#i need to lock myself in a padded room and shout at the walls

[rickybaby]

Daniel on coming back to the Red Bull family: "There is a feeling of loyalty and nostalgia, memory and support. They've been with me since I was 17 - 18 years old. A lot of my career was shaped off being a Red Bull driver. Apart from mom and dad, they gave me this opportunity. You come back, it's like a full-circle thing where you feel a lot of gratitude and appreciation and overall, just happiness and that feeling of belonging. Through that, I've started to feel like myself again and that confidence comes back and I feel I can do some pretty good things on the race track again."

#STOP TALKING!!!! #i need to lock myself in a padded room and shout at the walls #daniel continuing to do damage on the prodigal son returns narrative #god i hope this comeback works out for him ... #daniel ricciardo #linkedin live #car launch 2024

[thirsty-boba-fett-posts]

I made y’all an ice cream cone. It’s one scoop Boba x reader and one scoop Fennec x reader. If you enjoy it, I’ll make you a whole sundae.

THOTS UNDER THE CUT.

Boba Fett - or at least the person she supposed must be Boba Fett - along with his menacing entourage and a masked man in chains entered the antechamber unannounced.

“I’m here to see the mayor.”

Her eyes widened and a furrows appeared between her brows. She tried to scroll through her data pad, but she was reluctant to take her eyes off of imposing figure of Boba Fett.

“Do you have… an appointment?” she asked in a small, hesitant voice. She’d always been able to hold her own, but this broad man had a powerful quality that made her feel like shrinking against the wall.

“I found one of his stray pets. I’m here to return it to its master,” he growled. She swallowed.

The Majordomo, that gladhanding little worm, appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Apologies, Lord Fett. I did not see your litter arrive,” he offered as he dipped his head apologetically. “The mayor is indisposed but I’m sure we have an appointment available some time late next week…”

He moved behind her and, as he reached around to take the data pad from her hands, placed one of his palms on her ribcage. This one was step too far. She could tolerate his leering for the sake of keeping herself fed and housed, but she would not be subjected to groping.

“Get your hands off of me before I slap you back into your mother!”

The majordomo jerked back with a stunned expression on his face.

“You want to see the mayor?” she said, looking directly at the Daimyo. She grabbed a key card from a rack on the reception podium, walked defiantly over to the locked door to the mayor’s office, and swiped the card over the locking panel. The red light turned green and the door opened.

“His schedule just opened up,” she said, throwing the key card back onto the podium before turning to walk past them all and out the door.

“I quit!” she shouted over her shoulder.

…

He sent Fennec to find her. He needed an administrative assistant and she had moxie. Fennec tracked her to a hole in the wall cantina drinking cheap, adulterated spotchka. The Daimyo’s job offer included a generous salary and a private living quarters, but she knew to be suspicious.

“Does the Daimyo know how to keep his hands to himself?” she asked warily.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll cut them off myself.”

Fennec’s assurance was enough for the moment. She accepted the position and found herself packing her belongings the following morning to make the short hike up to the palace. As she was leaving and turning in her key for the cramped little room for which she paid exorbitant rent, Fennec arrived on a bantha to collect her.

“I though you’d have more possessions.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m also poor.”

Fennec chuckled and gave her a leg up onto the bantha. She rode astride behind Fennec, holding her around the waist as the bantha plodded along.

“You’ll like working for the Daimyo,” she said over her shoulder. “He’ll keep you out of trouble.”

“Does he keep you out of trouble?” she asked coyly.

“He couldn’t even if he tried.”

They were both silent for a while. As the bantha climbed the hill towards the palace, Fennec spoke to her over her shoulder again.

“You made him laugh, you know. With what you said to the majordomo. He couldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“He think you’re gutsy. The Daimyo endeavors to surround himself with gutsy women, apparently.”

…

“You’ll be free of unwanted advances,” offered the Daimyo, sensitive to her unease with the possibility of being taken advantage of by men holding power over her. “I ask for loyalty, but loyalty is meant to be reciprocated. You are now under my protection.”

“Thank you, Daimyo,” she said, still wary of him.

“You have nothing to fear under Boba Fett,” said Fennec in an unexpectedly soft voice that momentarily caught Boba off guard. Fennec warmed to few of the palace staff, Boba thought. She must like this one.

Boba liked her too. He had now doubt that she would at least try to make good on her threat of violence against Mok Shaiz’ majordomo. Now that Boba knew what a lecherous pest he was, he might just find an excuse to feed him to the rancor. Boba was certain that his new assistant would fit in just fine with his motley crew. Fennec was certainly fond of her, and although he found her striking as well, he had the good sense to leave her be. If she decided to climb into his bed, or Fennec’s, all the more reason to keep her safe.

…

This was originally going to be a one shot but now it’s a whole thing.

#boba fett thots #the book of boba fett #boba fett x reader #boba fett #daddy daimyo #boba fett imagine #boba fett can get it #fennec shand is a gay icon #fennec shand x reader #fennec shand

[a-hundred-rats]

Crazy?

No, no no no nonono not anymore.

I once was, yes.

I hissed and spat. I screamed and guffawed. The townsfolk called me insane, dangerous, violent, yet I was more whole and free than each and every one of them. I twirled and danced through the streets, shouting my soul to passersby who did not want to listen. I feasted on movement. I drank in my own thoughts, reveled in them, only to vomit them out and then drink them in again. I waltzed with my brain to the tune of my blood pumping through my veins. Nobody liked me, but I loved everything.

They locked me up. Their intent being not to mellow me but to gut me like a fish, press me into the mental mold that they considered „healthy“. They wanted to tear me away from my thoughts and halt the music that they said only I could hear. They threw me into a padded room, claimed I was a threat to myself. They did not feed me, or bring me water. I had no sunlight with which to photosynthesize. I wilted, became frail. My ponderings were not substantial enough to save me from dehydration, my movements not enough to stave off hunger.I was weak. Not only of mind, but of body.

I was broken.

My thoughts, for once, were silent. I was silent, so I could hear. The room was not silent, it merely lacked speech, for the one noise that I could make out with my newfound ears was a horrible squealing. It came from the walls. Squeaking and skittering. Soon, scraggly grey animals with knife-sharp teeth, matted fur, and worm-tails began to emerge from the cracks in the corners.

I knew what they were. The answer came to me like a snap of a twig in a silent forest.

The rats.

I could see the hunger in their eyes as they peered at me, noting my lack of movement. I knew that they, like me, needed to feed. I despised them for it, the way a chicken despises a farmer when it sees the axe, but with a grim acceptance. That is why I did not move as those foul rodents skittered towards me, gnashing their teeth, eyeing me with malice. Why I did not move as they tore into my flesh, their teeth minuscule but sharp. Why I did not move as they dug their claws into my skin, drawing blood. The pain filled me again, filled my mind with thoughts. It made me want to hiss and spit and dance and yell, but it was temporary. My mind was less full than before. „Healed“, in a sense, like a cracked wine glass.

I promised the townspeople that I was cured. They ran tests to confirm it. I passed with muted tones, the way they preferred it. They hated my flying colors of before. In their minds, I was finally normal. I was not crazy.

I am not crazy.

But sometimes, I see rats on the street. They remind me of the pain, but memory is long, almost permanent. When I see them, it’s as if my brain overflows with thoughts again , so many that I can finally drink them. I am no longer cotton-mouthed and dizzy. I cartwheel and twirl and scream and bite, and again they say that I‘m crazy. They put me back in the rat room. The room breaks me. The rats remind me. They trim down my thoughts so that they no longer strain at the confines of my skull. Then I am let go.

Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

I have not seen any rats today. I am not crazy.

Crazy?

#He‘s probably fine and has no rat-related trauma! him:

[brokenangelwings22]

New IchiHime fic to inspire me to write more about GA and CBD2E. I’m still toying with a title, but for now, it’s called Stars That Fall. Give it a read and let me know what you guys think.

Raising his head, the man’s dark amber gaze was menacing. His lips thinned into a snarl as he spoke.

“When I get out of here, I’ll kill you all myself.”

Pushing back the hood, the figure was revealed to be a woman with braided auburn hair and gentle, kind stormy grey eyes.

“Shh,” she soothed. “Be still, now. I’m a healer.”

“What? You’re not with The Order, are you? Quickly get me free,” he rasped, his bravado evaporating at the woman’s assurances.

Raising her hands, the healer let the power she’d honed glow from her fingertips and flow in tendrils, surrounding the injured man’s body. The magic glimmered as he was healed, and a relieved breath left his lips once his wounds closed.

“What’s your name?” The woman asked.

“Ichigo Kurosaki. I’m a mercenary and bounty hunter,” he said as she unlocked the metal chaining him to the wall.

Stepping back, her keen gaze looked him over for any other injuries. Satisfied that he appeared unharmed, she beckoned him.

“My name is Orihime Inoue. As I said, I am a healer. I was given a letter in Karakura to search for a man imprisoned in an old fort. Let’s get you out of here,” Orihime offered a leather glove clad hand to Ichigo.

“Wait! We can’t leave just yet. One of those bastards took away my sword and armor. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need it back.” Ichigo said, lifting his hand to halt her.

Biting her bottom lip, the auburn-haired woman considered his words. She dropped her head in a nod.

“Alright,” she obliged, still holding out her hand. “Where is it?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m certain the asshole stowed it in one of the guard rooms. Let’s head deeper into the prison.” Ichigo stood with her assistance, a bit wobbly from being stuck in the position he was in for so long.

Watching him as he stretched his spine and arms, Orihime noticed several scars covering his back. Something broke inside her chest, feeling saddened for him.

“How good are you at keeping to the shadows?” She asked as they crept out of the cell and crouched against the crumbling stone of the tower.

“Better at it in my armor,” Ichigo replied while scoping out the dimly lit halls. “Padding, bootless feet make unwanted noise.”

“Okay,” Orihime nodded. “Stay behind me.”

She pulled out a dagger that glinted even in the dull light. Jewels glistened with magic at the hilt and the metal of the small blade was ebony. The man nodded when she pressed an index finger to her lips.

The pair moved along the walls up steep, cracked, short stairs to a room with a man in expensive looking armor. The helmet hid his features, but the stench of alcohol emanated from his breath as he snored loudly. Orihime skulked over to a wooden chest, and pulled out a lock pick.

Ichigo padded over to the snoring guard and wrapped his arm around him in a chokehold. The guard struggled as he woke up, flailing his limbs before Ichigo’s strength subdued him.

“There you go,” Ichigo said in the other man’s ear. “Go to sleep. Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t end your life. Yet.”

Tinkering with the lock, Orihime let out a sigh of relief when the mechanism fell away. She stood when she pried the lid open, using a finger to beckon Ichigo over.

“Is this all of it?” She asked as she peeked in the chest.

Stepping over to her without a sound, Orihime jumped when Ichigo replied beside her ear.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s everything.”

“Goodness!” She whisper-shouted. “I thought you weren’t very stealthy without your gear!”

Grabbing his armor, Ichigo quickly began equipping it piece by piece, buckling the thick metal and clamping it into place.

“It all depends on how a person I’m sneaking up to trusts me. Odd that you didn’t flinch or notice me at all.” Ichigo grinned crookedly down at her.

Orihime blushed, trying to hide it as she tugged her hood over her head. He noticed regardless and his grin grew.

He pulled his nodachi from its sheath, examining it before sliding it back in and placing it on his back. Fastening his gauntlets he nodded to Orihime.

The two climbed the winding stairs and left the prison.

“So,” Ichigo started as they reached a main cobblestone road. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Orihime turned to look at him curiously. “Which is?”

Appearing slightly flustered, he rubbed his gauntleted hand on the back of his neck shyly.

“Look,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m not good at this, but I wanted to offer my protection. I feel that I owe you. So, if you’d have me, I’d like to repay you for your kindness.”

She smiled softly at him. “That’s a very generous offer, but don’t feel obligated to travel with me. I have been doing this on my own for years.”

Quickly amending upon seeing him begin to look dejected. “I’d enjoy the company, though.”

“I’ve got your back,” Ichigo smiled in return.

“Good,” Orihime grinned. She raised her hand to gesture westwards. “We need to head out to West Rukongai. I have a contact to meet up with. It’s a dodgy hold, but I’m known there. There should be little to no trouble.”

“Oh?” Ichigo quirked an eyebrow. “Who is your contact? That place is notorious for thieves and pickpockets.”

“You’ll see,” she grinned as they began down a hill. “I mean no offense, but I’d rather keep their identity hidden.”

#ichihime #ichigo kurosaki #orihime inoue #Stars That Fall fic #ih fanfiction #my fanfiction #ichiori

[az-cain]

“when cassian and azriel and reader come to get feyre and lucien from eris, the bond between the reader and eris snaps and like eris takes the reader but not to the castle where beron is and it’s like enemies to lovers!! you can make beron die in the war so eris is high lord”

eris vanserra x reader ≈ 505 words masterlist here

request from @in-some-fandoms except its a little bit of an unedited word-dump and not multi chapter (or even single-chapter,, this is just a snippet of what could be) (does anyone wanna finish this?? bc i feel like she has potential) <3

anywho, its peregryn!reader x high lord!eris, have fun yall. and if i do finish writing it myself i might end up making the reader afab non binary because 😭 where r my genderqueer x readers

—

The frigid weather affected you only minimally, your wings tightening ever so slightly as you dove down behind your brothers onto the surface of the frozen lake. You spread those white, feathered wings wide, landing delicately on your feet like a dancer after a leap, blades drawn.

Your eyes focused quickly on Azriel and Lucien, engaged with the High Lord’s brothers. The fiery-haired fools were tiring quickly, their blades slowing in the bleak weather.

You spotted your High Lady across the ice, Eris’ hand wrapped into her hair. Cassian’s lips were moving, but the blood rush of a fight prevented you from thinking too hard about it.

As you stalked up quietly behind the High Lord of Autumn, you angled your blade to slice through Feyre’s hair. Your feet padded silently on the ice, the quiet taps unable to be heard over the clashing of blades.

In one smooth movement, you’d mirrored the position he had Feyre in, had your blade poised to cut, and your mouth by his ear. “Surprise,” you whispered, and sheared the High Lady’s hair clean off where it met Eris’ hand.

In another smooth movement, you’d clasped his wrists behind his back with one hand, forcing a knee into his back. “Hush now,” you whispered viciously, “and let the big kids discuss the mess you’ve made.”

His head turned slightly, his eyes meeting yours, and in that moment your worst dreams came true.

A thin ribbon of flame burst between your chest and the High Lord’s, and in an instant he had his wrists freed from your grasp and his arms around one of your legs. As he pulled it out from under you, everything went black.

—

When you woke, you were lying on red silk sheets in a bed-frame made of rich dark wood, in a room that looked fit for a god. Disoriented, you rolled suddenly off of the bed and onto your feet. Your wings shot out, attempting to steady you as you rose. The room, you now noticed, was spacious and lush, much like the bed, and decorated in shades of amber and ochre. The walls were cream with golden trim, as were the pillars that reached from the wood floors to the arched ceiling, and the wardrobe was draped in rich velvets.

The bedside table had a piece of paper on it, seemingly folded very carefully and set there. You picked it up reluctantly, unfolding it as though it were a bomb.

Y/N,

I understand that you may be a bit reluctant to get to know me after the way we met, but you and I both know what happened yesterday on the lake. I’m sorry for the way I had to get you here, really.

If you’d like to take more time to rest, feel free to shout anything you need out your door, which I’m afraid is locked. You understand why it’s necessary. If you’d like to eat, let me know when I come up to see you at noon.

Deepest apologies, Eris.

masterlist here

#eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #high lord eris #peregryn #acotar fics #pro eris #az writes

[fruitcoops]

Ok so what sbout remus/sirius being too sick to go to an away game so the other one has to go alone, and then tons of facetime conversations and "get well soon" videos from the team?

This is related to this fic about Remus and Finn bonding over terrible reporters--hope you enjoy! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove, and the Loops/ Talker bonding is for @lee-1012!

TW for illness

“You don’t look so good.” Remus frowned as he held the inside of his wrist against Sirius’ forehead. “And you definitely have a fever.”

“Non.” Sirius sat up on his elbows with a groan, then almost immediately flopped back down.

“Yes.” He leaned back on his heels and checked the clock—they had two hours before they had to be at the airport. “Baby, I don’t think you should—”

“ ‘m going.”

“It’s not a good—”

“Gotta go. Games.” Sirius cracked one glassy eye open. “Two weeks away. I’ll take the first couple days off.”

Remus sighed through his nose and brushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “You shouldn’t go on the plane if you’re sick. Not just for your sake, but for the rest of us. We don’t need everyone to come down with this.”

He received a halfhearted glare in response, but Sirius finally huffed and curled on his side to nuzzle against his thigh. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, baby,” Remus said quietly, bending to kiss his temple. They hadn’t been apart for that long since before he was a player, nearly a year prior. Hell, he had never played a game without Sirius, let alone two weeks’ worth. “Lily will check on you, okay?”

Sirius mumbled an incoherent response and cuddled closer when he began combing his fingers through his hair. The second alarm beeped, loud against the quiet of their bedroom; time to go, he thought ruefully. Sirius touched his knee as he started to stand. “Love you. Be safe.”

