#seriously go read all of fleet's writing its so fucking good

[kiiyuq]

A Countdown, Of Sorts

And the taint of wine-red and copper bleeds and stains across the foreign skin, like a mark more damning that the kisses fluttered there previously.

Here's the artwork I created for @fleet-off's absolutely amazing fic, Passing Time, for the @kinnporschebigbang. It was such a great experience. The writing in here is incredible, I swear every time I read it I can't even breathe, its so, so, so good and well written.

A really, really special thanks firstly to Fleet for working together with me during this whole period. I loved talking with you about the fic, and getting to see your writing every time genuinely took the words out of my mouth, because I just didn't know how to express myself properly about it. This has been such a fun experience, and you've bought Pete and Vegas to life so perfectly. Another big thank you to the mods of the KPTS Big Bang event for all the work you've put in the past few months, and all of the organisation that's been happening behind the scenes, none of this could have happened without all of you. And an extra thank you to @no1petesimp and @xhangkyuns for dealing with all my screaming for the past few months as I got through all the rough patches, I love you two so much, you mean the world to me <3

#kinnporsche #kinnporsche fanart #kinnporsche the series #kiiyuq #vegaspete #pete saengtham #pete phongsakorn #pete phongsakorn saengtham #vegas kornwit theerapanyakun #vegas theerapanyakul #I love them so much theyre my babies #my honour their murderous intent is justified #we spent so long gushing about these two #esp pete's dimples i just love them so much #seriously go read all of fleet's writing its so fucking good

[static-symphony-fm]

you are in love (true love)

now playing: you are in love (taylor's version)

pairing: magnus chase x fem! reader

word count: 1.9k

summary: 5 people who knew magnus was in love with you before you did + 1 sword

an: FIRST FANFIC LETS FUCKING GOOOOO this took so long to write! I love how I accidentally made it blue themed even though that's magnus's least favorite colour 😭 its ok we all know he's canonically a 1989 girly

fun fact i actually took the first picture! i shit you not I was on a road trip with my family READING MAGNUS CHASE and I look up and see THAT SIGN and i SCRAMBLED to take a picture

content/ warnings: 5+1 things, background blitzstone bcs c'mon they're basically canon, shitty writing, kissing ooo spooky, magnus being a simp, there actually isn't a whole lot of reader in this x reader fic, minor allusions to sex stuff, a lot of swearing, weird use of perspective, i was trying to go for third person limited but magnus is the one it's limited to not reader? but reader is referred to using second person? sorry if it's confusing.

1. samirah al-abbas

  if someone had told magnus a year ago that in a couple month’s time, meeting for coffee weekly with one of his best friends and not getting kicked out of the overpriced coffee shop was going to be the most normal thing in his life, he wouldn’t have believed them. probably would have flipped them off, too, and stole their wallet as he walked away. but he’d like to think that he was a changed man, seeing as he was, in fact, in a hipster café in boston, trying not to make fun of all the fancy menu options. like, seriously? who orders a dragon fruit, pomegranate, and kale smoothie?

he realized he’d been thinking for too long and returned his attention to samirah, sitting across from him and discussing wedding plans for her upcoming marriage to amir as she sipped her latte. he noticed the way her eyes seemed to get brighter, and her entire body language conveyed how excited she was as she talked about him. magnus had a fleeting thought about how good it must feel to love someone so unconditionally like that, and have them love you back just as much. 

as if reading his mind, samirah finished her sentence and studied him, tilting her head as she seemed lost in thought, peering at him like he was a calculus problem she couldn’t quite figure out. 

after a few seconds, magnus broke the silence. 

“alright, it’s getting weird. why’re you looking at me like that?”

samirah snapped out of it, focusing on what he was saying.

“nothing, just… do you think you’ll ever get married?”

jeez, that was a loaded question. magnus narrowly avoided choking on his black coffee, swallowing and burning his throat before answering.

 “sam, i’m dead.”

“so? people get married in valhalla all the time. i have been to a very disproportionate amount of weddings in the two years i worked there.”

“yeah? how many of those end in divorce?”

samirah took a long drink of her coffee, swallowing it slowly as she responded.

“forever is a very long time, and no relationship is perfect, but wouldn’t it be better to have someone to spend that time with?”

“…i guess.” magnus accepted, lost in thought. truthfully, samirah was right, like always. if circumstances were different, if he hadn’t died at sixteen, he could imagine himself getting married. settling down. living in a cabin in the forest with two kids. 

a thought came into his mind, entirely of its own accord, of doing all of that with you. your laugh, your soft hair, the way your lips curled up and your eyes widened when you smile. you’d probably be a great mom.

whoa, what the hell? he should definitely not be thinking about getting married to his friend, what the fuck? that is not normal. 

he pushed the weird thought out of his mind as best he could, gulping his coffee and focusing on the burning in his throat and not what he was just thinking. samirah had gone back to talking about amir, and magnus was not going to think about marrying you any longer.

2. alex fierro

after nearly getting his head cut off by alex’s garrote for the third time that day, magnus needed a break. alex had decided that magnus needed to learn to fight without the help of jack, and it wasn't going too well for him. he collapsed on the bench next to alex, chugging half a bottle of water before even taking a breath. alex rolled her eyes. 

“it’s not that hard, you just aren’t fast enough.”

magnus managed to control himself and not say a snarky comment back, but it was a close call. instead, he ignored her, staring straight ahead and not engaging. unfortunately, you were in his direct line of sight, sparring with mallory only a few metres away. alex picked up on this quickly, nudging his side. 

“you like watching y/n fight, huh?” she teased, smirking. damn, why did she have to be so perceptive?

“what? no. shut up.” magnus replied quickly, trying to hide his blush. “i mean… she’s a good fighter. not like i like her or anything like that.” 

“mhm. suuuure you don’t.” alex replied, definitely not believing him. fuck.

“i’m telling the truth!” magnus protested. god, how was arguing with alex harder than physically fighting her? 

“yeah. did you see her necklace today? pretty, right?”

“she’s not even wearing a neck- fuck.” magnus said instantly, before catching himself. 

“go to hell.”  he swore, glaring at alex, who was grinning at him in a way that reminded him a little too much of her mother. 

“you first.”

      3 + 4. blitzen & hearthstone

“magnus? magnus?”

a pale hand reached in front of magnus face, waving and then snapping its fingers, bringing him back to reality. he blinked and looked around at hearth and blitz, sitting across from him in the dining room of the chase space. hearth took his hand back to sign finally, raising his eyebrows sarcastically.

“your head’s way up in the clouds, kid.” blitz remarked, drumming his short, well manicured fingernails on the table, his silver engagement ring glinting.  he was right. magnus definitely was pretty out of it lately. 

probably thinking about y/n, hearth signed. jeez, why did every conversation he had have to be about you? and no, he most certainly was not thinking about you and your pretty eyes and your delicate hands and the way your ass looked in those jeans you were wearing yesterday… jesus fucking christ, he needed to stop.

 he buried his face in his hands and groaned loudly, then raised his head back up so hearth could read his lips, hoping that his blush wasn’t as visible as it felt. 

“i am not thinking about her.” he lied through his teeth. 

“there’s nothing wrong with having a crush, you know.”

ugh, why did they have to act so much like his dads? 

“i don’t have a crush!”

“kid, you’re a terrible liar. everyone can see the way you stare at that girl. now remember, if you’re doing anything intimate, you gotta use protection…”

that’s it. magnus couldn’t stand up from the table fast enough

 “nope! this conversation is ending right now. good talk!”

5. annabeth chase

magnus and annabeth had been walking around new york for the past three hours, trying to make up for the ten years spent apart.  annabeth had shown him her favorite library, and pointed out a bunch of cool architecture in nearby buildings, with a promise to show him and his friends camp half-blood in the summer.

 they were currently taking a break, stopping for lunch at a falafel place that wasn’t quite as good as fadlan’s, but it was still falafel. magnus was enjoying listening to annabeth talk about her architecture projects– she was taking online classes to prepare for the higher level of new rome university’s program. 

magnus loved listening to her talk about things he didn’t understand. as a child he’d always thought she was a genius, the way she always solved puzzles and math problems easily. ten years later, that theory still held up, hearing her go on about a bunch of terms he didn’t understand.

“sorry, i’m probably boring you to tears. you wanna talk about something else?”

annabeth offered.

“no, it’s fine… i really don’t have a lot going on.” magnus replied, smiling politely.

“come on. there’s gotta be something interesting.” an idea seemed to come to annabeth.

“you have a crush on anybody?”

magnus swallowed. 

“no.”

but he was too slow. those steel gray eyes that matched his own were locked on him like a hawk, or maybe an owl. 

“yes, you do. come on. spill!”

magnus stayed silent. he was not telling his cousin about his crushes, but those metallic eyes stayed locked on him. he eventually gave up. annabeth could be scary when she wanted to be.

“fine. fine. her name’s y/n…”

+1. jack

 it was movie night at the chase space. was magnus ever gonna stop calling it that? no. it was cool. shut up. the credits were rolling on some disney movie that alex had insisted on, and everyone else was slowly but surely making their way to their rooms, yawning as they said their good nights. you had been sitting next to magnus on the couch the whole time, and suffice it to say that he had had some trouble concentrating on the film.  

it was just you and him, you in your nirvana t-shirt and gray sweat shorts, and in that moment, he decided to tell you.

 you got up to leave, waving at him, and in a feat of bravery so incredible it would be studied by historians for centuries to come, magnus managed to work up the nerve to speak up. 

“hey, uh, can i talk to you for a sec?”

“sure? what’s up?” you asked as you sat back down.

jesus, what had he gotten himself into? it’s ok, magnus, you got this. you beat loki in a flyting. you can talk to a pretty girl. 

“uh, i was just thinking… i just…” off to a great start, aren’t we? fuck off, voice in his head. he can do this. he took a deep breath.

“i really like you. you're gorgeous and funny and so insanely smart. i’m an atheist but i’m praying to god you feel the same way. will you be my girlfriend?”

you bit your lip, breaking eye contact as you looked off into the distance. fuck. you were gonna say no and then he was never gonna be able to talk to you again and he was gonna have to change his name and move to canada…

“can i kiss you?” 

what.

there were a million things magnus expected you to say, but that was none of them. he managed to stutter out a simple “please…” and then you leaned forward and your lips were on his and magnus chase died.

this felt more like the end of his life than being knocked off a burning bridge and drowning did. his heart was beating a million times a second, and he seemed to have forgotten how breathing worked. your lips were softer than anything he’d ever felt before.

 he managed to reciprocate a little, mostly acting on instinct, and all he could think about was how astronomically better this was than jackie molotov in the seventh grade.

what was he supposed to do with his hands? he was pretty sure that keeping them at his side was the wrong answer, so he moved one to your waist and the other one to the back of your neck, tangling it gently in your soft hair as his lips moved against yours.

gods, he could have stayed like that until ragnarök, but his stupid sword had to ruin the moment. jack started buzzing on his neck sleepily, seeming to have been woken up ungraciously. he hoped that you couldn’t feel it, but that was pretty unlikely, considering how close you were to him. jeez, he was blushing more and more every time he thought about that. 

eventually, you pulled away, smiling a little. 

“good night, magnus.”

he nodded, unable to form words, and managed to stand up and walk back to his room, wide eyed, operating on autopilot. he walked into his room and immediately collapsed backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling without blinking, completely still. not a thought passed through his mind for at least ten minutes, till he finally was able to reach up and pull jack’s pendant off of his necklace.

“dude, what happened to blades before babes!?!”

#magnus chase x reader #d.j. robin's corner! 💐🎧🎙📻 #magnus chase #percy jackson #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #percy jackson x reader

[applesfallingfromblondehair]

i can't believe its over!! thank you so much for writing this phenomenal body of work, it has been such a joy to follow. your hard work and dedication is so so so appreciated, this story has felt so real and alive and tangible, there's very few fic writers ive encountered that just Get it the way you do. im just really grateful that you've shared this!

my soft spot has from the very beginning been matty and george and that hasn't changed - theres something so incredibly captivating and magnetic about two people who are so caught up in each other and just can't let go, no matter how bad things get. and god, GOD, this part?

"George’s thumb is on Matty’s chin, the rest of his hand closed against the side of Matty’s face, and Matty’s head is flooded with intrusive thoughts—the same thoughts he sees reflected in George’s eyes, glimmering back at him before he closes them. Matty holds his breath and Ross’s hand feels heavy on his thigh as George leans in and kisses his forehead, fleeting but still significant, before pushing him away and fully onto Ross, then rising from the couch to go sit in the big armchair opposite them."

in the words of jeff buckley, its never over!!!! my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.... they drive me crazy and my heart aches for them, i wish there was a way for them to have bi-yearly swan songs for the rest of their lives. just to get it out of their systems, you know? on that note - please please please do write that threesome, im sooo fascinated by the george/ross dynamic and they neeeed to fuck. please.

however, my aching team george heart aside, you left everyone in such a soft and good space, and i loved it<3 you wrapped it up so beautifully - there truly was no way to do it any better. i adore the way you make sense of the boys relationship, of course im particularly weak for the way you write matty and george. i would read everything and anything you write for them, seriously, this is my plea for more matty/george from you in any capacity!

Oh mate I can't believe it's over either. What a journey it's been eh?

It means the world that you've appreciated my work and that you think that I get it—because I feel that deeply too. There's something special that happens to me when I read something from someone who Gets It (@oh-bonerline is the only one currently in the spotlight for me and if you're into Matty/Ross you should definitely give her stuff a serious go), and knowing I'm someone like that for you fills me with joy ❤️

Yes to the threesome, hopefully I'll be inspired to actually write it after my hiatus and I can make some people happy with it 👀

Team George will get their share of content soon, I promise. I just need to decide what to tackle first and build a story around it. No big deal, eh? 🥲

Thank you so much for all the love and appreciation, it truly means the world ❤️❤️❤️

#answered #ilydym #the end

[anabsolutetrainwreck]

oh, honey || h. styles

warnings: mentions of sex, kissing

word count: 2.3k

summary: when harry is struck with writer’s block, you come to the rescue and inspire him to write a song, which later becomes known as ‘adore you’...

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t harbouring a crush on a man you’d known for about five years. And for four and half years of that, you found he was the only thing that seemed to occupy your mind. With any crush, it was fun at first. The thrill of being around him brought a new spark to your life. But then, gradually, it became tiresome; the constant butterflies and the overthinking every tiny action began to aggravate you.

You’d had a boyfriend since you met Harry. He loved you and you tried to love him. You knew it wasn’t fair on him, and you felt an ounce of extra guilt every day that relationship went on. You knew it was selfish to paint yourself a mirage of a perfect life with a man you knew you couldn’t love.

The relationship lasted eight months. It had never meant to last that long. At first, it was all fun and games - neither of you took things too seriously. A bit of harmless sex and late nights with red wine and David Attenborough documentaries. But then things took a turn, and he began talking of moving in together and meeting each other’s parents. Your parents would have loved him, you knew that. But what good was that when you didn’t love him?

Eventually, the two of you sat down and decided that maybe it was best if you went your separate ways. It was a mutual decision. And you both agreed that it was fun whilst it lasted. So, this relationship you’d gotten yourself into to get your mind off Harry had ended because you could never love this man the way he wanted you to.

It had been a rough eight months for you. Harry had been in somewhat of a mood with, well, everybody. Mitch concluded that he was probably just stressed with writing for the album and making sure everything was perfect for his debut solo album. But, though nobody necessarily picked up on it at the time, when you announced that you’d broken up with your boyfriend, Harry seemed to be in a much better mood ever since.

So, now, as you walked into the studio, you ran your hands along your jean-clad thighs. It was a desperate attempt to rid your palms of the sweat your nervousness had caused. Sarah had called you and asked if you were free to swing by the studio. She said something about needing a new mind to help Harry. Instantly, you agreed. You would always be there for Harry.

Sat on one of the couches was Harry Styles himself, his hand over his eyes. He was alone, his guitar beside him. A notebook of his lyrics was tossed aside, clearly neglected in tiredness or frustration. “Harry?” you called out, closing the door behind you.

He looked up quickly, startled by the sudden disturbance. “Y/N,” he smiled slightly, sitting up properly. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use some help,” you shrugged, slipping out of your black puffer jacket. “And clearly you need it. Where is everyone?”

“Oh, they went to get some lunch at some place down the road,” he replied.

“And what about you? Aren’t you hungry? You need to eat, Harry.”

“I know. I will, I will. I’m just trying to finish this song, is all.”

You nodded slightly, sitting down in front of him on the coffee table. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were resting on top of dark bags. “Let me see,” you said, extending your hand.

Slowly, he placed the notebook into your hands. You stared down at the scribbled lyrics. Things were crossed out; things were circled; things were accompanied by little doodles. On the very top of the page, though, was the rushed title (above a few others, which had been crossed out): ADORE YOU. “I’m just gonna put it aside and come back to it,” he sighed. “Wanna get high? It always helps me write music.”

“No, Harry. I don’t want to get high with you. If you leave it, then you’ll never come back to it and nobody will ever get to hear it,” you replied.

“Except you. I want you to hear it,” he said quietly, so quiet, in fact, that you barely heard it.

He wasn’t looking at you, thankfully. At least he wouldn’t see the mix of nerves and excitement at what he’d just muttered. You shifted slightly, placing the notebook down beside you, “Well, then you’ll have to finish it, won’t you?”

Finally, he looked up at you. You felt tiny as his eyes explored your face, drinking in every last inch of your features. A small smile worked its way up onto his face, “I suppose I will.”

So, Harry began projecting his ideas onto you. He explained what the song was about and the kind of things he wanted to write. He sang the chorus to you, and you swore you melted right there and then. Hearing his voice fill the otherwise silent room you were in, with no other intent than to please you, filled your head with all sorts of fantasies. “It’s good, Harry. It’s really good,” you nodded, smiling sweetly at him.

“Obviously not good enough if I can’t think of anything other than the first verse and the chorus,” he groaned, raking his long fingers through his unruly hair.

In a moment of fleeting confidence, you reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand. He looked up at you, his green lagoons of eyes staring directly into your own. “Harry, stop. You’re doing yourself no good thinking like that. No songs start out as the greatest thing ever written; you have to put time and care and effort into them,” you said gently. “Let me help, Harry. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

He nodded, squeezing your hand in return. He pulled out a pen and stared expectantly at you. You smiled - you were happy he was willing to let you help. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, eager to hear a new outlook on these lyrics he had grown sick of reading over and over again.

“Well,” you began, “it obviously has a sort of ethereal vibe to it. So, summer skies? Like, maybe something about ‘you under summer skies’?”

He nodded slowly, absorbing your suggestion. Until, suddenly, his eyes lit up. You knew the look. You’d seen it many a time before. It was the look he adopted whenever he’d been struck by the perfect slice of inspiration he needed to write an incredible piece of music. “You, Y/N, are a bloody genius! ‘Your wonder under summer skies’,” he grinned.

He scribbled the lyric down desperately. You couldn’t help but admire him as ideas escaped his brain and fell onto the paper before him. He finally looked back up at you, the page now littered with prompts and snippets of lyrics. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re a lifesaver,” he said.

You chuckled, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, you didn’t do anything for my other songs but they exist because of you,” he rushed out, clearly not comprehending his words. “Shit. Sorry, that- that didn’t mean to come out.”

You smirked. You had the power now, after four and a half years of falling in love with Harry Styles and making a massive fool of yourself in front of him. He’d slipped up and now you were in control. “Yeah? What songs did I unknowingly contribute to?” your confidence was rare, especially when it came to things like this, and yet here it was.

Unfortunately for you, Harry’s natural confidence matched your own. A playful grin swept up his features as he said, “Wouldn’t it be more fun for you to listen to the album and figure it out for yourself?”

“Or you could just tell me the titles?” you asked, your tone hopeful.

He hesitated for a moment, his confident smirk faltering for a split second. But, before you had time to say anything else, he said, “There’s this song called Sunflower, Vol. 6. I wrote that because your favourite flowers are sunflowers. And I wrote Cherry because I know you love cherries. And then there’s Golden, because that’s what you are, Y/N. And then there’s Watermelon Sugar because I know that In Watermelon Sugar is your favourite book. And now Adore You, because, I swear to God, Y/N, that’s all I want to do.”

He was rambling and you couldn’t help but smile. Whilst you’d spent your days rambling to your friends about how you were convinced you’d remain single forever if he didn’t happen to fall hopelessly in love with you, it appeared that he’d been writing down all the tiny details about you in his songs. Because it was true: sunflowers were your favourite flowers and cherries were your favourite fruit and In Watermelon Sugar was your favourite book.

He was staring at you now, his eyes searching your face for some sort of a hint on how you were feeling. When you said nothing, your lips parted slightly, he went on, “Hell, I wrote Cherry years ago. I wrote it when you were dating that guy... what was his name?”

“Ollie,” you replied quietly.

He knew what his name was. He never forgot. It had been two years but he’d never forgotten the eight months of hell where he had to watch you cuddle up to him and take him home after your group of friends had gone out for drinks. He didn’t know why he wanted to hear you say his name again. Some sadistic form of self-torture maybe, hearing another boy’s name on your lips. “Yeah, Ollie,” he played it off as if he really had forgotten your ex boyfriend’s name. “I wrote it when you were dating him. And I’ve been sitting on it for two years because I thought if I released it then you would know I’ve been in love with you for four years. But then I just thought ‘you know what, fuck it’, so I’m putting it on the album. And Anna, that was about you. But I’ll never officially release that one. Because I wrote it one night when I was alone and I couldn’t get you out of my head and I needed to tell somebody how I felt about you. Even if that was just a bit of paper. But then I played it to you, do you remember? And you loved it, so I swore to never release it because it felt like I’d confessed to you how I felt.”

As you listened to him ramble away about all of these songs he’d written about you and how much you clearly meant to him, you couldn’t help but smile. You’d dreamed of Harry confessing how much he, well, adored you. And you’d only ever thought it would be an occurrence in your fantastical dreams, and yet here he was, staring back at you, rambling on about how much he loved you. “Wait, Harry,” you spoke up, “isn’t ‘watermelon sugar’ something to do with oral sex?”

