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thebibliomancer · 2 months

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #320: UNDERLYING CURRENTS!

August, 1990

The Crossing Line Part 2 of Six VENGEANCE!

I don't know what Vision did that running him over with an underwater jet-ski is considered vengeance. Maybe it's not vengeance at all. Maybe it's just rude.

Also, Underlying Currents just seems like a less pithy way of saying Undercurrents.

Anyway.

The Crossing Line. Which is not the Crossing.

Last time in the Crossing Line: A Russian terrorist group called Peace Corpse (good wordplay) took over a British nuclear submarine called the Waterwind.

The British government called the US government and asked them to do something. So the US government called the Avengers and asked them to do something.

Since Namor wasn't available, what the Avengers did was contact their back-up underwater expert Stingray and fly off to find the Waterwind.

Which they did do but they found their Russian equivalent superhero group the People's Protectorate also trying to stop Peace Corpse. And instead of working together, the two groups got into a big, dumb superhero fight.

Which happened to be too close to Atlantis and aggroed the people still hanging around after it got double destroyed in Atlantis Attacks.

I like putting the cast up on the splash page. It starts strong because Captain America and Red Guardian, Vision and Vostok are pretty much counterparts.

Sersi and Fantasma don't have much in common besides being The Girl of the team.

And then Quasar ends up paired with Crimson Dynamo and Stingray with Perun which just makes you feel like the story is missing an Iron Man and a Thor.

Maybe a mistake there. Being a guy in a technological suit maybe Stingray should have been opposite Crimson Dynamo and Quasar opposite Perun?

Also, Atlanteans. They don't get a cast list on the splash. If they wanted in on that, they should have filled out the paperwork.

Crimson Dynamo: "Uhm... comrades...?" Quasar: "Now we're comrades, Dynamo? A second ago we were fighting over a stolen submarine!"

But be that as it may, Vision points out that it's in their best interest to team-up to prevent the Atlanteans from damaging the Waterwind. Which Vostok agrees to.

I guess we had the misunderstanding fight and now we can get along.

Crimson Dynamo points out that the Atlanteans might be justified since the two groups were having an exciting comic book fight scene right next to their city. But nobody listens to Crimson Dynamo.

His is the saddest lot.

Orka tries swiping at Vision and instead swipes through Vision because intangibility. But Vision also can't do his intangibility fisting trick because Orka is just too girthy.

He's a big whale man. He's got the whale power of blubber. Yes, even though he looks like a weightlifter.

Vostok uses his power over machinery to wrap Orka up in an Atlantean craft, bending and twisting the vehicle around the big, girthy whale man.

And with Orka held in place... uh, in water... Vision is able to dive intangible through his whole body to get to his heart and do the thing where he partially resolidifies and it hurts so much the person passes out.

That's what I mean when I say Vision fists people, by the way. It's his power move.

Vision: "It would seem, Vostok, that the Avengers and the People's Protectorate function more efficiently as allies than opponents!" Vostok: "Then-let-us-work-together-to-deter-the-Atlanteans--and-apprehend-the-Waterwind."

(I can just tell I'm going to avoid quoting Vostok as much as possible.)

Elsewhere in the fight, Sersi uses her matter transmutation to troll the Atlantean soldiers.

Excellent jape, Sersi.

The battle is going so immediately against the Atlanteans that U-Man decides to sneak attack Sersi. He claims that this is not in his character, to attack in a dishonorable manner.

I don't know this man but a quick glance at his marvel wiki shows that he worked with the Nazis so I dunno, man.

Either way, before he gets the chance, Perun hurls his mighty axe and strikes U-Man's underwater gun before he can fire at Sersi.

But, whoops, this causes the gun to misfire and strike the Waterwind.

The Peace Corpse group that hijacked the sub are startled, to put it mildly.

Most of them want to flee from this comic book nonsense as fast and as far as they can. Whatever their goals (still unelaborated on), fighting superheroes doesn't help them accomplish them.

