Oh my god! That is disgusting!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep going.”

You gagged again as you pulled the needle through the opposite edge of skin. “Now what?” you asked, breathing heavily.

“Double knot it and cut it off. And then go every quarter inch or so until the end.”

You did as he said until the entire would was sealed off. You raced to grab a bottle of water to pour over your hands. You never wished more for running water so you could thoroughly wash the blood off your hands—and the memory of feeling the sutures pull against skin. “Please tell me that’s the only one,” you said when your hands were the cleanest they were going to get.

“Yeah, that’s the only one.”

“You do that often?”

He chuckled. “More than I should.” He shrugged his bloody shirt back on, seemingly preparing to leave. “You stay here by yourself?”

“For the most part,” you answered. “I mean, sometimes there’s a few kids who hole up downstairs, but for the most part, it’s just me.”

Frank looked conflicted, as if he wanted to leave but didn’t feel right leaving you here alone. After a few moments, he seemed to make up his mind. “I should probably lie low for a little while. You mind if I stay out in the hallway?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. I don’t…I don’t have, like, any extra pillows or anything to give you, though.”

“Trust me, kid, I’ve slept in worse places than that dingey hallway.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I probably should…be getting to bed,” you said. You weren’t anywhere near tired, but you don’t want him to feel like he needed to hang around you any longer. You passed him two water bottles as he stepped outside of the room. “Well, uh, goodnight, Frank.”

He tensed as you said his name. “How do you know my name?”

You almost rolled your eyes. “Uh, it’s not exactly like you’re incognito. The Punisher logo on your vest kind of gave it away.”

“Right. Night, kid.”

“Goodnight.”

You smiled and shut the door, moving to curl into your little bedspace. If you were being completely honest, you felt the safest tonight sleeping here than you’d ever had. Logically, you knew the Punisher was supposed to be some big, scary man, but deep down, you knew no harm would come to you with Frank Castle sitting just outside your door.

The sunlight slowly woke you the next morning. You squinted into the light that poured in from the broken window above your sleeping bag. You turned over and tried to fall back asleep, but it was no use. You rose from the makeshift bed, wincing as your joints popped, and made your way to the hallway. You looked down each end, but Frank was gone. It didn’t surprise you that he left at some point in the night, but you couldn’t say you weren’t a little disappointed he wasn’t there. You shuffled back into your room, freezing when you saw what was on the table.

Breakfast.

A hot, steaming breakfast.

You weren’t sure how you didn’t notice it earlier, what with the smell now wafting towards your nose. Instantly, your stomach rumbled. You rushed over to the takeout container, eager to find what was inside. A sticky note on top simply read “Thanks, kid,” but you set it aside. Your mouth watered the instant you opened the container.

Pancakes.

This was probably the single most happiest moment of your life. You hadn’t had a hot meal—let alone a hot breakfast—in who knows how long. The platter spread before you seemed like a feast. You dug in happily, savoring every bite until it was gone.

That was the last you expected to hear from the Punisher. You stitched him up, he bought you breakfast the next day as thanks, that should be it, right?

Turns out Frank Castle was a man of many surprises.

Nearly every single day from that point forward, you would find a takeout container centered on your table. Sometimes, he left you breakfast like that first day—sometimes pancakes, sometimes omelets, but all from the diner a few blocks down the road. Other days, he’d bring you dinner, leaving Chinese takeout containers piled high on the table or a Tupperware container full of homemade spaghetti. You weren’t sure who made the spaghetti—you couldn’t exactly picture Frank in the kitchen—but it was incredible, nonetheless.

Your favorite days were when Frank lingered after dropping the food off, eventually going as far as to sit and eat with you when he could. Those days left you feeling the happiest. Dinners with Frank happened more and more until he offered you the small second bedroom in his rundown apartment. “I’m never gonna use it,” he said, “and I’m not gonna bust you out of jail if you get caught for trespassing.” You eagerly grabbed the opportunity with both hands—you wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if that horse would get you out of this rat- and cockroach-infested hellhole. Living in an actual apartment would be a dream.

Thinking back on everything, you weren’t sure when the feeling began, but one day, you realized…you felt like a family. By all means, the relationship you had with Frank Castle was far more familial and paternal than any you’d ever had with your biological family. With each passing day, you couldn’t be happier that you’d stumbled across a half-dead Punisher in the alley that night.

#Frank Castle & Reader #frank castle x reader #frank castle & you #frank castle x you #frank castle imagine #tagging x reader bc I don't even know if anyone follows & reader #but it's platonic #so #mine

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imaginetonyandbucky · 4 years

Text

The Buy In

Chapter 10: Epilogue

by @dracusfyre

"I feel like you're going to try to sell me a time share," Bucky said, studying the bland conference room Tony had reserved. It looked like probably every other conference room Bucky had ever been, as if they were all ordered out of the same catalogue; beige walls, carpeted floor that had the feeling of being beige while actually having flecks of red and blue in it, and the tables and chairs with wheels on them so they could be moved easily. Tony had even pulled down a screen and to all appearances, was setting up for a powerpoint presentation.

"It's all about presentation, Mr. Barnes," Tony said. He picked up a clicker and a red dot appeared on Bucky's chest, then started moving around in what Bucky eventually recognized as a heart shape. "Gotta know your audience and what they'll respond to. Too fancy, and they'll be scared off. Not fancy enough, and they'll feel like they're being scammed. A hotel conference room fits neatly inside that middle ground."

"You've put a lot of thought into this," Bucky said. He glanced at the clock, saw that they had a few minute before people were supposed to arrive and dipped his head for a quick kiss.

"Well, yeah," Tony started, but then there was a knock on the door. Tony opened it to see that part of the security detail started bringing in the refreshments for the meeting, coffee and donuts and croissants and other breakfast-style food that people would probably pick at and leave mostly untouched. "Natasha helped," he continued, poking at the refreshments table and rearranging everything slightly. "She's better at that side of things, the headology, as she calls it."

"I can see that." Bucky watched Tony putter. Looked like Tony was nervous, which was kind of adorable. "So you can't even give me a sneak peak at what you're talking about today?"

Tony shook his head. "For right now, you're a potential investor, not my lover."

"Ok, ok," Bucky said. He realized he was following Tony around as he puttered aimlessly and made himself stop. "So I got to see KT today. Brought him his laptop so he could start catching up on homework."

That made Tony stop rearranging the plates and napkins and turn to Bucky with a smile. "Good! So that mean's he is doing well?"

"Yep. Should be out of there soon. Any update on Rumlow?"

Tony's smile turned evil. "From what I hear, he's had a run of bad luck lately, such a shame. He lost his service pistol, which, you know, big no no. And did you know someone stole his patrol car, spray painted it, and left something unmentionable smeared on the seats? Then did the same with his personal car, which was found laying upside down in front of his apartment building?"

With a force of effort Bucky kept his face blank. "Strange."

"Very strange," Tony agreed. "Insurance didn't even pay out, mysteriously enough. Apparently they had dropped his coverage the day before and he hadn't gotten the notice yet."

"Crime in this city is getting really out of hand," Bucky said seriously. "He's lucky it wasn't something worse."

"Oh it will be, give it time."

There was that smug look again that Bucky loved, and he started to sneak another kiss when there was another knock. This time the security guard was escorting people inside, a middle-aged Black couple that looked around cautiously, like they were expecting the conference room to contain something nefarious. Bucky straightened immediately, trying to look professional, and smiled at them as Tony welcomed them inside, calling them by name and offering them a warm handshake. There was a steady stream after that, until the conference room was about half full.

"Hello everyone, let's get started," Tony said, taking a head count and looking at the clock. "All of you are here because you either were recommended by a friend or a family, or I sent you a personal invitation. Thank you for being willing to join me today for this presentation, and please save your questions for the end. As you all know, my name is Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, and in this presentation I'm going to ask you for money." Tony grinned as almost everyone laughed. "Then I'm going to tell you what you're going to get for your money, and then I'm going to explain how you're not even going to notice that your money is gone."

As interested as Bucky was in the presentation, he kept getting distracted by watching Tony effortlessly charm the room, making eye contact with each person and joking just enough to keep people interested without derailing his speech. It was a warmer, more authentic show than what Bucky had seen at the Policeman's Ball and it made Bucky's heart turn over with affection as he watched. KT had been right when he said that the buy-in speech could make you a believer; not just in the astonishing amount of benefits that Tony offered to people who agreed to the buy-in, but because Tony's enthusiasm for the project was contagious.

"So why do you need our money?" One guy interrupted. "If you've got so much of it?"

"Good question," Tony said. He leaned against one of the tables, putting his hands in his pocket and crossing his legs at the ankle. "Yeah, the majority of the start-up money came from me. Since this organization is technically a nonprofit, I get to write it all off of my taxes, the way rich people often do. But I ask for your money because if I paid for all of it, then it would belong to me, wouldn't it? The whole point of this enterprise is to build ownership and equity in the community. You own the health clinic and the child care centers, the retirement homes and the apartment complexes. Not only does it mean you get to decide what to do with them, but it means that you start having a place at the same table that all of the billionaire developers and well-connected real estate moguls do."

"But the stuff about the taxes and stuff, where we just hand it all to you, that's tax fraud, isn't it? Which is illegal?"

"Well, yes, in a way," Tony said honestly. "You avoid paying taxes the same way rich people avoid paying taxes, by finding loopholes in the tax code and driving semi-trucks through them. But also, I'm the criminal, not you. If we get caught, I'm the big bad con artist that scammed honest folks like you out of your hard earned savings. There will be a class action lawsuit after the criminal proceedings, my lawyer will fight hard but not too hard to defend my assets, then they will eventually get divided up among all my victims in the kind of feel-good, good guys win story that is made for Hallmark TV. In the mean time, my job is to help the community fund the type of social welfare projects that the government should be doing but isn't, by taking from people who don't deserve it and giving it to the people that do. Which the government should also be doing but isn't."

"So this is like, socialism," a young woman said in accented English. "Instead of paying the government taxes, we give that money to you, and you like, do all this stuff with it."

"Pretty much. Grassroots socialism with a capitalist veneer. I like to think of it as stone soup, from the kid's story."

"But why?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," Tony said, like it was obvious. Bucky hid his smile in his hand and hoped he didn't look too besotted; he'd sat all the way in the back for a reason. "I don't know else to say it. Why should I have so much when others have so little? I give a lot it away, because there really are so many problems that can be solved by throwing money at them, but some can't. Some need systemic change, which means empowering people, which is what I'm trying to do. That's why it's a buy-in, and not a handout." There was still some obvious reluctance among the group, and Tony's smile turned a little sad. "Look, I get it. You are used to people promising a lot and not delivering. And you think this sounds way too good to be true, right?" No one really answered, but the way they kind of avoided Tony's eyes said a lot. "Let me tell you a story.

"So I've been donating regularly to the free clinic on 17th for a while now. A few years ago, there was a kid volunteering there because he wanted to go to medical school. But he was in a shit position - his parents made too much money to qualify for the grants and needs-based scholarships, but not enough to actually afford tuition or even qualify for good student loans. So the doctor in charge of the clinic emailed me and told me to do something useful with all of the blood money I was getting from Stark Industries, and so I did. I paid for his entire education, and he came back and is currently the head physician at the rehab clinic. So if you want there to be a catch, if you need there to be a catch so that you can believe what I'm telling you, then that's the catch - you have to try to give back at least as much as you were given."

There was a long, thoughtful silence after that, and Tony wisely let it sit for a while instead of trying to fill it with words. "You don't have to answer now," he said after a few moments. "The forms that you would need to fill out for the buy-in are right here," he added, tapping a stack of papers next to him. "Take one with you, and think about it. Any last questions?"

"Yeah, I got one," the young woman said. "I heard you stole Jeff Bezos' car, is that true?"

-------------

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, come find me over at @marveltrumpshate where I will be participating in auctioning off TWO fanfics! One auction is a fic with art (with @massivespacewren) as WrenFyre and the other is a solo fic as Dracusfyre. All the money goes to a good cause of your choosing, so I hope to see you there!

#tony stark #bucky barnes #tony x bucky #winteriron #no powers au

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dothwrites · 4 years

Note

i love your writing! i would love to see you write a Dean/Cas "getting together" fic with maybe... #15 *Don’t tempt me* :D :D

---

google doth, always taking prompts!

---

It’s been four days since the moving van appeared on the street like a mirage, and Dean has yet to see the poor sap who bought 401 Kripke Drive.

The house is a damn eyesore and it’s been that way for years. Dean’s complained about it to the homeowner’s association, along with several others, but he never got any answer other than a vague The owner appreciates your concern and something will be done about the property soon. Meanwhile, the shutters were rotting and the grass in front of the property was tall enough to play a game of Jumangi in. Dean’s seen a few intrepid raccoons slithering around the property and he’d be willing to bet that there are snakes in that tall grass. Snakes. He shudders as he finishes the touches on his own (pristine) lawn.

Not that he’s become a Stepford Smiler whose only concern is his lawn, but...Look, it’s good to have a nice lawn. It gives the right impression, plus it boosts property values. And what’s the point in having a house if you’re not getting equity out of it?

Which is why Dean is so excited that finally someone’s bought the dilapidated two story at the end of the street. Finally, he can stop wincing whenever he invites Sam and Jess over. He waits, in eager anticipation, to catch sight of the person who Dean’s come to think of as his personal savior. Failing that, he waits to see the taming of the lawn or the painting and re-siding of the house or...anything.

He waits. And he waits.

After a week with no progress, he’s tired of waiting. He quickly whips up a non-offensive lemon cake (no pie; pie is for people who mow their lawns and don’t ruin his property values) and treks down the street to greet the new neighbor.

“What do you have there?” his neighbor, Jody shouts. She’s being a good neighbor and planting her yearly marigolds in her front (landscaped) lawn. “You going to see the new guy?”

“Yeah. Why, have you seen him?” This is good. Up until just a few minutes ago, Dean didn’t know that it was even a guy who had moved in.

Jody smiles. Everything about her screams I know something you don’t know. What’s worse is, from experience, Dean knows that she’s not going to share. “Sure have,” is all that she says. She smiles a Cheshire cat grin at him.

“Yeah, thanks for nothing,” Dean mutters as he heads over to 401.

The walk towards the front door is a perilous prospect. The sidewalk is pitted with holes and loose gravel decorates the surface. Grass and weeds tenaciously rip at the concrete, making the surface uneven. Dean has to watch his step in order to avoid tripping, which is probably a gift in the long run. It keeps him from noticing how the rotted shutters dangle from the windows, held on by a single, dedicated screw, or how the ugly grey paint is peeling away from the house, like it can’t bear to be there a second longer. The front steps creak alarmingly under his weight and Dean quickly makes his way up them and across the front porch. He tries to keep light on his feet, not wanting to crash through.

No doorbell. There’s just an ominous, lion’s head door knocker. Dean takes it in hand and lets it fall several times. The sound echoes.

After a few minutes, Dean’s ready to give up. It’s possible that the mysterious neighbor isn’t here. There’s no car in the driveway. Maybe he came all this way for nothing.

The door (wood chipped in several places, paint coming off of it in long, jagged stripes) creaks open.

Wow, that’s some pretty strong hash, is Dean’s first thought followed by Oh shit, because those are some seriously blue eyes looking back at him.

Then Dean gets a look at the whole package and Oh shit starts to war with Of fucking course. Blue Eyes’ owner is just as unkempt as his house, in a loose linen shirt that hangs off of his frame just enough to tease at the existence of rock hard muscles without ever revealing any. His pants look similarly like they’re a size too big, clinging to his hips by nothing more than sheer willpower. Dark hair hangs loose over the man’s forehead and the whites surrounding those arresting blues have a fine spiderweb of red running through them. Dark stubble scruffs up a jawline that, given the right circumstances, looks sharp enough to cut glass. Everything about the man is rumpled, like he went one too many times through the wash and no one bothered to hang him up to dry afterward before shoving him in a forgotten drawer.

“Can I help you?” The voice that rasps from the body takes Dean aback--It’s deep, hoarse, like he...Well, maybe like he smokes a fuckton of weed every day.

“Dean. Hi. I’m Dean. I’m your neighbor. I live down the lane at 416? I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” The cake is cumbersome in Dean’s arms. Having seen the derelict who bought this house, he’s not sure whether he wants to take himself and his cake screaming back to his house or to drop to his knees right here on the man’s front porch. Welcome to the neighborhood indeed.

The man blinks, like he’s taking the time to parse every word for hidden meaning. It could just be that’s stoned out of his mind, but Dean doesn’t think so. Behind the haze of the weed, there’s a sharpness in his eyes that Dean doesn’t often see. The man taps his chin, his eyes flicking up and down Dean’s body. Dean doesn’t think that he’s imagining it when they linger on his lips. “I see. Hello Dean.”

Something warm and pleased curls in Dean’s belly at hearing his name spoken by that voice. He does his best to push it aside, concentrating on the reason why he came. (Weeds, jungle lawn, peeling paint, wonder how he tastes, wonder how he sounds) “Yeah, anyway, friendly advice? I just wanted to let you know that our Homeowner’s Association are a bunch of hardasses (lies), and they’re going to get on you for the way that your lawn looks (more lies). If you want, I could pop over one Saturday morning and help you take care of it (where the hell is this generosity coming from?).”

The man looks at his lawn and then back at Dean. A vague sort of smile creeps across his face. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think that he was being laughed at. “Well, I thank you for the offer, but I have no interest in mowing my lawn. Uninhibited growth encourages local bee populations, as do many of what you would call weeds. So thanks, but no thanks.”

The rejection is delivered so pleasantly that it takes Dean a while to realize that he’s been shot down. When he finally makes that connection, he sputters. “You can’t...” He points one finger at Blue Eyes (asshole didn’t even tell him his name, and now Dean is forced to use one of his best physical attributes to describe him?) and spits, “You need to mow your damn lawn!”

On that rejoinder, he stalks down the stairs, jumping when one creaks underneath his weight. Asshole (Dean refuses to think of him with any sort of admiration) calls after him, “Don’t I get my cake?”

Dean whirls around, narrowly avoiding falling flat on his ass. “Cake is for people who aren’t dicks!” he shouts, before he stalks towards home, through grass so thick that it clings to his ankles.

---

The lawn at 401 Kripke Drive remains uncut. The house remains unpainted. The shutters continue on their slow journey towards the earth. Asshole (Castiel, Dean discovers, through the truly formidable stalking talents of one Becky Rosen) continues to allow his property to languish in a state of neglect, as he...Dean’s not sure what he does exactly. Keeps to himself and doesn’t spend a second thinking about the rest of these poor bastards who have to live with the sight of his ungodly property.

When the grass becomes a height that Dean would estimate as ‘mid-calf’, he acts.

Saturday morning, he putters down the street with his mower and pretends like he doesn’t see several curtains flicking back to watch him. Let them stare. Cowards. He, Dean Winchester, is personally going to save the property values and curb appeal of Kripke Drive.

His mower isn’t quiet, nor does Dean make any attempt to lessen his noise, so it’s really remarkable that it takes Cas a good forty-five minutes to stumble out of his house. By that point, Dean’s already finished up with the front and side yards and is happily working his way through the back yard.

“What...What the hell?”

Dean glances over to see the source of the complaints. When he does, his step stutters and falters. It’s almost enough to knock him off of his stride, which is impressive, seeing that he was fairly single-minded in his mission.

Castiel is clad in nothing more than boxers and a threadbare robe, which flutters open whenever he moves, revealing miles of tanned skin. His hair sticks up at odd angles and his stubble could best be described as aggressive. His eyes look clear, but they also look angry.

Swallowing hard, Dean settles for giving Castiel a cheeky wave, as he turns around to make another pass of his lawn.

This does not have the desired effect (Castiel thanks Dean for performing a necessary function of homeownership and goes inside to make a heaping breakfast, which they will consume together while discussing their plans for wedded bliss). Instead Castiel marches across the lawn in his bare feet and stands in front of Dean. Dean, not so focused on yard work that he can’t appreciate when he’s about to take off a man’s toe, releases the kill switch on the mower.

Castiel takes the opportunity to advance on Dean (it is not hot the way that he does that, or the way that he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet to erase the scant inch or so difference in their height, not hot at all). His finger pokes into Dean’s chest. This close, Dean can smell him. He still smells like weed, but instead of being eye-wateringly overpowering, it’s just a comfortable, earthy scent, mixed with something sweeter and brighter--his shampoo maybe?

“I said, what the hell are you doing?”

Dean looks at the lawn and then back at Castiel. He makes a valiant effort not to look at Castiel’s chest, specifically where the robe has opened to reveal the edges of one, dusky nipple. He fails, but he thinks that he should be commended for making the effort to begin with.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Dean says, wincing when Castiel digs his finger into his chest further. He was right--there are a lot of muscles in that frame.

Castiel goes still with rage. “A favor?” he finally asks, voice soft and dangerous. “I specifically said that I wasn’t interested in having my lawn mowed. The bee populations--”

“Oh what the hell Cas,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “Look, if you care that much, we can go to Home Depot later this afternoon and pick out some bee friendly flowers. Hell, I’ll even help you plant them.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything to this, though his eyebrow does quirk up in what appears to be interest. Dean takes this as his opportunity. “If you want, I can even help you build a place where you could keep a hive. If you want.” (He’s never built an apiary in his goddamn life, but surely there are videos on youtube that tell you how to do that?)

