#I’m like alright just don’t judge me too harshly if I do lmao

[skinreflectsthesun]

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[buckyskorpion]

11 hours - part five

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: alright things escalated VERY QUICKLY but shit had to go down sometime. i hope you enjoy! and sorry for the delay, i really been goin thru it recently. this part is 7k to make up for it lmao i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | my ko-fi

masterlist

It’s a big day. You had held Bucky’s hand as you stood in the doorway to his apartment, playing with his rings so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. You were nervous, not because you didn’t trust Bucky but because with every secret spilled you felt like a layer of your skin was being peeled away. But you’d held his hand and told him to pick you up tonight from your office. You handed him your business card, a physical embodiment of trust you hadn’t given to anyone else. It wasn’t your apartment address, sure, but it was something and Bucky held the card with the biggest, boyish grin on his face that melted your heart.

The real reason you’re so nervous is because if whoever followed you from Bucky’s apartment is following Bucky, then they’ll follow him right to your office door. You’d had a long talk to yourself in the bathroom mirror the other night, however, and decided you weren’t going to let a hypothetical stalker ruin yet another relationship for you. Not that stalkers are common in your life, but using any excuse to distance yourself and cut people out is most definitely your regular MO. Not this time.

That being said, stalkers aren’t common in your life so you are, understandably, fixated by it. You are sure it has something to do with Bucky because you don’t believe in coincidences and the guy literally followed you from Bucky’s apartment. The big question is, was the stalker after Bucky or were they after you? Since you have next to nothing to go on, you aren’t exactly on your way to answering that one yet. But you’ll get there, eventually, and you’ve got some ideas.

In the meantime, you wait for Bucky and attempt to tidy your organised mess. He’s meant to show up at seven on his bike, but seven is going on eight and he’s yet to show. You try not to picture the worst or convince yourself you’re being stood up, even though that’s what it feels like. The one time you give out personal details and he doesn’t show. That would be your luck. You kick a filing drawer closed a bit too harshly, the metal clanging loud in your deafeningly silent office. Whatever. It’s not like anyone is left in the building to judge you because Bucky is over an hour late and every other office in the place is long empty.

You water your desperately dry indoor plants, even the one on top of your bookshelf - a testament to how hard you’re trying to distract yourself from the imminent heartbreak. You stand on tiptoes on your swivel chair to reach the crispy fern, something your dad would yell at you for if he could see you, but he can’t so you just pray the wheels don’t slip out from under you. It’s a very precarious precision for you to be in when someone bangs your office door open and stumbles inside, that’s for sure. You nearly break your entire body falling from the chair, but catch yourself on the bookcase before any real damage can be done.

The invader slams the door shut behind them, making you flinch once again as you spin around to face your would-be attacker. Only it's not someone breaking and entering - it’s Bucky, panting heavily and bleeding from his temple while he turns slowly on his heel and assesses every corner of your tiny office for threats.

“Bucky?” you call out, hesitant to approach and startle him incase it’s not your office that he’s seeing. His dog tags hang out the neck of his t-shirt when they’re usually always carefully tucked under the fabric, and you notice now he’s not just bleeding from his head but somewhere under that shirt as well. He looks over at your voice and it takes a second for him to focus properly on you, shoulders visibly slumping, closing the space in three quick strides.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling you bodily into a crushing hug. You wrap your arms around his waist, carefully holding him in case he’s got even more injuries you can’t see, but he squeezes you so tight you find it hard to breathe. He has one arm around your shoulders, that hand tangled in your hair and he presses your head into his shoulder. You feel him nose into the hair at the crown of your head, breathe in deep, let it out in shudders.

“You’re hurt,” you say into his t-shirt, and he shakes his head while still pressing his face into your scalp.

“M’fine, s’just blood,” he mumbles, barely coherent, so you let it go for the moment. You let him hold you and you hug him back, splaying your palms flat against his back and pressing him impossibly closer to you.

Eventually, you peel yourself from him in order to give him a once over. He smiles down at you like he’s amused, but you hardly find the situation funny when Bucky’s blood is literally all over you, now. You take his hand and make him sit on your swivel chair, spinning uselessly in the middle of the room from where it slid out from under you and rolled away. There’s a first aid kit in a box near the window, because you can never be too careful, and you take to soaking gauze in alcohol solution instead of speaking. You don’t trust what would come out of your mouth right now, anyway.

Luckily, Bucky fills the silence for you. He bites his lip as he looks over at you, taking in the tense set of your shoulders and jerky movements as you dig around for bandages. Then he says, “I got caught up, I really am sorry.”

You nod, but you still don’t speak. Instead you grab your supplies and move over to Bucky, avoiding his eyes as you assess the one wound you can see. Bucky has a thin cut from the corner of his eye to his hairline, shallow but bleeding profusely due to the thin skin there. You suck in a deep breath and start dabbing the soaked gauze on the wound, outside to inside, watching as the white turns coppery red with every swipe. Your stomach twists at the sight, and to your horror, you find you could almost cry.

“Doll,” Bucky says, eyebrows creasing up as if he’s just as upset as you feel. He hooks one big hand around your thigh, tugging until you let him manhandle you onto his lap. “I mean it, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t care that you were late,” you snap, clenching your jaw until you can get your flash of frustration under control. You drop your hand from his face, curling up further onto Bucky’s lap despite yourself as his arms come round to hug you to his chest. His bloodstained, most likely injured chest. You take a deep breath and ask, “What happened?”

“You wanna know?” Bucky asks. When you finally meet his eyes he doesn’t seem to be shutting down, shutting you out like you expect when it comes to talking about Bucky’s biker lifestyle. He just looks sad, and you let yourself soften just a bit to run your fingers down his jaw.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed when you touch him, and you say, “I already told you - I just wanna know. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” Bucky affirms, smiling as he opens his eyes again. The corners are tight, though, as he starts to explain. “One of the things we do - the gang, y’know - is run protection details. Me and Sam were on it, supposed to be a simple job, but we got shitty intel and ended up having to fight our way out of a crappy spot. We got out, finished the job, but it definitely didn’t go to plan. ”

“Protection for what?” you ask. This is the most open Bucky has ever been when talking about his gang, so you’re not going to pass up this opportunity for a bit more information.

“For who,” Bucky corrects, smiling at you like he knows what you’re doing. He starts stroking up and down your shoulder blades as he talks, soothing the both of you it seems. “Rich businessmen, low-level politicians, mob affiliates - anyone who’s got a target on their back and need to get from point A to point B. They’re easy jobs for us ex-army guys and they pay well.”

“Better pay than fixing cars, I bet,” you say. Your attempt at levity works and Bucky grins. The way it makes his face turn young and open is so at odds with the trickle of blood down his cheek.

“Gotta be able to pay for your drinks somehow,” he says, and you slap his shoulder. He mock-winces and says, “Hey! I’m bleeding, ya gotta be nice to me.”

“Don’t gotta do shit,” you mumble, reminding you to press the gauze you’re still holding back on the wound on his temple to stem some of the bleeding. He hisses for real this time, the sting of the alcohol probably burning a bit, especially so close to his eye. You press a kiss to his cheek and in apology and Bucky hums, tightening his grip around your body to hold you close again.

“M’sorry I ruined our night,” he says, “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again, but I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, and he meets your eyes, slightly confused. You smile and say, “Not when you’re hurt. I know what I signed up for, I just want you to be ok.”

“What if, one day, I’m not ok?” Bucky asks, serious now, and you take your time before you answer him. His cut is clean of dried blood, and it’s stopped oozing any more. You doubt it’ll get infected so you should bandage it up but you can’t make yourself move from Bucky’s lap. Not just yet.

“I’ll fix you up,” you say. “That’s what we’re doing, right? Taking care of each other.”

Bucky blinks, once, as if allowing your words to download in his brain like a data file. Then he kisses you. He slides a hand up to cradle your head and presses soft, slow kisses to your lips like he’s got all the time in the world. He came storming in like a hurricane but now you’re in the eye, calm and quiet settling over you both as you cup his jaw and kiss into him all the tenderness you're too afraid to say. You mend his bleeding head and adrenaline-addled heart while he soothes your fear. Taking care of each other, and it feels nice to let someone else do that for once.

You know what Bucky is leaving out. The I hurt people admission, the fact he might have killed someone tonight, that the blood on his shirt isn’t just his. You really thought you’d care more - about the not knowing, about the truth of it, about everything. But he’s breathing and alive underneath you, trailing kisses and stubble burn from your mouth to your cheek to your temple, and all of those superfluous details become white noise. You’re surprised to find the simple fact that Bucky is alright is enough to supersede all the gaps you would usually itch to fill.

Bucky spins you both, tucking your legs up closer so you don’t overbalance as he looks around your office in a dizzying circle. A spike of nerves makes you feel sick for a second but Bucky smiles as he looks around, like he’s pleased with this part of your life he’s been able to see, and it makes you feel less afraid.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” he asks, and you laugh at his teasing. “It’s very normal.”

“What did you expect? Like ‘Sherlock Holmes’ or something?” you ask. Bucky shrugs, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Maybe,” he says, then squints at you like he’s considering something. “So, no violin?”

“No violin, and no Mrs Hudson. I make my own tea,” you say, grinning up at Bucky even though he’s being stupid.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky snorts, “Pour your own wine, you mean.”

“Are you calling me a drunk?” you gasp, reeling back from Bucky and almost sending yourself off his lap and onto the floor. Bucky grips you tighter, laughing at the offence written all over your face, and then extracts an arm to point meaningfully at the half empty bottle of red by the side of your desk.

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he says. You fold your arms in a huff, if only to have him kiss the top of your head in a silent apology.

“You stick to the gang stuff, I’ll stick to the investigating,” you huff, and Bucky kisses you again until you wipe the frown from your face.

“Alright, smart girl,” he says. He stands, holding you up like it’s nothing and you can’t deny how hot that is, even if he is being condescending to you right now. He sets you down on your feet and smooths out your jacket, the warmth of his hands seeping through the leather as they pass over your shoulders and down your arms. He links his fingers into one of your hands, smiling down at you, and says, “Can we rain check dinner? I think I need a shower.”

Bucky stands unnaturally close to you as you lock up your office and head out, scanning the street while you lock the back door and set the alarm system for the building. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads you to his bike, parked haphazardly on the sidewalk and just begging for a ticket. He hands you a helmet but is looking over your shoulder, not at you, and both of those things are worrying - you’ve never known Bucky to wear a helmet, let alone offer you one. You didn’t know he owned one. You feel fidgety, your skin crawling like you’re being watched, and Bucky must feel it too because he’s a bit rough in manhandling you onto the bike as quickly as possible.

