#I was trying to get out of there as fast as possible to not be on the way of the new crew and I could barely answer him

[demonic0angel]

Twenty something year old Danny becomes a preschool teacher to a class of young meta and liminal kids, he helps to keep the kids calm when they discover their abilities and is genuinely one of the better teachers at the school. He's also a part-time member of the Justice League.

He's in the middle of a meeting when he gets a call from a freaked out substitute teacher saying one of the kids is stuck halfway through the wall and doesn't know what to do. Danny excuses himself and explains that one of his kids is having a small problem and he'll be right back and then leaves not realizing the chaos he left behind in his wake as the Justice League believe that Phantom has multiple kids and is a single father.

Phantom laughed nervously. “I need to pick this up real quick.” His phone continued to ring until Phantom had exited the meeting room.

However, he seemed to have forgotten to go far to avoid eavesdroppers or he was too worried to find somewhere else to pick up the call, because he only stopped behind the door to answer.

“What happened? Are they okay?” He said, sounding urgent. “Do I need to get there?”

“One of your kids is stuck!” Came a voice from the phone.

Everyone within the meeting room was leaning in, nosey as ever. Batman, who was presenting, was even tilting his entire body to the door, the only indication of his listening in.

The voice continued, “I’m so sorry, sir, I don’t know how to get them out! It’s causing a panic and no one can help me and all of the kids are crying for you!”

“How many are there? Are they all okay?”

The voice sniffled, clearly distressed and crying herself. “All ten of them are here. They’re all okay, it’s just that Etiel is stuck in the wall and no one can get him out. It’s freaking them all out.”

Phantom muttered, “Fiddlesticks. Okay, uhm. Try to calm them down, if you can. Can you find Cindy? She’s the most responsible, she’ll know what to do. And tell her that when I come back, I’ll make sure to reward her for her help. I’ll try to get there as fast as I can.”

Phantom then hung up the call after a few more words of encouragement and reassurance to the other person on the line. Then he hung up the call and came back into the room, looking apologetic. Everyone quickly pretended to be doing nothing.

Flash was holding seventeen new orders of fast food burgers, but Phantom was too distracted to notice.

“Is there something wrong?” Superman coughed awkwardly.

“Yes, I’m very sorry, but I have an emergency at home. Is it possible for me to get notes of the meeting later to review? I’m sorry— I know that this meeting had been planned for a while.”

Wonder Woman said, her voice very gentle, “Of course. We shall send you a review of the meeting in an email. Please, go home and rest assured. Take care of your little ones.”

Phantom blinked and then chuckled. “You heard that, huh? Thank you. I have to go now, so bye! Thanks again!” Without hesitation, he then flew off like a streak of light.

They were silent for a moment longer.

Then they all turned to Batman.

“Are you happy that you’re not alone in the club of single father with over 2 kids?”

“….. hn.”

Batman was determined to have more friends with kids and poor Phantom wasn’t going to know what hit him.

[moltengoldveins]

m240 machine gun - I am not here for a long time but by golly I am here for a good time.

that being said, I actually have a pretty complex and detailed zombie apocalypse plan. Really, it shouldn’t be that difficult to handle if the zombies follow most zombie media rules. Heck, even if they DIDNT, I’d still have some damn good plans.

first off, what’s the first fear when dealing with zombies? A bite. Do me a favor. Got any decent denim jeans? Maybe a jacket? Try biting that shit as hard as possible. Not a dent - your teeth aren’t going through that without some work. Same with a few layers of duct tape. Ergo, duct tape the major areas of your body, avoiding the joints to preserve mobility. Wear an under layer, and then loose jeans and a jean jacket. Wrap your hands and wear gloves. Tape your neck and shoulders, then wear a scarf or pick a jacket with a collar. Wear a mask and ideally a ventilator. Depending on how fast and strong the zombies are, that will likely be enough to keep most of them from hurting you before you can fend them off. Use screwdrivers as improvised stabbing weapons, go for eyes or joints, don’t try to get the screwdrivers back. A baseball bat is great, but when dealing with zombies, the best thing to do is just to avoid them, or take them down as expeditiously as possible. Doesn’t matter if they’re still waking - if they can’t see you, they can’t chase you.

second step of the plan? Bicycle. Quiet, easy to maintain and repair, easy to move hide and transport, requires neither gas nor electricity. Basket on the front and side saddle pouches on the back allow for decent storage.

third step of the plan? Find out where the nearest museum is with a display of plate armor. Use perhaps your local library if the internet is already down, they often have useful info, and even if they don’t, they’ll have information on disease prevention and wound treatment. Break in and put it on, ideally over a padded underlayer. Spend a day or two learning how to move in it - it’s designed to fight in, it’s totally possible to do gymnastics in it. Now you are immune to bites and also to a lot of glancing bullet wounds. That’s where the term ‘bulletproof’ came from. A bullet proof. Chest plates were shot, and the dent was proof that the bullet couldn’t break through.

forth step? Home base. If your home is compromised, bike away. You will need a med kit, a fire kit, food, clothes, as many books from the library as you can manage, and some weaponry. Check to see if the armor display had a sword or a mace. Find somewhere abandoned, a house that looks decently insulated. It doesn’t need to have food, that will come later, the important thing is that you’re far enough from a city center to avoid gangs and close enough to still be a part of the community that will inevitably crop up once the gangs are dead or subdued. You’ll want a house with a fireplace and heavy curtains, preferably one not visible from the road. You’ll also want to choose a way to get in that you can easily repair later. You will need to start growing what food you can immediately. This will be greatly aided by information you could access via the library. Until then, a book of edible wild plants, a small stockpile, a lucky break or two with the neighbors’ pantries, and ideally the food you took with you from your house should keep you going. Do not eat any mushrooms. Don’t do it. It’s not worth it.

fifth step? Defenses. This will largely depend on the type of zombie and the terrain you’re dealing with.

Sixth step? Is there a local vet. If so, find out if they’re alive. They probably are. Offer them help, a place to stay, anything youve got that you can spare - they are absolutely going to be vital in the coming days you will need them. Find them as much medical paraphernalia as possible. Set them up somewhere where they won’t be seen.

Seventh step? Choose a skill that will be useful for trade in the coming days and learn it. Beekeeping for honey, weaving for fabric, grow tobacco or plant herbs, learn distillation, tap maple trees. If you know something useful, find a way to apply it. Stockpile whatever you can.

Eigth step? Rabbits or chickens. Good meat animals, the eggs are useful if you’re going poultry. Use what you have on hand for the coop, maybe attach it to the house - defensibility is your friend. Getting them is gonna be a hassle - trade may or may not be possible. Trapping and domesticating them is ideal?

Ninth? You will eventually have to return to civilization. So will everyone else. People don’t tend to get shockingly violent for no reason - most people you find will be trying to do what you’re doing, nothing else. People will most likely begin organizing themselves again. This is good! Offer trade, help when you can.

tenth? Once you’re decently situated, find a hobby. You won’t make it without a hobby. Raid a Michaels and steal all the beads, nobody’s gonna have taken those. Paint, draw, read, write, juggle, birdwatch.

All this being said if you need meds you’re probably fucked in that regard u less you know how to make your meds from scratch or a replacement like them meds are really important and the absolute first target of any apocalypse scenario.

Spin this wheel to get a weapon for a zombie apocalypse.

[floatyflowers]

Dark!male Kim Possible and female reader and dark male Shego headcanon ?

The trip to the local café shop was supposed to be quick and simple, and you refused to inform Kim of it, as you were tired of the over-protective spy, despite him being assigned to protect you.

But again, Kim stomped over your boundaries and claimed it was 'I need to do this because it's my responsibility to keep you safe'

Well, Kim is hot and any girl would want to be with him because of his athletic body and fearless attitude.

But you want to get away from him in any way possible.

"How can I help you?"

You sighed, pushing aside the thought of Kim and his suffocating protectiveness, and focused on the barista in front of you.

"I'll have a..." you tell her your order, tapping your fingers on the counter as you pulled out your wallet.

The barista nodded and began preparing your drink, while you took a moment to appreciate the rare freedom you had away from Kim.

It was peaceful, no lectures, no hovering, no overbearing presence watching your every move.

And surely no unnecessary flirting.

That peace, however, was short-lived.

The café door swung open with a loud creak, and a tall figure walked in, dressed in a black and green attire.

You barely had time to register the sharp emerald eyes before a gloved hand clamped over your mouth and an arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you backward.

"Not a sound, sweetheart," a smooth, amused voice purred in your ear.

"Wouldn’t want to make a scene now, would we?"

Your heart pounded as you struggled, but your captor’s grip was hard.

Shego.

You had heard of him before.

The infamous mercenary who worked for Drakken, someone Kim had warned you about repeatedly.

But hearing about him and experiencing his strength firsthand were two different things entirely.

“Looks like I just got myself a little prize,” Shego mused, dragging you toward the exit.

The café patrons froze in shock, some even whispering, others too afraid to intervene.

Nobody is going to stop him.

What a bunch of cowards.

Just as Shego reached the door, the glass window shattered.

A blur of red and black slammed into Shego with full force, knocking you from his grip and sending you stumbling to the ground.

"Not on my watch!"

Kim’s voice was sharp, his expression dark with anger as he positioned himself between you and Shego.

Shego's confident smirk widens, as he holds you against him by the waist.

Kim’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Back off, Shego." He orders.

"You’re not taking her anywhere."

Shego chuckled, rolling his shoulders.

"Relax, Kimmie. I was just gonna borrow her. Not like they actually want you breathing down their neck all the time." He tilted his head toward you, smirking.

"Isn’t that right, sweetheart? I bet a little excitement sounds way more fun than being babysat 24/7."

"No, it doesn't, especially if you are trying to kidnap me." you point out.

Shego chuckled, tilting his head in amusement.

"Ah, come on, sweetheart. Kidnap is such a harsh word. I prefer ‘taking.’ it's much better" His grip on you tightened as he shifted his weight, clearly ready for another move.

Kim didn’t hesitate, he lunged forward, throwing a punch aimed straight for Shego’s jaw.

But Shego was fast...too fast.

He sidestepped at the last second, using his free hand to catch Kim’s fist mid-air, the impact causing a sharp gust of wind through the café.

"You always were predictable, Kimmie," Shego taunted.

You took the opportunity to act, stomping hard on Shego’s foot and elbowing him in the ribs.

He grunted in surprise, his grip loosening just enough for you to break free.

You scrambled back, heart racing, pressing yourself against the counter as Kim launched another attack.

The two fought harshly in a blur of movement punches, dodges, counterattacks, until Shego, with a knowing smirk, suddenly stopped and held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. I’m done playing around."

Kim hesitated, eyes narrowing.

"What’s your true motivation?"

Shego’s smirk deepened.

"I just needed to confirm something."

"Confirm what?" You asked, confused.

Shego tilted his head toward you, then to Kim.

"That she is important to you. And guess what? Now that I know exactly how much, this just got way more interesting."

And then, before Kim could react, Shego threw a small metallic sphere onto the ground. It exploded in a burst of green smoke, obscuring everything from view.

You coughed, eyes watering, as you felt a sudden gust of air, Shego was escaping.

By the time the smoke cleared, he was gone.

Kim cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Damn it."

You turned to him, your chest still heaving.

"What did he mean by ‘confirming something’? Why would he care about how important I am to you?"

Kim clenched his jaw, avoiding your gaze for a moment before finally speaking

"Because… if he knows you’re valuable to me, it means you just became leverage."

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach.

"You mean—"

Kim nodded grimly.

"This wasn’t a random attack. Shego and Drakken have plans for you."

And that’s when your phone vibrated in your pocket.

A message from an unknown number.