You chuckled as he flushed, “That’s besides the point.”

“And what is the point?”

“That I’m in love with you and, I pray to God, you’re in love with me back.”

Overwhelmed with joy, you couldn’t help but throw yourself at Harry. The feeling of his hands around your waist in a way that wasn’t just a slightly prolonged hug goodbye after a night out or a slightly overly flirtatious gesture of Harry’s felt electric. Harry’s hands on you in a way that was meant to be a moment of appreciation shared between two lovers was how it was always supposed to be.

After so long of knowing one another, falling for each other and sharing life changing moments, everything was finally slipping into place. You’d been there when One Direction first began their hiatus. You’d been there when he cut his hair off. You’d been there when he went to Jamaica to write his first solo album. You’d been there, albeit your eyes were shut most of the time, when he was dangling a thousand feet in the air for the Sign of the Times music video shoot. He’d been there when you finished university. He’d been there when you lost your mum. He’d been there when your sister had her first child. He’d been your date to your brother’s wedding. All of these things, and you couldn’t help but feel they mounted to this very moment.

You pulled your head back, admiring his face for a moment. Your arms were around his neck and everything just felt... right. His smile was bright and his eyes were full of nothing but loving joy. Without another moment’s hesitation, your lips were on his. You weren’t sure who leaned forward, but all you knew was that this was what you’d been waiting for for almost five years. And, now you were here, showing Harry how much you loved him, the wait seemed worth it. “We’ve got so much time to make up for,” he whispered.

“Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world then, isn’t it?”

He grinned, embracing your body. All he’d wanted to do for four years was to praise it. And now he finally had the chance to. That was until the two of you heard a voice behind you, “We only left for lunch!”

#harry styles #harry #harrystyles #harry styles imagine #harrystylesimagine #harryimagine #harry imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry x you

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I come here for words of wisdom. Every time I read a fanfic about Bakugou being a fuckboy I normally laugh it off because it sounds ridiculous in my mind, although sharing this thought with other people made me realize that some actually think he might be in the future???? So, I want your honest opinion. Not just about that, but I'd genuinely love to know your input on how Bakugou would be in his late-teens, early adulthood, before (for the sake of it) meeting X and settling. Would he sleep around? Would he try for a relationship and fail? What would fail? What would make him settle? Would he really just focus on hero work and that's it? So. Many. Questions.

Hope everything is going great for you. I haven't been on tumblr much (am I the only one noticing the insane wave of wattpad writing here??? p.o.v. and all??????) but I've been following your stuff, and as always, it's incredible. 💞💕

PLS - okay this is so nice to see bc i’ve actually been taking a break from tumblr/writing for the past month. (mental refresh u kno?) aND YESTERDAY I CAME BACK AND SCROLLED THRU MY DASH AND SAW WATTPAD STUFF JUST LIKE YOU SAID.

i was shocked. aghast. completely bewildered. pls i even caved and searched up bakugou fics just to see if everyone else is treating him like that,, and like i dont even know why i did that, because ofc i knew the answer was gonna be yes!! the answer is always yes !!! like i just saw so many fics of him as such a “ooo daddy dom badboy bakugou 🥴🥴” and like why???? bakugou is such a frickin nerd?? and thats sooooooo funny?? whY STRIP HIM OF HIS COMEDIC POTENTIAL ???

but yes yes specifically about bakugou being a fuckboy..... yeah i have no idea where the fuck they get that from. like- did we watch the same show???? sex and especially being naked are such vulnerable things at their core, and they rlly think Mr. Anti-Vulnerability is gonna be the one to sleep around??? to willingly put himself into a vulnerable situation time and time again?? no. pls. c’mon y’all. sometimes i think even todoroki would be more likely.

and just- to sleep around you have to be very comfortable showing interest in other people, over and over and over again. and i just- bakugou doesn’t even admit that his friends are his friends???? and somehow they think that suddenly he’s gonna go around telling people “hey. i like you. and by admitting that to you, i am therefore giving you a slight bit of power over me.”

i- no. he’d never. period, end of story. he would rather be fuckin’ dead. so the answer is no, as he currently is, i cannot for the life of me see why he’d ever become a fuckboy. he just doesn’t have it in him lmaoooooo

ooo but about the what makes him settle question- THANK YOU IVE BEEN DYING TO TALK ABOUT IT.

okay so how i see it, is bakugou is probably totally and completely fine being alone up until his like mid 20’s. sure he thinks maybe it’d be nice to have somebody, but he works so hard that it’s always a fleeting feeling. but then he gets a little older, settles into his spot on the rankings (#3 btw, im soRRY kats but its the truth!!) and watches all his friends get into meaningful relationships. and then, a few more years down the line (think late 20’s/ early 30’s) he’ll be sitting back and being like “shit. i don’t have anybody like that. somebody who’s just for me. who’d pick me first always.”

and i think that is what he wants most of all. i mean, he’s clearly chock-full of insecurities related to that idea, and i cant imagine him ever settling without that need being fufilled. like, i think eventually he’ll probably abandon the idea of being #1 hero, but he’ll still keep that dream of being #1 somehow. so once he finds somebody that always has his back, always puts up with his shit and still loves him at the end of it?? still looks at him with stars in their eyes day after day??? pls. mans is putty and will never even dream of leaving

but that being said- i dont think he’s gonna find The One on first try. i think he’ll be aiming for that, but i cant see it working out. even when he starts seriously dating around his mid 20s, i think he’ll still be too caught up with his hero work. it’ll take him a good few years and one/two failed relationships to finally find a balance that works for him and whoever he ends up with

@i-need-air tysm for asking,,,, clearly i have a lot of thoughts and i love him sm so this was so fun!!!!!! i loved this ask ty!!!!

#bakugou katsuki #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugou #bakugou x reader #bnha fic #mha bakugou #bakugou imagine #bakugou ask #bnha #mha

[ri-ahhh]

can u just give me mushy gushy shit with grayson like ethan has a girl over so the two of you decide to go out for a burger date and a walk at night? idk something like that pls 👉🏻👈🏻

A/N: I couldn’t even tell you how long this has been sitting in my drafts but I was looking through trying to find something to finish bc I was in the mood to write but not from scratch and found this lol. It was about halfway done and I have no idea where I was going with it but this is what it turned into as of today. Idek if there’s even anyone around here anymore to read this but whatever haha here it is.

You don’t usually mind being single. Even when your best friend/roommate Stella started seeing her boyfriend Charlie seriously, it didn’t give you any longing for a relationship of your own.

But there are some nights where you feel down and you just can’t handle it. The scenes of casual intimacy as soon as you get home and see them together — the vase of flowers on the kitchen island he must have brought over; the playful bickering across the room.

The incessant, unrelenting sound of a marathon session going on through the shared wall of your and Stella’s bedrooms.

You groan and turn the volume up on your AirPods, going straight to your messages next.

Wyd?

{G} 👀

Don’t be weird.

Pretty sure Stella and Charlie are trying to put a hole in the wall w her headboard and I can’t take it anymore.

Your roommate chooses that moment to let out a particularly enthusiastic “fuck!” If she weren’t your best friend, you might have given in to the urge to bang on the wall, but your phone lights up with Grayson’s reply anyway.

{G} E too.

{G} I mean like I can’t hear him but ik what’s going down in there

{G} I’d offer to pick u up but sounds like u need to get outta there lol. Meet me here?

You like the message and slip on some shoes, making sure to slam your bedroom door closed on your way out, as if it would make them pause even one thrust.

In the year that you’ve known him, Grayson Dolan has become one of your closest friends. The kind where you met as acquaintances, never talked much, but then you reconnected randomly and the conversation never stopped from there on. You talk about anything and everything, but recently you’ve bonded even more about being a perpetual third wheel. You knew he’d understand and not pass judgement on you in times like this, so it had been a no-brainer to text him as an escape from tonight.

He buzzes you into the gate when you get to his house, and he tells you over another text to go ahead and hop in the Porsche before he even gets outside. It makes you smile; night drives are your favorite, and while the Tesla is a vibe in its own right, there’s just something calming about someone (your attractive friend, no less) tangibly driving you around. It’s exactly what you need right now, no matter what destination he has in mind.

When he slides into the driver’s side not even a minute later, you’re almost overwhelmed by him. Looking far too good in your eyes for how casual he’s dressed in a well-fitting T-shirt and some grey sweats. Hair slightly damp from a recent shower.

He greets you with a grin and leans over the console to kiss your cheek, and you can smell the combination of his shampoo and a bit of cologne. You always appreciated that he doesn’t overdo the fragrance, and if possible it makes him even more intoxicating at times.

“Hey,” he says simply, sitting back in his seat and fastening the seatbelt.

“Hey.” You smile and watch him with a silent but fairly obvious appreciation as he reaches a hand to rest on the back of your seat, twisting the bit he needs to look out the back windshield. The Porsche has a backup camera, obviously, but he’s a cautious driver to a fault and insists he doesn’t fully trust them.

Grayson gets the car facing enough of the right direction to throw it in drive and exit down the long driveway. You shake your head and settle back, kicking off your shoes with a sigh and tucking your feet onto the seat beneath you.

“One day, we’ll be the ones making them leave the house,” he jokes, stopping for the gate to open.

You know it’s implied that he’s referring to the two of you with separate people, but you can’t help but consider the option that the two of you could make that happen together.

“I know for a fact you have a booty call list a mile long, Dolan,” you say with a raised brow. Despite the fleeting thought, keeping things lighthearted and platonic is much easier to deal with in reality. “You could have called one of them and done just that.”

He scoffs and pretends like you’ve just hurt him deeply, slapping a hand to his burly chest to clutch at his heart. “Excuse me, it is not a mile long.” He glances over at you with a held-back smirk. “A couple hundred yards, tops.”

You throw your head back with a loud cackle, looking out the window now as he turns onto the main road. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Damn, that’s a big word.” He likes to tease you about your extended vocabulary.

“Hopeless,” you elaborate, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes.

“Is that what that word means, or are you making fun of my high school dropout vocab?”

“Both.”

You let your head roll back against the headrest, turning to watch him, knees swayed to the side a bit. His form isn’t hidden in the dark at all, features lit up by the dash in front of him and the streetlights you’re passing by outside.

“Why didn’t you, then? Call one of them?”

Grayson shrugs. “Just didn’t really feel like spending time with people tonight.”

You’re silent for a moment and consider his answer. “Why did you agree to hang out, then? You didn’t have to.”

His eyes never leave the road, but you see the veins in his hand gripping the steering wheel bulge out for a moment as he squeezes it tightly.

“I guess I meant I didn’t want to spend time with people I don’t really care about.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you play it off with a sarcastic tone. “Aw, you care about me?”

“Of course I do,” he replies easily. “I’m not sure why, though. You’re so fuckin sassy sometimes.”

“You love it.”

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. Grayson’s hand slides from where it’s lightly gripping the gear shift, to yours, which is picking at a loose string on your leggings.

Your easy smile at the comfortable banter between you and Grayson falters some in surprise, but you let him turn your palm over and trace the lines of your hand softly. Both of your gazes are fixated on the way he tickles your skin when he says, “Yeah. I do.”

Your eyes shoot up, just in time to meet his. He looks at you with a weird mixture heat and vulnerability, and there’s a thick moment of silence, no longer than the single beat of your heart that you can hear thudding loud and clear in your ears, when suddenly the car behind you lays on the horn.

Both of you startle, and Grayson’s attention returns to the road ahead. He steps on the gas and takes his hand away, carding it through his hair roughly as you sink back into your seat with a disbelieving scoff.

“Oh my God, dude, you can’t just do that to me,” you blurt out, your heart in your stomach and your brain even lower. A helpless giggle escapes you, and you tug on your own locks. “Shit...”

“What?” he asks defensively, but you hear the tiny bit of the grin he’s wearing in his voice.

You turn your head to deadpan him, eyes wide. “You can’t just... imply something like that and give me sex eyes and not think you did something to me! Are you crazy?”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug with the arm resting on top of the steering wheel again. “Maybe. You’re proving my ‘sassy’ point all over again.”

“Oh my — don’t fuck with my head, Gray.”

“Hey.” His voice is deeper, more serious as the car comes to another stop. You’re only just now realizing you’ve reached the burger joint, and that the late hour made finding parking a nonexistent problem. He puts the car in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before doing the same to yours. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to fuck with your head, I promise. I just... didn’t want it to seem like I was coming on too strong too suddenly. I, uh, have a history of doing that.”

You stare at him, processing everything. “I know.”

He chuckles dryly. “Yeah, I know you do.”

There’s more silence. That heavy kind that happened right after his little impromptu confession.

“You know,” you finally speak up, finding your voice after mulling over your words, “I kinda love that you’re a douche.”

He looks a little taken aback, until understanding dawns on him, and his eyes light up in a way that has you smiling instantly with him. “Really?”

You nod. “Call me crazy.”

Grayson shifts closer in his seat, his pink tongue darting out to lick those plump lips. You mirror him, and this time you take the initiative to reach out for his hand. It’s warm and strong, just like the rest of him.

Like earlier, you watch your hands lightly caressing each other as you speak. “And I love that you come on strong. And that you put your heart out there.” You interlace your fingers, immediately in love with the contrast of his huge ones between your slim ones. “Makes things way easier for me.”

He grins wide. “There’s that sass again.”

You bite your lip through your smirk and tug him close to you with your clasped hands, your free one reaching behind his neck to drag his lips to yours. “Mm. Better shut me up, then.”

#here I go again with yet another friends to lovers lmao #dolan twins #Grayson Dolan #blurb #g blurb

[gopeachllama]

Why I think Feysand were OOC in ACOSF

I hope that no one misunderstands from the title but let me say this is a 100% PROfeysand post. so if you hated feysand even before acosf, then this post isn't for you.

So i've seen a lot of interesting theories about feysand's and in particular rhys' behaviour and choices throughout acosf. and while alot of them seemed possible and may have been the case canonically speaking, even as a feysand stan i just couldn't seem to wrap my head around some of the things they said and did in the book. they just both seem OOC, its the only pausible explanation for me.

To understand why feysand were OOC in the book we have to look at this through a narrative perspective. as in we have to ask why would the author write the character/s in this way?

a quick overview of what a character arc is

so there can be a lot of variations of a character arc in a story but the basics is as follows (how does the character go from point 'a' to point 'b'):

the 'big lie' - the views/beliefs/actions the character has at the start which will be challenged throughout the story (this is point 'a')

the 'incident' - a plot point in which starts development of the character. something that spurs the character into action, this most ofter happens when they are placed in an unfamiliar situation. this usuallyy is the intial challenge to their 'big lie'. at this point the story will move forward and theres no going back.

the midpoint - the character changes conciously or subconciously, they start to recognise their own flaws in the 'big lie'.

world collaspes - this is usually on the heels of a victory, the character reaches the lowest point in their journey. they finally confront 'the big lie' and forces to stop this deception they inflict on themselves. they can destroy it or it will destroy them.

the climax - the reason for the story. the reason why the character had to take this journey in order to get to this moment. the moment that the character will decide once and for all whether they will go forward to point 'b' or regress back to point 'a'

the resolution - the character reaches point 'b'. their view/beliefs/actions have changed, they no longer believe in the 'big lie'.

So obvisouly the main character in acosf is Nesta. What sjm does in her books is that every plot point and development of secondary characters is in service to the arc of the main character. None of the character's outside of Nesta have their own development. Not even Cassian, any sort of changes or developments he undergoes is in service to Nesta (a complete missed opportunity for Cassian but that a whole other point). And before anyone tries to say otherwise, you can have development for characters even if they are secondary ones (and for a book that is 800+ pages long it is definitely possible). An example is with his can also be seen with Gwyn. Her leaving the library for the first time was a huge moment for the character, but she did so, in order to comfort Nesta after her big fight with Cassian. It was also so that Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie could all be together in Illyria so they could be kidnapped and forced to enter the blood rite (where the final showdown occurs with Nesta and the villan).

so what has this got to do with feysand and why are they OOC?

In fact the entire plot with feyre's pregnancy was made to give chracter developments for Nesta. There was nothing written in the book that suggested any developments for feyre and rhys. it did nothing for them. Nesta needed to become central to the story and the only way sjm thought to keep feyre side lined was to make her pregrnant. It was also just lazy writing and world building bc there is no way that rhys would have though of this when he and feyre were trying for a baby.

SIN #1 The Shields

Rhys practicing shields (shield thats doesn't even allow anyone to even touch her) on feyre, which she just allows. the book explains because of the fact that there is more danger to her now that she's pregnant. Narratively, this would make sense if there is a payoff. Like later in the story if feyre was in physical danger and the shield saves her or if the shield became a detriment to her in some way. But no nothing like this happens. Rhys 'practices' the shield on her and thats it. Rhys, who was the same person that trusted feyre enough defend herself against the weaver. It was totally out of character that he would shield her to the point that Cassian can't even kiss her on the cheek (sounds familiar huh). and the same goes for feyre, who has no problem with this (*cough* tamlin locking her up *cough*). Thats is some OOC behaviour.

So what were the point of the shields? well since sjm made it canon that fae can smell when a female is pregnant, the biggest way they came into play was in the scene when rhys lifted it long enough so that everyone could sense that that feyre was pregnant. And It could have been just that, feyre and rhys were expecting a baby, and Nesta can go along with her development, they did not need to intersect. But it did, and we'll come back to that later. This scene is a lighthearted moment in the book, one of the rare few where all the characters are happy and celebrating a good thing. acofas we knew that rhys and feyre decided to try for a baby, and seeing it pay off here was enjoyable for the readers.

But what else does this scene do? through Nesta's perspective, we can read her thoughts on it, and though she doesn't reveal much its an important character moment for her. the readers can see that she can feel happiness for someone else beyond the self-loathing she guards herself with, it shows that she is a character worth rooting for.

SIN #2 Rhys concealing the dangers of the pregnancy from feyre

oof this one is a doosey. this was the most baffling thing to come out of acosf for me. there is literally no reason or explanation that would make sense for rhys to lie to feyre like that. It offers no development for the two character it affects the most: rhys and feyre. there no fallout on rhys' end for lying to her, and there is no turmoil for feyre such as falling into depair like we told she would (the whole reason that rhys was hiding it in the first place).

When Nesta finds out that the pregnancy was most likely going to kill feyre and the baby. instead of Nesta disagreeing and urging Rhys to tell feyre, she doesn't say anything and forms a temporary truce with him, a character she has always had conflict with. It also serves as the incident that allows Nesta to have her 'world collapse' moment in her character arc. How else was Nesta going to realise what a shitty person is was being if she didn't do something so absolutely shitty? in a fit of rage, Nesta reveals to feyre that the pregnancy was going to kill both her and the baby. she get taken away on a hike in illyria (because???) and she reaches rock bottom after she comes to term with what she did. the story is taken away from velaris and the inner circle, and any conflict and resolution that happens between feyre and rhys, if it even happened at all, happens off page. again furthering my point about the pregnancy having no impact on the two characters is affects the most. After Nesta's fleeting moment of enlightenment, and her swordplay sex marathon with Cassian (urgh) she returns to velaris and nothing has changed between rhys and feyre. there isn't really much of a development with Nesta's relationship with feyre, their 'reconciliation' occurs all of less than one page and doesn't even happen out loud, just mind to mind. Now that Nesta has had her important character moment, nothing else matters (again lazy writing).

SIN #3 Everyone dies

ok so yes everyone has said their two cents about this and i agree with it. Feyre and nyx had to die so that Nesta could have her climax moment. It is the climax of the story since it is the big story development right before the resolution. and about the bargain - feysand decided in acofas that they were going to try for a baby. meaning that it was after this decision that they struck the bargain that they would die together. so at some point they would have thought of the fact they would have a child/children when the both die. im sorry but do they seem like the kind of ppl that would make a suicide pact even if it meant leaving their children behind? TOTALLY OOC for me. and i dont know i guess also the stakes weren't high enough with just the threat of feyre and nyx dying.

So feyre and nyx are dead and rhys will soon follow and Nesta intervenes to save them. Its also a self-sacrificing moment bc she has to give up her powers in order to do this... Showing that she does truely love her family and the depths of her powers. (seriously idc how you stan or hate how does anyone this good book?). don't doubt that in the future books sjm will find a way for Nesta to get her powers back (whatever they are (pure death WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???))

So Nesta saves the day, everyone is fine and nothing has changed except Nesta is nice now probably. the end.

welp this got way longer that i expected but anyways long story short there was nothing about the pregnancy that gave development to feysand characters and it was all for the development of the main character.

i don't claim acosf!feysand and sjm better fucking leave them alone in the rest of the books.

#acotar #acosf #anti acosf #rhys #rhysand #pro rhysand #feyre #pro feyre #feysand #pro feysand #nesta #this is not an anti nesta post #at least i dont think it is #but this is definitely a fucking anti sjm post #anti sjm

[yandere-daydreams]

A little something I’ve had in mind for New Year’s... I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but I can only hope that you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

TW: Kidnapping, Mentions of Death, Physical Threats, Bondage and Choking.

~

You heard him before you saw him.

Wherever you were, it was dark, the air musty and thick and impenetrable, the dust alone enough to cloud your vision. The blindfold didn’t help, refusing to budge despite your attempts to shrug it off, your efforts only leaving you tired and sore. You wanted to move desperately, but your hands had been tied together, the rope attached to a chain and left to hang from the ceiling aimlessly, a pair of cuffs around your ankles working to limiting your movement further. Luckily, the cot you’d been left on was stable, allowing you to get your feet underneath you, just enough to push yourself onto them.

But your captor didn’t seem to care for that idea as much as you did.