“Bucky,” you say, and he twists around to give you a clinical once over - much like you’d done to him when he’d come to you bloody and breathless. You feel sick to your stomach, guilt and fear twisting in your gut, as you ask, “Do you think someone followed you here?”

Bucky’s face is impassive, but you’d like to think you know him well enough to read the tick by the corner of his eyes as a silent, muttered, shit. He licks his lips and says, “I can’t know the answer to that for sure.”

“But there’s a chance,” you say, and your heart is hammering so loud you barely hear your own voice. If someone finds your office then they find you, and the carefully constructed bubble of anonymity you’ve created is shattered in the space of a second. But you knew that, that’s what Bucky asked you on his couch - will you stay? Knowing Bucky is the antithesis of your comfort zone, will you stay anyway?

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Bucky says definitively. You scan his eyes for trace of a lie but there is none. Bucky’s jaw is set, and he reaches up to grip your chin and hold your gaze on his, making sure you hear him. “Just like you said - we take care of each other. I’ll always take care of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and Bucky kisses the trill of fear away. You feel like you’ve dived off a cliff face, Bucky holding your hand all the way down the precipice of trust you’d promised yourself you’d never cross. But Bucky promises he’ll take care of you and god, it’s stupid but you want him to. You want his to be the arms you land in at the end of this free-fall. Even if, given who Bucky is, that’s the most dangerous place to be.

“Speaking of no secrets,” you say, more of mumble into his mouth than anything. Bucky pulls away, adorably puppy-like look of confusion on his face, and your stomach twists with guilt. “Remember the night of the party? At Sam’s bar?”

Bucky nods. He’s twisted uncomfortably on the seat of his bike and the helmet you’ve yet to put on is digging in o your stomach where you’re holding it. This isn’t the best place to be having this conversation but Bucky’s promise has made you brave, and if you don’t go against your own word now you never will. Not once have you ever spilled details of a case before you’d cracked it. This isn’t a case, you have to remind yourself. This is your life.

“That morning, when I left,” you say, omitting the fact it’s the first time you ever used his front door and will most certainly be the last, “someone followed me from your building. I shook them off, but they were waiting for me to leave and I don’t know if they were casing your apartment or if they were there for me, or what. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, I just-“

“You just what?” Bucky doesn’t sound angry. Worse, he sounds cold. Shut down, clinical, and the way his face has pinched off makes your heart break.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you,” you say, looking down at your lap to avoid the way he’s looking at you like a stranger. Saying it out loud makes it sound so much worse, but it’s the truth and Bucky deserves that at least. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. But I want to. If I’m going to trust anyone, I want it to be you.”

It’s several moments before you’re brave enough to meet Bucky’s eyes again. He is coming back to you slowly, the shutters pulling up from his eyes as confusion seeps out. He scans your face and says, “Usually I would tell you that’s a really stupid idea, but I think you already know that.”

“Stupid ideas are kind of my thing,” you say, and that makes Bucky smile. Relief is bone deep, hits so hard you could slump from the bike in a pile of goo. He’s not mad. In fact, he leans forward in what must be a truly uncomfortable twist to press his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, breathes in deep. You follow suit, so ridiculously relieved you still get to do this while simultaneously trying to control the adrenaline rush from handing over what feels like you’re entire life to someone else.

All your life it feels like it’s always been you versus the world. Your dad raised you that way, to rely on no one but yourself so you can never be let down, not even him. It feels wrong on a cellular level to trust Bucky like you are so blindly doing. Every instinct screams at you to run, to figure this out on your own, that Bucky would normally be one of your main suspects in a regular case. But here you are, showing Bucky all your cards, hoping against hope that you won’t live to regret it.

“No more secrets,” Bucky says, and you nod. You feel his eyelashes tangle with yours as you move, pressed so close like this, and you open your eyes to stare at the veiny lids covering his. “Next time someone follows you, you tell me.”

“Yes sir,” you say, grinning at the warning pinch he gives to your hip.

“Let’s go to the shop,” Bucky says, pulling away from you and turning back to gun his bike to life. “The guys can help us figure this stalker shit out.”

“The guys?” you ask, and your chest does something painfully restrictive at the thought of letting more people in. “As in, everyone? Like, your gang?”

Bucky laughs, like the way you say ‘gang’ is so goddamn amusing, and throws you one last look over his shoulder. You tug the helmet on as he revs the bike, suddenly regretting every other time you’ve gotten on this thing without one, as Bucky says, “Yeah, doll, my gang. That’s kinda the whole point - we help each other out.”

You hadn’t really thought of it like that before. Truthfully, your mind had been filled with shady drug deals and bloody fights, turf wars and tattoos and angry men on bikes. Bucky’s friends and the nights you’ve spent with them seem like a different world, the joy and love entirely removed from the illegal life Bucky leads outside of your reach, but you have to remind yourself - they’re one and the same. Your Bucky cannot be removed from the biker you’ve been kept seperate from.

Clinging to Bucky’s waist, you say, “Sounds very after school special for a gang, tough guy.”

You can practically see Bucky grinning just by looking at the back of his head as takes off, the streets of Brooklyn peeling away as heads for White Wolf Mechanics. Your anxiety and fear sheds off as well, floating away in strips down the tarmac like an outer layer of skin. You feel vulnerable, all new and exposed as you hold Bucky close so you don’t fall. That’s what makes it feel bearable - Bucky’s back against your cheek, the hand he places over yours against his stomach when you pull up at a red light. His promise, echoing under the rumble of the bike beneath you. I’ll always take care of you.

~~~

The shop looks closed from the outside, but you can hear a low bass-line from the street and people laughing somewhere inside. Bucky brings you round the back, the roller doors out front closed this time, and into the back rooms you’d yet to see since that first visit a few weeks ago. To your left you see what must be Bucky’s office, but the room he tugs you to looks more like a bachelor pad living room than a mechanics break room.

Sam and Steve lay sprawled on leather couches, beers open on the coffee table made of old crates stacked together. The Killers pumps through a very, very nice sound system which Natasha is quietly singing along to where she lays on top of the pool table, legs kicking off the edge to the beat. Her beer rests on her stomach, rising and falling with every breath, and she doesn’t even raise her head as she waves at the two of you entering. Sam lifts the icepack from his eye to look at you, grinning wide, and kicks Steve in the shin to get his attention.

“Barnes is back,” he says, rolling his eyes as Steve blearily blinks awake from what was clearly an unplanned nap. Steve focuses on you and Bucky, eyebrows drawn down in confusion, and Sam adds, “and he’s brought his girl.”

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner or something?” Steve asks, then seems to remember himself and smiles all big and perfect at you. “It’s great to see you again, by the way.”

“Quit brown-nosing, it’s embarrassing,” Sam says, and throws his icepack at Steve’s head. He swats it away, squawking at the wetness it leaves behind on his hand and cheek, which makes Sam grin.

“I need a beer for this,” Bucky mutters so only you can hear, which makes you smile. You lead the way to the minibar in the corner, right by the bookshelf full of video games and the cardboard cut-out of Guy Fieri (you don’t want to ask). Bucky follows, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into his chest as you walk - even without the watchful eyes of the other gang affiliates which usually follow you at his parties, Bucky seems hell bent on making sure everyone knows who you’re here with. Even his closest friends.

You can’t say you entirely mind.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Natasha asks. She’s sat up now, twisting on the pool table to face you both as Bucky grabs you some beers. Sam and Steve still continue to argue about nonsense on the couches and are ignored by the three of you for the moment. However, they stop bickering as soon as Bucky speaks again.

“Someone’s been watching my building,” he says. The silence is thick, and you feel almost guilty for ruining their fun night with your stalker woes. Bucky hands you a beer and looks at you pointedly, eyebrows raised. You take a sip before you follow his not-so-subtle direction to start talking.

“I was followed home the morning after Sam’s party at the bar,” you say. You have the full attention of Bucky’s closest friends, and you can’t help but feel a little intimidated. You take a deep breath and decide to look at the situation like you were debriefing a client on a case - remove yourself from the equation. “There was a man smoking against the building next to Bucky’s. He followed me about four blocks before I lost him. He was over six foot, caucasian, brown hair and stubble.”

“Sounds like every white guy,” Sam says. “You could be describing Bucky, for all we know.”

“Yes,” you say, frowning. “If I was putting a tail on someone, I would make them very nondescript. Makes sense, right?”

“And you’re sure he was following you?” Natasha asks. You glance at her, but she doesn’t look like she’s condescending you or anything. Surprisingly, she looks like she believes you far more than the other two men in the room. Maybe your trial by fire proved to her you know what you’re talking about, so you nod.

“Definitely. Either he knew I was there and was waiting for me to leave, or he was watching Bucky’s apartment and would have followed anyone who came out of it. Without more information I can’t be sure if he was there for me or Bucky.”

“You’ve never seem him before?” Steve asks. You shake your head, and he says, “Could you describe him a bit more detailed? I might be able to draw him.”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Or, we can just wait until he shows up at Bucky’s again and follow him.”

Bucky does not like that idea at all. He practically growls, grabbing your elbow and turning you to face him as he glares at you. Roughly, he says, “Are you fucking insane?”

“What?” Mildly annoyed, you tug your arm from Bucky’s grip and say, “If this was a case, that’s what I would do.”

“This isn’t a case. This guy is going to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than some rich businessman cheating on his wife,” Bucky says, voice raised to an almost shout in one of the quickest escalations you’ve ever seen.

A switch flips in your brain, and you see red.

“Thank you for the condescending analysis, Bucky,” you snap. You ignore Sam’s muttered ‘oh shit!’ for your own health and sanity. “But you have no idea the kind of people I’ve dealt with in my life. I can manage a fairly mediocre stalker.”

“A fairly mediocre stalker who works for someone who won’t hesitate to use your hamstrings as handcuffs,” Bucky hisses. He steps towards you, chest brushing yours as he breaths deep and ragged, and oh- there’s the Bucky you’d been missing. The guy who’s still wearing clothes stained with blood, most of it not his, angry in an incandescent kind of way which reminds you he could hurt you in many more ways than just a broken heart. He leans down to say into your face, “This isn’t something you fuck around with, alright? There’s a reason why I’ve kept this world from you.”

“I thought we said no secrets?” you say, raising your eyebrows. You will yourself to hold your ground, even if you are shaking like a leaf and your words come out soft in the face of his anger. Like you’d poked a pin in his chest, Bucky deflates. He backs off of you, face crumbling from anger to guilt as quickly as he built himself up there.

“I won’t let you get hurt because of me,” he says, shaking his head. The switch in your brain flips back, all indignation and pride fading away. He’s still trying to take care of you, just like he promised. Already it’s abundantly clear you’re not going to make that easy for him, and you wonder how long it will take until he gets sick of trying.

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me,” you say, gesturing between you. “I let you into my world, now it’s your turn. I know it’s dangerous - I could have left, remember? But I’m here. So let me be here.”

“If someone touches you-“

“I’ll get over it,” you say. Bucky stares at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are, but it’s true. “You said you were going to take care of me - how’re you gonna do that from all the way over there?”

You don’t mean the other side of the room, the valley of the pool table and the metaphorical arms-length which which he’s keeping between you. There’s only so much Bucky can hide from you before you either dive right in or walk away. This is the turning point.

“Fine,” he says. He looks physically pained as he scrubs a hand over his cropped hair, but at least he’s not angry anymore. “I still think thats a fucking stupid idea.”

“Like I said,” you say, offering him a smile he shakily returns, “stupid ideas are kind of my thing.”

“Uh, can I say something?” Sam asks, breaking the illusion that it was only the two of you in the room for that particular argument. You both turn to look at him, and he almost backs down with the weight of both your gaze. He carries on, however, saying, “I’m glad you guys have had this breakthrough in your relationship, but that doesn’t really help us in figuring out who this guy is. Or who he works for. Or why he followed you. Or how he knows where Bucky lives in the first place.”

“We could go around and ask,” Steve says, shrugging at Natasha’s eyeroll. “What? Baseball bats really jog people’s memories.”

“Why don’t we ask the private investigator for some expert advice,” Natasha says, giving you a look that seems to say men, right? You’re still trying to get your head around the image of Steve threatening someone with a baseball bat when you’ve seen him with his own puke on his jumper singing Sweet Caroline into a toilet bowl.

“Well,” you begin, darting Bucky a look but he seems to be listening and not getting ready to yell at you again, “since apparently following the guy is off the table for now, I would start with me and Bucky. Enemies, bad blood, someone with an axe to grind. Pull at some threads and see what happens.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Sam says, “Bucky’s got more enemies than friends.”

“So do we all, punk,” Bucky grumbles, glaring at Sam. “We’re in a gang.”

“This ain’t about me.” Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence, grinning big like he gets unrivalled joy from making Bucky’s face do the twitchy, dark thing it’s doing right now. The impact is somewhat lessened by the swollen, black eye Sam’s sporting from the mission gone wrong today, you assume, but it doesn’t curb his enthusiasm.

“I can put together a list of the most recent run-in’s you’ve had by tomorrow,” Natasha says to Bucky, ignoring the bickering with practiced ease. “Until then, we should put some protection on your building.”

“You guys have bodyguards?” you ask before your brain can tell you that’s a dumb fucking question. All three of them laugh, Bucky hooking an arm around your shoulder to ruffle your hair as he tugs you into his side. Point taken, you think as you pout under Bucky’s arm.

“I’ll stay in the spare room,” Steve says, swinging himself off the couch to his full, ginormous height. That image of him with the baseball bat starts to take a bit more shape in your mind, and you don’t doubt for a second he could offer some extra protection where the stalker is concerned. To you, he asks, “You don’t mind if I third wheel?”

“It’s not my apartment,” you say, attempting to hide your blush under the weight of Bucky’s arm. You are unsuccessful, if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by.

“We’ll survive one night, punk,” Bucky says, giving you a squeeze. “Or just buy some earplugs.”

“Gross!” Sam cries, flailing an arm around. “Too much information!”

You have a feeling akin to whiplash at how well these people are taking a stalker and potential threat on their lives. Joking around, Steve fake-moaning just to make Sam scream, Natasha laughing until tears form in her eyes at the antics of two grown men chasing each other around the couches like school children. Glancing up at Bucky and the warm look he’s giving them all, you suppose it must be lot less scary to face something like that with friends. Family, you think, as Sam crash-tackles Steve into the couch and smothers his face with a pillow.

“You’ll be alright?” Natasha’s soft voice manages to scare you, jolting under Bucky’s hold as you turn from watching Steve and Sam to find her right by Bucky’s other side. She’s looking up at him, lips pressed into a firm line, and you remember the last time you were here - James is the only family I have. Maybe some are taking this development a bit easier than others.

“Always am,” Bucky says, using his free arm to punch her lightly on the shoulder. She gets him back, much harder, and you feel Bucky wince away from her and into your side. “Serious, Natashenka. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says. Smirking, she adds, “I’ll kill you if you aren’t.”

You look back to Steve and Sam before they can notice you eavesdropping, a hot, honey-thick feeling melting through your skin. You want to know what that feels like in a way which burns; to have people who have your back like that, and your dad doesn’t count because he literally has to. You understood Bucky’s gang even less than you originally thought - he’s not just a biker, a criminal, a hit man or an ex-army vet turned enforcer, whatever the case may be. He’s a guy doing what he has to do to protect the people he loves, because he’s surrounded by them. You’ve never had to protect anyone but yourself.

You tuck yourself closer into Bucky’s side, letting the warmth and smell of him consume you. That’s gonna change, you think. This feeling in your chest is telling you that change is already happening.

