#This was only supposed to be 500 words

[sapphicshitandsuch]

3 and 15 :)

Yennefer meandered rather slowly through the corridors of Aretuza, her footsteps echoing against the stone floors. Her reappearance after Sodden had made for a strange day of both warm welcomes and hostile, suspicious glances, and as the sun set for the evening, she yearned for the solitude she would need to recenter herself. 

Especially after her reunion with Tissaia. The memory of the morning’s events replayed in her mind, each detail burned into her brain. She had expected a measured, distant reception from the Rectoress, perhaps a few words of acknowledgment, maybe even a brief inquiry into her well-being.  

But what she received instead had been far more overwhelming. 

Tissaia had embraced her, taking her by complete surprise at the sheer emotion of the gesture. The sincerity in her reaction, the intensity that shone brilliantly in those sapphire eyes undid something tightly wound within her. 

And then the words were exchanged – she had been so open and vulnerable in a way that Yennefer had rarely known her to be. It was as though a wall had come down, revealing a side of Tissaia that Yennefer had only ever caught glimpses of in fleeting moments.  

She had thought her feelings for the woman to be mere relics of her school days, when she had admired the Rectoress from a distance, mistaking her affections for respect. But those feelings had been reignited with a force that was impossible to ignore in the events leading up to Sodden. Like her own flames, those events had burned away any pretense Yennefer might have held about the nature of her emotions. She cared for Tissaia in a way that went far beyond admiration. 

And now, after that morning’s interaction, it felt as though those emotions were threatening to spill over entirely. The thought of Tissaia – of how easily she had undone Yennefer’s defenses with a single hug – left her feeling horribly vulnerable. It was all almost too much to process. 

Even now, hours later, Yennefer shook her head, trying to clear the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She needed a moment to breathe and sort through the tumultuous feelings that had resurfaced with such force.  Decompressing in the bathing pool seemed to be her most appealing option. It was a luxury she had scarcely taken advantage of as a student, having always been too self-conscious of her deformities to fully enjoy the experience. The thought of being so exposed to the gazes of others had always outweighed any relaxation the water might have provided. 

Upon entering the room, Yennefer’s senses were immediately greeted by the enchanting warmth and tranquility of the room. The steam that rose from the water was infused with scents of lavender and jasmine, filling her lungs and instilling an instantaneous sense of calm. But the moment was short-lived as she caught a glimpse of the neatly folded robe on the far ledge of the pool, and a quick glance at the water told her she was not alone. 

There sat Tissaia, submerged to her shoulders with her eyes closed, head resting back against the ledge. She appeared more serene and unguarded than Yennefer could ever recall seeing her. Silently, Yennefer turned on her heel, aiming to make a quick escape before the other woman noticed her presence. She hadn’t taken more than two steps towards the door before Tissaia’s voice broke the silence. "Don't leave on my account, Yennefer. The water really is quite divine."  

Yennefer’s heart jumped to her throat at Tissaia’s invitation.  She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure, as though one of her oldest fantasies wasn’t playing out in front of her very eyes.  Free from the constraints of its usual elaborate chignon, her chestnut hair was loose, damp, and slicked back behind her bare shoulders. The older woman was clearly naked beneath the water’s surface, and Yennefer was glad that her eyes were still closed so she couldn’t see the way violet eyes lingered perhaps just a little too long. 

“No, ah... Sorry.  I didn’t expect anyone else to be here at this hour.” Yennefer muttered awkwardly, trying to muster her usual confidence as she fumbled for a response. Despite her refusal, Yennefer could not break her gaze of the skin that was exposed—the elegant curve of her neck that swooped to meet her shoulders, the hollow dip at the base of her neck, and delicate collarbones, all glistening with drops of water.   

"Nonsense. I insist." Tissaia opened her eyes now, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Unless you fear my presence will be too distracting?”  

“Do not flatter yourself, Rectoress, I believe I can manage.” Yennefer scoffed dryly in response, perturbed by the trace of amusement in Tissaia’s voice. Her trance was broken as her eyes snapped away, heat rising to her cheeks at the prospect of having been caught in her staring. Distracting – what in the world had she meant by that? Perhaps she had imagined it, but there seemed to be a challenge hidden in Tissaia’s response. And Yennefer was never one to back down from a challenge. “I simply did not wish to intrude on your solitude. But if you insist. You may be the distraction I needed after today’s chaos,” 

Feeling self-conscious for the first time in ages, Yennefer hesitantly approached the water’s edge, feeling the weight of Tissaia’s gaze intensely.  As if she had sensed her discomfort, Tissaia wordlessly turned her back, granting Yennefer a moment of privacy. Grateful for the gesture, Yennefer quickly slipped out of her gown, the cool air making her shiver as she swiftly slid into the pool. She settled across from Tissaia with a soft sigh, the initial awkwardness dissipating with the soothing warmth of the mineral-enriched water. “I must admit, you’re right. This is a rather nice reprieve from the vultures that have been circling me all day.”  

“Yes, it seems your reappearance has caused quite the stir." Tissaia chuckled softly as she began wading towards her. Yennefer could feel her pulse rising with anxious exhilaration the closer she got, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tissaia's approaching form. As Tissaia drew nearer, her gaze fixated on a mild scratch marring Yennefer's shoulder, one the younger woman couldn’t even recall obtaining. The sight of it seemed to trouble her, and silently, tentatively, she reached out her hand. Yennefer's breath hitched as Tissaia's fingers lightly brushed against around the reddened skin. She muttered a soft incantation, watching with satisfaction as the edges of the cut pulled together. But even after the scratch had vanished, she did not remove her hand, fingers gently trailing across Yennefer’s shoulder and down her arm. The sensation sending shivers down Yennefer’s spine, and she felt an odd mix of relief and longing when Tissaia finally removed her hand, her touch leaving a lingering warmth. Tissaia's proximity and the ambiguity of her gestures was both comforting and maddening. 