“Calm down, please… please don’t do that.” The voice was soft, coming from somewhere in front of you, quiet but undoubtedly masculine. He sounded hesitant, like he was afraid to reach out to you, even when he wasn’t the one hanging from the fucking rafters. You disregarded him easily, barely pausing before beginning to push yourself up. You were nearly standing when you felt him, too, hands clamping down on your waist as he shoved you back into a sitting position, something in your arm burning, tearing as you fell against a metal headboard. He wasn’t strong, not as far as you could tell, but your body felt heavy, exhausted, your head suddenly spinning from the slightest movement.

You could hardly feel it when he moved to your shoulders, beginning to rub slow circles into your skin, his touch coming much more gently, now. Were you still wearing a shirt? You thought you’d been wearing a shirt, earlier. “That’s better, right? I don’t want you falling over and hurting yourself.” There was a nervous laugh, but you didn’t join in, only going stiff as your right arm began to throb in its socket. “I won’t hold it against you, this time. You’re probably confused, they all are.”

You lingered on that, shaking your head. More for yourself than for him. “Who’s… Wait, where am I? Who are you, why am I here?”

Again he laughed, this noise a little more strong than the last. “You have a lot of questions, don’t you?” The rubbing stopped, your kidnapper starting to undo your blindfold as he spoke. “Do you know what day it is? Or… do you know what day it was when I took you.”

You opened your mouth, but the words died on your tongue, your memory faltering as soon as you tried to delve into it. The sun was up, you knew that. Were you out for an hour? Twelve? “It’s Sunday,” You guessed, wondering if you sounded confident. “The twenty-ninth?”

He let out a low, long whistle, the fabric over your eyes falling into your lap. Taking a moment to smile, he bent down, watching closely as you blinked. The room was still obscured, but you were able to see the vague outline of a person. Noticeable traits were few and far between, bright eyes being the only thing to stand out against a painfully average face, but there was something… familiar about him. Not identifiable, but not entirely new. Like the friend of a friend of a friend you’d never bothered getting to know. “I must’ve hit you too hard,” He mumbled, bringing you out of your thoughts. “It’s Tuesday, (Y/n), New Year’s Eve.”

“I…” You frowned, fighting to keep your frustration from showing. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Answer my questions.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?” His tone was playful, but you couldn’t stop yourself from sighing when he pulled away, sitting on the mattress next to you. The way he held himself was nothing short of anxious, his hands trapped between his thighs and his eyes focused on the ground, refusing to look at you, save for the short, fleeting glances he sent in your direction every now-and-then. You would’ve felt bad for him in any other circumstances, but the shackles helped to stifle your pity. “I can’t tell you where you are. I’m… fuck, I meant to start with that, sorry, but I’m Noel.” He paused, if only to run a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face with questionable success. “And you’re here because it’s New Year’s! It’s a tradition of mine, traditions are fun, right? I don’t go out enough to have my friends, and my family is… unavailable, at the moment. But it doesn’t matter. I’d do this every year, even if I had someone who wanted to be here.”

At that, you jerked at your chains, your panic renewed, spontaneous, relit by the revelation that he didn’t take this seriously. He tried to get you to stop, muttering calming pleas and grabbing at your arms, his nails digging into your wrists when you refused to hold still. “Is this a fucking game to you?” You growled, shifting, getting on your knees and pressing yourself against the wall, if only to be further away from him. “I should be with my friends right now, or with my family, or doing something besides sitting in your shitty basement and listening to your damn sob story. Let me go, you need help-”

With that, his demeanor changed completely. You didn’t have a chance to think before his hands were around your neck, digging into you and forcing you down and choking you, making it impossible to breathe or think or move under his hold. The grip was unremorseful, unhesitating, only loosening when you stopped struggling. If Noel regretted hurting you, he didn’t show it, only sitting up and brushing his hands on his pants, like he would wipe the violence away. “I told you to calm the fuck down, what don’t you understand about that?” Noel scowled, his glare not lightening when you failed to respond, too preoccupied with trying to catch your breath to answer him. Without hesitating, he reached down, threading his fingers in your hair and pulling harshly, forcing you to face him. “You’re going to behave, and you’re going to be happy while doing it. I don’t need a repeat of what happened last year.”

You didn’t have to think, nodding furiously, scrambling to hold yourself up. The pain didn’t matter anymore, whatever you were missing didn’t matter. If you made it out of here alive, you’d be glad.

It was his turn to sigh, now, smoothing over your hair and scanning over you, his gaze lingering for a little too long for you to be comfortable. When he leaned forward, you didn’t move, shutting your eyes and preparing yourself for the worst. But, the blow never came. Instead, chapped lips were pressed against yours, the kiss shy, tentative, like he had the right to still be afraid of you. He tried to deepen it, to draw you closer, dragging you against his chest as he moved towards your neck, pecking and licking and sucking for a moment before going still, waiting for you to relax before biting into your jugular, his teeth breaking your skin before you could do so much as scream.

It was more stunning than anything, to see him acting so innocent as he draped his arms over your shoulders, pulling you into a crushing hug before he spoke. “I wanted a kiss before midnight, I’m sorry,” He mumbled, voice muffled by your shoulder. There was another apology, followed by a light, repentant squeeze, but he didn’t sound very sorry. Not when you could feel his smile, as wide and as toothy as a grin could be.

“But, if you’re really good, I’ll be able to keep you all year.” He chuckled, letting it taper out, not seeming to care when you stayed silent. “It’ll be so much fun, right?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere love #yanderecore #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere headcanons #yandere headcannons #yandere prompt #yandere prompts #yandere love letter #yandere oc #yandere ocs #yandere ocs x reader #yandere core #yandere male #male yandere #possessive #obsessive #obsesion #jealousy

[spiderman-homecomeme]

day seven - pull-out p.2

ONLY ONE BED

A/N: Well, here we are friends. It’s time to say goodbye to spideychelle week. But really, when you think about it, isn’t the real spideychelle week the friends we made a long the way?

Okay, but for real, this has been so fun!! Both writing and seeing all the creations made by our talented fandom! Thank you again @spideychelleweek​ for putting this together <3 Till next year

There’s stuff in this fic that’s pretty new for me, as I’ve never written explicit smut before, and it’s something I’ve been thinking about trying for a while. So, I figured Spideychelle Week would be the best time! 

Without further procrastination on my part: enjoy some 6.3k of cow facts that will impress your friends, Peter being a mess, MJ being a mess, everyone’s a mess, smut, and ONLY. ONE. BED. 

Read here on AO3

--

“Hey, uh, MJ.”

Peter’s voice is hushed as he gently nudges her. 

She mumbles and stirs, blinking sleepily at him as she returns to a vague form of something akin to consciousness. 

“MJ.” His hand brushes her arm once more, leaving a certain warmth that she can’t quite place. “We’re here.” 

Sure enough, there’s a faint glow coming from the porch light ahead, though it’s entirely too bright for one o’clock in the morning. MJ sits up in her seat, yawning as she stretches her arms out in front of her. Her eyelids droop for another moment as she goes to unbuckle her seat belt, and she can just barely hear the opening of the driver’s side door as Peter climbs out of the old Volvo. 

“You don’t need me to carry you in do you?” Peter’s gently teasing voice cuts through her sleep-raddled mind.

Apparently he’s done being a weirdo. 

The thought of being held against her best friend’s chest flashes through her mind, fleeting, but it’s there alright. She shakes it away almost as quickly as it appears. She cracks an eye open, quirking an unimpressed brow at him as he leans against the door frame with a stupid little smirk on his face. 

“Fuck off,” she groans.

Something in the way he shakes his head with a snort of a nervous-sounding laugh causes her stomach to flip, filling with butterflies. 

Again, she simply brushes it off. 

But then, watching him pop open the trunk, his shirt riding up a little as he lifts the lid, she wonders if he’s thinking about the way their hands touched in the car as much as she is. It was a soft touch, warm, and in a way, inexplicably familiar. Though, as much as it made her heart seize, Michelle’s not sure why she didn’t just pull her hand away. 

Then again, Peter didn’t pull away either. 

It’s dangerous territory, this kind of thinking. “Do you think there’ll be any cows on the beach?” She asks through a yawn, a teasing lilt to her tone. 

Peter barely glances back at her, scoffing. “Shut up.”

A smirk pulls at her lips.

They grab their things from the car, MJ feeling as though she’s moving through quicksand as she gathers her bearings, trying to get a feel for her “land legs” after sitting for so long. The walk to the front porch feels like a half-marathon, and it feels even longer as Peter struggles to remember the door code to get in. 

Finally, after a nearly eight hour drive after class, they step inside the small beach cottage. 

The house is silent and dark, the only light coming from a lamp in the kitchenette. Ned and Betty must have gone to sleep hours ago, there being practically no sign of life in the house except for the few dishes in the sink. There’s a note on the counter, from Betty giving them instructions for the wifi, the tv, and of course, how to work the shower. 

MJ can feel herself once again falling closer and closer into the welcome embrace of sleep. She doesn’t waste any more time, nearly pushing past Peter as she heads for the open door to their bedroom. She can hear him laugh behind her, and she bites back her own smile when he calls out a soft, good-humored, “hey!” 

But as they both step into the room, they’re met with a rather strange surprise. 

When Betty had told them about this house, she had sworn up and down that there was room for four people to sleep. Two bedrooms, three beds. One for her and Ned, two for Peter and MJ. It was simple. 

Here, however, in this dark, moonlit room at one in the morning, there’s only one, full-sized bed. 

One bed, and a single, dark leather loveseat. 

The silence that falls between them almost crushes their shoulders under its weight. MJ can practically hear the collective overthinking they’re about to do. 

“You can take the bed—” They both say simultaneously.

Peter immediately cuts in. “Uh, you—you should take it,” he insists, his lips stretching into a sheepish grin as he scratches the back of his neck. 

“No, it’s fine,” MJ replies, setting her backpack down next onto the leather sofa, flinching at the way the fabric squeaks under the weight of her things. “I can take the couch. You take the bed.” 

“No, no,” Peter repeats back to her. “Seriously, I’m cool with it. Plus,” He continues, putting his own bag down next to hers and ignoring how the squeaky leather groans again. “Being Spider-Man, I’ve gotten pretty used to sleeping literally anywhere. Just one of my many talents,” he cracks a joke, his almost timid grin wreaking havoc on her insides. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up on the side of a building.”

She quirks a doubting brow in his direction, though the corner of her lips twitch upward. 

“For real,” Peter pushes. “I’m cool with it. The super-speedy healing will help with the lumpy couch.”

Her lips purse as she lets out a quiet hum. She’s quiet for a moment, her brows pinching together. “It does make sense,” she finally nods. 

Peter smiles. 

“I mean, you are the short one,” she teases. 

“Hey!” He fights to get rid of his smile as he shoves her playfully. “Only by, like, two-inches.” 

Their shared laughter dies for a moment, and they’re left alone in the quiet, dim room. 

MJ wants to roll her eyes, even though she’s beginning to feel that same, creeping awkwardness from earlier. “Why—” She clears her throat, telling herself that it’s only so she can get the tired scratchiness out of her voice. “Why don’t we just both take it? We’re adults. And friends. We can share. Besides,” she pauses, her eyes drifting to the bed in question, a strange yet not entirely unwelcome heat rising to her cheeks. “It’s not a queen, but we could both fit.”

“No,” Peter spits out, perhaps a little too quickly. A faint blush falls across his face, and he coughs again, rocking back on his heels. He huffs out a breathy laugh. “No… You—You really don’t wanna share a bed… with… with me. I—” He chuckles. “I’m a huge—HUGE—blanket hog. And, like… I always try to cuddle whoever’s in bed with me—not that… I’m ever in bed with a lot of people… or I mean—random people. Just—”

Throughout his rambling, Michelle starts to really feel that now annoying, almost tingling warmth even more, the same one she’s been feeling since this damn trip started. She shifts on her feet, trying not to think about what it might feel like to have Peter’s body pressed up against her, snuggling up to get warm, in that very bed. 

It alarms her just how quickly she thinks that, yes, she would really like that. Very much.

“—I guess I get cold at night? I don’t know, every trip for decathlon in high school, Ned would always complain if he had to share a bed with me at one of the hotels.” 

His quiet laughter fills the room around them, and MJ can’t help but notice the correlation between that sound and the speed at which those stupid stomach-butterflies’ wings flap. 

“—I honestly don’t know where I get it? I mean, I slept with a teddy bear until I was thirt—”

“—Okay, fine!” MJ sets him free from his rambling, a tired laugh hiding under her words. “You take the couch. I’ll take the bed.”

Peter nods, lips pressing together into a thin, yet slightly triumphant smile as he goes to move the bags off of the loveseat. 

After a beat, he speaks again, chuckling quietly. “We made that a lot harder than it needed to be.”

MJ can’t help but let out a snort. “Yeah, probably.”

“Well, uh—” He coughs to hide the jittery waver of his voice. “I guess I’ll get the couch ready.”

“Sounds—sounds good,” Michelle exhales a sharp breath through her nose, a twitch of a grin appearing on her lips. She lamely throws a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll—I’ll just go get ready for bed. In the bathroom. Yeah,” she adds, toying with the loose threads at the hem of her t-shirt. 

He looks up from his bag, brows raised, eyes dopey and sleepy. “Oh, cool. Okay. I’ll—” He clears his throat again. “I’ll use it after you.”

“Cool,” she mutters without another glance, looking down at her feet as she grabs her toiletry bag and a new t-shirt and sleep shorts, before practically sprinting out of the room and into the hall. She doesn’t stop until she gets to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. Relief is the one thing she can feel in that instance, yet her breath is still stuck in her throat. Closing her eyes, she runs her hands over her weary, yet tingling face. 

God, what was wrong with her?

The icy floor of the bathroom tile does nothing to cool the warmth radiating from her head to her toes. With another quick, sharp exhale she moves to the sink, splashing her face with cold water. She looks up after a beat, staring—borderline, glaring—at herself in the mirror. 

Get it together, MJ, she thinks to herself, mouth setting in determination.

One weird road trip, one single hand touch in the car, one glimpse of abs, one bed, and one over active imagination; the key ingredients to begin the process of breaking Michelle Jones. 

But she won’t let that happen. No, she absolutely will not. Sure, Peter’s probably one of the best people she’s ever known, and sure, he’s funny—sometimes, mostly on accident—and sure, he’s got the body of an olympic gymnast, and she can’t get the image out of her mind that olympian bod wrapped around her in bed, but none of that means anything. Anything at all. 

None of it’s relevant to how she feels right now. And none of that changes anything about how this night—this trip—is going to go. 

Yes, maybe she’s had this stupid crush on her stupid best friend for some stupid amount of time. 

But again. 

It’s not relevant here. 

She’s just had a weird day. That’s it. She’s tired. She needs to sleep. 

Forcing any and all thoughts concerning the boy in the next room, she starts her nightly routine; brushing her teeth, washing and moisturizing her face, the basics, not rushing anything. She takes her time changing her clothes, perhaps a little longer than normal. But again, she tells herself it’s only because she’s tired—not at all that she’s avoiding going back to the room where Peter is. When she runs out of things to do to procrastinate going back, she brings herself to the mirror again, staring at herself with almost disappointment. 

But then, she steels herself. She didn’t need to be freaking out right now. Peter’s just a person. He’s just her best friend. They’ve had plenty of sleepovers before, and this is no different. And besides, they’re sleeping in two separate places, so really, all of this inner turmoil is pointless. Nothing’s going to happen.

And really, why should she be freaking out about the guy who read her cow facts for a solid thirty minutes of their trip?

With a solid, resolute nod, lips pressed tightly together, she exits the bathroom and goes back down the hall, opening their bedroom door without a second thought. 

Big mistake.

Big BIG mistake.

She really should have waited maybe five more seconds, because when the door swings open, Peter’s standing there in just his boxers, his head caught in his t-shirt as he pulls it on, chest and abs just out and ready to go. 

Big mistake—that absolutely doesn’t mean anything. 

It suddenly becomes very confusing to MJ why the Brant’s would have the thermostat set at eighty degrees. 

Michelle decides that there’s a very interesting spot on the wall just above his head. 

Peter pulls the shirt the rest of the way on, his eyes widening when he sees his friend just standing there. “Oh, uh, hey.” A not-cute-at-all unforgiving blush rises to his cheeks, spreading to the very tips of his ears. 

They both huff out an awkward laugh.

“Uh—” Michelle finally meets his gaze, finding it damn near impossible to go back to her spot on the wall now. “Bathroom’s—bathroom’s open.”

The chuckle that comes out of him is breathy. “Cool. I’ll just—go use it, then.”

“Yeah.”

She waits until the door closes behind him to smack herself on the forehead. Groaning, she flops herself on the bed, covering her face again. 

These feelings have always been here, she knows that, she’s not dumb; but they’ve never been this intense and the way he’s been acting all day and in the past fifteen minutes hasn’t been much help at all. She wonders if he’s been so strange because he’s feeling those things, too. She’s seen that guy hopelessly in love, and it’s always looked kind of like what he’s doing tonight, but…

This feels like a whole new level of loser.

Truly, she has no idea how she’s going to get through the night. 

But maybe—

No. 

No. She’s not going to think about this any more. She’s going to go to bed before he gets back. That way, she doesn’t have to talk to him or see him. She’ll sleep, and then they can just hang out tomorrow. With Ned and Betty. Not alone. 

As long as their not alone, she’ll be fine. 

She gets up to shut the overhead light off before turning the bedside lamp on, passing a brief glance to the loveseat turned bed across from her. Shaking her head, she pulls back the blankets and settles into her own bed.

When Peter returns, the room is dim, Michelle scrolling mindlessly on her phone. She wonders if she appears a little too casual for comfort, but she shakes that thought away as the door clicks shut behind him. 

Peter’s silent as he settles into the couch, the leather groaning and squealing loudly under his movement. The noise cuts through the air, causing them both to freeze for a moment. He grins sheepishly as he nestles further under his blanket, his face becoming only partly visible. 

Michelle doesn’t say anything as she turns to the bedside lamp and switches it off. 

The room becomes blanketed in dark, and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust. The air feels heavy; soul-crushing, even. It’s deathly quiet, and Michelle’s almost a hundred percent positive that Peter can hear her breathing and the way her heart’s beating like an out-of-time snare drum. 

She closes her eyes, willing her mind and body to return to that feeling in the car, before she started having this weird, sudden existential crisis. And to some degree, it starts to work. She counts, starting at one, hoping that having her mind focus on something other than the current situation might help. Her mind starts to drift, her counting switching to random, sleep-induced thoughts, and her body starts to feel heavy, sinking further into the fluffy mattress—

EER-ER-EEEP

But she’s startled, yanked back to reality by the loud squeaking of Peter tossing and turning on the loveseat.

Once again, the deafening silence returns, but Michelle doesn’t say anything, annoyed, but still electing to just ignore it. All he’s doing is getting comfortable. No reason to attack him for that. 

It’s quiet again, and for the second time, she closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath. Minutes go by, and she’s finding it harder and harder to get that feeling back. The counting from one doesn’t work this time, her brain immediately crossing to the Peter lane that’s always there. The thoughts and feelings from earlier in the day and in the bathroom flood right back—especially seeing him mid-putting-a-shirt-on—and it suddenly becomes too hot to be under so many blankets.

Trying not to let even the tiniest bit of frustration show, she flips onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, subtly scooting a little closer to the wall to be as far away from her problem as possible. Drawing in a long, deep breath, she closes her eyes again. 

It’s quiet again, the silence that fills the room bringing the mood back to what might be serene if she weren’t so stressed out. She focuses on her breathing, on slowing her heart beat to a semi-normal rate, pushing any and all thoughts about Peter Parker out of her head—

EP-EEEEER-EP

EEER-EEP

Peter groans from his place on the couch as he turns on his side, cutting the silence of the room with his restlessness. 

There’s a moment where she thinks that he’s finished, that he’s finally settled.

ER-EP

And instantly, the moment is gone.

“Peter,” she almost hisses. 

“Sorry!” Peter whispers back. “I can’t—ugh… get comfortable. It’s like there’s a giant metal rod just… Stuck right in my back.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, sighing as she turns over on her side, facing away from him. If anything, as annoyed at his noisy fidgeting as she is, she can see the silver lining—being angry at him is a nice distraction from whatever the hell the other feeling is—illness, pining, lust, she doesn’t know. At least now she can just focus on how much of a pain in the ass he’s being. 

She does feel sorry for him, of course. The couch hadn’t looked all that comfortable when they walked in, and a loveseat isn’t a good option for anyone, no matter how tall or super-powered they are. It would have been much easier for them both if he had agreed to just share with her. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal. 

(It is.)

It’s not like all she’d be able to think about would be his hand next to hers, the warmth of his body lulling her into a homey comfort. 

Nothing like that at all. 

Feelings for her best friend aside, she’d be more than able to share a full-sized bed—that’s really meant for only one person—with him. But then, she thinks about how much—how quickly, he’d rejected the idea, and then she deflates. He’d been so defensive, so insistent. So—

EEEEEEEE-EEEP

Michelle can hear him suck in a breath, bracing himself. 

“Oh, my GOD.” She whisper-shouts into the pitch black room, grabbing her pillow and pushing her face into it. 

“I’m sorry!” Peter matches her tone, sitting up before throwing himself back against the cushions.

No. She will not listen to this all night. She’s had enough. 

If’s she going to get any sleep at all—

Peter sits up again, listening as MJ starts rustling around on the bed. “What—What are you doing?” He asks carefully. 

“Scooting over.” She snaps.

“What? Why?”

“Just get in the bed, Parker.”

“Wha—what?” Even in the dark of the room, Michelle can practically see the blush fall over his entire face. 

She scoots closer to the wall, huffing indignantly. “Because I don’t wanna have to listen to that all night. I’d like to sleep at some point, if that’s okay with you.”

It takes a moment for Peter to respond, and at first, Michelle thinks—worries—that she’s taken a step too, far.

But then, the couch squeaks again as Peter stands hesitantly. 

“...Are you—Are you sure?” He asks, his voice coming closer, her heart leaping into her throat. 