~~~

Steve does not have to get ear plugs to survive the night, and you make both him and Bucky coffee before you head off. Shower, new clothes, work - all that normal people stuff you have to do. Steve, golden in the morning sun with the brightest smile on his face, and Bucky’s moody scowl at the early hour and dark rings under his eyes, wave you goodbye. You kiss Bucky’s pout before you go, letting him grab your ass for a second before you slip away.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Steve snorts like there’s some joke you’re missing.

“I’ll go out the laundry window,” you say, as if this is a new development and not your usual routine. “Nobody’s gonna follow me, promise.”

“Hmph,” is all Bucky says and then you’re really gone, racing down the stairs and out the window like you always do.

Sorry Bucky, you silently think towards his apartment as instead of making to cut through the gym parking lot, you wrap back around his building and scan the street from behind the bins. Sure enough, opposite Bucky’s building with a baseball cap on and another cigarette, stands the same dude who followed you the first time. You really weren’t lying - stupid ideas are kind of your thing.

You make sure you’re hidden by a group of pedestrians as you slip out the side alley of Bucky’s apartment building and walk away from your stalker. He doesn’t notice, and you manage to walk a block and cross the road without him any the wiser. Your roles have switched as you hang out at the news-agency a few doors down from where he’s waiting, pretending to flick through a magazine. It’s easy to take a few picture of him over the top of the page with your phone, grainy but useable for when you show Bucky later.

You can deal with Bucky being angry at you, because you know how to do your job and this is the most efficient way to get intel. It’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Eventually, you watch your stalker watch Bucky and Steve leave his building. It’s 9AM and they head to their respective bikes, revving off down the street in the general direction of Steve’s tattoo shop. Your man hunches his shoulders and pulls out his phone, taps into it for a bit, before he walks off in the opposite direction to Bucky and Steve. Not following them, then. Your stomach twists as you fall into pace a few people behind him. Just following you.

He gets on the subway, which makes  it very difficult for you to remain unnoticed but you manage to sit at the internal doors in the next carriage and watch him through those. He gets on his phone again, talking to someone with evident frustration if his clenched jaw and balled fist is anything to go by. He gets off in Manhattan, walks a few blocks, before ducking into a darkly lit bar called the Lerna. You decide it’s probably best not to follow him there, but you snap a few photos on your phone of the bar before doubling back out to Brooklyn.

You call Bucky as you go, a bit jittery at the incoming argument you know you’ve created, but you can’t help but feel it will be worth it. Now you have something to actually go off - a face, a name, some concrete facts. Much better than stabbing around in the dark. A few rings go by before Bucky picks up, saying, “Miss me already?”

“Get over yourself, tough guy,” you say, but you’re smiling. Maybe you do miss him already, just a bit. You were so focused on getting your information you didn’t get to fully savour Bucky this morning, all tanned muscles and tattoos, all yours. You force yourself to ruin the moment by saying, “I’ve got some information for you.”

“Me too,” he says, which surprises you. “Nat’s gotten together some potential candidates for your stalker. Have you got time to come to Steve’s tattoo place?”

“Sure,” you say, beginning to pick at your nails as the nerves set in.

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky must realise what you’d said before, and he doesn’t sound nearly as light and playful anymore “You said you had information? On what?”

“I’ll just show you when I get there,” you rush out, closing your eyes at the way Bucky sucks in a breath like he already knows what you’ve done. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m not mad,” he says, as if through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking livid. Please tell me you didn’t follow that guy this morning.”

“Ok, I won’t tell you,” you say. “See you in twenty.”

“You’re dead meat,” he says before you hang up.

It could’ve gone worse, you muse as you round the corner to the subway station. Sure, Bucky threatened you with lethal violence and sounded even angrier than he’d gotten at the shop yesterday, but you can still imagine him smiling at his phone as you hung up the same way you’re smiling at yours now.

You text him the photos with a quick, Don’t say I never do anything for you xx

A minute after the photos deliver, Bucky is calling you again. You frown down at his caller ID, confused - you were on your way, why is he calling you back already? But before you answer that question, someone grabs your arm and tugs you away from the subway steps and into an alley instead. His grip is bruising, unbreakable, even as you scream and kick before he shoves a gun into your neck and you fall deathly silent.

“Scream and you’re dead,” the man says, hot on your ear. You can’t shudder away, his vice grip too tight and the cold steel on your jugular paralysing. You twist a bit to look behind you despite yourself, your stomach bottoming out at the familiar face which grins back at you. Baseball cap, brown hair, stubble - just like any other white guy. He sneers at you and says, “Not so clever now, huh?”

All you can hear, as your stalker marches you down the alley and into a waiting SUV with a gun to your back, is Bucky’s voice yelling this isn’t something you fuck around with. You’d let him say ‘I told you’ so a thousand times if it meant you got out of this alive. Hopefully, the phone tucked into your back pocket will be enough to save you. You hope Bucky is listening, the call you just managed to answer still catching the grunted conversation your kidnappers are having. You’ve never needed someone before, but god, do you hope Bucky’s got you now.  

Part 6

[smuggsy]

heyo! If you feel like a prompt, I'll offer up one for the flyboys? How about, “Am I going to die?" pls <3

Thank you! I always feel like writing for these two! Two prompts in a day, wow, this is unheard of. I would feel accomplished except I should've been working on an essay for my medieval history class so I only feel guilty lmao.

Anyway. Here, have some pining idiots. Bit of angst sprinkled in but really this is just Collins biting off more than he can chew. You know I love putting him in these situations #sorrynotsorry.

Collins has always been the heavier drinker. He's more easy-going, always accepting pints from the younger lads and beating them at cards and joining in on their bets when dark clouds loom close to the ground and they're allowed to leave for the day.