A man with an intense mustache refuses to flee because he's a soldier dammit! But one of the others points out that they need to berth now due to the damage. They need the sub in well enough repair to threaten the United States for their vague plan.

Captain America and Red Guardian notice the Waterwind take damage and start to flee. And they discuss just letting the submarine flee so its out of the way of any more misaimed attacks.

But also, fighting the Atlanteans is pretty much a stupid distraction that they don't have time for.

Atlantean Soldier 1: "For our lost honor!" Atlantean Soldier 2: "For Atlantis!" Quasar: "For crying out loud!"

Stingray sees the sub amscraying and decides to get back to his plan of sneaking onboard. Remember how he was going to try that?

Well, he's going to try that again. He'd rather face a sub full of armed terrorists than bully some Atlanteans who are just protecting the ruins of their home.

Which... fair enough.

I say he'd rather but he's also not too happy about doing that either.

Stingray: "I should be able to get in through the aft torpedo tube without being detected... of course, once I get in, I have no idea what I'm going to do! I'm an oceanographer, not a super hero! I could've stayed at O.M.I.T. when Cap called... told him I had a hangnail or something... but no... If there's a problem under the ocean waves, they call Namor. If he's too busy to answer -- they call me. And noble, caring, altruistic dunce that I am, I always say yes."

It's fun that the Avengers have a superhero on their consultant list that's not a superhero. Just a normal oceanographer guy who built a suit for underwater exploration that unfortunately looks like a superhero outfit so he's constantly getting drawn into superhero stuff. The fact that he hangs out in Namor's general orbit doesn't help. The man is a drama magnet.

Despite the damage to the sub and specifically the radar, Peace Corpse manages to surface not only near land but near a port town. Somewhere in Newfoundland.

Inside the sub, Stingray finds and frees the captured crew from the room they've been locked in. But a member of Peace Corpse spots him.

Back at Atlantis, the Avengers and the People's Protectorate are still fighting Atlanteans.

Quasar starts to worry. Not about losing but that he might get so exhausted from prolonged fighting that he fails to pull his punches and kills a guy.

Ah, the worries of superheroes before the modern age.

There's just so many Atlanteans, that some are getting to the Quinjet and the PP craft and trying to smash the windshields in.

Quasar swoops in, makes a net to wrangle all the Atlanteans on the Quinjet, and then smashes the net full of guys into the guys on the PP craft. Solving that particular issue.

I'm still not sure why the Avengers and People's Proetectorate haven't withdrawn once the sub was clear. This is the very definition of a derailed plot.

But the two hero groups don't need to ever get around to acting on the realization that they don't even need to be here because the Atlanteans withdraw on their own once Perun knocks out Tyrak, the last named guy on the Atlantean side.

Such a weird writing decision for the heroes to constantly go 'wow this is a pointless fight' and then keep fighting until the other side fucks off.

The two teams return to their respective vessels (just in time for the ones who like to breathe air) and decide what to do next.

FOR SOME REASON, despite the constant refrain of how pointless it is to fight the Atlanetans, who are just protecting their ruined home, its a serious consideration whether to pursue the Atlanteans all the way to the ruins and keep kicking their asses.

I have no idea why.

Captain America even says he hates to let the Atlanteans escape but dealing with the Waterwind is more important.

IT IS but why do you hate to let the Atlanteans escape? What is your end goal there? You've already kicked their asses. Have they done anything (recently) that gives you cause to... arrest them? The writing around this plot point is so weird.

Anyway, both groups agree to pursue the Waterwind.

Stingray calls in and reports that he's on the Waterwind and where the Waterwind has surfaced. And since there are berthing and repair facilities, Stingray even narrows the possible location down to the bays of Trinity, Placentia, or Conception.

Not bad for a guy who can't even look out a window.

But the call suddenly cuts off, leading Captain America to fear that Stingray was attacked.