"I know I’m repeating myself, but I am profoundly glad to see you alive and relatively unharmed," Tissaia said, her voice soft and filled with an emotion Yennefer couldn’t quite place. "I never thought I would see you again." 

Yennefer's heart clenched at the sincerity in Tissaia's words, the vulnerability she was displaying catching her off guard. She struggled to find her voice in the face of such an intimate confession. "I'm ... sorry.” 

"Whatever for?” Tissaia's eyes softened, and a smile pulled at the corners of her lips again. One of her hands came forward to brush some stray curls out of the younger woman’s face. Yennefer cursed the way that her breath hitched as Tissaia’s fingers combed through her scalp and brushed against the shell of her ear.  She was certainly close, but was Tissaia leaning in slightly closer than was normal? Did her eyes linger just a fraction longer on Yennefer’s lips? Was it her imagination, or did Tissaia’s hands linger a moment longer than necessary? Every detail was relentlessly analyzed and dissected for hidden intent.  

“You’ve endured ordeals that few could withstand since Sodden. My girl, your strength and resilience never cease to amaze me." 

The younger woman swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, choosing instead to focus on the only other thing she could, which was the woman in front of her.  Had she ever seen the woman with her hair down? She didn’t think so; it was a stunning sight to behold.  She found it mesmerizing how perfectly it seemed to frame the sharp features of her face. She watched as one of her eyebrows twitched upward and realized with muted dismay that she had once again been caught staring.  

"I’ve never seen your hair down.” She responded much more coolly than she should have been able to manage, opting to change to subject to something lighter. “Tell me, are you giving your scalp a break, or did you just lose all your hairpins?” 

"Contrary to popular belief, my hair is not glued permanently into place. It likes to breathe every now and then." Tissaia’s features twitched with amusement, her words carrying an undercurrent of warmth with her retort.  

“Well, it suits you.” Yennefer assures, lips curling ever so slightly. Then she chanced, “I can see why you keep it so firmly contained when you teach. I wouldn’t have learned a thing during your lessons. It’s quite the distraction.” 

Before Tissaia could respond, the sound of laughter and approaching footsteps echoed from the entryway, and Sabrina entered, followed closely by Triss.  

Yennefer instinctively took a step back, her smile tightening as she tried to steady her nerves. Objectively, there was nothing unbefitting about the way they had been positioned when the others entered. But the way Tissaia’s gaze seemed to ignite her skin – even more than the warmth of the water – made their proximity feel far less innocent. 

"Yennefer, welcome back!" Triss called out cheerfully, beaming brightly as she strode toward them.  

As Triss perched on the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water, Sabrina joined them in the pool, greeting the both of them with a grin.  Tissaia’s foot brushed against Yennefer’s under the water as she shifted out of Sabrina’s way, the touch light and seemingly accidental. But Yennefer's heart skipped a beat, and she abruptly pulled her foot back and put a few more inches between them. 

Sabrina stretched out with a groan of delight. "This feels utterly divine."  

Yennefer nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt a foot graze the side of her thigh. Her eyes darted to Tissaia. 

“Indeed it does.” The Rectoress responded with a thoughtful hum. Her expression remained neutral, but Yennefer caught the flash of amusement in her eyes, and her mind reeled. Had she done that on purpose? Gods, did Tissaia know what she was doing to her? 

"However, loathe as I am to leave, I have a few matters that require my attention this evening." Tissaia declared, with finality, giving Yennefer a strange jolt of both relief and disappointment. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.” 

All three of the younger mages bid her a good night in return, and Tissaia regarded each of them with a brief nod of her head, though her gaze lingered just a little longer on Yennefer before she rose. The raven-haired woman watched intently as Tissaia gracefully stepped out of the pool. Unable to look away, violet eyes traced every movement as the droplets of water cascaded down her back. Her gaze traveled slowly up Tissaia’s body, from her ankles, past her toned calves, creeping up the backs of lean thighs until Tissaia pulled her robe on with practiced elegance, effectively covering the rest of Yennefer’s view. 

As the Rectoress turned to leave, she paused, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint as blue eyes met violet one last time. "And Yennefer," She purred, her voice infused with an unmistakable hint of flirtation, "I hope you find tonight’s distractions to be just what you need." 

[istra-ish-sucha-geek]

My Discussion Post for Practicum November 9

This topic is acutely apropos, even though this article was written before the precipitating even 8 years ago of the first election of Donald Trump. In the intervening eight years, political division has continued to rise, natural disasters are increasing, and the tools in this article are of even greater necessity. The primary conclusion of this article is that yes, therapists should speak to their clients regarding world politics and news. The article offered several was to broach the subject with clients: posting a letter publicly in the office, asking client's in session, and sending an email inviting conversation to clients. Recent online discourse has been revolving around if it is appropriate to ask your therapist how they voted during the election. This conversation is being picked up by therapists and clients. Clients, especially LGBTQIA+ and women clients are expressing that therapists who don't answer or who answer "Trump," are therapists they no longer feel safe with. Some therapists are arguing that revealing who you voted for is too much self-disclosure; others are saying this should not be a problem to disclose; others are vehement that not only should you disclose, it should be obvious who you voted for. This current discourse complicates some of the suggestions from the article, as an invitation to speak about things could be seen as an invitation to ask who you voted for, which is generally considered private information. However, withholding information could also clearly damage rapport.