“Love you more.”

“Love you most.”

“Go back to sleep,” Remus said as his heart clenched. “I’ll let Coach know what happened, but you’ve got to rest and take care of yourself. Hydrate or die-drate, yeah?”

“Yeah. Love you.”

“Sleep,” he repeated, kissing his forehead once more before hauling himself out of bed and tucking the covers around Sirius’ shoulders. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

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

The clouds were a soft, pastel pink around them as the sun rose—Sirius’ favorite. If his phone was correct, Lily would be there soon to let Hattie out and make sure Sirius wasn’t pushing himself too hard. The thought brought Remus a bit of relief, but not enough to quell his concern.

Talker poked his forearm, snapping him from his reverie. “What’s going on?”

“Just worrying.”

“About Cap?”

Remus waved a hand vaguely. “And Hattie, and Lily, and whether he’s got a cold or something worse. Feels weird being here without him.”

Talker hummed his agreement and offered one of his earbuds. “Want to listen to half of Bohemian Rhapsody with me? It’ll give you five minutes and 55 seconds of relative peace.”

“It’s too quiet,” James groaned just before he pressed ‘play’.

Across the aisle, Remus saw Kasey roll his eyes. “Your husband is sick, dude, not dead. He doesn’t talk to you on planes anyway.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Bliz.”

“Oh my god,” Kasey muttered under his breath, securing his headphones tightly over his ears.

James let his head flop to the side with a baleful look. “Loops, you’re on my side, right?”

“I’ve got you, buddy,” he assured him. Talker stifled a laugh, and the opening chords began as more clouds rolled past. Remus let himself drift with them, taking deep breaths to soothe his worries; Sirius would be fine. He had the sniffles, or at worst the flu, and he would be join them for the second week in top form. There was nothing to worry about.

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

“He’s got pneumonia,” Lily sighed.

“He what?”

“A mild case, but the doctor said it would take a week of antibiotics and rest before he’s close to a hundred percent. No hockey for about a month, too.”

Remus stared at the wall of his empty hotel room, lost for words. “Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Pretty m—absolutely not, go lay down.” There was a rustling noise and two grumbling voices. “Sorry about that.”

“Will you put me on speaker real quick?” Remus asked, pinching the bridge of his nose until he heard a faint click. “Sirius? You there?”

“Yes! I miss you, and I was just going to tell you that it’s really not that—”

“Please sit your ass down. Lily, if he tries to fuck around and find out exactly how nasty pneumonia is, you have full permission to sit on him. I miss you too, love,” he added after a short pause.

“He’s blowing you a kiss,” Lily informed him. “Oh, and he’s giving me the puppy eyes.”

“Resist if you can. Love you both. Give Hattie lots of cuddles from me.”

“We will,” she promised.

The second the call ended, Remus groaned aloud and thumped his head against the wall before padding down the hall. Just my fucking luck. The door swung open after the second knock; Arthur’s face fell. “How bad is it?”

“Mild pneumonia.”

“Fuck.”

“Yep. Doctor said he’d be out for a month.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes and nodded, motioning Remus back towards his own room. “Get some rest, then. I’ll let everyone know in the morning. Any idea how he got it?”

“Not a clue.”

“Thanks for the update, Loops. Sleep tight.”

“I will,” Remus lied as he headed back for a sleepless night between cold sheets.

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

Lily sent updates every few hours; most reported that Sirius was sleeping well and looking better with each passing day, but Remus couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly guilty. If something happened while he was hundreds of miles away, he would never forgive himself. He had sworn in front of their closest friends and family to be there in sickness and in health—what kind of husband ditches their partner for one of a million roadies?

This one. He stabbed a piece of broccoli and shoved it in his mouth. And then he goes and makes an idiot of himself for the world to see.

The interview was supposed to be easy, but he couldn’t let it roll off anymore. Not when he couldn’t answer their questions even when he wanted to, not when he was states away from the love of his life while he was sick, not when he felt helpless and shoved aside in every current aspect of his life.

“So.” The chair next to him creaked as Talker planted his full weight in it and set his plate decisively on the table.

“What.”

“Oh, pissy Loops. Haven’t seen you in a while. Talked to Cap yet?”

“Yeah.” Another piece of broccoli fell victim to his frustration.

“How’s he sound?”

“Better.”

“Sweet.” Talker continued to munch away on his dinner. “Anyone ever told you that you have the general disposition of a wet cat when you’re upset?”

Remus tried and failed to keep down a smile. “I seem to recall you bringing it up on occasion, yes.”

His dark eyes softened and he bumped their elbows together. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know.”

“Really, Loops. Cap’s going to be just fine. Lily doesn’t sugar-coat this kind of stuff, and he’s a tough guy. Mild pneumonia doesn’t stand a chance. Besides, we’ve only got four days left and we need you to kick some ass out there.”

If Remus was a little more emotionally vulnerable, he would’ve burst into tears. Instead, he settled for leaning his temple against Talker’s with a quiet ‘thanks’ and allowed himself to be pulled into a side hug. Across the dining hall, Finn shot him a thumbs-up and a wink. “Love you, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Talker teased. “The internet is already coming to your aid, you know.”

“About…?”

“Not only have those asshole reporters become a new meme, you’ve also got a shit ton of people bringing up past mistreatment of athletes in the press room. You’re the face of a revolution, Loops.”

“I’ve been the face of too many revolutions for one person,” he groused, not even bothering to duck out of the way when Talker ruffled his hair.

“Well, one more won’t kill you.”

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

Remus’ heart raced as he stepped off the plane. The logical part of him knew that Sirius would be waiting outside the security gate, but everything else screamed to see him now, now, right now so he could be sure he was alright. At least he had sounded healthier on the phone the night before—Remus wasn’t sure what he would do otherwise.

“Deep breaths,” James reminded him as they walked toward the baggage claim. “I’m sure he’s—”

An excited shout broke through the thick crowds. Remus’ heart skipped a beat, and then he was running, racing through the people that parted for him as his vision tunneled. His carry-on hit the ground with a low thud that he hardly heard as Sirius lifted him straight off the ground and held him tight.

“I love you,” Remus said immediately, locking his ankles around Sirius’ lower back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Are you okay?”

In lieu of a response, Sirius pulled back and kissed him, cradling one side of his face in his warm, warm hand. Two weeks may as well have been an eternity. He broke away after a moment, searching his face for any signs of illness or pain. “I’m fine,” Sirius said softly, as if he could read his mind. “I promise. A little tired and sore, but there’s no lasting damage.”

“Don’t do that again,” Remus said into the side of his neck as he hugged him close. He smelled like home. “Not when I have to leave.”

Sirius’ arms were steady around his back. “I won’t.”

“I’m going to grill you on everything as soon as we get home.”

“I know.”

“But right now, I’m just going to hug you because I missed you and I worried myself into a hole, like, every night.”

He could feel Sirius’ smile against his shoulder. “I know.”

#remus lupin #sirius black #coops #thomas walker #talker #james potter #lily potter #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #sick fic

[separatist-apologist]

"truth is that i'm so damn in love with you that i don't know what to do with myself" - for lucien please!!

I'm so sorry I've fallen behind on prompts! I will be answering them all with a vengeance this upcoming week. Also, I hope you wanted smut.

This is NSFW, 18+, you know the editing vibes (non-existent).

--

Friends. That’s what Elain had said almost a year ago when he approached her. I don’t want a mate…but I could use a friend. Lucien had jumped at the chance to spend time with her. After all, something was better than nothing, right?

Wrong, he realized practically a month later. Even without the mating bond, Lucien thought he would have been utterly obsessed with her. Who knew how lively Elain could be? Or funny? Smart, and sharp and witty…she was everything he could have hoped for and much, much more. Friends. The word tasted sharp and metallic in his mouth, like blood pouring down his throat, threatening to drown him. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. I don’t want to be your friend! He thought even as he smiled and escorted her from this court or that. He had made her a promise, and Lucien thought it was better to have her however he could get her than to not have her at all. Still, sometimes when she looked at him with those soft, brown eyes, the edges creased with fondness, he could pretend she loved him too.

Because Lucien was in love with Elain. Stupidly, head over heels in love with the female in a way that both terrified andthrilled him. She was all he thought about, all he dreamt of. Her smile made his bones ache and her laugh threatened to consume him with burning, passionate fire. They were back in Velaris, their time together officially complete. Rhysand had nothing for the pair of them and so Elain was unpacking as she chattered animatedly with her sisters and Lucien lay down the hall, face down into a pillow. Tomorrow he’d continue on his own, leaving her behind and why shouldn’t he? They were friends. Friends didn’t need to spend every waking moment together.

He didn’t move even when Feyre knocked for dinner. He heard the door open a second time when the sun went down and smelled Elain even before he saw her.

“Tired?” She asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Waiting for death to take me, he thought as he turned his head to face her. “A little.”

She brushed his hair out of his face with her fingers and Lucien tried to pretend the gesture had no effect on him.

“Tomorrow is going to be strange,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his. “You leaving…me staying. Who will make my tea in the morning?”

Lucien’s insides shriveled to dust. “I’m sure you could ask one of the servants.”

She nodded, her eyes becoming glassy with thought. “Yeah…it won’t be the same, thought.” Lucien could agree with that. Come with me! His mind screamed. Instead, he closed his eyes as she continued to stroke little pieces of hair off his face, the pads of her fingertips zapping electricity through his veins.

“Will you come to dinner with me, at least?” She asked gently. Lucien would rather eat his own hand than pretend everything was fine.

“I’m not hungry,” he told her petulantly. She withdrew her hand, biting her bottom lip.

“I knew it. You’re angry with me.”

Lucien pushed himself off his chest to sit on the bed. “What?” He asked dumbly.

“You’re angry. Why?” She asked, her chin trembling.

“I’m not angry,” he assured her, standing quickly. She looked up him with defiance.

“Then come to dinner with me.”

“No,” he replied, fear bubbling in his blood.

“Because you’re mad—”

“Fuck, Elain! The truth is I’m so damn in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself!” He all but shouted, fisting his hands at his sides. Her mouth fell open, but Lucien couldn’t stop not that he’d started. “You want a friend and I want to be that for you, but I don’t wantto go downstairs and pretend I’m not gonna miss every single inch of you when I leave. We can go back to friendship in the morning but right now, I want to be alone.”

Her eyes were glassy again, her cheeks burning red, and he wondered if he’d taken things too far. He took a hesitant half-step towards her. “Elain, I’m—”

“Finally,” She breathed before launching herself into his arms, her mouth covering his before he could finish his apology. Lucien clutched her against his chest, groaning into her mouth with both suppressed need and his exuberance. Kissing, kissing, mate is kissing—

His mate was also quickly unbuttoning his pants, he thought, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.

“Took you forever,” she gasped against his lips, letting him pick her up, his hands bracing her ass like seat. “Started to think—ah, Lucien—you didn’t like me at all.”

He nipped down her neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, dress bunched up to expose her underwear to his aching, now freed cock. The position was awkward; his pants tangled around his legs, his shirt covered his chest and yet Lucien could not be bothered to fix any of it. Now,the mating instinct screamed. Have her now.

Elain pulled the scrap of fabric between him and her to the side and Lucien slid in, hissing at the slickness already pooling between her thighs.

“How long?” He demanded, pressing her back against a wall. Elain squeezed her thighs around his body.

“Forever,” she replied, her eyes closed. “Since Winter at least.”

God, he thought, his eyes rolling in his head. That had been nearly seven months ago. He’d loved her just as long. The knowledge that he could have had her as he was taking her then, up against a wall because he couldn’t stand being parted for the few seconds it would take him to walk back to the bed, was enough to drive him to madness. Lucien thrusted into her as Elain clawed at his hair, tangling her fingers in what was left of his ponytail.

“Should have told me,” Lucien grunted before kissing her with all the pent up, scorched heat he felt. Elain gave him as good as he got, her tongue already in his mouth establishing her dominance. She could have him however she liked.

“Didn’t want to mess everything up,” she gasped, her breath sweet against his face. Lucien’s arms ached from holding her and his cock throbbed, unable to fully bury himself within her.

Lucien snarled even as he pulled out, tossing her to the bed as he kicked himself out of his pants. Elain was fumbling with the buttons of her dress, as though he cared about that. Lucien spread her legs as wide as he could, growling softly with approval at the gleaming wet he found looking back between bright pink lips.

She began to pull the dress up over her head, her hips shimmying as though she meant to escape him. It felt like running and Lucien couldn’t help the way he reached for her, dragging her pussy to his face and burying himself in it before she got away. Mine, you are mine—

Elain squealed, still trying to free herself from the fabric. Lucien had no inclination to help, licking her with desperation. She tasted good,better than he’d imagined, somehow musky and sweet.

“Lucien,” she gasped when his tongue swiped over her clit. She ground against his face like she knew what she was doing, drawing her knees up and pinning him in place. She reached for his hair and pushed, demanding he stay where he was. Lucien’s hips bucked involuntarily, rubbing against the soft fabric of the bed to alleviate some of his arousal.

“Lucien,” she gasped again, her thighs quivering. He withdrew his mouth with a smirk and lifted her legs in the air, holding them against his chest. He rubbed the crown of his cock against her dripping cunt before pulling off his tunic and shirt.

“Close?” He asked, arching a brow. She whined, trying to pull him in. Lucien took himself in his hand and rubbed deliberately, using her own slickness and the head of his penis to rub slow circles around her quivering, swollen clit. She arched her back with trembling breath.

“Yes,” she gasped and Gods how he wanted to watch her fall apart like this.

“Do you want to come?” He asked. She nodded her head, biting her bottom lip. Up, up, up, she keened only for Lucien to withdraw his cock and sheathe himself inside her. He replaced the tip against her clit with his thumb, fucking and he rubbed. She was breathy, eyes open and locked on his face and so damn loud.

There was no mistaking what was happening in his room. He was sure the whole house could hear them, not that Elain seemed to care. Close, he could tell she was close giving how she was rhythmically clenching around him and how she panted through her pretty red lips.

“Lucien,” she whispered, a warning. He wanted it, wanted to knowwhat she felt like when she was lost to ecstasy. He pumped, her wet heat killing him with each stroke. Nothing had ever felt half as good in his life and he didn’t believe anything ever would, again.

She came with a scream, her cunt sucking him deeper, leaving him no breathing room, just his cock and the walls of her pussy he felt stretched over him. She yanked on his arms, pulling him down to kiss her as he continued to thrust, overwhelmed with the sensations. So much was happening; he could still taste her on his mouth, could feel nothing but how incredible it was to be inside her and yet the kissing only heightened that.

He was building, too. His muscles tightened and Lucien let himself go. She swallowed his cry as he pushed as far as he could go, trying to become two souls that shared the same flesh. She dug her nails into his ass, holding him there.

Lucien collapsed carefully, withdrawing himself so he wouldn’t crush her. “Fuck.”

She giggled, nuzzling her head into his chest as he yanked blankets up over their bodies. “That was nice.”

“I love you too, you know,” she whispered, kissing his shoulder.

Lucien smiled.

#elucien fic #elucien one shot #elucien #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #i just know a scene like this is coming in the elucien book #this will one day be canon and you will all regard me as a prophet

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

#chris evans #cevans #Details Magazine #2012 #interview

[pedros-mustache]

the rising sun

summary: “be still, sad heart! and cease repining / behind the clouds the sun is still shining.” — henry wadsworth longfellow

word count: 2.8k

warnings: angst, discussion of depression/anxiety, general not-so-happy tone to the whole thing, some fluff thrown in there for good measure

a/n: to be honest, i almost didn’t post this. i’ve not been doing well the last week, and this fic is pretty indicative of my current mental state. i decided to upload it despite my reservations and embarrassment on the hope that this might give someone struggling just like a me a moment of peace. xoxo. ❤️

it’s raining when marcus comes home.

you sit on the living room’s padded window seat, plush blanket tangled around your legs, forehead pressed against the chill windowpane at your side. bloated raindrops slide down the glass, and you watch, halfheartedly willing one raindrop to reach the lip of the window before another. 

the narrow street below your window is empty. puddles gather on the red brick sidewalks, and the birch trees planted in small earthen squares along the road tremble with each sharp gust of rainy wind. it’s cold out. you can feel the chill through the window, but you don’t pull away.

you hear the front door shut and marcus toe his shoes off. his keys jingle as they drop to the catch-all bowl on the foyer table, and then he’s hurrying into the kitchen, shouting as he goes. you can’t see him from where you sit, but his voice carries through the small apartment. you blame the high ceilings and exposed brick walls. sound travels too easily in this space, and sometimes it's too much for you to bear. you sink lower on the window seat, shutting your eyes against the sound of his voice.

“hey! sorry i’m late. there was this—this thing at work, and then i had to get the groceries, but then i forgot about dinner—” he sighs heavily, places something on the kitchen island that crinkles. “whatever, it doesn’t matter. i’m home. d’you have a good day?”

you huff in response. the sound gets trapped in the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders.