It's usually Farrier keeping him in check, walking him back to base late at night and watching carefully from behind, giving him space but close enough to grab in case he trips over his feet after a good amount of beer has numbed his reflexes.

Collins naively assumes Farrier isn't a booze lover. Isn't that into alcohol in general; he never has more than two pints, not even when Collins refuses to indulge in it does Farrier let himself get too comfortable at the bar or at a table.

Never when Collins is with him, anyway. This is a thought that has just recently taken form, as in, about ten minutes ago when Collins caught up with the group at the local pub after returning from his daily rounds.

Today he walks into the crowded place brimming with pilots as a thunderstorm announces itself outside, and when he takes a seat next to his wingmate on the far-off corner from the door he finds Farrier doesn't look up to meet his gaze.

"Evening," Collins greets, but he's not sure he's heard him over the music and incessant chatting of their peers.

Even if he does, Farrier pays him no mind.

To say that Collins is instantly bugged by it is an understatement. Farrier stares down at something in his lap, he's hunched down and sports a permanent frown and the overall sight of him just looks wrong.

"Ey, alright?"

He realises, but only once Farrier snaps his head up, that his eyes are a bit too glassy, his breath smelling a bit too strong when he sighs in Collins' direction.

"What? Oh, hey."

Collins only sees the paper in a flash, before Farrier tucks it back into the inner pocket of his jacket. The quick motion clearly meant to keep it away from prying eyes is the only reason Collins doesn't ask. Yet.

"Having fun?" he says instead with a smile, trying to brush away the sudden heaviness of a conversation that hasn't even started, and he leans back on his own seat and surveys the table in front. He counts at least five empty pints close enough to Farrier's side.

"Fun," Farrier scoffs with a shake of his head.

Collins finds the irony dripping from the word so strong and uncharacteristic that he leans over and takes a chug or two of his own beer.

"Let them have fun," his mate continues, gesturing vaguely towards the youngest recruits fooling about on the dancefloor, "they don't know what's fucking coming."

At that, Collins can't help but stare.

He gently places his pint back on the table and doesn't tear his eyes away from Farrier, now stumbling out of his chair looking much drunker than he did just a second ago.

"M'gonna head back," he says, trying to walk past Collins who only manages to move his chair back once Farrier's already on the other side.

"It'll be pouring outside!"

Just then, a thunder rumbles low and menacing under the sweet voice of The Andrews Sisters coming off the gramophone. Farrier stops dead in his tracks for a moment and just when Collins thinks he's going to turn around and sit back down, he shrugs and walks away.

"Ah, s'only a bit of rain, innit..."

He only stops by the bar to pay for his round of drinks, pushing through one or two excited couples dancing away the night and apologizing to one of the gals for almost stepping on her foot.

Collins watches the whole exchange from his spot, a bit taken aback by Farrier so easily brushing him off.

He gives himself a few moments to feel hurt and then he stands up and pays for his own unfinished pint, only catching up to him as he rounds the corner and the first droplets of rain start announcing a hell of a storm.

"Yer gonna be wet straight through if ya walk back now!"

"Yeah," Farrier says over his shoulder, lighting a cigarette and sending a sour smile Collins' way, "I am."

His gaze seems only a bit clearer as he stares Collins down, giving him a once over and taking in the sight with an approving nod. It makes something in Collins' stomach turn.

In a good way.

"You go back though, get yourself a nice bird to dance with. Put in all that effort to walk me back like I'm your granny?"

With the dragging of his words and the cigarette he keeps firmly placed in between his lips, Collins almost doesn't understand him.

He lets out an emotionless laugh and starts walking again when Farrier does.

"What effort? I always look like this."

Farrier blows away the smoke and nods again.

"You do."

"Something happen?"

There it is. He asks.

Farrier almost halts, just almost. He looks like he's about to answer but then the cigarette is back in his mouth and he openly ignores his question for a whole minute. Collins gets the cue but he still doesn't turn back. He figures he can play chaperone tonight, like Farrier's done with him so many times before.

Except, he's always ranting on after his round of pints and his wingmate's not much of a talker. No way to fill in the awkward silence. Collins can't help himself.

"You got mail," he tries again, a statement, just a simple comment that doesn't mean any harm and it definitely doesn't mean to make Farrier turn around like that - like he's properly annoyed at him for asking. For caring.

"Just go back," Farrier bites out, harshly, "you just got 'ere. Go on, don't lemme spoil your night."

"You're not."

"Collins..."

"I'll go if you really want me to."

That makes Farrier look at him again, truly look at him like the words have taken a bit of the alcohol off his blood and sobered him up. He stares for a long moment and then starts walking again without a word. Failing to answer again but answering nonetheless.

The lamp-posts they walk past light up the heavier drops of rain as if warning them of what's to come. Collins' hair is still wet from the shower so he doesn't feel much of a difference.

"You're a good kid, Jackie," Farrier says after a while, hands in the pockets of his trousers and looking up to the moonless sky. When he does, he seems to lose a bit of balance that he quickly regains before Collins can actually grab his arm to steady him.

He reckons it's better he didn't get to, judging by Farrier's general snappiness tonight. Can't be completely sure his help would be welcomed. 

"What did you just call me?" he teases with a grin.

He sees a smile tug at Farrier's lips.

"A good kid."

Jackie.

"I'm twenty-fuckin'-five, thank you very much!"

At last, Farrier lets out a laugh. Collins feels like a heavy weight's been lifted off his shoulders.

"You're a fuckin' tease, s'what you are."

It's just as well that mother nature stops him as he intends to give an answer, because the words get stuck in his throat at the implication of that sentence.

The sky goes white for a split second, lightning flaring up above their heads before the cracking of thunder seems to switch on the merciless pouring rain once and for all. They're already far enough that they'd still end up drenched from head to toe even if they walked back to the pub.

"Shit, come on!"

Farrier starts running forward, where there's a couple of leafy pines by the road before the clearing starts the path back to the airbase: a very long and tree-deserted runway and training field.

In short, they're fucked.

Farrier beats him to the cover of the canopy and Collins thinks that perhaps he wasn't that drunk after all.

"Quicker in the air than on the ground, eh lad?"

"Want to race me, old man?"

"Nah, wouldn't want that spotless suit wrecked with mud."

Collins turns to answer and finds Farrier grinning at him playfully, looking him up and down again for the second time in twenty minutes - the spark in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed because he's never caught him staring so openly before. It makes his pulse quicken and turns his filter off.

"You really like me in my suit, dontcha?"

Farrier's next words sound fuelled by beer, as does that almost imperceptible lick of his lips.

"Why, of course I do."

He looks away to the curtain of falling rain in front of them, pooling down on the grass, and he shakes his head and talks so low that Collins almost doesn't hear him again.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"I'm drunk."

"Yeah, I know. Ye keep lookin' at me like ye want to eat me or somethin'."

Farrier snaps his head back to look at him, mouth half-open like a fish out of the water - like he can't quite believe what he's just heard, and Collins panics, thinks he's misread the situation completely (thinks that even if he didn't, he really shouldn't have called Farrier on it because, as his wingmate so bluntly put it, he is drunk). Thinks that's a very reckless and stupid thing to say and that he hasn't even downed half a pint of beer so he can't even use that as an excuse.

Collins stares back, for a moment he considers stepping away, jumping over that poodle increasing in size and running away in whichever opposite direction Farrier means to walk.

Try and pretend he didn't fuck this up royally.

"Well, would you want me to?" Farrier blurts out all of a sudden, openly staring at Collins' lips and neck and cheeks and hair now.

"What?"

"I said, would you want me to."

Another lightning. Farrier's face is so close that Collins can count the scattered freckles on his nose and cheeks where stray drops of rain slide down on his skin. He has very long eyelashes.

"Eat you or something."

The thunder following the light drowns out that pitiful noise that escapes Collins' throat. He feels drowsy like he's the one who spent hours sitting down at that table in the wet sweet air of the pub gulping down pint after pint.

Farrier is very, very drunk even if he doesn't look like it anymore.

He must be.

Collins wonders: if he answers truthfully, will Farrier remember it tomorrow?

"Yeah," his wingmate snickers, and after what feels like ages he takes the slightest step back and smiles that sour smile from before, fishing another cigarette out of his pack and putting it between his lips, "thought so. Pretty boy like you."

Pretty boy like– what the fuck's that supposed to mean?

"Answer me this, Collins. Am I going to die?"

And just like that, the conversation steers away from longing looks and unspoken words. Farrier's back to smoking that ciggy that's already wet and his hands return to his pockets and Collins feels he's just lost an opportunity that isn't going to arise again any time soon.

"What?" he repeats, like a broken record, refusing to let his own eyes derail from Farrier's face, refusing to look away to the falling of rain, the runway, the clearing, the town far away like Farrier himself is doing. Refusing to let the moment go.

"What are my chances? What are our chances?"

Collins shakes his head in frustration.

"Surviving this shit. Let me tell you: they're very thin. So it's better this way. I mean, it's me but– well it's just not worth it, is it? Forget it."

"Forget. Forget what? Tom, the fuck are you on about? Is this about that letter?"

"Fuck that letter."

He tosses the cigarette to the ground.

There's no remorse in the words, no hatred despite Farrier turning back to him and suddenly standing up straight, shoulders broad, gaze unwavering and challenging. Collins is still a bit taller but that doesn't mean he feels taller.

"I– sorry I– didn't mean to–"

"My fiancée," Farrier cuts him off, cocking his head and studying Collins' reaction for a moment before continuing, "got killed. A bombing over Portsmouth."

He drags the paper out and almost shoves it in Collins' face, who just stands there at a loss for words, again. Stammering like a broken record, again.

"I–," didn't know you were engaged, "–sorry, I'm sorry that happened."

He wants to kick himself for his lack of eloquence but it's the least of his concerns because he was just flirting with Farrier a moment ago, and Farrier was leading him on for some fucking reason – a fiancée?

That tends to mean one's attracted to women.

A dead fiancée.

"Sorry, Tom."

"Don't be."

Another lightning, another thunder, more heavy rain and Collins is already starting to feel the cold reach through his layers of clothes.

"I'm not. Fuck, I'm relieved!"

Farrier runs a hand over his face.

"I'm– fuck."

"It's okay," Collins offers uselessly.

"She's dead and I'm relieved I don' have to marry her. How fucked up is that?"

Collins thinks he hears a cry, and when Farrier tries to look away again he knows he heard a cry, and he doesn't let him turn around and steps forward to hold him in a tight embrace instead. Farrier wraps his arms around him tightly like he'd been waiting for Collins to hug him.

"I'm fucking horrible," he says, words muffled in the fabric of Collins' suit and sniffing through a runny nose. Jack keeps a hand rubbing at Farrier's back in what he hopes is an empathetic touch.