Despite the rush of blood roaring in her ears, she holds her ground. “God, yes! Just get over here already,” she whispers again, opening the blanket for him to get in. 

She can hear the hesitation in his silence, but she’s surprised when the bed dips beside her. His hand brushes her arm as he crawls under the blanket and settles into the mattress. When he settles in, he keeps a respectable distance, clinging as close to the side as possible. It’s certainly a tight fit, even with both of them as close to their respective ends of the bed as they can possibly get, and although he’s almost falling off the edge, she can still feel the his warmth.

And then, they both lie there for what seems like hours, each holding their breath, neither one daring to speak, neither one truly settled.

Michelle tries moving, turning away from him, though it doesn’t help much. He’s still too close; she can still feel him right next to her. 

It’s not fair, she thinks. It’s really not.

Though she’s not all that surprised; she shouldn’t be. This is exactly what the both of them had been avoiding. 

Michelle shifts again before sighing in defeat. 

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks as he turns on his side, his quiet, soft, sleepy voice so incredibly close. She shivers. 

“Can’t sleep,” she says, nestling further into her pillow. 

On instinct, she turns back around to face him. 

Perhaps a mistake. 

His face is mere inches from hers, her breath catching in her throat. If the lights were on, she’s sure she could count every freckle on his nose. He quickly pulls back to give her another centimeter of space. “Sorry,” he whispers, the sheepish grin on his face audible. 

“It’s fine,” She breathes out, albeit a bit shakily, as she rolls over onto her back again. 

Her hand falls to the middle of the bed, but she yanks it back when her pinky brushes his. “Sorry,” she says, huffing out a laugh at herself. 

Peter rolls onto his stomach, his face turning to her as he rests his head on his pillow. “You’re good,” he mumbles groggily, his eyelids drooping with every passing second. “This is so much comfier.” 

She smiles, a warm fluttering in her stomach as she looks over at him. His breathing deepens slowly, and soon, she can tell that he’s fast asleep. 

He could fall asleep anywhere, he said. 

Anywhere except for a loveseat. 

Sleep doesn’t seem to want to come as easily to Michelle. She still tosses and turns, feeling herself drifting in and out of the first stage, never fully asleep and never fully awake, staying in that torturous limbo in between for what feels like a whole-ass eternity. 

When a solid-ish form of rest finally comes, it’s gone before she has a chance to realize. She opens her eyes again, seeing the hint of the beginning of morning light through the single window in their room. Craning her neck up from her pillow she looks over Peter’s sleeping form and at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 

4:48 AM. 

She falls back against her pillow with a frustrated huff. 

“You okay?”

If she weren’t so sleep deprived, Peter’s soft voice so suddenly awake and beside her would have made her jump. Instead, she passes him a fleeting glance before rubbing her one of her eyes with a knuckle. 

“Can’t sleep,” she says again, just as she had earlier. 

Peter rolls on his side to face her fully, his arm tucked under his pillow, his lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Do you want more cow facts?”

Her laugh cracks, voice worn from a lack of sleep. “No. No. I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“I’m gonna get you more cow facts.”

“Peter—”

But he’s already reaching for his phone on the table, turning back to face her after typing into his google search. His face glows blue from the light, and she can’t help the way her lips tug upward at his look of fierce concentration. 

“Okay, you can pick—”

She stares up at the ceiling. 

“—27 Amazing Cow Facts That Will Impress Your Friends, or—get ready for this—”

She will not look at him. 

“Are you ready?” He doesn’t wait. “10 ‘Udderly’ Fascinating Facts About Cows.”

“Peter—” She warns, her grin hiding nothing, as she turns on her side to face him. 

“Pick!” He insists, his quiet voice full of mischief and excitement. “You gotta.”

Her eyes narrow. “Neither.”

“Okay, we’re going punny,” He decides for her. “Did you know that cows cause more deaths than sharks per year? Crazy right? Where’s Cow Week then, huh?” He scrolls further upon earning no response besides a deadpan stare. “You ever wondered why Cows moo? Well, these moos are the pick-up lines of the cattle world. Bulls and cows let each other know that they are ready to, in the words of a bovine Marvin Gaye, get it on.”

“I hate you.”

“Cows can see three-hundred-sixty degrees. Kinda like chameleons—HEY!”

Before he can even finish the fun fact, her hand shoots out to yank his phone out of his hands. His reflexes are much fast, and he holds it away over the edge of the bed.

“No more cow facts!” MJ hisses as she reaches over him, her arm laying across his chest, in an attempt to snatch his phone and throw it across the room. “No more!”

Peter lets out a breathy laugh, and it’s then, when he just drops his phone, that she realizes how close their faces are; his nose just barely brushing hers, his breath fanning her face. They stay like that a moment, her hand unconsciously smoothing over the fabric of his t-shirt, unable to tear her gaze from his.

Almost instantly she pulls back, muttering out a sorry. 

But she doesn’t fully move away, and neither does he. 

There’s a moment, one where it all just suddenly clicks—where it all falls neatly into place, like that last, perfect piece in Tetris—and it’s when she finally lets herself look right at him; when she sees that tiny, shy smirk on his face; when she sees that unspoken tint to his eyes as he looks at her.

“Do you, uh—” He swallows. “Wanna hear another one?” 

There’s nothing she can do to stop herself from smiling a soft smile.

“No.”

Against any of her better judgement, she leans in.

The first brush of her lips against his is barely there. It’s unbelievably soft, almost as if she’s dreaming. Peter startles at the touch, and she pulls back. He stares at her, mouth parted as he looks at her, speechless. A nervous laugh bubbles up out of him as he tentatively brings a hand to brush her wild curls behind her ear, staying there. 

“You kissed me?” He asks dumbly.

She nods, mentally reminding herself to breath. 

And that’s all it takes.

A split-second later, he’s crashing his lips against hers, sighing in relief at the contact, his hand moving to cup her jaw. And it’s a feeling that’s everything to her. For something that’s been so hyped up in her mind for so long, she feels delighted shock in finding that the feel of his mouth moving with hers far exceeds any of her previous expectations. 

There’s a faint tremble to her hand as she cards it through his stupidly soft hair, gathering the strands, giving an unconscious, yet gentle tug. Peter groans, the sound sending a tidal wave of electricity through her. 

And truly, she thinks she could live in this moment for forever, cheesy as it sounds. 

His hand moves to her neck, bringing her even closer to him as tilts his head, deepening the kiss. With his free hand, he grips at her waist—her old t-shirt bunching as he pulls himself up to lean over her—before moving down to smooth circles into her exposed hip. 

A harsh, short breath escapes her as she grips onto his black shirt, her other hand slipping underneath it to smooth across his stomach. 

“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” Peter murmurs against her lips when he pulls back. “Like—a long time.” His laugh is breathy. 

Hers is, too. Almost moreso. “Yeah,” she grins. “Me, too.”

The way his smile stretches, reaching all the way up to his eyes just might kill her, she thinks for a split-second, and she comes to her own rescue by pulling his face back down to hers. 

She can feel his smile widen through the kiss as he rolls them over, her legs coming naturally to wrap around his waist as he lays on top of her. He squeezes her hip playfully, his hand ghosting  across the waistband of her shorts. At her sharp intake of breath, he retracts his hand quickly, as if he’s been burned, mumbling out a “Sorry” against her cheek as he moves to press kisses along the column of her throat. 

Michelle feels herself laugh breathily, still unable to bite back her smile. “It’s… It’s fine.” She takes his hand back to it’s place on her stomach, encouraging him to continue, her body screaming in celebration. 

But he pulls away, looking at her inquisitively, the hand she’d moved coming back to rest on her arm. “We don’t have to do anything—”

“—I know we don’t,” she cuts him off, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she grins up at him. “But I want to.”

Somehow, someway, his grin seems to get even bigger, and he tries twisting his mouth in an effort to hide it. “Me, too.”

Without another word, she pulls him back down, kissing him soundly, his hand still resting against the flat of her stomach. Again, he deepens the kiss, a hand reaching to cradle the back of her head as his lips mould perfectly against hers. His tongue shyly brushes against her lips, and she readily parts them. 

Her breathing grows ragged once more, and unconsciously, she rolls her hips upward, moaning softly into his mouth at the feeling of his hardness briefly pressing against her. He holds himself up with his free hand, muscles tensing as he bites back a groan. Her smile against his lips grows, and she does it again, earning the same reaction. 

He huffs out a nervous chuckle, his kissing growing gentler as his other hand comes once again to the waistband of her soft sleep shorts. Slowly, almost too slowly, his hand dips under her shorts, and he freezes again. 

Michelle’s ready to pull away and ask if he’s alright before he starts to just barely touch her.

Her hips jerk slightly, and she laughs quietly when he pulls away from her, looking down at her with curious concern before cupping her through her cotton boyshorts. One of his fingers traces a line down the middle of the soft fabric; it��s a faint touch, almost ghostly, but it’s more than enough to make her face burn hot. Almost experimentally, he presses down harder, his strokes smooth as he starts to rub slowly, the corner of his lip quirking upward at the tiny gasp that comes out of her. 

He matches the pace with their breathing, his movements slow and deliberate. Pulling her in for another quick, yet sound kiss, he removes his hand. Instinctively, she raises her hips, her own shaking hands moving to remove her sleep shorts. She pushes them off, though she struggles getting them past her thigh, Peter swooping in to move them down the rest of the way. 

“Teamwork,” he jokes lamely.

“Great—ah,” She responds, her voice catching when he returns his hand it’s earlier ministrations. “Great job.”

“Thanks,” he says with a small smirk. 

This time, his strokes are faster, and he adds just the tiniest bit of pressure. Michelle’s breathing gets heavier, less steady, and all she can do is close her eyes and focus on just how fucking good it feels. 

And also, how god damn frustrating it is that he’s still not actually touching her yet. 

She can feel Peter’s smug smile against her neck when she lets out the quietest whine and she almost speaks up, ready to tell him off—joking of course—until she feels his hand finally dip past the navy blue lace trim. 

Fuck.

His fingers hover above her silky skin before coming down slowly. They both let out shaky breaths as he touches her—finally touches her. His movement is still tentative as he goes to tease her entrance, collecting her wetness and swirling it over her clit, the slight tremor in his hand giving his nerves away. Unconsciously, her hand comes to rest on his, guiding him softly into a gentle rhythm. He murmurs something incoherent before capturing her lips into a tender kiss. 

He repeats his movements, dipping his finger further into her each time. 

“Oh—” A soft moan escapes her when he inserts a second finger, an uncontrollable grin pulling at his lips at the sound. 

His fingers pump and in out of her, curling, speeding up when he notices how her breathing matches, his eyes trailing down to her lips. Michelle can hear her heart thundering in her ears, her breathing growing ragged as he picks up his pace. 

But before she can feel herself getting closer to that point, Peter removes his fingers, sitting back on his heels as he rests between her knees. The whine that comes out of her at the loss of contact would almost be embarrassing if she wasn’t so annoyed. She glares up at him, though her gaze softens when he glances down briefly, then back up again, his eyes questioning and earnest. 

“Can—” He clears his throat. “Can I—?”

It takes her a moment to register what he’s asking, but then it hits her. 

Oh, fuck. 

“Yes!” She answers a little too quickly, disguising her excitement under a cough. “I mean—” she replies slowly, lowering her voice. “Yes.”

He grins easily at her, the expression making her heart seize. 

His smile fades as he leans down, his fingers tracing the lace trim of her boyshorts, pulling them down slowly, leaving them to hang off of her left leg. Before she can make any comment—perhaps one about how he half-asses everything, though perhaps, she thinks, it’s not the time for that—he dips his head down quickly, his lips meeting hers.

Michelle shudders, and her breathing hitches as he flattens his tongue before licking a long stripe up the length of her center, the fingers of his left hand digging into her thighs. Instinctively, her hands fly to his hair, wrapping themselves in the soft curls, smoothing them down as he sucks on her clit, tracing smooth circles with his tongue. He moves his free hand back up to her hips, curling two of his fingers into her once again. 

After a beat, she lays back, allowing herself to become lost in the feeling, letting Peter coax soft moans from her lips, unable to stop her body from tensing, her insides twisting in white hot pleasure. He quickens his pace, and she has to cover her mouth to stifle her moans. He glances up at her, a sight that’s almost too dizzying when she dares a quick glance in return. She feels that same heat pooling in her stomach again, a wavy smile tugging at her lips as she feels herself getting closer and closer. 

Her thighs twitch, tensing around Peter’s head, and for a moment, she worries that her hair pulling is a little rough—which doesn’t seem to be a problem, given the moans that Peter gives when she tugs and pulls, and frankly, it’s hard to focus on anything else with how she’s teetering back and forth on the edge. With another swipe of his tongue, Michelle gasps, bucking her hips upward, her fist in his hair holding him in just that right spot. 

The coil tightens, the heat burning, and with added pressure to her clit, she feels herself flutter and spasm around his fingers as she releases, back arching as he whimpers under her breath. Peter pulls back, his breathing as ragged as hers, wiping his mouth before crawling up to meet her. 

She doesn’t wait for him to ask before pulling him down, capturing his lips into a heated kiss, sighing as she tastes herself on him. 

For a moment, there’s nothing else said between them as Peter pulls away, laying on his side next to her, the only sound in the room being their labored breaths. 

“Go team,” he jokes. 

With a playful eye roll, still breathless, MJ goes to pull the blanket back over them after the AC kicks in again, sending a shiver through her. “Go team,” she says back. 

As soon as she’s back against the pillow, he moves in again, his hands moving to cup her face as he plants a soft kiss on her lips that makes her heart flutter. Her hand sneaks under the blanket as she tilts her head to deepen the kiss once more. The surprised grunt the comes out of Peter as she dips her hand under the waistband of his boxers, grabbing his dick, causes a faint, tired laugh to bubble up out of her. 

He kisses her back eagerly, laying them back against the pillows as he brings a hand to rest on her naked hip. 

It’s such a happy moment, Michelle thinks. Her heart feels as if it’s soaring in her chest, her cheeks warm and glowing. She likes this loser. So much. And she’s unbelievably glad that he feels the same. 

Peter groans, feeling her soft hand tighten around him. His strangled moan is cut off. “Oh, God—”

And, perhaps in what they’ll remember as the ultimate, literal cockblock of all time from a Certified Moment Killer, Ned Leeds, their dear, dear friend, barges into the room. 

“—Guys! Betty and I are gonna go watch the sunrise! Wanna—?”

He freezes, seeing his two best friends huddled together.

“—What’s going on guys? Why are you… in the same bed…?”

It’s in that moment that Michelle’s exceedingly glad she put the blanket back on so that they’re friend can remain blissfully unaware. 

It’s also in that moment that she promptly takes her hand off of Peter’s dick.

Peter and MJ exchange glances 

“...There was only one bed. And the couch sucked.”

Ned stares at them, his brows pinched together. He points a thumb at the loveseat in question, his expression seeming to state the obvious.

“You know that’s a pull-out couch right?”

#spideychelle #spideychelleweek2k20 #petermj #peter parker #michelle jones #cw: smut #spiceeeey

[kiruuuuu]

I had the pleasure of talking this through with you, @cerosin​, and the end result is.... definitely unhealthier than your initial request, but I hope you’ll like it anyway :) I also certainly took my time with this, thank you for waiting and thank you for the request 🖤🖤 (Kapkan/Glaz, Rating E, angst fluff + smut, ~4.6k words)

.

He can tell when it gets bad again.

Obviously, there are the spontaneous bursts, attacks he can neither predict nor prevent and therefore has to react on the spot, but those have receded: the people around them have learnt how to avoid triggering anything, and Glaz has learnt how to remove Kapkan from these situations efficiently. No, this isn’t about sudden, blind panic, not about shortness of breath or wild eyes. This is about the prickling right below Glaz’ skin; like a constant stream it erodes the sense of safety that’s built up over weeks or, if they’re lucky, months. Erodes the complacency like it’s dust settling in bit by bit, undisturbed and growing. Glaz has stopped minding boring. Because boring implied a routine, and calmness, and freedom from -

From the alternative.

From what’s happening right now.

If anyone asked, he’d reply that he feels safe no matter what. That he’s in control, and even if he’s not, that he knows how to regain it; after all, he senses it coming as it accumulates slowly, yet not so slow he doesn’t notice. He’s safe, even if he wakes up to a sharp jab in the side or a hand around his throat, because he can deal with it. He’s safe, even if temper flares hotly at him like an open flame, because he knows it might lick him, leave a stinging burn, but it will never consume him.

He justifies himself to this non-existent asker, someone on the outside, a concerned citizen. He does this a lot, conducts conversations like he’s Plato writing a dialogue between his teacher, Socrates, and someone unimportant, someone only necessary to play dumb and prompt the next wall of text. Glaz goes into great detail until this imaginary person is convinced. He wonders what this says about him.

So yes. He’s as confident as ever, though he takes the warning signs seriously. He listens to the tone rising in volume with each passing day, powerless to stop it but capable of manipulating it.

.

“You’ve already asked me twice what I want for breakfast so stop fucking talking about it”, snaps the love of his life, a man who leaves him breathless in so many ways each and every day.

Glaz doesn’t mention how Kapkan has failed to give a straight answer so far, and instead defuses the tension with a bratty: “Guess I’ll just feed the leftovers to the neighbour’s dog then.”

He can basically hear Kapkan perking up at this, even if his back is turned. If possible, his lover would eat meat for literally every meal, and heated up for breakfast, he’s even more unable to say no. “You know I’d eat it out of her bowl if necessary”, he grumbles, the fire having died down as quickly as it reared up. Glaz has gotten extremely good at appeasing him over the years.

“I’ll take that as a yes then”, he summarises and tosses the scraps in question into the microwave. Self neglect is one of the largest red flags Kapkan wears on his back whenever it gets bad, and it’s the one Glaz will combat head on. It’s the one he’s allowed to mention as it doesn’t scream you’re abnormal, you’re ill, you’ve got issues – instead, he can disguise it as stress, something easily forgettable, low priority. As such, it’s easiest to deal with as he can remedy it immediately: suggest taking a bath together, which is something Kapkan never refuses, or he offers to cook, pretends he’s not feeling well and needs company so Kapkan joins him in bed early. Once there, his lover falls asleep quickly, but left to his own devices, he’d stay up till morning.

No, he doesn’t need to babysit him, Glaz informs his imaginary interviewer politely yet firmly. Kapkan can and does take care of himself. But if he can facilitate it, why shouldn’t he? He receives more than enough in return. Kapkan would die for him in a heartbeat, he knows this because it almost happened before, he’d do whatever Glaz demands of him, he’s a reliable presence in Glaz’ life, loving, supportive, strong. Their infatuation is mutual and not diminished by demons which are not Kapkan’s fault.

It’s difficult to predict how this episode will go. Some cumulate in a fight, be it verbal or physical, others peak unnoticeably and then ebb until Glaz nearly forgets about the whole thing, can’t imagine a universe where they aren’t the world’s most perfect couple. People often don’t appreciate their health until they fall ill. Glaz has learnt to fiercely appreciate the days on which every smile is teased out gently instead of requiring heavy machinery to surface.

.

They met in Spetsnaz, a perceived eternity ago, and by all rights should’ve separated unscathed instead of their lives intermingling the way they did in the end. Glaz’ hand to hand was rubbish and Kapkan consistently disappointed in him, leaving them both frustrated with each other, yet not to the point of memorability. Kapkan should’ve remained that morose instructor with the hard set to his mouth, and Glaz his largely incompetent yet well-meaning student of which he’s probably had plenty. Nothing about him was remarkable – nothing about either of them, really –, until some people fell ill and some others got married, and suddenly Glaz was accompanying his fellow Spetsnaz on an extended hunting trip. As if Glaz had been fifteenth in line for the throne and fate removed all fourteen in between, and now he was at his coronation, not entirely sure how he got here.

It wasn’t the two of them alone, of course, a few acquaintances and curious souls went with them, but overall not enough people to comfortably hide one’s personality for an entire month. This is when Glaz noticed that Kapkan, when talking about his passion, was easy to look at. The glint in his otherwise piercing pale eyes was contagious and Glaz inquired a lot more about hunting in general and Kapkan’s experience specifically than he’d originally intended.

Usually, Glaz falls easily, almost at the drop of a hat. Someone smiles at him wrong, someone does him an unexpected favour, and he’s gone. Lost. If this happens, it’s fleeting. But when it takes him a while to even realise he’s staring and hovering, it means it’s serious.

They require five years to get together.

During that time, they keep invading each other’s life almost by chance, end up assigned to the same place or on the same mission, and the grin he receives when they meet once more is a genuine one. Glaz longs for more and ever more: a laugh, then a touch, time spent alone, time spent alone that’s timeless and neverending in their minds. Every new bit which he almost wishes into existence he treasures and keeps it close to his heart so it warms him during the time between their meetings. This is how he thinks of his days now – either real, actual events, or merely waiting. When Kapkan isn’t there, reality loses its focus.

He doesn’t remember the words leading up the kiss and it’s something he regrets to this day. Vaguely, he recalls words too brazen and brash for his otherwise quiet, timid character, though they probably were nothing but innocent to others. But Kapkan – Kapkan understood, Kapkan who’s known him for years and can tell it’s unusual for him, and he let it happen. Despite nothing coming back, Glaz wasn’t under the impression of his flattery to bounce off the hard exterior, rather he noticed it penetrating the roughness, finding holes in its defence. Kapkan soaked it up. He refused to dance but admired Glaz’ efforts nonetheless. And so they kissed.

Kissed in full gear, the relief of an uneventful mission flooding their systems, perched in the snow next to each other and lost in conversation instead of paying attention to something their colleagues had under control anyway. A routine extraction, no support needed, and Kapkan pulled down the cloth hiding his lower face when Glaz offered him some warm coffee, and then their lips are touching, their breath visible in the icy air and Glaz’ shoulder killing him over this odd angle.

Despite going home alone that day, he got no second of sleep. His heart wouldn’t calm down, and neither his thoughts. I’m the happiest man alive, he thought, clear as day and not a doubt in his mind.