In my own practice this week, I have had some clients with the current election on their minds, and some who did not care. The clients who were experiencing distress did not ask me how I voted, however, it was clear from their attitude they were certain of who I had voted for, and there was no need to ask.

Guidelines for political discussion were also helpful. The focus should be on how clients were impacted emotionally and socially by politics or world conditions. When clients "rabbit trail" down a rant, a counselor should redirect them back to how they are personally being impacted. Finally, it is recommend that when appropriate, the therapist share in their own human grief about world (or local) events,  and "join as a fellow human" in the emotional response to tragedy.

Civic engagement is a way clients can feel centered and empowered in the midst of political unrest and tragedy. It is a way to ground oneself and not be rattled by ongoing events. Loneliness can be a significant contributor to stress, anxiety, and depression symptoms. Being connected to other people in civic movements, protests, and activism, is a way to minimize fear and embrace the power a human does have (Hunter, 2024). That connection can also lead to community with resources to ride out political upheaval or natural disasters. Connection is vital for human survival, both as an individual and as a communal creature. Additionally, civic engagement and communal connection can give help humans envision a hopeful future. Hope is a necessary weapon for the human psyche against darkness and trying times.

While Buczynski had excellent points for the time of the article, there has been significant shifts in the ensuing 8 years. Globally, and nationally, we have experienced a pandemic the likes of which had not been seen for 100 years (the 1918 Spanish Flu),  a contentious election in 2020 with a violence breaking at the White House on January 6, several natural disasters that broke previous records of destruction, and a continuing political divide of extremism and rhetoric while political powers wrestle back and forth. It is difficult to research events as they unfold; hindsight is 2020, and 2020 is barely four years ago. The current discussion regarding therapists, client's feelings of safety in the therapeutic relationship, and voting disclosure, would not have happened 8 years ago. The landscape of social media has dramatically changed in the last 8 years with the advent of TikTok and its direct to user interface. For several people of younger generations, social media is their primary news outlet (Pew Research Center, 2024). This has contributed to an immediacy of information dissemination through the people (including significant inaccuracies or misleading information), and access to professionals and professional spaces that was not previously available. These all impact how a client receives information, relates to information, and reacts to information. Being civically engaged can look significantly different in 2024 than it did in 2016.

This can impact how therapists apply the principles and guidelines Buczynski recommends. Many therapists have a professional, online social media account, and use that to communicate with clients. Given the 2024 Pew Research Center information, a social media post may be more effective at reaching clients than posting a letter in the office, or even an email. Additionally, due to the same social media, it is foolish to suppose clients will be ignorant and uninfluenced by the discourse on social media between clients and therapists. It is possible a client come in and demand to know who their therapist voted for, or there may be a more subtle bid for information. Social media can also give clients greater access to emotional and community support, as well as more opportunities for civic engagement. However, depending on the spaces they frequent, social media could also increase hopelessness, frustration, and burn out. While the principals of Buczynski's suggestions are still relevant, it is important to consider how to apply them in the significantly different social, political, global and online world we live in now.

:

Buczynski, R. (2016, July 15). How to Help Clients Process Their Fears about World Events - NICABM. NICABM. https://www.nicabm.com/trauma-how-to-help-clients-process-their-fears-about-world-events/ Links to an external site. 

Hunter, D. (2024, November 4). 10 ways to be prepared and grounded now that Trump has won. Waging Nonviolence: People Powered News and Analysis. https://wagingnonviolence.org/2024/11/10-things-to-do-if-trump-wins/

Pew Research Center. (2024). Pew Research Center: Social Media and News Fact Sheet. United States.[Web Archive]. Retrieved from the Library of Congress: https://www.pewresearch.org/journalism/fact-sheet/social-media-and-news-fact-sheet/

[auntiejohn]

how the flip do I write an artist analysis

[tethered-heartstrings]

i'm basically done with writing my will/hannibal smoking ficlets. there are over a dozen different ones based on prompts from an old post of mine ranging from about 500 - 2k words a piece. they aren't inherently connected at all and are meant to be standalone fics, related only by the overarching theme of smoking. i haven't written anything like this before so want opinions/input.

*if i post them as one "fic", each chapter/story will have their own tags listed in the beginning and all the collective tags listed under the "fic". if i do a toc, it'll at list titles and prompts. no toc then prompts will be listed before the fic with the tags for said fic. each fic does have a title if that makes any difference

also not inherently bad to rb but don't bc the poll is really just for me lol

[powerfultenderness]

“Close your eyes for me love.” ? >:3

Lulu! ❤ lol i'm still very much into Stalker!Adrian, but now with a teeny tiny tad bit of a twist!!

Word count: 1000 Warnings: canon typical violence

You were absolutely the most important person in Adrian’s life. After the whole butterfly incident the team went their own ways, even Peacemaker left Evergreen, again. That left you as the only person in town that he cared for. He just…had to work up the courage to actually talk to you!

But not now. Maybe the next time you came into the restaurant. You liked eating there, he noticed. In fact, he noticed a lot about you. It was easy; you were a creature of habit. It meant that even if he couldn’t watch out for you in person, he knew where to find you.  

Like right now, you should have been at home, in your pajamas and cuddled up in bed. But you weren't home. 

He cursed under his breath and jumped off of your balcony. He had to retrace the steps of where you should have been! 

Luckily you were just a block from your apartment complex, but rage filled his core as he saw a man twice your size slam you into a wall, one hand around your throat while the other moved down where he couldn’t see. 

Faster than he could ever remember moving, he pulled the man off of you, your gasped coughs only adding to his anger, and shoved him to the other side of the alley. 

“Close your eyes for me love.” He growled out as he raised his gun at the man, only hesitating a moment to let you close your eyes. 