“You mowed my lawn,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t sound angry about it. More...considering? He tilts his head to the side. “Were you planning on painting the house as well?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean answers. The shudder that shakes through his body is only halfway exaggerated. “It’s a whole fucking disaster Cas.”

Castiel hums. This time, when his eyes land on Dean’s lips, he lets them linger.

Dean doesn’t do anything to stop him.

(After Dean finishes mowing the lawn, Castiel greets him with a mug of coffee. He’s still dressed in his robe. Dean brings the coffee mug inside. It takes him a while to find his way out of the house. They don’t make it to Home Depot that day, but they do manage to make it to a dinner the next morning for breakfast. Dean does eventually help Castiel plant his flowers, though zoning regulations prohibit apiaries.

Painting the house takes a little longer because Castiel persists in looking so damn good in a pair of jeans that Dean gets distracted. A lot. After blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids are shed, the house gets painted, but by then, it’s time to fix the front steps. After that, the whole damn porch needs to be replaced. Dean keeps on finding chores to do around the house, so many in fact, that he eventually just moves in.

Was this your plan all along? he asks, lying on the floor with Cas as he stares up at the (newly finished) ceiling.

Cas lets a plume of smoke escape from his nose and smiles. Yes, it was always my plan to seduce you with unsolicited yard work. I always knew that a madman would come mow my lawn and I just wanted it to be you.

Don’t fucking tempt me, Dean says, and then there’s not a lot of talking for quite some time.)

#destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #neighbors!au #enemies to lovers #kinda #dothwrites

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

Text

We’re Outsiders

This is a re-upload, or a throwback (originally written back in 2018). I hope you guys enjoy it too! I’ve edited it a little bit as well, since it’s original posting on the ye old @calumh-excess.

Calum’s used to being the on the fringe and used to be the one that fucks it all up. Cookie’s always used to being on the outside. Happens most of the time and completely out of her control. Together, they remind each other it’s okay to be on the outside--all you need sometimes is a shot.

Greaser!AU. Black OC.

CW: Deals with racism (some mentions of racially charged words), mentions of violence.

Enjoy my masterlist!

Support me on Ko-fi!

_____________________________________

Calum’s used to the dark. Most nights it’s just him out too late, past the time the street lights turn on. He likes it, driving down streets in the blinking of the streetlights as he glides over asphalt. The roads lined with trees and houses. The roads are lined with life that moves all around him, but are not bothered by him. That brings him peace. He’s so often the outsider. He’s the one that everyone stares at, with soft whispers. He knows what they’re saying is never good. He’s built that reputation for himself, with his slicked back hair, cuffed jeans and leather jacket. He’s done it to himself, being other and further ostracizing himself.

It’s not the life he chose for himself. His parents kicked him out and he had nowhere else to go. So Ashton, a guy from the south side that Calum had grown comfortable with, offered his house. It kept him in the same school for his last year and off the streets, so he took it. His friend group expanded, but now he was getting himself in more trouble than usual. Originally not a Prep and not a Greaser, Calum had managed to keep under the radar for the first year of high school. But now that he was living with Ashton, a prominent Greaser and hanging with the likes of Michael and Luke. Calum made a new name for himself.

Calum’s parents weren’t a fan of his interest in boxing. Calum took to amateur boxing as a way to finally feel like someone. His stature made it easy for him to lie about his age in the beginning of it at barely fifteen and no one cared enough to double check. Calum knew he’d never really go anywhere ultimately. He knew he’d wind up somewhere local, knew he’d end up in overalls in the car shop, changing tires and oil. After coming home too many times, coming home bloody, his parents had had enough.

Now with the Greasers, it was becoming evident Calum wasn’t just some quiet guy in the corner. His interest was saving his ass. When people wanted to pin them into corners, get into their faces, he always had a backup plan in his pocket. Fighting wasn’t his first resort, not initially. He’d try to talk a situation down. It doesn’t last long for anyone trying to pick a fight. Just about any and every fight ended with Calum standing, sometimes wavering just a little over some poor boy’s sweater vest and plaid shirt, covered in blood droplets, his fists put up in front of his face.

“Maybe sometimes, I just ought to run away from a fight,” Calum huffs to himself as his bike putters to a halt in front of the diner. “And I ought to gas this up more often too.”

He knew before he got the school to tutor that he needed to grab some gas. But he definitely thought he’d make it to the station closer to the city line. Tutoring felt like a saving grace. After work Calum spent a few hours at the school helping kids. It reminded him that he wasn’t all bad. It made him realize there was still humanity to him.

The kids he tutored normally never cared about school. They were too busy trying to survive, not wanting to be the next Black body to wash up into a river or hanging like strange fruit from a tree. But they needed school, even though Calum empathized with them, he knew they needed the basics. They needed to write, do basic addition, needed to read just a little bit. So that’s how he worked with them. He’d level with them, You can’t take that girl out on a date if you don’t know how to count how much cash you have and how much it’s gonna cost you. And you definitely can’t be cool daddy-o, if you not reading well.

The thing about kids is that they always asked; they knew he was trying to survive too in a world that seemed like it was always trying to kill them. If he came back with a black eye, or a busted lip, they asked him if his addition got him out of that fight. Calum would try not to encourage this kind of behavior, but he had to admit, the joke would be funny. Calum would reply nearly the same way, “Yeah, I added one fist plus two fists and put his candy ass flat. I’ll try subtraction next time.”

Right now though, Calum’s gotta focus on getting gas. He passes this diner all the time. He’s just never stopped here. It’s a silent understanding that this is a Blacks only establishment. He’s given a few kids rides after tutoring here. The parking lot is always full of Black people hanging around the doors and in cars, laughing as they part from their full meals. Just a couple minutes past here by vehicle is his own town, mostly white, some Blacks sprinkled into the mix. City’s split into thirds. There’s the northern side, the southern quarter and the Western side. The Black part of town neighbors right on the edge of this town. He knows it’s done strategically. The edges have become blended over time. But it’s not by a lot. The divisions aren’t invisible.

Because of winter’s grip even though it’s only closing in on evening, the darkness keeps most people in their own homes. Booths are empty. A couple tables hold people sitting. The hostess looks up from wiping down counters, smiling. She looks vaguely familiar, he thinks, as she leans against the dry part of the counter. “What can I do ya for?”

“Gas. And maybe a shake too,” Calum counters.

Her grin widens. “I can help with the shake.”

Calum goes onto to explain, “Bike’s empty. I reckon I should pay more attention.”

He watches the way her full flips twist up, her coily hair pinned back and a dainty little white flower headband tied around the middle. She raps her fingers against the counter. “Charlie boy!” she hollers turning to the kitchen.

“He in the back gettin’ ready leave,” comes a booming voice.

“He got his gas can still in his car?” There’s a shout in return and she turns back around, voice returning to her normal sweet tone. “Give me just a second.”

Calum nods, sliding onto the barstool. She slips from the counters, running into the kitchen. He notes the lack of a skirt. Her pants are tight around her thighs and hitting her just below the knees. Wait a second, he knows those leopard print pants anywhere. Her father was the one that had a crossed burned in their front yard a couple years back. It was the only time they seemed to be targeted, but rocks were thrown their windows too.

Calum sat next to her in English in tenth grade. The last year they had together before her family moved. He heard rumors that her family owned this place. But he wasn’t sure how true those were. She was always nice to him in school. “It ain’t no white boy!” she huffs, the doors sway close behind her.

A dark skinned man, bald too, stares Calum down, lips pressed together. After a silent moment, the man speaks. His voice deep and gruff. “He da one fix Ma car. Why you ain’t tell me it was him?” It’s a playful scoff from the man as he bumps her with elbow. “I’ll be back.”

Calum recognizes him. The man scared the shit out of Calum when he walked into the car shop. He looked mean, but it was just the years wearing down his brow line. He has to put on a mean face because it keeps everyone from bothering him, as he explained to Calum. “Thank you,” Calum says, sliding down and fishing out his wallet from his jacket pocket.

“Oh, keep dat. Keep it,” the man waves his hand, turning away from him.

“At least something?” Cal asks. “For the trouble?” He holds out a five dollar bill.

“If you think it I can’t spare a couple bucks,” the man starts.

The girl cuts him off. “Charlie just go get the damn gas. Ain’t no one trying to say anything or start anything. Just go.”

Calum continues to hold out the bill even as the man disappears into the back. She slides behind the counter and Calum pushes the bill towards her. “Make sure he gets that.”

“You do realize he’s gonna raise hell. He’s too proud.”

“Please.” Calum continues to hold her gaze and all the time he’s trying to pull her name to the top of his brain. Was it Deborah? She had a nickname that she went by. Calum feels his tongue curling, but everything to the comes to the tip of it feels wrong.

With a sigh, she nods and slips the bill into the pocket of her apron. “I’ll make sure he gets it. Charlie not mean, just hardheaded. As I’m sure you know, Calum.”

He lets a small laugh escape him. “Yeah, yeah I do. Wait, you remember my name?”

She winks at him. “Course I do. I remember everyone’s name. Still want that shake?” Truth be told, she didn’t always remember everyone’s name. But she remembered his, couldn’t forget it really.

“Surprise me,” he grins.

She smiles with a shake of her head. She doesn’t go far, around the wall that separates the kitchen from the back of the counter seating. Her conversation with the cook is short. Calum leans into the counter.

When she turns back around, she notices his the silver chain around his neck as he plays with it. He looks like his mind is far away. She takes in his appearance, the golden skin, the bruises probably days old due to the coloration fading. He really hadn’t changed all that much since the last time she saw him. Maybe he got a little bit more handsome. Maybe it was a change in the cut of his jaw or the chub to his cheeks had slimmed just a hair. But it was still very much Calum in front of her.

“Been in trouble?” she asks, gently rubbing her fingers over the bruises along the back of his knuckles. Her eyes linger on the one on the top of his cheek. Her cousin had told her that he seemed to be on the straight for now, but his healing body says something different.

Calum tries to recover from the shiver running down his spine. His voice is shaky as he speaks. “I’ve been trouble.”

“Cats scared of you know, huh?” Calum hears the teasing lilt to her tone, trying to keep the subject light. He shrugs at her question in response. “I’m not. I seen you fight. You ain’t so big and bad.”

It was once. She wasn’t even sure what it was over, just happened to be turning the corner to the building to walk home and behind the school a group had gathered, Calum at the center. He was breathing heavy, fists clenched. It was he was the calm eye to the hurricane of people hollering and shouting at the fighting match happening.

“Miss stealing your English notes,” he offers. That’s not what he wants to be known for, that’s not what he wants to be remembered by as the guy that could fight. “And those tiny hearts as periods,” he chuckles. The first time he saw it, he wasn’t sure if it was a heart or not. But as he skimmed over her notes more, the clear it became that those oddly large periods were really hearts in disguise.

Totally a sore subject, so she won’t be prodding that bull anymore. “Everyone here hates ‘em.”

Calum shakes his head, a grin splitting his lips. “They were kinda cute. Hope you ain’t do it for all the cats needing your notes?”

“That’s just the way I write,” she laughs. “But for you, maybe for you they were a little bigger than most.”

“Don’t do that to me, doll,” Calum laughs. “Don’t go getting my hopes up.”

“I ain’t trying to do that. By no means.” They laugh, gazes falling from each other after a moment. He didn’t know this about her. The side that liked to dish out the jabs. They didn’t ever really interact a whole lot in class, or after school when he’d return her notes. But he likes this. He likes their back and forth.

“Did you know you used to tutor my cousin?” Calum tilts his head to the side, trying to go through the catalog of his kids. He’s trying to place her face with those that he knows. But he’s coming up short. She continues on though. “You remember Elijah? Always bettin’ somebody?”

As the grin overtakes his face, Calum laughs. “Yes, yeah, I remember that kid. Always squeezin’ me for fifty cent!”

She laughs, nodding. “That’s Elijah. He’s kept his grades up. Not all A’s. But he’s doing good. He never stopped talking about all the bets y’all made. He could bash ears about you.”

“He was a good kid. Tell ‘im I said hi, will ya?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Cookie!” a voice bellows. That’s it! That’s the nickname. At the back of his brain, he kept trying to pull it to the surface. But just couldn’t for the life of him. She spins around, grabbing the plate and glass in the window. It’s a slice of pie as far as Calum can tell and a shake. She grabs some silverware and then slides the plate and glass in front of Calum.

“No need for you to be waitin’ and be starvin’.”

“Tell me, Cookie,” he grins as the nickname slides off his tongue, “care to split this slice with me? I remember what my momma taught me about eating dessert before dinner.”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Hmm,” she considers, fingers tapping at her chin. “You can get away with the nickname. This time,” she adds on, watching Calum’s brows shooting up on his face. “You’re not the only one that can dish out a knuckle sandwich.”

Calum taps the heels of his boots together, the soft thuds echoing in the quiet air of the dinner. “I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

“You better be.”

They talk about their lives, Calum working at the shop and her finishing up school though it feels like for sure she’s spending too much time at the diner. She does it mostly to help out since her parents are short staffed at the moment. Tiny pieces are cut between laughs and shy glances up from between lashes. Without even realizing the last fork clinks against the empty plate as Charlie walks back into the diner, through the front doors. “That your bike out front?”

“Yes, sir,” Calum answer, sliding off the stool.

“C’mon, and I’ll fill her up.”

“Thank you again for helpin’ me.”

“You good people. Don’t sweat it.” He doesn’t wait around before stepping back into the dark of the now thickly settled in night.

“How much do I owe you?” He turns to Cookie and nods towards the half finished shake. She waves a hand before pulling out his five from earlier.

“Let’s just say it’s on the house.” Calum goes to speak and she shakes her head. “He won’t take the money. I’ll use it to cover the bill and give him extra on his tip,” she whispers. “Believe me, I’ve got things all worked out over here.”

It’s a fair enough system and Calum hurriedly slips into his jacket before his boots click against the floor. Charlie doesn’t seem like the kind of man to keep waiting. And Calum definitely doesn’t want to find out the hard way. But as his feet carry him closer and closer to the door, his gut keeps jumping. He doesn’t want to let this be the last time he sees Cookie.

And maybe it’s just the late night and the first time a girl looked at him that didn’t throw herself at him. Sure, Cookie flirted and he flirted back. But girls had two modes with him, they either ran away from him or they were just looking for a good time. Calum normally didn’t have anything against that. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted someone he could laugh with, someone that saw behind the bruises.

With one hand still holding the door open, Calum turns just a bit. “Cookie,” he starts, turning around. He might be pushing it just a little with the nickname. But the way she smiles lets him know that maybe she likes it too. “Mind if I see you again?”

“My English notes are always available. You know where to find me.” It ends with a nod. The bright smile that makes Calum’s stomach knot up again.

“I’ll see ya ‘round, doll.”

__________________________________________

The dinner rush seems like it’s never going to end. The second she thinks she can keep up with her tables, someone’s asking for a refill on the drink, or needing extra condiments, or more napkins. But finally, she can see through the windows again. The parking lot doesn’t look like a party of it’s own. Cookie exhales, plopping down into the barstool. If her hair weren’t already pinned back, it would’ve fallen into her face. It’s only Friday. Tomorrow will be much worse. However, right now, she can take a deep breathe. She can take a moment for herself. Cookie presses her forehead into the cool counter.

The door chimes again. God, not someone else. Not another patron. However, no matter how much she wants to disappear into the ethos, she swallows the complaints back down and pops up off the stool. “Booth or table?” she asks, automatically reaching for some menus.

“Tellin’ me the counter’s not free?” Calum grins.

She places a menu down, gesturing with a sweeping motion to the spot she once sat. “All for you.”

Calum shrugs out of his coat, draping it over the seat next to him. He chews on his bottom lip. She’s grinning up at him and he knows it’s not the same grin everyone gets. Her eyes twinkle too though he can tell she’s tired. “Full of gas today?”

It’s been a week since he had to drop in after running out. He didn’t expect her to drop it. She probably would never drop it either. “All the to the tip top,” he exhales with a tuft of laughter. She’s leaning into the end of the counter, the little part that starts to turn into the two doors that tell customers to keep out.

“Charlie Boy says thanks for the tip.” A table across from her flags her down and they lock gazes for a second. The exchange of acknowledgement nods. “I’ll be right back to get your drink.”

Calum nods, watching her rush away. It’s a skirt today but the blue matches the decor inside and he concludes it’s the uniform. Why she wasn’t wearing on that fated Wednesday he’s not sure. But he liked that. Like that she didn’t always try to fit in.

Calum looks over the menu and everything looks to die for. But he’s not really ordering anything, didn’t even intend to. He only came by to see her. Money was getting tighter thanks to repairs needed for the house, but it’s nothing that he and Ashton can’t scrap the money together for. Though, Calum was sure Ashton was going to flip a lid if he had to pulled more money for his car funds.

Cookie darts around the counter, grabbing the coffee pot and smiles when she notices Calum watching her. “Didn’t forget. Promise I’m coming back.”

“No rush. You workin’.”

When she finally gets settled again, Calum leans his elbows onto the table and rests his chin on the flat of his knuckles. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Besides working my ass off here?”

“Cookie what I tell you about all that swearin’!” The voice is distinct but he can’t place who it belongs too. The whole diner is still pretty packed and with all the waitress in the same uniform, it’s almost like a blur happening around him.

She rolls her eyes, reaches into the pocket of her apron and drops a nickel into the tip jar. “I swore yesterday and never put my two pennies in. I’m just covering myself for the next one,” she explains with a small laugh.

“Besides workin’, what are your plans?”

She shrugs. “Don’t get off until 9. I should probably get some homework done.”

“Would you be interested in catchin’ a movie?”

“Askin’ for passion pit?” At first Calum thinks she’s serious. He didn’t think his reputation was going down like that. He was a gentleman. A fighter of course, but always a gentleman. He goes to defend himself and how he’d treat her like a lady until he sees the grin on her face.

“Oh, just keep yankin’ my leg, huh? So you dig?”

She nods. “My only question, where?”

“I’m not sure of places around here, besides I have a bike. Not really drive in material. But there’s one not too far just across the west line.”

He can feel the hesitation on her. He prays she doesn’t say no. He figured that one would be close enough to her old neighborhood, it won’t put her too far into dangerous spot. The North side of town is no place for her. Nor is any spot for him to be casually. He knows that. He’s not blind to the looks Black people get in groceries stores or walking down streets. He’s not blind to the news or the lack of news surrounding disappearances.

“How far across the line?”

“Minute. Two max. Close to your old neighborhood.”

She bites onto her lip, looking up to the ceiling. “I haven’t been on that side in a while. I know those people are cool with you. South siders are thick as thieves. I’m just, nervous. But I’ll go. If it gets too bad, we gotta go. No one’s gonna burn a cross, but, I just, I’m worried.”

Calum nods. “Of course. If ya want, we could go to the one over here.”

“You’ll get nasty looks too.”

“Don’t mean you gotta sacrifice yourself.”

Her laughter is sad and heavy as it falls from her throat. She opens her mouth to say something. She wants to joke that sometimes her entire existence feels like a sacrifice, that somehow her mere existence felt inherently politicized and a form of rebellion. She doesn’t let it cross her lips though. Instead, she swallows it back down and shakes her head. “Now, what’s cookin’ good lookin’? What can I do ya for?”

Calum reaches out for her hand. The touch is light, makes her insides tingle too, if she’s honest. “You already did it. See you tomorrow, Cookie.”

“I apologize if my father’s a bummer tomorrow. Keeps a tight ship. I’ll still be able to go. But that ain’t to say you won’t have to fight for it.”

Calum nods before taking his hands back and sliding into the jacket. He’ll keep that in mind. “I’ll break out my loafers,” he grins. “Get ‘em spit shined too.”

Her laughter follows Calum out the door and through his entire ride back to the house. When Calum walks in, Ashton immediately note the grin on his friend’s lip. “What you got up to?”

Calum shakes his head, pulling his jacket off. “Nothing.”

“Nothing surely looks like a hell of a lot like something. You cheesin’ too damn hard. That girl?”

“She’s nice.”

“Just be careful.” Ashton doesn’t miss the questioning glance of his friend. He holds his hands up. “Look, don’t shoot. I’m just saying, this town ain’t too fond of people like her. She moved for a reason.”

“You fond of people like her? They folks just like us.”

“I’m not saying that, and you know it.” Ashton retorts, his gaze firm and mouth twisted down into a scowl. Ashton knows he’s not like the rest of the town. But he doesn’t want to see his friend washed up and bloated from the river. “But you gotta be careful with her. The world’s inherently against her. And you could get caught in the middle.”

Calum understands the sentiment, but sees no issues. He’s not naive to think the world’s just gonna open their arms. But people aren’t that bad. He doesn’t believe that, even if it felt like he was constantly fighting. He had to believe that there are good people out there. If not, the rest of his life would be hard and full of more scraps. “I can handle if I get caught in the middle.”