"No you're not, you're not."

They stay like that, holding onto one another against the trunk of a tree that's doing a really poor job of sheltering them from the rain at this point, but is better than nothing. Farrier doesn't really cry, stubborn as he is even in this state of inebriation, and after a while Collins feels his stubbly chin brushing against the side of his neck and smells the scent of alcohol again.

"I like it when you use my name," Farrier mumbles, words still muffled and burrowing his nose in Collins' shirt like it belongs there.

Collins' only thought at that moment, frozen and unable to say anything back, is that Drunk Farrier is a real piece of work. He thinks he understands, now, why he doesn't drink.

[generallynerdy]

Assume (Draco Malfoy X F!Hufflepuff!Reader)

Summary: (Y/N) is getting really sick of people assuming she agrees with her Death Eater parents. Turns out, there’s one Slytherin who’s in the exact same spot.

Requested by Anon: Draco malfoy x fem reader who is hufflepuff. Some people were harassing her bc her parents are death eaters. Draco helps her and shes all like what the fuck?

Key: (Y/N) - your name, (L/N) - last name Warnings: bullying, threats, mentions of killing/death, forced tattoo acquisition, magical terrorism Word Count: 948 Beta-ed by: @artirox !!

Note: hi this one ended very quickly because i just wanted to finish it but i hope its good!! Haven’t written harry potter in a while lmao

    It was just another day at Hogwarts-- another day of pretending like there wasn’t a war around the corner. 

Hufflepuff (Y/N) (L/N) was making a beeline for potions, practically sprinting up the stairs as the minutes ticked by. She was going to be late-- very late. Simply thinking about the detention Professor Snape would have in mind made her sick to her stomach.

(Y/N) had never gotten detention before in her life but of course the one time she had to be late, it was for Potions. She was screwed.

She whirled around a corner and slammed right into someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. She moved to skirt around the person.

They stopped her with a harsh tone. “What did you say to me, Death Eater?”

(Y/N)’s heart sank into her stomach and she finally looked up. The solitary Gryffindor was, apparently, not solitary and had two friends with him. She swallowed nervously, clutching her books to her chest.

“I said I was sorry,” she muttered, unable to meet his gaze.

“Sorry for running into me or sorry for all the innocent people your parents have killed?”

Very suddenly, (Y/N) felt like puking.

Ever since the rest of the school found out that her parents were Death Eaters, she couldn’t catch a break. People avoided her like the plague and if they didn’t avoid her, they harassed her. She was likely the only hateable Hufflepuff in Hogwarts history. She was a disgrace.

No one bothered to ask what she thought about Death Eaters. They assumed she was with her parents-- and they couldn’t have been more wrong.

(Y/N) tried to walk past, but the other two Gryffindors got in her way.

“Please let me through,” she whispered weakly. “I’m going to be late.”

“Oh, you’re going to be a lot more than late,” the boy spat, stepping closer.

She stepped away and went for her wand, but a voice from behind the boys stopped her in her tracks.

“Expelliarmus!”

The Gryffindor boy’s wand went flying out of his hand, clattering to the floor.

(Y/N) had to lean around the boys to see who had done it and gaped at the sight of a platinum blond Slytherin-- one she knew well.

“Leave,” Draco Malfoy spat.

The Gryffindor grimaced. “I should’ve known you sick freaks would stick together.”

Draco stormed right up to him, jabbing his wand up to the boy’s throat. “If you don’t want to end up in the hospital wing, you should leave.”

He paused for a moment, considering the Slytherin’s warning. The boys next to him were wide-eyed, knowing that if they made a move, Draco would fire some horrible spell on their friend. So, the Gryffindor boy nodded slightly and backed away.

The three departed swiftly, though one of them almost ran right into (Y/N) as they did.

When they were gone, (Y/N) looked back to Draco, her eyebrows furrowed. He couldn’t meet her gaze for a moment, tucking his wand away again.

“Are you alright?” he finally asked, voice almost a whisper.

She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated.

The sick feeling she’d gotten still remained, even though the boys were gone. It was coming from being around him, she realised.

She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to be saved by Draco Malfoy, the local Voldemort loyalist, the one whose parents were so cruel that nobody could stand them. Her reputation was bad as it was but as soon as word got around that she was friends with Draco--

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said a little more harshly than she intended. “If you did that-- if you’re doing this because of some Death Eater support thing, then stop. I don’t want anything to do with them or my parents.”

He blinked a few times, frowning. (Y/N) shifted on her feet awkwardly before he spoke.

“I didn’t do it because of your parents.”

“You--” her brain short circuited for a moment, an ashamed blush coating her cheeks. “Oh. Why’d you do it then?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, almost looking sheepish-- Draco Malfoy? Sheepish?

That was certainly a new one.

“They shouldn’t assume you’re like them-- that you think like them or agree with them,” he said quietly, his face resolved.

Meanwhile, (Y/N) felt her resolve melt away.

Draco Malfoy had protected her because she didn’t agree with her Death Eater parents. Because something in him, some little part of him didn’t either.

“Oh.”

He shook his head and continued. “You, uh, you have Potions, right? Same class as me. I’ll walk with you. Snape won’t give you detention if you’re with me.”

She approached cautiously when he motioned for her to follow and soon fell into step beside him, immensely relieved. Not only would she be left alone by those Gryffindors, but she wouldn’t get the first detention of her life either. Maybe she’d judged him a little more harshly than she intended.

Maybe she’d done the same thing to him that others were doing to her.

(Y/N) lifted her gaze to glance at him as they walked, her voice low. “Did they-- did they make you get it?” She asked, gesturing vaguely to his arm.

He flinched and nodded. “You?”

“Yes,” she answered coldly. “And I hate it. I hate how it feels.”

“Me too,” he muttered.

They walked in silence to Potions that day and every day after that. It certainly didn’t help (Y/N)’s reputation, but it did help her fear and it helped Draco. At the very least, they would have each other to stave off the dark.

Nova Tags: @hahaboop

Masterlist

[byakuyasdarling]

Hi!!!! For the ask game, how about dove, ivy and mushroom? I hope these are alright!! ^_^ <33

Ah, thank you for the ask!! And these are perfect, a great way to calm down <<333 I hope you’re doing well

All under the cut since I gush a lot about the wedding, ahaha

—————————————————

Dove — What kind of wedding would you and your F/O have?

Yes!!! I love this one ^//v//^

Byakuya would prefer to keep things small and rather private, however, it appears he’s going to get the opposite of what he would like. His family and S/I seem to want a large wedding (because you know, this is kinda massive for the Togami family, especially considering how famous they are. S/I’s Ultimate would also put her in the position to garner fame too). S/I is MASSIVE on family, and invites all members of her very large family too.

So it definitely seems like one of those royal weddings with no privacy at all (poor Byakuya <<333). Photos of the wedding will be leaked, and S/I’s dress will be judged harshly like in all those gossip magazines, hahaha.

It’s all very lavish. Definitely held in one of those really fancy venues. These images are in low resolution, but it’s the closest I can quickly find to how I think the venue would look!

Definitely a high ceiling venue, lots of white, black, and gold (which would be the theme colours for their wedding), however, the bridesmaids will have their dresses in wine red.

Bridesmaid dresses will probably be an A-line floor-length dress with a sweetheart neckline or one shoulder strap; made of chiffon.

Anyway, anyway!! Onto S/I’s dress (because I embarrassingly think about my own wedding dress a lot).

Definitely a ballgown/ princess dress in ivory for her; with either a sweetheart neckline or more of an off-the-shoulder look. I love having more confessed embroidery and the bodice and repeating those patterns on the trim of the skirt. It ensures everything harmonises and the dress only enhances the bride, instead of consuming her in fabric.

Byakuya though? I am unsure. I do image it would just be one of his many black tuxedos with a white dress shirt, but with gold buttons to match the theme and S/I’s jewellery colour. He would have a gold pocket square (they’re the little handkerchief things often in blazer’s outer pockets) to match S/I. Additionally, it’s definitely a neck tie day, S/I demands no crossover ties at her wedding lmao.

And finally, the centre pieces for each table:

In the following week or so, Byakuya finally gets the privacy with her he wanted. So in the end, he’s rather happy to just have her contently rested on him and he reads; comforted with the knowledge they’re safe and happily married. He gets a bit uncharacteristically mushy over the next few days. He doesn’t really say it, but it’s obvious that marrying her gave him so much joy that he didn’t even know he could still have.

Ivy - How do you take care of each other when you’re sick?

Aaahhh, this is actually a post that has been stuck in my drafts for a while since I have t fleshed it out enough, but I’ll give some brief points now!

Byakuya really would rather not to get ill, so while S/I is sick he won’t touch her very much. Fortunately, S/I absolutely refuses to be touched for a week while she is ill anyway. As part of taking care of her, he does gather any kind of medicinal product that he thinks will be beneficial to her. He also helps to ensure she’s eating and staying hydrated.

He will keep her company, though. He’ll do whatever he needs to on his laptop and try and read her to sleep. However, this can be futile, especially if S/I is getting shivers and muscle aches like she usually does. He really can’t stand her little cries. When she starts drifting off to sleep he (with heavy sanitising of the hands) will hold her hand as she drifts into sleep. He quietly watches her to ensure she drifts off peacefully.

Byakuya on the other hand, is a nightmare when he’s ill.

He tends to get illness a lot worse than other people. His frustration and bad temperament only gets worse towards people: such as his mother and butler who attempt to assist him. He isn’t bad with S/I though, being more tolerant and loving to her is rather natural for him.

Much to Byakuya’s disagreement from fear she’ll catch his cold, she becomes even more affectionate and touchy than usual. Every time he lets out even a slight grunt to imply pain, she’s already trying to put kisses all over his face. He doesn’t like to admit all the mushy kisses and snuggles do make him feel better.

She’ll keep offering to do all these things for him, but he attempts to ‘politely’ decline and says she’s making the best use of her energy being snuggled into him.

Since he’s in bed all day trying a slow recovery from a bad illness, he gets frustrated at how unproductive he is. His only comfort (in general as well) is S/I’s consistent and long-lasting affections she gives when he’s sick. He becomes very accustomed to it, and while he can’t focus well from his illness, he is much more likely to scoff and complain when she isn’t giving him as much love as he wants, lmao. Poor Grumpy Cat <<<333

Mushroom - Give a headcanon of your F/O

I’ve got to admit, to fill in a lot of holes, I have headcanonned Byakuya quite a bit, ahaha.

Byakuya absolutely despises playing video games.