You did not.

You could not.

You watched as he pulled the trigger, bullet bursting through the man’s skull sending blood and flesh and brain matter across the red brick wall. Brick red and blood red were so different. Neon against the darkness of night.

As much as your mind tried, you could find no pattern in the goopy, stringy, mess slowly being pulled down by gravity. It wasn’t until another shade of red, brilliant and gleaming, obscured your sight did you gasp for a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Vigilante filled your senses, your eyes locked onto his red visor, he smelled of gunpowder and oil, his voice was pleasantly low, not deep and booming and intimidating, but low enough that his worried words (what was he saying?) were able to cut through the temporary tinnitus. 

“Shit,” he mumbled under his breath when you didn’t respond to him a third time. And only because you were worth it, you were worth everything to him, he pulled off his mask and gently cradled your face in his hands, calling your name in hopes of snapping you out of this daze you were in.

“Adrian?” You whispered, shocked, as your eyes locked with his.

His eyebrows scrunched up in the cutest way. “You know who I am?” 

Of course you did, he was only the man you were harboring a major crush on. Some people might even consider you a stalker, for all the times you showed up at his work place just for a glimpse of him. Fennel Fields was mediocre Italian food, at best! But you eventually figured out his schedule and couldn’t help but eat there twice a week, just to stare at him. A little creepy, but how he fueled your dreams!

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You snatched the Vigilante mask out of his hand and shoved it back over his head. “You can’t let the cops see you like that!” 

Sure, you knew he was Vigilante, but this was the first time you had actually seen him kill someone. You were grateful for that, you didn’t want to think of what your attacker would have done had Vigilante not shown up.

You then grabbed his hand and started to drag him away from the murder scene and towards your apartment. 

Vigilante stumbled a bit, “uh, you’re not freaked out?”

“That you saved me? No.” 

You decided not to tell him that you often took unnecessary risks with your safety because you were pretty sure he was always following you. He didn’t need to know that you knew his secret. “Thank you for that, by the way.” 

“Oh! You’re welcome!” You could hear the smile in his voice. He had such a sweet voice, you’d only ever heard it in passing before, but aimed at you it somehow sounded brighter. 

“Are you trying to take me home?” He asked, like he didn’t know where you were leading him. 

Right on cue policed sirens echoed through the night and you picked up your pace. “Just until the police go away.” 

“Smart.” 

It only took a few more minutes before you were pushing him inside your apartment.

Now that he was inside, and the risk of other people seeing him gone, he pulled his mask off again and put his glasses on. “How do you know my name?” He circled back.

“How do you know my name?” 

He coughed, “it’s uh, my super power! Yea! I’m really good at guessing names!” 

…

“Me too.” You blinked, biting your lip to try and hold back a grin. 

“You have a super power?” His little gasp was cute. “I mean, I have a superpower because I’m a superhero. But-”

“Do you wanna fuck?” Now that you had the man you’d been crushing on for weeks in your home and an excuse to keep him here, you might as well go for it. 

“What?” He immediately dropped his ramble, eyes going wide and jaw slack as he processed your question.

“We probably have some time to kill while the cops-Mmh!” 

He practically lunged himself at you, hands gently but firmly pulling your face to his, crushing his lips against yours as he swallowed the rest of your words.

Adrian really didn’t care what the rest of your sentence was going to be, all he knew was that the one person he’d been dreaming for months was offering to fuck him! He wasn’t going to let this opportunity go! 

[Protective Prompts]

[fantastic-nonsense]

"all of these sections should be under 2500 words" I said. "keep them all relatively short and to the point" I said. "it will be easier to finish" I said. what about when I can't figure out what the point is and I just keep writing more and more trying to figure it out???

[psychoticwillgraham]

tfw ur still trying write a fill for a bingo event that ended in July and u wanna just get straight to the porn but ur still stuck on the buildup :(

[firstelevens]

#71 and sambucky for the spotify wrapped ficlet?

71. "Wings" by Little Mix

also on AO3

In the weird, funhouse mirror version of life that Sam lives these days, Wakanda has become something of a constant.

It’s not so much that they go there regularly–this is only the third time in two years–but they rarely linger anywhere else long enough for familiarity to set in.

Usually, that’s a good thing: if there’s always something to worry about and always someone to look out for, then Sam can’t think too hard about how he’s feeling. If Sam can’t think too hard about how he’s feeling, then he doesn’t have to contend with his increasingly frequent impulse to just…surrender himself at the nearest American embassy and hope that they give him the same deal they gave to Scott and Clint.

(It’s the impossibility of that last part that keeps him from going through with it, most days.)

They don’t have to constantly look over their shoulders in Wakanda, though, which means that Sam’s brain has time to meander to all the places it shouldn’t. He never gives much thought to the date when they’re hopping from place to place, but he’d caught sight of it on the newspaper this morning and felt a pang in his chest.

He’d done the math instinctively: Cass had been born on November 17th, 2012, which meant that today was his fifth birthday. AJ, meanwhile, was a June baby. He’d been bright-eyed and tiny when Sam last saw him, near-constantly chattering in his own baby babble. He’d be old enough to be toddling around the house by now, probably following his brother around everywhere the way Sarah had followed Sam.

There had been nothing that Sam wanted to do more at that moment than just retreat to their rooms and curl into a ball under the covers, to just keep the world at bay until the sudden and terrible ache in his chest eased at least a little. His parents had raised him better than that, though, and the Wakandans had given him and the others considerably more grace than they deserved, so he’d gone to all the meetings and discussions he was invited to, had walked the gardens and attended meals when asked.

By evening, the ache still sits in his chest like a stone, and he’s not sure how much good grace he has left in him. He’s on the couch, biding his time until he can disappear off to sleep without the others realizing that something is wrong.