See you soon, sweetheart. This is just the beginning. – S

Your fingers tightened around the device as dread curled in your stomach.

Shego wasn’t just after you, he wanted you.

However, there is something Kim didn't tell you and that is...Drakken is your father, that's why your mother tasked him with your protection.

But he can't tell you that and just made up an excuse.

Kim sees your worried expression, and wraps his hands around you from behind, placing his chin on your left shoulder.

"Don't worry, I will protect you from him even if it means I have to kill Shego."

[channiesbakery]

birthday cake —

prompt / request — trying to make them a birthday cake from scratch + decorating the house while they're still asleep

pairing — reader + boyfriend!dino

word count — 1001

genre — fluff + smut [oral (f receiving), p in v]

author’s note — this was so rushed 😭 but i just wanted to get something posted before the day ends for dino day!!

“go back to sleep,” you tell your boyfriend when you feel him tighten his grip around you as you’re trying to get up. “how can i when you’re trying to leave,” chan mumbles.

“I’m going to the bathroom to pee,” you say. “you better come back,” he mumbles, reluctantly letting you get up.

luckily, when you came out of the bathroom, he was fast asleep again.

you quickly– and quietly– head downstairs to the living room, trying to get all the decorations set up.

it wasn’t anything too crazy, just a few balloons, some streamers hanging on the ceiling and a happy birthday banner.

you had asked chan what he wanted to do for his birthday this year and of course, he said he just wanted to spend a day with you.

“but it’s your birthday. we need to do something fun– something that isn’t what we usually do,” you had argued with him. “spending time with my favorite girl is fun,” he argued back.

you would’ve preferred to do something a bit more extravagant to celebrate your boyfriend’s 26th birthday but it was his day so of course, you’d give him his relaxed day with you.

but you still wanted to do something to at least make the atmosphere feel like his birthday. hence the living room filled with decorations.

you felt accomplished when you’d finished decorating and didn’t hear chan waking up.

your next task is to bake a cake for him from scratch. again, you try to be as quiet as possible, wanting to surprise chan.

you’re only about halfway through mixing the batter when you feel arms wrapping around your waist, startling you.

“you promised you’d come back to bed,” he whines softly, burying his face against your neck. “and you’re supposed to be asleep,” you say.

“it’s your birthday, you should be sleeping in,” you add, turning around to face him as he keeps you cornered against the counter.

“exactly. it’s my birthday and i wanted to wake up to cuddling my girlfriend. not cuddling your giant pi cheolin otter,” he gives you a look. “hey! he’s a good cuddle buddy,” you protest.

“I’d prefer cuddling you. but you’re down here, cooking at the crack of dawn,” chan says. “I’m baking. a cake for you, by the way,” you say.

“we’ll buy one later. hell, I’ll buy 26 cakes later. just come back to bed. it’s not even 8am,” he groans as you just turn back around, grabbing your whisk to continue mixing while your boyfriend stayed clinging to you.

“go back to bed channie,” you tell him. “no,” he says stubbornly, nuzzling against you. “so clingy,” you tease, pouring the batter out into the pan.

“it’s my birthday. I’m allowed to be clingy,” he hums, watching your movements. “fine, we can cuddle while the cake bakes,” you says and he grins triumphantly.

except your cuddle session turns a little less wholesome when your clingy boyfriend gets a little too touchy.

“it’s your birthday– i should be– i should be the one doing this for you,” you gasp as he buries his face between your thighs.

“my birthday and this is exactly what i want. making my pretty girl cum til she sees stars,” he mumbles against your cunt.

your thighs squeeze around his head and he just pries them back apart, pinning them down to the mattress.

“think you can cum 26 times for me? in honor of my birthday?” he teases after your first orgasm. “are you crazy? or trying to kill me?” you ask as he kisses his way up your body until he cups her face, looking down into your eyes.

“just crazy in love with you,” he grins cheekily before kissing you. you lazily make out with him before flipping him over onto his back while you straddle his lap.

“happy birthday baby,” you whisper in his ear, lowering yourself onto his cock. you move your hips slowly, grinding against him as his hands controlled your movements.

“so perfect for me,” he mumbles against your lips. “fuck you feel so good, sweetheart,” he groans when you clench around him.

chan’s lips are all over your neck, biting and sucking on your skin, as he stills your hips and thrusts up slowly.

you let out a moan as he angled his thrusts just right, hitting that one spot deep inside you. “come on sweetheart, cum for me. gimme my birthday wish,” he purrs.

it’s not long after you cum around him before he’s filling you up. he fucks his cum into you until you’re whining from the sensitivity.

“i love you,” chan whispers, kissing you softly as he pulls out of you. he rolls you off of him and onto your side, holding you close.

“that’s three orgasms down, twenty three more to go,” he teases. “you’re insane,” you laugh softly as he nuzzled his nose against yours.

unfortunately, your sweet moment is interrupted by the smoke alarm going off downstairs.

“your cake!” you exclaim, sitting up as chan groans from the loss of your body against his. “it’s too late now, babe. it’s probably too burnt to be saved,” his arms wrap around your waist to keep you from leaving the bed as he pulls you back down.

“chan–” you start. “nope. it’s a sign to stay in bed with me. we have our goal of twenty six orgasms to reach, remember?” he says. “okay that is definitely not happening,” you say.

“i don’t need that cake anyways. i have yours already,” chan says, a smirk on his lips. before you could question him, he smacks your ass.

“you’re lucky it’s your birthday,” you give him a look and he just smiles innocently. “or what?” he asks and you just roll your eyes.

“okay, birthday or not, I’m not letting our house burn down because you distracted me,” you say, getting out of bed.

“can’t believe you’re leaving me again. on my birthday. you’re cruel, sweetheart!” your boyfriend whines dramatically from the bed.

[zevrra]

“please,” a strong male’s voice pathetically cries for you. “let me touch you. i’m sorry, i’ll be good, promise.” he pleads with a whimper.

“no jayce. you can only watch.” you hum, gripping onto jayce’s broad shoulders as you straddle a single one of his thighs. you wore nothing but jayce’s tie. something you had stolen from him the minute he walked through the door. staying too late out at the lab, trying to solve whatever equation he had been working on. but you didn’t care, he broke curfew. he was in trouble.

you drag your wet cunt across the thick of jayce’s thigh, groaning heavily as you smear slick right across the fabric of his pants. you leave a trail of your wetness along his dark pants as a reminder that he broke curfew. and now with you getting off on just his thigh, ordering him not to touch you, he remembers how he’s come home way too late.

jayce tenses as he watches you grind against his thigh, as if he could take his eyes off of you, another whine leaves his lips. watching while your hips roll forward once more, gripping the chair (the one you forced him to sit in) for dear life. restraining every ounce of his entire being from touching you. “please,” he begs again. “you’re soaking wet! please—ah—let me touch you. i’ll be good! please, i won’t be late ever again, please.”

“so eager to fuck me now but not eager enough to come home on time, tsk, tsk.” you scold, a soft groan leaving your lips as you press your cunt back onto his thigh. making sure to drag your core as slowly as you possibly could against him; solely so he could feel how truly wet you were. “you love this anyway. look at how hard you are pretty boy.” you hum, glancing down where his pants restrain him. his bulge was massive, tenting up strong and proud against the brown pants he regularly wore.

he tries to speak again but you interrupt him with another thrust of your hips. now picking up your pace to silence his tongue. slamming, rolling, smearing your dripping pussy across his thigh again and again; staining his pants oh so throughly. and it made you smile with the way jayce tensed up again. watching with a close eye on how your cunt dragged across his leg but never moving to touch you…because you said so. he almost hated it but, no, he really did in fact love it. seeing as a large pool of his own precum was beginning to stain the front of his pants; that was proof enough of his enjoyment.

and you surely wanted to keep teasing him but your orgasm was rising too fast. turning your head into a mushy state with the only thought being to seek your end to your delightful high. so you did just that, jayce’s name rings from your lips as you move quicker, push yourself hard down against his thigh. moans bubble up as you lose yourself in the pleasure of his leg, gripping his shoulders now for dear life. “mmph! coming, i’m coming!” your cry echoes loudly as your orgasm finally takes over you. lightning surges through every inch of your body, forcing your hips to jerk with every wave of your climax; your slick further coating his thigh.

but as you’re coming down from your little high, you’re quick to notice jayce trembles under your touch. his head hangs low while he breathes ragged, desperate breaths. and that’s when you notice— jayce has cum as well. right through his pants. at just the sight of you and the occasional bump of your knee against his tented cock, but never once touching himself.

“‘m sorry…i tried to hold back but…so hot ugh.” jayce admits, a needy whimper slipping from his lips as he tries to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

suddenly you’re soaking wet all over again, dripping onto his thigh with a new found force of your own eagerness and need, but this time; you’d give the good boy a reward for behaving so well.

[dulcescorderitas]

Hi! I was wondering if you would ever possibly write a part two to Juno (either with the very fun times trying to make a kid or with them having a kid) I just adore the way you write Clark and would love your take on either situation (especially Clark as a girl or boy dad!) thank you regardless and keep being incredible!

you’ve got your hands braced on either side of the headboard, breath coming fast, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you try—really try—to look sexy. but then clark’s face does this thing, this deep-in-thought furrow, and you lose it.

“why are you laughing?” he groans, already half-wrecked but now thoroughly distracted.

“because,” you gasp between snickers, “your sex face looks like you’re trying to calculate the square root of our mortgage.”

he throws his head back, barking out a laugh. “wow, okay. mood’s ruined. hope you’re happy.”

“deliriously.” you wiggle your fingers dramatically before sliding them down his stomach, teasing, trailing lower. “but let’s try again, professor deep-in-thought.”

he’s about to fire back, but then you move just right, and instead of a retort, a downright obscene moan tumbles out of him. your smugness is instant.

“ohhh, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“shut up,” he grumbles, face burning.

“make me.”

so he does. with his mouth, hot and insistent, trailing down your stomach as he spreads your thighs wide. with his hands, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he buries himself inside you, hips snapping forward in deep, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs. with his body, pressed flush against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling as he fucks you like he needs this more than air.

he groans into your neck, the sound guttural, desperate. "God, baby—so mhm—"

you claw at his back, dragging him deeper, chasing the pleasure that coils hot in your belly. "clark—faster—"

he listens. he always does. his rhythm turns frantic, each thrust leaving you gasping, your legs locking around his waist as he drives into you, relentless and perfect. he kisses you like he’s trying to swallow your moans, swallowing his own when you squeeze around him just right.

when he finally shudders, spilling deep inside you, you’re right there with him, nails digging into his shoulders as your whole body shakes.

later, sprawled in bed, catching your breath, you roll onto your stomach, eyes still hazy. "so, you think this is the one? the magic baby-making round?"

clark hums, running a hand over her back. “if not, we’ll just have to keep trying. and trying. and—”

“okay, we get it, you’re suffering.”

“deeply,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his arms tight around your waist. “but, you know, if suffering means holding you and making love to you like this every night, I think I can live with it.”

and to answer your question:

clark is 100% a girl dad. he’s got princess bandaids in his wallet, a collection of tiny hair ties in his pockets, and can paint little nails with surprising skill. he’s memorized every disney princess song and will belt out "let it go" with zero shame if it means making his baby girl smile. he’s the kind of dad who lets her pick out his tie in the morning, even if it’s bright pink and covered in sparkles.

he absolutely lets his daughter do his hair and has gone to work with glitter in it more than once. the first time, his colleagues gave him weird looks, but now they just expect it. he’s a walking canvas for tiny, chubby hands, and he’ll sit still for hours while she "styles" him with clips, bows, and whatever else she finds in her little hair kit. once, she even convinced him to wear pigtails to the grocery store.

he cries the first time she calls him “daddy,” but pretends it’s just allergies. in reality, he gets teary-eyed at a lot of milestones—her first steps, her first day of school, the first time she tells him she loves him. he’s hopelessly wrapped around her little finger, and juno teases him mercilessly for it, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

taglist: @legalmente-loca @soangelbaby

[steddieas-shegoes]

the taste of you

for @steddielovemonth inspired by the quote "there is never a time or place for true love. it happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single, flashing, throbbing moment." - the truth about forever by sarah dessen

rated m | 1717 words | cw: blood, canon adjacent events | tags: eddie lives, steve has a crush on eddie, first kiss, getting together, post-vecna

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

The sky is red. It’s dark, the air is damp, and Steve hates the Upside Down.