“But do you want to handle getting caught in the middle?”

“C’mon, man, do you hear yourself? I like her. She’s nice. She don’t look at my bruises and think she has to run away from me.”

“That’s awesome. You know I’m rootin’ for y’all. But you are in just as much danger as she is. And you already got plenty of people who don’t like you. It’s all they need. They’d only need a reason.”

Calum knows Ashton is right. He knows that anyone that didn’t already like him would really like him now. However, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve a chance. That doesn’t mean Calum can just run away.

“I like her.” It’s final as it falls from his lips.

He brushes shoulders with Ashton as he heads to his room. It’s not meant to be mean, Ashton just can’t bare the thought of something happening. The world can’t be all bad. But it can and very much did get pretty bad. An hour or two later, as Calum just starts to feel the grip of sleep, there’s a knock on his door. He snaps awake and walks to the door.

Ashton’s holding out a cookie, from the pack they bought last week from groceries. “It’s the last one. I didn’t want to take it without asking.”

Calum wipes at his face one last time, leaning into the molding of the door. His stomach growls and he realizes he hasn’t eaten anything yet. He takes hold of the chocolate chip cookie and chuckles. “Her nickname is Cookie, ya know?” He says taking a bite of the treat.

“Well, Daddy-O, you’ll be callin’ her baby real soon.”

Calum throws a weak, half-hearted punch to Ashton’s gut. “Fuck off,” he laughs.

Ashton curls up, blocking most of the blow. He laughs too. The tension from earlier disappears. Calum understands Ashton’s concerns, but he can handle himself. One date isn’t going to end the world. He knows it won’t make the world a less spiteful place, but he can’t let that predict every move he makes. He hasn’t let it yet and he can’t start now.

__________________________________

The diner’s parking lot is shockingly full when Calum walks his bike to a stop. He kicks down stand and straddles the bike before getting his leg around. He’s mindful not put the collar of his leather jacket back down. He didn’t put too much gel in his hair either. Good impressions. That’s what he’s gotta make right now. Though, one look at him immediately gives away his affiliation, but he tries to tone it back down. Calum even threw on one of his scarcely worn button up shirts. When he walks inside, he notices Cookie untying her apron. There’s a man, a little taller, with a neat short cropped cut, and a face just like hers, though he’s a tad lighter in complexion.

She smiles at Calum and he returns the gesture, exhaling as he walks over. He’s not used to having to meet the parents up front. But this isn’t his house, these aren’t his rules. He’ll still play the game though. Calum extends his hand. “How are you, sir?”

Her father shakes his hand, grip firm and eyes sharp. “I’m good, son. How are you?”

“I’m well.”

The quick once up and down is almost too fast to catch, but Calum knows the tactic well. “I don’t judge, son. I don’t. The world’s full of it already. Just treat her right, tonight.”

“Of course, sir. Is there any time I should have her back by?”

“As long as no one’s coming through my door at ungodly hours, I’m not too concerned.”

Cookie sighs, head falling on her neck as the sigh shrinks her shoulder. “He means midnight at the latest. I’ll save ya the time of walking through that maze of a riddle.”

With that, she leads him out of the diner. Calum can feel the eyes on him. Some whistle as they leave. Nothing menacing, all good teasing love. He laughs as Cookie groans in their departure.

Calum doesn’t miss the way his own body is warming though, the jitters almost making his teeth chatter. Her touch is so sure, but gentle against his hand. Cookie pauses at his bike and releases his hand, running her fingers gently over the handlebars.

“So, a couple friends of mine wanna tag along, is that okay? I can shake ‘em if not,” Calum warns.

She nods. “That’s fine.” There’s a moment where she’s gazing up at the skies and Calum’s watching her. “Honestly, I’m just glad to get away from the dinner even if it’s only for a couple hours. I graduate in June but I know where I’m going to wind up. I just need a way not to get stuck.”

Calum pulls out the helmet. “Well, let me unstick you.”

She huffs. “My hair is not going to fit into this.”

“You better make it fit, baby. Because I’m not leaving until it’s on your head.”

She cocks one of her hips out, the black blouse tied at her waist, paired with black pants too. Her red Keds tied perfectly around her feet. “Fine. But someone better have a mirror for me to fix this afterwards.”

“I’ve gotcha, doll.”

She wants to curse the way her heart flutters at the nickname ‘doll’ because there’s no good reason for her to almost melt at the way it curls off Calum’s tongue. But she does. Especially with the tiny shy smile he always pairs it with. It gets her every time and if she could curse him so it didn’t, she would.

He slides onto the bike first and she slips on behind him, arms wrapping around his waist. Her hold is strong, even a little tense when he first takes off. But a few seconds later, after being on the road, she loosens her grip. The wind is great across her face. She’s only been a bike once before. She’s not necessarily the angel most people think her out to be and she enjoys the secondary persona. It gives her a break from her reality, that she will always be bashed because of her skin color. She will always be at a disadvantage, it feels. But it doesn’t means she can’t have her fun along the way.

As the stop at a light, she watches with blurred vision as the red light burns into her retina. Soon it turns orange, and she’s staring out of her bedroom window watching white clothed bodies lighting fire to a cross. All she can think about is how she covers her younger sister’s and brother’s eyes, tries to keep them preoccupied. But they still asked her why them. What did they do wrong? And the answer unfortunate truth is nothing but exists. She doesn’t tell them that, she instead tells them that some people are just mean and don’t understand the harm in their beliefs. She doesn’t have the heart to shatter their worlds. She doesn’t have the heart to use words like racist, and evil. They’re too young still. But they know for sure. They know about it, they just don’t have the words.

“Hey,” Calum says, gently, hands wrapping around hers around his waist.

She blinks and realizes they’re parked. “Sorry, just thinking.” Her arms slip from around him and she pulls the helmet off gently. The bright bulbs on the front of the building let her know it’s the theater. The spaces are a little empty, but there are some cars. Most people have probably opted for the drive in since the weather is starting to finally break. She pushes off the seat. He watches her, quickly wiping at her face. Why the tears now? The worst time possible.

“Hey, whoa, what’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. I’m okay.”

“It don’t look like nothin’.”

“I-I’m okay.”

“We can skip the flick,” he offers, gingerly reaching out and resting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”

“Your friends would surely be disappointed.”

“They won’t be.”

“I just. I wish I could shake them. I can’t get that image out of my head sometimes. All of those men in my front yard. My sister and brother being scared. It’s not easy.”

He’s at a lost for words. He doesn’t know what’s that like and he probably will never. It’s not to say that he hasn’t gotten his fair share, nor Ashton. Ashton caught a lot of heat taking Cal in, but when everyone you know can keep up in a fight, people tend not to say much. But her family was prominent, and typically non-violent. “I know there’s probably not a lot I can say or do right now,” Calum starts, gently taking her chin between his fingers and tiling her head back. “But whatever you need, let me help.”

He swims in her vision for a moment and Cookie wishes she could just get over it. She wishes she could just take a sponge and wash it from memory. But it’s right there, right behind her eyelids some nights. Shutting her eyes for a moment, she lets the few tears falls, but she nods gently. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he breathes, “of course.” Calum pulls her in for just a moment, letting her compose herself. Cookie wishes she hadn’t, the smell of him now and the hint of nicotine is pressing into the hairs of her nose. She never wants to breathe out.

It takes a moment longer before she nods into his chest and they head inside. Ashton said he’d cover the tickets, if Calum covered a bit more on the groceries. So it works out. Inside, fingers threaded through each others, Calum spots, Ashton, Luke and Michael, leaning against the wall. A circle of Preps are eyeing them but their attention is immediately shifted when she and Calum walk in. Calum holds a little tighter to her hand. He prays they don’t start anything.

As they walks closer to his friends, Calum notices more people are watching them. Not just Preps, but everyone in the room. “Thought we scared you and your Daddy out of this town!” someone shouts.

Her grip tightens in response, but she doesn’t drop her gaze from the three boys in front of her, Calum’s friends. This is what she’s used to, at any march, at any speaking event. This is normal for her. It doesn’t hurt any less. It doesn’t stop making her heart jolt at every insult, but she can hide the flinches, she can hold back her tongue. For a moment.

“You know you don’t belong here!”

She’s waiting for one of them to use the word. She just need the lips to curl into the start of n sound and she can pounce. She’d rather not start a scene here, on the wrong side of town. But god, does she only need one reason, she only needs one of them to set her off. “Either cut the gas, or you’re gonna have a problem,” Calum warns, a single ring adorned digit signaling out the offender.

“Oh, she can’t talk, huh?” Joseph is always one to try and start any fire he can. It was like he almost got off on the humiliation.

“Drop dead,” Cookie hisses. “No one wants anything to do with you. Won’t no one thinking about you for two seconds, so now you gotta make yourself known.”

“Fream speaks!”

God, she wanted not to give in. She wanted to walk away. “I do. But you got a lot to say. So keep running your mouth, half way to a bruisin’ as it is.”

Calum looks back to her. He didn’t expect that from her, but something hits his chest. It’s a strange excitement and the adrenaline before a fight. Part of it definitely disbelief. Not Cookie, he hasn’t pegged her as the type. But maybe he had been more wrong about her than he thought. Maybe all the teasing and flirty wasn’t just her playing games. While Calum would rather not have a fight, he sure as hell wouldn’t leave her to a fight alone. “The lady spoke,” he grins, turning back to Joseph. “Shut it or we dance.”

Joseph, who once was surrounded by his posse, notices that only on a couple of his original boys still stand. No one really wants to get into a fight with Calum. And everyone can see the other three circling in close too. The odds are heavily on their favor and Joseph would definitely be the laugh of the town. “You’re not worth it anyway,” Joseph finally mutters. Though Calum can see the way he’s holding something in the back of his mouth.

Calum pushes her back behind him, just in time too before the spit lands on the floor at her feet. His hands are in fists before he realizes and he surges forward. Grabbing the collar of Joseph’s shirt, Calum lifts him from the ground. He can’t even get the word out before Joseph releases an ‘Oof’ doubling from a blow. Calum looks to his left to see her fist at her side. “Try me again,” she hisses. “Put him down and let him try me again. Just because my dad’s nonviolent, don’t mean I am all the time.”

Calum drops the boy from his grasp. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Ashton, Luke, and Michael who have been keeping to the back, watching, waiting for anyone to step in, finally move in towards them. Luke takes hold of Calum’s bicep. “Let’s go. We can’t afford any heat right now.” Luke’s taking in Cookie and the crowd. It can go south real fast for them.

Calum nods and reaches out, running his fingers from the top of her vein along her wrist to her fingers. Cookie’s hand unfolds and he intertwines their fingers. She takes a step back and while Joseph is still recovering, she spits on his shoes. “Need better aim next time!”

The five of them shuffle out of the theater, quickly, knowing any attendant that happened to see the heated argument could be dialing for the cops. Outside, Calum pushes her closer to Michael. Most people don’t suspect him. He’s good in a fight, but not overtly identifiable. “Ride with Michael.” Folks definitely saw Calum and Cookie walk in together. She can’t be on his bike, not with him. If he gets caught and pushed around by the cops, it’s fine. But if she’s caught with him, that’s bad news.

“Sorry for ruining our date,” she calls out to him.

Calum slips on the helmet, grinning. “You didn’t ruin it, Cookie. You made it a hell of a night. Michael, goose it. Got it? Burn fucking rubber.”

Michael nods with a grin. “You know how to pick ‘em, Cal.”

Cookie slides into the passenger seat of Michael’s car. And true to Calum’s instruction, Michael blares down the backroads. He laughs about halfway through the journey. “Got a solid jab,” he offers.

“Thanks. Dad taught me.”

“Cal boxes. You know that?”

“Heard something like it.”

“Yeah,” he hiccups as they bounce a deep hole in the road. “Maybe he knew deep down you could fight too.”

Soon they pull into the driveway of a decently upkeep house. The outside doesn’t have a lot done to it and she knows that the inside might be a little sparse too. But everyone does what they need to in order to survive. One car is already there. But not too soon after they climb out of the car, she can hear the rumble of Calum’s bike. She pauses near the front steps, one hand on the railing and watches him. The tires kick up dust and rocks as he swerves into the driveway. He continues on around the house, slowly creeping by. Soon the deep rumble ceases and instead she can hear the crunch of feet against the gravel and dirt.

Calum pulls the helmet up as he rounds the house. “No heat, as far as I could tell.” Everyone exhales. He walks up to her, grin on his cheeks, curls perfectly disheveled from the quick tug up from his helmet. “Jets and a mean jab, got it all don’t you?”

“I shouldn’t have. I just hate his guts. I’m sorry.”

With a shake of his head, Calum takes her hand. “You’re fine. He deserved it anyway.” Her hand trembles in his. “C’mon,” he urges, taking her into the house.

The decor isn’t as sparse as she thought it would be, the couch has a couple blankets draped over the back of it with end pillows. The cherry wood dining room table has four chairs that match and a small bowl in the center some fruit sits in it. There’s a big shelf with records on it, some books.

The walls a little bare minus some old photos. “It’s not a lot. But we get by,” Calum whispers.

She shakes her head. “Reminds me of the old house. Even the new one we have isn’t too packed. Half the time, money’s going to the diner. The other half, the time’s going there too. Just never seems worth trying to unearth everything.”

Calum soothes the skin of her hand with his hand. He never considered that, that her life on the outside looked one way. But on the inside it’s way different. It makes sense why she has so many hours at the diner. “What can I do ya for?” he grins.

She laughs. “That’s my line. You can’t go stealing that.”

“Too bad, doll. Looks like I just did. So what can I do ya for?”

“Honestly, at this point a smoke would be nice. But water will do.”

Almost way too sheepishly, Calum reached into his jacket pocket and dangles the pack between his fingers. “I try not to smoke often. It’s not a habit I’m proud of, but if you want one,” he trails off with a shrug.

It’s tempting. It’s very tempting. Her statement was mostly a joke. But she keeps eying it. So, Calum places the helmet on the couch and hands her the packet. He slips out of his jacket, finding the lighter. She knows she shouldn’t give in. She hasn’t had one in a few weeks. Mostly because her dad would kill her. “I’ll go get us some drinks. Then we can step outside.”

“So we’ve met,” Michael starts, cutting through the awkward silence as Calum shuffles into the kitchen. “I’m Michael.” He points to the blonde to his right. “That’s Luke. Watch out for his limbs.” He then motions to a brunette. “That’s Ashton. Calum and him live together here. I live a few houses down and Luke lives like a street over.”

She smiles at them, still playing at the carton top. “Sorry about missing the movie again.”

“You were way more entertainin’,” Luke laughs. “Besides, we hadn’t gotten tickets just yet, so win-win.”

Ashton’s stare freezes her. It’s somewhere teetering on the edge of the disappointment. “Scold me,” she starts. “You won’t be any worse than my father.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned,” Ashton answers truthfully. He’s impressed because he’s only never heard about her, seen her through others eyes. They all call her quiet, reserved, put together. He’s never really laid his own eyes on her. But now, she didn’t really go off the deep end until provoked. He can give her that. She didn’t throw the first punch. Though she made damn sure that she threw the last one though.

Ashton’s concerned because what does this mean for the rest of them. They already have enough of a target on their back. He doesn’t want to make her out to be a villain, but his world’s not easy on her and it won’t be easy on them if they associate with her. “This isn’t against you, it’s just, we’re already so…”

“Alienated. Greasers are low down, dirty, get into fights all the time. You guys are the scary people everyone should run from. And I’m the shit stain on this here great country. We’re both outsiders. I’m just further out of the circle than you. I get it.”

“But you’re sweet, got a little rattle snake in you, but you’re good people,” Ashton counters.He doesn’t want to discredit her by any means.

“I’m never going to have the best of both worlds. So you best decide now what world you want.”

Ashton watches Calum from the kitchen doorway, a beer in one hand and a coke in the other. “You ever think we could actually fit in Ash? Because if so, you’re a dip stick, the biggest one I’ve ever seen. If you thought just because I wasn’t Black, that you’d somehow could still skate into the white agenda, you were wrong. You can’t choose me and then accept her,” Calum counters. “Won’t ever work.:

“We’re outsiders, we live on the outskirts of town. We weren’t eva’ gonna fit in,” Michael says.

“But do we always have to be behind?” Ashton questions.

She places the pack down on the coffee table. “We will always be behind. And until you accept that, you’re never going to make it forward.”

It makes sense. They were always going to be pushed to the outskirts. They could never make it in. The door wouldn’t open for them. Ashton’s known this, but it was easier to be on the outside and still be white. He could still see the door, could still knock on it. She can’t even get a glance at it. “The world’s never gonna be fair to you,” Ashton sighs. “But the least I can do is be fair to you.”

“I hope it will be one day. Today’s just not the day.”

Ashton stands from the kitchen table, “Care for a beer? Coke? Water?”

“Coke’s fine, thanks.”

“You heard the lady, get her a coke,” he grins as Calum. He can be fair to her. The inside wasn’t meant for them anyhow. What would he gain? Status that all relied on following prescribed rules that meant nothing? That was his whole thing. Following who’s rules? Why follow them? What be the reason for it for him to break one and face backlash? It’s pointless that’s what it is.

“Bring that,” Calum urges, nodding to the pack. She grabs it and follows behind Calum to the back of the house. He points out bathrooms and bedroom. She pokes her head into Calum’s. Lots of posters cover the walls of various musicians.

“If I ain’t know better I’d say you might be into music.”

“Just a little,” Calum laughs.

“Too busy boxing now, huh?” She lands a few fake punches to his torso and Calum bows every so slightly at them. Their laughter is soft.

“I’m trying to keep it clean, legal.”

They settle onto the top step of the back porch and Calum sets the Coke near her feet. She hands him the pack. He taps it twice to his palm before pulling out a cigarette.

“Most people run when they know I fight, but not you.”

“Ain’t most people. And you ain’t the only one that can fight.”

He shakes his head, lips wrapped around the butt of the nicotine filled paper. Cookie’s got him there. She watches him flick the lighter and the way the flames lick at the paper. She watches the cut of his jaw, the way his hair falls in different directions around head now. “Shouldn’t grease it back so much,” she mutters, hand reaching up to play in it. She stops herself, asking him silently.

He nods. “Go ahead.” The cloud billows from his nose and mouth as he speaks. She drags her nails over his scalp, letting her fingers graze the soft strands. He holds the cigarette out to her. He grins when she hesitates. “I’m willing to share one. But if you’re afraid of cooties, I understand. I did get the shot though.”

She laughs, slapping his arm and takes the paper between her fingers before inhaling the nicotine. “Earlier,” she starts, passing the burning paper back to Calum, “that red light made me think of the cross in my front yard. I’ve got a brother and sister. Both younger than me. I’m terrified for them. They’re going to have same shitty world that I had. We march, we protest and we die. For what?”

“So the world’s not so shitty for them,” Calum exhales.”Maybe, hopefully.”

“Easier said than done.”

“No one said life was easy. Because if so, they’re a goddamn liar.” Calum holds out the cigarette for her, but she shakes her head, going for the bottle at her feet. “I’m sorry about Ashton. He means well. Just a worrier. Thought I had talked sense into him earlier.”

“I’m not upset.” It’s silent, the crickets sounding from the bushes. Calum thinks about all the hate she sees on a daily. How does she do it? He figures it’s not without trouble. They’re all burdened. No one in life gets through it untouched. Everyone has scars.

Calum’s comforted by the silence between them and before he’s realizing he’s talking. The words are just coming out of his mouth. “My parents kicked me out. I wasn’t always here. I mean, I was always other. I was always a fighter though I never liked it. I was always different. But I wasn’t always labeled different, outside.”

“You get by though.”

Calum nods, letting her take the last hit of the cigarette. “Car shop is good cash. How I got my bike. Tutor helps a little. Nearly dropped out, but Ash footed a lot of the expenses. I had to repeat a year, which ain’t the prettiest thing to admit. It took me a while to find a place to stay, wasn’t going to school all too often.”

“I bet that makes the kids feel better. The ones you tutor.” She figured Calum was older, figured that they had meet in English class by some repeat or calculation but she wasn’t sure.

“It does. They know it’s okay if things take them a bit longer.”

“Thanks. For coming to our side. For helping out. It helps more than you might now.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” There’s another pause. He watches the smoke float from her lips. “Can I see you again? Maybe actually have an actual date?”

“Telling me sharing a cigarette on your back porch isn’t a date?”

“Exactly,” Calum laughs. He hasn’t even touched his beer. He doesn’t really want it. He brought it just in case she didn’t want the fizzy drink. He’s not too upset about it. One of the other boys will take it no doubt.

They sit outside, way after all the nicotine is inhaled. She rests her head onto Calum’s shoulder. “I vote next date is food. Because every time I see you you not eating!”

“I eat I swear to it!”

“Picnic, my place. You’ll have to excuse the anklebiters if they’re around.”

“Next time, your place. I’ll excuse the anklebiters. If they’re around.”

The ride back to her house isn’t long. Feels much shorter this time around. The redlight doesn’t shock her system. The wind on her face is welcomed as it blows back Calum’s scent too. He pulls into the driveway and walks her up to the door.