In the next room, he can hear Nat offering her probably unsolicited opinion on Steve’s outfit–“You’re an artist, Rogers. How are you this afraid of color?”–and Steve drily replying that colors had been invented after he went into the ice.

They’re supposed to be King T’Challa’s guests at an art show in the city, something about new voices and their takes on the union of art and engineering. Back in the non-funhouse-mirror version of Sam’s life, it’s the exact kind of night out that he would have appreciated, maybe even taken a date to.

He’s begged off for tonight, making noise about jet lag and wanting to get some sleep when he can. Steve had tried to convince him to come along anyway, but Nat hadn’t pushed, just nodded with that too-sharp look in her eyes.

Sam’s got the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes when he hears the door open. He looks up, wondering if Steve and Nat are heading out, but it’s just Bucky, gently pressing the door shut behind him.

“Hey, Sam,” he says. “You look terrible.”

They’ve graduated to first names and, apparently, to blunt honesty. Sam can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed; he’s pretty sure that’s dead-on.

“Thanks,” Sam says flatly. “You’re a little underdressed for a royal art show. Or have you just fully committed to the grunge vibe?”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together, and for a second he opens his mouth like he’s going to ask a question. Then, with a little shake of his head, he just says, “I’m not going; I’ve already seen most of the pieces.”

“What are you, moonlighting as a curator now?”

“Only when the goats have gone to sleep for the night.”

Sam feels his lips twitch up into what might be his first real smile of the day.

“I saw a lot of the pieces come together, is all. Princess Shuri’s got a lab in the city that the artists were working out of. I went there a few times when they were…” Bucky trails off, gesturing to the shiny new vibranium cap on his left shoulder. 

He nods. “You headed home? I’m sure those goats are missing you something awful.”

“Yeah, they get real antsy if I don’t read them a bedtime story,” says Bucky.

Sam wouldn’t put it past him at this point. They’d gone out to visit Bucky and his new charges yesterday, and while Steve had sketched the herd and Nat watched the older goats, Sam had kept his eye on the littlest one. He’d thought he was going to prevent some great escape as it wriggled past the fence, but as it turned out, all that the baby had wanted to do was follow Bucky around as he took care of his chores. It stayed on his heels, but ducked away whenever he turned his head. Bucky pretended not to notice, but Sam had seen him dropping little flowers for the goat to snack on. 

It’s quiet for a bit, and Bucky’s eyebrows are furrowed again.

“Did you want me to grab Steve?” asks Sam. “I think he and Nat are about to head out. She just spent the last forty minutes trying to wrangle him into a green jacket, but you know he’s going to somehow manage to wear beige in the end.”

From the other room, although muffled as if by fabric, Sam hears a faint, “Hey!” from Steve.

“Am I wrong, though?” he calls out over his shoulder, before turning back to Bucky. “I can-”

But that’s as far as he gets, because then Bucky is blurting, “Steve said you do your own repairs on your wings?”

Sam feels his eyes go a little bit wide. “I- what?”

Bucky doesn’t speak again, just looks back at Sam, equally wide-eyed, and gestures vaguely like that’s supposed to clarify anything. There’s no way Sam’s going to get anything more out of him without answering first.

“Just a little maintenance after missions,” he says. He’s not sure why he’s downplaying it. They haven’t been able to do much more than basic upkeep while they’re on the run, but Sam knows those wings inside and out, had insisted on hovering over Tony’s shoulder and quibbling over every modification until he knew the why and how of it. The princess had offered to take a look at them when they landed, but Sam hadn’t been able to bring himself to say yes. “Why?”

“I heard that they took some damage in that firefight in Prague,” Bucky says. He’s not quite looking at Sam, fidgeting a little with the hem of his shirt as he pauses for a long moment. “There’s a room in the south wing. Used to be Princess Shuri’s schoolroom.”

Sam has the stray, hysterical thought that this is the weirdest way he’s ever been propositioned, but he pushes that down and just nods instead.

“It’s a workshop now. Guests are welcome to use it,” says Bucky, finally meeting Sam’s eyes. “You could work on the wings there. If, uh- if you wanted to.”

“Oh,” says Sam. The wingpack has been sitting in the corner all day, mostly ignored, but suddenly Sam’s hands are itching to take the wings apart properly again. 

He stands, and he doesn’t need to do more than nod before Bucky is leading the way out of their quarters and down the hall.

It’s quiet in the palace at night: there are no other guests, and the whole royal family is in attendance at the art show. The main corridor in the south wing is dim, in spite of the enormous picture window that faces out onto Brinin Zana. Ahead of him, Bucky’s footsteps don’t seem to make a sound, and Sam feels the need to do the same.

They eventually come to a stop at a doorway where Bucky punches a code into the keypad. The doors slide open with a quiet hum, and the lights cascade on as the two of them step inside.

Sam had gotten to see Princess Shuri’s main lab the last time they were here: packed with assistant and prototypes and multiple holographic displays. It had been incredible but overwhelming, and Sam is relieved when the workroom turns out to look nothing like it.

There are steel topped workbenches and large drafting tables, tools arrayed neatly along one of the walls and a bank of computers in the corner by a large projection screen. Sam thinks of his dad then, of the old shed behind the house where he used to fix up parts for the boat and taught Sam and Sarah to do the same.

He looks at the wrenches, meticulously organized by size, and the neat rolls of wire lined up like his dad always kept them, and suddenly he wants to go home so badly that he aches with it. 

His hands shake as he sets the wingpack on one of the workbenches, and he only belatedly remembers that Bucky is still there with them. When he finally manages to get words out, all he can say is a quiet, “Thank you.”