This place genuinely sucks.

It sucks even more when he can hear Dustin yelling, but can’t see him.

It sucks the most when he finally sees why Dustin is yelling.

Steve’s heart stops, but his legs don’t.

He runs.

He runs so fast, his legs nearly give out.

They do, when he sees how bad it is.

Eddie’s dying. He’s bleeding too much.

Dustin knows it, that’s why he sounds like he’s in pain. Dustin’s seen enough near-death and death alike. Steve’s not letting him see it now, not with this guy he looks up to.

Steve starts CPR, wipes blood off his lips before he starts compressions. It’s a taste he’ll never forget.

When he thought about tasting Eddie, it wasn’t like this.

He keeps going, and the time keeps ticking, and Eddie’s heart doesn’t quite beat right, but he is breathing. Steve has no idea how he’s going to keep him breathing while they get him out. He can’t think about that when he’s trying to maintain his own oxygen levels to keep Eddie alive.

He’s keeping Eddie alive.

“Somebody get us out!” Steve manages to yell before he starts giving Eddie the air from his lungs.

Nancy is yelling and Dustin is screaming about not leaving them, but then Robin’s hand is on his back.

“Let me take over for a minute,” she says, voice shaking with nerves. She knows CPR because Steve insisted she learn after the Russians. He insisted everyone learn, but he hasn’t been able to teach everyone yet. He leaves her space to take over.

Nancy is tugging Dustin back to the trailer. He knows she’s coming up with a plan.

He wipes blood from his lips.

Nancy is gone for long enough that Steve starts taking over again with CPR. Robin is keeping an eye on things, making sure she doesn’t need to tap in again, making sure no rogue bats are coming back for seconds. Or thirds by the look of Eddie’s mangled body.

A warm hand touches his back as he’s trying to keep the life inside Eddie’s chest.

He pulls away. He wipes blood from his lips.

“C’mon kid, I gotta get him out of here,” Hopper is nudging him away. He doesn’t know how or why Hop is here. He doesn’t ask. He just needs him to save Eddie.

Hopper takes Eddie into his arms, lifts him up, and starts walking to the trailer.

Robin is holding his hand while they follow behind.

Eddie’s eyes open as they walk and Steve sees it, feels it.

There’s a zap of electricity between them.

Steve tastes blood again.

He wipes his mouth, but there’s nothing there.

Eddie’s eyes close again, but Steve doesn’t look away.

****

Steve’s head is pounding, but he refuses to leave. Robin brought him water and a sandwich about an hour ago, tried to convince him to go home and shower, take some Ibuprofen. He refused.

He wipes his mouth. There’s nothing there.

He wants to taste Eddie without blood in the way.

He wants to know Eddie without the fear of the police arresting him or Vecna cursing him or bats eating him alive.

He wants to touch Eddie with soft hands, knowing that he’s breathing on his own.

He wants to know what it’s like to love Eddie.

But Eddie’s still in recovery from surgery, and no one is allowed to see him, not even his uncle. Wayne is soft spoken, kind, but won’t take any nonsense from anyone. He gives Steve a nod every time a nurse gives him an update, a silent confirmation that Eddie’s still alive.

It’s enough for him for now, but his chest pulls tight at the thought that the only time he’d have Eddie close is when he’s dying.

“Mr. Munson?” A doctor calls for Wayne.

Steve knows better than to walk over there, but his ears tune in as much as possible.

“He’s in a room. I’d be shocked if he wakes up anytime in the next 24 hours. It was touch and go for a while, but we managed to find all of the internal bleeding and stop it. The external wounds are stitched up, but the scarring will be extensive. He had a skin graft done on his side, and that will be a painful healing process for the next few months. He currently has a fever, so we’re monitoring for infection. Whatever attacked him did enough damage that I am concerned he may have permanent muscular damage. It’s hard to know until he wakes up exactly how functional he will be, but be prepared for the worst,” the doctor explains. He’s straightforward, facts only, and Steve kind of appreciates it.

“The worst being?” Wayne asks.

“We don’t think he’ll be paralyzed, but enough damage has been done to his left side that he may be unable to walk. His neck had enough damage that speaking may be very painful or impossible for him. We aren’t going to know about his ability to hear or see until he wakes up, but his left ear was bleeding, which leads me to believe his eardrum is damaged enough for some hearing loss to be present. We just want you to be prepared.”

“Right. Anything else?”

Steve is standing much closer now, hadn’t even realized he moved until he was practically right behind Wayne.

“Not at this time. You may go back to sit with him, but I do ask that you don’t touch him. We don’t want to increase the risk of infection, and we don’t know what parts of his body are hurting at this time.”

Wayne nods. The doctor tells him the room number and general directions and walks away.

Steve wipes his mouth.

“Well? You comin’?” Wayne asks him.

Steve jumps. “Huh?”

“I expect you wanna see the boy after all you did to make sure he lived,” Wayne is smiling at him.

“But they said…”

“I heard him. I’d like to see ‘em stop us. They got a lot goin’ on right now anyway. Won’t even notice.”

So Steve follows Wayne to Eddie’s room, which is dimly lit and at the end of the hall, out of the way of a lot of the chaos happening around them. Wayne hasn’t asked questions, almost like he knows he shouldn’t. Steve won’t be able to answer.

Eddie’s asleep, and a lot of his body is covered in bandages. What isn’t still looks dirty, his skin caked with remnants of mud and dirt, with dried blood.

Steve wipes his mouth, grateful there’s no blood on his lips.

Wayne sits in the chair next to his bed. Steve stands by the door.

He feels like he’s guarding him, doing everything he can to protect him while he rests.

****

Eddie wakes up four days later.

He can move, but it’s extremely painful. He can hear, and see, and mostly talk, though his voice is raspy from disuse. Steve’s been in and out at Wayne’s insistence.

He sleeps at home for a few hours, showers, eats, then comes back.

No one comments on his presence, not even Eddie.

Not at first.

He stays in the background while the kids visit and find normalcy where they can. He stays out of the way when Wayne visits, happy just to see Eddie giving him a hard time from his bed. He keeps quiet when the doctors and nurses and Hop all sit down to talk to him about his progress.

Eddie doesn’t seem bothered by him hanging around. If anything, he seems to be trying to entertain him, maybe keep him here longer. Steve feels a fondness settle in his chest, and it stays there, makes a home in his lungs and his heart.

Eddie is reading, alone for the first time all day and enjoying the quiet. Well, he’s alone in the sense that Steve is sitting off to the side, not bothering him.

Steve wipes his mouth.

“You do that a lot,” Eddie says without looking up from his book.

“Do what?” Steve didn’t think he did anything. He’s just sitting, making sure Eddie’s alive.

“Wipe your mouth. I don’t remember you doing that before,” Eddie sets the book down on his lap. “You’ve done it six times in the last hour.”

“Oh,” Steve frowns. He doesn’t remember doing it that much. “Sorry.”

Eddie searches his face for something. He nods when he finds whatever it was.

“Come here,” Eddie sets his book on the table that’s still holding his dinner tray. They haven’t been by to pick it up yet.

Steve stands and walks closer to the bed.

“Closer.”

Steve leans in.

Eddie grabs the back of his head, firm but pulling him in gently. Steve could pull back if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he doesn’t want to stop it.

Eddie’s lips brush his. It’s enough pressure to be considered a kiss, but it’s over so quickly, Steve isn’t sure he registers it right away.

“There.”

“There?” Steve asks, resisting the urge to immediately lean in for more.

“It’s just my lips now. Nothing else. Nothing to wipe away.”

Steve blinks. Did someone tell Eddie about…?

“Robin told me about the CPR.” Eddie smirks. “Well, actually she said that she had to taste my blood and she would never forgive me for it, which led to me asking why Wayne told me you performed CPR. Then she explained and I noticed your little nervous habit.”

Eddie’s thumb brushes against his bottom lip. No one’s ever touched him like this, so soft, so gentle.

“I’m here. There’s no blood where it shouldn’t be. You saved me. You and Robin saved me.”

Steve’s lips part, his breath catches.

“Can I check?”

Eddie smiles. “Yeah, Stevie.”

Steve kisses him, feels his lips moving against his, and it’s different. All he tastes is Eddie’s spit, the garlic from the mashed potatoes he had for dinner, and the hint of something spicy, maybe the soda Wayne snuck him after the nurse left earlier.

No blood.

No dirt.

No sweat.

Just Eddie.

And that moment is all Steve needs to know he loves the taste of Eddie.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: lucky's choppery (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, vague smut, implied blowjob, mention of abortion (not to reader), mad scientist tony stark, laboratory, mentions of gambling, alcohol, smoking, vague mentions of physical violence, angst, some fluff (?), criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: wowee, i wrote this so fast (i already had the dialogue and some writing ready for like 80% of this chapter, so it was pretty easy to fill in the rest). hoping to at least get one more chapter out but no promises, beginning to feel a bit burnt out and my birthday is on sunday yippe. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love @calwitch permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The crowded sea of workers flooding out of the factories for the evening parted like a tide before Bucky, his strides purposeful, shoulders squared. The setting sun cast the Smokestack District in a haze of burning amber and ashen grey, the air thick with soot and the sharp tang of metal. Even here, in the industrial veins of Sootstone, men instinctively stepped aside lest they be trampled underfoot.

This Stark friend of his was apparently buried deep within the district, tucked away in whatever workshop or lair he called home. Even if their fathers had once been in business together, Stark seemed to have chosen a different path that didn’t dance as closely with the violence that pulsed beneath the city’s surface. You had no doubt that his work, whatever it was, still dipped into the murky waters of illegality. The Smog Boys and their associates rarely kept company with anyone clean.

You let your mind wander, dissecting the possibilities, if only to drown out the roar in your thoughts. For once, Bucky Barnes and his uninvited quests were a welcome distraction.

But no matter how much you tried to shove it aside, Becca’s revelation clung to you like a thorn buried deep beneath your skin. Her words would haunt you long into the night. You knew they would. You’d toss and turn, picking them apart, unravelling them until they unravelled you.

Your father—the man who had half-heartedly raised you, the man who had buried himself in drink and violence, the man who had driven your mother into an early grave—was not your father. Not the man you had thought him to be at all.

The realisation felt like a gaping wound in your chest. The years you had wasted on him, the countless excuses, the hesitant forgiveness. It was all for nothing. You had bent yourself backwards trying to make sense of him, trying to make peace with how he had broken you repeatedly. And yet, he was just another name to add to an already endless list of cruel men.

And your mother—gods, your mother. You had resented her for the life she had chosen, for trapping you in the Warrens, for binding you to poverty and suffering. You had never understood why she stayed, why she had chosen him, why she hadn’t run far from Blackstone and disappeared into the countryside. But now, it all slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle you hadn’t realised was incomplete.

A sickness curled in your gut. You had hated her.