“Thanks for tonight. Even though it didn’t turn out like we planned.”

Calum shrugs. He enjoys the way it turned out. “Clearly it well enough for me to get a second date.”

“Calum, if I didn’t know better I would say you’re trying to get jacketed.”

He laughs. “I know I want to see you again.” It’s direct and skirts around the going steady tease. Truth be told, he’s not sure about that. But he doesn’t want to completely ruin his chances with her.

The door creaks open a little. “Good night, Calum.”

“Good night, Cookie.” She steps into the house, sending him a small wave. He waves back and waits for the door to close. He had plenty of time, he thinks at his own place to kiss her. Or make some sort of move. But maybe it was better that they just talked, that they spilt guts to each other that they hadn’t let others see just yet.

Calum starts down the porch when the front door creaks open again. He’s not sure what’s wrong but before he can turn around fully to ask, lips are pressed gently to his cheek.

“You missed,” Calum teases. Cookie, still bent over, pushes into his cheek and Calum turns to face her completely. Her lips are soft against his and holy hell--it’s happening. Their shared breath is the slight sweet of her Coke and the bitterness of nicotine.

“Ain’t miss that time,” Cookie teases. Her lips brush against her as she speaks and they linger for what feels like an eternity, lips just centimeters from each other and breathing in the other’s exhales.

“Wasn’t a footballer, but you’re gunning for that jacket,” Calum whispers.

“I think I look good in leather,” she hums, brushing her nose over his.

“Bet you look gorgeous in it.” It leaves him in an exhale. Her chuckle is soft before she straightening back up. She slips into the dark of the house, waving one last time to Calum.

His boots nearly trip him as he heads down to his bike. Calum can still feel teh ghost of her lips on his. Her nails are still pressing into the flesh of his cheek to keep his head straight. Not like with a kiss like that he wouldn’t have followed her anyway she wanted him to go.

He’s gonna get in deep with her; he can feel it. And he doesn’t even care.

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rcdwrxck · 4 years

Text

CHAIN OF SWEETNESS

5 THINGS YOU LOVE ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER.

( ONE ) How complex he is. Say what you want about Reno, but he’s got more layers than any other character I’ve been blessed to write. Every time I think there’s nothing else that could possibly surprise me about him (and bear in mind I’ve loved him since the OG) there’s always something else that does. In either the way he words something, the way he acts and even more so now he has actual expression (thank you remake). I’m glad that people are getting to know the other side of him rather than the comedic value that AC brought him in as. He is complex and intelligent. Fiery, fierce and dedicated. ( TWO ) He is loyal to a fault, which is also probably one of his biggest downfalls. He feels deeply, though he’ll make out that everything is fine. He will risk life and limb for things (lets be honest, how many times does he get his ass handed to him?) Yet he keeps coming back for more, which leads me to the next -- ( THREE ) He never gives up. Beat him down, count him out. You can bet he’ll get right back up and continue. ( FOUR ) He is so painfully human and not this Shinra Machine everyone thinks he is. He feels his choices and he has so many regrets. He might not show you, but you can see it if you look hard enough. ( FIVE ) He is quite often underestimated. Fobbed off as comedy or idiotic. What I love about him is how intelligent he is. You can’t tell me that Reno became the Turks second in command without being intelligent. You can’t tell me that he flies a chopper backwards and tell me he isn’t talented at what he does. He is fast, intelligent and resilient. He will always use his surroundings to his advantage. He is also strong. He can hold his own very well, though he may not be as physically strong as the likes of Rude or Cloud it doesn’t make him weak. Where he lacks in the physical pow wow he sure makes up for in his zippity zooms and intelligence. Don’t underestimate him. Or do... but don’t be surprised when he uses it against you.

5 PEOPLE ON HERE YOU LOVE, AND WHY.

( ONE ) @liifestreams Lottie. You came in to my life unexpectedly, you’re one of the few I talk to every single day without fail. You never fail to cheer me up when I’m down and our random late night conversations just have me grinning from ear to ear! I couldn’t imagine life without you, it honestly feels like I’ve known you forever. Absolutely without a doubt one of my best friends. I mean come on, my husband doesn’t even ask who I’m talking to anymore. He knows it’s you! I love you to pieces! ( TWO ) @roseusuitta DRE! You little gremlin. My little baguetto friend. I think from the moment those baguette shenanigans started we were stuck together. We come up with crazy hairbrained ideas and we just roll with it. Just screaming at each other over discord, random messages or voice calls and just chatting utter ribbons at each other! I honestly never thought I’d make some actual real life friends on this hellsite, but I have. I love you! ( THREE ) @shinrasfirst YOU! YES. YOU. I don’t even know where to start. You’re one of the ones that I speak to the most, Min. You’re one of my little gems that’s living on my ‘keep forever’ shelf. Between all our vast verses, everything we come up I fall in love with. Some completely accidental. You’re always there though, you’re definitely a permanent fixture. I adore how we just throw things at each other and our reactions are always (eyes). You’re one in a million and I feel so damn lucky and blessed to be able to call you a friend. ILY ( FOUR ) @stingslikeabee I MEAN WHERE DID YOU EVEN SNEAK UP ON ME FROM? You are such a sweetheart, one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You put up with all my crazy and don’t judge me acting like a complete idiot. You put up with my idiot son (which is a tall order some days with Reno) like the most patient person ever. I know I can dive in your discord without worrying that I’m annoying you, or pestering you (which I worry about with a lot of people) and that’s because you’ve always been so welcoming and just absolutely lovely. Keeps you. ( FIVE ) @thememcry Kay. Kay Kay. My name twin. Original putter upper with Reno. Absolute A+ gremlin. I know we don’t talk as much as we used to, but you will forever hold a special place on my mantle-piece. You’re an absolute diamond, gem in the rough. Or the other way around, you get it. I just absolutely adore you and figured what better way than to publicly declare my love for you! Bahah. No seriously, ILU. You’re amazing.

5 SONGS EITHER YOU OR YOUR MUSE REGARD AS A ‘GUILTY PLEASURE’ THAT ALWAYS MAKES YOU SMILE.

Oh this is going to be fun, there’s so many.

( ONE ) Queen of Mean -- but is this because Reno has a little sister addicted to Disney’s descendants or simply because the Mun was forced to watch all three of the films and found the songs bloody catchy. On another scope from the same film, mashed up two songs together and surprisingly it works. Here ( TWO ) because i think every 90s girl listened to these, though probably wouldn’t ever admit to still having them on a playlist, right? ( THREE ) i remember my sister listening to these and i still find that whenever their songs come on I can’t skip them. Not even going to lie, I know it word for word. ( FOUR ) honestly when i was younger i absolutely loved the backstreet boys. i want it that way ( FIVE ) and another movie one... i dont even know if this is a guilty pleasure because i freely admit it. try everything - shakira - zootopia

does it even count as guilty pleasures if you openly admit to them?

Tagged by: @madamdirectcr / @liifestreams Tagging: all the above mentioned and anyone else who wants to do it.

#chain of sweetness

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thebuckybrigade · 4 years

Text

AB Positive

It’s good PR Tony—do it for the company.

Tony stands outside the massive conference room that’s been turned into a temporary blood donation center, stomach churning.

Why don’t you do it Pep? You’re the CEO!

People inside are talking and laughing, eating snacks and having what appears to be a good time, but he can’t shake the urge to walk away and hide himself in his office.

You’re the face of the company Tony, you need to do this!

And he gets it, he really does—a few photos of him donating blood will help tremendously in the ever continual effort to make him seem less the cold hearted billionaire and more the approachable winsome Avenger good guy.

Less of a fuck up.

More...human.

The thing is…

He rubs a hand over his face and draws in a shaky breath.

The thing is, he’s scared.

He doesn’t like seeing blood—namely his own—and after having his chest cracked open in a dank cave in Afghanistan and losing more blood than he’d like in his forays as an Avenger, he’s not exactly eager to go out there and spill more.

Even if it is for a good cause.

There’s a bright laugh from inside the room and he looks in again, attention catching on a handsome man smiling at one of his employees, and Tony’s heart stutters in his chest.

Dark hair, broad shoulders, narrow waist, gorgeous smile…

Okay, so, maybe he can do this.

Sliding his rose tinted glasses on his face, he plasters on a smile and pushes the door open, smiling and waving at his employees and the blood drive staff.

He fills out the requisite paperwork, gets his blood pressure taken(110/70 take that Pepper!) and is sent off to the nearest open table—the one staffed by the hottest man Tony’s ever had the privilege of seeing with his own two eyes.

“Hi Mr. Stark, I’m Bucky and I’ll be your blood draw tech,” the man greets, offering a hand for Tony to shake.

He has a moment of hesitation and then smiles back, more genuinely than when he stepped into the room, and takes the offered hand. It’s warm and dry, calloused but still somehow soft—a contradiction that appears to be very much in step with its owner.

“Heya Bucky, nice to meet you,” he replies, aware he’s got eyes on him—the sound of more than a few shutters clicking reaching his ears.

Bucky’s smile makes soft lines appear around his eyes and mouth and Tony has to choke back a whine—why is he so pretty??? he thinks desperately, it’s not fair!

“Your paperwork says you’ve never donated before, that true?”

Tony nods and smiles uncomfortably, “It’s uh, not that I don’t think it’s important, it’s just, I don’t like…”

Bucky looks up from where he’s writing down something on a stack of paperwork and smiles knowingly, “Don’t like needles?” he guesses.

Tony could lie. He could. But something possesses him and he shakes his head, lowering his voice to respond. “No, I’ve just seen too much of my own blood coming out of my body to really enjoy the idea of donating.”

Well shit he wasn’t supposed to say that.

Bucky stares at him for a moment and then scoots closer on his stool, eyes grayish blue like a thunderstorm sky, studying him.

“You don’t have to donate if you’re not comfortable,” he tells Tony softly, “There’s no shame in that.”

Tony smiles wryly, a little sadly, “You’ve clearly never read anything the papers have to say about me.”

Bucky smirks faintly, “Nope,” he agrees succinctly, the p popping on his pretty pink lips that Tony’s definitely not staring at now.

“We can say you’ve got a fever,” he offers and something flashes through Tony, gratitude and an overwhelming sense of relief that someone gets it—but he shakes his head softly and smiles weakly at Bucky.

“No can do Buckaroo, gotta make sure the people know that Avengers can bleed too!”

There’s a look in Bucky’s eyes, not pity exactly, more sorrow than anything and Tony looks away, shy suddenly.

Why does he always do this?

Five minutes with a pretty face and he’s spilling his guts.

“Okay Mr. Stark, well then, let’s get started.”

Bucky proceeds to explain each step of the process as he goes, and Tony watches him with unabashed interest, studying the way the little pieces of hair that have fallen out of his half man bun have strayed into his face.

He looks away when the needle goes in, stomach lurching at the sensation, swallowing hard for a few moments while he squeezes the little foam duck he’s been given.

His knuckles go white with each squeeze and he closes his eyes, focusing on not throwing up as he listens to the white noise of chatter in the room. A hand brushes against his wrist, closing around it gently, thumb swiping over the heel of his hand softly and he fights a shudder.

“You’re doing great Mr. Stark, keep squeezing every three to five seconds and let me know if you think you’re gonna be sick.”

He nods minutely and lets the warmth of the hand on his wrist ground him.

“It’s Tony,” he whispers, licking his lips before opening his eyes to find Bucky staring at him. “Just Tony is fine,” he explains with a weak, hopeful smile.

Bucky smiles back, wide and easy and Tony’s traitorous heart lurches in his chest.

“Sure thing Tony.”

The thing is…

Tony is feeling...odd.

It’s a little like being drunk; he’s a slightly dizzy, a little goofy, and talking way too much.

“I mean what products do you use because your hair is seriously beautiful! It’s so shiny! And soft looking!”

Bucky smiles faintly, shaking his head at Tony, “Just regular shampoo I guess?” he replies, sounding bemused by the conversation.

Tony lifts a hand as though to touch it and Bucky leans back with a confused look, avoiding the touch.

“Regular shampoo?” Tony gasps, affronted. “But, but, it’s so pretty!” He pouts at Bucky, trying to lean forward to get his hand on it, harrumphing when Bucky pushes him back with an admonishment to sit still Tony.

“You’re like a Disney Princess!” he exclaims, giggling a little.

Bucky snorts and rolls his eyes, “Yea, okay hon, whatever you say.”

Hon...Tony likes that.

Tony whines a little and ok, so maybe he’s acting childish, but Bucky’s just so pretty, how is he supposed to behave?

“Serioulsly, no wait, serio- serioulsly, no, seriously! Ha that’s it!” he stutters, pointing a declarative finger at Bucky.

Bucky lifts a brow and smirks, “You feelin ok there Tony?” he asks, the restrained laughter in his voice very apparent.

Tony pokes his arm and— “Wow your muscles are big, like, how do you even get muscles like that? Are you related to Thor? Cuz that’s just, that’s unreal is what it is.”

Bucky blushes and shakes his head, “Just a few more minutes,” he says instead of answering Tony, standing from his stool to putter around, mostly turned away from Tony now.

Which

Unfair

Tony wants to see his pretty eyes.

And mouth

And hair

And muscles

God he’s pretty

“Thank you Tony, you’re very pretty too.”

Oh shit he said that out loud.

When he looks up Bucky is smirking, eyes twinkling as he works to remove the needle from Tony’s arm and he barely notices the slide of it out of his vein.

Bucky puts a wad of cotton on the spot and guides Tony’s other hand to press down on it, “Okay, hold that there,” he instructs before turning away from Tony again.

Tony does as he’s told and holds it till Bucky replaces it and then wraps some kind of stretchy bandage thing around his arm, nodding as Bucky tells him no heavy lifting, eat a whole meal and hydrate, and expect to be a little more tired than usual. Take the bandage off after four hours and you’re good to go.

Tony nods and scooches to the edge of the cot he’s been laying on, head light as a helium balloon and then—

Promptly collapses, right into Bucky’s arms.

He grins crazily, clinging to broad muscular shoulders, “Ha, well what do you know, I’m really falling for you,” he jokes as Bucky blushes and hauls him upright.

A strong—oh god he’s so strong—arm winds around his waist, guiding him over to the chairs and snacks. He collapses gratefully into the chair and smiles dizzily as Bucky brings him an orange juice and a Nutty Buddy.

“Nutty Buddy! Oh man I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid!”

Bucky grins, “So like a week ago?” he teases, cracking open the orange juice for Tony when he struggles with it.

“Oh, oh I like you,” Tony snickers, “you come here often?”

Bucky shakes his head and smirks, “Your jokes suck sweetheart.”

Sweetheart

Tony’s brain flatlines for a minute as he imagines Bucky whispering that in his ear while he’s buried so deep in Tony that he can feel him in his chest and hnnngggg….

His body doesn’t have enough blood to respond properly to that thought, but his cock makes a valiant effort anyways.

“You suck,” he retorts, “you’re a sucky...you’re a vampire!” he exclaims, pointing a finger at Bucky as the other man laughs and shakes his head. “You are! You suck blood! I bet you’re good at sucking—”

Bucky flushes and reaches out to shove a bite of Nutty Buddy into Tony’s mouth, shaking his head as he does. “And you’re a menace sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, “now eat and drink and be quiet.”

Tony thrills a little at the softly spoken order and nods, eating his snack and drinking his juice till they’re both gone. When he stands again, he sways, but stays upright.

Bucky frowns and steadies him with a hand on his elbow and glances over his shoulder, catching the eye of a petite woman with blonde hair. “Hey Kay, I’m gonna help Mr. Stark upstairs, I’ll be back.”

With her OK, Bucky guides Tony to the elevators and then upstairs to his office, his big warm hand never leaving Tony’s arm. Tony leans into him a little, enjoying the way the other man doesn’t even hesitate to take more of his weight, just slings his arm around Tony’s waist and guides him onto the couch.

Tony slumps back and watches as Bucky rifles through the mini fridge for a bottle of water and a sandwich before he comes back and sits down, staying there till Tony’s eaten every bite.

He doesn’t seem to mind Tony’s inane rambling about why he doesn’t like to see blood—dad smacked me around as a kid, open heart surgery in a cave, Avengers shit—in fact, Bucky frowns and murmurs something about wanting to punch the bastard and Tony feels a thrill of delight at the idea of Bucky’s right hook connecting with Howard’s face.

He’s sleepy by the time he finishes eating and he must look it because Bucky urges him to lie down and produces a blanket from somewhere that he uses to cover Tony, hands gentle as they brush Tony’s hair back from his brow.

“Rest sweetheart, you’ll feel better after a nap.”

Tony nods and makes a soft, muzzy noise of contentment, eyelids growing heavier as he smiles at Bucky.

“Yer so preeetttyyy,” he sighs, hand flopping as he reaches out and finally, finally touches that glorious hair.

Bucky grins softly and captures Tony’s hand, brushes a kiss over the knuckles and laughs softly, “Alright sleeping beauty, time for a nap.”

Tony wants to make a joke about Bucky being the Disney Princess and not him, but the last of his two brain cells have wandered off and his eyes slide shut as his breathing evens out.

He doesn’t hear Bucky leave.

He wakes two hours later, clearer headed and deeply embarrassed by his behavior. He whines softly and buries his face into the throw pillow he’d been drooling into before sighing heavily and rolling upright.

That’s when he spots the note on the coffee table.

It’s from Bucky.

Tony,

I hope you don’t need a kiss like Sleeping Beauty to wake up, but if you’re interested in having dinner sometime, call me.

Bucky Barnes

——————

We had a blood drive at work yesterday and I donated and wound up bouncing this idea around with @riotfalling until I just couldn’t let it go lol so here you go! Hope you enjoy!

@purekate88

@t-h-e-myster-y

@Rinkashitikateku

@desitonystark

@marvagon

@sebastian-i-stan

@astralpcrker

@thirstinart

@starknakedsluts

@slutsforstarks

(As always if you want to be tagged or don’t want to be tagged, please let me know!)

#buckytony #winteriron #tony stark x bucky barnes #bucky x tony #stella writes #crackfic #tw: blood #tw: medicine

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kaistarus · 4 years

Text

Clickbait(YouTubeAU)--Chapter 6

Pairings: Kiribaku; Tododeku

Words: 3,505

Notes: I missed my vlog squad and was craving some fluff. The creative juices were flowing, so here’s the next chapter waaayyyy sooner than usual :D

Read the full story here

“Maybe Todoroki’s secretly in love with Bakugou,” Kaminari stuck his tongue out in concentration as he lined up his shot. He wiggled his butt and swung his neon yellow putter against the matching golf ball that proceeded to smack against a plastic rock and bounce into a small pond off coarse.

“That makes no sense,” Kirishima said frustrated. He watched Kaminari fish out his golf ball while Sero went up for his turn. “You should’ve seen him and Midoriya. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to look lovestruck while watching a person choke on tacos, but somehow Todoroki managed it.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was possible for someone to get turned on by verbal abuse, but you should’ve seen the doe-eyes you gave Bakugou during Mario Kart.” Sero angled his shot perfectly. His light gray ball bounced against a log, rolled down the small incline directly into the hole for his seventh hole-in-one. Kaminari began grumbling to himself as he continued searching for his ball.

“I did not.” Kirishima readied his shot next but missed the hole by a large amount.

“It was pretty gross, dude,” Kaminari said, shaking his hand dry of the murky water that likely hadn’t been cleaned since the mini-golf coarse opened.

“Didn’t you say they were childhood friends?” Mina sat on a short fence that lined the coarse with her neon pink putter across her lap. “Maybe Todoroki’s just being protective.”

“I’m trustworthy, though. I would treat Bakugou so good.”

“Well, we all know that, but to Todoroki you’re practically a stranger.” Mina hoped off the fence as Kaminari took his seventh hit to finally sink the ball. “Give it time, sweetie. Don’t overthink things.”

Kirishima wished it was that easy. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how awkward it had been with Todoroki glaring at him the entire meal yesterday. He managed to maintain a simple conversation with Bakugou and Midoriya but felt too uncomfortable with Bakugou obviously kicking Todoroki under the table every few minutes. He had been eager to get home.

Kirishima’s phone vibrated in the back pocket of his jeans and he pulled it out while they walked to the tenth hole.

Bakugou: Are you kicking their asses?

Kirishima chuckled. Sero was lining up for his next shot, eyebrows furrowed and intensely focused on the target—the tongue-like ramp sticking out of an oversized, spooky clown head that always made Kirishima cringe. The ramp had three pathways, but the group came here so often they knew the far right was how to get the hole-in-one. He moved his putter back, and with perfect control, his swing sent the ball bouncing off the bricked lining and up the right side of the ramp. Another hole-in-one.

Kirishima: Sero is a mini-golf god. I don’t stand a chance

Bakugou: I could take him.

Kirishima had to snort. That would be Bakugou’s first concern.

Kirishima: I don’t doubt you could

Kaminari took the front again and after his usual routine—tongue out and butt wiggled—he tapped the ball. It smacked the corner of the ramp and flew backward over the red-bricked outlining and into the previous hole’s pond.

“What the hell!”