Bucky nods, but makes no move to leave. Instead, he walks over to the computers and activates the display, surprisingly adept with the holographic screen. He seems to be looking for a program, and once he’s got it pulled up–there’s a drop down menu of some sort and a keypad–he turns back to Sam.

“Calls out of Wakanda are untraceable, you know.”

Sam had assumed as much, given the sheer technological capabilities here, but he’s not sure why Bucky is telling him this. He doesn’t say anything in reply, just bobs his head in a nod.

“Just in case you had anyone you wanted to call,” Bucky says. He shrugs, but it’s not as casual as it should be. “You, uh- you wouldn’t have to worry about the call getting traced or them being unsafe or anything.”

“Oh,” says Sam again. Oh, he thinks to himself, and looks with wide eyes at the fidgeting assassin-turned-goatherd on the other side of the room.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Bucky says, after a few moments of Sam trying and failing to say anything more.

There are about a hundred things that Sam should say. He should ask how Bucky’s doing, ask if he wants to stick around, tell him how much this means and how much he appreciates it, but he can’t seem to get any of the words out.

All he can do is call across the room just as Bucky reaches the door, his voice hoarse. 

“Thank you, Bucky. Really.”

Bucky gives him a smile, tiny and heartbreaking, and nods in acknowledgment. 

“Good night, Sam,” he says after a second, and slips out the way he came.

[etoilesombre]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Exorcist (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Marcus Keane/Tomas Ortega Additional Tags: Angst, Masturbation, The Fucked Up Inside of Marcus Keane's Head, Canon Typical Religious Perspectives Summary:

Marcus doesn't think of the other man in the room when he touches himself.

It’s not that he believes God will judge him. In the ranks of his sins, this can hardly factor, and he has seen far too much to credit the notion that abiding by God's rules might serve to win back his favor. God is far too vast to have time for such pettiness.

But the demons aren't.

[betrayedbycinnamon]

I just want to write a short little story - is that too much to ask??

WIPS word counts: 2576, 2558, 5466, 2536

I can feel them laughing at me as the ending runs further and further away.

[traumatas]

I told myself id just write a short epilogue. This is draft two and still missing the last little bit.

[cloudwhisper23]

Ha, so this is going to be a lot longer than I thought it was going to be.... Turns out writing a time loop where someone is killed by their future self over and over again takes more than one take. Gosh, why can't I write something the length I want it?

[kn1ght-l1ght]

"Huh why is this part near the border of the US & Mexico so barren-"

I don't think people on the West Coast understand how much denser and multipolar the US is east of the Mississippi

[tansyuduri]

That feeling when you go on a merlin episode binge because YOU NEED TO GET TO A CERTAIN EPISSODE FOR YOUR FANFIC

[hyunin]

why do i want to gif rn of all things when that’s the ONE thing i CAN do while i watch my puppy...can i please make good use of my time and do literally anything else

[suhkusa]

THE KISS BET.

PAIRING. Bakugou Katsuki x f!Reader

SUMMARY. Your friends bet you to kiss Katsuki Bakugou. Fortunately for you, they’re offering you $500 for it. Unfortunately for you, the two of you absolutely hate each other.

CW. third year, angst to fluff, light hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, mature humor, feelings, language

WC. ~2.8k

A/N. enjoy :3

You and your group of friends had a running gig. Bets. 

The group would bet one person to do something, on a scale from normal to outrageous, and that person’s turn wouldn’t end until they complete that bet. Of course, depending on how crazy the bet is, everyone would put in some amount of money. 

The most you’d gotten was $100 total from accepting a date from creep in the business class. Worst date of your life, but Jirou felt bad so she gave you an extra $50. 

As the lot of you gather around the campfire, everyone offers up their money to Mina who had just done her bet to put laxatives in Kirishima’s drink. There were a lot of questions about the morality of it, but you ignored it and gave her a crisp $20. 

“Y/N~ it’s your turn!” Ochako gleed. 

You roll your eyes, “I feel like I just did my other bet, which by the way was shit,” the girls laugh at your words. “I feel like all of you get the easier ones,”

“Easy? I had to kiss Monoma, do you know how hard that was? He knows I’m lesbian so imagine how hard that was for me to convince him,” Yaoyorozu sighs with a palm to her face.

“Oh, whatever,” Mina says with a clap of her hands, “You want a hard one, Y/N?”

“I mean that’s the whole point of paying each other to do bets, they’re supposed to be hard,” 

“Be careful what you wish for,” Mina smirks before standing up and pointing at you. 

“I bet you $100,” your ears perk up.

“-to kiss–,” your eyes widen but listen nonetheless.

“Katsuki Bakugou,” your world falls apart.

“Mina, no,” 

“Y/N, yes,” she jumps up and down, “It’s too late, I already said it,”

All the other girls are hooting and hollering, but you just sit there in silence as you stare at the flames. Are you really going to try this?

As you consider your options the other girls start placing their bet offerings.

“$75 from me,” Tsuyu calls out.

Then from Hagakure, “$50,”

“$150,” from none other than Yaoyorozu. 

“I guess I’ll put in $80,” Jirou smiles at your misery.

“Hmm, I’ll even it out with $45, so $500 flat for you, Y/N,” Ochako smiles.

$500?!? You’d be outright stupid to deny such a big amount of money. But you’d even stupider to think Katsuki Bakugou would kiss you of all people. 

“I think that’s impossible,” you whine as the other girls poke fun at you.

“I guess only time will tell,” Mina grabs your hands and smiles, “Good luck, Y/N,”

—

You can hear the rambunctiousness of your class before you walk in. When you walk through the doors, your eyes scan the class before your eyes lock in on Katsuki Bakugou. You groan with a roll of your eyes before stomping your way towards him. 