“i got chinese.” 

he’s close now, his voice dropped to an even timbre. you can feel him, feel the sudden shift of his mood when he enters the living room and sees you, curled up on the window seat like a pillbug caught in a storm. where he was unruffled before, on the verge of relaxing after a long day of work, he is now worried, concern rolling off him in crashing waves. 

you hate that you do this to him. 

“you okay, bug?”

opening your eyes, you tilt your head over your shoulder to look at him. you manage a weary smile, wavering around the edges, entirely unconvincing and pathetic. “mhm. just tired ‘s all. long day.”

marcus’s brow pinches. he puts his hands in his pockets, and the jacket around his shoulders tightens with the movement. “you’ve been tired a lot the last few days,” he says. his words are slow, calculated, like he’s dancing around the point.

you shrug, dancing around the point with him, a slow-footed, wary sort of dance. “i guess.” 

“are you sure you—” he stops talking, removes a hand from his pockets, drags his thumb over his lower lip as he stares at you. his brown eyes are warm, and his stare is intense. it’s as if he’s trying to peel back all of your layers with his eyes alone, each bat of his long eyelashes another layer closer to the most vulnerable places of your heart.

you sit up, suddenly nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. frowning, you brush a stray lock of hair away from your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “what? what are you staring at me for?” there’s more than a bite to your tone, and you wince at the harsh sound of your voice. 

he doesn’t deserve that.

turning your face away, you return your gaze to the puddle third from left of your front tire. it’s grown bigger, and your car’s reflection seems to flutter as wind pushes across the top of the pool of water.

“can i sit?”

you look from marcus to his outstretched hand to the empty space across from you on the seat. after your timid nod, he sits with another heavy sigh, his second of the night. you wonder how often you are the one to make him sigh like that.

he leans his head against the wall and watches as a bird swoops down from the roof ledge to a tree across the street. he sits in an awkward sort of fold, his legs too long to sit comfortably on the seat with you there as well. twisted at the waist, legs stretched to the side, he folds his hands in his lap and inhales deeply then exhales through his mouth.

your face softens as you wait for him to speak. you inhale too, mirroring the slow rise and fall of his chest with deep breathing of your own. the panic that’s gripped you all day begins to ebb. the blurry edges of your vision clears, and he comes into focus. for a moment, you allow yourself to study the lines of his neck, his sun-kissed skin, and strong jaw. he’s solid and firm in all the places you are not—physically, mentally, emotionally. 

your chest tightens again at the thought.

he shifts his gaze away from the cramped georgetown street. “you forget to breathe when you’re anxious.”

ducking your head, you nod. “i know.” with a sigh of your own, you meet his eyes through the tops of your lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“why are you apologizing?”

“well, i don’t… i mean—” you shake your head, caught off guard by his question and the earnest look on his face. why does he have to look at you like that? so open and honest and caring? he shouldn’t look at you like that, not when you’re like this. 

you study your knees, pushed tight against your chest. there’s a frayed thread on your pant leg. you pluck it off and drop it to the side. finally, you say, “i’ve been off the last few days, haven’t really been myself. i know i’m not fun when i’m like this…”

“not fun?” marcus scoffs as though offended, and your head snaps up to level him a glare. registering the look on your face, he lifts his hands in surrender. “wait a second—i wasn’t making fun. i just—” he tilts his head to the side. “baby, you don’t have to be fun all the time.”

your shoulders sag. you look away. you can’t look at him too long. he’s too good to you.

in the year and a half you’ve been with marcus, you’ve had your bad days. they come and go. you’ve taken to comparing your bad days to the ice-cream truck which wanders through your neighborhood from time to time. it’s never consistent, always appearing out of the blue after an extended absence, looking more and more worn down upon each new arrival. your bad days are like the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

marcus has seen you in your anxious moments: the afternoons where it hits you and suddenly you can’t breathe or think clearly and everything feels topsy-turvy. those moments you can handle yourself. you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

he’s seen you in your depressed moments too: the evenings where all you want to do is curl in bed and never leave, your thoughts a swirling mess of perceived rejection and bleakness and despair. those moments you prefer to work through on your own, though he makes it abundantly clear he’s only an arm’s reach away. still, you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

you don’t like to cause a fuss.

this week, though—fuck, this week has been bad, and you both know it.

from the moment you wake, it starts: muscle-gripping fear, racing heart, dry mouth, and weary limbs. you stumble through your morning routine, pushing it all down, down, down because you have to go to work. you have to do your job. life doesn’t stop just because you’re anxious.  

when you come home in the afternoons, the bed is waiting, cold and unmade. you sleep—sleep the worry away and the fatigue away. it’s all you can do to be ready for marcus to return from the city. he doesn’t need to see you like this, a lump of trembling hands and bone-deep exhaustion. 

this isn’t what he signed up for. 

for a week you’ve been hanging on by a thread, shoving him and everyone else in your path away because it’s what’s easiest. you can take care of yourself. no one needs the added weight of caring for you, least of all marcus. if you opened the door, let him have a peek inside, he’d know, he’d see—it’s too much. it’s better if you keep this part of yourself to yourself.

“bug?”

you pull your face away from your elbow. “yeah?”

“come here.” he opens his arms, and it’s an invitation you cannot decline. 

the transition from your side of the window seat to his is awkward. it’s a tangle of arms and legs in the narrow space, an elbow against his stomach, a grunt of pain, and a hurried whisper of apology. when you settle your back against his chest, his warmth pushes through the chill clinging to your skin. you’ve been sitting by the window too long. you turn your face to press your cheek against his shoulder, winding both of your arms around his bicep. you squeeze tight, inhaling his cologne and the raindrops still clinging to his jacket. 

“there.” his chest rumbles beneath you when he speaks. “that’s better.” 

“marcus, i—” 

he shushes you with a gentle whisper. “hold on. just breathe with me, okay?”

you swallow past the lump in your throat and nod against his arm.

inhale, exhale—you follow his lead.

your eyes drift shut. he feels good, safe and steady. 

unbidden, tears prick your eyes, and you are powerless to stop them. you push your face further against his arm to stem the sudden flow of tears. the taste of salt floods your mouth, and you sniff hard, dragging the back of one hand across your cheeks. marcus doesn’t say anything. he just drags his hand over your hair, his own cheek pressed to the crown of your head. he holds you tight, and you surrender to the weight of his arms around you, his body pressed against yours.

when the tears stop, you sit up to wipe your face. marcus drops his hand from your head to your back. his touch is smooth and gentle, and you laugh against the ridiculousness of it all.

“i’m sorry,” you say, dragging your sleeve under your nose. “i know you didn’t come home anticipating this.”

marcus is quiet for a moment. his palm spreads across the width of your lower back. you can feel the warmth of his skin perimate the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. “baby?” you turn your face to him. “you gotta stop apologizing.”

you swallow hard with a nod. “yeah, i know. i’m so—” he quirks an eyebrow, and you laugh despite yourself. “you’re right.”

“come here,” he says again. “lean back.”

you do as you're told, your head nestled against his shoulder. he slides his hands down your arms, a slow drag, until he can fit his fingers between yours and squeeze. he kisses your temple, and the hair on his cheek tickles your skin.

“i love you,” he whispers.

you smile—a genuine smile, small as it is. 

inhaling deeply, you decide to lay it all on the table. you love marcus. if he ever asked, you’d marry him in a heartbeat. but you’re tired of running from him when all he’s ever done is proven himself to be a gentleman with a heart of solid gold. he deserves to know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. even if it drives him away in the end.

“when i was a freshman in college,” you start, shifting your back against his chest. “i dated this guy. we were together for only a few months, but he was a real asshole.” the way marcus stiffens behind you, his arms tightening reflexively around your middle, warms your cheeks. his subtle display of protectiveness emboldens your story, and you continue with a clearer voice.

“i was really anxious back then, like every day. it was a constant battle between myself and my anxiety, and he hated it. one night we were on the phone and i was telling him about my day and he got really quiet and then he told me, ‘i can’t deal with your anxiety. it’s too much.’ i’ve never forgotten that.”

when marcus says nothing in response, you twist to face him, laying your hand flat against his chest. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm. it beats fast, a hurried gallop in his chest. his eyes dart back and forth between yours, his lips parted in something akin to shock. you don’t give him a chance to speak before you continue.

“marcus? please—please tell me you can deal with it. i don’t know what i’d do if you couldn’t.”

marcus’s face crumbles. with tears welling in his eyes, he lifts his hands to cup your face. “oh my god, baby,” he breathes, rolling his forehead over yours. “i’m so sorry.”

he kisses you. it’s short and sweet and perhaps another thread in his apology. you grip his wrist, holding him tight, willing him to stay—stay with you now and forever, until the sun no longer shines and the earth vanishes to dust. 

when you break apart, he skims his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “what a fucking loser,” he says, and you laugh, tossing your head back at the sheer vitriol lacing his words. it’s not often marcus gets angry. to see a red flush on his cheeks and frustration in his brow, all over some guy you haven’t thought about in years, it makes your heart flutter in the best possible way. “no, i mean it! god, what an asshole.” 

he sucks in a breath and catches your eyes. his thumb and forefinger move to grip your chin, a gentle hold but one that leaves you powerless to ignore anything he’s about to say. you steel yourself, lungs tight with anticipation.

“it—this—you.” he shakes his head. “it’s not something i deal with. i don’t deal with it. do you hear me? say you do.”

eyes misty, you nod. “i do. i hear you, marcus.”

“i want to take care of you. that’s why we’re together. we’re a team. teammates rely on one another—”

“marcus, i don’t watch sports.”

he smirks. “just humor me.” releasing his hold on your chin, he smooths his hand down the side of your face. “i want to help you. you don’t need to carry this all by yourself.”

“i just thought that—”

“look, all guys are idiots. if you’re feeling some type of way, you gotta tell me. i can’t read minds. but all guys aren’t assholes. i want to help you.”

you cover the hand on your cheek with your fingers and nuzzle your nose against his palm. “i love you.” 

“i love you more. really, i do. more than the stars in the sky and all the—”

you pull your face away with a grimace, holding up your hand to stop him. “okay, please, that’s too much. too sweet, too schmaltzy. try and preserve some of your dignity.” 

marcus laughs, a deep, hearty sound that warms you to the center of your being. he winds an arm around the small of your back to draw you close, his lips descending to the curve of your neck. he peppers your skin with kisses—warm ones, wet ones, gentle ones—until you push at his shoulders. he drops back against the wall, chest heaving and eyes glistening with mirth.

you catch your lower lip in your teeth and shake your head. “you hopeless romantic you.”

“guilty as charged.” 

sliding out from between his legs, you drop to the floor. “you said you got chinese?”

“yeah, but it might be a little cold by now.”

you offer him your hand. “that’s okay. i’m hungry.”

marcus slides his fingers between yours. “i’ll warm it up then.”

as he leads you to the kitchen, your bare feet padding behind his socked ones, you catch a glimpse of the world outside. it’s no longer raining. the clouds have parted, revealing a bright sun. the sun’s rays drench the street in the warm glow of sunset, all orange and pale yellow and dusky red. you smile and lean against marcus’s arm as he sets about warming dinner in the microwave. he follows your eyeline to the window and throws an arm around your shoulders.

“do you want to go on a walk after dinner?”

looking up, you grin. “yeah, that would be nice.”

“the rain never stays forever.”

he’s not talking about the weather, and you both know it. you squeeze his hand.

“no, i guess it doesn’t.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pm writes

[gureishi]

Saeyoung + 13? Or Saeyoung + 11?

[417]

Of COURSE, my friend~

Oh boy, this one was fun to do. I really hope you enjoy it ♡

thirteen: left your mark on me

Saeyoung X Reader, T, words: 2643

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It’s the first time Saeran has ever texted you.

Technically, you think—heart pounding—that’s not true. Him texting you was, you suppose, the catalyst for everything that’s happened to you over the last few months. But the Saeran you know now—the quiet, tired boy who’s just recently started saying hello to you when you show up at his home—never. Certainly not.

Your hands tremble as you swipe to open his message. Something’s wrong, you think, because why else would he reach out to you? You feel your heartbeat in the roof of your mouth and say a prayer in your head. Be okay be okay be okay be okay…

“Come over,” says the text.

What?

“Is everything okay?” you text back with one hand, already tripping across your room, grabbing a jacket. Be okay be okay be okay be okay…

He answers immediately. He types fast, like his brother.

“Yeah,” he says. You let out the breath you’ve been holding. “Come talk to him. I don’t want to.”

You pause, one arm in your jacket. Come talk to him? That ambiguous phrase could mean so many things, and god, you want to know more, but you can’t want to press him—that he reached out at all is a huge step, one you wouldn’t dare jeopardize.

“Be right there,” you text back, stuffing your other arm into your jacket, slipping into shoes. You keep your phone in your hand as you throw the door open, taking the steps two at a time, but he doesn’t text you again. Of course he doesn’t—he’s said what he needed to say.

You put on loud music in the car, feeling the need to drown out the sound of your heartbeat. You roll down the window even though the wind blows your hair into your eyes, making it hard to see. You go over the messages again and again in your head: talk to him, he said. Talk to him about what?

Your music pounds over the speakers, rocking the car a little, and you grip the steering wheel slightly too hard. You’ve just missed rush hour and the traffic is dying down, so you make good time, driving just the tiniest bit over the speed limit. He’d scold you for it, you think—he’s always admonishing you for driving too fast, even though he pushes his fancy little cars to their limits on the empty dirt roads around the bunker. Hypocrite.

You take the exit, follow the street as it loops round and round, make the turn-off onto the unmarked road that leads to his home. The stars are starting to come out now.

You slow down as you see the bunker looming in the distance; from the outside, it’s ominous, and yet it fills you with an inexplicable warmth, flips your stomach around.

You shout the password at the garage without stopping, grinning as the first door opens for you. You half-expect to find him here, body mostly hidden under one of his cars, mysterious tools littering the ground around him. He’s often here when he’s sulking—today, though, the garage is empty, dark and dank. You pull into the one parking spot he’s left open for you—as far as possible from his cars, dressed for nighttime in their little protective hoods. I can park, you think grumpily. He doesn’t trust me.

But you know this isn’t true, and it’s confirmed again as you slip out of your car, keys in hand, and step cautiously toward his main door.

“Welcome,” it says to you in it’s robo-voice.

This is new.

“Šukran,” you say.

And without any further prompting—without questions, or quizzes, or nearly impossible translations, it opens. Almost as if it recognizes the sound of your voice.

Huh.

You kick off your shoes, tossing them into the jumble by the door. Saeyoung’s are heaped in a pile, some upside down and sideways; Saeran’s are lined up nearly beside his, in a perfect line as if to say “look, this is how it’s done.” This makes you smile.

Neither twin is in the living room. There’s a light under Saeran’s door, but you leave him be.

Anxiety building in the pit of your stomach, you pad down the hall in your socked feet. Saeyoung’s office is dark, but there’s light on in his bedroom. This, by itself, is unusual—without you here, it’s rare that he goes into that room at all.

You knock softly on the door, and when he doesn’t answer you push it open.

“It’s me,” you call softly, squinting as your eyes adjust. The room is as bright as the rest of the bunker is dark; all the fluorescent lights on are, starkly illuminating the black and yellow decorations. There’s barely any empty space on the walls, and it reminds you of his mind—so crammed with thoughts that there’s no place to rest.

In spite of his near-inhuman senses, he doesn’t see you at first.

He’s sitting on the floor, back propped against the side of the bed, headphones over his ears. His eyes are closed, knees tucked up to his chest. He looks small, like this—like you could scoop him up in your arms and carry him away.

“Hi,” you say, a little louder.

He jumps, eyes flying open, headphones slipping off one ear. He makes a spluttering noise that could be “huh?” or “hi” or just “haaaaah!”

You smile.

“Saeran didn’t tell you I was coming, then?”

“N-no, I…Saeran?” He blinks up at you as though he doesn’t quite believe you’re there. It’s then that you notice the sunken-in look about him: his eyes are clouded and sleepy, a little red-rimmed. His cheeks are pale.

You sink onto the floor beside him; you copy his posture, tucking your knees to your chest.

“Saeran told me to come talk to you,” you admit, looking down. You’re not sure why, but now that you’re here, you feel a little embarrassed. “So I did.”

“He…he…” Saeyoung looks lost for words. A part of you—a little bitter, self-conscious part—wonders if he wishes you hadn’t come. As if he senses what you’re thinking, he spins abruptly to face you, sitting cross-legged. He moves fast: in an instant, you’re almost nose-to-nose. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and you feel his breath on your face; your cheeks burn. “I’m soooo happy to see you, kitten. I was just…ah, surprised.”

It’s hard to breathe with him close like this. You bite your lip.

“I’m happy to see you, too,” you tell him.

And you are. His hair’s a little messed up, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes now—though he’s still got that harrowed, tired look about him.

“I, uh…” He looks down, his face reddening a little. “I was actually wishing you were here, earlier. I should’ve just called you myself.”

He pushes up his glasses and rubs his eyes with one shaky hand.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s wrong?” you ask.

He sighs, and you feel like maybe he’s been half-holding his breath all day.

“Not really,” he says.

“Saeyoung.”

He peers at you through his fingers; you feel you must look foolish with the stern expression you’re making, but he smiles.