Bakugou: You better at least beat Sparky. Or all my respect is gone

Kirishima watched Kaminari stumble over to the pond and trip over a fake log, falling into the shallow pond with his ball. He stifled a laugh at his friend’s expense.

Kirishima: He’s spent most the game in the water, so that’s easy

Bakugou: Pinky?

Mina dropped the ball down at the starting line and positioned it with her foot. She had no warm-up ritual like the others and just swung. Just like Sero’s, it bounced off the bricks and into the clown’s mouth.

Kirishima: It’s close, but I won’t let you down!

Bakugou: Fucking better not… I believe in you or whatever the fuck

Kirishima smiled dopily as he moved to the front of the tenth hole.

Kirishima: Well, now I can’t lose :D

Bakugou: Oh my god, fuck off

He pocketed his phone and dropped his ball like Mina had, rolling it into place with to tip of his croc. When he glanced toward the clown’s rusted eyes that pierced through his soul he grimaced. Then he realized his friends were staring at him, as well.

“What?”

“Just curious who you’ve been texting all day,” Mina said, twirling a strand of her short pink hair innocently.

“Especially considering all of your friends are right here,” Sero added.

Kirishima resented that statement. Mostly because he was right and Kirishima couldn’t deny it.

“No one.”

“So, Bakugou?” Kaminari asked, shaking himself off. His grey sweatpants and light-yellow sweatshirt now a shade darker. “Are you going to ask him out or what?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like he gave me any hints or signals.” Kirishima said, leaning back on his red putter. “I don’t want to fuck this up completely.”

“I thought he confessed to you,” Kaminari said as he stood at the bottom of the ramp continuously hitting the ball upwards. It kept rolling back down, and after about nine attempts he just tossed the ball through with a frustrated grunt.

“He said, ‘that wouldn’t completely suck’. That doesn’t sound like, ‘ask me out now, please’ to me.”

“I don’t know. I spent one day with the guy and I’d consider that a desperate cry for love.” Sero leaned against the short fence beside Mina who nodded in agreement.

“You’re not going to get anywhere if you keep making excuses.” She added.

“I’m not making excuses.”

“Look,” Mina said gently. “Bakugou is the type of guy who would lay on a pentagram and threaten a demon but shit himself trying to ask a guy out. If you want something to happen, you’re going to have to make the move.”

“What a type,” Kaminari said shaking his head.

Kirishima played the next few holes through muscle memory as he zoned out on Mina’s statement. He obviously wanted to go on a date with Bakugou. He wanted to go on hundreds of dates with Bakugou, he thought as a blush spread across his cheeks. There were infinite things Kirishima pictured experiencing with someone, and the more he got to know Bakugou the more he wanted that to be him. There were so many things he still didn’t know about the other YouTuber, and he wanted the opportunity to learn them. To learn everything he could.

The good. The bad. The stupid. Everything that made Bakugou… Bakugou. He wanted to understand it all. Kirishima didn’t know if the moments he had alone with Bakugou, the emotions that he felt when it was just them, were real or figments of his mind, but if there was a possibility for them to be more… Kirishima knew he should risk it.

“I’m doing it.” He announced. “Life with no regrets… right?”

Mina lifted her head up from her golf ball and a smile bloomed on her face. She dropped her putter and tackled Kirishima, wrapping him a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you, Eiji.”

“So, how we doing this?” Sero asked. “Boombox outside the window? Flowers? Airplane smoke stuff?”

“I just wanted to text him,” Kirishima said becoming self-conscious. “Is that not good?”

“That’s fine, sweetie. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled with whatever you do.”

Kirishima spent the second to last hole writing and rewriting a message out for Bakugou. This text could make or break their relationship. It could change Kirishima’s entire life. He had to put all his brainpower into making it absolutely perfect. He spent a good fifteen minutes crafting the message, and with all the confidence he could muster he handed his phone to Mina with a face so red it matched his bottle-dyed hair.

“I can’t do it. I need you to send it.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, finger on the trigger. He covered his eyes with his palms and nodded. “Alright. Sent.”

He grabbed his phone and stared at it stunned. Kirishima’s jaw hung open for a moment before he pointed a finger at Mina accusingly. “Why did you let me do that?”

“You asked me to!”

He ran a hand down his face with a dramatic groan. Kirishima didn’t bother fighting off Sero when he pried the cellphone from his hand. “‘Do you want to hang out just us sometime?’ You spent fifteen minutes on that?”

“He’s not dense enough to think Eiji meant as friends... is he?” Mina asked.

“He did think the confession in Mina’s video was out of context and fake.” Kaminari pointed out. He had his golf ball stuck in a corner of the course, so Kirishima this round was going as expected.

Kirishima twisted the head of his putter into the ground and chewed on his cheek. Should he send another text for clarification? Bakugou had been taking a long time to respond, so either he understood the message and was ignoring him or he just didn’t care. It could be awkward if he tried to fix it now. Kirishima didn’t know what to do. Was he overthinking this?

“Oh. Never mind, you’re good.”

Kirishima grabbed the device from Sero and unlocked his screen like lightning.

Bakugou: date or friends?

Kirishima froze. Holy shit, this was it. He was really going to ask out Bakugou Katsuki.

“Well, hurry up!” Mina shook his arm insistently. “Tell him a date.”

He sent the message rapidly and they all crowded around his phone, waiting for it to light up. It only took a few seconds and Kirishima took a deep calming breath before unlocking the screen.

Bakugou: yes.

Mina squealed and hopped on Kirishima’s back. He couldn’t help but bounce around excitedly with her contagious energy and he spun her around as they giggled together. His heartfelt like it was going to beat out of his rib cage, and he wanted to throw up in the best way, like, rainbows or something stupid. He just felt amazing.

“They grow up so fast,” Sero said, wiping a fake tear.

“You guys better react this way when I get a date.” Kaminari crossed his arms.

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“Hey. People are actually trying to use this course. If you kids are just going to screw off how about you go somewhere else?” An older man, somewhere in his forties, shouted at them while pointing his putter in their direction. The three-man posse tagging along started chuckling at the disrespectful comments. Kirishima scowled. They didn’t have to be assholes about it.

“No need to be rude,” Kirishima started. “We were just finishing up.”

“Didn’t look that way to us.” The guy scoffed. Kirishima scrunched up his nose in distaste. This man had some serious attitude problems.

“Look, buddy.” Mina placed closed fists on her hips and lifted her chin. “My friend is about to get the guy of his dreams. So how about you show a little respect and—”

“Do I look like I give a fuck? Just get off my course.”

Kirishima’s shoulders rose to his ears and he felt his blood start to run cold. Not because of anything the men were doing, but because they had just gotten on Mina’s bad side. And that was the last place somebody wanted to be. Kirishima thought he heard Kaminari visibly gulp in fear.

Mina pushed her chest out and her glare intensified. She began pushing up the sleeves on her cropped sweatshirt and marched forward. “Listen here, pal. I’m not afraid to—oop.”

Sero wrapped his arms around Mina’s mid-section and turned her away from the men she’d been about to fight. She kicked and swung wildly in his grasp and he turned his face away in a weak attempt to avoid getting smacked. “We’re fucking going.” He said, addressing the pricks behind them.

“Good.” The guy said. He really should have left it at that, but instead, he stupidly added, “and maybe teach your girlfriend to watch her mouth. Speak when spoken to like a good girl.”

The three boys slowly turned to him, muscles tense and fists clenched. Mina was still in Sero’s arms but Kirishima could feel the rage boiling from her. She was livid. He didn’t blame her, Kirishima was five seconds away from sending this guy across the park with one punch. He even saw Kaminari flexing a fist in his peripheral and he wasn’t one for confrontation.

Sero smiled evilly at the group and slowly let Mina loose. “Oops.”

The moment her feet touched the ground she was cracking her knuckles and stomping towards the men. Kirishima would never forget the verbal assault Mina laid down that night. He hadn’t imagined there were so many places someone could threaten to shove a putter, but Mina was one creative and terrifying son of a bitch. He had been positive one of them nearly started crying. He didn’t blame them; he probably would have too.

He noticed that Kaminari was watching the scene through spread fingers while Sero was… smiling? Not just smiling. He was full head tilted, soft eyes, and gentle smile. Full-on enamored by Mina kicking grown men’s asses. Kirishima narrowed his eyes.

What the absolute fuck was that?

His phone vibrated in his hand and he allowed himself to ignore the situation temporarily. But he stored that expression in his Kirishima memory bank for a later date.

Bakugou: We’re going to New Orleans this weekend to ‘ghost hunt’ I’m available tomorrow? Fuck is that too soon? Shit nevermind Fucking forget I talked about it even. Ignore all of this

Kirishima chewed his bottom lip to contain his own dopey smile. An employee of the mini-golf course had walked up to Mina and was doing their best to de-escalate the situation. Mina in rage mode was nearly impossible to disengage though, so Kirishima figured it was about time they intervened.

Kirishima: Sorry. Mina was kicking some guys asses. Tomorrow sounds great:)

~*~*~*~

“I can’t believe they kicked us out.” Mina slouched down in the passenger seat of Sero’s car. She had her arms crossed and her lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout.

Kirishima leaned his head against the cool glass of the car’s window and snickered at her over-the-top whining. “Well, you did threaten to end the guy’s bloodline in like thirteen different ways.”

“He deserved it.”

“We had one hole left,” Kaminari said. He was slinked down further than Mina and pouting almost as hard. “I was about to get a new high score.” Kirishima raised an eyebrow at him because he wasn’t sure whatever score Kaminari would have gotten was something to brag about.

“Well, I was winning anyway. So, didn’t matter to me.” Sero said.

“Someone’s cocky,” Mina said teasing. Sero winked at Mina and she giggled in her seat. Kirishima caught Sero’s eye in the rearview mirror and he quickly looked away. Kirishima knew something was up. Sero only acted suspiciously like that when he had a secret, and he was awful at keeping secrets.

“So, when’s your date with Bakugou?” Sero asked changing the subject to distract Kirishima, but Kirishima already knew his tactics. Nice try, Sero, but he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Tomorrow.”

“What?” Mina whipped around in the seat. “That’s so soon.”

“He’s busy filming this weekend.”

“And he suggested tomorrow?” She smiled slyly. “Interesting.”

Kirishima would choose to ignore whatever Mina had been trying to suggest with that for the time being.

“What are you guys doing?” Kaminari asked.

Kirishima blinked. “I haven’t decided. Honestly, I never imagined I’d get this far.” Kirishima fidgeted with his Chargebolt pop socket. He probably should have thought of something before asking Bakugou out.

“There’s not something you’ve always wanted to try doing with Bakugou?” Mina asked, head resting against her palm on the center armrest. Kirishima thought about it for half a second before his face started to glow red and he stared out the window, unable to maintain eye contact with Mina. “Oh, my—No. Stop. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“What about just, like, a classic movie date?” Kirishima shrugged, twisting his phone in his lap.

“Those are bad first dates,” Mina waved him off. “You can’t talk or get to know them. Save that for your third date.”

Kirishima rubbed his crocs together and his heart thrummed at the thought of them having a third date. “Okay, so eating then?”

“When was the last time you went on a date, dude?” Kaminari asked.

“Like… before YouTube?”

“That’s over four years.” Sero pointed out. Kirishima hadn’t thought too much about how inexperienced he’d become, but he supposed that could pose a problem. How many people had Bakugou dated? What if he was really good at dating and Kirishima was an idiot? Oh no…

“You’re stressing him out, guys.” Mina scolded.

“I didn’t mean to.” Kaminari shrunk further into the seat.

“I think you should go hiking.” Mina nodded her head. “That way you can show off how athletic you are and there’s plenty of time for talking. If it goes well you can get food to extend it.”

That actually sounded like the perfect idea. Kirishima loved exercising and being outdoors, so as long as the weather was nice hiking would be a perfect date. He nodded his head and unlocked his phone.

Kirishima: Do you like hiking?

Bakugou: yeah?

Kirishima: Is that an okay thing for our date?

Bakugou took an abnormally long amount of time to respond, and it wasn’t until they were pulling up in front of Mina’s apartment complex that Kirishima’s phone lit up with the notification.

Bakugou: Great. When?

Kirishima: Three or four? Won’t be too hot then

Bakugou: sounds good

Kirishima smiled and locked his phone for he assumed the rest of the night. It was a short drive from Mina’s apartment complex to their home, and the moment Kirishima unlocked the front door Kaminari went sprinting to the bathroom. When Kirishima heard the door slam, he knew he had a limited amount of time alone with Sero to address the obvious.

“So, how long have you liked Mina?”

His eyes widened in shock and they flickered towards the hall that Kaminari had sprinted down. “I don’t know. I just woke up and it was there.” Sero shrugged, staring at his shoes to avoid Kirishima’s calculating look. “Maybe a few days ago or maybe forever.”

Kirishima took a breath. “I’ve known Mina for over ten years.” He started. “She’s the reason I’m where I am today. I love all of you, but she’s practically blood at this point.”

Sero nodded.

“Which obviously means if you cross a line, or fuck something up. I won’t hesitate to kick your ass, dude.”

Sero met Kirishima’s intense stare and Kirishima saw a flash of determination flicker in his eyes. He didn’t shy away this time but nodded with confidence. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at his friend’s bravado. Kirishima couldn’t say he was thrilled that one of his best bros was crushing on who he’d consider being his little sister, but at the same time, Sero was probably the best guy he’d ever met. In the end, this was Mina’s decision. She wasn’t the type to have her opinion swayed even if Kirishima tried to play wingman, but Sero already knew that.

Kaminari walked into the kitchen with them staring at each other challengingly and glanced between the two concerned. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing important, bro,” Kirishima said. “I need to go lay in bed and stress out for the next eight hours instead of sleep.”

They wished him luck and waved him goodnight. Kirishima got himself ready for bed—washed gel from hair, stripped to boxers, brushed teeth—and flopped onto his mattress. He reached for the charger plugged in by his nightstand for charging his phone overnight but stopped when he noticed several text notifications. He must have missed them when he was lecturing Sero.

Bakugou: I’m looking forward to tomorrow or whatever I guess Not I guess I know Fuck. Idk. Have a good sleep? That was stupid. Pretend this didn’t happen

Kirishima smiled giddily, kicking his feet wildly beneath his comforter and pressing his phone against his chest. He wanted to understand what he did to all of a sudden feel this unreasonably happy. He bit his lip and hesitated before beginning to type out a response.

Kirishima: I am also excited. Goodnight:)

Bakugou: :) Fuck that was dumb ignore that

Kirishima’s heart was going to explode. Bakugou was going to kill him before Kirishima even had the chance of going on a real date with him.

Kirishima: :D no. I refuse that was too good:)

Bakugou: fuck you. Go to sleep. :)?

Kirishima: No you :) :) :)

He pulled his comforter above his head and let out a small squeal. Fuck. He’d fight every demon Bakugou didn’t believe in to be with this boy.

Bakugou Katsuki was going to absolutely destroy him.

#i'm so in love with this fic #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #tododeku #bnha #bnha au #youtuber au #clickbait

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fanfiction4thesoul · 5 years

Text

Ridge Farm

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: ~4.1

Warnings: Fluff and smut (18+ only), it’s soft and sleepy?-ish?

Summary: You’re visiting Roger at Ridge Farm. But your getaway takes a softer turn when you get there and realize how exhausted Roger really is.

A/N: I have no idea how I progressed from an angsty/fluffy one-shot to smut so quickly but oh well. This is my first time writing smut so I could really use some feedback on what you guys liked or didn’t. Thank you to everyone who liked/reblogged/commented on my first fic. I can’t tell you how unbelievably insane it was to see your reception. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic too!

You check your reflection one last time in the rearview mirror before deeming yourself satisfactory. Roger invited you to join him for a weekend at Ridge Farm while he was recording his latest album, A Night at the Opera. He’s been gone for a month now and you were five shades past restless, well on your way to going crazy without him.

You were busy all day getting things ready to leave before making the three hour journey to the farm. Roger wasn’t expecting you until sometime tomorrow morning, so you were hoping he would be happy at your early arrival.

When you opened up the front door to the house, there was no one there, though you could see the kitchen had dirty dishware strewn about it. Not seeing anyone anywhere in the house you go back outside and head to the barn. Immediately after opening the door, the sound of Roger playing the drums reaches you. Sitting at the sound desk is Freddie, smiling slightly, presumably at Roger behind the glass. Brian and John are on the sofa chatting until they see you enter.

“(Y/N)! So good to see you,” Brian says, standing up to hug you. You smile at him first, then turn to hug John and exchange a soft hello. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow?”

Before you could respond, Freddie spins around in his seat and bounds towards you. “She obviously came early to see our bright, shining faces. Isn’t that right, (Y/N)?”

You grin wider. “Of course, Fred.”

Freddie pulls you into a hug and quietly whispers, “It’s truly good to see your smiling face here, darling.” Pulling away, he continues at a normal volume, “God knows we need you to cheer up our sulky drummer.”

He motions behind the glass where you can still hear Roger pounding away on the drums. However, now you can see the furrow of his brow as he focuses intently on his drums, not noticing anything beyond them. There are bags under his eyes and you can tell he seems frayed. Your face falls slightly as you bite your lip in worry. “Trouble with the album?” A snort comes from Brian and you turn your attention to him in question. He lets out a sigh. “A bit too much tension and tempers in a short amount of time, I’m afraid to say. We were actually about to call it a day after Rog is done his bit. Figured the weekend would be a good time to cool down and regroup on Monday.” Nodding, you turn back to Roger.

You knew the boys considered each other family until the very end. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t fighting. Early into your relationship with Roger, he tried to hide the intense arguments and (seemingly) non-stop bickering that could happen at the studio. Once you finally got him to open up about it, he would come to you whenever it all became too much for him. You could empathize with him, make sure he knew his emotions were valid (but also give advice on places where he might want to back off or compromise) and most importantly, just be there in any way he needed you.

You imagined the weekend as a fun getaway, but if Roger needed to detox then you’d be happy to pull him away and set him straight again. Walking away from the window, you stand in front of the door leading to Roger so he can’t see you through the pane. “Let me know when I can barge in there and steal him away. ‘Cause once I get him, I’m not letting him go.”

Freddie gives you a small nod and goes back to the sound desk with the technician. John sends you another smile, sitting back down with Brian and you lean against the door. Roger takes another 15 minutes to make adjustments to his part until Fred finally cuts him off. “Wonderful, Roger. I think we’re finally done for the day.” He gives you a side eye with raised eyebrows for a second then shooes you with his hands. Wrenching the door open with a grin, you startle Roger behind his kit.

It only takes a moment for a smile to stretch across his face as well, as he quickly moves to envelope you in a tight hug. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply. “(Y/N),” he sighs softly. You just hum in response, moving your hands in soothing circles over his back. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow morning,” he pulls back after a few long moments, resting his hands on your waist.

“I know. But I wanted to surprise you. And this way we can spend some more time together. Are you happy?”

“Oh, dove, of course I’m happy,” he brings one of his hands up to cup your face. You gently lean into the touch. “I’m always ecstatic when you’re around.”

“Good, ‘cause we’ve got big, big plans of doing a whole lotta nothing this weekend. Sound good?”

He laughs and gives you a crooked smile. “Only because I get to do it with you.”

“Roger Taylor,” you giggle, “you’re a hopeless romantic. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He pinches your waist making you squeal, moving away from him. He doesn’t let you get very far, bringing you back into his warm embrace. “You can’t let the secret out, dove. I’ve an image to maintain.”

“Alright, alright. Now come on. The first part of your relaxing weekend is a nice dinner. I made a lasagna and brought you guys some more groceries.”

You lead him out to your car where he helps you unload the food, bringing it into the kitchen. The rest of the boys are milling about so you make them unpack and put things away while you work on cleaning up the mess they left from breakfast. You pop the lasagna in the oven to heat up. Before you know it, you’re all sat around the table eating while the boys catch you up on all their antics they’ve gotten up to.

Roger is unusually quiet, though he still chimes in every so often to add to a story. Now that he’s finally sat down and started to rest, you can see his tiredness gradually creep up. Small yawns escape him even as he attempts to cover them up. Throughout dinner, you make sure to grab his hand as much as possible and brush your shoulders together. You try to convey that you’re there for him. He squeezes your hand every time you take his, so you think he got the message.

As you near the end of dinner, you decide not to dawdle around the table and try to get Roger up to bed as soon as possible. Right after everyone is done eating and the last story comes to a comical close, you stand up.

When you start to clear the table to do the dishes, John waves you away. “We’ve got this (Y/N). You’ve already cleaned our mess up.”

“And you cooked,” Brian adds.

“Besides,” Freddie says, “I think Rog is getting a little peckish over there, if you know what I mean.”

“Oi!” Roger yells.

“I tell it like I see it, darling. Now, the rest of us are heading into town for some drinks. You’re welcome to join us, but I think you might enjoy the empty house more.” He gives you a wink.

“Thanks Fred, but I think we’ll pass tonight. You boys have fun. C’mon Rog.” You grab his hand and drag him up and away from the table before he can get too agitated with Freddie’s joking. He leads you up the stairs and shows you his bedroom. You collapse on the bed, Roger following right behind you.