“Hey, Katsuki,” you stare down at him, “You want to do me a favor,”

“For you? I rather eat shit,” he grumbles as he meets your gaze.

“You’re a freak,” you already knew this was going to be hard, “Please,”

“Mm, depends, what’s in it for me?” 

“I guess you’ll find out,” you say. “Kiss me,”

It feels like the class goes silent as the two of you continue to just stare at each other. He opens his mouth then closes it. 

“You– The fuck?” His eyes are scattering as the words continue to process through his mind, “What a weirdo, hell no,” then he’s pushing himself out of his seat and making his way to the door.

“You know class starts in 5 minutes right?” you call to him.

“Fuck off,” he grunts as he shuts the door behind him.

Yep, definitely hard. 

—

The next time you bother Bakugou for a kiss is when the two of you are paired up for combat training. Much against his will. 

“Katsuki~” you call out as you dodge another blow from him. “You can’t avoid me forever,”

“Yes-” another explosion, “I can,”

You go on the offense as you continue, “Just a peck, please. I’m a good kisser, I promise,” 

“You’re shit,” he’s grumbling between dodges of your attacks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you send him a wink before getting a hit on him. 

Bakugou groans, about to send another remark, when the training ends with a blow of a whistle.

The two of you meet eyes one last time, “Think it over, kay?” you smile before walking away.

—

Knock, knock. 

You stand at Bakugou’s door.

“Go away, perv,”

“Aw, how did you know it was me? You missed me?”

“I can just tell by the stench,” 

You laugh a little at his words, “Please, let me explain to you and maybe you’ll reconsider,” 

You can hear footsteps, and you smile. When he opens the door he’s adorned in his classic black tank and some sweats.

“You should put some clothes on, perv,” you mock. “Anyways, it was a bet from my friends and there’s $500 on the line, so if you would just–”

“I don’t kiss just anyone, princess,” the nickname causes you to fluster, but you shake it off as he continues, “You gotta earn it,”

He’s got a stupid smirk on his face, and you didn’t even realize it but he’s definitely leaning closer to you. It’s sending butterflies– well maybe more like moths– into your stomach. 

“What the– You’re definitely the pervert. I’m just going to ask to call it off,” you fake gag, “Later, loser,” 

“You’ll be back, nerd,”

You internally groan as you hear him shut the door, ignoring the intense heartbeat in your chest.

—

“No,” Mina says.

“What?! I told you it’s impossible,” you argue, all of your friends on the other side of the argument. 

“No it’s not, he said you had to earn it right?” Mina retorts, “So obviously there’s a way, you’re just stubborn,”

“You’re really not asking me to… You guys are crazy. Please, please, I’ll take anyone else, anything else,” 

“Sorry, Y/N, it’s the rules,” Tsuyu looks at you with pity.

“He hates me and I hate him! That’s all there is to it. It’s not going to happen,”

“Why do you guys even hate each other? It’s our third year, get over it already,” Jirou teases. 

“Because he’s a dick and I refuse to let him walk all over me! I just cursed him out one time for calling me weak. He’s the one who holds grudges because of his fragile, little heart,” 

“You should’ve known he’d hold that against you, but I honestly doubt he hates you because of that,” Mina says. “He probably thought you looked hot,” she laughs.

Heat rushes to the tips of your eyes, “Whatever, all of you are weirdos. But anyways-”

“No, Y/N,” Mina states, end of subject.

“You all just want me to kill myself,” you groan as you sink into the couch. “Whatever, but I’m going to force all of you to double your offering if I actually do this shit,”

The girls cheer. You cry inside. Anything for money, you guess.

—

It seems like the universe heard about the predicament you were in, because it felt like you were suddenly around him more often ever since the bet had been set.

“You know, I don’t want to be on patrol with you either,” you grumble, kicking at rocks as the two of you walk up and down the roads of the dorms.

“Glad we agree,”

Silence washes over you both. 

“Why don’t you want to kiss me? Am I ugly or something?” you ask, but it definitely comes off sadder than you intend.

“Don’t get all insecure because you don’t get a stupid kiss,” he looks the opposite direction of yours, “You know damn well you’re not ugly, so don’t piss me off,” 

He had a strange way of saying stuff.

“Aw, you love me, don’t you?” you tease, poking at his arm.

“Ah you dumbass, pay attention,” you snap back into place with a laugh, “‘M just saying you’re better looking than some of these extras,” 

You don’t know what to say in response to his words. Because they were surprisingly very sweet. 

Realizing he had said too much, he changes the subject. “Let’s go this way,”

You follow him with a nod.

There was definitely a certain type of tension lingering that the two of you walked in near silence for the rest of the patrol. 

You definitely were not repeating back his words in your head over and over again for the rest of the patrol. And Katsuki Bakugou was definitely not turning red because of what he said earlier. Definitely not. 

—

After that patrol, things seemed to sort of shift between the two of you. And to say it was scary was an understatement. 

Conversations wouldn’t always start off with the two of you insulting or cursing each other out. There’d be a hey or hello. If you guys saw each other in passing, he’d greet you with a nod of his head. Him being anything but passive aggressive towards you was terrifying because it was so not him. 

“Y/N,” a familiar voice calls out to you, you groan as you put your pencil down.

“I’m studying, what do you want, Katsuki?” 

“Come with me to the movies after school today,” it’s not really a question, more like a command. 

You put your hands to your mouth in fake(?) excitement, “You’re asking me on a date?! So kind, Katsuki,” 

“It’s not a date, idiot. I’m going with Ei and Denki later, they’re bringing Jirou and Mina. They were teasing me for not bringing anyone, so come,”

“If I don’t?” you muse.