I really can’t imagine him liking them, ahaha. Just kinda “unproductively wasting your time away”. S/I occasionally guilts him into a round of Mariokart, but he only joins very, very rarely, he’s pretty good at it though (like most things). However, he’s rather frustrated that he can’t beat S/I, otherwise known as “The Queen of Mariokart”, which can make him quit rather quick lmao. S/I’s joking ‘threat’ to people is: “You. Me. Mariokart. 200cc Rainbow Road. We’ll see who survives now.” So... take that as you will, ahahaha.

When reading, he does occasionally look over while she plays Pokémon though. While she was replaying Pokémon Platinum he “had the nerve” to ask why she reset her game when she saw her Piplup’s summary.

Long story short, she jokingly called him a novice remarking how:

“I could never play though this game with an Adamant Piplup. Empoleon’s Special Attack with a base of 109 is higher than its Attack stat of 90, and everyone knows an Adamant nature increases your Attack stat as you level, but lowers your Secial attack stat — which is counter productive, BYAKUYA.”

She is joking, don’t worry. She’s quick to apologise and give him kisses to make sure he isn’t too grumpy ^//v//^

Don’t get her started on IVs and EVs though. The former VGC player will reemerge and start rambling all day about “digital rats” (as Byakuya calls them).

———————————————————————

Again, thank you so much for the ask <<333 it’s a nice way to distract me for a good two and a half hours, ahahaha. It’s nice just to ramble about something / someone especially when I’m a little nervous about things. You’re so sweet, have an amazing day <<333

Anyone who is reading this now too: I hope you have a wonderful day 💙💙

[jamesniall]

Hey I’m not the anon that u talked about but I follow u on twitter and wanna let u know that don’t worry!!!! That happened to me a few days ago too djdnxjsn. Are you posting today?

ahhh HI OMG thank u for understanding :’)

IT WAS SO FRUSTRATING bc i got it all written but there’s lil things to edit and words to change a bit but it was basically done and then the power went out and refused to come back for 7 hours :/

as soon as it came back i got to it but im sleeeeepy and i have a family thing tomorrow morning (basically today wow it’s 4 am) so i can’t post it until the afternoon :( BUT YES TODAY IT’LL BE POSTED FINALLY. NOTHING WILL STOP ME FROM POSTING IT TODAY.

if u want, and for the other super patient and lovely anon as well, here’s a lil preview of it; the first out of the 5 + 1 things of this fic!

(as i said, it still needs to be proof read again so if u find mistakes pls pretend u didnt, im gonna get to them tomorrow sdkfhds but yeah there u have 1,5k of this monster of a fic that took over 2 months of my life lmao what started as a lil hurt/comfort fic ended up in a 18k monster of developing relationship hurt/comfort and angst with a cHEESY ending wow)

Having the night shift at the E.R onFriday nights it’s always a chore. Harry always tries his best to change itwith one of his colleagues, even if he has to take Monday’s morning shift whereeveryone comes with the silliest symptoms to get some excuse to get out oftheir jobs for a couple days.

This time, however, Liam has a familything he can’t get out of and Harry has to cover the night shift.

It goes as he expected it.

Drunk college students with alcoholpoisoning are the most common gig of the night, followed by guys withconcussions and broken noses that can only be attributed to bar fights.

It’s around 10 pm when he’s making a roundthrough the new arrivals when he sees a guy sitting in the waiting room withwhat seems to be a scarf wrapped around his left arm and a guitar tightlyclutched in his right hand.

He looks downright miserable. Soaked tothe bone – though Harry doesn’t recall it raining when he started his shift –hair plastered to his forehead and a bruise in his right cheek that he can tellit’s gonna swell and hurt as fuck tomorrow morning.

He takes a look around the room andfigures he’s the most interesting case he can get out of the night.

“Hello there, I’m Doctor Styles. Did thenurse give you the triage paper?” He asks, looking down at the brown hairedguy, who startles at his voice.

“Oh, hi, yes, uh,” he searches around hispockets for a bit, hissing when he disturbs his homemade bandage, Harry doesn’tknow if he’s hiding a broken, burnt or cut arm, but he’s sure the scarf it’snot wrapped up properly for none of those situations.

He finally finds a yellow crumbled uppaper in the pocket of his jeans, “thought the red papers got attention first.”He says, looking up to Harry and handing him the paper.

“Yeah, Friday nights are usually full ofyellow ones, though.” Harry says, scanning the paper quickly and seeing Niall J. Horan, 25 year old male, reportedbar fight, probable broken wrist, no signs of concussion, vitals on order, pain8/10. “How’s your pain right now?”

“Out of ten? It’s been simmering between 8and 9 for the last hour,” Niall replies with a shrug. “Nurse told me x-rayswere necessary but that I’d have to leave my guitar outside,” he continues, “Irefused, because have you seen the people around this place? They’re all drunk.No way I’m leaving it out here only to find it broken, so if you can tell mewhat to do or what to take for the pain I’d appreciate it so I can go home.”

“You could have a broken wrist, judging bythe pain I’m pretty sure that’s the case, isn’t getting the x-ray moreimportant than a guitar?” Harry asks, an amused smile making his way through asNiall splutters and shakes his head.

“’Course it’s more important, she’s one ofa kind. Actually my arm might be broken because I fell out of the stage toprotect her.” He states. A stubborn frown taking over his face.

“Alright,” Harry nods, “You can leave itin my office while we do x-rays and get you proper treatment. That way both ofyou will be safe.”

“Really?” Niall asks, “Hey, thank youmate! I hope it’s not a bother.”

“None at all, just follow me and we’ll getit done quick enough.”

-

Half an hour later Niall’s sitting in astretcher as Harry wraps up his broken wrist properly. His guitar restingbeside him. “I cannot help but ask, what did you mean you fell out of a stageto save your guitar?”

“Oh,” he laughs, “well, you see, I play inthis bar on Friday nights, to help a bit with the bills, you know? Being ajust-graduated-nutritionist doesn’t give you much, so I was there, justchilling, getting ready to finish the set, when a bunch of assholes startedfighting, throwing punches and chairs and tables went flying. My guitar was inthe direct line of fire.” He says, pausing a bit to swallow harshly as Harrymoves his arm to check the blood flow is alright and the bandages are justtight enough. “So I try to yell at ‘em to be careful but just as I was about toreach the guitar and leave a guy was pushed over, I can only guess he was deaddrunk, because he didn’t even try to slow down the fall, and I could only seehis ass was for sure gonna land on my guitar, so I jumped head first to grab itand he fell on me, I fell on the corner of the stage, thus the bruising.”

“Is that why you told the nurse the reasonof all this was a bar fight?”

“Well, technically it all started with abar fight, but as I was about to explain it all she just went and rolled hiseyes and gave me a yellow paper.” Niall says, a sour look on his face, “realrude of her, you know.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to forgive her,” Harrysays with a small smile, “we don’t get much of anything other than bar fightson Friday nights.” He continues, handing Niall a sheet of paper with hisprescribed pain medication.

“Do I have to come for you to take a lookat it again? Like, remove the bandage or something?” Niall asks, looking a bitforlornly at the piece of paper.

“Oh, yeah but not here, exactly. You cancall this number,” he says, handing Niall a small card that just says Liam Payne and two phone numbers. “He’sthe best orthopedist you’ll ever find in this hospital. He’ll do an x-ray,check everything’s alright and in about 4 weeks you’ll be bandages free.” Hefinishes, smiling despite the fact that Niall looks kind of sad. Disappointedeven. “He really is the best, you’ve got nothing to be scared of, he’ll takegood care of you.”

“Not as good as you,” Niall mutters underhis breath as Harry turns his back on him to open the curtain that wasseparating them from the rest of the E.R.

“What was that?” Harry asks.

“Oh, nothing, just. Thinking out loudabout whether I should try to find a bus or just walk home.”

“I can call you a cab if you’d like.”Harry offers. Helping Niall gather his guitar, papers and card without losinganything.

“No, that’s alright. I left my jacket atthe bar so I have no change with me, just my very loyal Oyster card and twowell-functioning legs.”

“It’s really late, Niall, really. I canlend you some, it’s no trouble.” Harry says, searching in his pockets for hiswallet, “I’d be no good of me as a doctor if I fix you up only to let you walkhome at two in the morning. Cab is the safest option.”

“Also the most expensive,” Niall remarks,“we’re in an alright neighborhood and I live like half an hour from here, it’llbe alright.” Then, with a bit more of spark in his eyes, he says; “If you wantyou can give me your number and I can text you as soon as I get home.”

Harry seemed too busy looking into hiswallet to notice, though, “Here, just a couple of bucks. Just in case youdecide your house’s too far and you’re too tired or cold to keep walking.” Hesays, handing Niall a couple of folded bills. “Or in case you have nothing inyour Oyster card. Can’t never be too safe.”

He’s just finished talking when a beepcomes from his pocket. Eyes opening wide when he sees a red alert from hispager.

“Well, look at that. You can have a couplered cases on Friday nights too.” Harry says, shaking his head, “Have a niceevening. Don’t forget to pick up your meds tomorrow morning. What I just gaveyou we’ll be enough for the night but it might get really achey if you movearound a lot.” Harry says, walking fast towards the nurses’ station. “No guitarplaying, for at least a week, let you hand heal nicely. If there’s moreswelling, your fingers get really cold, dark or you can’t feel them or there’sany fever at all, please come back to the E.R immediately.” Harry says in arush as he checks the new triage papers. “Any questions?”

“Thank you.” Says Niall. “Really, you werethe nicest doctor I’ve ever met and I promise when I come back for that check-upI’ll hunt you down and pay you back.”

“No need,” Harry replies with a smile,“I’ve got to run. Have a safe trip home!”

And with that he leaves, back towards theentrance of the E.R where an ambulance is pulling in someone in a really bloodystretcher.

With a shudder, Niall turns to leave, notbefore looking back at Harry for the last time and saying to himself, “nexttime I’ll get his number.”

[tybee]

Sundays at Sarah’s

Pairings: Reddie

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak was having a bad morning. But, it later turned into the best when he set foot in Sarah’s diner.

A/N: This is my first fic that I’ve written that I’ve posted, so it might suck?? This was inspired by me going to ihop on sunday, lmao.

Word count: 2145

—

Eddie Kaspbrak was having the worst morning ever. Actually, no, he was having the worst day ever.

It all started with him waking up in a cold sweat, thanks to the nightmare he had.

Then, it was him stubbing his toe with his dresser that was placed beside his bed; in which he swore was not there two seconds ago. To make things worse, instead of turning on the hot water in the shower, he accidently turned the cold one.

Freezing cold water attacking your face early in the morning isn’t the most pleasant way to start your day. He screeched when the water hit his face and chest, he stepped back quickly and almost slipped on one of the many shampoo bottles that were scattered on the shower floor.