His hand finds yours and he grips it tightly. He rubs circles with his thumb as you listen to the rest of the boys putter around for a short while. It’s nice to have a quiet moment with Roger. The phone calls you’ve been sharing with him for the past month don’t last as long as you want. And Roger tries to limit what he says over the phone in case one of the boys overhears. The distance has made you yearn for these softer moments where you can simply relax in each other’s presence.

You hear the boys move around more in this creaky old house. They come up and down the stairs a few times. Once you hear the door slam shut and the house is quiet you sit up and look down at Roger.

He startles a little having dozed off a bit. When you run your hand through his soft hair, he closes his eyes again, relaxing at your touch and making you smile. You know he’s pretty tired, even if he won’t admit it. So you have a plan to make him relax even more.

“Why don’t we take a bath, love?”

He hums in response, deflecting your suggestion so you decide to get up and search for the bathroom. Sure enough, Roger groans as soon as your hand leaves him. “No. Love. Come back,” he whines.

Laughing in the hall as you start opening doors, you yell back, “You have to get in the bath if you want my hands!” That’ll probably be incentive enough for him to get up and follow you.

You finally find the bathroom and start running the water. When the tub is almost full, you hear him groan loudly. He shuffles his way into the bathroom with a fake pout on his face.

“Alright, I’m here.”

“You are indeed,” you smile. You put your hair up and start to strip away your clothes, then turn to Roger to help with his as his sluggish movements impede his progress. He steadies you as you get into the tub then you lean against the back. Normally you’d be the one cradled in Roger’s arms when you bathe together, but you hope this position will help loosen the stress from his body. “C’mon, love. Tonight’s about you.”

He climbs in at your coaxing, leaning back against you, sighing as he does so. You comb your fingers through his hair again while your other hand intertwines with his.

You stay that way for a long while, quiet conversation occasionally filling the comfortable silence. He wants to know what you’ve been up to, even if it is rather boring. With each drag on your hand through his hair, you feel him slowly ease into your touch until he’s resting his whole weight on you. A spark of satisfaction runs through you knowing that you’re able to get Roger to such a state.

When you notice the bath water beginning to cool dramatically, you know it’s time to get out. You squeeze his hand and whisper to him to sit up. And he does, though reluctantly. He points out his shampoo when you ask and you start massaging some into his long hair.

You take your time, rinsing out the suds and then combing the conditioner through his strands, working out any tangles you’re met with. Roger remains soft and pliant the entire time, giving out hums of content every now and then. After you finish his hair and use a washcloth to wash the rest of him, you press a kiss to the center of his back. You start trailing a line of kisses up his back towards his shoulder until you can hook your chin around him. He turns to give you a sweet kiss.

“Why don’t we go lay in bed,” you say.

“What about you, love?”

You smile at him, “No need to worry about me. I showered this morning. Let’s go.” You stand up, grabbing towels for the both of you.

“How’d you find time to shower between shopping, baking lasagna, and driving all the way here?” He asks as he wraps a towel around himself.

“I’m just magical like that.” You say, walking towards his room.

Once you’re both dry, you collapse back on Roger’s bed. You expect him to lay beside you again, but instead he rolls until he’s half on top of you with his head on your chest and his legs tangled with yours. Giggling a little at his antics, you rub your hand up and down his back soothingly.

“Hmm, you’re so comfy. And warm.” He snuggles a little further into you, bringing his free hand up at the same time to grab the boob he’s not resting his head on. He holds it firmly but otherwise does nothing else.

“Whatcha doing there, hun?” you ask, slightly amused.

“Jus’ feeling.”

You almost believe he’s being innocent enough until he decides to squeeze your breast and lightly run his thumb over your nipple, making your hand on his back stutter. Glancing down at him, his eyes are closed and his face carefully blank. He continues to repeat the action, though, and you can’t help the breathy whimper that escapes your lips. “Somethin’ wrong, love?”

The tone is level, but you can hear his light teasing behind it. He knows how bothered you’re getting but doesn’t do anything more. The only way you know he’s reacting at all is the growing hardness you feel pressed against your side. Deciding to play along, you resume your motions on his back.

“No,” you breath, trying to make your voice sound steady. It doesn’t sound the least bit convincing, especially since his slow torture makes more whimpers fall out. This month apart has made you absolutely weak. You feel like a hormonal teenager again, getting worked up from such tiny touches.

Just when you’re ready to burst and ask for more of anything, Roger turns his head and slowly sucks your nipple into his mouth. He nips it playfully, causing you to throw your head back with a low moan. “Roger…” You bring the hand on his back up to tangle in his hair, gently pressing him further against you. He hums as he keeps flicking his tongue across you, sending delicious tremors running through your body. “Don’t start things you can’t finish,” you say as your breathing begins to speed up.

He releases you with a wet pop before looking at you. His eyes are hooded and he’s got a small smirk making its way across his face. “Who said I wasn’t finishing this?” He brings his lips to your neck, sucking right below your ear. You lean your head to the side, giving him more access. He takes the invite, trailing kisses down your neck and mouthing at the junction to your shoulder.

You moan under his assault, but manage to whimper out, “You’re supposed to be relaxing… letting me take care of you.” You already mentally reworked your plans for the weekend, thinking Roger would be too tired for any fun times. Which is fine, truly. But this is Roger and you really should have known better than to think he’d ever be too exhausted for sex.

“I am relaxed. And you are taking care of me. But I’m also taking care of you. Will you let me, honey?” As he speaks against your throat he moves his hand from your breast, trailing teasingly over your stomach and finally coming to rest on your mound.

He brings his fingers through your folds, collecting the wetness gathered there. You moan but he keeps just out of reach from slipping in. “I need an answer, darling.”

“Yes! God, Roger…” You squeeze your eyes shut and grip his hair hard as he pushes two fingers in as soon as the words leave your mouth. He kisses you sweetly to swallow up your noises.

The tiredness Roger exudes manifests in all his actions. Despite how hot and worked up he’s making you, his kiss is relaxed and passionate. His tongue drags across yours in a mirror of his hand, leisurely building up your arousal.

Suddenly he grinds his pelvis into your thigh and he groans into your mouth. You can feel some of his pre-cum smear across your leg. As you’re deliriously thinking about the benefits of falling into bed already naked, Roger brings his thumb to circle your clit while his fingers continue to pump into you. “Rog…”

“You’re so hot, honey,” he says moving to nibble your ear. “I could do this for hours and never get tired of it - of the sounds you make.” As if to emphasize his point, he presses harder onto your clit, making you mewl in pleasure. He keeps whispering into your ear while he adds another finger but keeps the pace deliberately slow. His hips continue grinding gently into your side, breaking up his dirty words with quiet grunts.

It’s so good but it’s not enough to get you over the edge you’ve been inching towards. “Rog… I need…”

“What do you need, honey?”

“More,” you moan when he flicks his thumb just right.

“Hmm, you need to be more specific, honey. More what? More kisses?” He gives you chaste little kisses, lips barely brushing. Before you can pull away to tell him to stop teasing, he distracts you by swiping his tongue through the seam of your lips, pushing his way into your mouth.

It’s Roger who eventually moves away, taking the fingers in your cunt with him. You gasp at the empty sensation and buck your hips trying to bring him back. “No, Roger… what are you doing?” He presses down on your pelvis keeping you in place.

“Oh I’m sorry, darling! I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to keep going.” His words are dripping sarcasm and he’s smirking at you lazily. The thumb that was on your clit now circles your lower stomach making you ache desperately. Despite depriving you of any stimulation, his hips carry on with their movements against you.

You groan in exasperation. “You should be too tired for this much teasing.”

“Never, love,” he says, leaning in. You close your eyes in anticipation, but after a moment of nothing, you open them back up. Roger’s a hair's breadth away from your lips, smirk in place. “I still haven’t heard what you want, love.” His tone is taunting and you know he’ll let this drag out for as long as it takes. You’re positively throbbing, clenching down on nothing and it makes your next words spill out.

“More pressure.”

His smirk widens. “What’s the magic word, love? Hmm? You should know if you’re so magical.”

“Please! Roger, will you just- ” You’re cut off as Roger pushes all three fingers back into your cunt, thumb pressing firmly on your clit. You throw your head back in a silent scream.

“That’s it, honey. Taking my fingers so well. Promise I’ll get you there.” Roger manages to keep his stream of filth going between wet kisses he places under your exposed jaw. He quickly brings you to edge with the steady circles of his thumb. All it takes is a well timed thrust coupled with a deft flick on your clit that has you flying into your orgasm.

Roger’s name tumbles from your mouth as your spine arches off the bed, chasing the sensation his fingers leave you with. He works you through your high, his pace never faltering, even after you come down. You’re a panting mess when he finally pulls his fingers away.

You watch breathlessly as he brings his hand up to his lips and licks them clean without breaking eye contact. They come out of his mouth with a soft pop when he finishes, groaning as he does so. “Never tasted anyone as sweet as you, honey.”

You move some of his sweaty hair out of his face as you smile gently at him. “Now it’s my turn.” You trail your free hand down his chest towards his weeping cock. His thrusts against you had stopped, though you’re only noticing now. His cock is still pressed flushed to your side, though, and you feel slightly guilty at neglecting it. You want to make him feel good too.

Before your hand can skim past his stomach, he catches it with his own.

He brings your hand up and gives a soft kiss to your fingers. “As much as I love these hands, it’s not what I want tonight.” His voice is soft, if not a little strained, but so full of love. “Turn over, dove.” He moves back enough to give you room to turn on your side and face away from him.

An arm wraps around your waist and brings you flush against his chest. Helping you get into position, he bends your top leg and tucks his own behind it. The new angle has his cock rubbing against your folds. You both moan at the sensation.

Suddenly, Roger’s hand is on your chin turning your head to stare up at him. “I’ve not had the chance tonight to tell you how utterly in love I am with you. You’re so good to me, dove.” His eyes are so gentle. He strokes his thumb over your cheek and you can’t help but close your eyes at the loving gesture.

“I love you, too, Roger.” You smile up at him brilliantly before twisting a hand in his hair to bring him down for a sweet kiss. As your mouths move against each other he starts rolling his hips, moving his shaft between you.

A groan leaves him as he pulls away. “I can’t take it anymore, I need to be inside you. Are you ready, dove?” He lines himself up and waits for your breathy confirmation before slowly pushing into you.

His loud groan fills the room and you squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation of being so full. After weeks of being away it takes you a few moments to get use to his size again. Roger patiently waits until you roll your hips, giving him silent permission to start moving.

He slowly starts pumping in and out of you, completely unhurried in his motions. His pace is slow and steady, punctuated with firm thrusts that hit beautifully inside you, making you cry out his name.

You clench and unclench your hand in his hair, sometimes pulling the strands a little too hard, but releasing a small growl from Roger. Despite his measured pace, the hand not propping him up is moving all over your body.

He takes time to tease each nipple, giving enough attention to them that they feel sore from the constant tweaks and pinches. He traces through your navel causing your stomach to flutter and your heat to clench hard around Roger.

His hips stutter as he swears in your ear. “Christ, (Y/N).” He’s putting your senses into overdrive and all you can do is hold on tight as you try not to drown in the sensual sensations.

Roger repeats the motion over your stomach before moving on to grip your hip. Guiding your movements slightly, he helps you grind back against him. One particular roll has you seeing stars when it falls in time with Roger’s thrust.

“Roger… I’m close,” you breath, gripping his hair tighter before moving it to grip the hand on your waist. You’re barrelling towards the edge again at lightning speed, probably because you’re still sensitive from your first orgasm The pace remains the same, however, and you can’t decide whether to curse or thank God that you fell in love with a drummer.

But then the steady motion falters. “Me too, darling.” He moves his hand from under yours and lands on your clit. You cry out a choked moan, gripping his wrist in a vice. “Go on, honey. Let go.” His words, combined with everything else he’s doing to your body, has you clenching for the second time that night.

You scream Roger’s name once, throwing your head back into his chest behind you. You’re afraid you might break his wrist if you squeeze it any tighter. With a low moan, Roger’s hips rut into you one more time before you feel him spill inside you.

You groan again, the heat of him filling you up sending aftershocks through your body. Both of you are panting heavily and you feel Roger drop his head behind you, snuggling into your neck. His hand wraps around yours, bringing them to rest on your stomach.

“I love you so much, honey. I’m so glad you’re here.” Roger still sounds breathless as he puffs the words out.

You sigh in content, closing your eyes. He responds to your hand squeeze in kind and gives a whimper as you involuntarily clench around his soft cock still inside you. “There’s no place I’d rather be more, Rog. I love you, too.”

He hums softly in your ear, breathing starting to even out. You feel yourself quickly following, but not before thinking one last time how lucky you are to be loved by Roger.

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x you #roger taylor imagine #roger taylor fanfic #queen #roger taylor smut

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thiswasinevitableid · 5 years

Text

Moonlit Walk

Prompt for the 19th was: “If you thought you were safe, you thought wrong.” Beware, this prompt is Not Suitable For your Workplace.

“If you thought you were safe, you thought wrong.”

Stern turns to look at the man behind him. His date is smiling, all teeth.

Sharp teeth.

“Remember I said how handsome you look in the moonlight?” The man is shifting, changing, and Stern gazes up at the full moon.

“Shit. Alright, don’t panic, I’m sure there’s a way we can get you somewhere where you can’t hurt anyone or yourself.”

“Aw, it’s cute that you think this is a warning so you can try to save yourself. Hate to break it to you, Joseph, but we didn’t come all the way out here to get cozy. But I meant what I said; You really do look like a snack.” It’s coming out as more of a growl now, and the smile is staying put.

“You can’t, can’t be serious.” He’s already trying to picture his escape route.

“Dead serious. But” he drags his claws down a tree-trunk, nonchalantly, “I’ll give you a sixty second head start. It’ll be more fun that way. One-”

Stern is running before the syllable leaves his mouth. Even as it pounds in his ears, his heart sinks as he notices he’s completely lost.

Not nearly far enough behind him, there’s a howl.

This was not how this night was supposed to go.

He’s been in the sleepy California town of Kepler, researching his newest book of cryptid sightings, for two months. Dating pools are already small in towns like Kepler, even more so when you’re gay. So imagine his pleasure when another visitor approached him a few days ago and asked if he’d like to go on a date. He was charming, and handsome, and Stern was curious and a little bit horny and figured the worst that would happen was some disappointing sex.

They’d had dinner in the lodge where Stern was (is) staying, and he’s had a perfectly decent time. His date wasn’t an amazing conversationalist, but he was pleasant enough, and seemed very into Stern.

The only odd moment had come when, while his date was in the bathroom, the bartender (and cook) came over to personally drop off his drink.

“You doing okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“That guy’s not giving you any trouble?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Huh. Well, uh, lemme know if that changes, okay?”

Now, as he ducks and weaves through the woods, Stern replays that conversation. Wishes he’s paid more attention to what, in retrospect, may have been a warning. Wishes he’d paid attention to their path in the forest, rather than to the many complimentary things his date had said to him.

How does that poem go?

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;

Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the-

“Fuck” he hisses as he comes to a stop at the edge of a sheer rock face. Cracking branches and panting growls are terrifyingly close. Weighing his options, he grabs the largest stick he can swing; if flight won’t save him, maybe fight will.

“Ooh, bad luck. Guess you’re not as sharp as I thought.” His date lurches through the trees towards him.

“I’m not helpless either. Leave me alone.”

“Oh yeah, this is gonna be fun” the monster crouches, ready to spring, when a cacophony of snapping branches comes from Sterns left.

“You heard him. Beat it.” Rumbles a voice.

The werewolf must be able to see better in the dark than Stern, because he scoffs “who’s gonna make me, Squatch-boy?”

It’s only when the newcomer steps into the light that Stern sees him too.

Yeah, that’s definitely a Bigfoot.

“Look, man, you’re already in pretty serious trouble. Don’t make me kick your ass on top of it.”

The werewolf snarls and launches himself at the cryptid, who dives to the side and comes up with what appears to be half a dead tree. He swings, sending the lycanthrope flying.

Unfortunately, he flies Sterns way and lands too close for comfort.

“I’m gonna tear you apart youOW!”

Stern hits him with the stick again for good measure, giving Bigfoot time to cross the distance between them and haul the creature into an extremely violent bear-hug. When he throws the wolf to the ground this time, he stays down for a twenty count before stumbling up and limping towards the treeline.

“Fine, asshole, you eat him! Fuck that hurt.” It glares at them once before skulking off into the darkness.

At the implication that Bigfoot sees him as prey, Sterns panic gives an encore. He knows of no accounts suggesting that Bigfoot or cryptids of his kind eat people. But until tonight, Stern didn’t know of any credible accounts of the existence of werewolves, either.

Bigfoot turns to look at him and he raises his stick.

The cryptid holds up his hands, “Whoa, hey, I’m not gonna eat you. That guy’s just being a dick.”

“You’ll forgive me for not being inclined to believe you right now.”

“I swear, I’m mostly harmless.” He kneels, then sits down on the forest floor.

“You are almost two feet taller than me, you have fangs, and you just beat up a werewolf.”

“.....Yeah okay I see your point. Uh” he pats around his body, looking for something, “here, maybe this’ll help.” He slips a woven bracelet on his wrist, and then there’s no more Bigfoot.

Just a bartender.

“Barclay?”

The other man waves sheepishly, “Hey. Uh, this making you feel better?”

“It’s mainly increasing my confusion.”

Barclay scratches the back of his neck, “There’s more than I can really explain right now, especially without checking with some other people first. The main thing is what you already saw; there’s monsters running around, and they can look like humans.”

“There’s more than just the two of you?”

“Lots more. Most of us are really chill. I haven’t seen that guy before, so I think he might have either just come through from our home or be passing through from another town. Either way, he’s the only werewolf I’ve ever seen who’d pull a stunt like this.”

“There are other werewolves?” Stern cautiously lays the stick down.

“Most of them are having a chess club meeting tonight.” Barclay shrugs.

Stern slowly settles onto the ground, heart rate returning to normal, “That’s why you asked me about him, isn’t it?’

“I wasn’t sure if he was what I thought, because I hadn’t seen him before. I just got a kinda predatory vibe off of him. When I saw you two heading out here I got suspicious and followed you. After letting Mama know my hunch.”

Stern nods, beginning to understand. Mama runs the lodge, and if anyone in town looks prepared to handle a monster, it’s her.

“Do you wanna continue this conversation back at the lodge?”

“Yes, please.” Stern ought to stand up, but the idea of doing so sounds exhausting. Barclay gets up, walks the several feet between them and holds out his hand. Stern takes it, gratefully.

“Is the lodge close? I’m so goddamn turned around, I feel like such a fool for not even paying enough attention to know where I am in relation town.”

“He turned you around on purpose.”

“By stroking my ego with nice words, and I fell for it.” Stern mutters.

“Try not to beat yourself up, okay?” Barclay rests his free hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll do my best.”

They start back through the trees, Barclay keeping a protective arm around the shorter man.

“You’re taking me being Bigfoot pretty well.”

“Honestly, I just processed so much unexpected information in such a short time that I’m still sorting through all my feelings.”

“...Are you trying to decide whether to ask me for help with you research?”

Stern looks over at him, finds a wry, sweet smile heading his direction.

“Perhaps.”

“Gotta buy me a drink first.”

“Barclay, you are the one serving them. You can have one for free whenever you want.”

“Not from a cute guy I can’t.”

Sterns’ cheeks heat up at the same time his stomach twists, compliments in the dark woods now linked to danger in his brain. Barclay notices the reaction, clears his throat.

“Did you get a chance to finish that book I gave you?”

“It was spectacular, I stayed up all night a few days ago to read it. I meant to give it back, but I’ve been swamped with research just like you’ve been swamped with customers.”

“Really has been hectic the last few days. Think we got written up somewhere again.”

“Does that happen often?” Stern picks his way over a fallen log, Barclay offering a hand to steady him.

“Every now and then Sunset or somesuch writes about Kepler as a nice weekend vacation spot. Lodge gets mentioned every time, usually as a place to eat.”

“As it should. You’re an amazing chef, Barclay.”

It’s a pity the moonlight washes the world out; he’s fairly certain Barclay is blushing.

When the lodge comes into view, a figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat approaches them, coalescing into the shape of Duck Newton, local ranger.

“Mama wanted me to let you both know that she’s taken care of the issue.”

Barclay groans, “she didn’t kill him, did she?”

“Nope, just put the fear of god into him and chased him across the border into the next county in her pick-up. Accordin to ‘Drid, no futures of him comin back.”

“That’s...good?” Stern isn’t quite sure how Duck’s tall, gangly husband can be so sure.

“Whelp, I better be headin home. Evenin you two, glad you didn’t get eaten.” He tips his hat and heads off towards the parking lot.

Stern rubs his arms, nerves still refusing to quiet entirely.

“Kitchen’s closed, but I got a little kitchenette in my room, could make you some tea. Uh, if you want.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

Soon he’s seated on Barclays green, plaid bed-spread as the larger man putters around the small stove. Barclay keeps up a quiet, consistent chatter, seeming to understand that Stern is craving the reassurance of a friendly, familiar voice.