“Be there or be square, nerd,” he doesn’t take your bait, but you can tell he’d prefer it if you go. He walks away before you can respond. 

Well, you guess you have plans later.

;;;

You meet up with the lot of them at the allotted time. The group walks together, and you thank God your friends have a questionable taste in men so you wouldn’t be stuck with some randos. But you also have half a mind to curse them out for leaving you to fend for yourself when you all arrive at the theater. 

They left you with no choice but to sit with Bakugou. Part of you really hates it, but not as much as you hate the rate at which your heart beats. 

For the most part, the two of you just sit there in awkwardness. The other couples indulge in that lovey dovey shit, and it makes you feel out of place. You zone out and get into your head. Was there a motive in asking you to come out here? He could’ve invited like… Midoriya… or Ochako… Or anyone, really. But, you? Does he like you? Or were you his last option to invite? Your head hurts from overthinking.

Your hand rests in your lap, picking at the material of your pants. At least that’s what it was doing. Until it happened. 

From the corner of your eye, you watch as Bakugou slid his hand into yours. His fingers finding a comfortable place between your own. You release a deep breath when you realize you were holding your breath. Is he out of his fucking mind?

Despite your efforts to try and justify how much you absolutely hate it. You didn’t even try to stop him. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t let his hand go. And even as the movie ended, you actually felt sad when he slid his hand away. 

The cool air of the night shocked you a bit when all of you made it outside. 

“We were thinking of grabbing a bite, did you guys want to come?” Mina exclaims. 

“Ooh, that sounds good, are you down, Jirou?”

“Sure, and you guys?” they all look at you.

“I- I have a stomach ache… Butter fucks with my stomach really bad,” the excuse is kind of weak, but still holds up as they all nod in understanding. 

“I can walk you to the dorm,” Bakugou offers, and you don’t really give him a yes or no, he just follows you.

Kirishima and Mina whistle and holler as the two of you part ways with the rest of them. 

Part of you regrets making up some stupid lie to go home. Because this was way more awkward than getting free pizza. 

The two of you are right by each other as you walk in silence towards the dorm. You wait. And wait. Wait for him to bring it up. Why did he do that? Why did he grab your hand? Was it all a front?

Why is he treating you so well?

Even as he drops you off at your room, he says nothing. Just a simple “Goodnight,” before he’s making his way to the elevator.

What an asshole.

—

So you take the initiative. The initiative in ignoring him. You weren’t some casual fling. Fuck the bet, fuck him.

When you saw him making his way towards you, you were quick to get up and rush out of the classroom. When he nodded your directions in passing, it was easy to just walk past and not acknowledge him. Whatever there was between you and him, was gone. Whatever “it” was, exactly. 

But you were okay. You guess. You were down $500 or $1000, but whatever. That game was bullshit anyways. You always got the worst bets. You kind of felt bad that you were the end of it, though. 

It was easy to avoid him. That’s what you thought. At least until one week later, you found yourself cornered by your dorm room with nowhere to go.

“What the fuck is up with you?” he’s angry, you’d be stupid if you thought otherwise.

You cross your arms and avoid his intense gaze, “Whatever do you mean?” 

He’s getting closer, and a tiny, like miniscule, part of you finds angry-him hot. “You know what the hell I mean, you’ve been avoiding me,” 

“Nuh uh,” you retort, still avoiding the subject at hand. “I’ve just been busy, sorry,”

“Like hell, Racoon Eyes said you’ve been in your dorm room everyday, so try again, asshat,”

Fucking Mina.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you poke at his chest, “Now get out of my way before I beat your ass,”

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try,” he’s smiling with mockery.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d like to be touched by me, you little virgin,” you inspect your nails in nonchalance, “Too bad, so sad, now move,”

“No, not until you answer me,” he’s a bit more serious now, you can sense it in his tone. 

You groan, “Fine, not until you answer me, though. Why the fuck did you hold my hand and act like it didn’t happen? Am I like a joke to you?”

He straightens up and his eyes widen. He looks to the side, then back at you.

“You’re fuckin’ smart, why don’t you take a guess?”

“You’re not a baby, why don’t you use your words?” 

You got him there.

“Maybe ‘cuz I like you, or something, idiot,”

You laugh. Laugh. Because he really thought you’d believe a stupid joke like that.

“You’re funny, but seriously, why did–”

A kiss. Katsuki Bakugou has always been known for his speed and his wit. But now you see it more than ever. As he steals a kiss from you. It happens faster than you’re able to even realize you’re leaning into it. 

When the two of you part, it’s tense again. You don’t know if you should say something but he takes that choice from you.

“You think that was funny?” he asks.

“Well- no, but–”

“No buts, that’s that,”

“I didn’t even say I like you back! What if I didn’t-”

“Oh, so you do?” you jump up in realization you fumbled your words. “Good to know, princess,”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying. How was I supposed to know you liked me? You’re such an asshole, you know?”

“Really? Because this asshole just got you some cash,” he laughs referring to the bet, “But y’know, I don’t let just anyone call me Katsuki,”

You grit your teeth before throwing a punch at his arm, “Annoying! Annoying, so annoying,” 

Another hearty laugh escapes from his lips as he pulls you into a hug. You didn’t even know Bakugou gave hugs. But you don’t mind it. 

“You’re such a pervert, I bet you’ve been looking forward to that kiss,” he teases.

“Yeah? Well you’re a pervert for even kissing me in the first place,”

—

YOU: pay up bitches

YOU: i’m talking double btw

[164 new notifications]

You were rich and in love. What more could you ask for?

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.