Your lip was raw from how hard you had been chewing it, and you forced yourself to focus on the roll of Bucky’s shoulders as he marched ahead, unphased, a cigarette hanging from his lips. You hated yourself for ever blaming your mother when she had endured atrocities. She had shown remarkable strength in escaping, in carving out a life of her own in the shadows of Sootstone. She had run from that wretched place, hidden in plain sight. Marrying your father…it must have been a last resort. Perhaps the only man who would take in a woman in her condition.

And she had never told you. Neither of them had. Did your father—no, the man you had believed to be your father—even know the truth? He had never spoken of the Church of Light beyond vague, half-drunken warnings, letting the weight of it gather dust in your memories. A ghost of something unspoken.

But you had never forgotten.

There was a plan forming in your mind—a quiet, insidious thing. A plan to destroy the Church of Light, to repay them for the cruelties they had stained your bloodline with. That day with Michael—gods, Michael— it had given you confidence, perhaps even delusion. You had power. Power strong enough to tear them apart, to bring them to their knees. But beyond any misplaced ideas of grandeur, you knew a truth. You couldn’t act alone. Not in such an obvious way. The Church was vast—multiple temples, hundreds of members. A massacre would not go unnoticed, and the coppers wouldn’t hesitate to drag you to the gallows. It had been a miracle you had escaped them as a teenager.

And every power, every body in this realm, had limits. 

You’d never had the full opportunity to explore the depths of this cursed power you’d been gifted, this death that clung to your very being. You couldn’t know if you had what it took to destroy them all in one fell swoop without destroying yourself in the process.

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky. His expression was guarded, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead as smoke curled from the cigarette between his lips. Even now, with his muscles still taut from anger, he exuded a dangerous calm. A readiness to act, to strike.

You could use him.

You could use him, use the Smog Boys to rip the Church of Light apart. If it became a gang war, the coppers wouldn’t so much as bat an eye. They’d let the criminals handle their own if Bucky's name was attached.

And you would be protected—so long as you could keep his attention.

The thought twisted something deep inside you. Was it wrong to think this way?

Then again… had he not used you, too? Had he not sought you out for your power, for what you could do for him? Yes, he had paid you, but at what cost? There was no permanency in this. You were just another indulgence, another fleeting pleasure. He had told you himself—he didn’t think himself a man capable of love.

Maybe you could have loved him. But him loving you?

It would be foolish to think so. Foolish to believe he could care for you beyond lust, beyond the pull of your body against his.

Your thoughts twisted in on themselves, tangling like a mess of threads in your mind, squeezing, choking, refusing to come undone.

The streets of the Smokestack District grew narrower as you followed Bucky deeper into its labyrinthine alleys, the industrial skyline choking out what little remained of the evening light. Buildings leaned into one another like drunks in an embrace, their brick faces blackened with soot, their windows murky with grime. The air stank of coal smoke, damp rot, and something metallic—oil, or maybe blood.

At the end of a particularly filthy lane, past a crumbling row of tenements, you finally stopped in front of what appeared to be an unassuming butcher’s shop. A weathered wooden sign, its red paint peeling, hung above the entrance: Lucky’s Choppery. The display window was lined with thick cuts of beef and strings of sausages, though the glass was so smeared with grease it barely reflected the gaslights flickering in the street.

You eyed the butcher’s block just inside, where a cleaver had been buried deep into a slab of meat, its blade glinting under the weak glow of an overhead lamp. The floor, lined with well-worn tiles, bore the dark stains of years of blood and brine. 

Bucky shoved open the door without hesitation, the bell overhead giving a feeble jingle. A lanky kid behind the counter—maybe eighteen at most—jerked up from where he’d been counting money, his dark eyes widening.

You glanced around, taking in the place. “Your friend Stark… is a butcher?”

Bucky huffed, crunching his cigarette beneath his boot. “It’s a front, doll.”

“Good to know…” You exhaled slowly, shifting your weight as the kid behind the counter fumbled with the till.

Bucky stepped forward, tapping the counter with two fingers. “Parker. Here to see Stark.”

The boy—Parker—flinched, his expression tightening. “Stark—you’re supposed to say Lucky—”

Bucky’s brow creased. “Who the fuck is Lucky?”

“It’s the codeword—” Parker sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his lips together like he was already regretting this conversation. “Mr. Stark is busy, I’m afraid Mr. Barnes…”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “Kid, I’m sure he is. But do you think he’s gonna be pleased if he finds out you turned me away?”

Parker swallowed hard. His shoulders sagged, and with a sigh, he jerked his head toward the back. “Alright… come on through.”

You followed Parker behind the counter and through a heavy wooden door into the backroom. The temperature dropped immediately. The air was thick with the lingering scent of salt and raw flesh. Rows of bloodless animal carcasses hung from iron hooks, swaying slightly from the draft that slithered through the room. You stepped carefully as Parker led you toward a door set into the far wall. The door's surface was scratched and worn, but the metal handle was polished from years of use.

Parker pushed it open, ushering you both in. You winced as you were blinded by the buzz of lightbulbs hanging overhead, illuminating the space. 

A laboratory. 

It was a chaotic masterpiece of metal and magic, stitched together in an unholy fusion of science and the occult. Copper pipes ran along the walls like veins, some hissing with steam, others crackling faintly with unnatural energy. The exposed brick was scrawled over with chalked equations, half-translated runes wedged between calculations that looked like they belonged to some deranged engineer’s fever dream.

Workbenches sagged under the weight of strange devices—bronzed contraptions with whirring gears, delicate instruments of glass and silver, and something that looked suspiciously like a heart pulsing inside a vat of thick, viscous liquid. Along the far wall, a large metal figure loomed, wires and arcane sigils wrapping around it in a spidery embrace. A dull red glow pulsed from within.

And at the centre of it all, hunched over a mess of gears and copper wiring, was the man himself.

Stark.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His dark hair was a mess of careless waves, tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times while deep in thought. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his sharp jaw. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, exposing forearms slathered with grease and soot. His vest, once fine, was smudged with oil and singed at the edges, and his half-buttoned shirt carried the distinct stains of burnt metal and something vaguely alchemical.

Perched on his nose was a pair of brass-framed goggles, their lenses thick and dusted with soot, the left one cracked down the middle. A tiny, flickering spark of blue danced across the metal frame as if whatever enchantment he’d woven into them was barely holding together. He had the look of a man who was equal parts genius and disaster, the kind of bastard who could build something to change the world but would probably set his own lab on fire in the process.

And, of course, he didn’t even look up as the door swung open.

“Who's this? A present for me?” His voice was rough. He finally glanced up, gaze narrowing as he studied you. “I see magic about her—”

“She ain’t for one of your experiments, Tony,” Bucky interrupted, stepping between you and the mad scientist. “She’s with me.”

“Huh.” Stark exhaled, leaning back against his worktable with an air of disappointment. “Shame. And touchy, too… I take it this is your infamous spirit-raiser?”

“What?” you muttered, stiffening.

“He experiments with magic and technology,” Bucky explained dryly. “Thinks he can… power metal with magic.”

“That’s possible?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Stark’s expression turned downright wolfish. “Oh, it’s possible. Just needs the right conduit.” He stepped forward, his fingers twitching like he was already picturing carving something out of you to power one of his creations. “I mean… if I could just experiment with a drop of your magic, it doesn’t hurt, I promise… just a prick, bit of bleeding, long-term possibilities can include sudden death buuut—”

Your expression melted into something of horror.

“Oi, that’s not why we’re ‘ere, Tony,” Bucky cut in sharply. “I’m hostin’ a party. You’re invited.”

With a flick of his wrist, he produced a pristine envelope from inside his suit jacket, the deep red wax seal still unbroken. The contrast was almost comical—elegant, refined, and utterly out of place. You doubted Bucky had penned the invitations himself; the script was too precise and delicate. No, he’d likely had some poor girl painstakingly scrawl each one by hand while he barked orders from the corner of a smoky room.

Bucky’s expression remained flat, but his tone had an unmistakable edge when he added, “Preferably, you’ll keep your hands off my bird while you’re at it.”

You had to fight the urge to snap your head toward him in shock. His bird? Had one week tangled in your sheets left that much of a mark on him? The man hadn’t even taken you on a proper date—unless you counted brutalising a handful of Iron Rats as a romantic outing.

Stark paused, his keen gaze flicking between the two of you like he was dissecting a particularly interesting experiment. The glint in his eye was pure mischief. “Your bird, aye? Didn’t realise things were so… serious.”

Bucky scowled, jaw tightening. “Shut ya fuckin’ gob and take the invitation.” He flicked the pristine envelope onto Stark’s cluttered workbench, where it landed atop a mess of copper wiring, scattered blueprints, and a wrench smeared with something that definitely wasn’t just grease.

Stark picked it up, popping open the seal with ease. “Alright, alright.” His expression shifted slightly as he skimmed the contents. “This ain’t got anything to do with that Smokin’ Jacks business?”

Bucky smirked. “Somethin’ like that.”

Even with the vague way they spoke, you had heard rumours.

The Smokin’ Jacks were a gang of gamblers—slick bastards who ran their operations like clockwork, their fortunes made not through brute force but by sleight of hand. They had gambling dens throughout Blackstone, and their debts were written in blood.

The Smog Boys and the Smokin’ Jacks had long held a hesitant truce—so long as the Jacks didn’t turn their tricks on the poor bastards in the Warrens, there was no need for bloodshed. Their scams and schemes were reserved for the rich and reckless of the Flower District, the men who never knew the weight of a real loss.

But lately, there had been whispers. The Jacks weren’t keeping their word. Their debt collectors had started crossing into Smog Boy territory, leaning on the desperate and the weak, pressing them for coin they didn’t have.

Bucky didn’t take kindly to broken deals.

Stark folded the invitation with an almost exaggerated neatness, tucking it into the inner pocket of his grease-streaked waistcoat. His eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing, the kind of look that suggested he saw a game unfolding that only he knew the rules to.

“Guess I’ll be there, then.”

Bucky gave a short nod as if he had expected no less. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his cigarette case with a flick of his wrist. But before he could light one, you stepped forward, words spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

“You just wrapped up that business with the Iron Rats, and now you’re goin’ after the Smokin’ Jacks? Can you be any more reckless—”

Bucky turned his head toward you, exhaling slowly through his nose, cigarette forgotten. “Don’t make me remind you whose fault that Iron Rats business was.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re the one who escalated it—”

“Yeah, well, you sure were into it, weren’t you?” His voice dropped, low and taunting, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sure fucked me afterwards like you did—”

Heat shot up your spine, equal parts fury and disbelief, and before you even realised what you were doing, your hand was fisted in the sleeve of his coat, yanking him toward you. He barely moved, only grinning down at you with that infuriating glint in his eye, like he was daring you to do something about it.

Behind you, Stark let out a low whistle, then a chuckle, clearly enjoying the show. “Well, well. You two are a real pair, aren’t ya?” He leaned back against his workbench, arms crossed, amusement dancing across his features. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and wrenched his arm free, though not before squeezing your wrist briefly—just enough to remind you who was stronger. “We’re leavin’,” he muttered, turning toward the door.

“Try not to start a war before the party, Barnes,” Stark called after him. “But if you do—” he grinned, “—make sure I get front-row seats.”

You cast one last glance at the chaos of the lab, the scattered notes, and the eerie hum of machinery before following Bucky out. You didn’t need Stark to tell you that. A war was already brewing.

—

Your front door creaked as you pushed it open, the familiar scent of candle wax and herbs greeting you as you stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, the only real light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps outside, their hazy beams spilling through the lace curtains. You shrugged off your coat, glancing over your shoulder as Bucky followed you in.

Only, he didn’t move the way he usually did.