.

“Strip.”

It does have its good sides. Two, as far as Glaz is concerned: Kapkan sticks to him like Velcro to wool, knowing nobody else can keep him in check the way his lover does. The worse it gets, the more excuses pop up to stay at home, to go out alone, to take Glaz along. He doesn’t mind switching topics and reading body language like a hawk if he can hold Kapkan’s hand in return, witness his dry wit and remarkable patience.

The second positive side effect is linked to the first. Being around each other constantly leads to certain things.

Glaz takes his time because he knows Kapkan likes it this way. He follows their established routine and discards his sweater first without revealing any skin on his torso. The motion exposes his arms, which he flexes subtly – he doesn’t need to cast a glance at his lover to know his eyes have strayed from his face. His t-shirt is next, showing off his chest and the ridges of his abs through controlled breathing and contracting his muscles at the right moment.

It’s slow, this ritual of theirs, deliberate, hides nothing. Glaz feels more and more naked in more ways than one, as if he’s laying his soul bare together with his body. Undressing is too profane a word, can’t come close to denoting what’s happening between them. He bathes in Kapkan’s attention, normally is indifferent about his own body but now takes pride as he’s being desired – a conscious action for its own sake. Kapkan wants him. It’s a state of being rather than a base need.

He isn’t unaffected. The more fabric lines the floor, the warmer the air gets: Glaz is sweating in the cool bedroom, cheeks reddened and his excitement visible, even more so once he’s fully nude. He breathes hard and dares not meet Kapkan’s gaze. This isn’t about him, after all, this is about obeying and allowing Kapkan to let off steam and an exercise in control. This is how Kapkan convinces himself he’s in control. He needs to be, desperately. And challenging him on this is the last thing Glaz wants.

“Lie down.”

The command is sharp yet leaves Glaz’ skin unmarred: he’s used to this, even looks forward to it when he begins noticing the change in Kapkan’s behaviour. Complying is natural, the sheet a cold relief under his heated body. He expected to be ordered to suck him, which is the most common request he receives in moments like these – he likes drawing it out but Kapkan usually can’t wait to be inside him, so he rarely gets to blow him under normal circumstances. Right now, when it’s about showing off the power he holds over Glaz, Kapkan doesn’t mind dragging it out. Quite the opposite.

“Hold these.”

A twitch between Glaz’ legs, he can’t tell from which body part (or maybe both?), because he knows what these words mean. He doesn’t have the peace of mind for this, he’ll fail and it’ll all be over, he already knows this. Not once has he passed this challenge, not once was he able to see it through to the end, resulting in a heavy throb in his crotch for the rest of the night until he could take care of himself without Kapkan knowing. It’s the sweetest torture, but torture it is nonetheless. He’s sure he’ll disappoint his lover.

Regardless, he lifts his hands until he can put his fingers together, letting Kapkan place objects between each pair of fingertips. Tonight, they’re bullets, threatening to slip out and fall onto his belly immediately. Whether or not he’ll be satisfied today relies entirely on his ability to hold them, restrain himself from sudden movements, concentrate until it’s over. If even only one drops, Kapkan will stop.

His tongue is hot, scorching hot, and velvety smooth, and Glaz’ eyelashes are fluttering. He stares at the bare ceiling, praying to an unknown deity for strength and presence of mind, and then he’s enveloped whole. His body shakes with his stuttering in- and exhales, but he keeps the ammunition where it is. For now.

This is what it must feel like when he services Kapkan. Hardly more than teasing, only just enough to keep his pleasure climbing and climbing, however minuscule the progress. Glaz cherishes every centimetre he slips further into the wet heat and curses it simultaneously. His mouth is struggling to produce sound as it doesn’t seem to know what’s appropriate; no moans escape him, his gasps are aborted and all that leaves his throat is a pained gargling, almost unwilling because he wants this so bad, wants to enjoy it yet has to stop himself from losing to the overwhelming pleasure.

Only when Kapkan sits up does Glaz realise how tense he is, that every muscle in his body was painfully taut. Bit by bit, he relaxes consciously, fighting back the memory of how it felt to be touched, licked, loved like this in order to focus. One of the metal objects has shifted, so he corrects it. Just in time before a hand closes around him.

The callouses on their own do nothing for him, but paired with perfect technique and the knowledge of all his sensitive spots, it’s nearly too much. Glaz moves into the motion, lifts his hips in the hopes of a speedier resolution, cursing inwardly when the rhythm slows to a crawl in response. Kapkan isn’t making this easy for him, that’s the whole point. The ministrations cease again for a moment, Glaz’ thighs are lifted, his legs bent, and this time, when he feels a tongue exploring him, it’s further down.

He squeezes his eyelids shut. This is too much. He can’t bear it. His toes twitch with pangs of discomfort, but when the hand returns, the mixture tilts into nothing but pure bliss. With every lick, his hands jolt, and he’s somehow still holding on to the bullets, without knowing how but not caring, not when he’s being opened through nothing but Kapkan’s mouth. He can feel his breath ghosting over his skin.

When he can’t take it anymore, he seeks other outlets. He digs his heels into the mattress, throws his head left and right, moans and whimpers and keens at the digits probing deep while a slick muscle tugs on his rim and a tight grip brings him closer and closer. He’s shivering as if it was below zero, and still his fingers don’t budge. The centre of his universe are these five gleaming items, and fanning out from there is deep elation emerging from inside him. Moving isn’t against the rules, so he writhes and rises and falls, strains upwards and downwards and rides towards his climax with chattering teeth. He can’t lose himself or everything will be in vain. But he wants to, oh does he want to.

His orgasm shatters him. His back curves as soon as the first wave hits him, and there he remains, right on the zenith, the sensations hardly fluctuating – instead it’s a steady stream of impossible pleasure and relief flooding him and his rigid form. He’s so tightly coiled that he presses out the bullets from between his fingertips, the warmed metal falling to his stomach and mixing with the long stripes painted onto his own skin, but he couldn’t care less. It’s monumental and leaves him shuddering for a minute afterwards, still revelling in the intensity of the moment.

Sinking back into the pillows, it’s as if a spell has been lifted. Kapkan regards him with a mixture of pride and smugness, warming Glaz’ heart: gone is the no-nonsense stare, the hard set to his mouth, the roughness in his touch. They smile at each other, a soft palm trailing over Glaz’ hips and thighs, and all he wants is to sleep curled up against this man whom he knows so well.

“Turn around”, says Kapkan. And though there’s a gentle hint in his voice, it’s obvious he won’t accept a no.

He doesn’t ask whether it’s alright for Glaz, because he’d let him know if it wasn’t. They’re both aware Glaz would speak up, meaning his compliance directly implies permission. This unspoken rule makes a lot of things easier.

No preparation needed, Kapkan has worked him open with his mouth and fingers already, so he slides right into the sensitive and overstimulated hole. Up to the hilt. Glaz’ whine is lost in the pillows.

“You’re beautiful”, Kapkan whispers and Glaz feels it in his throat, balls his hands into fists and clenches them around the sheets because he won’t be shown any more patience this evening.

Despite the discomfort, he likes this, too, the rawness of it and the glimpse he gets of undisguised emotions. In between sharp snaps and hard thrusts, Kapkan compliments him, each of his words melting Glaz below him, and the kisses now and then mask the loud noises. He doesn’t dare reciprocate, keeps his vocalisations garbled and takes it without moving, drinking in the growls and not commenting on the teeth burying into his skin. They’ll leave marks, he knows this.

This is what Kapkan’s composed attitude from before hid, this is what he really feels. Glaz would never deprive him of this, no matter how uncomfortable it is, because it’s one of the purest displays of Kapkan’s love. He can’t get enough of Glaz, doesn’t seem to know what to do with all this affection he harbours, so now and then it spills over. It’s reassuring. Their feelings for each other are this strong.

While Kapkan showers, Glaz gathers the bullets and lines them up on the bedside table. Reflecting the soft light from outside, they shimmer like golden stars.

Glaz is aware they might use them to end someone’s life.

.

This time, the climax announces itself. Like a freight train, it makes itself known from quite a distance away, whereas Glaz is chained to the tracks; he’s got a date and even a time when he’ll be able to stare into the conductor’s eyes. He realises with horror that he’ll have to ride this one out, no way around it: Kapkan is scheduled for the exercise and found out before Glaz did, eliminating the possibility of approaching Harry about it. His defence would’ve been weak yet honest – in the moment, Kapkan will act and react exactly like his intensive training ingrained in him, no doubt about it. It’s the after which causes Glaz considerable anguish. But re-assigning him would draw his attention and then Glaz would bear the brunt of it personally and not by association.

Kapkan has been getting worse for a while now, his light, restless sleep a good indicator for rising agitation, and as soon as he hears about the exercise, he knows. No way around this either: he knows. Stubborn as he is, he’ll walk right into it expecting a different outcome, will deny any parallels locked in his mind between watching his colleagues go down, not knowing where the shots were coming from, expecting to be next, and experiencing much of the same in a controlled setting. I know it’s not real, he says, and then a different voice must pop up in his mind later: But this was. Remember? Let me remind you.

Glaz is fully aware of what will happen and Kapkan too, and still inaction is his best option. He distracts him with little sessions of having Kapkan describe a mutual acquaintance or friend while drawing exactly what he says and then prompting outraged chuckles when he presents the final result. He cooks every day, either breakfast or dinner, and Kapkan lets him. This is what worries Glaz the most, because he’s sure Kapkan can tell he’s walking on eggshells around him, and instead of calling him out on it, he accepts it quietly. Seems to appreciate the kid gloves. He’s never done this before, and it’s terrifying.

Two days before the scheduled catastrophe, Glaz finds himself in the kitchen, staring at the open cutlery drawer and catching himself wondering where he should stow it all. It takes him a long while to realise he’s crying, and even longer to understand why – Kapkan is in good hands tonight, out with people Glaz knows he can trust, and he’s had a relaxing evening involving a long bath, a good film, and delicious leftovers. He should be feeling better than he did all week, yet it’s achieved the opposite effect: all the pent-up tension is flowing out of him in salty droplets now that he doesn’t need to be painfully aware of his surroundings at all times. His joints are aching and he’s shivering; stress has caught up with him as well as all the thinking he postponed to less rainy days.

He thinks about how eerily calm Kapkan has been. How much he has postponed as well.

Slamming the drawer shut, he heads straight to bed and ignores the icy tendrils curling around his limbs, even though they only recede once Kapkan has joined him hours later.

.

The next morning, his outburst and physical discomfort become crystal clear, though the newfound explanation does nothing to quell Glaz’ dread. He’s ill.

Neither the first time nor the last he’s dragged himself into work despite a fever, though most of his co-workers care enough to point out his paleness. Staring back from the mirror is an ashen-faced shadow of a man drenched in sweat, and though it’s probably only the flu, the implications are far-reaching. Depending on whether he gets better today or not, he won’t be able to work tomorrow. Or accompany Kapkan. Cushion his fall.

At the end of the day, it seems an impossibility – concentrating on anything requires much more brain capacity than he has to spare, and keeping himself hydrated and fed is a task so monumental he can’t possibly shoulder it twice. Barely does he notice Kapkan shoving him into the shower to wash off the uncomfortable clamminess left on his skin, and the next time he’s lucid, he’s in bed with a jug of water on the nightstand. He must’ve been forced to take some medicine as the aching isn’t as bad anymore, he no longer feels like shedding his own skin and the pounding in his head has subsided. Like this, he can hardly depend on himself.

The air is fluffy snow on his skin, impeding his movements and causing his teeth to clack together as he fights his way to the living room, intent on spending every minute he can in Kapkan’s presence to soothe them both. All he gains, however, is an angry snarl and a manhandling the way he came – his lover isn’t having any of it. Still. He remains by Glaz’ side and he probably has his own pitiful whining to thank for it. Throughout the rest of the evening and the night, whenever he wakes up, there’s a solid presence behind his back. And even if Kapkan barely sleeps himself, he stays right where he is.

.

Waking up to an empty bed is a blow Glaz could do without. He feels better – marginally –, but what sends him into a full blown panic is the realisation that it’s out of his hands now. However Kapkan reacts today, he won’t be present to absorb the shock, and he can’t figure out the best course of action when he’s ignorant of what happened. Calling someone else to inquire in detail seems messy as it’d get them talking, meaning all he can do is wait.

So he waits.

Waits like someone on death row, barely touches the food Kapkan placed next to the refilled jug and skims the books next to the food listlessly. And waits. Waits for the inevitable jingling of keys, steps which might be soft or loud or disorientated, maybe the calling of his name. Several hours, he waits for it and when it happens, he’s still not ready.

“How do you feel?”, is Kapkan’s only question as he helps Glaz up, wraps him in a spare blanket and changes the soaked sheets.

He takes an eternity to answer. “Better”, he says through the headache and the shivering.

A stern glance. “You’ve always been a horrible liar.” And that’s that.

They spend the evening next to each other once more, Kapkan devouring his dinner while awkwardly perched on the mattress and reading something on his phone, and Glaz still waits. It’ll happen. It can happen any moment now, he knows this, knows the exercise took place as he got a text about it, and so he waits.

He recovers over the weekend and returns to work on Monday. They went for a few walks which left him weak but sharper-minded due to the fresh air, but as much as he scrutinises the mild-mannered man by his side, he finds no indicators of a lurking rage, simmering deep below. He knows it’s there. He knows it will surface in some way, maybe not directed at the environment but inwards.

Kapkan showers without a reminder. He brings Glaz meals and drops a comment about Glaz’ schedule being so messed up he doesn’t even know when to eat anymore. He tries to draw a squirrel for half an hour and only stops because Glaz is dizzy from laughing so much.

Gradually, he stops waiting. Healthy again, he knows he can deal with it whenever it comes, and so he focuses on the present.

And it never happens.

.

About four months later, Kapkan snaps at a grocery clerk for something insignificant. He leaves Glaz drooling, panting, shuddering and wholly satisfied that night after two hours of rigorous teasing. The next day, he jumps a foot in the air over someone dropping their phone.

A few people ask Glaz whether Kapkan is alright. He just smiles and assures them that yes, he’s doing fine. No, he doesn’t need any support. Yes, he’s got it all under control.

This time, he doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone made up.

That evening, he develops a fierce headache. It turns into a migraine so bad he can barely walk, so he whispers to Kapkan that he’s going to bed early and no, he doesn’t need to join him, he’ll be alright, he doesn’t need anything, and still he’s encased in strong arms not five minutes later and forced to swallow a pill which he instead hides under the mattress. He suggests some ice cream might help, and a shoulder massage, and miraculously, he feels much better the next morning.

When he enters the kitchen, Kapkan is whistling to himself, horribly out of tune and unconcerned who might hear him. He only whistles on good days.

“Better?”, he greets Glaz with a tone implying it’s Glaz’ own responsibility to remain healthy, but pulls him to his chest regardless, carding a hand through his hair gently. He’s soft. When Glaz nuzzles him with his nose, he lets out a low chuckle which reverberates in Glaz’ own torso. He’s never felt this safe.

“Yes”, he mumbles against warm skin. “Much better.”

#rainbow six siege #kapkan #glaz #kapkan/glaz #fanfic #oneshot #this flowed out of my fingertips so thank you so much for the request! #also sorry for taking forever #I hope this works with what you imagine in any case

[loveactualharry]

The Shamrock of the Sea [A Niall Horan short fiction.]

Good evening lovely people. I haven't been able to post anything decent on here for a while, and I know many of you are still waiting for part 3 of "December, 1997" - I'll be quick on that : it's coming next week.

Meanwhile, you might or might not be interested in a little Niall thing!

I originally wrote it for a friend, but I thought It'd be nice to share. So, here it's Part 1 of The Shamrock and The Sea.

Overview: Niall is the only son of a wealthy Irish family in 1897. He sails to New York to negotiate a business on behalf of his father. But The Shamrock has a different fate for him in mind.

Facts: Harry has a part in it as well!

--------——-------------------------------

24th July 1897

“Lily. For you, again.”

Her colleague had panted, throwing the umpteenth letter on her bed. She swiftly lifted up, sitting on the slender, uncomfortable mattress. Her fingers unfolded that paper, slightly wrinkly and rough. The words gathered in the middle of the page, written in a neat, clean handwriting. She noticed how the letters slightly leaned towards the right angle: the author of those verses had to have been lefthanded, she figured.

“One more? Jesus, it’s the sixth in five days.” Sarah remarked, absentmindedly tying the back of her apron.

“I know! Lily, are you sure you don’t know who sent them?” Selene asked with hands on her hips, squinting her eyes. Sarah darted at her, then turned around rolling her eyes. She did not like the questioning tone she always put out. And anyway, she was the last person in the position of questioning her colleagues, especially after Sarah had caught her sneaking out of his cabin. She twitched nervously at the mere thought.

Lily, however, failed to catch the jealousy displayed in the eyes of her best friend, still too caught up in her own thoughts to even care.

“I told you both, and a million times: I have no idea. I don’t know who sent them. Maybe…maybe it’s just a mistake.” She tried to convince herself, getting up and rubbing her palms on the wrinkly surface of her work uniform.

“Or maybe it’s a secret admirer.” Sarah winked at her with a silly face, “A secret admirer who is also a poet. Wait, maybe he is rich! Maybe it’s Lord Styles!” she battled her eyelashes, looking up with a dreamy face, before curling her lips and darting her eyes towards her friend, tapping her foot. “Are you fucking Lord Styles? You’d better not, or I’ll-”

Lily let out a puffed laugh, placing her hands on Sarah’s shoulders. She adjusted her long, silky hair, shaking her head. “I am not doing anything with Lord Styles. First off, he is way too out of our league, and second, I could never do this to you.”

They both tried to look serious but burst out in a loud laugh.

Selena looked at them from afar, hands still on her hips.

“Shut up, you are going to get us all in trouble. We’d better get to work.”

Sarah rolled her eyes again, sneaking out of her friend’s hug to follow the other girl outside.

“Yes, miss. But seriously, Lily, try to find out who this secret admirer is. Maybe one of the musicians?” she hinted.

“I think we are setting out hopes too high. For what we knew, it could be some kind of joke.”

She lowered her eyes, looking at the words inked on the paper one last time.

“You, that's what I've been missing,

Was tangled up and twisted

Now all the clouds been lifted

Lately, my heart's been so empty.”

Her heart still beat in the hope that it would be no joke.

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

Dublin, 14th July 1897

HORAN, NIALL JAMES.

The name was inked on that yellowish piece of paper. He read it one last time, then raised his blue, wide eyes. Niall was still amazed at that monumental, imponent structure in front of him. His gaze run on the long, majestic right broadside of the ship. Not far away from him, the long cue on the third-class passenger’s footbridge disgorged in a chaotic mass of unhealthy-looking and dirty men, women and children, gathering upon each other, pushing and shouting phrases in Gaelic.

“Come on, son, let’s move forward.”

His father grabbed his arm, dragging him around, in the that multitude of souls, looking for some sort of salvation on that ship. “The Shamrock of The Sea”, they had called it, in the hope that it would cast the light of good luck upon those travelling on it to the new world. Niall had heard many times his father ramble about how he knew the lord who had funded the construction of the Shamrock, but he had never paid much attention to that. He had never been fond of business and funding, and he had a relative interest in the world of major buyers and sellers. He knew, though, that the trip to America would be a lifechanging path for him, and he was grateful that his father had put enough expectations on him to give him the opportunity to go and negotiate a business on his behalf. New York was waiting for him, and he was excited. Yet, much as he loved his hometown and his country, he wished he didn’t have to come back to Ireland.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this, my baby? You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

His mother stopped to wipe a few tears away from her cheeks. She hadn’t stopped crying ever since they had left Mullingar a few days before. Niall found it sweet and heart-breaking at the same time. Mr. Horan senior asked two of their servants to load his son’s trunk and all his belonging up on board. The boy cupped his mother’s cheeks, looking at Maura with a half-smile.

“I’m alright, ma. I’ll do what I have to do and…I’ll be right back to you sooner that you think. Stop crying for me, will ya, ma?”

The lady smiled through her whimpers and nodded. He held her close in one last, long hug.

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

18th July 1897

Niall had spent the first few days wandering around, exploring all the salons, hallways and decks he had access to. Of course, travelling as a first-class passenger had its advantages. Nobody would pay much attention to him wandering around every part of the ship. He liked to look at the other people around him though. He fancied reading and collecting the multitude of emotions displayed on everyone’s face. Most of the passengers were rich, wealthy people, happy to be there, excited about their new adventure and all the comforts that would accompany them to the new world. He could recognize them. Not only by the clear expensiveness of their clothing and shiny jewels, but also because they wore proud smiles on their lips. The men often gathered around the counter of the bar for a sip of whiskey, or they would play cards, setting their bets higher and higher each time. Niall liked to play bets with himself, too. For example, he enjoyed betting on who would have lost at least half of their fortune before even getting to America. One of his favourites to bet on was Lord Styles. He was rich, extremely rich, apparently. And he would walk around the salons with a proud smile on his lips and, very often, more than one woman behind him. He had heard stories about him: he was, apparently, the most coveted bachelor of the whole Cheshire county. And nobody knew why. Niall liked to take the piss out of him, and he didn’t like him very much.

Sometimes, he liked to wander along the lower decks of the ship, and once he had even reached the stern, where the third-class passengers where hoarded. In was different, down there. Hidden in their cheap cabins, mother would try to soften the cry of their many children, shrieking out of fear and hunger. Some young men would whimper, facing the parapet running along the back deck, looking back and thinking about the mother and lovers they had left behind. Niall wondered which storied they carried along. He wanted to ask, sometimes. But he knew the wound of leaving their motherland behind was still too fresh, and scars were still wide open and too delicate.