“Oh, I just adore you,” he groans, now dropping his face into both hands. “I can’t resist you, you know.”

“I know.” Gently, you place a hand on his knee; he twitches in response.

“It’s something silly,” he warns, voice muffled by his hands. Suddenly, he tips forward; you realize what he’s doing just in time and shift your weight so his head lands on your shoulder. His breath is on your collarbone now, and a shiver runs through your body.

“I’m sure it’s not,” you say.

He exhales again, and fleetingly, you wonder if he’s doing this on purpose—breathing on the exposed skin of your shoulder just to tease you. Even gloomy like this, he can’t resist the urge to try and rile you up.

“I guess I sort of…realized something,” he mutters, voice low. You have to tilt your head down to hear him. 

“Yes?”

“Having Saeran here is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he murmurs. He’s almost whispering, as if he’s afraid to be heard. “One of the greatest,” he adds, grazing your wrist with his thumb, calloused and rough and wonderful. 

You hum your affirmation, not wanting to interrupt now that he’s talking.

“But…” He trails off as if he’s not quite sure how to explain it. His head is still on your shoulder and you can’t see his face; with your free hand, you gently brush his hair off his forehead. “My whole life,” he continues, a little more confidently, “I’ve just had one thing I’m trying to do. Everything I’ve done has been about making sure he’s safe. Now that I’ve got him, I…”

“Don’t know what to do next?”

He twists his head sideways—like a cat, you think, seeking out attention. You tangle your hand in his hair, pulling it a little, and you swear he purrs.

“Yeah,” he admits, voice breathy. “I’m not sure what I’m…here for, now.”

“Saeyoung.” You say his name firmly—something has dawned on you. You straighten abruptly and he pulls back if as startled. He’s still got that weary look, like he’s spent the day like this, buried under a pile of his own thoughts. “Saeyoung, has anyone ever asked you what you want before?”

“What do you mean?” He sits up straight too: faces you, fingers still gently gripping your wrist.

“Listen,” you say. “I know you want to live together with Saeran, and now you do. And you want him to be safe and happy. But aside from those things, what do you want?”

You can tell he’s puzzled; he cocks his head thoughtfully.

“I don’t, um…”

“Try to think.”

“I mean, I…”

He’s got this sort of helpless look about him, and you can’t take it anymore. You take his face in both your hands, gently holding his cheeks—which are flushed, almost feverish. Touching his face makes your body tingle.

“Let’s start small,” you tell him. His eyes are so big and bright behind his glasses and you feel a strange impulse to kiss his eyelashes. “Tell me one thing you want right now.”

His eyes lock with yours and then you see his face flush—if possible—even darker. His gaze trails down your face, lingering on your lips.

“Well…” he lilts, tilting his head to the side. “There is one thing I wanna do, but—I mean, ahh, I would say that I’m thinking about…”

“I’m gonna help you,” you whisper, hands still on his cheeks. “Tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen.”

His face is red—oh, so red.

“Well, the thing is, I…I really want you to kiss me,” he murmurs. Finally. The buzzy air between you was becoming almost unbearable.

You lean forward and he waits, patient, still, longing. He’s already so close; you ghost your lips over his and he melts into you instantly. You swipe your tongue over his bottom lip.

When you pull away he’s panting, eyes cloudy.

“Good,” you tell him. “What else do you want?” 

“I…ah…” His voice sounds almost slurred: he’s overwhelmed, you think, by the way you’ve taken control. There’s a sort of dazed smile dancing over his lips.

“Tell me,” you urge. “Think of this as practice. I’m gonna teach you how to ask for what you want if it kills me, Choi Saeyoung.”

Oh, the look on his face is wonderful: delighted and spellbound.

“I want, ah…um, th-this,” he says—which isn’t really a request, but it’s a start. He takes your hand in his and guides it upwards, pushes your fingers into his hair.

“You want me to pet you?”

“Yeah, like…like how you did before.”

You comb your fingers through his messy curls, separating the strands with your fingertips. And you face is still so close to his, and he looks so hopelessly adoring, so you lean forward and kiss him again: once, quick and soft.

“Can you, uh…can you do what you did before? With my hair?” he asks weakly. What you did before…? 

Oh.

You tangle your fingers in his hair a little more roughly, pulling it, and he squeaks and kisses you again, this time with unbound enthusiasm. You feel like you’ve unlocked a secret weapon.

Hand buried in his hair, you kiss just his lower lip, then the tip of his nose, his cheek, his jaw. You trail kisses down the side of his neck and he inhales sharply.

“Will you do that again?” he asks.

“This?” You kiss his neck again, gently, just under the curve of his jaw.

“Y-yes, but um…harder.”

Interesting. “Do you want me to?” you ask him—because this is practice, after all; you’re helping him—not just satisfying your own curiosity about how much he’d squirm if you just…nibbled him a little.

He giggles, high-pitched and awkward. “Mmmm…yes, I want you to,” he mutters, and that’s enough for you.

You take the smooth skin between your teeth, biting down, and he yelps. You were right—he does squirm, wiggling around like a fish. You suck the skin into your mouth, biting a little harder.

And by the time you pull away he looks dizzy; there’s a beautiful, silly grin on his face.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” you say softly, touching the already-reddening skin with your fingertip. 

“I…think I like that,” he says, with some surprise.

“Good job,” you tell him, opening your arms—he eagerly leans into you, rests his head on your chest. “That was, uh…good practice.”

He laughs, warm and open and sleepy, and you wrap your arms around him.

“Excellent practice,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna need a lot more practice, though, so…”

“I’ve got you,” you tell him. You plant a kiss on the very top of his head and he hums. “I want you to start thinking about other stuff you want too, though. Okay? Life stuff.”

He gets comfortable, snuggling sleepily into you. He’s exhausted himself worrying, you think; he needs to power down that gigantic brain.

“Aaaaanything?” he sings, his tone lighter now, more relaxed.

“I mean…” Oh no.

“I want a hundred cats!”

“Saeyoung.”

“I can get them and squish them all and have them all sleep in my bed with me?!”

“Saeyoung…”

“And make a cat army and ride into battle on the back of a giant cat?”

“No.”

“Heeeeey,” he whines, and you squeeze him tighter, stroking his beautiful, messy, overwrought head. “You said anything.”

“Within reason, honey.”

He murmurs something only half-coherent about horse-sized cats and nuzzles into your chest. You wonder how much he’s slept in the past few days, stewing over his future. It’s normal to worry about these things, you think—but for Saeyoung, who’s never once thought about his future, it’s nearly impossible.

But this is what you want for him. You want to see him make choices for himself—to learn how to put his happiness first.

“One cat,” you murmur into his hair. “Let’s start with one cat.”

He hums, head heavy.

“Three,” he mumbles. “One for each of us.”

“Sure, baby,” you tell him, curling a lock of his thick red hair around your fingertip. He’s so soft and helpless like this—dozing off curled up in your arms, humming softly as you pet his head. “If that’s what you want,” you say, “I’ll make sure it happens.”

★・・・・・・★・��・・・・★・・・・・・★

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[get-shiggy-with-it]

#1 Victory Royale

✧ pairing: college student!spinner x student!afab!reader

✧ word count: 4.4k

✧ warnings: college au/no quirks, light angst, mostly soft/fluff, smut, could be hate fucking if you squint, afab reader but no pronouns, this is pretty tame, by like my standards, I wrote this at work, not really a warning, but it felt like you needed to know that

✧ summary: relationships suck and Spinner is starting to think maybe he does too

✧ ao3 mirror

✧ a/n: Hey y'all, welcome back to more college au bs from me. This is set in the same universe once again as all my other college pieces. A very sweet anon asked if we'd ever get to see more of Spinner, so here he is! Also with another cameo from shiggy's bitch (endearing) cause I can't help myself.

“Ughhhhhh….”

Spinner’s groaning echoed through the tiny apartment, the heavy sound of creaking couch cushions under his weight following.

“What?” his long-suffering roommate shouted out their bedroom door, rapidly shoving clothing and a toothbrush into an overnight bag.

“Uggghhhhhhh!”

He let out with another, louder dying animal wail. He’d been like this since they woke up—wallowing in some strange concoction of self pity and Red Bull on the kitchen floor when they walked in for water two hours ago.

“Motherfucker,” they mumbled, tossing their bag to the floor and marching, more than a little disgruntled, into the hall. “What do you want?”

Spinner was sitting upside down on the couch now, feet up against the wall tapestry and cotton candy hair splayed out on the floor. He stared blankly as his friend came into view—arms crossed, frowning at him from the end of the hall—and opened his mouth once more, letting out another garbled grunt that had one of the neighbors pounding twice on the wall to shut his dramatic ass up.

“Dude seriously, are you gonna tell me who pissed in your cereal or are you just gonna scream until the guys next door kick a hole through our wall?”

They almost felt bad as he looked away, sniffing and letting himself slump farther off the sofa until he was sprawled completely on the hardwood and staring, glassy eyed, up at the ceiling.

When he finally spoke a full sentence, his gaze was locked on the water stain above him from a year ago when the upstairs neighbors flooded their apartment trying to make jungle juice in the bathtub.

“I don’t know, I’m just in my feels as the kids say,” he sounded so dejected—strange for someone who was perpetually energized to a frustrating degree—that their shoulders immediately slumped from a hardass square to a softer, more sympathetic angle

They padded over to join him on the floor.

“Care to elaborate, oh roomie of mine?”

There was a pause and Spinner tapped his nails against the hardwood idly before responding.

“I guess I’m just feeling, like, fucking I don’t know,” he sighed, knocking his head against the dusty boards, “left out I guess? That’s not quite right, but it’s just Magne mentioned last time she came to The League meeting that Jin was seeing somebody and it just got me all introspective and weird…”

“Hm,” his roommate hummed thoughtfully and studied the way the textured white ceiling gave way to the rings of brown water damage, like a dead and dying flower, “I thought you and Jin weren’t ever that serious?”

“We weren’t,” Spinner groaned again and rubbed his eyes. “We went on like, one date a year ago and I haven’t thought about it really at all since then. I’m not sure why hearing he’s got someone else now made me so fucking...jealous I guess.”

“I mean, maybe you just never really gave yourself the time to process it?” they asked and received only an annoyed huff and accompanying groan. “Sorry, should have asked if you were looking for advice or just wanting to rant. My bad.”

“No, it’s fine. I think it’s just…”

Spinner trailed off and they shifted as the hard floor bit at their back and made it ache. The muscles were sore already as it was, and Tomura blowing their fucking back a few times a week wasn’t really helping. They’d created some kind of perpetually horny monster, but something told them cracking a joke about it wasn’t really going to help the situation much. Thankfully, Spinner found his way to filling the silence a minute later.

“I don’t think it has anything specifically to do with Jin. Yeah I liked him, we’re still really good friends and I don’t feel like I need him to be more than that. It’s just that—and this is gonna make me sound like a massive asshole—but with you and your new fucking boyfie and now even Jin finding someone to date I just keep seeing reminders everywhere of how motherfucking isolated I am.”

“Oh,” they felt their face burn a bit, guilt frothing as they were forced to acknowledge the fact that in all the time they’ve spent holed up with Tomura, Spinner had been discarded like an old Steam game, bought impulsively on sale and never played again. “I’m sorry I haven’t been prioritizing you—”

“No, no, no shut the fuck with that,” he waved his hand to cut them off and pushed himself up on his palms. “I know I’m not being fair about it, and I really am happy for you guys, but idk man….I just feel like I’m never gonna find that you know?”

Beside him, his roommate remained sprawled out on the floor like a homicide tape outline and was just as deadly quiet.

“I just,” he continued, running an angry hand through his hair, “I know I could be such a good partner. Like I’m funny and I’m not a fucking creep, which is actually a plus to most people.”

He shot a side glance down and they rolled their eyes, sitting up and knocking his shoulder roughly till he toppled back to the dirty floor and they stood above him.

“Fuck off,” they chuckled.

His roommate watched as the laughter seemed to infect him like a bad cold, creeping down the back of his throat and shaking in his chest.

“No I’m serious, I would be such a fucking great boyfriend. I give goddamn top quality cuddles and I actually know how to do laundry, what more does one need truly?”

“Damn bro, you’ve known how to fold your own clothes this whole time?”

The giggling spread into the quiet space, rocking through both their shoulders and leaving the air feeling light—fresh like the first nights of Spring. When it finally petered out into friendly silence, they were both far lighter.

“I just like the way you fold my t-shirts, the sleeves don’t get those weird creases when you do it,” he muttered and stood, doing his best to fix the wild pink locks that stood on end from his fidgeting.

“Yeah I’m sure,” his roommate rolled their eyes and turned back down the hall.

When they left for the night to stay over with their boyfriend, Spinner tried not to acknowledge the way he subconsciously glared at their back as they walked out the door, skipping yet another League meeting to swap spit with that guy from their English class.

He tried even harder not to think of how their bed would be warm and their legs would have legs to tangle with, their chest have a chest to lay against, while he heated up instant noodles in the microwave and fell asleep alone on their living room couch.

Not to mention that tonight was the big tournament with that new group on campus. He was really banking on his bff (best fucking friend as they were always sure to clarify) and him teaming up to crush those assholes from The Commission or whatever they called themselves.

Fucking lame as shit name in his opinion.

In any case, he’d have to settle for Magne again, and she was such a loose cannon they were sure to get their asses handed to them. She was a great fucking tank, he’d be the first to admit, but strategy was not a strong point of hers and they desperately needed that tonight.

He could feel the sinking weight of failure rolling in the pit of his stomach already even as he dragged himself into his room to tug on an old pair of jeans.

It bothered him way more than it should, the idea of losing some gaming tournament that, by all means held little to no actual significance.

Spinner knew the stock he’d started placing in games was growing to an unhealthy degree.

He knew that.

But self awareness rarely did anything to alleviate the irrational fear of failing at one of the only remaining consistencies in his life.

It stung worse when the tournament kicked off and by the third round, Spinner was the only remaining League member in the brackets.

“Fucking shit…” he muttered to himself, the small basement room alight with the blue glow of the monitor and the sound of frantically smashing controllers.

Behind him on the couch—stolen long ago from the theater building—Magne held him by the shoulders as he grit his teeth and leaned into the movement of his avatar on screen.

“You got this babe,” she shouted, cheek pressed up to his ear. “Make ‘em eat shit for me!”

“I would if you stopped distracting me,” Spinner hissed back.

Really it wasn’t Magne’s aggressive and somewhat bloodthirsty style of encouragement that shook his focus so badly.

It was his opponent.

The fucking president of The Commission sat, thighs spread and pressed to his, resting your weight on your elbows and snarling beside him in the couch.

Your face was split in this heart stopping grin as you quite deftly dodged all his attempts to get a hit in and managed to land a few of your own in the process.

And you looked really hot doing it.

Which was definitely just a side effect of the punch he (didn’t) drink and the body heat fueled temperature of the room—sweaty skin against sweaty skin making his mind wander against his will.

The shifting in his seat was absolutely just to illogically make him move faster and had nothing to do with how tight his pants now seemed.

So much for not being a fucking creep.

Your teammates were gathered in a circle behind you, enraptured and exuding the kind of smug confidence that said quite clearly The League was fucked from the second they walked in.

Not even two minutes later your hands were thrown up, punching the air and your team piling over the back of the couch to drown you in a sea of celebratory limbs.

Spinner felt himself deflating even as he was toppled off the couch by your screaming members and The League collectively cursed in the background.

Truthfully he’d known the chances of winning were slim.

Ever since his roommate started getting busy with classes and clubs that ‘looked good on their resume,’ The League had gone downhill rapidly. It was a problem since long before that Shigaraki guy swooped in and stole them away, but Spinner couldn’t stop himself from lowkey holding that against him.

The League had consumed so much of his life in college, functioning as a haven where he was finally respected and belonged to an extent he’d never experienced before.

The stink of failure and loss, not of the game but the only space he’d ever really occupied without complaint, burned his face and made the room feel more suffocating than usual.

Magne looked as though she wanted to give him one of her signature—and admittedly very comforting—hugs, but the deadly look of disappointment on Spinner’s face must have made her think twice.

The rest of his team seemed to read this sudden downward shift in the room as they began to filter out, climbing the steps onto street level and away from the suddenly stuffy, uncomfortable meeting spot. Normally everyone would stay and finish off the drinks snuck past the janitorial staff, eating Doritos until well past midnight. This time they couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

He couldn’t really blame them.

The multimedia building was a strange place after hours. Once Spinner might have called it something rare and liminal, now it felt more like a prison.

He stood, packing up the consoles a bit more roughly than necessary when someone cleared their throat behind him.

He turned to see you, standing alone with hands on your hips and scowling like you were the one who just got their gaming reputation ruined.

“Dude what the fuck was that?”

Spinner bristled at the knife sharp point of your tone.

“Really?” he asked incredulously. “You seriously waited around to rub your win in my face?”

You rolled your eyes and took a step closer around the couch. “I’m not talking about the fucking game dumbass. Why the hell are you pouting like I stole your fucking candy or some shit? You ruined the vibes man.”

“If anyone was ruining the vibes, it was you and your cocky ass team.”