Gone was the effortless swagger, the quiet, calculated control he carried himself with. Instead, he lingered near the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or turn and leave. The sight unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

“You stayin’ the night?” You asked, tone casual despite the tension between you. “Or are you gonna go over to keep an eye on Becca?”

Bucky exhaled, rubbing at his jaw before answering. “No. I’ll have Nat watch over Becca. Think I’m the last person she wants to see right about now.”

There was something distant in his voice. You had noticed a shift in him during your quiet walk back from Stark’s lab. You turned, leaning against the edge of the table as you studied him. His shoulders were taut beneath his coat as if he were bracing for something.

“Are you angry with her?” you asked carefully. “For what she said to me?”

His lips pressed into a firm line. He took a moment before answering. “Can’t say I’m not a bit upset, doll.”

You sighed. “I wouldn’t take it out on her. She was just tryin’ to protect you.”

His head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. “I can make my own choices.”

“Bucky… I just—” You began but you cut yourself off as the gangster finally spoke.

“I’m…” He hesitated.

You blinked. That alone was enough to unnerve you.

You had never seen Bucky hesitate, not like this. He always had something to say—sharp, sure, commanding. But now, something unfamiliar wove itself into his voice. Vulnerability.

“…Grateful.”

The word came quietly like he almost couldn’t bring himself to say it, and when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw it—the slight furrow of his brow, the way his hands flexed as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

“For what you did for Becca today,” he finished.

You swallowed hard.

“Well,” you sigh, “I couldn’t have just left her there—”

“I’m serious.”

His voice was firm now, but there was a softness beneath it. He shifted his weight slightly, jaw working as he forced himself to continue. “I know she is cruel, but she is my blood. My responsibility.”

You let his words sink in, picking them apart in your head.

“I don’t think she’s cruel,” you murmured. “I think she’s a woman who’s built her walls so high to protect herself. Now she can’t tell a friend from a threat.”

Bucky huffed a quiet breath, barely a sound at all.

“I can tell you why she’s like that,” he said. “And I’m afraid I’m on that list.”

Your brows pulled together. “I wouldn’t blame yourself—”

“Sometimes I worry, doll.”

Something in his voice… a weight settled in your ribcage. It was lower now, rougher like the words were being dragged from some part of him he never let anyone see. His fingers twitched at his side, clenching once before flexing open again. His jaw went tight, and when he finally spoke again, the words came slowly, carefully.

“I worry that I am becoming my father.”

Silence stretched between you. You didn’t think. You just reached out, fingers brushing over his hand, grounding him, offering something—anything—before he could retreat behind the walls you could already see rising.

But it was too late.

His body went rigid, tension snapping through him like a wire pulled too tight. His hand twitched under yours as if instinct told him to grip, to hold on, but then…He pulled away. The moment his expression hardened, you knew. Whatever softness had been there was gone in an instant, buried beneath cold calculation and the armour he had worn for so long. “I should go,” he muttered, voice clipped.

“Bucky—”

But he was already turning, already stepping away.

The door swung open, and before you could say another word, he was gone, the night swallowing him whole.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where he had been, his presence lingering like a ghost you couldn’t quite banish. 

—

Three days later, you made the—likely foolish—decision to deliver a care package to Becca. You knew you’d probably receive a tongue-lashing for it, but a small, wicked part of you wanted to be the better person. You had sourced some gin from the Flower Districts, strong, quality stuff that the upper-class women drank. A classier alternative to the harsh whiskey that the Smog Boys brewed and likely already lined Becca’s shelves.

The alley was dark and damp, the scent of piss and rotting wood lingering in the narrow space. Your breath curled in the cold air as you hesitated in front of her door, fingers tightening around the woven basket in your hands.

Maybe your presence wasn’t the best idea, given what she was recovering from. Perhaps it was best to leave the package and disappear into the night unseen. The message would be there, but you’d be spared the inevitable onslaught of curses she would toss your way. You imagined whore would be right at the top.

With a quiet huff, you bent to place the basket on the doorstep. Inside, nestled together, was the bottle of gin, a fresh loaf of bread, butter, and some cold-cut meats you had hunted down at the Sunday market. You knew Bucky and Nat were caring for her, but you wanted to be sure.

The door creaked open just as you straightened up.

Bucky.

He stepped out, locking up behind him, keys dangling from his fingers with an idle sort of ease. He was dressed in his usual suit—dark, well-fitted, with the coat buttoned up against the cold. The brass glint of his pocket watch chain caught the dim light as he turned to you.

For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. But it passed too quickly to catch.

“You just can’t help yourself, huh?” His voice was low, edged with something you couldn’t quite place.

Your mouth opened before your mind could catch up, fumbling for an excuse. I was just making sure she’s alright. I was worried. I care. But instead, you settled for, “Sorry, I was just… ah. Care package. For Becca. Thought she’d need it.”

Maybe it wasn’t best to admit to your convoluted, backward scheme of making the woman feel bad through kindness. 

His gaze dropped to the basket at your feet, scanning its contents with a slow, deliberate look before exhaling through his nose. Without a word, he bent and picked it up, turning it slightly in his hands.

“She’s out with that Brackett kid,” he muttered, shifting the basket to his other hand.

You hesitated. “That’s… good?”

Bucky arched a brow as he pulled out the bottle of gin, tilting it slightly to read the label.

“Still gonna kill him,” he said flatly, setting the bottle back down.

You bit back a smirk. “Of course you are.”

He didn’t smile, but something about his posture loosened—just a fraction. The last time you had seen him, he had stormed out of your flat. You couldn’t tell if he was still feeling stand-offish, or if the sharpness in his tone was just habit. The keys clinked softly as he turned them over in his palm, watching you with that same brooding expression.

He placed the basket on the hallway table, pulling shut the door and locking it with practised ease. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he murmured, voice measured, almost lazy. But there was something deliberate in it, like he was waiting to see how you’d respond.

You hesitated, shifting on your heels. “Didn’t think you’d want to.”

Something flickered in his gaze, just for a second, before he looked away.

“Yeah, well,” he said, slipping the keys into his pocket. “You keep showing up, don’t you?”

You exhaled a short laugh, though your pulse was a little unsteady. “Guess I do.”

Bucky made a noise in his throat, something between amusement and resignation. Then, with a tilt of his head toward the street, he stepped past you.

“Walk with me,” he said, not looking back.

It wasn’t a question. And, despite yourself, you followed.

The night air bit at your skin as you fell into step beside him. The streets of the Warrens were quieter in this part of town, though the distant hum of nightlife still clung to the air—rowdy laughter spilling from taverns, the occasional shout of a drunk stumbling home.

Bucky’s flat was deeper in the district, past the noisier streets, tucked above an old tailor’s shop. He didn’t say a word as he led you up the narrow stairwell, the scent of dust and mothballs lingering in the close space. At the top, he flicked the key between his fingers before unlocking the door, pushing it open without much ceremony.

Inside, it was… surprisingly nice. Not lavish like Becca’s, but well-kept—orderly. The furnishings were simple: a sturdy wooden table, a leather armchair that looked well-worn but hardly used, a small bar cart against the wall with only a handful of bottles. Unlike Becca’s place, which was decorated with velvet drapes, gilded mirrors, and delicate trinkets, Bucky’s was bare. Functional. You got the sense that he didn’t spend much time here.

He didn’t look at you as he shrugged off his coat, draping it over the chair. Instead, he reached for the bar cart, grabbing a bottle and two glasses. “Drink?”

“Sure.”

He poured the amber liquid out and slid one of the glasses toward you across the wooden table, his own drink resting loosely in his grip. You hesitated for only a second before taking the offered glass, the cool weight of it grounding you. The scent was rich and smoky, promising a slow, lingering burn.

Silence stretched between you for a long moment, the soft clink of glass against wood filling the space. Finally, you exhaled, rolling the whiskey between your fingers before speaking. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Bucky lifted a brow. “About what?”

“You storming out of my flat the other day?” You sighed, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Look, I didn’t expect a thank you if that’s what’s got you all wound up.”

His gaze flickered to yours, sharp and searching, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “I’m not wound up.”

You scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

That pulled a smirk from him—slow, teasing. “Did you want me to stay?” There was a beat of pause before he huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the whiskey in his glass. When he finally looked at you again, amusement curled at the edges of his lips. “Did you miss me?” he drawled. 

“Maybe.”

Bucky’s smirk deepened, but there was something else beneath it—something you couldn’t quite name. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, considering.

“Careful, doll,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward you in a slow, deliberate toast. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

He watched you as you lifted the glass to your lips. The first sip hit hard, burning its way down your throat and curling warm in your stomach. You coughed, barely suppressing a wince as the heat spread through your chest. Bucky smirked, tilting his own glass to his lips with far more ease.

“Shit, is this Smog Boys stuff?” You rasped, blinking away the sting.

“Off the market, yeah.” He hummed, stretching back as he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sank into it with a sigh. “Some of it, we brew strong. Just for us boys.”

Your gaze flickered to his hands, the way his fingers idly traced the rim of his glass. He had settled into his seat with the ease, legs spread wide, confidence dripping from every lazy shift of his body. The sight of him like that, whiskey warming his blood, watching you with quiet interest—it sent a pulse of heat low in your stomach.

You tipped back the rest of your drink, hissing at the burn, then shrugged off your coat. The heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders and crumpled to the floor between his feet. Bucky’s gaze sharpened. You lowered yourself onto the discarded coat, knees pressing into the worn wood through the fabric, your hands smoothing up the inside of his thighs.

His body reacted before his words did. His legs spread a little wider, welcoming you in, his breath hitching just slightly. You nuzzled against the rough fabric of his trousers, blinking up at him through your lashes.

“What’re you…” He trailed off as your nails ghosted over the buckle of his belt.

His hand caught your wrist, and you smirked at him, tilting your head. “I wanna taste you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers tightening on your skin for just a moment. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down with a heavy clink.

“Shit, doll,” he muttered, his voice rougher now, lower, as his free hand went to his belt. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

From where you knelt, you could see the way his breath had quickened, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before undoing his belt.

Your pulse thrummed in anticipation, thighs squeezing together beneath your skirts. Bucky exhaled sharply as you leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the fabric covering his length. His head tipped back, a quiet groan slipping from his lips, one hand smoothing through your hair.

He was always so controlled, always so composed—but now, beneath your touch, you could feel him unravel. And gods, you wanted to watch him fall apart.