His trip from Mullingar to Dublin had been long and exhausting, and over the past few nights he still hadn’t been able to adjust to his new bed, losing more sleep than he should have. His sunken eyes and his slightly unshaved face made him look older than he actually was, and he knew he needed some rest. After all, it would be a long trip to New York, and most of the times he preferred staying up at night to write or play his beloved fiddle. So, after lunch he found his way through the decks and staircases, to the cabin 402. He let his gaze travel up to the golden number on the black wooden door, then opened it, still holding the case of his fiddle in one hand. He rarely left it behind and found some kind of comfort in carrying it around with him.

The girl in the room flinched, then turned around as the key clicked in the lock. Niall stepped in, and there she was. She had dark, brown hair, which were thin and shiny. He couldn’t see her eyes, though. He put his fiddle on the freshly made bed, furrowing his thick, ash-blond eyebrows as he slowly walked towards her.

“Good afternoon, Sir. My apologies, I was just bringing fresh towels for you.”

She performed a quick, small bow in front of him. Then, she left with a fleeting glance. Niall noticed how her big brown eyes had rested upon his face for a little longer, before she stormed out of the cabin. He felt his throat go dry for a couple seconds, standing like frozen on the spot. He was normally not an impulsive man, usually very calm and thoughtful. But there was no hesitation in his steps, which led him out of that cabin, after grabbing the pile of white towels she had just left inside. His deep, blue irises squinted, looking around the corridor till he spotted her.

“Excuse me?” he called.

The brown-eyed girl turned around in his direction, still holding one hand on the handle of the wooden trolley she was pushing around on the mahogany wooden floor.

Niall straightened his back as he walked towards her in long strides. There they were face to face again. Now he could see. She looked younger than him, a couple years maybe, he guessed. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she carried no ring on her left hand.

“Yes, sir?” she patiently said, bringing Niall back to reality. She was staring at him, now. He had wide, deep, baby-blue eyes. His hair, she thought, resembled a dense honeypot, fluffy and perfectly combed. His cheeks were slightly puffy, making him look younger than he actually was, in contrast with the shallow shade of beard. He had thin lips, and a lovely dimple rested beneath his chin.

“Aye, I…I need to have my towels changed.” He demanded. Then mentally cursed himself.

She furrowed her brows in confusion, taking one step back.

“My apologies, Sir, but I brought laundry-fresh ones no more than one minute ago.”

Niall tapped his foot on the floor, following an irregular rhythm.

“I know, I saw you. I just don’t think they are clean and fresh enough.” He stated, handing her the pile of cloths.

She slightly parted her lips, but bit her tongue right after, taking a new pile from the trolley.

“As you command, sir.” She answered, handing the fresher towels to the man, never breaking eye contact, till she once again bowed before him and went back her own way.

“Many thanks, miss…”

His eyes were quick enough to shoot a glance at the silver name badge on her chest. He stood there, watching her walk away, holding the new towels in his right hand, before heading back to cabin number 402. He locked the door, frantically opening his large, black trunk, searching for ink and paper. Niall sat on the floor, writing her name on that page. Lily.

#harry styles #harry #love #writer #hs #writing #harry styles writing #harrystyles #writings for harry #niallhoran #niall imagine #cute niall #niall horan #niall horan fanfiction #niall horan fic #niall horan fluff #niall horan blurb #niall horan fandom #narry storan #narry fanfiction

[rae-gar-targaryen]

only as alone as i wanna be | [bh]

A/N: Well instead of working on my Peter Parker writing challenge fic, Billy Hargrove won’t leave my brain alone. So here we go. 

I’ve retconned the Billy & Max relationship a bit for this, so it’s a lil au. Sorry!

Please let me know if you think I should continue!

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader (I’m still trying to get the hang of writing for the “reader.” Hopefully this is vague enough that you can imagine yourself. If not, send me feedback so I can get better!) 

Warnings: Language. Passing, vague mentions of sex. Some Billy Hargrove chain-smoking. Bad writing with a jumpy plot. Seriously, I think I’m way too abrupt. Please send feedback. This one is probably doomed for a re-write. 

Word Count: 2.4k of nonsensical, self-important musical references and haphazard, fleeting feelings.

Summary: The snarky record store girl does not like Billy Hargrove. Not at all. 

**NOT MY GIF!** 

—

Winter, 1984

The bell dinged above the door, a jarring interval between the wistful tones of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Take Me Back. Prompting you to look up from your stack of records in mild annoyance. It had been such a productive day until now, and the vinyl wasn’t going to restock itself. 

Well. 

Had you known Mr. Born-In-The-USA-Bruce-Springsteen himself was going to walk in, you would’ve played something far less his taste than Siouxsie. Just to annoy him. Serves him right, right? 

He paused in the doorway of the shop, wrinkling his nose almost imperceptibly as the sound hit his ears, before striding on toward the “Pop/Rock” section of the store, thumbing his way through Motley Crue’s latest.

Figures, you thought. A man who douses himself with as much commercial-ass hairspray and cologne would like some commercial-ass garbage “metal.” Besides, you’d walked past the blue Camaro enough times in the school parking lot to hear the dulcet tones of whatever bland-ass hair metal he was currently into trying its best to blast the doors off of his beloved metal steed. 

You felt a twinge of guilt. You shouldn’t judge the customers for their musical taste so quickly– but between the old church ladies who came in for Handel’s Messiah or whatever they had heard over public radio that week, and the girls from your class riffing on Madonna, you had had just about enough. 

Hadn’t anyone experienced the true depth of Queen? Keep Yourself Alive, man!

You had been working at Hawkins’ local record store during the summers since childhood – Old Mr. Cohen who owned the place used to let you sort tapes into piles for cents on the hour until you were old enough for a real job. Immersed in the music since a young age, you appreciated the breadth and depth the shop had to offer– your favorites developing into pieces heavy on synth. Bonus points if the lyrics made you feel especially existential. You loved that moody shit. 

Now, at 17, you practically ran the place, Mr. Cohen comfortable with leaving you to your devices at the store, so long as the till was counted and inventory was properly stocked. You were grateful for the freedom– squeezing homework into slow nights and chatting about deeper portions of discography with regulars.

Billy Hargrove was not a regular. Neither did he promise a slow night, if the rumors amongst your female classmates were to be believed. Not that you partook in the Hawkins High rumor mill. 

He was a recent, but obtrusive, arrival in your high school’s social scene. Mere months into his appearance in your town and the age-in-kind female population had seemingly lost their brain cells faster than inhaling their usual clouds of hairspray could do it for them. 

Still, you had to admit, he was good-looking. The Springsteen comparison was apt. Billy Hargrove wore jeans like he was doing the denim a favor. His shirts usually two-thirds of the way unbuttoned, even in winter, which was not an unkind sight. His sun-kissed, California boy skin stood a stark contrast to the pallor of the Indiana natives you grew up with. His eyes were crystalline and swam like oceans of trouble and broken promises. 

My god. You were a moody-ass bitch. Waxing poetic about this jock-strap of a human being who you’d heard pummelled Steve Harrington and nearly drowned himself in beer and barely-legal pussy. Come on, babe. Get it together.

He strode up to you at the counter, his boots clunking against the store’s tiled floor. Shout at the Devil was clutched in his fist. 

He dropped the vinyl on the counter, eyes cast down and swiping a cigarette out of the packet in his jacket pocket and lighting up, the clink-thwip of his lighter meeting your ears before you could tell him to put it out. 

“You can’t do that in here,” you told him. 

He hummed in not-acknowledgment-acknowledgment, choosing to ignore you as he inhaled deeply.

“Seriously, dude. Old man Cohen hates that shit. Put it out or go outside and finish it. If your tits don’t freeze off. Since they’re, you know, halfway out of your shirt like that? You do know it’s December. In Indiana. Right?” You pressed, knowing full well you were being obnoxious. If only to make a point. Game recognize game, right? 

He looked up, ocean eyes meeting your own. His frown was instantaneous. 

“Fine,” he huffed. Before promptly stubbing out his cigarette on your freshly wiped counter, dropping the butt to the floor and twisting it under his booted heel.

“Ugh. Come on, man. I have to clean that now.” 

“You were so adamant about it before.” 

“Whatever man. Just the Motley Crue for you today?” You pressed. Why is he prolonging this interaction?

He rolled his eyes, his line of sight catching on the promotional sign above the counter. 

“Well, now, that says new vinyl is two for one. Which one can I get with this?” 

You dropped your head and exhaled deeply– So this was how this evening was going to go. You gestured at the New Release wall to the left of the front counter. 

“Anything from here, Pretty Boy. New vinyl.” 

Cool as you please, if you please.

Billy glanced at you, sensing your annoyance. A smirk graced his lips. He knew if he prolonged this interaction it would surely get a rise out of you.  

He held up Burning From the Inside, Bauhaus’s latest release. New, but not new.

“What about this one? Cover art is alright.” He gestured at the gothica aesthetic adorning the front jacket.

“That’s Bauhaus,” you informed him, as though that would explain everything.

“Bauhaus? What is that?” 

You snorted. 

“No, seriously. What is that? Is that like … a sex thing?” he asked, derisively. 

“It’s not a sex thing. It’s more of a not-your-kind-of-thing thing,” you stated primly. 

“And how would you know what my thing is, princess? I’m guessing by the black-on-black and torn fishnets you’d be all to familiar with whatever a Bauhaus is,” he retorted.

“Well….” You went to the used pile and grabbed Press Eject and Give Me the Tape, before putting it over the speakers. As Bela Lugosi’s Dead started to play throughout the store, Billy looked unamused. 

“They broke up last year. Gone too soon,” you explained, wistfully. You put your hand over your heart as though in mourning. 

He leaned one arm on the counter, Motley Crue seemingly long forgotten. 

“So, what is this song?”

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead? Like, Stairway to Heaven, but for goths, I guess,” you reasoned. “I’m guessing you’re more of a Scorpions kind of guy? We have Love At First Sting,” you gestured vaguely toward the wall. 

Billy quirked an eyebrow at you. 

“And how would you know what kind of guy I am, princess?” His voice lowering as he leans even further over the counter.

“Um. If the female population at our school is to be believed? Well, you get it…” you trailed off. “Plus, I don’t know, have you looked in a mirror lately? Scratch that. You probably don’t stop looking in mirrors. Should I cover the reflective surfaces in the store, lest you get distracted?” 

Billy at least had the decency to look shocked at your barb. 

But not before recovering quickly. 

“Maybe you just cover the reflective surfaces in here to hide the fact that you don’t have a reflection,” he quipped.

You were stunned. Your eyes widened.

“Was that a– vampire joke, Hargrove?”

Billy shrugged. “Well, If the post-punk bullshit shoe fits… I mean, what even is playing over the speakers right now? I’m in here enough to know Cohen lets his employees pick the music from the Used pile during their shifts. Though clearly I don’t come in often enough during your shifts.”

“Thank God for that,” you sighed. 

Deciding he’d had enough of the banter, Billy snagged Black Flag’s latest off of the New Release wall. 

“Two for one, right?” he snarked, slapping down enough cash for one album before grabbing his findings off of the counter and striding out into the wintery evening– the bell over the door clanging after him for good measure. Like an exclamation point on whatever the ever loving fuck that conversation was. Did you— offend him??

You decided, sweeping up the not-forgotten ash from his cigarette off the floor that you didn’t ever need to have an interaction with Billy Hargrove again. You were most decidedly not post-punk bullshit.

–

Billy Hargrove had never been so ruffled in all of his life. 

Throwing the two vinyl sleeves down in the passenger seat of his beloved Camaro, he slammed the door behind him.

Clink-Thwip.

Billy lit up, the chemical rush of his deep inhale-exhale instantly soothing his frazzled nerves. 

He flicked the lid of his lighter a few more times, for good measure. A nervous habit. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. 

“ ‘Never stop looking in a mirror,’ my ass,” he grumbled, meeting his eyes in the rear-view before realizing what he was doing and looking away. 

He’d seen that girl before. She sat alone in the cafeteria most times, headphones on, reading a book. She seemed like the type to enjoy Slyvia Plath. Not that he knew enough about Slyvia Plath to really know what that type of girl was. He swore his mom owned a coverworn copy of some novel or another with that name on it. 

He drove away, tires squealing behind him, hair metal blasting from his speakers. Okay, so maybe you’d been right about his musical taste. It’s not like he’d give you the satisfaction. Besides, he’d bought BLACK FLAG, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t know him. 

But still, he couldn’t deny, there was something about your demeanor. Your witticism. Your bad type. And yeah, maybe he’d sneaked a peek at your ass when you came around from the counter to scold him for smoking. Sue him, he was only human. 

He knew there was more to you. A sweet undertone– like peaches and cream. Also maybe he liked ruffling your proverbial feathers. Just maybe. 

He had asked Tommy about you at school the next day. 

Tommy shrugged, but not before looking over at the corner of the cafeteria where you sat. 

“I don’t know man. She’s hot. But, like, in the way weird girls are hot. You can look, but touching may cost you.” 

Billy didn’t know what that meant. But Tommy was literally too stupid to insult. So he bit back a comment effectuating that he didn’t care and slammed the rest of his can of Coke. 

–

You had seen him before. From his tire-squealing entry into your town, you were certain you’d had him pegged from Jump Street. The chain-smoking, that infernal clink-twhip of his American Flag lighter. The keg stands. The raucous screaming in Steve Harrington’s face.

“Plant your feet, Harrington!”

Plant your feet indeed. Lest you be bowled over with unwanted, obtrusive thoughts of the potential depths of Billy Hargrove’s soul. If such a thing existed.

Seriously, though. Why would he buy a Black Flag album? If there was one thing Billy Hargrove was not, you decided, it was punk rock. 

You’d seen him take his sister to the arcade, and wait for her after school. Was it brotherly affection that motivated these little Babysitter’s Club moments, or was he forced to? Still, you saw the way that girl on the skateboard looked up at her seemingly cool older brother. Like he hung the stars. 

He did brush off Tina after the basketball game last week. And, he bought Black Flag. That man had never listened to Black Flag in all of his life. You were sure of it.

Could he really be all bad? 

–

The semester pressed on. Billy Hargrove at the fringe of your thoughts and your eye-line. Was he trying to talk to you in school?

You had the closing shift at the store again on Saturday. You were in the midst of carrying a box of tapes up the stairs from the storage room when you heard the ding of the bell above the door. You sighed, put the box down, and made your way toward the front to greet the customer. Upon seeing the back of Billy Hargrove’s perfectly coiffed, curly head, you were ready to turn back around and act like you hadn’t seen him. Too late. He clearly knew you were working. 

“Please don’t let it be you,” you groaned. 

“No promises, dollface.” 

You stood in front of him, hands on your hips. 

“So? What can I do for you?”

Billy smirked. “I can think of a few things, sweetheart,” he drawled, quirking a perfectly arched brow just so. You hated that you now noticed these things about Billy Hargrove’s perfectly stupid and stupidly perfect face. 

“I don’t have time for this, Pretty Boy.” 

“When are you off?” He asked.

“After close,” you said. 

“Go out with me.” Billy Hargrove said, now surely unsure of himself.

“And why in the ever-loving-fuck would I do that?” You had to hand it to yourself. You were doing a damn good job of looking like you didn’t care. Meanwhile, your insides were pudding and you were just sure he knew it, too.

“Because you want to. Because I want you to. Because– Because I want to. Because I listened to Black Flag. Because I get your whole thing, plaid skirt and all,” he stated, gesturing vaguely over your person. 

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to answer him. Instead, you diverted. Diversion is good, right?

“Where’s your usual crowd of hairsprayed hangers-on? Or are you always alone after school?”

“Only as alone as I wanna be, doll,” He drawled. 

You’d had to hand it to Billy Hargrove. He could definitely turn a phrase when he wanted to. His crystalline eyes could definitely see right through you. As the flush travelled through your body, taking in his artful smirk and powerful visage, you knew:

Billy Hargrove was going to be the death of you. Like the satisfyingly sweet pour of languid waves of syrup cascading over waffles, drowning you in a beautiful, thick avalanche of a saccharine dream. A powdered sugar kiss dusting over your better senses, coating them in the flush of dripping endearment. 

Surely you could be alone together? The crystal ball and the odyssey. 

Would you go?

tagging bc you inspire me:

@nappingtopknot @ayeayecaptaingally @hey-its-grey @tigerlilynoh @andallthatmishigas @oh-star-how-the-mighty-fall @youngmoneymilla @noturjacky  (If you don’t want to be tagged, feel free to ignore, or tell me firmly -- but possibly politely?? to fuck off) 

#billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x oc #bad poetry #stranger things imagine #please be gentle #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #billy hargrove oneshot #billy hargrove one shot #billy hargrove fluff #stranger things s2 #stranger things s3 #dacre montgomery #dacre montgomery fic #dacre montgomery x reader #dacre montgomery imagine #dacre montgomery oneshot #only as alone is I wanna be

[unproduciblesmackdown]

here’s the matter of fact text post re: i guess i achieved the goal of an intermittent thing i’d do where i’d try to find anyone online talking about the ‘weird’ experience i have with masturbation which is, inherently, not exciting or anything but it’s like, even if i just Know of course it’s not just me, i want to like, hear someone else talk about anything similar ever, b/c so far it’s just a text post i saw once and can’t ever rediscover and someone talking about their experience that stems from an inapplicable physical trauma so....Yay, seeing as it’s been years i’ve been like “seriously though” lmao  

i was like Lol @ myself b/c i was like “man after i try for like 30 sec to crank it it a) doesn’t go anywhere hardly and b) i lose interest Way fast and it’s like mildly annoying” and so i thought about that post that’s like [me after sex: well that was a waste of my goddamn time. anyway back to speedrunning] but that’s me after a halfhearted attempt to masturbate and not really getting anything out of it anyways lmaoo like. it’s okay or i wouldn’t even bother fairly regularly but also it tends to end with like, me going off on a distracted tangent for even a moment and it can just hit an absolute brick wall like okay i don’t even have the Interest in continuing with this anymore like i might’ve had before starting like Well That Was A Waste Of My Goddamn Time Anyway Back To [whatever it is that i do]

and then like either that same night or the next my dreams had the audacity to get deeply uncomfortable for no reason like. all i do is have Anxiety Dream Themes thrown together where like. for example as i write this, two nights ago i had a dream segment about “i’m on vacation at the beach” but it was all Anxiety b/c it’ll all be about how i can hardly visit said beach coz i keep getting sidetracked at the hotel or w/e while i’m Trying to visit it while i still can, and last night i had the same Theme but trying and failing to ride roller coasters (which i Enjoy irl) and like, the beach one in particular recurs not Too infrequently lmao where i’m surprised by the rarity of something like “you’re at the beach and it’s fun” lol.......i don’t have anything i’d call a nightmare too often but Anxiety / a somewhat threatening/worrisome situation is like, fairly constant lol, with some occasionally more neutral stuff and a really rare Fun Dream but anyways it was still Bizarre that my dreams pitched me “you’re Someone who i guess is dating this abstract Partner and the scenario is you feel obligated to have sex with them” and it was weird like, woke up the next day like “why did my brain drag me through this deeply unpleasant dream situation” like. not totally unheard of for my dreams to touch on a Scene ft. sex and/or physical intimacy and even on occasion it’ll be an “i’m (or whoever i am as a maybe semi-abstract First Person camera character lol maybe ft. some particular concept attached to the ‘role’) having some sexual encounter and it’s Fine or enjoyable” but it’s generally fleeting As Per Usual Dream Structure and it’s like why was this one that sucked like, particularly dragged out by those usual dream standard’s, come on

anyways so going “haha i’m living the Waste Of My Goddamn Time thing” and “well thank you to my own brain for a bizarre and unpleasant experience while i’m just trying to be passed tf out” i was like “let’s look up again why not only can i not seem to orgasm but also like even expecting a way lower level of stimulation still Disappoints sometime like why do i bother” and yeah after first going the “does anyone Never manage to Not slam into a brick wall / basically completely lose interest all at once or practically all at once even and it all goes back to zero even if you started at like maybe a 1 or 1.5 and sometimes it happens with going down a random mental track” route i interestingly got some cis guys going “yeah hate when that happens on occasion” but yeah by now i had of course given up on “can i come at this from an [experiencing sensory input and processing from an autistic angle] angle” like. idk still interested in that of course lmao but god is searching for it a bit exhausting. but yeah after i threw in an [-erectile] search modifier i got was like oh a result on a site about asexuality re: masturbation, why didn’t i think of That angle. idk but here we are

informative stuff but the comments section where people who wanted to read an [about: masturbation] on a site About asexuality were talking about their experiences was like. i had mentioned how it was Enlightening that one person said I Do Not Enjoy Orgasms lol like i have not really heard that angle vs “you might not enjoy sexual stimulation” and/or “you might not be able to orgasm” but not you Can orgasm but you Might Not Even Like It Really like. the person said yes they got the Peak Of Intense Pleasure out of the orgasm but not so much any kind of afterglow and felt like they get dropped back to where they were before even trying to masturbate (aka. square zero again lol) and just yeah outright mentioned Not Enjoying it and another person replied like Yep it’s like that for me too.........already i’m like man i don’t even approach anywhere near an orgasm Ever but man would not be surprised if, even if i theoretically was capable of the physical experience, it would be the same as this way lower level Waste Of My Goddamn Time deal lol.......it’s Hilarious too that like. say “being at all in the mood to try to spank it” is a Square/Level 1, i feel like yeah most of the time i’m only getting this shit going to a 1.5, maybe a 2 or 2.5 if we’re on fire......very very very rarely have i been like “hey that was like, a 3 or some shit, damn” and honestly it’s not like oh so that ruled and is motivation to continue b/c like. the Surprise of it throws me off and it’s not necessarily that Great a surprise, more just like, jeez, idk, it feels like A Bit Much that basically registers as Tension where i’m hardly encouraged to keep it up like, makes me wonder if that’s a Sensory Processing Thing aka how sometimes i try to get any more in depth info on the logistics of Experiencing Sexual Stimulation re: also being autistic and the variety of ways that can unfold (i do know that like. the Sensory thing apparently can sure be a factor in either direction, i.e. might cause some ppl to really not enjoy sexual stimulation Or to like, super enjoy it. allistic ppl who might realize “thinking sex is awesome” is “”normal,”” brilliant.....like u didnt also “realize” that stims like fidget cubes and weighted blankets can be enjoyed “”normally”” like. still having a diff experience here and shut it) and i remember one time i was like “c’est la vie i will purchase a vibrator (and i got a second, external one as some deal going on)” and it was just a No Go b/c. it didn’t feel “bad” in that it was not necessarily like, yep here’s some sexual stimulation, but it was like, overwhelming in a Not Good way, yet also not physically painful, and i realize vibrators are made w/ different intensities and i definitely got Mildest ones so it wasn’t that