“...Anyway, it turns out it’s even harder than you’d think to get caramel syrup out of your beard.”

Stern laughs at the image, reaches for the mug Barclay offers him. The trouble is, he can’t make his hands grab it. It nearly drops on the floor, but Barclay cups his hands around Sterns to keep them steady,

“Everything okay?”

“I, it’s like my limbs are numb but full of little, buzzing bugs all at once and I can’t make them grip anything. It’s an adrenaline reaction I get some time.”

“Is there a way I can help?” The question is gentle, earnest, Barclay staring down at him with those deep brown eyes. Stern glances down, trying to ignore the lewd thoughts flooding his head at Barclays offer. Instead he counts the various scars on Barclays hands, wonders which are remnants of kitchen incidents and which are reminders of monster battles.

In spite of this distraction, his mind offers up thoughts. Thoughts of how Barclay brings him his coffee with just the right amount of cream and sugar already added, while all the other guests have to add theirs at the table. How more than a few nights, he’s kept Stern company while he pours over notes and researches leads, busying himself with looking over recipes or cleaning the bar.

Thoughts of how more than once, Barclay’s given Stern a shy once-over, a thing he’d previously never thought possible. How the few times the bartender complimented him, Stern glowed for hours afterwards.

He looks back up, finds the other man waiting on his answer.

It doesn’t take much, merely a soft tug on Barclays hands, to bring him close enough for a kiss. He gets surprised, short moan in response, pulls back to smile at him.

“I don’t know about you, Barclay, but I can think of some far more enjoyable ways to burn off adrenaline than sipping tea.”

“Got that right. And I’m happy to do them, as long as you promise me you’re not doing this because you think it’s something you owe me.”

“I’m not.”

Barclay takes the mug from Sterns hands, sets it down on the bedside table calmly.

Then he makes a surprisingly graceful hop-flop onto the bed, and pulls Stern on top of him. The fire in Sterns system is instantaneous, and he frantically kisses Barclay while tugging at his shirt and grinding against him. When the shirt proves too difficult, he goes for Barclays belt, but the other man grabs both his hands with one of his own, grips his hip to keep him still with little effort (good lord he is strong).

“Much as I appreciate the thought, babe, I wanna make it all about getting you off right now. You’ve had a hard night. Will you let me make you feel good?”

Stern cups his face and kisses him hard and happy, nodding as best he can.

“Lay back and get comfy.”

Stern tears his shirt off like it’s on fire, gives his slacks the same treatment. Barclay chuckles, undoes his flannel and drops it on the floor. Then he kneels down, grabs Sterns ankles and slides him down to the edge of the bed, eases his underwear off once he’s there. Then hooks Sterns legs over his shoulders, nuzzles his inner thighs with a low, rumbling purr.

“Want me to suck your dick?”

“Oh lord yes, please, yesYESohhhhh.” His heels dig into Barclays back at the first firm swipe of his tongue. Barclay huffs out warm, laughing breath against him before continuing to circle and swirl along his folds, Stern whimpering whenever his tongue teases at his dick. The room steadily fills with his moans, the odd laugh when Barclays beard tickles his skin, and the other mans panting, pleased purr.

Barclay pulls back just a little, kissing Sterns’ hips and thighs as he groans, “fuck, love doing this to you, love hearing you moan baby, god, wanna make you feel so good.”

“You’re doing, ah, so well, oh lord Barclay please don’t stop.”

“Not planning to.” Is all he hears before Barclay dives back down, moaning around his cock like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. The noise rumbling out of him is no longer a purr, it’s a growl, Barclays ministrations becoming messier, more animalistic, with every second. Stern is matching his enthusiasm , no longer content to lay back and be lavished with pleasure. Instead he chases it, grinding against Barclays face, which only serves to make the man on the floor growl louder.

“That’s so good, you’re so good, ohlordfuck” he grips that endearingly shaggy hair, “right there, please right thererighttherrerightthereOHhhhh.” His eyes shut as his orgasm floods him, and a comforting pressure registers on his thigh as Barclay rests his chin against it to watch him come.

“Better?”

“Yes. Would, would you like to uh, not be on the floor.” He gestures weakly at the bed, hoping Barclay gets the gist.

He does, climbing onto the mattress and rolling Stern into his arms.

“Give me a moment and I can re-” he yawns, the long-awaited crash finally hitting him, “-ciprocate.”

“Don’t worry about it, okay babe?”

“But you’re clearly turned on. I’m fairly certain I felt you trying to hump the side of the bed while you were down there.”

“I mean yeah, because you’re real fucking hot and I like doing that. But you’re already going limp and sleepy on me.” He lifts Sterns hand, which thwaps back onto the bed because he doesn’t have the energy to even think about keeping it up.

“Suppose you’re right. And you’re very comfortable.”

“If you want, tomorrow you can nap on me while I’m Bigfoot.”

“I’d” another yawn “like that.” Then a rather ridiculous thought occurs to him and he begins laughing “I never need to work a day in my life again. I’m just going to sell my story to the National Enquirer for a million dollars.”

Barclay belly-laughs, cuddling Stern closer, “Go to sleep, you goofball.”

“Won’t be calling me that when my feature, ‘Bigfoot is real and he sucked my dick’ goes viral.”

“You can only write that if I get a cut.”

Stern blinks sleepily up at him, kisses the goofy smile spreading across his face, “deal.”

#agent stern/barclay #sternclay #promptober #AUs

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kaylaxwrites · 4 years

Text

Catch the Wind | part one

I’m giving in and putting this in parts. Let me know when I finish the other two parts if you’d rather have a masterlist or just one long post. or both.

Pairing: Matt Murdock/reader Words: 2700 Summary: You like Matt. You're pretty sure he likes you too. Then why does he say no when you ask? What is he hiding and why won't Foggy tell you? Request: "How about an old friend of Foggy and Matt, who has this will they won’t they thing with Matt and she finally tries to act on it for her only to get turned down by him. His decision was because he is too focused on being Daredevil and doesn’t want her to be swept up in that so they decide to be friends, but it takes a strain on her relationship with Matt but also with Foggy too. Then like decide where it should go from there" (anon) A/N: things have been crazy and I suck at writing things on time and I’m sorry. but I hope this is good enough for the wait? I think I can get two more parts after this that are 2k+ words each, but I’m still figuring those out. and I felt bad for never posting anything so here you go. I’m sorry and ily

ao3 || marvel masterlist || part two

For me to love you now Would be the sweetest thing T'would make me sing Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

“Catch the Wind” - Donovan

You had been best friends with Matt Murdock for nearly as long as you could remember. As the longest—and oldest—resident of Saint Agnes Orphanage, you had been assigned to show Matt around when he first arrived after his father’s death.

You quietly knocked on the open doorframe. The boy inside sniffled and quickly wiped away his tears before turning towards you. “Come in,” he said, never meeting your eyes. At first, you assumed he was embarrassed to be caught crying.

“Nice glasses,” you offered, hoping to draw his attention away from the death of his parents—or whatever happened to his family that led him here.

The boy pushed the glasses higher up on his nose. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

You stepped across the room and took a seat on the edge of his bed. “You must be special. Sister Anne would never let me wear sunglasses inside.”

“Oh, they’re…not really…sunglasses.”

He spoke so quietly, you didn’t really make out what he said. So you continued talking anyway. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Matt Murdock.”

You stuck your hand out for him to shake. “Nice to meet you, Matt Murdock.” You froze awkwardly as the kid made no motion to shake your hand. But then you put everything together—his dark glasses, the way he never met your eyes, the cane you were now noticing against the wall—he was blind. And you were an idiot. “I’m, uh, holding out my hand for you to shake.”

“Oh, sorry.”

At last, you shook hands, and you tried not to let the awkwardness sink in. “Um, so Sister Maggie told me to show you around. Do you want to go?” Matt nodded and stood, collecting his cane off the wall. You stood as well, unsure of yourself. “I’ve given this tour a dozen times to newbies, but never to a blind guy. How does this work? Do we hold hands or…?” You quickly shut your mouth. Obviously, you wouldn’t be holding hands—why would you hold hands with a stranger?

“No,” Matt chuckled. “Just give me your elbow.”

“Oh, sure.” You did as Matt said and led him out to the hallway. “I don’t know if they told you, but your room is the third one on the right. You must be lucky. You got a single room. Most of us have to share.” You directed Matt down the stairs until you were on the first floor. “We can’t go in now because they’re setting up for dinner, but the dining hall is here on the left. Breakfast is at 7 on weekdays, 8 on weekends, and dinner is always at 6.” You led Matt further down the hall and out the door. You stepped into a small, sunlit courtyard.

“This is the way to the church,” you continued explaining. “I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but you’re gonna be here real soon.” You stopped in front of the doors to the church, but didn’t go inside. “We’re required to go to Mass Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings, as well as the weekly Mass school gives.”

“School?”

“Yeah, Saint Agnes also runs a school on the other side of the block. It’s where we all go.”

“So I won’t be able to go to my old school anymore?”

You sighed. Newbies always had a hard time finding out they’d no longer be attending school with their friends. “No. Sorry.” His face fell. “But! I think we’re in the same grade, so we should have some classes together. I remember when I was the new kid, but, hey—you already got one friend. It shouldn’t be too bad.”

“What friend?”

You nudged his shoulder. “Me, doofus.”

Matt smiled softly at you and from that moment on, you were thick as thieves.

As you grew, you slowly realized you probably had more-than-friends feelings for Matt, but you never spoke about them out loud, nor did you dwell on them very often. Matt was your best friend—your only friend—and you didn’t want that to change. So you locked the butterflies in your stomach down tight and shoved those feelings in the back of your brain. It didn’t help that as you neared graduating high school, everyone thought you were dating. You even caught the nuns who worked the orphanage whispering sometimes about how wonderful the two of you would look married—as if things would ever get that far.

When you went to college, your pool of friends expanded by one: Matt’s roommate, Foggy. Foggy quickly became your other best friend—since you were around Matt all the time, it made sense that you and Foggy would be close as well. In fact, it was to Foggy one drunken night when you confessed your feelings for Matt for the first time.

You and Foggy stumbled back to campus after a night out on the town. You, Foggy, and alcohol were never a good mix—you always tried to drink the other under the table until neither of you could stand upright. You leaned against each other for support as Foggy fumbled with his keys to the dorm. You laughed loudly when he dropped them and fell trying to pick them up, but he quickly shushed you. “Shhhhh. Matt’s trying to study,” he slurred, trying and failing to whisper quietly. Matt said he couldn’t go out with the two of you that night because he had a test on Monday morning.

You made a zipping motion over your mouth, but giggled again as you watched Foggy unlock the door. He was on his knees, the doorknob at eye level, as he concentrated on putting the key in the lock as a surgeon would make an incision. He fell on his stomach when the door finally swung open. You leaped over him as soon as you could, eager to see Matt and annoy him to stop studying.

But the room was empty.

You turned to Foggy (finally standing), almost pouting. “Maybe he had to go to the library?” he offered. You shrugged, and then collapsed onto Matt’s bed. You weren’t sure your legs would hold you up any longer.

Foggy puttered around the room, trying to drunkenly change clothes, as you snuggled into Matt’s pillow. You closed your eyes to stop the world from spinning, but that made you realize how tired you were. “You know,” you yawned, almost half asleep now, “I think that girl at the bar really liked you.”

“Who? The pink shirt?”

You nodded into the pillow. “Yeah, she kept looking at you and smiling.”

“Huh.”

You peeked open one eye to stare at him. “Are you not going to ask me why I didn’t act as your wing woman?”

Foggy’s cheeks flushed. “Uh, no, that’s okay.” His voice was higher pitched than usual. What was he trying to hide? If you could move your limbs, you would have crossed the room to stare him down. As it was, you tried to be as intimidating as you could with your face half squished in a pillow.

“Who do you like?” you asked after a moment, finally coming to the conclusion that he must have a crush on someone.

“No one. Who do you like?” he countered.

“I’ll answer if you answer.”

He stared at you for a moment before flopping back on his bed. “You know the girl from my study group?”

You quickly sat up, instantly regretting it as the room—and your stomach—swirled uncomfortably. But you pushed it aside. “Marci Stahl? You like Marci?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Don’t make a big deal about it.”

“Ooh, I am so going to have to tell her.”

“Don’t!” Foggy quickly turned to face you.

“Why not? I already know she likes you.”

“She does?”

“Um, yeah, it’s obvious.” That, and she sat with you at lunch one day and had asked about him.

“Cool,” he sighed happily, laying back down. You huffed a laugh, surprised that was all he had to say. You slumped back into Matt’s bed, eyes drifting closed. You were almost asleep when Foggy called you out on your promise. “Who do you like?”

You froze. You tried to search for a fake name, but the copious amounts of alcohol you had this evening meant you couldn’t think of one. So you sighed and figured you might as well say it. Foggy wouldn’t tell, right? And it was probably best you got it out of your system. “Uh…Matt?” you said quietly. You weren’t even sure if Foggy heard you.

But he did, and after a moment’s silence, he asked, “Have you told him?”

“Definitely not. I didn’t want to mess anything up between us and now…”

“Elektra,” Foggy finished for you.

It seemed Matt had been hanging out with Elektra more than you and Foggy lately. You tried not to let it get to you. Matt was allowed to have other friends, after all—even girlfriends—but something about her gave you a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t put your finger on the feeling or why it was there, but it worried you nonetheless.

“You won’t tell him, will you?” you asked. But Foggy was already asleep.

You were pretty sure Foggy kept this secret over the years, as Matt never once mentioned it to you. Or he was so drunk he forgot about it. That, or Matt similarly thought you should just be friends and never brought it up himself. Either was okay with you.

But now your feelings were somehow growing and you were ready for things to change.

You were hanging out at Matt’s apartment—you always did, every Friday. It was tradition. The two of you were tucked into opposite ends of the couch, watching random things on your laptop. You described what was happening whenever an audio description wasn’t available. But it had been several minutes since you last spoke. Matt hadn’t dozed off, like you originally believed, but he was lost in thought. You tried not to disturb him, thinking he was planning his opening for a case or something like that.

But the three glasses of wine in your system had other plans.

You slowly slid across the middle of the couch until you were inches away, thighs nearly touching. Matt gave no indication that he noticed you. “Hey, Matt?” you whispered after a few moments of silence. His head tilted towards you, indicating that he was listening, but he said nothing. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” he replied. He turned his body to face you, realizing from the tone of your voice, you guessed, that this was serious.

“I-I—uh…” you began. You heart pounded. What even were words? “Ilikeyou,” you finally breathed in one rush of words.

“I like you too.”

Your heart constricted. “More than friends, I mean.”

“I know.”

What? Your brain froze. You couldn’t comprehend. You were expected Matt to laugh you off, Matt to turn you down, Matt to do anything but that. “You—you do?” Matt nodded. “Then why…why didn’t you say anything?”

“I could ask you the same question.” He was smiling at you.

“I didn’t want to change anything. Between us. But I told Foggy once in college… I think maybe part of me thought he wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut.”

“Oh, he told me.”

Your eyes widened. “He did? Oh, I’m gonna kill him.” You sprung from the couch, searching for your phone. But Matt stopped you with a hand around your wrist.

“Hey, it’s fine.” He pulled you back to sit next to him. Your thighs were pressed against one another. “I thought you wanted him to spill.”

“A bigger part of me wanted him to forget. We were really drunk that night.”

Matt’s thumb moved to rub circles on the inside of your wrist. Goosebumps raised on your skin. “I remember.” You were surprised he did. But you guessed maybe it was hard to forget the time your best friend told your other best friend that they liked you. Even if you weren’t there. You were sure Foggy gave him all the details.

Matt continued to rub circles into your skin and it was hard to think about much else. Your eyes raised to meet his. You sighed. His eyes were so gorgeous. You wished he didn’t hide them behind his glasses all the time, but you understood. Even then, you wished you could stare into his eyes all day.

Your gaze flicked down to his mouth. Before you knew it, your lips were pressed into his. He froze for a second, not returning the kiss, and you panicked. But before you could pull away, his hand was on the side of your face, pulling you closer. As your lips crashed into one another, you regretted not doing this sooner. He was an amazing kisser.

As things delved deeper, you turned to press your body tightly against his. You threw one leg across his lap and eased him back against the back of the couch. Your hands roamed—through his hair, over his shoulder, down his arms, across his chest. But when you brushed across his ribs, he gasped in pain and pulled back. You instantly sprung off of him.

“Oh, my god, are you okay?” you asked. “What happened?” You knew Matt somehow amassed a large collection of bruises and broken bones—he was just clumsy, he’d tell you ever since they started appearing in your teens. But you weren’t so sure. You’d never even seen Matt stumble once. You slapped Matt’s hands away as you reached for the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up to reveal his ribcage.

Blue bruises stood in stark contrast to his skin, surrounded by cuts and scratches of various depths. He winced when your fingers ghosted across the widest bruise—was a rib broken? Several other injuries trailed around his side and you figured his back was in similar shape.

“What happened?” you demanded once more. “Have you gone to the doctor? Were you mugged? Did you call the police?”

Matt’s hands landed on your shoulders to stop your barrage of questions. “I’m fine,” he said, but he gave no further explanation.

“That’s not fine, Matt.”

“I saw a nurse. It’s nothing that won’t heal in a couple of days.”

You breathed a small sigh of relief. But you were still left with so many questions. “Who did this to you? What happened?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it’s handled. They won’t be bothering anyone else.”

“That’s good,” you sighed. You wanted to ask more questions, but you knew Matt was being purposefully vague. Why wouldn’t he tell you what happened? Why didn’t he tell you that he was hurt? You wanted to press him more, but you knew Matt was as stubborn as a bull and there was no way you’d get any more information out of him. Tonight, at least. So you decided to distract yourself with the other question filling your head. “So…what about us?”

“We can’t.” Matt’s answer was immediate. No hesitation.

You felt as if a horse had kicked you in the chest. Your breath was knocked out of you. “What?”

“I…we can’t. There’s too many things going on and I can’t risk it.”

“What’s going on? You can tell me—you can always come to me. You know you can.”

Matt hung his head, leaning over his knees. “I can’t.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears. Matt always came to you. You practically told each other everything. Had you messed things up by confessing your feelings?

“Does it have to do with your bruises?” you said softly.

Matt didn’t reply.

You stared at him, searching for words to say, begging for him to say something. But each of you remained silent.

Nothing.

“I have to go,” you said at last. You scrambled to throw on your shoes and gather your things.

Your heart shattered when Matt made no move to stop you.

part two

#matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil imagine #matt murdock x you #matt murdock/reader #matt murdock x y/n #mcu imagine #reader insert

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h3l10tr0p3 · 5 years

Text

Headcanon: Deku, the Serial Shipper

Contains- Mentions of sexual activities, established relationship - Bakudeku; Crack pairings- TodoIna, JiroMomo, UraTsuyu, UraTenya, DenkiSero, Kirimina, platonic Kiribaku etc.

(Beware- Long post)

Jesus Christ, I just had this HC and now I gotta spill, otherwise I won't be able to sleep tonight. Here's another annoying Long Post for y'all)

Deku, as a Pro Hero and Katsuki's Duo Partner, has a pretty hectic life since the media are crazy bloodhounds, the villains are a pain in the ass, interacting with fans becomes exhausting at times, and the critics are demons wailing for his blood.

Yeah, very hectic. And on top of that, there's very little time to relax. Most of the days he sneaks some solace in the gym, if he can buy more time he likes to read and immerse himself in his notebooks and research. Fighting Katsuki to blow some steam is a last resort to shed off weeks of frustration and only reserved for off-days or desperate times - because something like that inevitably devolves into gratuitous rough sex or worse, day-long fuck-a-thon. Not that Deku doesn't enjoy it, he simply doesn't have the time to indulge and he knows Kacchan doesn't either, so they try to keep their hands off each other unless the occassion begs for much-needed violent release.

But sometimes, you just want instant relief. Sometimes Deku just wants to kick back and relax like a normal person, go on the internet, without everyone hounding him for a piece of his mind.

So he does.

Under Anonymity.

Et viola @allmight9000 comes alive on several media platforms including Tumblr and Twitter. At first, Deku masquerades around as a hardcore All Might fan fighting anyone who dares to diss the retired Symbol of Peace . But since his retirement, his popularity has gone cold, not many heated debates take place around him anymore and as sad as this makes Deku, he decides to discover new venues.

Now, Deku knows there's this dark void of fanfiction lurking on the net and there's no escape from it should he ever set foot into it. He is also aware of the dark things that beckon him from the sewers like Pennywise the Dancing Clown (eg. All Might/Endeavour, Hawks/Endeavour, All Might Bowl, All Might/ Hero Harem, All Might/Midnight, All Might/Aizawa/Present Mic and so on), things he should rightfully keep a safe distance from. But this is fucking Deku we are talking about- ofcourse he dares to dip his foot into the murk of fanfiction.

For science, he thinks, and takes the plunge.

It all goes downhill from there.