Spinner felt himself stepping closer too, pulled in by the celestial weight that accompanied any kindling argument.

“Me?” you pointed to your chest and scoffed, “Wow, I was really hoping you’d actually possess a bit of emotional maturity, but if this is how you get after a loss I’m not shocked your fucking club is bleeding members.”

At some point the two of you had gravitated close enough that he felt the puff of your last breath on his cheeks. Two comets, ready and willing to collide.

“I’m not being the asshole in this situation, you know that right?” Spinner glared down his nose at you, heart pounding in his ears. “Maybe you shouldn’t make fucking unfounded assumptions about people you don’t know.”

“So then why are your panties in a twist over a fucking game?” you retorted.

He was peripherally aware that your eyes had taken on the same laser focused quality as they had during the last round. Determined and locked onto him without sparing a glance to anything else.

It was this same undivided attention that he’d envied in you as you played, and as Spinner felt it trained on him, his pants once again felt uncomfortably restrictive.

“It’s not about the fucking game okay!?” his voice came out hoarse and far more petulant than he’s been aiming for.

Though he quickly felt the embarrassment give rise to a secondary heat as you both breathed each other’s air and searched the face across from you.

“Then what is it about?”

That strange, unexplainable, inexplicable rush of potential filled the small gap that remained between your bodies—the kind of tension Spinner was beginning to think he’d never feel again.

He’d kissed plenty of people. Almost more than he’d like to admit, or that they’d like to admit more accurately.

But when his flickering eyes found your hard stare still and unwavering from his, it felt incredibly natural to lean in and press his lips against your fading frown.

It was slow going, the few centimeters that separated you seemed like miles as he moved slowly, never breaking eye contact until his mouth was finally slotted over yours and you weren’t pushing him away.

There was still a bit of lingering confusion, as this was decidedly not what either of you appeared to be expecting from the prior conversation. That coupled with the fact that Spinner wasn’t entirely sure he remembered your first name made the feeling of your tongue prodding at the seam of his lips all the more startling.

When he gasped, you slid your hands up his chest and licked into his mouth. Tongue tangling between breaths, Spinner felt himself getting lost in the familiar and coveted taste of another mouth, another body, another hand that grasped, that desired, that wanted him.

***

Your knees dug into the cushions on either side of Spinner’s thighs as you bounced in his lap. He fought to keep his eyes open against the pleasure of his cock sinking into you over and over again, so he could watch the way your head was thrown back and your chest heaved with the exertion.

He dug his hands into your hips and let his head hit the back of the couch, feet planted on the floor to help his hips thrust up into you, earning him some of the prettiest, stifled moans he’d ever heard.

Truthfully, he had not expected to fuck you. He figured you might be down to just make out for a bit until the cleaning staff came and booted you from the building, but both your pants had quite quickly and naturally found their way to the floor.

Neither of you spoke much, which he was thankful for. That would have been far too complicated of a conversation, especially considering you really didn’t know each other all that well.

Spinner usually liked to do a bit of ‘getting to know you’ type activities before he hooked up with people, which he did with surprising frequency for somebody so starved for a long term thing. Sex just fucking felt good and it was this eagerness that was his downfall. Most people he’d fucked around with seemed to read the urge to get into their pants as a diminished interest or emotional attraction and Spinner ended up with more friends with benefits than actual friends...or benefits.

Regardless, it was fine by him that the only form of communication passing between you for now were scattered groans of pleasure and the wet slap of your ass against his thighs.

He’d nearly forgotten how fucking amazing pussy felt.

For no particular reason, Spinner had always found himself fooling around with bodies more similar to his own. Not that he had any real preference, though the lack of experience often made him a bit nervous in the whole ‘pleasing your partner’ department, despite many helpful lessons from his roommate.

That was all to say that Spinner was incredibly thankful you reached down to guide his hand that had clumsily begun rubbing circles on your clit. That is until you simply knocked it away and went back to riding his dick like a fucking champ.

Then he did speak.

“Wanna make you cum,” he mumbled and really did sound like he was pouting this time.

You peered down at him, slowing your pace so you sat flush in his lap, grinding his cock deep against your walls. Spinner keened as you clenched around him, pussy so deliciously warm he felt himself near to drowning in the feel of you.

“Mm fuck,” you panted, leaning in to steal a few more messy kisses from him before lifting up and enveloping him in the slick heat all over again. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” he nipped at the column or your throat, careful not to leave any lasting marks just in case. “If I’m finishing, you’re fucking finishing.”

You pulled back and stared at him for a moment. He felt you purposefully tightening around him just so he would squirm under your curious gaze. After a moment you smirked and rolled your eyes again, taking his hand and guiding his fingers back to that little nub just above where his thick length was seated inside you.

Spinner was proud of his dick, it was hefty but not so long that it was a hassle to fit—just enough to reach all the important bits. He was sensitive as hell too most of the time, so just about any pressure felt amazing. But the best part of it was watching whoever he was fucking fall apart on his goddamn perfect cock.

So when you whispered, “Like this,” and showed him the rhythm and motion you liked, he pulled himself back from the brink to pay attention, speeding up until that look of cooled control slid right off your face.

“Ahh, yes fuck...” the words tumbled from you freely now. “Shit, yeah just like that—”

Spinner could get fucking drunk off the low groan that left you as he planted his feet more firmly and bucked his hips up. He must have hit something good by the way you choked and moaned boarding on too loud, though he had neither the heart nor self control to stop you.

“Feel good?” he grunted, picking up the pace and force he thrust into you, so that you had to loop your arms around his neck and hold tightly as he speared you on his cock.

“Fuck...yes..” you whimpered into his shoulder which did wonders for his ego.

Spinner kept up his rubbing frantic patterns on your clit and feeling the gradual constriction of your walls around him—the coil growing tight and ready to snap. He nudged your cheek with his until you pulled back a bit to face him.

“I want to see you,” he murmured, sucking your tongue into his mouth for a moment and tearing himself away so he could watch as you came undone around him.

You gave him a strange, soft look and pressed your forehead to his, eyes zoned in on only him.

The rest of the room, the whole fucking basement and campus melted away under that stare.

Your nipples peaked through your shirt, brushing against his as you were jostled into him by the movement of your hips. As you reached your peak, words devolved into increasingly breathy gasps. It took Spinner an incredible amount of concentration not to fucking paint your insides then and there.

Your pussy was so goddamn tight and warm and milking him just right, it was a fucking impressive feat to remain staunchly at the edge of his peak as your mouth fell open and your fingernails scratched at his back when you finally came—the telltale spasms around his cock and the near sobs coming from you more than enough indication.

He lost himself well and truly then.

Lost in the false sense of intimacy that came with being allowed to see you fall apart, this person he barely knew yet made him feel immensely important in that moment. Your breath and spit was in his mouth, the smell and feel of you soaking his length pushed him beyond the realm of conscious thought.

There was only a deep and burning need to be closer to you. So, so much closer.

His hands moved of their own accord, hooking under your thighs and flipping your bodies so your back hit the cushions and he hovered above you. The angle allowed him to slide deeper, pulling out and thrusting his hips in fast, hard strokes that hurtled him towards release.

Spinner couldn’t keep himself quite now either, panting and moaning and gasping unashamedly with his eyes screwed shut as you took his cock so unbelievably well.

It wasn’t until your hands, softer than he’d imagined, cupped his jaw and pulled him down to meet you that he was brought back down from whatever higher plane of existence his impending orgasm whisked him too.

Your lips weren’t nearly as frantic as the rocking of his thighs, the slap of his balls against your ass. The sweetness was an odd but welcome contrast.

“I’m gonna—fucking mm...” he tried so hard to get his tongue to form the words but he could feel himself slipping further as you started clamping around his length again.

“I know,” you breathed against his lips, faces pressed together and unmoving eyes steady on his own. “Ahh, inside if you want.”

He did want.

Oh fuck did he want nothing more in that moment to stay sunk in your warmth and pump you so full, but the last few remaining logical braincells reminded him that was not a great idea. Not without a more in-depth conversation neither of you was in a state to have.

“Shouldn’t...” he groaned and moved to pull out but your ankles locked around his ass and forced him back down.

“It’s okay,” you huffed and rocked into him, squeezing around the sensitive head of his dick just once, just right and that did him in.

It was something in the way you looked at him, so that he could feel nothing but secure—nothing but safe wrapped up in you. Something about the way you pressed him closer, in the movement of your thumb on his cheek.

It scratched some deep seated, lonely itch in Spinner.

Made it feel like this meant a hell of a lot more than it probably did.

In seconds he was blowing his fucking load right into you, milking himself in your heat until he was spent and overstimulated. You were kind enough to pull him to you, turning your bodies so you laid side by side on the coach, his softening cock slipping from you in a gush of release.

For a minute or so, neither of you spoke, just stared, long and comfortable at the stranger you’d just fucked on the gaming club couch.

Well.

Fucked wasn’t really the word he’d use at that point to describe what you’d just done, but anything more than that felt presumptuous.

You broke the silence as he nuzzled into your palm.

“You really needed that didn’t you?”

Spinner couldn’t help the familiar, infectious laugh that rattled in his chest. He liked the smile it earned him, far more genuine than any others you’d worn that night.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

You hummed, nodding in response. “Mm, me too.”

And somehow, for no real logical reason, Spinner knew you understood. That you felt the same isolation, the same starvation for love, for holding weight in someone else’s world.

That the games were just a placeholder, a way to fill the space, to get lost in other lives, in other stories where he did matter. Where his actions had foreseeable and measurable worth. That’s why it hurt to lose. Not for the glory, but for the destruction of the only remaining diversion from how empty his reality felt.

Even if it wasn’t really.

Even if there were friends and benefits and friends who offered both. His roommate could let him rest his head in their lap on movie nights or sleep in his bed on occasion when the heat went out and he got cold too quickly. But none of that quite filled the hole like you now, holding his face and knowing the struggle without him having to explain it.

Nothing like you pulling him in and kissing him too familiarly for someone he’d only known a day.

Magne used to say something about shit like this. Something like how people bond in train cars when there’s a rat eating a slice of pizza and you all watch it happen. Some weird camaraderie forged in the shared experience of life being a little fucking freaky a lot of the time.

That was how it felt when you slipped your leg between his and brushed your lips together again. Content to lay, half naked in the media building basement, making out with some guy you beat at Smash and fucked right after.

Reveling in the brief but meaningful feeling of mattering in some small, strange way to someone else.

Of holding weight.

Of being held.

#spinner x reader #shuichi iguchi x reader #spinner x y/n #spinner x you #college au #mha angst #student!reader

[bookishofalder]

Moonlight

Poe Dameron X Fem!Reader

Summary: In which losing a fellow pilot has you falling apart, until your best friend can’t take it anymore and feelings come flooding out. 

Warnings: SMUT, this is smut. Soft, fluffy emotions and comforting, brief talk of loss, death, battle, grief, healing. Language, and again, smut. WC-4,951

A/N: Wrote this to make myself feel better after my province announced another emergency lockdown. Big Star Wars fan but I kept things vague as I am no expert. Feedback appreciated ❤️

The nightmare surrounded you, inescapable, your body rigid despite your intense desire to run, flee. The healers had said these would fade over time, but it had been months since you had nearly died in battle against the First Order, and the nightmares still came.

Every damn night you relived the worst day of your life. The day you hadn’t been fast enough.

And then she was gone.

Your oldest friend, taken out by a tie-fighter right in front of you, as you desperately tried to outmaneuver the fucker and save her, your mind screaming at you that you were one of the best pilots in the Resistance, you had to stop them. You just had to.

But you didn’t make it in time.

It didn’t matter that the squadron had blindsided your unit. You were supposed to just be on surveillance, expecting at most a transport ship or the likes to ID and verify passage. When they appeared, it wasn’t even many of them yet they had come out of hyperspace right on top of you, and everything that happened only took minutes.

Six other pilots were out there with you. Four made it back.

“Fuck!” You gasped, shooting up in your bunk as you finally pulled yourself from the nightmare, your body shivering from the cool sweat coating your skin. You leaned over, glancing down at the bunk below-but he wasn’t there.

Poe. 

Your best friend, commander and fellow survivor. He would comfort you if you just asked him, you knew that. You never could seem to find the words though. And you weren’t sure of his current whereabouts because he should have been sleeping...which led you to believe he might have ended up in another room tonight. Good for him, you thought.  

It was just, something about watching your friend die, then almost joining them in whatever was beyond this life, it had woken you up that day. Slapped you right out of everything you knew and laid your cards on the table for you to face. You had to laugh at yourself, at how ridiculous you were, lying day after day that your feelings were platonic. When at night you’d wait until you were alone in the room, Poe off showering or at the Cantina, and you’d slip your fingers into your heat and think only of him, of your Poe. Always cumming within minutes, hard.

Poe and you had grown together in the Resistance. Though he was a few years older, therefore always technically your superior, he never treated you like anything other than his equal. He taught you to fly, to fight, to survive. And maybe if you hadn’t been so entirely focused on impressing him, on making him proud...maybe you’d have seen the way he looked at you. The way he paid complete attention to you. Or the ardent affection behind every friendly touch.  Even the way he would bite his lower lip when, in professional settings, you referred to him by title.

You didn’t notice those things, however. And you’d never be convinced by a friend that he felt anything other than friendly toward you, no, he loved you only as a friend. A man like him, you reasoned, had no business settling down with you when he could have any person he wanted.

And he did, really. You would play wingman for each other all the time, during nights at the cantina. You'd wink at each other from across the room when one of you was making your way out with whoever you deemed worthy. If you both weren’t so stupid, maybe you’d have realized that it was each other you wanted to end the night with, that you each just went along with the other these nights, not wanting to risk such an important friendship and wanting to support one another in getting laid, in having fun.

When you had landed back at base after the surprise attack, two pilots short, you had stumbled out of your x-wing, your eyes leaking thick tears as you desperately searched for his face in the crowd. You’d barely made it down the ladder before he was rushing toward you, sweeping you into his arms and peppering you with sweet kisses and saying everything you needed to hear in those moments. When all you could feel was agony and grief-he knew exactly what to say to keep you off the edge.

That was when you realized how in love with him you were, and it was also when you decided you could never tell him your feelings. Because the idea of losing Poe? It was unbearable; you wouldn’t survive that.

So you locked them back.

Heaving a heavy sigh, you climbed down from your bunk and put on your slippers. It was warm enough on base to not bother with adding layers to your t-shirt and sleep shorts, thankfully. You exited the room, running your fingers through your hair to rid yourself of your bedhead, and pausing to decide where you planned to go.

Turning left, you mindlessly wandered away from your room in search of something to distract yourself.

-

Poe turned off the shower, steam swirling around him as he stepped out into the change room, grabbing his towel and shaking it through his locks before wrapping it around his body. He enjoyed late night showers, the quiet of the communal fresher helped relax him and clear his mind. It was also the ideal place to masturbate, alone in the tinted glass stall, one hand on the wall as the other twisted over his length, urging out the release he needed to help shake the thoughts of you away, to relax.

He had inadvertently gotten into a routine these last few months, showering late most nights and then making his way back to the bunk he shared with you, ready to comfort you when the nightmares took over. He had shifted his entire schedule just to ensure he was always there to roll you over gently in your bunk, a tactic he discovered early on helped to soothe you. He didn’t think you’d even realized what he had been doing, you never woke up, or if you did you had never said anything to Poe about it.

He hated seeing how the surprise attack changed you, your usually bubbly personality dimmed somewhat, your smile always a little slow. Slight shadows under your eyes gave away your restless nights, and he’d even realized recently that you’d lost some weight-it wasn’t much, but he loved your curves, the healthy glow you carried. He’d had to ask Finn and a few other pilots you were close with to keep an eye on you at meals. Try to get you eating without raising your suspicions.

When the First Order appeared in the middle of a routine patrol, Poe had immediately reacted; shouting instructions to the other five pilots and pulling his ship around to avoid oncoming fire.

His mind had briefly wondered if this would be the end. And then he had seen you, chasing after Sira’s ship and trying to stop the tie fighter. His heart had dropped and he sprang into action, not entirely losing his focus on his entire unit, but honing in on you to make sure nothing happened to you.

He took out the tie-fighter too late, had to watch as your friend died, hear your cries for her in the com. You had spun around and fired ceaselessly onto the onslaught, only pulling back when Poe had switched the coms between you to a private channel and using his hardest voice to order you fall back.

Back on base, you had climbed out of your ship with unsteady legs, eyes searching, and he had run toward you and crashed you into his arms. His thoughts consumed by the reality that he’d almost lost you, and he wouldn’t have ever...fuck, he’d have never told you.

He wanted to tell you after that, every day. To admit his feelings, but it never seemed like the right time. After the funerals and debriefings, your nightmares had started and time blurred together into several months. Months of watching you trying to navigate your grief, your pain. He put his needs aside to care for you, to give you whatever you needed.

Telling you he loved you felt too selfish; you were struggling so much already. He couldn’t add another burden.

He padded softly to the room he had shared with you for several years now, the only real place that felt like home anymore. Stepping inside, he quickly pulled on his pyjama bottoms before glancing at your bed to see if you were dreaming yet, or if he could lay down for a while and wait for the telltale whimpers that preceded the worst of them.