[lonelyroommp3]

i’m going to be so so for real with you and i will say this as nicely as possible: not every impulse or emotional response needs to be posted online for everyone to see. like your reaction right here is, in fact, exactly the kind of thing i - along with several others posting on this topic atm - am talking about. i would have had absolutely no clue that you felt defensive upon reading this post had you not put all this in the tags. i would have had zero idea about your opinions on rap, or your opinions on my post (if you don’t strongly agree with a post you don’t have to reblog it at all! it’s your blog! post whatever you like) if you hadn’t put all this in the tags.

you can feel as defensive as you like, nobody can stop you having a knee jerk reaction, but other people on this website - notably me, the op, but also anyone who fancies trawling through the tags - can see what you post.

and while i’m just a white person posting about this because i like music, and i believe in the value of broadening one’s horizons in their listening every so often, and i find the common tumblr arguments against rap are often steeped in antiblackness that i feel i ought to call out, a lot of people posting about this are, in fact, black people trying to get (mostly white) tumblr users not to write a whole sweeping supergenre of black-pioneered music off wholesale because of frankly silly - and, again, often racist, whether you realise it or not - preconceived generalisations like “all rap sounds the same and i don’t like that sound” (wrong! there are SO many different styles & subgenres of rap and hip hop. there WILL be something out there that suits your taste) or “i won’t be able to understand what they’re saying, i have auditory processing disorder and they talk too fast” (not every song or rapper uses a super fast flow. and even if they did, websites like genius and azlyrics exist) or “all rap covers the same topics that i find unsavoury” (this one’s not only untrue but also the most overtly racist reasoning of the bunch). i’m sure you can imagine how unwelcome it is when people then get defensive in the notes trying to prove that actually they are The Exception who should get to be publicly absolved and excused from having to ever try and listen to a single rap song again.

anyway, i digress, but i hope this clarified a little why actually sometimes the best response to your initial knee jerk feeling of defensiveness is to take a deep breath, think it through offline, and then move on with your life without making it the op’s problem (which, due to the way tumblr’s notification system works, is what going on and on about this in their tags/replies/comments functionally does)

genuinely the average tumblr user’s ADDICTION to showing their ass under completely unnecessary circumstances is baffling to me. you see it every time the “white people on tumblr are by and large irrationally averse to listening to rap” discourse comes back around, every single post along those lines there will be at least one idiot disclosing their entire medical history or traumatic life story in the replies to prove that they are the One Person who is immune to criticism for being scawed of every rap song in existence. and i just can’t imagine the impulse behind it. like you are not under some fairy curse of compulsive truth telling every time you come online, you could literally just stay quiet and not reblog the post and nobody would notice, let alone care. it’s honestly laughably self important (not to mention a massive tell of your own defensiveness and guilt about the issue) to think “ah! but perhaps *i* am the person who could disprove this post’s entire thesis by explaining how i really, truly, cannot listen to rap because my auditory processing disorder only kicks in when it’s a black person talking over a beat to any flow or tempo”

[ineedpaigebuckets]

your world

an: i don't know who the fuck let me write this, or why it was even written but i hope you enjoy.

this is dedicated to my wife @ldapper of course because she thinks i don't love her like what the fuck.

also this isn't proof read AT ALL so have fun.

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

azzi pov

it all started the day we won gold. my best friend and i, we did it we won the championship, together. and the second the buzzer sounded and everyone started screaming i saw a certain blonde turn around and before i could wrap my arms around her she grabbed my jersey and pulled me into her chest. i hugged her with the biggest smile i think i could ever imagine.

things had been rocky recently, we'd been with eachother 24/7 for so long that we'd just developed these feelings, these confusing feeling neither of us new how to deal with. so i guess we just mutually decided, they didn't need an explanation. but right now, in this moment, her head turning and i feel her lips brush against my neck pressing a soft kiss to the skin, everything feels just right.

"so fucking proud of you az." i hear her soft voice in my ear but before i could respond she pulls away but keeps her hand across my back for a second too long.

in that moment i realized that the is wasn't some bullshit, one sided feelings. it was something about the way we just fell into each others arms, melted in each others embrace like we needed eachother. we did need eachother, in ways nobody else would ever understand.

i was still in disbelief as i walked into my room, stripping off my jersey and throwing on a sweatsuit, laying on my bed and just closing my eyes basking in the glory of winning a gold metal. a huge smile across my face.

paige pov

the second i step into my room the weight of the win hit me. i promised myself i'd get the girl, i promised myself i'd fucking make her mine before we won the title. i'd been trying to make her mine since i first watched her tournament in 2015, but she didn't want anything to do with me. the second i saw the way her messy curls bounced out of her braids, her big soft lips, and her dark sweet eyes, i knew she just had to be mine. by the time we officially met on team usa in 2017 i'd gotten far enough to make her my best friend, but no matter what i did she never seemed to understand how fucking in love with her i was. every small touch, every meaningless kiss to some random part of her skin, went completely unnoticed. i was always set on my goals, i'd do anything physically possible to make my deadlines on time. so, i knew what i had to do. i had to make that girl mine by midnight.

i'd somehow found a florist that was open at 9:30 pm and i'd never called an uber faster in my life. i'd managed to pick up a fairly small arrangement of pink flowers, her favorite color. i'd ran to the convenient store nearby, flowers in hand looking like an absolute idiot, but i was on a time crunch what could i say. i'd picked up the cutest little jellycat, a small pink heart with a lock connecting it to a purple heart. it was absolutely perfect, i'm the purple to her pink, or so i like to think. i wandered the store for a while longer finally finding what i wanted. a small olaf blanket, i just needed a little of everything for my girl.

now here i was standing like an absolute idiot outside of azzi fudds door at 10 pm. flowers in my right hand, my left holding the jellycat, and the blanket thrown over my arm.

"az open up." i mumble through the door trying not to wake anyone else on the floor up. i hear a soft groan as she opens the door causing me to chuckle. i didn't even wanna know the amount of blush covering my face right now. i watched her stand still her breathing not fast, not slow, but different.

"who's this for?" she asks in a low voice opening the door a little more to let me through. she knew damn well this was all for her.

"it's for you. i gotchu flowers because, i don't know every beautiful girl like you deserves as many flowers as she can get." i place the flowers down taking a deep breath not even close from stopping my rambling. "and, i found these hearts, purple for me pink for you. and there's a lock like, like we're locked. uh, best- we're locked." i fight the urge to say best friend, everything going downhill as i fumble over my words. and she's just fucking standing there. leaning against the dresser, her eyes big and soft looking up at me. her lips parted slightly asking me to just feel them against my own. "and here's a blanket, olaf, your favorite." i keep it short and sweet trying desperately not to mess up any more sentences.

"what's it for?" i close my eyes and set everything down against the dresser. i muster up the last bit of confidence i can, and walk up to her cupping her delicate cheeks in my hands.

"it's for you azzi. no other reason than- fuck." i couldn't get a fucking sentence out. i let my forehead rest against hers and close my eyes. "you deserve the world baby, if you just give me a chance, imma give it all to you, and more." i whisper, the feeling of having my eyes closed giving me just enough confidence to say what i finally needed to say. i push back my eyes still closed as i pressed my lips against her forehead. those big brown eyes never coming off of my face.

"holy shit, holy shit, that's what this has been this whole time?" she asks almost surprised and i feel her hands grab my shirt right by my shoulders. she shakes my shoulders but the smile on her face is irreplaceable. if only i could see that everyday.

"you're an idiot paige." she giggled and before i could even think her lips were on mine. i melt into her body, letting any ounce of confidence move right from my body into hers, as my hands grip the back of her head. her hands find my waist bringing me in closely and i think i could just die right here.

"give me your world paige, and i'll give you mine." the second the words left her mouth i knew she'd be my wife. azzi jazlyn fudd was mine, what fucking idiot would i be to ever let her go again.

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

i need more connor/black!reader. how would the batfam react when they find out? what would they say if reader is attached to connor and if he is banned from them manor their gonna follow him because it’s not like they want to be in the manor anyways

Sorry it took me so long to reply my bitch ass was brain storming like crazy but now I shall feed you my children hope y'all like!!!

Conner and the weird neglected Black!reader relationship is hella one-sided; the reader can't comprehend someone liking them or even being attracted to them. The truth is, they’ve been isolated and neglected for so long that the idea of anyone giving them attention literally scares the reader. They just don’t know how to act. I mean, the reader was a victim of minor bullying, with boys or girls at school saying, “You’re cute,” just to laugh in their face, leaving the reader feeling undesirable and unattractive. So, just the idea of someone like Conner liking them is absolutely insane. But they don’t pick up on it at first; they take it as him just being sweet and friendly or not getting social cues. In reality, he’s trying every single game in the book to get them to date him. It’s like Conner is playing 4D chess while you’re over there playing checkers. Conner does everything for you to like him. He’ll read your favorite comics, play your favorite games, and watch 500 episodes of One Piece for you. If you don’t vibe with his punk look, he’ll change himself for you as fast as possible. He’ll go casual or nerdy—anything you want. You’re the puppeteer, and Conner’s the puppet, pulling his strings, making him dance and controlling his every movement. Still, you get bored. You’re the only person who gets to call him Kon-El, even though the meaning behind the name is absolutely heartbreaking. But when you see it, the name means something entirely different; it sounds sweet, kind, and loving, making the true meaning fade. That boy is your biggest fan, stalking every last one of your posts on social media. Still, his thumbs can’t scroll anymore, but when he confesses his feelings to you after that night in the entertainment room, you think he’s joking, like a whole prank crew is going to come out and laugh at you, and it breaks his heart. He would never do something like that to you, and he proves that he truly has feelings for you by kissing your doubts away. The two of you try your best to keep your relationship under wraps, but the Batfam finds out fast, thanks to one Wayne family fan posting a pic of you and your favorite test tube baby sharing a kiss before he’s off on a mission. The Batfam is pissed; I mean, you could do so much better, and they get seriously jealous of Conner and how you treat him sometimes. He throws it in Tim's face that you wear Superboy merch and not Red Robin merchandise, and it really ticks him off. Overall, Conner and the reader's relationship is pretty cute but also kind of toxic—Conner a full-on yandere and the reader slowly turning into a yandere over time. A match made in a laboratory, really.

[00valentina-writes00]

dom Vi's NSFW alphabet

♡♥︎NSFW alphabet - Dom!Vi♥︎♡

A = Aftercare

Vi is rough in bed, but after? She’s got a soft streak a mile wide. She’ll pull you against her chest, murmuring low praise while tracing lazy circles on your back. Expect forehead kisses, a firm arm draped over you, and her voice rasping, “You good, babe?” before she pulls the blankets over both of you. If you’re sore, she’ll massage your muscles, and if she was particularly rough, she’ll make damn sure you feel taken care of.

B = Body Part

On herself? Her arms—she knows you love how strong they are, how they pin you down. On you? Your thighs. She loves how they tremble when she’s between them, how they squeeze around her head when she’s eating you out. Bonus points if you ride her and she can grip them hard enough to leave bruises.

C = Cum

Vi is messy. She loves watching you come undone, and she gets off on how wrecked you look. If she’s using her fingers, she’ll make sure they’re buried deep inside when you cum, stretching you open so she can feel every pulse. If she’s wearing her strap, she’ll grind it in as deep as possible, watching as you arch and whimper. If she’s feeling possessive? She’ll make you lick her fingers clean after.

D = Dirty Secret

She loves the idea of making you cum when you shouldn’t—hand between your thighs under the dinner table, whispering in your ear while you struggle to keep composure. The thought of you squirming, trying to hide it, makes her wild. She hasn’t done it yet, but she’s tempted.

E = Experience

Vi might not have started out knowing everything, but she learns fast. She’s confident, cocky, and knows exactly how to work you over. By now, she knows your body like the back of her hand—where to touch, when to slow down, when to push harder. She doesn’t fuck around.

F = Favorite Position

She loves bending you over something—her bed, a desk, even a wall—gripping your hips as she pounds into you. But she also loves when you’re on your back, legs hooked over her shoulders so she can get deep and watch every expression cross your face.

G = Goofy

Vi enjoys teasing you, but when she’s in dom mode, she’s focused. She might crack a cocky grin when she’s making you beg though

H = Hair

She keeps herself neatly trimmed but doesn’t stress about being perfectly shaved. She’s a fighter, not a beauty queen. Besides, she knows you’re not complaining when your face is between her thighs.

I = Intimacy

Vi thrives on intensity. She’ll fuck you rough, make you beg, but then slow down just enough to kiss you like she means it. She’s all about that push and pull—giving you exactly what you need, then withholding just enough to make you ache for her.

J = Jack Off

She does, but not often. If she’s got you, why would she need her own hand? That said, if she’s been away for too long, she’ll get off thinking about the way you sound when she’s inside you.

K = Kink

Power play – She loves being in control, making you submit under her.

Choking – Not to the point of hurting you, but her hand wrapped around your throat? Oh yeah.

Marking – Bites, bruises, anything that lingers after she’s done with you.