One day, Katsuki comes back from his shift to find Deku face-planted into the sofa, he hasn't eaten lunch, hasn't bathed and is claiming trauma, repeatedly insisting that he has sinned and he is going to hell for it, then he shakily holds up a 367k word fic of Villain Might/Endeavour. Katsuki has to slap him back to his senses. Later that night, Deku calls up Toshinori and asks him for forgiveness, when Toshinori asks him worriedly, 'For what?', Deku assures him he DOES NOT wanna know.

After obsessively going through various tropes and completing every Enemies to Lovers / Mutual Pining / Unrequited Love fic there is (and there is a lot, Deku hates himself every day for it), waiting torturous weeks for dead authors to rise from the ashes for a teeny tiny update, Deku finally gives up his small lake of unfulfilling All Might ships (because frankly it's hard to find a fic that suits his tastes and convincingly fleshes out a love story around a man who has pointedly avoided romance for the better part of his LIFE or a find a fic which is COMPLETE) and sets out into the sea of Ships.

Bad Idea.

Very VERY Bad Idea.

(We know it, he knows it. Katsuki is the only one who is blessedly oblivious because he chooses not to wade into Deku's mental shit and compromise his own sanity.)

Strangely, Deku has come to take an odd satisfaction of returning to fan mentality of shipping two people without restraints (rarely more than two)-it's simple, senseless, easy. It gives his head a break from all the overanalyzing it does and gives him a small dose of endorphins when he cant work out, eat out or fuck out the frustration. He was adverse to it first, since these are strangers trying to ship two random people (people he is friends with), and it was unsettling to find so many people shipping them when they've BARELY had any interaction in canon real life! What's the premise of shipping them at all? He just didn't find any allure to it back then. So he kept his reads under fluff and under mature ratings because he feels uncomfortable reading smut about his friends.

But Deku had a 'Oh my God they were ROOMMATES' moment when Jirou and Momo announce that they are dating to the U.A. Alumni, that too after reading a really fluffy Creati/Earphone Jack fic which accurately referenced their public sightings together and spun it into plot-points quite masterfully. ( the author did a real good job on it) And the most horrifying thing about the fic, Deku finds, is the fact that NO ONE, not even the AUTHOR knows how correct they were in their estimates! No one except Deku.

That realization shakes the foundations of Deku's beliefs and morality as he wonders how many fics out there , sfw or smut, requited or unrequited love, enemies to lovers or lovers to strangers, fluff or smut have come so so close to the truth, been so damn close - like an alternate course of their love-story? and WHY IS NO ONE GIVING IT MORE KUDOS?

This is how Deku ends up being the most irredeemable Shipper of the universe- with a mission in hand:

To curate proof of all valid ships and to supply aforesaid proof of it to the world (as subtly as he can of course, so as to not compromise his own identity or the privacy of the Shipped.)

He begins to scour through the net for paparazzi photos, indulges in gossip, pries out information of who is dating whom from his Hero contacts, authenticates it, creates folders and subfolders of photographic 'proof' (they are just teasers really) and whenever anyone writes a fic that comes anywhere close to the real thing he makes sure to tag them in his tumblr/twitter post with photos which basically pour gasoline over their fiery passion to continue dreaming and writing fics around those Ships. Like:

You wrote a fic of Fluffy Iron Fist x Real Steel? Here you go- an obscure pic of them leaving her apartment together

Uravity x Ingenium and Uravity x Froppy? A love triangle that could possibly end in heartbreak?!! Damn, sistah, who knows? (She's confused too, imho) So here you go- Uravity getting tipsy with Froppy and Uravity snuggling to Ingenium under the rain.

One-shot of Chargebolt x Cellophane getting frisky in an alley? Honey, I gotchu. Here's a pic of them arriving at a villain scene together with dishevelled clothes.

All Might x Endeavour Slow Burn? My dear friend- here's a picture of the Symbol of peace roasting marshmallows with Shouto on flaming Endeavour merch. Please don't make me block you.

All Might x Midnight? Here's a pic of my mom, me and my Dad AllMight. Midnight, Who binch?

Celsius (Shouto) x Gale Force Stripper AU? Oh, hey, look I'm totally that one lucky guy who was in the right place at the right time, okay? I dont know these guys personally, OKAY? Not. At. All. But I have some Opinions™ about your fic? and pics to support it. Just wanna show you that maybe...i mean...MAAYYYYYYBEEEE...the stripper is Galeforce, not Celsius? Yeah? Don't worry though, You're doing good. Love the slow build, keep up the good work!

Deku becomes a sensational fic-writer-enabler and often gives inspiration to writers who are looking to write for a new fandom. Deku's got their backs.

He sinks so deep into this Shipping business that one day Katsuki catches wind of it. It was becoming painful to keep ignoring Deku's descent into madness. Katsuki was okay with it as long as the nerd did his job well and fucked him even better (which Katsuki will never admit to enjoying, even at gun point. Pull the trigger, you coward). So, yeah, Katsuki could have accepted all of Deku's weird stalkerish behaviours (even if they weren't fixated on him all the time anymore and the 'Kacchan, sugoi!' comments had plummeted drastically....who needs the shitnerd to validate his worth, right?! Right...it didn't make him pissed AT ALL. because admitting that would mean he enjoyed it, WHICH HE DID NOT, MIND YOU)

What Katsuki couldn't accept was Deku accidentally using his official Hero twitter handle to post a very platonic (but in the eyes of rabid fans- borderline homoerotic) pictures of him and Eijirou and posted it as #Ground_Riot. The fucking flood of Zeku-haters and pro-GroundRioters had the comments section on FIRE. The post goes VIRAL.

Deku, fucking DEKU, the man who is secretly ENGAGED to him, is promoting GroundRiot like NO ONE's business and HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT HE DID WRONG.

Katsuki finds Deku happily puttering around their shared apartment completely oblivious to the PR hell that has been licking at his heels. He immediately attacks Deku's account and is completely gobsmacked. Lo and fucking behold- every fifth picture in his blog is fucking GROUND RIOT.

Not just that, apparently, THIS MAN, his fucking FIANCE, is not only a renowned peacemaker in inane Ship wars, but is hailed as a Soothsayer of Ships for always correctly prophecizing "Ships that will Sail into the fucking Sunset', he is basically some minor god in the Hero fandom who is extorting excitement out of fic writers and fans alike so that 'the crime of incomplete fics' can be eradicated once and for all. And Deku's fucking commited to it.

(perhaps more commited to Ground Riot than his own betrothal because there isn't A SINGLE POST of ZEKU on his blog)

There's even a post where he answers an ask from anonymous. The question: "Are you also anti-Zeku? I have never seen you post anything related to that ship. Is it because you think it won't Sail?" And Deku answers shortly how he isn't explicitly Anti-Zeku, but doesn't like the idea of reading fanfics of that ship. He clearly witholds his opinion if the ship will sail or not. Katsuki also finds the chat which started all this shit.

Chat-

Hey! @allmight9000. I wanted to write a GroundRiot fic? Could you give me some inspiration?

Aww, sure! It's my favourite Ship tbh. I love GroundRiot. I have a whole gigabyte of inspirations in my laptop. I'll send you some when I get back home, okay?

Yup!!! I am actually a hardcore Zeku fan. But recently my friends got me into Ground Riot and I am addicted!! But Zeku will always have a special place in my heart <3

I see. :)

Do you wanna try it out? I know you mentioned you don't like it. But I know some REALLY good fics.

No thank you ^_^ I make it a point to not read those fics. I just can't visualize it working, you know?

Oh...np. Each to their own. But I really hope one day you try reading some if you can?

I don't think so ...😅...uh...but..Any preferences for your inspiration though? or genre youre interested in?

Fluffff!!

Haha, okay! Look out for the new post on my twitter!

YASSS!! Love ya!

You too!

Katsuki sees red, he's about to flip his shit when he decides to give Deku one LAST fucking chance to explain WHY THE FUCK is he promoting Ground Riot when he should be shipping Zeku and demands of him if he really wants their Fucking Ship To Sail Or Not.

Deku gets defensive and says of course he does. Katsuki asks why he has been trying to push him onto Eijirou all this time if he wasnt serious about it. Deku doesnt want to answer. Then Katsuki gets fruatrated and asks WHY the fuck didnt he post Zeku.

"Because I don't want to support it"

"We are literally fucking engaged, you moron. What the FUCK do you mean you don't support it?!"

"I support Us, Kacchan! I just don't wanna support Zeku-shippers! Those two things are different!"

"WHy dont you wanna support them?! tHere is No Difference!"

"There is! I am not obligated to do anything for you. But if I admit to shipping Zeku out loud to the shippers, then I'm obligated to post pictures of us and I know that if I start posting that then my blog will literally be a flood of just Us all over!!"

"What is WRONG with that?!!"

"WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE ENGAGED IN SECRET! NO ONE IS SUPPOSED TO KNOW! you said it yourself! That you don't like the useless yapping of reporters about your love-life where it isn't their business!"

"YEAH? WELL FUCK THAT!"

And Katsuki whips out his phone, takes a selfie of french kissing the hell out of Deku and immediately posts in on his twitter. Deku has hardly reeled back from that intense kiss when he realizes what Katsuki has done and he practically explodes in shame.

"Kacchan!! Our secret!"

"Your fucking fault, Deku. If I have to deal with the shitty extras at all, it better be for the right Ship, you dumbass. I'll punt you straight to China if I hear Ground Riot from your mouth ever again...capiche?"

"But I like Ground Riot...It's a valid ship, Kacchan. You cant diss on it just like that. It has wonderful scope, and the fluff in this ship is AMAZING. I think I have a soft spot for Uke!GZ and Soft!GZ now... and it is a really mutually productive ship unlike- hrmff!", Katsuki shuts him up with a smack to his mouth and sheds his shirt.

"Shut your mouth and strip, shitnerd. I'll fuck the Ground Riot out of you. Also, let's make this fucking clear that if you mention ANYTHING that goes anywhere near Eijirou's dick,ass, balls or mouth", Katsuki shivers, "then I'll wreck your dick, ass, balls and mouth. Remember that. Now STRIP"

"But what about platonically? That's a solid ship, right? Right, Kacchan? Also It doesn't mention Eijirou's- fuck!!!"

Deku gets wrecked thoroughly.

(Let's observe one moment of silence for his Shipping ass 🙏)

(r.i.p. Deku)

Katsuki later asks him why Deku doesn't read Zeku fics either, cause pretending to not like it to weasel out of obligation is fine, but it doesn't explain why he refuses fo read any either.

"A fic, especially the ones that I like, always are these perfect little stories which always have a happy ending. Can't help it, I'm weak to it, Kacchan- it's why I read fics at all, you know? For the rush of happiness and feels! It's always written with the intention that it will be perfect! And it is. But it doesn't come close to the real thing. There can be fics out there that come really close to what we really have though - but I refuse to accept that any fic could be better than the imperfectly perfect things I have with you, Kacchan. No matter what anyone insists, what I have with you is perfect to me. You are perfect to me. And that's all that matters."

Katsuki calls him an incorrigible sap and turns away to hide a violent flush that turns him red like a stop sign.

Omake:

Katsuki's #Zeku goes Viral too. But at this point no one understands what is going on or WHY. Because GZ appears to be a Zeku shipper when Deku is a GroundRiot shipper. Confusion abounds. Zac Efron memes agonize over Both ships, Captain America Japan Civil War Memes make a comeback. And for some reason, Deku keeps posting Ground Riot afterwards too and everytime he does, the next day he is seen limping.

"Did you have a hardtime with Zero-san at training yesterday?"

Before Deku can answer the one who asks him that, Eijirou comes up, winks and answers in his stead, "Very hard", and runs away to Mina's side before Deku has a shame-filled meltdown.

(The Ground Riot thing stops only when Mina and Eijirou get finally married.)

#bakudeku #katsudeku #katsuki x izuku #ktdk #bkdk #deku the shipper #humour #social media shenanigans #headcanon #fic idea #fanfic idea #too many headcanons #holy crap this was such a shit hc #deku ships kiribaku

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charmingpplincardigans · 5 years

Note

I wish you would write a fic where... it's just a 300k epic detailing crowley's relationship with poetry; what poets/poetry he influenced personally (and those a certain celestial being on the Other Side might have); the nature of poetry as it relates to humanity; the nature of humanity as it relates to poetry; and, of course, the multitude of ways poetry manages to encapsulate emotions in ways nothing else really can manage to do. But, y'know, no biggie 😘❤

Thank you for indulging me with this. Can I tell you, I saw it and immediately went into a fit of glee. Please imagine me draping myself across a chaise lounge, fanning myself with a peacock embroidered fan, and moaning ‘I WISH MY FRIENDS KNEW ME AT ALL. IT’S SUCH A BUMMER THAT NO ONE REALLY GETS ME. I’M SUCH AN ENIGMA. SO HARD TO CRACK.’ By which of course I mean this is so up my alley I don’t know what to do with it AND YOU KNOW THAT, BLESS YOU. Also, in a twist that will surprise no one, I’ve had an outline for almost this exact fic since that person left the comment on What’s Done In the Dark asking if Rilke had been an inspiration for it. SO.

Here is a piece of what that will maybe become, which I have plucked from the middle of the outline at random even though it’s the very first thing I’ve written on it and wouldn’t it have been easier for me to just write the beginning? OH WELL.

[Send me an ‘I wish you would write a fic where…’ ask.]

. . .

Aziraphale had accused him once—in an argument about something that turned out to be inconsequential, as things always did when compared to not being friends at all—of malevolently giving poets certain ideas about heaven.

Crowley had scoffed, and then laughed, and then said, in a tone of voice more appropriate for a crowded pub than the angel's small and quiet backroom, "I never even met Rilke!"

Aziraphale had blanched even paler than he usually was at that and made himself busy searching for the meaning of life in the bottom of his mostly empty wine glass. And didn't that just prove it. Every angel was terrifying, except for this one in certain moods, but especially when he was called out on being so. There were at least three astronomical units of space between the angel Aziraphale was—soldier, protector, celestial being of waspishness and petty vengeances—and the person Aziraphale wanted people to think he was. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, Crowley knew exactly where to find the parts that he didn't want seen.

Crowley had taken another sip of wine to let the moment really settle in and then said, "so it was you."

After that Aziraphale had sobered up quite quickly and changed the topic.

The truth of it was that Heaven did not need demons or angels to turn poets for or against it. It had done that quite efficiently on its own by being alternately vengeful and vague. The knowledge that there was no real sure way to please the all-powerful organization in charge of one's post-life eternity was more than enough to drive a person to either fanaticism or atheism. Poetry, as far as Crowley could tell, was an appropriate response to both.

Because really, there were just as many poets for heaven as against it. Crowley remembered little Hilde and the pain that would eventually drive her to ecstatic fits. He remembered Dante who had got so much wrong and so much eerily right. He remembered young Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad from Balkh and his mentor from Tabriz. What had happened with Shams was one of those small things Crowley was still bitter about some near thousand years on.

All of this was, thankfully, a subject Aziraphale rarely broached with him, because Crowley had protested too much over the years that he didn't read books and Aziraphale had assumed that meant he didn't have an interest in literature. In reality Crowley had as much interest in literature as he did anything else, in so much as literature was just the chronicling of the lives happening around them all of the time. What Crowley didn't have an interest in was discussing it and beating the lives of mortals to death in search of meaning. If an overarching meaning even existed, the two of them surely lived outside of it, just as they would have lived outside of the plight of humanity had Armageddon properly kicked off.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. His voice broke into Crowley’s reverie, but still sounded far away.

The difference in priorities between the two of them and the billions of humans was a matter of scale. As was, he suspected, the difference in intensity of a certain predilection for sentimentality. Which way he thought those particular scales tipped depended entirely on his mood and whether or not he and Aziraphale were on speaking terms at any given time.

"Dearest," Aziraphale said, more quietly this time.

They were currently on speaking terms, which was a good bit of luck. If he'd been alone this line of thought could have spiraled for literal decades—had done in the past—and he would have missed many of the wonders of the world finding its footing again. Wonders like the way the fall afternoon light was staining Aziraphale's shirt cuffs and hands a warm yellow where they were folded over the book in his lap.

Crowley shook himself from the depths of his reverie and opened up to the warmth of the room and the light and Aziraphale's curious gaze. "Yeah?"

Aziraphale gave him a small, tight, close lipped smile. It was the one that said 'you have kept me waiting, but I will continue to wait' and 'you would tell me wouldn't you, if something were wrong?' and 'thank heavens you're here, thank someone anyway.'

"Where did you go?" he asked.

Crowley shrugged. "Nowhere."

Aziraphale nodded the easy nod of an unconvinced man and placed the book on the coffee table between them. Robert Frost, comfort reading Aziraphale had picked up in the early twentieth century the last time he and Crowley had not been on speaking terms. Comfort reading meant there was something eating at Aziraphale and it might be years before he could find the words to let Crowley know what it was.

"I would like to go for a walk," Aziraphale said. He looked down at the book and then up into Crowley's eyes. "If you would join me."

"Sure, okay," Crowley said.

Perhaps moving forward, after everything, it would not take years.

Crowley unfolded himself from the couch and took a few minutes to exaggeratedly stretch out his limbs while Aziraphale puttered around, putting on his overcoat and checking the stove was off and that no candles had been lit. He checked these things all the time now, even when they hadn't been set to warming or burning in the first place. Once you’ve had your whole sanctuary burned to the ground, twice shy, Crowley supposed.

He pulled his jacket off the back of the couch and slipped it on, perched his glasses on top of his head, and stepped into a square of sunlight spilled across the carpet to wait. Crowley closed his eyes and tilted his face up into the light. He let himself get lost in the feeling of relief that washed through him sometimes when he thought too long about how the sun would still rise over London for a time and how some small part of that was down to him. He didn’t hear Aziraphale approach.

Aziraphale’s hands landed gently on Crowley’s shoulders and Crowley felt his weight shift. When he opened his eyes and looked down Aziraphale was leaning up onto his toes and using Crowley for balance. He kissed Crowley’s forehead and his cheek and then his lips. The kisses were soft and chaste, landing with all the weight of a feather hitting the floor.

Crowley did not press for more, even has his hidden wings shivered and another set of jaws somewhere inside of him opened wide, ready to devour. This new thing between them was probably not as fragile as he feared it to be, considering what they’d been through just to get to this place, but that didn’t mean he wanted to test the boundaries of it either. Not yet, anyway.

When Crowley had imagined touching Aziraphale with intent he had always thought of them outside of these bodies, in the pure existence somewhere between what Heaven and Hell had shaped them into: feather and talon, scale and air, shadow and flame. They’d had that too, but practically, because of the jobs they had decided to keep and the space they took up on this plane, they had this more often.

It was a lot of work after all, slipping into a separate plane of existence just to quickly touch someone and tell them you were glad they were there. Crowley was so, so glad Aziraphale was still here, that the angel had decided to stay on earth and with him. It was more than he’d expected. It was almost all that he’d wanted. There would be time for the rest, maybe.

Legend had it that Shams-i-Tabrīzī had prayed and prayed for another person who could endure him, see him for who he was and accept all of it, want to keep all of it. One night, a voice answered him, asking what it was he would give in return for finding this happiness, this other he sought. Stricken, one imagines, and desperate and lonely, Shams replied, “My head!” Satisfied with that answer, the voice told him to seek out Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī in Konya. The two men had four years together: learning, teaching, writing, seeking the infinite bliss of knowing God in the way a drop of water knows the ocean it resides in. And then one night, legend further had it, Shams was called away from Rumi, out the back door and into the night, never to be seen again.

Romantics liked to imagine he was murdered as recompense for knowing another person too well, for being too beloved, but Crowley had been to the tomb in Khoy and knew it was more likely that the teacher merely left his student once the student no longer needed his guidance. Left alone, Rumi had devoted reams and reams of words to his teacher and friend, his faith letting him feel the absence as if it was another presence. It was these knowing departures that Crowley feared most, the form of taking that cut the deepest.

There was so much poetry in the world that would not exist without otherworldly pain. And if there was one thing Crowley knew intimately, it was otherworldly pain. He tried not to think about his own capacity for poetry too much. When he did, he became almost as waspish as Aziraphale. He enjoyed poetry and poets, but he did not think he had it in him to write it. He had been, for the last six thousand years or so, too busy living it.

Aziraphale pulled away and settled back onto the soles of his shoes. He raised a hand and placed it against Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley turned his face slightly, pressed into Aziraphale’s palm to chase the added warmth. “Where to?” he asked.

“Regent’s Park, I should think. I have a feeling that it’s going to be an all out beauty of a sunset this evening.”

“A feeling or a doing?” Crowley slipped his sunglasses down over his eyes as Aziraphale pulled his hand away.

Aziraphale wiggled his fingers like he was warming up for a coin trick. “I guess we’ll see when we get there.”

Crowley bit down on his lip to hold in the smile. Better to not reward this behavior in the long run. But when Aziraphale turned and headed for the door Crowley followed after him, which he hoped was reward enough for another sort of trick altogether.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #spacestationtrustfund #memes #honestly there's more direct discussion of poetry in this #then there probably would be in the longer fic #probably i'd structure that one like i did wditd #just scenes from crowley's life with poets and words and stuff #culminating in some final understanding in the end #also i didn't mean for this bit to be this long #but uh then rumi happened #which is a theme in my own life tbh

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