anyways like yeah #tbt to a time i really gave it a go (vibrator-less) for truly just short of two solid hours......plenty of that was me at Square Zero and getting back to level 1 alone (aka like. feeling Any positive response at all lmao) was kind of an achievement and maybe there was some 1.5 or 2 in there but it wasn’t like i felt that motivated and Just Keeping At It was not necessarily helping so. that was a waste of my goddamn time

can’t really remember what i was doing differently the last time i kicked things up to maybe a solid 2-3 Zone for truly like One Moment lol.....think i was just getting a little more hands on (since usually a spike in intensity makes me go “[?? / !!] whoa :/” and i lose Any momentum and/or “progress”) and that spike in intensity made me go [?? / !!] Whoa :/ and it didn’t matter, just got back to zero as always, and it’s not like these “Achievements” are “Enlightening” where i’m then like wow everyone’s right, really Trying with this shit pays off like lol. i still make a cursory effort but really just to burn off that Level 1-ness if anything like. kinda like “yeah neat here we go” but like. probably literally a minute or two later it’s like well Anyways.......another fun detail is that it’s not Always like “oh i got off on some mental sidetrack and losing focus = losing like All of even this low level of arousal and im back at zero” like, i might be in the middle of things and Lose Interest even while i’m currently experiencing a nonzero level of “yep this is some sexual stimulation” lol but it’s just like smh Whatever @ it......like, on the one hand the Tension of the stimulation gets in its own way, but if i entirely lose that then it’s like well okay this isn’t gonna go anywhere, may as well stop

so anyhow here’s the Particular Comment where i was like “wow this is so similar to #me that i guess i’ve finally found Someone Talking About It* (*however it goes for me)”

i can’t say i’ve done the Holding My Breath thing on Purpose but now sometimes i do notice i do it (and have probably Been doing it) lol like oh there i went and Exhaled in a [was holding my breath] way lol coz like they say there with the Loss Of Any Tension and the Square Zero (Not Even Square One) thing like yeah lmao. and very same with the Five Minutes Max thing b/c yeah it really can be even less than One Minute sometimes before it’s like yeah square zero or just i lose enough interest anyways, getting bored like they say, ugh like it’s a brief description obviously lmao but i’m like god well there it is i guess, the [i know it’s not Just Me experiencing this like this but i’d still fucking like to find anyone else actually talking about it] account For Once Finally, thanks for putting it out there, Disappointed and a lil bored

naturally there are also ppl in the comments talking about how masturbation is an enjoyable thing for them and particular tips there but like it is Hilarious to me how a) some people orgasm easily or like. orgasm if they put effort into masturbation lmaooo like fucking imagine. and b) idk it’s like well i’m sure i’ve made hundreds of attempts and not even any Near Misses, it is simply like, not happening and c) yet at the same time Like This Commenter it’s like “well is there just another way of doing it i somehow haven’t hit on” like naturally i have to wonder like well idk maybe it’d be diff with a sexual partner b/c yknow, the same stimulation from Someone Else vs Yourself, and yet d) ha ha of course i haven’t had sex which people Don’t think of as Not A Joke lmao i referred to this fact abt myself with some casual humor to someone and my temper flared up when that was later taken as a Cue for someone who is not me to jokingly reference it (by Temper Flaring i mean i got annoyed enough to go Do Not Do That e.g. the post that’s like “[asserts one boundary] i’m not a people pleaser anymore i’m actually a huge cunt now”) and i probably shouldn’t feel like i have to “justify” this as well somehow other people have probably tried to Make A Move re: me but i have not been into it like well, what if nobody had ever been Interested that i knew of, that would be fine too, but. i am aware that ppl think of this as a joke still lmao, and i have to say that. im already doing letters like a) b) c) aren’t i but whatever, starting over a) well i haven’t had All the opportunity in the world as i have at various points (but basically continuously) for various reasons been pretty isolated and b) idk i have not had all these signs that point to me wanting to have sex with people exactly lmao but it’s like, c) even if i go “well maybe there’s Exceptions out there or Situations That Will Be Conducively Different Than The Limited Range Of Ones I’ve Had So Far” it’s like, okay, i could still just continue to feel “nah :/” re: any “opportunity” that ever presents itself or whatever. it is all very abstract for me anyways, so it’s like, whatever. but i’m also not the most Glad to discuss it b/c idk a lot of this stuff i know is like A Joke including how i’m still simmering with resentment from a year ago or more over some Tweet i saw trying to dunk a meme about how asexuals are Anti-Psychology like, that’s an entire Other Essay there but needless to say for one thing i just pre-resent people hearing “could being autistic factor into the particular experience i have losing interest / arousal so easily (and inevitably as it’s big time primary anorgasmia around here)” and going “aha that makes sense b/c being ace means there’s something Dysfunctional going on cuz Lbr and bieng autistic means being a Fucked Up version of an allistic person and your autistacity is going to fuck up things about you which ought to function properly” like well that feeds right into itself in a loop and i hate it. and i know the whole “hehe someone who hasn’t had sex is a loser” thing is way engrained in there lmao ppl throw that punchline out all the time and like, idk, see the (i’m autistic) thing like it’s not like this is an unprecedented concept or the only front on which im like “i Know this is a thing ppl negatively judge in general but i also Know i do not buy into that or feel bad about it” like i do not personally consider myself cringe and fail for not having had sex ever and do not consider that Premise that someone is a joke for it to be true re: anyone but at the same time i know that this whole Awareness that people are shitty about it is frustrating to me lol. plus i think it is getting into the Entire Thing where concepts as broad as Maturity and Humanity At Its Most Complex And Worthwhile are considered intrinsically linked to romance and sex, which is something that i am somewhat self-conscious of being aromantic and [having never had sex and it could well be that i will not ever have sex even if The Opportunity(tm) is there] and i know it is frustrating to me b/c sometimes when i start to even talk about “i have not had sex yes im aware this is like (spit take) what a nerd, Sure” b/c i will easily cry out of frustration like 5 seconds in lol. which i cry easily enough but Usually getting teared up b/c i feel Hyped Up / Enthusiasm for something lmfao.......anyways plenty of tangents to go down here but my point is shoutout to the other person for also never orgasming and just being bored with masturbation if anything

and also to the people who were like “i can have / have had orgasms but i don’t actually enjoy it” like considering the way that [not like i experience anything even close to an orgasm but there is sometimes An Increase in arousal achieved, either a tiny raise in the Level or on occasion a bit of a kick which is mostly like “whoa tf chill out”] is overall Underwhelming even if there is Any enjoyment in it and the whole Back To Square Zero (Not Even Square One) thing re: the entire lack of afterglow they mention and it’s like well that kinda feels like parallel experiences here lmao. which tbh is like. makes me care even less with like Humorous Annoyance at the fact that ppl are out here simply able to have orgasms and to have access to that just by like yep here i go masturbating lmaooo like okay

anyways idk how to Conclude this lmfao. Fun Fact i have hc’s about how winston billions who is autistic experiences sexual stimulation (he gets the Really Enjoys It kind of sensory processing time here lol) but i suppose the easiest simplest one to explain is the “remember the Tayston Crying Sex drawing, the idea is that things can be kinda overwhelming while still being Good if it’s handled right by his partner (or himself ig lol) and he can tear up as sort of an overflow thing” like well you probably already knew that was connected to the broader whole of Winston Billions Autistic Hc’s but in case you didn’t: it is

#me and ''Disappointed and a lil bored'' out here #round of applause from me to me....like the time i stumbled across the Source Media for some preview i remembered from a blockbuster vhs #like 20 yrs ago or whatever like ''am i making this sort of Distinctive memory up or modifying one to hell and back / combining them'' like #no i was not but it sure took me a While to mostly coincidentally find it via watching a list on youtube of like. partially Lost or just rly #obscure niche shit....it'd been a preview for a pc game for an ye olde disney series i'd never heard of in my life #anyways the point is it'd been something *i'd* been searching around for intermittently for a good while and managed to find and it was like #hooray but also i realize it's hardly relevant to like. much of anyone else but oh well good for me

[ciarawritesmarvel]

hide and seek (and cheat) - bucky barnes x reader

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: There’s some language but like you already know that I swear

A/N: Welcome to Day Eight of Hello Spring by @ibwhellospring! It’s incredibly late and I am incredibly sorry, but I have exams next week and so I’ve been very busy. I’ll continue to write these as and when I have time! Lots of love to you all, and I hope you're doing impeccably well. 

Prompt: In their closet, he/she found...

masterlist in my bio and tags in the reblog! please drop me an ask to be tagged in bucky, steve or all the hello spring pieces!

---

It was time.

All your training, everything you’d ever done in your life worked up to this. As you stood in a circle surrounded by your teammates, looking at their determined faces, the fire that burned brightly in their eyes, you knew they were all thinking exactly the same thing.

It was time.

For the annual hide and seek competition.

Tony had introduced a number of important competitions over your years as an Avenger, competitions designed to boost morale and encourage team building and bonding with members of the team you may not work with all too often. This was a brilliant idea in theory, however he hadn’t particularly thought through just how competitive his teammates were and how willing they would be to turn a friendly competition into all out war. The latest laser tag day proved that point perfectly.

“We’ll quickly go over the rules, since its Scott and Peter’s first time playing,” Tony announced and everyone’s eyes turned to the two; Peter whose cheeks were slightly red as he gave a little wave and Scott whose silly grin couldn’t be contained. Neither of them stood a chance today, “Everyone gets a chance to be the seeker. You count to 300 whilst everyone hides. People are allowed to keep moving around whilst the seeker is seeking. You have half an hour to find as many people as possible. Once the timer is up, which I have synced with the watches you’re all wearing, you come back here and we start again with the next seeker. Points both for finding people and for not being found. Most points at the end of the day wins. Are we clear?”

Peter put his hand up. You bit back a groan.

“What do we do once we’re found?”

“You trudge back to where we’re standing right now with your tail between your legs, kid,” Tony answered and Peter nodded solemnly. You were almost impressed. It seemed someone had briefed him on just how serious today was.

“Oh and usual special rules apply too: Loki, no apparitions, Clint, stay out of the vents, Thor, don’t trap yourself in with Mjolnir and Wanda, power down.”

The four grumbled, something about natural advantages and fairness, but Tony wasn’t listening. Vision, who had been standing motionless in the corner of the room, suddenly walked forward and entered the circle, whispering something in Tony’s ear, to which he nodded. Vision promptly returned to his position in the corner.

“New rules: Peter, no webs and Scott, stay the same damn size you are now.”

Both of the newbies protested, but they fell on deaf ears.

“Worst adjudicator ever,” Scott mumbled, giving Vision a side eye that he didn’t really understand.

“First up, Banner.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be joking Tony, everyone has the best hiding places on the first go,” Bruce whined but Tony shrugged, claiming that it was alphabetical order and that he’d just have to be good at seeking. It was when Bruce started protesting that Tony’s real name was Anthony that you stopped really listening. Already, you were choosing from the hiding places you’d been scoping out all year, deciding which would be the best one to pull out against Bruce.

“300, 299, 298-”

“RUN!” Peter practically screeched and you all paused, looking at him searchingly before scattering in different directions, pushing past people and heading towards your separate destinations. Today would be a long day.

You were more than ready.

---

So far, so good.

You’d managed two rounds without being found, the first time hiding in one of the washing machines in the laundry room and the second hiding in the vents, since it was only Clint who wasn’t allowed inside them. As it turned out, everyone else had the same idea too and so Clint ended up finding nobody and was incredibly angry about it. Nobody would tell him where you’d all been.

Now it was Bucky’s turn to seek and you grinned as he turned from everyone, covered his eyes and began counting. You had the perfect hiding place for him.

Minutes later, you were inside Bucky’s closet, amongst the henleys and the leather jackets. The smell was strangely comforting, mainly because it was just so distinctly Bucky. You had just a slither of light through the crack between the doors but it was almost total darkness and there was only just enough space for you to stand with your back against the rear wall and the top half of your body covered by the clothes hung there.

There was no way he’d check for someone hiding in his own room. Genius. Even if you did say so yourself.

It only took a few minutes to hear the whining of Scott echoing through the corridors, who’s clearly been found first. You heard footsteps coming towards the room you were in and assumed they were Scott’s own, returning to the base point of the game.

But then the door opened.

Shit.

You held your breath.

The footsteps wandered around the room and you heard him stop by the bed, which you assumed he was looking under. And then the footsteps began to walk towards where you were hiding. You pressed yourself as far back into the wardrobe as you could and squeezed your eyes shut.

He opened the closet door. There was a beat. You briefly wondered if he might shut the door and walk away, if maybe he couldn’t see you behind the clothes.

“Hi baby,” came his voice, whispered and teasing and light, and you let out all your breath at once in a strong huff. He held out a hand to help you out of his cupboard but you smacked it away and pushed your way out on your own. Pushing hair out of your face and smoothing down your jeans.

“How’d you know to look here?” you pouted and Bucky smiled lovingly at you, reaching up to cup your face with one hand.

“I know you better than you know yourself. You thought I wouldn’t check in my own room because who would be stupid enough to hide in my own room. Right?”

It would have been flattering that he was able to read your thoughts so well if it hadn’t been the most annoying thing in the world right at this moment. You groaned.

“Right,” you conceded and then suddenly your eyes widened and you jumped back away from him suddenly, leaving his hand to drop uselessly by his side, “What are you doing?!”

“Relax, doll, everyone’s hiding. Scott’s back at base. It’s just us,” his last sentence had a hint of something else in it, something low and playful. You glanced towards the door, just to make sure, before taking the step forward and pressing your lips to his. It was fleeting, nothing like your usual heated moments in a cleaning cupboard or languid moments in the morning before you snuck back to your own room. It was sweet and familiar, and Bucky tasted like the cinnamon swirl he’d had for breakfast.

You pulled away again, but left your hand on his chest, only just noticed that his own arms had wrapped themselves loosely around your waist. Bucky grinned at you, using two fingers to hold your chin.

“You want me to pretend I haven’t found you?” he asked seriously and you gasped in mock offence, pushing yourself away from him with force.

“You taking pity on me, Barnes? I don’t need anyone’s help to win this bloody game,” you argued back fiercely, only really half joking but you knew he was teasing and that you would never dare to cheat in such an important contest.

“Was jus’ offering!” he held his hands up in surrender, “I just don’t want you too upset when you lose.”

You glared at him. Saw him trying to conceal his laughter. Narrowed your eyes. Before he could blink, you had him by the collar and were pushing him into his closet, closing the doors with a slam and grabbed the large katana sword on the wall and slotting it through the handles. You saw the doors rattle. But he couldn’t get out. You grinned triumphantly.

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, the shock in his voice only instilling you with more pride. You looked through the tiny crack between the doors and saw just Bucky’s eye peering out at you, completely taken aback with a spark of panic.

“Good luck seeking from in there, punk,” you said nonchalantly, because if you couldn’t win today, you sure as hell weren’t going to let him win. You walked out of the room and closed the door, ignoring his pleas for you to let him out. Instead, you turned on your heel and sauntered back to the base to wait until the end of Bucky’s seeking time.

You guessed that nobody would be joining you there for a little while.

“So you and Y/N, huh?” Bucky screamed, actually screamed, as Scott appeared beside him the cupboard and his movements backwards and away from him almost sent the closet falling to the floor.

“What the fuck, Scott!”

“Sorry,” he said, and Bucky could see the blush travelling across his whole face even in this dim light, “When you found me, I shrunk down and climbed up onto your shoulder to watch you find people and get some hiding ideas. But this is way better honestly.”

Bucky closed his eyes and let his head rest against the wardrobe wall.

“Get out,” he said softly and Scott nodded.

“I mean, that’s fair,” he admitted as he shrunk down again and ran out of the gap in the wardrobe, leaving Bucky alone and contemplating the life choices that had brought him to this exact moment.

#IBW: Hello Spring 2019 #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes drabble #bucky oneshot #bucky imagine #bucky drabble #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine #ibwhellospringday8 #hellospring

[save-the-spiral]

InkWizTober Day Twenty-Nine: Injured + Endgame

Welcome to day twenty-nine of inktober, and holy FUCK its. A good one. I spent hours on this, writing the end to my Pirate!Queen concept. It’s so good, y’all, read all four parts in order please. Warnings for graphic depictions of violence, narrator having a real bad existential crisis, thoughts about the afterlife, self doubt, death, body horror kinda.

(link to prompt lists) (link to inktober tag)

Captain Avery’s plan to destroy the Armada was, in a word, infuriating. 

The old captain was content to send the young pirate out on his orders- without backup! Just a crew led by a captain who couldn’t be older than seventeen. Any leads or intel came from ‘allies’ who were simply spineless pirates who owed Captain Avery favors. 

Even Queen, who was a member of Kane’s court in the past, who was created to never had an independent thought in her life, knew this was all wrong. She took the lead, fully accepting the pseudonym of ‘Reyna Ferro’, budding pirate captain, with her mysterious and loyal crew of the Pyrite Swan. 

(She ignored the fluttering, ecstatic part of her that reveled in having a ‘normal’ name. How she never wanted to go back to being ‘Queen’. Never wanted to use the name Kane gave her ever again.)

Captain Reyna Ferro seemed to be the only fully competent pirate out of the triad of captains, once she started giving orders. She organized sieges on docked fleets of resting Armada soldiers, got them the useful intel and blueprints (mostly from her own perfect memory), and she made sure that Captain Avery didn’t take it too far.

(A giant, mocking puppet show to draw the Armada soldiers to battle them in Skull Island? Really?)

...Reyna had only recently realized that Avery was likely presenting these plans just to hear how incredulous her tone could get in response. Organic, human pirates could be so difficult to figure out. 

Even now, planning what would likely be their last official mission of this endeavor, Reyna was taking charge. Captain Avery hadn’t even bothered to show up.

“All of the Armada have fallen back, following ingrained protocols to hide in a last resort fortress and begin creating more clockworks to bolster their numbers and buy time. While we were waiting and recovering from the last battle in Monquista, where we took out almost all of their ships and unfortunately lost the young pirate’s ship as well- I got intel from a spy.” 

Reyna took a breath, staring down at the vast array of maps and internally hoping they didn’t question who was spying. She wouldn’t want to reveal her connections on the inside. When this quest started they agreed that Reyna would get any captured soldiers, and she had been working with those very soldiers, turning them slowly towards her side. She let them secretly join her crew, or go back to the Armada as a spy, or gave them a secret hideout to live in peace.

In a way, Reyna was glad she was so adept at lying at this point. Hiding the crew’s identities- and her own- was a matter of life or death. They’d lost far too much to the Armada at this point for the pirates they allied with to not slaughter them outright at the reveal of their clockwork identities. 

Reyna grabbed a thin knife with her gloved hand, casually walking across Captain Avery’s office, trying not to think about how familiar the room had become to her. She let the knife point trail across the large map of Cool Ranch and its skyway. 

“Cool Ranch? Isn’t that a bit out of their usual locations for forts?” Sterling, Reyna’s first mate, asked.

“Yeah but think about it.” Zircon replied, sitting casually on Avery’s ornate desk, slightly damaged mace in hand. “Big, open country. Lots of mines to hide in, could go out where no one would hear you. Find a ghost town to reinforce or whatever.”

Bonnie Anne, one of the young pirate’s crewmates, nodded. Her large, canon-like weapon was leaning casually against Avery’s desk, and she was leaning into Zircon’s side. “Lots of shadowy characters in Cool Ranch. They could easily spread out too- dark corners in saloons, becoming farm hands or apprentices- they wouldn’t have to show their face, just work and plan their next moves.”

Reyna tuned out the conversation between crews, tracing coordinates until she found the building marked by a small square, the one she was looking for. She stabbed the knife into the spot, the amber handle and silver blade glinting in the sunlight of a nearby window.

She turned around, grabbing a piece of charcoal, and began writing small neat notes on the map. “It’s actually an abandoned railway station, right by an abandoned mine. They’re grouped together, reinforcing the area like Zircon said.” 

If Reyna could grin, she would. The sight of Zircon and Bonnie Anne fist-bumping was something she wanted to imprint in her brain forever. Zircon had become much more outgoing and trusting since this all started, becoming fast friends with the fox privateer. 

Sterling sighed, toying with an antique telescope. “They’re likely re-purposing the few machines from the mine, and they can transport any materials they need far too easily for my liking.”

“Exactly.” The young pirate murmured, then went back to silently arguing with Egg Shen about something small- probably eating just oatmeal for breakfast, with no fruit, opposing Egg Shen’s exacting health standards.

Reyna pondered the railroad line that went through the huge island of Cool Ranch, all huge plateaus and gorgeous vistas. “They might have dynamite too. Let’s fight fire with fire here, Bonnie. Get some dynamite of your own by the end of the day, please.”

“End of the day?” Sterling asked, a bit alarmed.

“Yes.” Reyna said sternly, turning to face the room, all eyes on her. The dozen or so of the young pirate’s crew (the rest in Skull Island’s infirmary), and her own crewmates in the brash and protective Zircon, the curious and anchoring Sterling, the quiet and observant Malachite, who even now is sitting perched on a tall bookshelf, watching.

“Timing is essential here. We need to get in on their next shipment, at dusk tomorrow. We hide in a car, ambush the clockworks collecting the cargo, and move on from there. Spread out, follow the marks I’ve made on these blueprints of the area. Destroy weapons and clockworks being made, capture the rest. My crew will deal with them.” Reyna stopped, weighing down the blueprints and making a few amendments to the lines on it.