The Avengers and People's Protectorate agree to work together to stop the sub, especially since it is now surfaced near a populated area and has an operational nuclear arsenal.

Captain America: "Let's do it then -- together -- efficiently -- but cautiously!"

And then the narration reveals that the Waterwind is surfaced in Conception Bay in St. John's Newfoundland and that "after today, it will be known as the site of the world's worst nuclear detonation" so my condolences to Conception Bay.

Sucks that you are going to get destroyed in a fill-in arc.

Off-panel, the Peace Corpse member with the fabulous mustache, Strokov, has captured Stingray and recaptured the rest of the hostages. But he let Stingray make his call to the Avengers to force leader Illyich Prokvitch's hand.

According to Strokov, now Prokvitch has no choice but to execute the vague plan.

The Avengers and the People's Protectorate arrive but they can't move right away because of all the hostages.

Captain America tries to see if Sersi can be the Win Button but like I've said, with powers as plot breaking as hers, they can never make things too easy.

He wants her to turn all the terrorists into flies but she says she's too far from them to do it. And she doesn't know enough about how nuclear submarines work to transmute it either.

Oh, so I guess she needs to know a thing before she can transmute a thing. Very Full Metal Alchemist of her and also a logical limit on her powers.

Well written, Fabian Nicieza.

Mr. Illyich Prokvitch, leader of the Peace Corpse, gets on the bullhorn and loudly announces he demands access to St. John's maritime facilities.

Captain America says hell no, release the hostages instead.

Prokvitch says he'll start executing the hostages - starting with poor, sweet Stingray - one every five minutes until his demands are met.

So the heroes take a huddle.

Cold, calculating Vostok points out that the Waterwind can't launch its nuclear arsenal while surfaced. And if they kill all their hostages, then there's nothing to stop the heroes from punching them in the faces in abooooout five hours.

Captain America does not like the suggestion that they just let over a hundred people be murdered.

But Vision offers his own computer-brained opinion that because the hostages are so necessary to keep the heroes from punching Peace Corpse in their faces, logic dictates that Peace Corpse will hesitate to harm their hostages.

Cap decides this does seem logical, thanks computer-brained Vision, and yells at Peace Corpse that he's not going to accept their terms as given. Y'know, leaving the door open for some haggling. Some negotiation. A little diplomacy.

Instead, Prokvitch shoots Stingray in the head.

You might not have a future career as a hostage negotiator, Cap.

(I'm pretty sure Stingray is alive because I've seen him alive in later comics and also there's no blood and also he's wearing a helmet. I'm sure his ears are ringing, though.)

Quasar tries to rush in at seeing Stingray shot, held back by Cap.

Red Guardian argues that at this point they should just call it acceptable casualties and just rush over and punch Peace Corpse.

But suddenly A NEW CHALLENGER!

Guardian: "No citizens and no property will be placed in jeopardy without our say so. In case you've forgotten, you're on Canadian soil, which means jurisdiction of this little mess passes on to -- ALPHA FLIGHT"

So now we have a third superhero team in the mix.

I love it. How many more people can we get involved? A lot, I'd bet. This is a six part story.

Hopefully, someone on Alpha Flight is a better hostage negotiator than Captain America.

To sum up the issue: there's more of the issue to go. Remember that backup story thing? Where Jarvis tormented Jarvis? We're due more of that. Well, more of something like that.

CHANGING of the GUARD

Instead of Jarvis, Michael O'Brien. The Avengers chief of security. And, for some reason, chief of table acquisition.

The original table, which was probably always consistently portrayed don't even bother looking into it, was destroyed when Hydrobase sank.

So O'Brien just spent fifty thousand dollars on a new one. And instead of getting a dolly or an anti-gravity dolly (because this IS a comic book universe), he's getting two dudes to carry it by hand.

Maybe stick to security, O'Brien.