Only, your bed was empty.

He stared for a beat at the tangle of sheets, then cast his eyes around the small room. Flicking on a light, he found no note or indication of why you were gone. Your nightmares must have come early tonight, and you’d gotten out of bed. He knew you weren’t in the fresher as he’d just come from there and would have heard another person.

Dropping his towel, he left the room and turned left, knowing exactly where you would have wandered off to so late at night.

He had always been able to predict you, a skill that you despised in him-it brought out your competitive side in training and simulations. And while you were an excellent pilot, you had yet to truly beat him at his own game. While other pilots aspired to be just like you, you were constantly training to be like Poe. It made him proud to watch you work so hard, so stubbornly, never taking a loss too hard before you jumped back in.

Before the surprise attack, you enjoyed competing against one another in everything, always for fun. Some nights at the Cantina, it would be who could go home for the night with the highest-ranking official in attendance. And while Poe felt like he had to work so hard to push his feelings for you back and focus on whoever he was hitting on, he’d always look over at you and feel like you barely had to try. You were just so beautiful, so bright. Any man lucky enough to be charmed by you was a goner-which was why this was often a bet you would win. It seemed to make you laugh when he would hand over the agreed credits the next day, so he never asked to stop.

Now though, you stayed close to Poe if you ventured out, which was rare. Never leaving with anyone and always leaving first. As if you thought he needed you away from him to find someone-but he hadn’t gone home with anyone for a long time now. He didn’t think you knew that, so he’d always leave not long after you, make a point of making a little noise when he entered your shared room, just so you’d know he was there.

Stepping outside, Poe was happy to feel the warmth of the salty air on his bare skin, the moon high in the sky casting a pink glow over the planet, muting the bright stars. He swiftly made his way down a short path around the residential part of the base, a path that led to a small sandy beach where he knew you’d be. You never could resist the ocean, not on any planet that you ventured to that had them.

Sure enough, a few minutes later he was stepping from the trees and spotted you, standing in your sleep clothes, slippers set on a washed-up log and your feet in the water. He watched you silently, not wanting to disturb your quiet moment. You had your arms crossed around your middle, almost as if you were holding yourself together. His heart thrummed in his chest.

When a small sob escaped you and met his ears, Poe moved forward and cleared his throat. “You sleepwalking, kid?” He kept his voice low, tone playfully affectionate as it wrapped around his teasing nickname for you.

You started, “Maker, Poe!” Hissing as you spun around, eyes wide, a hand shooting up to rest over your heart.

Poe grinned, holding his hands up in defence, “Sorry, there’s not really a good way to announce myself in the middle of the night.”

You frowned, though it didn’t meet your eyes. You took careful steps out of the water to move toward him, “Stars, though, you could have made some noise on the pa-oh!”

You gasped when your foot sunk into the sand awkwardly and you fell forward. Immediately, Poe reached out and caught you, lifting you out of the water with ease and stepping back. Setting you on the dry sand in front of him, he gestured at the water, “Were you planning on a midnight swim?”

A brow quirked up as you looked up at him, “I was going to ask you that since you’re the one who's half-naked.” A small smile on your lips had relief sweeping through Poe. He could see the tears on your cheeks still, but he’d managed to make you smile.

He wanted to give a smart reply, only it was late and he had been worried about you, more worried than he’d admit out loud. He glanced down briefly, his arms now at his sides as you stood a few steps apart on the warm beach, “I got back to the room and you were gone, kid.”

You paused, wiping your face after a moment to rub away the tears. You turned away from Poe to gaze out at the water. “I’m still having nightmares.” You admitted, your frown returning.

“I know, honey.”

You glanced back up at him, brows raised in surprise, “That’s not why you’re always up so late, is it? I haven’t been ruining your sleep?” Of course, he thought, of course, you would worry about him. It was so like you. Always putting everything on your shoulders, blaming yourself.

Poe shook his head, “I stay up so I-“ He looked everywhere but at you, trying to find the words, “So I can try and stop the nightmares for you.”

Your mouth opened and closed wordlessly as you stared at him, absorbing his words. Poe shrugged after a moment as if to say it was no big deal. But saying it out loud had Poe realizing that he had gone to great lengths to care for you, which, from the expression on your face, you had realized as well.

“Poe, you already do so much for me, always have,” You stepped closer to him, head back slightly to meet his eyes, “Don’t let me take your sleep-“

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re suffering,” He interrupted, his voice low but firm. He reached out and wrapped his hand around your shoulder, squeezing gently and you froze under his touch. “You’ve been suffering so much since Sira...and I know it’s hard, it’s awful-but watching you be so hard on yourself and closing yourself off from me-I just, I can’t sleep anyway.” It felt kind of good to confess. You needed to know how much he cared.  

Tears had leaked out at his words, falling down your soft cheeks as you attempted to blink them away. A small gasp escaped your lips, and then you launched yourself into his arms, pressing yourself against him and trembling as the heavy sobs broke through. Poe held you, one hand moving slowly over your back as the other slide to your hair, gently holding the back of your head. He let you cry, murmuring soft, sweet nothings as you let out the pain and grief, your hands pressed against his bare chest. He pressed his mouth to the top of your head, his own eyes closing as emotions rippled through him. It hurt him to hear your raw, aching sadness. He wished he could do more, take away the pain, go back in time and change everything that happened.

“Sweet girl, I’m here, sweet girl, pretty girl,” He cooed softly as your sobs began to fade, slowly turning to little hiccups. “Right here, never going anywhere, I promise.”

You pulled back slightly in a sudden movement that caught Poe off guard, his arms tightening around you rather than releasing. Just your head moved back, and you met his eyes with the fiercest gaze he’d ever seen, “I can’t ever lose you, Poe, so you better mean that promise!” Your voice was thick with emotion. You slide your hands up to grab the tops of his shoulders, “Please don’t ever leave me.” It came out as a plea, a soft, desperate plea. His heart was beating wildly in his chest now, as he watched the emotions on your face.

Something had changed. It was different out here in the warm night air, alone and emotional, the walls were slipping away, emboldening Poe.

Poe lowered his head toward you, holding your gaze steady, channelling as much into that look as he could. Your name fell from his lips, “Never. Do you know why?”

It was so intense now, his body pressed to yours, he could feel every curve. You were gripping him as tightly as he held you, suspended momentarily in time as you looked at each other.

Your voice was barely a whisper now, “W-why?” He could see that you already understood. He just needed to say it aloud.

The hand on the back of your head tightened, Poe’s lips coming to yours and stopping just short, where he turned his head only ever so slightly to whisper back, “Because I’m yours, sweet girl-always have been. And you’re mine.” You shivered at his words, and then he moved his head back and pressed his lips to yours.

It was the softest he’d ever kissed anyone, but Poe put everything into it. He wanted you to know everything he struggled to say aloud, to know how long he’d wanted to kiss you just like this, how much he cared for you. Your body had stiffened at first, but then you were melting into him. Hands that had been gripping him now sliding up into his hair and forcing his mouth harder against your own.

Poe groaned, keeping one hand in your hair and bringing the other to hold your face, his tongue swiping across your lips eagerly. When you parted them for him, he took his time licking into your mouth, tasting you completely, teasing.

You whimpered in delight, still trembling as he held you.

You were the first to break the kiss, pressing your forehead to his, both of you panting.“Poe, you mean ev-everything to me,” You gasped out, “I love you, always loved you, so, so in love with yo-“

Your sweet words cut off when they overwhelmed Poe with joy and he kissed you again. After a moment, he slid both of his hands down, stopping at your hips, “Let me show you how much I love you, sweet girl.” His voice was deeper now, and he enjoyed the way your eyes seemed to go round as he accentuated his words by leaning slightly and bringing his hands behind your legs, lifting.

Your arms instinctively hooked around his neck as Poe lifted you, legs circling his back. He kissed you again, but pushed at your shirt, his thumb brushing the soft flesh of your stomach as he held you up with one arm. He wanted you, but he needed to make sure you were ready, that you could handle making this leap with him. He let you lead, for the time. You took the hint and removed your shirt, tossing it to the sand. Poe gasped as he gazed at your chest, bringing his lips to your breasts, licking at them before taking a peak gently into his mouth and swirling his hot tongue over it.

“Poe, stars-fuck,” You moaned, arching your chest just slightly toward his eager mouth, trying not to set your precarious position off centre.

Poe grunted, “Hold on to me, going-gonna take these off.” He held your body against his with one arm and used the other to swipe at your shorts, pushing them down. You complied, holding on to him as he adjusted your legs and ripped the shorts off.

His eyes snapped open-you were on a beach. A fucking beach-there was nowhere to safely lay you down. “Fuck, I want to taste you.” He groaned.

A soft whimper slipped out at his delicious words, “Too far, I need you now, wait-waited so long for this...”

Poe’s decision came easily at your words. He pushed his pyjamas down and stepped out of them, before twisting toward the water and walking into it. His feet came to the bath-like water before you noticed what he was doing, and then another needy little moan escaped at the realization of what you were about to do.

Before he lowered you both into the water, he slipped one hand between your bodies and gently trailed his fingers down, dipping into you slowly. Your entire body jerked in response as Poe groaned in delight at how wet you were, “Sweet girl, fuck, so ready for me already.”

“Always,” You replied, kissing under his jaw as your hips rolled a little, clinging to him, “Always thinking about y-you, Poe. Fuck, every guy was just-was nothing, I closed my eyes and thought of you, and w-wished...”

“Fuck, sweet girl,” He carefully moved his fingers, teasing at your pussy while you whimpered out your filthy confession, driving him wild. He slid two inside of you, eyes nearly rolling back at how hot you were, “F-fuck, you’re mine. You know that, sweet girl? Mine.”

“Yes, yours, always yours!”

He pulled his fingers out and adjusted you in his arms, the water lapping at his lower thighs below. His cock pressed up against your slick heat; however, he wanted to taste you first. He brought those fingers to his mouth and you watched with heavy-lidded eyes as he closed his lips around them, immediately groaning at your perfect, sweet taste.

“You taste fucking amazing,” He growled.

And then he was dropping his hands to your hips and lining your bodies up properly, lifting you slightly to allow you to wiggle against him and help wet his cock with your juices. You threw your head back when he began to push the head in, “No, sweet girl look at me, I wanna see your face-only face I ever pictured.” He demanded, his hands tightening their grip.

He watched you work to tilt your head forward, to meet his eyes as he pushed into you, splitting you open, another growl ripping from his chest at how tight you were. It took a few moments to bottom out as he moved slowly, not wanting to hurt you. When your bodies pressed together the sweetest little whimper escaped your lips, your eyes rolling, “Poe, fuckfuckfuck!”

“I know,” He pulled out slightly and quickly rutted back in, earning another whine, “So tight for me, l-like you were fucking made for me, sweet girl. Perfect little cunt.”  

“Stars, I’m yours, Poe, only ever yours.”

He grunted, thrusting a few more times before sitting down in the water and pulling you down on him hard. You cried out as he used his hands to lift and drop you repeatedly, almost effortlessly thanks to the water now surrounding you to your lower chests. Your breasts hit the water each time he sunk you onto him and the sensation seemed to only add to your pleasure, your hands carding into his curls and gripping to keep yourself steady. Because he was lifting you, he felt you take control of rolling your hips as he slammed you down, earning grunts and curses, your name on his tongue as the pleasure built between you both.

Poe had never had sex like this, where he felt so entirely connected to the other person. He’d never cared so much for another’s pleasure. Because any other person was always a placebo for you, and no matter how beautiful that person was, he would always close his eyes and picture you when he came. He would have to bite his lip to prevent himself from accidentally moaning your name. Now he could moan your name over and over, and he did.

“P-Poe, uh,” You broke off, trying to keep looking at him as he slammed you down particularly hard and a scream ripped from your lips, the pleasure burning. “You’re gonna make, gonna cum, Poe, Poe, Poe!”

He could feel it, the way your walls tightened around him in soft flutters as your pleasure neared its peak, your entire body trembling in his arms. He brought his mouth to yours, licking inside it sloppily before kissing your jaw, his lips near your ear, “Sweet girl, cum for me, cum for me and put my imagination to fucking shame.”

“F-fuck!” You cried out, your hands squeezing, your head falling slightly back as your mouth popped open and a cry reverberated through your entire body, the wave inside you crashing. Poe didn’t stop moving you, watching your beautiful face as you came, hard, on his cock. Your walls fluttering deliciously around him as he lifted you and slammed you down, one hand bracing your mid-back so that you didn’t fall, so that he could keep watching your face twist in ecstasy.

You quickly became a whimpering mess even as you came down from your high, now entirely unable to form a word of basic. Poe felt himself nearing his release, his thrusts only becoming harder the more you whined for him, “Fuck, so beautiful cumming on my cock,” He grunted, and your eyes met his, tears leaking from the corners and he knew, just knew you were already close again. “Gonna fill you up, sweet girl, fuck. Fill you up and make you mine!”

“Oh, ohohohohoh,” You were fully quivering still as his cock swelled and he thrust as hard as he could, his hands slamming you down and absolutely ripping another orgasm from you as he spilled himself inside of you, filling you with his cum. The pleasure coursed through Poe as he watched you come entirely undone, the reality was a million times better than he ever dreamed. You were fucking perfect. Your pussy milked every last bit of his cum and Poe couldn’t stop shouting your name as spurt after spurt burst from him, his arms forcing you down onto him to take him completely.

Many moments later he came down, his cock still twitching slightly inside of you. You had collapsed into him, all energy spent as you crashed from the second orgasm, from the brutal way he’d fucked you full. Poe held you and carefully dropped his legs, grateful there was no heavy current causing waves. The water was fairly still tonight, and therefore he could brace one hand behind him and the other pressed into your back without worrying he’d fall over.

As you both worked to catch your breath, Poe felt you shift. Sensing your needs, he moved his hips back and slipped from inside you, breathing out at the sensation. He already missed you.

“Poe,” You whispered into his neck, your head resting on his shoulder, “So perfect, that was so perfect.” The genuine happiness in your voice made him smile.

He sat forward, settling you into his lap and bringing your lips to his again, this time taking all the time in the world to lazily kiss you, his hands running across every curve and dip and swell of your body. It was more than sexual, now he was exploring you and memorizing every part, memorizing the spots that made your breath pick up and your mouth become more eager. He enjoyed it when you fought to taste him, your tongue eager to pull small groans from him as you slid over his.

After a short while, he pulled back and met your gaze, catching his breath at your blissful, fucked out expression. Your pupils were blown wide, cheeks flushed.

“I love you, sweet girl,” Poe brushed his thumb across your lips. You melted into the touch, sighing in content.

When he swiped again and then began to push his thumb into your mouth, your eyes snapped open in surprise. You instantly closed your lips around him, “Sweet, perfect little girl, you were so good for me.” His gaze was darker now, he knew, as he watched your lips wrap around his thumb. He pulled it back out, his cock twitching. “Such an obedient, perfect little slut, aren’t you?”

Your heavy eyes were knowing, “Only for you. Take me back to our room, Poe.” You purred, and Poe was lifting you out of the water before you finished, a giggle escaping your lips.

Once ashore, he quickly helped you throw on your clothes, nearly tripping as he pulled his pyjama bottoms on in his haste. He saw then that you were shaky on your legs, so he swept you up bridal style and started back inside, grinning down at you as you continued to giggle excitedly.

“Walls are soundproof in there,” He murmured, and you abruptly stopped laughing, your eyes widening in a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “I’m going to spend the rest of the night tasting you.” His grin increasing at the way you gulped, eyes bright, and nodded your head.

“Not getting any sleep tonight, are we, Commander?”

“No, sweet girl, we aren’t.”

Did you enjoy this story? Consider leaving a comment or reblogging to ease my inner turmoil as a writer. Thank you 🤍

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #reader insert #smut #friends to lovers #best friend #fanfic #poe x reader #star wars #fluff #angst #oneshot #love #comfort #feedback appreciated #poe smut #poe dameron #flyboy #new fic #poe dameron x female reader #poe dameron smut

[keilemlucent]

consequence

(r18+)

gang orca | sakamata kugo x reader

word count: ~2k

a bit of teasing and a bit of payback

warnings: semi-public sex, daddy kink, fem reader, monster fucking

commission for @wufxn!! thank u sm dear :’’^)

--

alright fellas here’s the first of the gang orca commissions!!! enjoy some good monster fucking food <3

Messing with Kugo had... consequences.

None that you didn’t enjoy—

You knew exactly what you were getting into, slipping your hand far too high up his thigh during dinner. You felt his firm flesh tense under your touch, his breath getting deeper and harsher as you traced nonsense shapes over the fabric of his trousers.

You kept a small smile on your lips the whole time, relaxing against his side despite the obvious, silent tension that was growing.

The dinner was a group affair, other heroes and their partners all chatting and munching for some much needed social time. As much as you liked these sorts of gatherings, and seeing Kugo so much more relaxed than normal, you couldn’t not rile him up, just a little.

(It was a lot.)

Your stunt had you cornered in one of the lavish, private bathrooms, Kugo blocking the door as you stared up at him with a dry mouth and wide eyes.