And finally, the thing that most certainly did not make his day, was his coffee.

You could see the relief on his face when he safely placed the mug in the microwave and pushed down on the numbered pads. He grabbed his sugar and instant coffee from his pantry and placed them on the counter. Retrieving the hot milk from his microwave was easier said than done.

Placing the milk in the microwave was easy, the milk was cold. But now, the milk was heated up and Eddie knew the mug was going to be warm. Also, his microwave was placed somewhere he could barely reach; over the stove. His girlfriend, Myra, could easily reach it.

But Myra was asleep, and Eddie didn’t want to wake her up because he couldn’t reach the fucking microwave.

Standing on his toes, Eddie reached up into the microwave and

retrieved his milk successfully without fucking up.

He placed his mug on the counter and began to drop teaspoons of coffee and sugar into it. Once he was satisfied with the taste, (which, in fact, was sweet enough to give someone a toothache just by looking at it) he placed the sugar and coffee jars back into his pantry.

Grabbing the mug cautiously, he began to walk towards the dining room, expecting to be able to reach the dinner table and drink his coffee in peace. What he didn’t expect was his girlfriend sneaking up behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder while saying, “Good morning, honey.”

“Shit!” Eddie squealed, flinching harshly at Myra’s hand. His very, extremely hot coffee then toppled over the rim of the mug and spilled onto his right hand.

“Fuck!” He shouted, instantly letting go if the mug. It dropped onto the wooden floor and instantly shattered, brown coffee spilling everywhere.

“Are you alright?!” Myra shrieked, clutching Eddie’s shoulder with a tighter grip.

“No!” Eddie shook Myra’s hand off and ran towards the sink. He quickly turned on the cold water and placed his under the faucet. He could feel his skin begin to irritate and the cold water wasn’t doing much, it only made the uncomfortable warmth spread.

“Fuck this shh, fucking, fuck fuckity fuck.” Eddie cursed as he turned the water off. He grabbed a paper towel and started to wipe his burnt hand. Eddie winced as he touched the burn, it felt hot and bumpy, it made him feel sick.

“Are you okay?” Myra asked, walking towards him slowly. “I’m fine.” Eddie sighed. He could feel his pulse throb under the irritated skin of his hand.

“Are you sure? Are you upset?” She asked, a worried look plastered onto her round face. “Yes, i’m fine. I’m not upset.” Eddie answered calmly, closing his eyes.

He could feel it. Throbbing; it wasn’t his own heartbeat, he felt his pulse in his throat now, he heard it in his ears. Throbbing; as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

“What’s bothering you?” Myra asked. Eddie shook his head. “Nothing.”

Myra asked it again, and Eddie now felt his heartbeat his hand once more, colliding with the pulse of his burn.

“It’s you now!” He shouted.

Myra froze. Eddie had never yelled at her before. Eddie would never raise his voice at her.

Eddie sighed at his girlfriend. He saw her lips quiver and her eyes begin to water. Eddie avoided her stare.

“Eddie,” Myra started, her voice shaking audibly.

Eddie shook his head quickly. “I’m going out for a bit.” He stated, rushing towards the front door, swinging it open.

“Eddie!” Myra yelled after him. Eddie ran outside and kept running until he couldn’t see his girlfriend run after him. He was so glad that he had good stamina.

—

Open 24/7

It was around six or seven in the morning, it was still dim outside, and there were barely any people around and about. Eddie shrugged to himself as he walked into the small diner, Sarah’s.

He figured that it wouldn’t hurt to treat himself to a small breakfast. I mean, he did have a nightmare, he did stub his toe, he did mistake the cold water for the hot, he did drop his coffee and burn his fucking hand. He deserved this breakfast.

Stepping inside, he was hit with the strong scent of cinnamon and chocolate. It was a nice and homey smell.

The inside was nice and clean with light blue floor tiles that clashed against the red of the booths lining the walls.

Eddie took notice of the christmas decorations and scrunched his nose. Small white and blue snowflakes dangled above everyone’s heads and there was tinsel covering the edges of the tables. Christmas lights dipped downwards as they ran along the sides of the walls.

Eddie sat down in a rather large booth, not really caring because of the lack of people. He had picked a seat where he was able to look of one of the diner’s windows. Outside, he could see, it began to rain.

Sighing, he looked at his right hand. He could feel his pulse again.

“Woah, that’s sick. Does it hurt?”

Eddie looked up from his burn and straight into the eyes of a curly haired man. Eddie rose an eyebrow. “Where did you come from?” He asked the stranger.

The diner was practically empty when Eddie walked in. “Over there,” The brunet pointed a thumb towards the left, where there was a table for two. “Anyway, how’d you get it?”

“Coffee,” Eddie scoffed. “Really hot coffee.” He rolled his eyes at the thought. “Gee-sus Christ! That raht theh must’ve hur.” The man exclaimed.

Eddie chuckled at the voice. “Damn right,” He agreed. “It is was just fucking coffee, not like, a flamethrower or something.”

“Psh, don’t worry about it! It happened to me once. But it was ramen, not coffee.” The man said, smiling wide. “It hurt like a bitch.”

Eddie smiled, clearly amused. “Ramen? How the hell does that happen?”

“Okay, so, I was cooking up some ramen right? Well, microwaving it, but whatever.” Eddie snickered as the man continued.

“So, I put it in the microwave for like three minutes ‘cuz that’s what it’s supposed to be, and when I took it out, I realized I had put too much water in it. So, my dumbass thinks, ‘okay, i’ll just pour some out at the sink.’

“I go the sink to pour it out, but…! Plot twist! I grab the fucking cup of ramen too hard, and the hot ass water spills all over my fucking hand!”

The man shows Eddie his right hand and waves it. “I fucking screamed like a bitch and Righty was red and bumpy for like a week. It still feels bumpy, and this was like, two months ago!”

As Eddie laughed at the stranger’s story, a waitress walked up to the two. “Welcome to Sarah’s, here are your menus.” She said, handing them the laminated pamphlets.

“Thank you,” Eddie smiled, watching the waitress walk away.

“I’m Richie,” The brunet said.

“Eddie.”

—

“Hold on, we’re not gonna split if that’s what you’re gonna eat for breakfast.” Eddie scrunched his nose and pointed at Richie’s food with his fork. Since Eddie had left his house in a rush, he didn’t have much money on him. Turns out, neither did Richie.

They both decided to order as little food as possible and combine their money to pay for both of their meals.

Eddie was now currently judging Richie’s poor food choices. He had ordered a bacon cheeseburger, fries and a fucking chocolate milkshake. For breakfast.

“Hey, you can’t judge! You don’t see me complaining about your ugly ass french shit.” Richie exclaimed.

Eddie gasped. “The fuck?! French toast is amazing!” He protested.

Richie shook his head. “It’s disgusting, you mean. Look, it’s all soggy and covered in bananas and strawberries. Gross.” He gagged fakely. Eddie stuck his tongue out and loudly munched on his french toast. Richie did the same by shoving his greasy burger into his mouth. Both of them ate in silence for a good forty five seconds.

“How the fuck don’t you like french toast?” He huffed. He picked at his toast with fork.

“Well, for one, it’s fucking dis-gugh!” Richie’s sentence had been cut off by Eddie shoving a piece of french toast into his mouth with a fork.

Richie instantly gagged and slapped at Eddie’s hand. “I swear to god, if you spit that out…” Eddie threatened. Richie then grabbed Eddie’s plate and spit it out right on top of the rest of the toast.

“Ew! What the fuck, Richard?!” Eddie shrieked, pulling his plate back.

Richie grabbed a napkin from the table and proceeded to wipe his tongue. “That, was, fooking gross, Eds!” Richie complained, a smile finding its way onto his face.

“You’re fucking gross. Don’t call me Eds.”

Richie would’ve thought he was being serious, if it weren’t for the small smile on his lips.

—

Both brunets finished their breakfasts in silence from then. Eddie thought it was nice, he had never felt so content before, especially not with someone he just met.

Both of them pitched in when the check came by, about twenty five dollars each. Sarah’s might have been a little too expensive for Eddie’s taste, but the food made up for it. The milkshakes especially. Richie had shared his with Eddie, and the smaller brunet was whipped. He ended up drinking Richie’s milkshake by himself.

Richie and Eddie both ended up walking outside, (it was no longer raining, Eddie noted) shoulders brushing against each others.

“Thank you,” Eddie murmured. Richie furrowed his eyebrows. “For what?”

Eddie looked up at him and almost melted under his gaze. Richie was just so tall, Eddie hadn’t realized when they were sitting, but fuck.

“Um, I was having a pretty shitty morning till you sat and ate with me.” Eddie admitted. “This made my day, really.”

Richie could feel his cheeks turn red. “Oh, um, yuh-your not guh-gonna get all soft on me, are you E-Eds?” Richie stammered.

Eddie’s cheeks were dusted pink as rolled his eyes and groaned, “Richie!”

Richie only laughed. “You’re welcome Eds! It was so nice to meet a cutie like you!” He grinned, reaching over to pinch Eddie’s cheeks.

“Shut up!” Eddie blushed, swatting Richie’s hands away.

Both of them smiled.

“Shit! Almost forgot!” Richie then exclaimed. The curly haired man ran inside of Sarah’s again, confusing Eddie. He frowned as Richie came back with a marker in his hand. “What?” Eddie questioned.

Richie grabbed Eddie’s arm and uncapped the marker with his teeth. “Nummer, silly.” Richie said, the cap muffling his words. He quickly scribbled down the ten digits and signed with a flourish.

“There!” He grinned, placing the cap back on the marker. “I could’ve given you my phone.” Eddie said. Richie rose and eyebrow. “Do you have your phone?” Eddie went to pat his pockets and then groaned. He left his phone on top of his dresser.

“No,” He pouted. Richie smiled, shaking his head. “Me neither.” He said.

Eddie scoffed. “Is that supposed to–”

The smaller brunet wasn’t prepared for it, at all. He yelped as Richie’s lips were pressed against his cheek. They were so soft.

Eddie felt his pulse in his throat and felt a odd warmth spread from his back up to his freckled cheeks. Richie pulled back, still smiling; but now his cheeks were pink as well.

“Later Eds.” He whispered, turning on his heels and walking down the street.

Eddie gulped, still not able to process what had happened. “Bye,” He breathed shakily, although Richie was long gone.

Eddie bit his lip, looking down at his arm, down at the numbers Richie had written. Below the numbers were two words.

Look up.

Eddie glanced upwards, and there, on the doorway of Sarah’s, hung a sprig of mistletoe. Eddie didn’t think his face could become any hotter, but of course, he was wrong.