Overstimulation – She likes seeing you completely wrecked, body twitching, begging for a break.

L = Location

She prefers a bed—gives her more control—but if the mood strikes? Against the wall, in an alley, anywhere she can pin you down and take what she wants.

M = Motivation

Your attitude. If you act bratty, talk back, challenge her? You’re getting pinned down. Hard. She also loves hearing you beg—nothing gets her off faster than knowing you need her.

N = No

Vi’s a dom, but she won’t actually hurt you. No serious pain, no CNC, and definitely nothing that makes you uncomfortable. She wants you wrecked, not broken.

O = Oral

She loves giving. Watching you fall apart under her mouth, gripping her hair? That’s her favorite kind of reward. She’s skilled, patient, and will not stop until you’re gasping. Receiving? She enjoys it, but she’d rather focus on you.

P = Pace

Rough and deep. She’ll start slow, teasing you, but once she’s in the zone? She’s relentless. She lasts a long time, too—she’s got stamina for days.

Q = Quickie

She doesn’t mind them, especially if she’s frustrated and needs an outlet. You bent over a counter, her hand over your mouth so no one hears? Yeah, she’s into that.

R = Risk

Vi’s open to trying new things, but only if she knows you’re comfortable. She enjoys pushing limits, but she always checks in with you first.

S = Stamina

Vi can go all night if you let her. She’s a fighter—her endurance is no joke. Expect multiple rounds, especially if you’re feeling up for it.

T = Toys

Oh, she’s got a collection. She has different straps for different moods—some thick, some long, some with a curve that hits just right. She also enjoys teasing you with a vibrator, watching you squirm before she even touches you.

U = Unfair

Vi lives to tease. She’ll edge you, pull back right when you’re about to cum, make you beg. She loves the power of keeping you on the edge, just desperate enough to make you plead for her.

V = Volume

She’s vocal, but not obnoxiously loud. She groans, grits her teeth, maybe lets out a low curse when she’s close. But she wants to hear you—she thrives on your moans, your gasps, the sound of your body against hers.

W = Wild Card

Vi has a thing for eye contact. If you try to look away when she’s fucking you, she’ll grab your chin, make you watch her. Nothing gets her off faster than seeing your fucked-out expression while she’s deep inside you.

X = X-Ray

Vi has smaller breasts but toned, firm pecs. Her nipples are sensitive, but she doesn’t make a big deal about it. Down below? She’s got a well-defined, muscular core, a neatly trimmed patch of hair (yes it’s pink gang. Fight me.), and a smaller clit that twitches when she’s turned on.

Y = Yearning

Vi has a high sex drive. She won’t push if you’re not in the mood, but she’s always ready to go. One look from you, one teasing comment, and she’s pinning you to the nearest surface.

Z = Zzzz

Vi doesn’t fall asleep right away. She likes holding you, letting the adrenaline settle before she crashes. Once she’s out, though? She sleeps hard, arm thrown over you like a human-sized security blanket.

[landoverwater]

Okay. I have opinions on this case.

I've watched the video of the policeman talking to Sam when they're in the holding area. At that stage, no-one is in danger, nobody is being officially interviewed, everyone is safe. That policeman, by all training, should have shut the fuck up. But he doesn't, he keeps talking back and shutting Sam down, goading her. I've never done police training, but I've done what we call 'Blue Badge' training in the UK, which is a Door Supervisor License (fancy name for a bouncer). When you're de-escalating a situation with someone who is altered in any way, once you've got them to a safe place, you just let them talk. Shut up. Let them talk. Her body language in the video at the point of the 'stupid and white' comment is the least aggressive possible. No pointing, no head movements, she's slouched back into the chair with no possibility of getting out of it fast. She is zero threat. She's trying to make him understand the situation and he's absolutely making it worse. This guy is a terrible police officer, is what I'm saying here. Doesn't understand the basics. The second issue is that he did not mention the 'stupid and white' comment in his first interview. He only brought it up in his 2nd interview with the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) after they found a loophole to try again after the initial request to bring the case to court was turned down. This stinks. To high heaven. It looks to me like the CPS or someone senior in the Met thought to themselves "Oh this could be good PR for us, showing that racism can go both ways". They brought a frivolous case to court, costing all of us taxpayers a bunch of money and wasting everybody's time. Popular opinion here suggests that initially only Sam thought the guy was stupid and white. Now we all think it.

btw sam kerr's trial for racially aggravated harassment for calling a cop stupid and white is a really dangerous precedent for police power in the uk.

the facts are this, she and her partner were in a cab, drunk. they threw up, the cab driver locks the door on them and drives them erratically. they're afraid because he doesn't explain and sam's white partner, kristie mewis kicks the window open while she calls the police. they are taken to a police station, where the police officer, a few months after sarah everard, laughs at them and dismisses them and actually says to them did you think a cab driver would take you to a police station to rape you? sam calls him sick. they do not verify emergency services for sam's call to the police. while seated and stressed and as her partner cries, sam holds up her phone. she calls him stupid and white inside a police station. the cop files racist hate speech charges against her. the police don't prosecute initially. she's the star of a world cup. he refiles, the case is taken to criminal court. drama. meanwhile the prosecution is making a case to the jury with stunning arguments like imagine if this indian woman called a black cop stupid and black.

[scoupsakakitty]

Hi!! Could you please write like woozi x sister of another seventeen member like she is older to her brother so she is his noona but she is the same age of woozi, her brother could be from the maknae line like starts from 1997 to 1999 so yeah I don't if you can understand that lol 😭😭😭😭 maybe they're together since pre debut but their relationship became public just recently something like that hehehe THANK YOU!!!

The Secret Between Us | idol!Woozi x Reader | angst, fluff

Y/N had always been able to read Woozi like an open book. It was one of the things she loved most about him his honesty, his vulnerability, his openness. But lately, that openness had been replaced with a quiet distance that Y/N couldn’t ignore.

It had been a couple of weeks since their relationship had been made public, and the weight of the spotlight was clearly starting to affect him. She could see it in the way he would retreat into himself, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, the way his usual calm composure seemed slightly off. Tonight, after another long rehearsal, everyone was winding down, but Woozi wasn’t with the group. Y/N noticed he had slipped out of the room, retreating to a quieter corner.

She stood up and walked toward him, her heart beating faster with each step. She didn’t want to invade his space, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Woozi?” she called softly as she approached him.

He didn’t look up right away. His eyes were focused on the floor, his fingers tapping nervously against his knee. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice not quite matching his words.

Y/N frowned, sitting down next to him. “No, you’re not. What’s going on?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to find the right words, but when he spoke, his voice was low and full of hesitation. “It’s all happening too fast, Y/N. The fans, the attention... everything. It feels like there are more eyes on me now than ever before. And it’s just too much. I... I don’t know how to handle it.”

Y/N’s heart dropped. She’d known the public eye was hard on Woozi, but she hadn’t realized how much it was affecting him. “Are you saying... are you saying you want to end things?” Her voice was shaky with panic, her mind racing with the worst possible outcome. “Is that what you mean?”

Woozi’s head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. “What? No!” he exclaimed, looking horrified at the very thought. “How could you think that? I would never—”

Y/N cut him off, her breath coming faster now. “But you’re pulling away from me, and now you’re saying everything’s moving too fast. I don’t know what to think, Woozi. If you’re saying you can’t do this anymore, if you don’t want to be with me—”

“No, no, no,” Woozi interrupted, reaching for her hand, his touch warm but trembling slightly. “I’m not saying that. I could never say that. It’s not about you, it’s about everything else. The public, the media... I just... I don’t want you to be in the spotlight like this. You’re becoming a target, Y/N. And I can’t protect you from it.”

Y/N blinked, still not fully understanding what he meant. “What do you mean? I don’t... I don’t want to be kept in the shadows, Woozi. I want to be with you. I want to be by your side. But if you’re asking me to step back because you’re worried about the attention... I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking you to step back from me,” Woozi said, his voice softer now. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want people to treat you like some... trophy or prize. I can handle the pressure, Y/N, but I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you because of me. You deserve better than to be in the center of all this chaos.”

Y/N took a deep breath, processing what he was saying. “So... you’re not asking for space from me. You’re just asking me to protect myself from the world, to not put myself out there as much?”

“Exactly,” Woozi said, his shoulders sagging in relief as he looked at her. “I don’t want you to have to deal with the kind of pressure I’m facing. It’s not fair to you.”

Y/N sat back, her heart still racing, but her thoughts starting to calm. She understood now. It wasn’t about their relationship or Woozi pulling away from her—it was about his desire to protect her, to shield her from the harshness of their world. It wasn’t an easy request, but it made sense.

“You don’t have to carry this alone, Woozi,” Y/N said softly, her hand still resting in his. “But I get it. I understand why you’re worried. And if this is what it takes to make things easier for both of us, then I’m okay with it. I’ll step back a little. I don’t want you to feel like you have to protect me all the time. We can still be together, but we don’t have to flaunt it for the whole world to see.”

Woozi’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with gratitude. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Y/N leaned in, resting her forehead against his. “I just want you to be happy, Woozi. And I want to be there for you, no matter what.”

They sat in silence for a moment, just holding onto each other, the weight of the conversation slowly lifting as they both processed what had just been said. For the first time in days, Y/N felt like they were on the same page again, like they were truly understanding each other.

The next few days passed in a blur. Woozi and Y/N continued to spend time together, but they kept a low profile, avoiding too much public attention. They made small changes to their routine, intentionally staying away from places where they might be recognized or photographed. It wasn’t about hiding—they weren’t ashamed of their relationship—but it was about reducing the noise, making things a little more private.

Mingyu, of course, had his own opinions about it. He’d noticed the change in Y/N and Woozi’s behavior, and he wasn’t shy about teasing them.

“So, you two are playing the ‘low-key’ card now, huh?” he said one day, leaning against the doorframe of their practice room. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’re still obviously together.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We’re just... being careful, okay?”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow. “Careful, huh? Well, I guess if you want to keep Woozi safe from all the craziness, that’s your choice.” He paused for a moment, then added with a grin, “But you know, I think it’s a little suspicious that every time we see you two, you’re looking like you just walked out of a romance movie. Like, the way you look at each other... it’s honestly sickening.”

Woozi shot him a glare, though it was softened by the small smile tugging at his lips. “You really need to stop being so dramatic, Mingyu.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a sense of lightness she hadn’t in days. Even though they were still under the public’s watchful eye, they were finding their balance, adjusting to the new reality together. They weren’t hiding; they were just protecting what mattered most to them.

[maryspenreturns]

A Dream Date

(Contains Force Feeding, Mobility Issues)

After our third date, you were pretty sure that I was a feeder. Between the massive meal, the extra dessert, and the sneaky little snacks I've been leaving you every chance I get, well, your jeans have gotten a bit more snug. Not that you mind the extra pampering, you're a greedy eater, and you wouldn't call yourself "fit", you're bordering on "fat", and it's only going to take a few more dates for you to be official, at this rate. You never thought much about your weight, you've always naturally been chubby, and a bit greedy with your food, but now with someone pushing you, you've begun to wonder what would happen.

You admit though, having someone dote on you has been nice, and you have enjoyed the food, even if right now you are feeling just the slightest bit uncomfortably full. Unbuttoning your jeans, you sit on the couch, not even fully noticing the bag of candy you've grabbed for yourself as you sit back to watch some TV. One hand lazily feeds yourself while the other caresses your swollen belly.

Groaning, you can feel it, rock hard under the layer of fat you've grown, it's almost a work out to be the full, or what you'd imagine a work out felt like, as you feel yourself drifting to sleep

***

You snap back to reality, finding yourself sitting in front on a large table. Looking around, it looks like a very nice restaurant, but how did you get here? And your dress...fits! Well that's one relief, everything had been feeling pretty tight on you lately.