“You left the door unlocked,” His voice rolled deep across the room. “Were you, by chance, wanting me to barge in on you after you’ve been such a brat?”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Your expression slid to a grin, popping onto the small ledge around the sink, knowing that the newly exposed skin of your thighs under your skirt must’ve been driving him wild.

“You don’t?” He chuckled, something forbidding in his tone as he began to unbutton the jacket he wore. “I highly doubt that.”

“I know you’ve been pretty excited all night,” You hummed, kicking your legs with a devious smile.

You were truly getting whatever was coming your way.

Kugo was on you in a mere moment, slotting between your legs and parting your thighs with a grip that could bruise. It was the first of many aches, not that you were complaining.

“It’s hard not to be, with you being so openly whorish,” The words weren’t spat, but rather spoke like a prayer as he towered over you, taloned-hands settling just above your hips.

His gaze was purely hungry, red eyes dilated and focused purely and solely on you. Kugo towered over you, shoulders hunched just enough to make your stomach lurch in the most pleasant way.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about me,” You pouted half-heartedly as his hands dipped under your top. You shuddered at his touch, knowing he’d notice.

Briefly, your gaze veered to the door. Although it was locked, the social hour was meters away, the din of voices floating with the light music of the venue.

Kugo pressed you back into the mirror, tearing at the fabric of your top and skirt with abandon. You sputtered out a complaint, mindful that these clothes were all you had and as much as you wanted to be dicked-down, you didn’t know if the humiliation was worth it.

(It was.)

“I don’t think ‘nice’ is really in the cards today, hm?” Kugo’s words should’ve held some humor, but they sounded far more serious with the rumble of his voice so close to your ear, tapered tongue licking from around your pulse point and jaw.

Truthfully, no, you definitely didn’t deserve much niceness after being an absolutely insufferable tease and possible embarrassment—

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t try.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” You let the name roll off your tongue. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

Kugo growled but didn’t reply. All he did was press you harder back into the mirror, pulling back to let his gaze bore into you. You swallowed at the sight of spit wetting his exposed teeth.

“I-I mean,”  You cursed your stutter. “You just look so good—“

Flattery didn’t work when you’d pushed Keigo this far and gotten him this worked up, you knew this, but you would be damned if you didn’t try.

So, you fanned the flames instead.

“And seeing all of your coworkers making eyes at you just got me a little...” You hummed, smirking at the searing heat of his breath over your collarbones. “Needy, you know?”

Kugo hummed, idly shredding the rest of your clothes and tossing them to the ground.

“Is my little one is a little jealous?” Kugo chuckled, some of his ire dissolved.

“Maybe.”

It was true. Though all of his colleagues were kind and viewed the two of you well, that didn’t mean that they were gorgeous and intimidating.

(You were playing up to get dicked down better, but that’s beside the point.)

You yelped as Kugo flipped you by the hips, large body folding over yours. With your stomach flat to the cold porcelain of the sink, all you could see was Kugo’s massive form swallowing up yours underneath him. When you tried to turn away from it, cheeks hot, he simply straightened your gaze with a harsh hand on your jaw.

His hips pressed against the curve of your ass, something hard and hot reminding you of your goal in all this.

“You just need a bit of extra attention?” Kugo rolled his eyes, unbuckling his pants audibly. “I thought I’d taught you better than this— You should’ve just asked.

You whined as he snapped the elastic on your panties, the fabric tearing and falling to the floor.

One of his clawed, thick fingers ran up your slit, Kugo growling lowly a moment later, “You’re already so filthy. Who’s all this for?”

“Y-you, daddy,” You swallowed, forcing your gaze to stay on him, behind you, in the mirror.

Kugo was far more focused on teasing at your clit and entrance, spreading slick and dirtying your thighs. Any little pleas and writhing were silenced or stilled with firm words and a harsh hand pressing into your lower back.

He was teasing on purpose, you knew. The contrast of the hard pressing of his body and his barely-there touches was evidence of that.

You keened, burying your face in your arms, “Please, Kugo, they’re gonna notice— “

You were cut off with a short smack to your ass and a yelp. You slapped your hand over your mouth, cursing your own volume.

“Why are you complaining? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kugo asked, something writhing and near-burning pressing to your core. “You just wanted to be fucked good and proper by daddy, but can’t even ask nicely?”

You shook your head, a moan ripping from the back of your throat as he pressed into you, cock twitching with each inch.

“Little one, look forward, and maybe, I’ll be merciful,” Kugo leaned his broad body over yours, the texture of his skin somewhere between silky and rubbery, but in no way unpleasant.

He didn’t give you any reprieve as he sheathed himself fully in your cunt. If you weren’t so accustomed to his size, shape, and motion, you would’ve probably been in pain.

But, after so long of taking his pretty, tapered cock so deep that you could feel it in your stomach?

You hardly felt the stretch.

As he bottomed out, the overwhelming fullness of it had you so close already, vision sparking at the corners. You struggled to keep your focus forward, on the reflection of you and Kugo panting in time, sheened in sweat.

He grinned, toothy and wide, and was about to speak when a knock sounded from the door.

You stiffened.

Kugo did as well, but it didn’t stop him from fucking you in soft earnest.

He was hardly thrusting, just lazily rocking and grinding in your cunt as he watched your wild eyes in the mirror.

He raised what would’ve been an eyebrow as another knock came, the door handle jingle for a minute.

“OCCUPIED!” You shouted at the last second, voice cracking with the suppression of a moan.

For the stoicism Kugo could radiate, he was wearing a shit-eating grin as he watched you struggle.

Flattening his chest over the arch of your back, he slowly fucked into you, rhythm lazy and unhurried, “Do you think they heard?”

“P-probably.”

“Just ‘probably’? You know better.”

The only response you gave was a muffled moan as you covered your own mouth, his cock rubbing hard and deep inside you. The overwhelming sensation was almost enough to make your eyes snap shut, but you forced them to stay open.

You wanted to offer a bit more sass, put up a bit more of a fight, but the image of Kugo fucking into you more relentlessly with each passing moment in the fogging mirror was far too enticing. You braced where you could, the pads of your fingers leaving oily prints on the immaculate mirror.

“Is this what you wanted, little one?” Kugo gritted out with a particularly rough thrust.

You nodded, sputtering out affirmatives as your head spun.

The pressure and tension writhing in your gut were pushing you closer to the edge, a fact that you desperately tried to hide on the off-chance Kugo decided to not allow you to come.

“You wanted to fucked just right, so close to my colleagues?” Kugo sneered, the hooks of his fingers clawing into your hips. “Filthy.”

You shuddered, grinding into the lip of the sink, frantically racing for your release.

Kugo must’ve been getting close as well, grunts echoing off the tile and walls, mixing with your own and the squelching of your cunt. Your thighs were soaked with slick, only made stickier by Kugo’s own gummy preek mixing with your own.

He leaned over your back, pressing his face into your shoulder, fin pressing against the mirror. His teeth dug into your shoulder as his angle somehow managed to get deeper.

“Kugo!” You wailed, voice cracking as his cock twirled inside you, swelling and filling you even better.

A hand snuck around your body, hand flat on your stomach, hauling you up and into him. You keened, craning your neck to continue watching the display, though your vision blurred with hot tears.

The pad of a finger circled your clit, the thickness of his arm held you up. His cock buried so fucking deep inside you had your eyes rolling back.

Kugo grabbed your jaw, forcing his gaze to him.

“Scream my name, and maybe I’ll let you finish, little one.”

You took a few shaking breaths, gaze flickering to the door.

Kugo’s hips slowed as well.

Though, only for his hips slam forward, his cock ramming against your cervix and the sensations to continue perfectly harder and faster—

“Kugo!” You shrieked straining as your peak sparked through your body, heat rolling over you.

Kugo came just moments later, the fluttering of your cunt more than enough to send him over the edge, his cock writhing and squirming as he pumped you full of his sticky cum.

There was stillness for a moment, as you both panted through the aftershocks. Your eyes went half-lidded, nearly limp in Kugo’s arms.

“Little one,” Kugo’s voice was hoarse and dry. He turned on the sink, rushing cold water splashing into the basin. “How do you feel?”

You slurred out an answer, turning and leaning into his broad frame. Kugo was quick to steady you, propping you up against the sink.

He splashed a bit of the water over his face and neck, the smoothness of his skin shining once more. Carefully, he placed his cold hand over your forehead, kissing your cheeks as you both settled.

You could feel his cock still, softened but still shrinking down now that he’d blown his load. His cum dripped down your thighs, cooling and making you shiver in the chill of the bathroom.

“Sorry I teased you,” You sighed wistfully hooking your arms over his shoulders. “But it was worth it.”

Kugo blinked at you, “You really think so?”

“Entirely. That was lovely— “

Kugo hummed, stooping down to fish his jacket off the ground, along with the remnants of your skirt.

The skirt was almost in tatters, barely able to clasp around your waist with the way the fabric hung. Your panties, shirt, and bra were gone, the scraps making far better cumrags than clothing.

You swallowed, staring up at Kugo with wide eyes as he tsked.

“Consequences, love.”

He gave you a toothy grin as you pouted.

“I’m not going back out there half-naked— “

He pulled you forward as you spoke, helping your arms through the massive sleeves, buttoning up the front.

The colors were mismatched, the fit off, makeup smeared, and in general, you looked like a goddamn mess. If his colleagues somehow didn’t hear you, they were bound to notice based on how disheveled you looked.

“You wanted cock so badly, this is the price,” Kugo pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Come on, I’ll help you out, I’m sure you’ve gotten quite the limp.”

As heat rose to your cheeks, you couldn’t feel too embarrassed.

You had gotten what you wanted.

#gang orca x reader #sakamata kugo x reader #gang orca #sakamata kugo #sakamata x reader #mha smut #tw daddy kink #fem reader #MONSTER FUCKERS EAT

[kaiparker-avengerssmut]

Their Doll 12

Home again

B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

series synopsis:  y/n Stark, all records of her non existent, and yet Hydra still find her. When she is kidnapped by a certain super-soldier and no one believes her, she finds herself searching for unexpected familiarity in her not-so-distant past.

Series Warnings: smut, violence, torture, swearing

Chapter Summary: y/n returns home

Warnings: steve almost cries, swearing maybe, kissing, mentions of violence and scars

A/n: The timeline in this has been altered, as there I things I wanted to include but I also wanted this fic to follow the storyline/timeline of Winter Soldier and Civil war.So for purposes of this fanfic, Peter Parker was discovered by Tony at a much younger age - when he was bitten - and has been an intern with him since, almost like a protégée.(For the purposes of this story Peter was bitten much younger too - more like when he was 9 or ten rather than 14/15)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Steve was distraught. He sat completely still, head buried in his hands as his mind whirred. I string hand on his shoulder caused the man to look up, blue eyes meeting Tony's brown ones which were filled with sorrow and pity.

"I know you love her, but it's over Steve. They have her there's-" a crack in his voice made the billionaire pause, "there's nothing we can do this time."

"But I left her, Tony!" Steve shouted, standing up abruptly. "I could've saved her, and I didn't!" Steve's face was red, Tony's face taken aback. "She's your daughter and I didn't even save her..."

"Hey, stop." Tony snapped, pulling Steve's attention to him instantly. "I know she's my daughter but I also know that you love her enough that you wouldn't give up on her if you did t have too!" Tony wanted to shout, to scream at his friend.

"He's right, Steve. Well all know you love her." Nat smirked, arms crossed over her chest as she now leant in the doorway.

"How long have you been standing there?" Steve asked and Nat simply quirked a brow. Steve nodded and realised she'd most probably been there the entire time. "And how do you know...?"

"That your in love with y/n?" Nat clarified. Steve nodded. "It's obvious, Capsicle. You literally give her heart eyes whenever she's not looking and you always fidget when you're around her. But my favourite part," Nat pushed off the door frame, walking into the room, "is that you act like you hate her. I new you didn't have great experience with women, but I didn't know it was that bad." She remarked and Steve made to protest but was cut off.

"She's right, y'know. There's no way in hell a girl's gonna ask you out if you critique every last thing about her and give her the evil eyes every time she looks at you." Tony added, making Steve shut his mouth and stare at the ground again.

"B-but it's been weeks." Steve stuttered. "What's if she's... what if they killed her, Tony? I think that's on my. Her blood would be on my hands." He rambled, and Tony was about to reply when Bruce appeared at the door.

"You guys might want to come downstairs." He said quietly, and the three avengers already in the room looked at each other, confused. Steve quickly swiped the threatening tears from his eyes, him and Tony making their way down the stairs as fast as they could.

...

I burst through the doors, immediately met with the sight of Tony pointing to some papers the person next to him was holding and discussing something with them. My face broke out into the biggest smile, the sight of my dad after the hell I'd been through like a shelter from the rain.

I waved frantically, already breaking into a run towards him, his head snapping up at the wild movement and his face morphing into one of shock and relief, his arms held open.

"Lil?" His voice was full of concern as my arms wrapped around his neck when we collided, my legs wrapping around his waist and his hands finding their place on my back. "Oh my god, Lil, you scared us so much, scared me." He whispered into my hair, pulling back enough to cup my face in his hands. "It's you." I smiled.

I nodded my head furiously, burying my wet face into his shoulder, jumping down from the embrace.

"Lily?" The unsure voice from the edge of the room caught my attention, a grin spreading on his lips seeing me. I held back tears looking at him, my smile still wide. He walked towards me, enveloping me in a hug so tight it could crush a normal person. "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." He kept saying, his hand tangled in my hair.

I shook my head, sorrow filling my eyes as in stared at the man that had engulfed me with his body. He pulled back, looking sternly into my eyes.

"I know you think I hate you. But, I wouldn't wish what happened to you on anyone, Lily. Not even my worst enemy." Steve whispered, his eyes clouded with pity.

"Well that's new." Tony remarked seeing us hug, confusion lacing his tone. "Hey, kid, what's with the mute?" He pondered as I gave no verbal reply, Steve now looking deeply concerned for me too.

I sighed through my nose, pulling back the collar of the jacket to reveal the long, vermillion scar across my neck.

"You should go see the others, they'll be happy to know you're back." Tony said with a pitiful smile.

...

A million warm embraces later, tears shared and hearty laughs exchanged, I was just about ready to fall asleep and never wake up. I was about to excuse myself when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to see Steve, a stoic expression on his face.

"Can we talk?" He asked, nodding his head towards the door. I nodded, following him out into the hallway. I laid my shoulder against the wall, observing Steve's constant pacing.

So what's up?

I quickly jotted down, handing the small electronic device Tony had retrieved for me to Steve, raising a brow. He stopped, looking me in the eye. He swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am, I let him do that to you. It's my fault. I don't even know how to live with myself, I should've come looking for you, or-" I cut him off with a tap on the shoulder as I handed him the pad.

Cap, it's fine. I'm fine.

I stressed, writing in italics. The man read it with furrowed brows. cleared my throat before continuing.

I just don't know how long I can keep pretending to be happy, I just want to die.

I finally confessed, vision blurred and screen obscured with tears. A tear rolled down my cheek.

I don't know how to go on, every tome I close my eyes all I see him, what he did

My gaze averted from his as he read.

"Hey, hey. You're strong, you can do this. Let's go get you cleaned up." Steve suggested, looking at my through his lashes and placing a careful hand on my shoulder, which I flinched away from. I gulped.

Steve, there's a reason he let me go

I wrote down, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were full of questions he didn't dare ask.

He let me go to send a message. He said that if we interfere with him again what happened to me will be child's play compared to what will happen.

His face dropped.

If a few days of torture is child's play, what does he have planned?

I asked, sobbing now.

"Lily, you were gone for three weeks." Steve added quietly, making me look up from where I'd been starting at the floor to meet his eyes. My eyes widened. Steve grimaced, nodding solemnly.

"Go have a shower, I'll grab you some fresh clothes and a towel. We'll talk more when you're feeling warmer and cleaner." He suggested again, and was met with a nod from me this time.

We reached my room, Steve holding the door opening for me and me giving a tiny smile that said 'thanks' as I walked in. I headed straight for the bathroom, taking my time in peeling the ripped tank top from my body and throwing the muddied shorts on the floor with them. Just then, the door opened, Steve walking in with a towel and some cloths folded on top. His eyes widened and he instantly apologised.

"Sorry, lily, I thought you'd be in the shower by now." But before he could walk out his eyes finally locked on me. His eyes raked over me, his eyes surveying my wrists, which were rubbed red-raw from chains and ropes; my neck, which was red and violently bruised; my bruised upper arms; my waist that was covered with finger-shaped bruises; my thighs, that were also bruised and finally my back that starred at him in the mirror. It was a mess of diagonal cuts, which were not longer bleeding but were still a blood red colour. I looked down at my feet nervously, feeling weird under his gaze.

"He did this to you?" Steve asked, tears in his eyes. I nodded, slowly looking back up at him. Before he could say anything else I cupped his face in my hands, smashing my lips to his in a kiss that conveyed everything I could never say out loud. After a moment, his hands reached for my face, returning the kiss. Our lips welded together, his tongue poking at my lower lip, begging for entrance that I granted. His tongue rolled over mine in languid stroked, soothing. I pulled back first, turning and pulling the shower curtain open. I climbed in, turning on the water and getting lost in the warmth and steam that swallowed me.