Eddie Kaspbrak was having the best morning ever. Actually, no, he has having the best day ever.

—

A/N: …And then Richie walked back to Sarah’s after Eddie finally left bc his dumbass forgot to return the marker he borrowed from the waitress, lmao. Anyways, there might be a part 2?? Maybe???Idk yet,,

[survivormanhattanbeach]

Day 9: Immunity Challenge Results

For this round, we had music videos, and the players have been working VERY hard over the last 48 hours to submit their videos, but FIRST let’s meet our judges:

Jess, Asya, Jones, Alyssa and Nicole!!!! #Feminism

Jess’ Intro:

Hey guys! my name is Jess or as some people like to call me "Alyssa's Shadow". I'm excited for my wig to be snatched with your videos! Good luck and DON'T fuck it up.

Asya’s Intro:

Stream Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier

Jones’ Intro: 

my wig

Alyssa’s Intro:

Hey y'all! It's me ya girl. I just realized it's actually really cool that I'm judging cuz I just won the last TS season wowza! Okay anyway I'm a really harsh judge so blow me away or everyone is getting 0s thx xoxo mwah

Nicole’s Intro:

Hi everyone! My name is Nicole! I decided to give Johnny the full liberty of writing my intro and he’s going to have a blast with it!! I like long walks on the beach except when it’s hot outside, making fun of Jared’s fake eye patch and being a LEGEND and winning a high quality Tumblr Survivor season @micahel​ SOOOOOOOOO let’s get some good videos in YAW YEET

And now for the videos:

Pennekamp Dragons:

“Sometimes our home is able to shape who we are. Not everyone lives the same, and because of that we are all different, but that’s okay. We all have pride in who we are, and where we live gives us that pride.”

Jess: Creativity: 7.5 Comments: Honestly this was a super cute idea. Ryan can I come over?! From the “Cribs theme” to the “milk shake” (such a waste BTW).... y’all BROUGHT IT. General Cohesiveness: 6 Honestly if there wasn’t that one dude with this camera vertically this would have been FLAWLESS. Although he has cute kids so I won't take off too many points here. Humor/Enjoyability: 7 I kind of wished EVERYONE brought it in the humour category BUT this shit was ENJOYABLE to watch. Relation to Theme: 8 You guys killed the theme. I felt at home. Total Score: 28.5/40

Asya: Creativity: 6/10. Cohesiveness: 1/10. Everyone had something different going on with the only theme being you were in houses. Humor: 5/10. Relation to theme: 2/10. The song wasn’t the absolute best for hometown pride. I saw the outside of one persons house. Idk.  Total Score: 14/40

Jones: Creativity - 8/10 - Y'all had a shit ton of fun with this video and i'm so happy about it. You guys really killed it in the creativity portion, but I feel some of the tribe brought more to the table than the rest. Isaac I hope you didn't burn your house down. General Cohesiveness of Video - 7/10 - For the most part it's pretty cohesive except for the people who shot vertically, but besides that y'all did good Humor/Enjoyability - 7/10 - again, it felt like y'all had a good time, and it shows. I loved everything from Ryan's MTV spoof to Isaac deepthroating a banana. AND MARK YOUR KIDS ARE SO CUTE OMG Relation to Theme (Hometown Pride) - 8/10 - tbh of the three tribes, I feel like you guys shined the most when it came to theme. Great job!! Total Score: 30/40

Alyssa: Creativity: 6/10 General Cohesiveness: 8/10 Humor/Enjoyability: 8/10 Relation to Theme: 9/10 Okay I ADORED this video. The children? Wholesome. The dog stuffed animal on Fire? A huge ass mood. Pouring a drink on your head? Yes. I just felt like this tribe had an A M A Z I N G, really fucking fun time doing this challenge and to me that’s what this challenge is A L L about. Excellent job guys!!! Total Score: 31/40

Nicole: Creativity: 6/10. That was fun but I am confusion Cohesiveness: 7/10. I'll say what I said to the other judges: I love you all but...it kind of felt like I was watching a bunch of single parents not know what to do when their kids were at school.  Humor: 8/10- Isaac are you okay... Relation to theme: 7/10. I mean...I get it. The cribs thing made more sense. The kids were cute but nobody was singing except for two of you so wyd. Total Score: 28/40

Overall Score: 131.5/200

Robinson Riptides:

“This season of Tumblr Survivor is set in Manhattan Beach, California, so what better way to celebrate it than with this song? Even though Katy sings about all of California, specific cities like L.A. and the neighborhoods in it are given a shoutout, which fit the hometown pride theme as it’s geared towards L.A. in general. As the song describes, it’s a fun place to be and those who live there have a lot of pride in it.”

Jess: Creativity: 4. Nothing was super creative about this video? Also.. who still has their Christmas Tree up in MARCH?! General Cohesiveness: 5 Honestly, there was SOME cohesion here but not enough to “WOW” me. Humor/Enjoyability: 5.5 Jake.. you stole the show here. I enjoyed your parts the MOST and you brought it. I REALLY hope your ass doesn’t get a cold though. Relation to Theme: 6 Honestly you guys did amazing in that category. Jake you really committed to the THEME and it SHOWED. Total Score: 20.5/40

Asya: Creativity: 2/10. Nothing really jumped out at me. Cohesiveness: 5/10. There wasn’t much to go off of but for the most part everyone had the same instinct to just lip sync. Humor: 4/10. Some of it was maybe a little accidental I think. Relation to theme: 7/10. The song choice made sense even tho almost everyone was surrounded by show. There were shots that took place outside and near what I assume are like places of business so that’s cool.  Total Score: 18/40

Jones: Creativity - 4/10 - Jake (and Andreas I think?) are the only ones that really stole the show for me tbh. They had a lot of fun with it but I don't feel like everyone else brought it. General Cohesiveness of Video - 5/10 - you guys are pretty cohesive in terms of camera work. But some of the parts when you guys are lip syncing is off. but also I feel like there was a lot of uneven editing? Towards the end it was like,, only Jake. No one else showed up as much as he did. Humor/Enjoyability - 5/10 - Jake please get a jacket. I loved what you did but holy shit are you ok? Andreas and Jake were the ones that really like,, brought humor to this tbh. Relation to Theme (Hometown Pride) - 5/10 - The only person to really work in the theme of the video was, again, Jake. everything else just felt like a regular lip sync. I love y'all but this made me upsetti spaghetti. Total Score: 19/40

Alyssa: Creativity: 6/10 General Cohesiveness: 5/10 Humor/Enjoyability: 6/10 Relation to Theme: 1/10 Alright guys... I love y’all to fucking DEATH. BUt— editing, I felt like I was staring at some people straight up for 30 seconds, which isn’t the way of the music video challenge. Also I had to hit you guys hard with relation to theme. Maybe it was part of the humor, but obviously none of y’all are from California. It just doesn’t fit the theme I’m sorry loves!! Total Score: 18/40

Nicole: Creativity: 5/10. It was alright in the creativity department, I kind of hate this song but...I won't hold it against you. Cohesiveness: 4/10. You all seemed kind of uh...unenthused to be there. Humor: 3/10. I think I was more confused than amused.....honestly.  Relation to theme: 7/10. Yes. Total Score: 19/40

Overall Score: 94.5/200

Pacific Panthers:

“This was the editors first time editing a video so please don’t judge too harshly for that. The one vertical shot was shot horizontal but it got fucked up somehow. Thanks for watching!”

Jess: Creativity: 5 Comments: Y’all had some dance moves? Creativity wise? There wasn’t too much there? General Cohesiveness: 7 Honestly, I think out of all 3 groups it seems like MOST of your tribe particpated comp which is AMAZING. This video kind of flowed well. It was CUTE. Humor/Enjoyability: 6.5 I enjoyed the humour in this! It was super enjoyable to watch. Dani twirls, someone falling, a sword? What more can you ask for in the humour department? Relation to Theme: 6.5 I mean.. the song did say “home”. I liked the touch with the calendar. I’m not too sure anything else really jumped out really. Total Score: 25/40

Asya: Creativity: 4/10. I thought the opening with the calendar was really neat but that was about it.  Cohesiveness: 7/10. All of you had matching enthusiasm and that’s good enough for me.  Humor: 4/10.  Relation to theme: 7/10. I liked that song choice a lot. The part where someone was out on the sidewalk of like a strip mall was really cute and more of what I wanted to see in this.  Total Score: 22/40

Jones: Creativity - 6/10 - y'all this was so cute. I really appreciated it. but again it's one of those things where I feel like more could be done. The song is very cute btw <3 General Cohesiveness of Video - 8/10 - pretty cohesive tbh!! not a lot was like,, done wrong or anything lmao. and whoever did the editing did a good job for the first time!! Humor/Enjoyability - 7/10 - Y'ALL AGAIN THIS WAS SO CUTE from the calender stuff to just the general dancing and having fun, I really appreciated it :D Relation to Theme (Hometown Pride) - 6/10 - y'all I really appreciated this, but there wasn't much of a theme? I know Dan brought a lot for a theme and whatnot, but it was an overall v cute video with not much of a theme. Total Score: 27/40

Alyssa: Creativity: 5/10  General Cohesiveness: 7/10 Humor/Enjoyability: 4/10 Relation to Theme: 6/10  Okay friends SO. I ADORE the song choice. Love ending the video with that iconic fall. The song choice was amazing but having watched Pennekamp’s video.... y’all just don’t match up, I’m sorry! I was so excited when this first started for some bomb ass editing but wound up disappointed with what was actually produced. Love y’all and best of luck!!! Total Score: 22/40

Nicole: Creativity: 5/10. I mean...it was a little creative. You seemed to put in a bit of effort bc you added some small slides of other things besides yourselves. Nice guitar too. There was definitely more effort put in by two of you than others. Cohesiveness: 4/10. The vertical video really annoyed me I'm not gonna lie, like if it was vertical and they were turned the right way it it would annoy me less BUT because you guys did all that editing and then couldn't even flip the video the right way...makes me very upsetti spaghetti. Humor: 5/10- It wasn't funny at all but I don't think that's what you were shooting for. SINCE it was in the criteria, it should have been funnier though. Relation to theme: 6/10. You guys said the word home and showed a calendar. I assume the snapchat was you "at home". But there was nothing than that. Total Score: 20/40

Overall Score: 116/200 +5 for Reward = 121/200

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Which means Congratulations Pennekamp and Pacific! You guys are BOTH safe from tribal council. As for Robinson, you have nothing but a date with Trace and Johnny at tribal council tomorrow night, where one of you will become the third person voted out of Tumblr Survivor: Manhattan Beach! Tribal Council will take place tomorrow night, Monday, March 11th at 10pm EST. We will see you there!