Suddenly you feel a hand on your belly, gently squishing it as I kiss your cheek. I greet you warmly, making sure your comfortable, and more importantly hungry. A flurry of compliments follows, ranging from how gorgeous you look, to how lovely your dress is, and to how soft your stomach is. You blush at the last one. I've never outright complimented how fat you were before, but something about it made you tingle a bit.

I lean over you with a hand still on your belly as the first plate of food slides in from seemingly nowhere. Pasta, glistening with butter, cheese, and a delicious rich creamy sauce. Your eyes go wide at the size of the plate, you couldn't possible eat all of this, you insist to me, but wish a gentle squeeze of your belly again, and some choice encouraging words, you grab a fork and dig in, as if possessed.

It is delicious, so delicious in fact that you feel like you've never really eaten pasta before. You hardly notice how much and how fast you're eating, all you know is that you need more. You grab a slice of bread, so engrossed in the pasta that you don't realize that the plate wasn't there before, then another, then a slice of cheese, a piece of fish, all sorts of food, all while trying to eat as much pasta as you could as fast as your could, as though it might disappear if you stopped for even a moment.

But it did come to an end, and with the rush of the taste fading from your tongue, the reality of all you've eaten began to set in. You winced, your stomach painfully distended, pushing your dress to it's limits. You didn't know that your stomach could stretch that far as you gentle lay your hands on it. You whimper to yourself, you've gone too far this time. In fact, even looking down, the top of your dress looks tighter, and your hands a little pudgier. What was happening to you, you panic, how are you fatter.

You feel my hands wrap around your belly again as I whisper how since I met you, I've imagined you getting bigger and bigger. I cup my arms around you as though to show my idea of how fat I want you.

Your eyes widen at the idea of your belly being that round as you try to protest, but something about the idea sent shivers through you. But you're too full now to even think about that. You try to move, but you find yourself pinned down by your own bloated self, as I push another bite of pasta into your mouth.

(Let me know if you want more of this story!)

[vigilxntesht]

𝙠𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙖𝙚 𝙗𝙮𝙚𝙤𝙠 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 — a sip of fate (part 2)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 — kang sae-byeok x f!reader

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 — 2k

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 — part 1 here! this was requested by @lyzem

𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚

you tell yourself it’s just a casual meet-up, not a real date. but as you steal glances at the door, waiting for her to show up, your heart betrays you. whether you admit it or not, this feels like the start of something different—something that matters.

you wake up with an unusual lightness in your chest. it’s tuesday. the day of your… well, date. if you can even call it that. you shake your head, heat creeping into your face as you rush through your morning routine. there’s no point in overthinking it. you’re just meeting up with a customer—one who happens to be unfairly gorgeous, frustratingly mysterious, and possibly interested in you. maybe.

by the time you arrive at the coffee shop, the usual morning rush is in full swing. you slip into your routine with ease, taking orders, steaming milk, and pouring hot shots of espresso. but no matter how busy you keep yourself, your mind drifts back to one thing—one person.

sae-byeok.

she said she’d come back today. she promised.

the hours drag on, each moment stretching painfully long. you keep glancing at the door, waiting for the familiar jingle of the bell, but every time, it’s someone else: a regular, a group of students, an elderly couple. not her.

by noon, doubt begins to creep in. maybe she changed her mind. maybe she was just being polite. maybe—

the bell chimes.

you turn, heart beating out of your chest.

and there she is.

sae-byeok steps inside, dressed in dark jeans and an oversized hoodie, her hands stuffed tightly into her pockets. her gaze flicks around the shop before landing on you, and for a second, neither of you move. the corners of her lips twitch ever so slightly—acknowledgment, familiarity.

you quickly shake off your nerves, plastering on a casual smile as you approach the counter.

“let me guess,” you say, tilting your head. “iced americano. no sugar.”

she exhales softly—almost a laugh—and nods. “you learn fast.”

you chuckle, reaching for a cup. “what can i say? i’m a quick study.”

as you prepare her drink, you feel her eyes on you. unlike yesterday, she doesn’t look away when you glance back. instead, she holds your gaze, studying you with that same quiet intensity. it makes your pulse race, but you force yourself to focus, carefully adding ice to her cup before handing it over.

sae-byeok takes it, fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. it’s nothing—just an accident, just skin against skin—but somehow, it sends a shiver down your spine.

she lingers by the counter, doesn’t leave like yesterday. instead, she hesitantly shifts her weight.

“i, um…” she starts, then clears her throat. “are you still free after your shift?”

your heart stutters.

she remembered.

you nod, trying to hide the grin creeping up your face. “yeah. i get off at four.”

she looks satisfied with that answer, giving a small nod.

“i’ll wait.”

when you don’t respond right away, her cheeks flush. “i mean, um, only if you want to. i wouldn’t want to, like, force you or…. yeah.”

your eyes widen as you quickly shake your head.

“no, no! i do want to! sorry, i was just—uh—thinking.”

and just like that, she moves to her usual spot by the window, settling in with her drink.

the rest of your shift is torture. not because of the work, no, that part is fine. it’s because every time you glance over, she’s there. sitting quietly, sipping her drink, her presence impossibly distracting.

finally—finally—four o’clock arrives. you clock out in record time, tossing your apron aside before making your way over to her table.

“ready to go?” you ask, voice a little breathless.

she looks up at you, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something. then, slowly, she stands. “yeah.”

the two of you step outside, the crisp afternoon air wrapping around you. for a moment, there’s silence. neither of you seem to know what to say, but surprisingly, it’s not awkward. it’s… comfortable.

sae-byeok gestures toward the sidewalk. “um, there’s a park nearby.”

you nod in approval. “sounds nice.”

as you start walking together, your steps naturally fall into sync. the tension from your first meeting has softened, replaced by something lighter, easier. and as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting the world in it’s golden glow, you realize something:

this isn’t just a date.

it’s the beginning of something more.

the walk to the park is quiet, but not in an awkward way. every so often, you steal a glance at the girl next to you, watching as the golden evening light catches in her dark hair and highlights the freckles dusted across her cheeks. she seems lost in thought, eyes fixed ahead, hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie.

you wonder if she’s nervous. you definitely are.

when you finally reach the park, it’s peaceful—mostly empty, aside from a few people walking their dogs or jogging along the gravel paths. the air is cool, tinged with the scent of grass and the distant aroma of street food from a nearby restaurant.

she slows her pace, tilting her head slightly. “want to sit?”

you nod, following her over to a bench beneath a large oak tree. the branches stretch high above, leaves rustling calmingly in the breeze. she sits first, and for a second, you hesitate before taking place beside her. close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, but not quite touching.

a beat of silence passes.

then, she exhales, shifting slightly. “so… do you always ask customers on dates, or am i just special?”

you blink, caught completely off guard. heat rushes to your face as you let out an awkward laugh. “what? no! i mean, you are special! but, uh, i don’t usually—” you stop yourself, cringing at your own fumbling. “god, that was such a bad answer.”

to your relief, she lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible, but there. when you glance over, you catch the faintest trace of amusement tugging at the corner of her lips.

“i was just messing with you,” she says, voice quieter now. “you’re easy to fluster.”

you groan, covering your face with your hands. “yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

and then, she actually does laugh. it’s short, almost hesitant, like she’s not used to doing it. but it’s real. the sound is soft, airy—enough to make your heart stutter in your chest.

when you lower your hands, she’s watching you. her expression is unreadable, but her gaze lingers, eyes flickering across your face like she’s memorizing every detail. it makes you nervous. makes you feel seen in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever been before.

you clear your throat, looking away.

“so, uh… what do you do? besides intimidating baristas with intense eye contact?”

sae-byeok hums, leaning back against the cold bench. “i work. a lot.”

you nod, waiting for her to continue. when she doesn’t, you press.

“doing what?”

she hesitates, fingers curling around the fabric of her hoodie. then, with a small shrug, she says, “whatever pays.”

there’s something guarded in the way she says it, like she’s holding something back. that’s when you notice that she even seems a little embarrassed, so you don’t push. instead, you offer a small smile. “sounds tiring.”

she exhales through her nose. “it is.”

a comfortable silence settles between you again. the sky above fades into a soft blend of pink and orange, the sun lowering with every passing minute.

then, suddenly, she speaks. “and you?”

you blink, caught off guard. “me?”

she nods. “what do you do? other than making iced americanos and—” she pauses, a teasing glint in her eyes. “…staring at customers like they’re some kind of unsolvable puzzle.”

your face burns. “i was not staring.”

she rises her eyebrows doubtfully and you surrender. “okay, maybe i was staring.”

she turns to look at you, an amused sparkle in her eyes. “why?”

you open your mouth, then close it again, scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make you sound ridiculous. “i don’t know,” you admit, fidgeting with your hair. “you just… looked really pretty in the sunlight.”

she freezes.

you almost don’t notice, but when you do, panic bubbles up your chest. was that too much? too soon?

but before you can backtrack, she shifts, looking down at her shoes. “oh.”

just that. one small word, barely audible. but in the dim light, you catch it—the faint pink dusting her cheeks, the way she bites the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to smile.

your heart stumbles over itself.

a few minutes later, she speaks again—quieter this time.

“i liked it.”

you frown. “um, liked what?”

she exhales, shaking her head like she can’t believe she’s saying this. “what you said. about the sunlight.”

a relieved warmth spreads through your chest. you try to fight the smile tugging at your lips but fail miserably.

“good,” you say softly. “because i meant it.”

she doesn’t respond. not verbally, at least. but her hand drifts slightly, brushing against yours as you sit there. and this time, she doesn’t pull away.

the sun has almost completely set by the time you and sae-byeok make your way back toward the entrance of the park. the air is colder now and the streetlights are beginning to flicker on.

neither of you seem eager to leave.

you walk a little slower, letting the last moments of the evening stretch out just a bit longer. every now and then, your hands brush, but neither of you acknowledge it. it’s comfortable, this quiet space between you—something unspoken but understood.

when you finally reach the sidewalk, you hesitate, turning to face her. “so…” you start, rocking on your heels. “this was nice.”

she nods, wrapping her arms around her waist. “yeah.” there’s a pause, and then, softer, “i had a good time.”

your heart does a backflip. “me too.”

for a second, it looks like she wants to say something else, but instead, she glances down and bites her lip.

the soft glow of the streetlights catches on her dark eyes, making them stand out even more, and you suddenly feel so fond of the girl in front of you that it’s almost laughable.

before you can stop yourself, you speak.

“would you… want to do this again?”

her eyes flick up to yours, surprised—but not in a bad way. a small, almost shy smile appears on her lips. “yeah. i would.”

you grin, warmth blooming in your chest. “cool. um, great. that’s… yeah.” you let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head at yourself. “sorry, i’m terrible at this.”

she huffs out a quiet laugh. “me too.”

you stand there for another moment, neither of you quite ready to walk away. but eventually, she shifts. she takes a small step back, though she seems disappointed about having to do it.

“i should get going.”

you nod, even though you don’t want the night to end. “right. yeah. me too.”

she hesitates, just for a second, then glances around as if checking for anyone nearby. when she’s sure you’re alone, she leans in just slightly, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her presence. her thumb brushes over your cheek gently. it’s not a kiss, not even a hug: just something quiet and intimate, like a secret meant only for you.

then, with one last look—one that lingers just a little too long—she turns and starts walking away.

you watch her go, your heart thudding in your chest, and just before she disappears around the corner, she glances back. it’s quick. barely a second. but it’s enough.

as you finally turn to leave, a huge, unstoppable smile spreads across your face.

yeah.

you’re definitely seeing her again.