...

I walked out the bathroom, clad in one of Steve's T-shirt he grabbed for me, some shorts and fresh underwear. He must've noticed that I liked stealing Tony's shirts and given me one of his instead. Rubbing my hair dry with a towel, I dumped it on a near-by chair when my hair was only damp. Steve instantly stood from where he was sat on the edge of my bed when he saw me, looking at me with an unreadable expression.

I began writing, but before I could finish his lips were on mine and the little device was dropped to the floor. It was less desperate that the last time, more passionate and slow. It expressed everything we needed to say, and that was enough. My arms hooked around his neck, my fingers playing with the hairs at the base of his neck, whilst one of his tangled in my hair, the other resting on my cheek.

"You talk too much." He mumbled against my lips and we both let out a breath meant to be a laugh. "Too soon?" He asked before leaning in for another, our lips locking together. He pulled back and looked in my eyes, his hand running through my dampened hair.

He cleared his throat, stepping back from me, his gaze flitting from the door before landing back on me.

"I should go." He spoke, heading for the door. As he placed his hand on the door knob he froze at when I tapped on his broad back.

Don't.

The little device said. He had a hopeful look in his eyes.

Go. Don't go. Please.

I wrote , looking at him with pleading eyes. He nodded, walking back over to me.

I don't think I can be alone tonight.

I stated before climbing into my bed and patting the spot next to me. Steve hesitantly climes in beside me, laying behind me and draping his arm over my waist, pulling me into his firm chest. His body heat radiated over me and sleep soon took over as I sunk into him, his hand playing with my hair.

...

"Lil? Lily? Lily!" I shot up, panting hard and sweat covering my forehead. I slowly look to the side where Tony sat, a concerned look filling his eyes. My gaze looked at the door, where Steve stood, looking over me with what looked like fear, before going back to Tony. "Hey, kiddo, what happed?" He asked, stoking my hair. I swallowed thickly, breathing calmed down.

"You were restless, moving about in your sleep." Steve clarifies from the door, not wearing what he was before. He must've left after I fell asleep. I motioned for Tony to pass me the device which sat on the bedside table and he handed to to me.

I was back there. He was

I couldn't finish writing, the device falling from my shaking hand onto the duvet as I bit back tears, sinking into the embrace Tony held me in.

#smut #image #images #chris evans #chris evans smut #seb stan #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan #winter soldier smut #winter soldier #winter solider fanfiction #captain america smut #captain america fanfiction #captain america #bucky fanfic #bucky Barnes smut #bucky Barnes image #bucky Barnes fanfic #bucky Barnes x reader #steve rogers image #steve rogers x reader #steve x bucky #steve roger fanfic #steve rogers #steve rogers smut #bucky barnes #marvel fanfic #marvel smut #marvel #black widow

[magalidragon]

a bird on the wire drabble | #59. “How do I put up with you?” 

This one is for @aenarsnow​ who sent me an “OR” ask and I already wrote one for when the sun sets in the east but I couldn’t help myself and did a flangst one for bird on the wire!  Someone check my temperature, I’m in an angst-writing mood lately.  🤣🤭👀

They were married once before in the Winterfell godswood, but this was different.  This was something of a…renewal.  With the family.  The Entire Family, in all CAPS because that’s what she thought of them as.  It was The Entire Family, complete with Kingsguard and all the assorted accoutrements.  She had simply asked them to make their footprint as quiet as possible.

It had been Jon’s idea, one which she had thought was lovely.  A vow renewal, for her family to attend.  A few years in the making, their little Aly could participate, carrying a sprig of flowers in her small hands, trotting down the aisle.  A white dress made specifically for her, a lovely filmy creation from her favorite designer Ellaria Sand, her back exposed with small cap sleeves and embroidered vines throughout it.  

She stood in the window of their rented house, one of Drogo’s, which he’d lent them for the few weeks they had decided to stay before and after the wedding.  The breeze coming off the Shivering Sea was cool, the home in the far North of Essos, on the very northern edge of the Dothraki Sea.  It was secluded, the nearest city almost four hours away.  They would not need to worry about paparazzi or other press crashing in on the event.  The Kingsguard, per her request, were as far away as they dared to be.  

It was lovely this morning, she thought, holding her cup of coffee in her palms, watching the waves roll lazily along the sand.  In the distance she could see her mother walking with Aly, both of them kneeling every so often and picking up a shell, placing it in Aly’s bucket.  Her daughter would be four soon; where did the time bloody go?  

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement, and caught sight of Viserys rocking out on the veranda, seated like a strange black bird on the stone wall, one arm around his knees, which were almost in his face, sucking on a cigarette, his silver hair in a knot on his head.  He’d been good; he tended to do better in Essos than he did in Westeros.  Rhae was with him, sitting on the opposite side—normally—with a cup of coffee and a cigarette himself.  

Don’t let the public know you have a vice Rhae, she thought, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.  He had been on his best behavior since his arrival a few days ago.  He was still dealing with her departure, secret wedding, and move to the North.  Even if she hadn’t really left.  She was still the Princess Royal, she still worked officially for them, but it was on simpler terms.  She was in love, the man she loved was “less than” according to her brother, and that was unacceptable.  

She was tired of pretending to be other people just to have the man she wanted.  

The love she wanted.

The hot coffee scalded her tongue and she swallowed it, regardless, enjoying the warmth.  She turned away from the window, spotting her husband in the large four-poster bed, hugging her pillow and watching her through hooded eyes.  “How long have you been staring?” she asked.  

“Not long.”  He smirked.  “I like watching you.”

“Pervert,” she teased, walking over to offer him her coffee.  He took it and she crawled back onto the bed, drawing her legs beneath her, and hooked her arm around her ankles.  

“I made my living watching you.”

“Yes, you did.”  She smirked, finding it something of a relief and yet also a slight achy pain at the memories.  She linked her fingers in his, playing with them on the soft, silky sheets, watching them slide together.  They were a perfect fit.  “I know we’re already married, but I still think this is a little chancy, seeing the bride before the wedding.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Dany, really?  I think we can handle whatever comes our way.”

True, she figured.  She exhaled hard, slumping down, head knocking against the headboard, swallowing the lump in her throat.  After a few seconds, she opened her eyes, picking a spot on the ceiling and staring.  “I just want to run away.  Why do I still want to run away?”

His hand squeezed in hers.  “It’s habit.  Too many years of it.”

They’d been married for almost five years now; they had a child.  She had her foundation, her charity, and she was one of the hardest working royals.  The public said she was happier, they could see it in her eyes, and they wanted her to be their queen.  Rhaegar had seriously misjudged things, he’d been too consumed in his own grief and fears to realize that she was the future of the Targaryens.  She was miserable before, now she was free.  

Dragons did not belong in cages.

And yet…

Yet there were days where she still wanted to disappear into a wig and contacts, to pretend she was someone else, and while she did that as a coping mechanism, while she hated it and wanted to cry each time, she did it, in a sick, twisted way she missed doing it.  She slid away from him, getting up and padding towards the closet, stepping in and opening up the garment bag with her wedding dress.  She fingered the silky, filmy material, letting her mind wander.

It shouldn’t work.  They had never been allowed to be <i>normal</i>.  She didn’t understand it most days.  

He came up behind her, feet padding on the hardwood floor.  She pulled the bag shut, spinning around on him, scowling.  “No peeking!”

“I wasn’t peeking,” he lied.  He leaned against the door frame, crossing arms and ankles.  His eyes narrowed, whispering.  “What is it Dany?”

She shifted, shrugging.  “Nothing.”  Lie.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” Lie. He arched his brows.  After a few seconds, shifting on her feet, she huffed, pushing her fingers through her hair and didn’t know what to do with her hands.  “I don’t…I just…” She was confused.  She didn’t know why.  Meeting his comforting gray eyes, she whispered, “How do I even put up with you? How do I do this?”

He frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“I just…I still don’t know…how do I do this with you Jon?  How do we do this life still?  I know it’s stupid, we’re already married, and we have our daughter and our lives and we…we make it work, but maybe it’s Rhae being here or my mom or Viserys but…” She groaned.  It made no sense, picking this fight, dragging these emotions into everything when they had no business being taken out from the chest, she’d locked them up inside when she’d finally broken out of that cage.  Hair tugging in her fingers, she dragged her hands down over her cheeks and cried.  “Sometimes I just don’t know how I’m doing this.  If it’s all going to slip away again.  Like one of the dreams.  Like those days we had together, and all went away.”

It must be what people felt like when all they knew was turmoil and everything started going right.  When would the carpet get ripped out from underneath her?  She knew she shouldn’t feel that way, but she still did.  

He reached for her, wrapping her up and she buried her face into his shoulder, hugging him tight.  She didn’t cry; it was more just a wave of fear than it was anything worth truly sobbing over.  He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the curls.  “This is real Dany, this is all real, and nothing is going to change that.  We have each other, we have Alysanne, and I know you wanted to do this for your family, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head.  “No, I do.  I want to.”  

“Rhae isn’t going to do anything to stop this Dany, he can’t.”

“I know, I just…it’s just leftover…” <i>Trauma.  Fear.  Nightmares.</i> She touched the fading scars on his chest, from so long ago, and lifted her face, smiling through unshed tears.  She loved this man so much.  “It will be fine.  I’m just…”

He touched his forehead to hers, whispering, “Healing.  It’s healing.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, holding him tight.  She stood with him in the closet for a while, not feeling ready to let go just yet.  

That was, until the door opened, and a little dark-haired girl with her father’s frown came flying into the room, dragon temper on full display, shouting about how Uncle Viserys broke her seashell and just what exactly did they plan to do about it?  

It’s real, Dany repeated, pulling away to grin at her daughter, who didn’t sense the heavy emotions she’d walked into, too busy presenting them with evidence of her uncle’s treachery.  She blew out a hard breath, watching Jon lift up their little girl and carry her off to deal with it.  She closed her eyes and hugged herself.  It’s real and I can do this.

#jonerys #jonerys au #jonerys fics #my fics #my moodboards #drabble ask #bird on a wire universe #eep yet another one done and still some more to go!

[yanderemommabean]

Imagine seeing a 🦊 in your backyard and being like “😮Cute 🦊?!” And you try, despite advise telling you otherwise, to befriend it. Cause who doesn’t want a 🦊 friend? So you leave lil homemade treats for it everytime you see it. (It seems to prefer human and cooked foods?) and eventually you find it in your house and you’re like “❤️!” And let the fox sleep in your room and wake up with Lee in your bed. Like, you got the pet/owner relationship you wanted but not quite in the way you thought.-🦝

There’s a list of things you expected when you allowed your new friend to sleep in your bed. Maybe they chewed up the blankets, made a mess in the floor because they’re nervous, and even a shredded pillow was expected.

You would’ve preferred all of the above when your bleary eyes focused in on a much larger form than a fox, who was happily looming over you. The man was blond, his face covered in freckles with warm hazel eyes that continued examining your features.

Great. You were definitely about to die. Couldn’t he do you the courtesy of doing it while you were asleep? That’s at least the best way to go!

“What the-“ you managed to croak out, still sleepy and trying to wake up from your haze. You press up on your hands, trying to sit up and shove the man off of you, becoming more aware of the dangerous situation as sleep left your brain.

Fuck. FUCK. A stranger was in your house! IN YOUR BED!

“No! No please don’t kill me!” You begin to plead, scrambling out of bed and searching the room for anything to defend yourself with as your “attacker” just silently watched, seemingly amused. His grin was cocky, and his naked form only seemed laxed and confident as he watched your confusion escalate.

“My my, if You’re this entertaining by just waking up, I’d say I’ve found myself a lucky one”.

You press yourself against the wall, eyes wide as you struggle to ask the man what he meant- what he thought he was doing in your home. Your bed. He simpers and makes no gesture to cover his nether regions, simply pressing his fingers to his chin as he looked you up and down.

“It seems I’ve frightened you. Apologies, most humans hardly see me out of my cuddly little persona. It’s a pleasure to be on speaking terms with you now”. He gave another cocky expression, eyebrows raised in a waiting manner as he extended his hand for you to shake.

“What the hell are you talking about? G-get out of my house!” You pathetically shout, voice wavering as you tried to piece together whatever in the world was going on. What ‘persona’? Why did he say it like he wasn’t human himself? Was he on drugs?!

Ok- deep breaths! Panicking is natural but it never helps in any situation. He clearly hasn’t hurt you yet, and if he planned too, he was taking his time. You don’t need to put yourself in any corners. You straighten up and try to make some distance between him and you, clearing your throat as you try and think of what to say.

“Ah. You’re still lost. It’s quite adorable honestly” the man mused, refusing to acknowledge the fact you told him to leave. “My name is Lee-“ he gestured towards his body “I’m-for lack of a better term, a werefox. A shapeshifter, cursed, whichever you seem fit to label”.

Your mouth goes dry, and your cheeks heat up seeing that -yeah he’s still naked. “I-I’m sorry but that’s an absolute asinine claim. Please just- just leave my house before I call the police”. You advert your eyes as his gaze darkens, and his much larger form presses closer to you.

“Oh? Asinine is it? Tell me, what makes you think such creatures don’t exist?” He questioned while furrowing his brows. With a scoff you raise your eyebrows in defense, and throw up your hands slightly. “Gee let me think- the fact that DNA probably wouldn’t allow that, not to mention much more science behind it. Listen I don’t have to explain anything! This isn’t a joke I’m calling the police!”.

You push him aside to grab your phone, but before you can so much as press the home button, you hear a low growl, and are met with the fuzzy face of a fox. A pause fills the room, your eyes locked on the creature as it pads over to you and nuzzles your arm, wanting affection. However cute the thing was, you felt a sinking in your stomach. You notice the man was no longer standing around, and it didn’t take a genius to do the math.

Oh fuck. OH FUCK THIS IS REAL. There’s a god damn shapeshifter in your house and apparently you’re now in absolutely skepticism of everything you’ve ever been taught. “Hoh my God-“ you breathed out, dropping the phone back down and stepping away with hands covering your mouth. You watched on as Lee transformed back, his naked body pressed against the crumpled sheets and blankets of your bed. He gives a wink, and all you can do is slide down the wall and stare in disbelief and awe.

“Oh I do hope you have more original questions than the others. Although, if not, I don’t mind answering. It’s a long story but needless to say, demons are real and if you fuck one over, they hold a grudge for life”. He beamed a cheeky smile, as if this was all some joke. Seriously? Can you have one day where you don’t question the very state of your being and existence?

Suddenly more pressing matters dawn on you. Like how you baby talked him and fed him by hand. And how you kissed his face and called him a good boy. Oh Jesus Christ this is embarrassing!

“I...you let me...baby talk you and...oh god” you mewled, burying your face in your knees as embarrassed redness covered your cheeks.

Goodness you looked so cute like this. You looked cute all of the time really, but seeing you flustered always made him want to see more. He’s glad he gets to own you now, seeing as you’ve clearly taken an interest in him! Why else would you take care of him?

“Oh yes. I do enjoy your nicknames for me! And I must say, since my curse has been given, you’re the first human I’ve wanted to own without ill intent. The others were messy but fun while they lasted”.

He admires the shock in your eyes as you soak in more horrifying information. You always have the most enrapturing expressions! He could get lost in your eyes for days by themselves! Such a pleasant distraction!

He rests his head in his hand and stares at you with adoring eyes, kicking his legs a bit while silence once again took over the room. “What’s the matter? Fox got your tongue?” He teased, swiping his pink tongue over his canines with a seductive wink.

“You...killed others? Oh god I’m next?!” You squeaked “and you said you own me? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?!”.

“Simple. You’re kind, you’re warm, you have patience and tenacity, you have the cutest interests in the oddest of things, you fed me, and you captured my heart. Once you allow me in your home I’m fully able to show myself, and once that’s done? Well, I can do whatever I please with you.”

“So you’re gonna kill me?” You asked as your blood ran cold, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to reach for your phone once again. Why bother if he’s quite literally as quick as a fox.

“What? No! No never! My other toys where ugly on the inside and made me want to rid the world of their existence. You? Well I can’t let this world harm such a beautiful creature. You’re clearly in need of me, and I’m more than happy to spray the woods with blood if it means I get to keep you with me”.

He sits up, and slides off the bed to meet you on the floor, his fingers shaking slightly as they touch your wrists, feeling you flinch and recoil. Now that won’t do! But he supposed you were patient with him, so he can return the favor when it comes to touches.

“You don’t own me” you whisper half heartedly. You knew by the power the man held alone that you had no say in that matter, but whats life without a bit of spite? You weren’t going to just swoon and submit!

“I think we both know that’s not true. You let me in, and I get to stay. And as a plus I get to make you see just how badly you need me. You’ll learn that this is a good thing, I promise! Now why don’t you come up off the floor? The bed is much more comfortable”.

-Mommabean (was this alright?)

#dr lee my oc #werefox #wereanimal #yandere exophilia #kinda #hes naked #so #yandere doctor lee #doctor lee my oc #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #my ocs #yandere doctor #yandere male #yandere #mommabean #racoon bean