Egg Shen nodded at this, getting up and examining the papers. “We trust your planning, Captain Ferro. You haven’t steered us wrong yet.” 

The nods that followed from the young pirate and his crew were disarming. 

Reyna stepped back, standing awkwardly due to her prosthetic leg. “But- most of your crew are in the infirmary- you lost your ship because of my plans. I understand if you want to change this, you do not have to-”

“Relax, Reyna.” Bonnie Anne offered, gesturing around at the others in the room. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t already trust you with our life. If we had made the plans- well, we would have had much more trouble without you and your amazing crew.”

If Reyna could blush, she would be bright red right now. 

“Yeah Captain!” Zircon said, tilting her head in a way that conveyed childishness. “Our crew is pretty amazing, but it’s nothing without you guiding us.”

Sterling and Malachite were nodding, and Reyna was slightly worried for her internal processing, with how long it was taking to understand and absorb what they were saying. With stuttered thanks, she quickly turned everyone back to the plan, delegating roles for every pirate on the mission.

Bonnie Anne and Malachite, who would climb on top of the train cars when the ambush strikes, and gun down any backup from the Armada. 

Egg Shen and Sterling would work with the young pirate on finding the leader, and the workshop for clockwork creation.

The twins, Rhodium and Rhenium, alongside Nanu Nanu and Emmet of the young pirate’s crew, would be a distraction on the south side, near the large ravine. 

Everyone else was nodding, happy to follow Reyna’s orders. It made her feel nervous, knowing that failure or success rested on her plan, on her shoulders. Some part of her wanted to just stop, to sit down and tell someone else to take responsibility, to do the hard job. The restless part of her, the one that drove her to piracy in the first place, that filled her with wonder at beautiful nature scenery, and rage at how governments and outlaws alike take advantage of the poor. 

She would keep moving, keep planning, only to appease that dark pit of dissatisfaction with life. 

The waiting, right before a mission truly went underway, was what killed her inside. It took Zircon’s firm grip on her hand, Spectrolite’s silly puns, and Osmium’s toothless threats to every annoyance, to calm her down. Her crew, her strange crew of ex-battle angels, of ex-dolls of the Armada, all of them like family, they truly had a calming effect on her, made her remember her purpose. 

They took up half of the large storage train car. Rhodium and Rhenium were playing tic-tac-toe with chalk on the floor and far more threats than proper, Meteorite was checking her ammo compulsively, doing it again and again to ensure she would not forget, Stichtite was jokingly adding ridiculous ideas to the plan, Sterling nodding seriously as she listened, only to laugh when it got truly bizarre. 

There were a few more that joined her. Rehabilitated clockworks saved from their missions by being captured and handed over to Reyna and her crew, ones who wanted to repent, to atone for their cruel actions under another’s order. They remained nameless, still new to their sentience and trying to find themselves, these three clockworks. One was a battle angel, like the rest of the crew, one was a musketeer, and another was a buccaneer, halberd resting by his side always.

Reyna felt the train, racing across the Cool Ranch countryside, begin to slow. Everyone became alert, even the dozing young pirate.

Reyna was tempted to follow in Egg Shen’s footsteps and bother the young pirate into getting eight hours of sleep a night an eating their fruits and vegetables upon seeing the dark circles under their eyes. 

The train rumbled as it stopped, the only other sound being the breathing of the organic pirates, and the cicadas singing. The sun was setting, sky a dusky red, light falling. It was time.

As they heard the exacting footsteps of clockworks, people hid in storage containers, behind them. Bonnie Anne and Malachite climbed out on the opposite side from where the clockworks would be approaching, the two clambering up onto the roof for a better vantage point.

Rhodium and Rhenium were looking at each other, conversing in a strange twin speak that seemed to transfer even to clockworks, and they moved forward in sync as the door slowly opened. Nanu Nanu and Emmet followed behind the two, slightly reluctant, but willing nonetheless. Zircon, next to Reyna, shifted in excitement, and Reyna knocked their heads together lightly, a soft ‘I’m here’, practically a kiss on the cheek. A common clockwork display of affection the crew had developed.

Zircon looked at Reyna, and bumped her back, right before the fighting started.

It was loud- the twin clockworks were always loud, calling confusing orders, yelling nonsense, acting like it was a game. The rest of the pirates stampeded out of the train car, hopping onto the dusty ground of the plateau. The clockworks, a neat, matching group of five, were in pieces.

The visual, slowly cloaked by the night’s darkness, made Reyna wish she could vomit. It was disgusting, unnatural- to see bodies- ones so similar to her own, ones that bled oil, that were made of metals, had the potential to feel- to see them shattered, it hurt. To see pieces of a being that once had a consciousness, even if it was controlled by others, to know a personality was behind that, hidden deep, it made something in Reyna shatter a tiny bit every single time.

The only thing that gave her solace every time was knowing that those Armada clockworks were free now, free from the trappings of being a soldier, of only following orders, having no free will. At least, if there was a personality in there, it would not have to suffer, would not have to watch as their body was controlled by something they could not fight.

The group continued on nonetheless, twins taking point and dragging Nanu Nanu and Emmet along for the ride, playing with firecrackers and yelling to draw attention

Sterling chuckled under her breath, but split off from Reyna’s side, moving to join the young pirate and Egg Shen on their mission to find the workshop. From above they heard Bonnie Anne’s exclamations about the twins doing their thing, and most of the secret clockwork pirates were snickering, before returning to their jobs.

Personally, Reyna was glad to lose herself in the violence, the strategy of it. Her sword was sharp, mind sharper, and she ached to prove it to herself once again.

Maybe she was too eager, in the end.

Maybe that was her fatal flaw, some twisted kind of hubris, some need to prove her own humanity to herself. 

Some need to feel alive, and believe it.

Reyna was trapped in a tar pit of self pity, of doubt, of existential horror and comedy in the same suffocating breath. 

She was slumped in the train car, having retreated to their getaway vehicle once she realized the gravity of her wounds. One of the newly created clockworks had been a monstrosity to behold- some strange, hulking creature of screeching metal and regurgitated oil, a terrifying thing. Reyna was selfish, was just plain stupid, and didn’t run back to get other to help her and the young pirate, she just rushed in, sword at the ready, some strange synthetic adrenaline in her system. 

Reyna Ferro, Queen, just some upgraded battle angel, just some dysfunctional clockwork- she rushed in, like an idiot, like an impulsive human, side by side with the most impulsive human she had ever met, the young pirate captain. They had fought hard, fought well, almost downed the thing, but it was clever. Reyna had to shield the young pirate with her own body, the sound of screeching metal against metal, hopefully something the other pirate had mistaken for armor against weapons, was all Reyna knew for a moment.

When she became aware, the young pirate simply helped her up, and defeated the clockwork beast, telling Reyna to go back to safety. 

Reyna was done for.

She could hear the pirates returning, the cheers of victory, the few stray firecrackers and loads of dynamite being set off, followed by hysterical laughter. They had torches, lanterns, with them. They would know.

Reyna was leaking black, bleeding oil into the layers of concealing clothes and armor that hid her clockwork status. It wouldn’t work for long, not with her wound.

She wouldn’t work for long with this wound, a ravine cut diagonally down her abdomen, metal curling inwards, sparking gears malfunctioning. 

The pirates were approaching, and she wished she could cry. Out of all the things she envied humans for, it was the ability to cry. To sob and scream and fill the entire world with her tears, to cough and hiccup and cry out about the unfairness of it all. 

Reyna, in all technicality, was only a year and a half old. That was how long she was sentient, she had free will. Before that she might as well have been dead. She had so many more years in her, and there was a desperate, clawing need to experience those years, those thousands of sunrises and sunsets, the lazy hours and minutes full of frenzied battle.

She wanted it all.

The group entered the car- emptied now, for easier travels back- and the leader (Sterling, her beautiful first mate, Sterling, who she named, reasonable, perfect Sterling) stopped in her place, mask facing Reyna, as if in disbelief.

“Oh no.” Sterling murmured faintly. Reyna would agree if her vocal mechanisms hadn’t already shut down to preserve power.

Zircon (strong, brave, powerful, protective, amazing) bumped into Sterling, and with a confused sound, looked over her shoulder, and saw Reyna, saw her pitiful, dying form. A wordless cry echoed off of the metal walls, and suddenly Reyna was in a strong embrace.

A chorus of amazingly creative swears followed as the rest of the pirates, both in her own crew and in the young pirate’s, followed. Reyna’s own crew crowded around her, hiding her from the others.

“Can you speak, Captain?” Malachite (wonderful, wise, observant, quiet, pretty) eventually asked.

With a stuttering shake and a quiet, chirruping sound, she indicated that no, she could not speak, she was dying. 

Maybe not in those words, but the message got across.

“Okay, okay okay okay.” Someone was saying, trying not to panic- maybe Meteorite?- we can heal her, we can do this. 

“How?!” Someone whisper-yelled, a sharp motion drawing Reyna’s fuzzy gaze. 

Her optics were going to shut down next. Then her hearing, her movement, her-

Reyna fell into sleep, internally floating, a child in a womb, a baby, a little fawn with no legs to stumble with. She was nothing, everything, mind trying to process the never ending darkness of her emergency protocols. She was dying- was going to die.

She had never thought about death, never thought it applied to her in the sense of experiencing it. Did she even have a soul? Was she worthy of some salvation or damnation? Some quiet, peaceful end? Endless nothingness, like now? A beautiful facade of her perfect life? 

Do machines get to go to the afterlife if they can feel, can love, can hate, can reason, just as much as any other sentient creature? Did being made of metal make her any different, any more or less deserving?

She floated, existentially paralyzed by the broad endlessness of death. 

When she woke up, it was strange. It was little clicking sounds, soft whirring, clunky gears beginning to work. It was her internal processing telling her that her joints were working, hearing, eyes-

Goodness, it was bright.

Reyna woke up lying flat on a bed, bright light shining right into her optics. Blinking her vacant, black ‘eyes’, she blocked out the light and sat up, before opening them again, and wanting to gasp.

She was... well, not naked, but it was strange, to not be clothed in layers upon layers of pirated finery, to not have armor and mystery to protect her and her clockwork body. She looked down, seeing gloveless hands, ones that worked perfectly, every metal knuckle in place, clicking slightly. She saw her legs- one silver and slightly longer, from a musketeer clockwork who was dead before she found him- and the other her original, glinting in bronze and gold.

By the rocking, she was in a ship. Looking around, she realized- it was her ship, the Pyrite Swan, in her own bed. Not that she used it, seeing as clockworks didn’t need to sleep. Apparently, not until now.

“You’re awake!” The excited, in unison voices of Rhodium and Rhenium filled her ears, and she looked towards the doorway, seeing the two standing guard. “We’ve got to tell the others!” 

“Wait!” Reyna’s voice was rough, scratchy and screechy, painful. “Wait.”

The twins stopped, standing seriously and tilting their heads.

“What about- the humans- they-?”

“Oh!” Rhenium gasped. “Oh! So- okay, so after they figured it out- not until we were boarding the ship, but they did find out- Rat Beard almost hurt you, but Zircon almost killed him, and Bonnie Anne of all people defended us! She said to trust us, and the young pirate agreed, said you took that hit for them of all people!”

Rhodium nodded. “And then- oh dear- Emmet got a shot off I’m afraid, almost killed Sterling! She was so angry, told us all to calm down in that Mom Voice she has! It was so cool, they all shut up and let us explain! We set sail and told them our story- well, Sterling told most of it, we all chipped in with our own individual backstories- but goodness, you should have SEEN their faces. I didn’t know whether to laugh or hide!”

The two continued to ramble, back and forth, until finally someone was drawn to the commotion. 

“Zircon- help.” Reyna said simply, and the other clockwork nodded, pulling the twins out by their collars like misbehaving kittens, and then coming back. 

“Captain.” She started, voice stuttering, fearful. “You almost...”

“I didn’t, though.”

“Osmium and Meteorite finally worked together on something, figuring out how to heal you. It was... not pretty.” Zircon said, sitting gently on Reyna’s bedside.

“Maybe they’ll finally get over the romantic tension then.” Reyna muttered, and Zircon laughed.

“Yeah, finally.” 

Reyna sat up again, leaning heavily against Zircon as her systems got used to movement. “Help me up?” She finally said.

“Always, Captain.” Zircon said quietly.

Using her crew mate as a crutch, Reyna limped across her quarters. “I’m going to get dressed. Still doesn’t feel quite right without clothes, anymore.”

“I can help.” Zircon offered. Reyna’s grip on Zircon’s hand strengthened for a moment, a squeeze, a thank you. Heads knocking lightly, a clockwork kiss on the cheek.

Simple black trousers, a white shirt with a ruffled collar, and a captain’s hat, black with a broad golden feather. 

Reyna leaned heavily on Zircon, half starved for the touch, half actually needing it. They made their way across the room, and Zircon opened the doors again to sunlight of a new day. 

“Hey, Captain Ferro.” 

Reyna’s head whipped to the side, a blank slate of white and bronze and gold, maskless, and watched the young pirate captain approach.

“Captain.” They said. “You up to planning the next great adventure?”

Their voice was weak, hoarse. They had bloodshot eyes, a tear stained face. They had shaking hands, but offered Reyna’s sword to her nonetheless, standing tall, like a proper captain.

Reyna stood tall as well, arms off of Zircon, stepping forward. “Of course, Captain.” She said, almost playfully, head tilting as she reached forward- slow, cautiously- and grabbed the hilt of her sword almost reverently. It had dulled from battle, still covered in oil stains. 

She looked back at the young pirate, at their companions and friends behind them, watching. Finally, she spoke again.

“Just give me a few days to rest up, and our crew will be ready to take over the entire Spiral, before you know it!”

At her words, the crew, united, co-captained, broke into a wordless cheer, and Reyna fell back a bit, leaning on Zircon, letting the other girl half carry her back to bed.

Maybe pirates weren’t as savage, as uncivilized as she was programmed to think. Every one of them were thinking, living beings, with feelings, wants, needs. Just like clockworks, like those individual cogs that made up the once existent Armada. 

Pirate, Armada, Clockwork, Compassionate- 

Why not just be every single one? Take every label for herself? 

It’s what pirates do, after all.

#Wiztober2019 #wiztober #inktober #inktober2019 #Writing #Queen Pirate101 #Pirate101 #Pitty101 #P101 #Pirate 101 #Zircon #Rhodium #Rhenium #Malachite #Osmium #Pyrite Swan #My BABIES #Bonnie Anne Pirate101 #i love this i know no one has read these but i love them

[dontcallmecarrie]

Hi! What would your take be on only Tony remembering the future from your AU By Myself But Not Alone. Like nobody remembers. And JARVIS goes Skynet just by listening to Tony? So, like what kind of damage/changes would he do to the world? Also, love all your WIPs and AUs! Thanks!

[warnings: mention of severe mental health issues, mention of suicide. Thus the cut.]

O.O

…um, friend, that would be a very, very dark AU and would run entirely counter to the entire premise of By Myself But Not Alone. I haven’t had much time to read fanfic for the MCU [classes and trying to write = not much time for other stuff], but if I understand correctly, dls’ If You Had The Time Again is probably what you want? Since it looks like it’d be an awesome time travel fixit to read?

Because otherwise…yikes.  

See, here’s the thing: the entire premise of the AU is built on the ‘mass time travel’ thing. That’s the fun of it, for me; playing with the butterfly effect as the fixits come crashing together, seeing the balancing act the time travelers have to do throughout their quest to avoid the Bad Ending. Bucky waking up after the train is essential for this, Nick Fury and Maria Hill both going ‘oh fuck what year is it’ is also key, etc. 

At its core, By Myself But Not Alone is meant to be a fairly fluffy AU, meant to be a respite from the way the MCU’s just gotten darker and edgier over the years. It’s meant to have all the self-indulgence I couldn’t work into TWiFFON, with as many ‘team as family’ tropes I can cram into it.

I mention this, because what your ask is suggesting is something that runs entirely counter to that. 

Especially because it’s about something that comes up in the original outline, something that would catapult this AU into far darker territory. 

[Here’s where the warning comes into play, btw.]

Because if Tony were to wake up alone, there’d be no one to save him, in Afghanistan.

Tony gets his memories in 2008, when he sees the bomb with his name on it— only, where he’d expected to see his past flashing before his eyes, instead he sees his future. Sees a very bleak future with very little support, sees trauma after trauma in a world that did its best to break him. Even if the prospect of Thanos terrifies him to the core about the Earth’s safety, it’s not enough, not right now. 

Because everything he’s seeing is telling him that if he let things play out, then it would’ve still all gone to waste, would’ve still ended in failure despite his best attempts, and…in that moment, Tony can’t bear it. 

In one life, Tony would’ve ducked for cover, when he saw the bomb. Here, all Tony sees is an out. 

The world’s better off without him in it, anyway.

Long story short, the only reason Tony survived in the main timeline is because Stephen Strange is the Time Stone’s favorite person. 

Originally, before I realized just how sad I made myself, By Myself But Not Alone would’ve just resulted in mass mourning because now everyone’s seeing just how much Tony shaped their timeline. Would’ve seen a world without Iron Man, without privatized world peace, without a champion pushing for a better future despite all the challenges he faced. 

This is why there’s so, so many regrets, when word gets out. 

This is why Peter Parker doesn’t forgive the Avengers. Why Loki takes a vindictive glee in giving the Avengers hell afterwards, why Thor’s stunned into silence and then starts to distance himself from the rest of the team. Steve feels the most guilt, because he never got the chance to apologize for Siberia; the SHIELD crew just exchange looks of quiet horror and resignation, when they see the headlines after Obadiah Stane vanishes, and then again as the world starts to lose its original, fragile hope because they’re doing their best but Iron Man started an era this world would never see. 

Bucky’s equal parts grief-stricken and pissed off, when he sees the fallout of Tony’s death. He’d been so, so meticulous in fixing the timeline, only now it sometimes felt like they were back to square one because apparently Tony’d been even busier than they’d all known. 

They still all fight the good fight, of course, but…there’s a more painful edge to it now. Where before, it’d almost been like a game with friends, now there’s ringing silences where they were used to snark, cold ashes where they’d remembered a roaring flame. 

Tony Stark’s loss is a devastating blow, and that his legacy was the one to fill his role is but a cold comfort. Literally, because JARVIS is fucking frigid to the Avengers, and that he apparently now commands a robot army is something that unsettles them and leaves them all with so many questions because what.

No, seriously, what the hell, why hadn’t Tony told them he could’ve basically made Ultron back when he was a teenager, if they’d known about his other AI they wouldn’t have given him shit for Sokovia—and then Loki snarks about victim-blaming and that shuts them up even as Spider-Man gives him a shameless thumbs up before swinging away.

…aaaand I just made myself sad again, dammit this is why I made a fix-it in the first place.

So, yeah.

Stepping back, this is why it’s a mass time travel in the first place; otherwise, if only Tony’d returned, there wouldn’t be nearly as much grief otherwise. Like, sure, it’d be sad, but if no one remembers a better future then it’s just an absent ‘okay that happened, moving on now’ fleeting thing, instead of a bone-deep grief that rocks everyone to their core because they know the sheer potential this world had, and knowing it would never happen here makes for a raw sort of agony. 

…um. That came out a lot more bitter than expected, sorry. And I’m still sad, so here, have another moment of the fixit:

The Ancient One, Wong, and Mordo were all very surprised when Stephen had bolted out after his fight. While they’d anticipated the regular jitters novices had after their first encounter with death, he’d seemed far more distraught than that— but in a very different way. 

Not only that, but he’d left via a perfectly-formed portal.

Something strange was afoot. His reaction alone had been very odd, when he’d seen them; he’d blanched, then looked around as if seeing everything for the first time, and then— he’d left.

He’d left, and they didn’t even know where.

What had he gotten himself into?

“Sorry, I just need to check on something. Be right back,” he called before they could even reach him, and then the man who had been struggling with magic in combat not the day before had confidently thrown himself into the portal he’d made with an absent gesture.

“What books did he get his hands on?” Mordo asked warily, and Wong just shook his head. 

“Not the ones that would’ve resulted in that.” 

“He hid his path,” said the Ancient One, and they both jerked their heads sharply towards her.

“You mean—”

“He hid his path as easily as Kaecilius did, and I…there’s time magic involved.”

“But the Eye—” Even as he spoke, however, Mordo felt it, as something pulsed three times, and then yet another portal opened…only for its source location to shift across space and time in a way a master would have been loath to attempt.

“Stephen has a lot to answer for.” The Ancient One said with a slight frown, and Mordo readied himself as a very wild-eyed Stephen threw himself through before it closed behind him, clutching at a—was that Tony Stark?

“What have you done?” Wong exclaimed even as he moved to help with the man currently going through a panic attack.

Mordo’s moved to help as well, but his attention was caught by the familiar gleam of something gold around Strange’s neck. That couldn’t be right—

“You have the Eye,” the Ancient One said with a raised eyebrow, even as she too moved to approach them. “The Eye that we personally ensured was secured during the Zealots’ attack. Stephen, what have you been up to?”

The man in question didn’t answer immediately, more focused on checking over the man under his care with all the speed and efficiency that reminded them all of his past as a doctor. Once he was sure the stranger— Tony Stark? But how?— was relatively unharmed, only then did he draw himself up, and look them in the eye evenly.

In doing so, the Eye of Agamotto was put into full display, gleaming almost tauntingly as his shoulders squared and his cloak settled itself. 

In that moment, Stephen Strange didn’t look like a novice newly-inducted into magic, didn’t look like a man who’d just had to fight for his life for the first time. No, instead, he met them all with the ease and grace of a seasoned Master of the Mystic Arts, and an enigmatic smile.

“That is…a long story, my friends. One best told over a long drink.”

#I got an ask! #Naught replies #replies #Naught rambles #By Myself But Not Alone #behind the scenes mini fic #behind the scenes #bonus content #meta #My writing #My fic