He has the table brought to the room which will become the Avengers' inner sanctum, where only Avengers will be allowed. Like a very exclusive club but instead of drinks and cigars, there will be discussions on the crisis of the month.

After sending the two table carrying guys away, O'Brien spots the flash of a light down a corridor where nobody is supposed to be.

Obviously, he goes to investigate by himself.

Where he is accosted by his dead brother, Kevin, in a set of the Guardsman armor.

There's history here which I don't know very well because I haven't read a lot of olde Iron Man comics. But apparently, Kevin got jealous of Tony's money and girlfriend. So he used the Guardsman armor Tony built him, teamed up with a dude who was trying to steal Tony Stark's stock, and attacked a protest at a Stark Industries plant.

Just going off marvel wiki here.

Tony was forced to fight him as Iron Man and accidentally blew Kevin the fuck up.

His death inspired Michael to put on the Guardsman armor and attack Iron Man but after some plot happenings, Tony was able to convince Michael that his dead brother was nuts.

Which Kevin is not thrilled to hear now.

How dare Michael believe Tony over his own kin? That and not using his brogue probably makes him a traitor to his Irish heritage!

Michael thinks that this Kevin is probably an imposter and tries to unmask him. Only to get flipped.

So he runs off to get a gun.

He finds one of the emergency guns that the Avengers Sub-Basement just has and threatens to shoot Kevin in the head.

Kevin calls his bluff and tells him to do it. What's it matter to a ghost? Turn your back on family, dick.

And Michael can't go through with it.

Michael: "I... can't, Kevin. I did -- do -- love you, no matter what you did. Do with me as you will."

So Kevin blows Michael the hell up.

Geez. Being confronted with his demons ended a lot worse for him than it did for Jarvis.

Is this part of getting rid of everything new Stern wanted to implement before he got fired? Hydrobase got sunk so are the Avengers Support Crew all going to be killed off?

Grim if true. John Jameson is one of the support peeps and he's a tertiary Spider-Man supporting cast member.

I guess I'll see next time. But we pop back over to Avengers West Coast first. There's a dumb Immortus plot to wrap up.

Follow @essential-avengers. Like and reblog. Have a good day.

#essential avengers #avengers #People's Protectorate #Alpha Flight #Peace Corpse #Captain America #the Vision #Sersi #Stingray #Quasar #Vostok #Red Guardian #Crimson Dynamo #Perun #Fantasma #Atlanteans #Guardsman #Avengers Support Crew #major problem with having so many people in the story is having so many people to tag

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dahvampire · 8 months

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I'll start this thing with the premise that I've only seen BNHA's anime, so I'm at the end of the events of season 6 and I don't know anything else from the manga. So, that's also a spoiler alert for anyone who isn't at my same point.

God I really, really despise Enji Todoroki.

Endeavor is a great hero, don't get me wrong: always on point, efficient with criminals, saves people and yada yada yada. Public interactions aren't his forte but anyone has his weaknesses, so it's fine.

But boy, boy if he's shitty. A shitty father, a shitty husband, a shitty person in general.

How can you beat your six year old son to the point of making him sick just because you're salty you're not at the same level of someone else? How can you try to erase your first son's suicide attempt that he did because you first indoctrinated him about being the n°1 hero since he was four and then discarded him at eleven because he couldn't keep up with your expectations? Enji told Touya his life was defined only by being a hero, and then he snutched the dream he put in his son's head from him when he was still a child. No wonders Touya didn't exactly take it well, his father just said he's actually worthless because of something Touya can't even control - the affinity that his body has for cold temperature.

And okay, maybe Enji wanted to keep him safe avoiding him to train, but the adult approached the situation wrongly from the start, since Touya's birth, for fuck's sake.

When Touya became useless, Enji focused his fixation on Shouto, feeding sibling rivalry to Touya and making him easily jealous of him because his younger brother became their father's focus of attention - and love, in his mind - .

Let's put the kids beside for a second.

Enji married Rei for her quirk, that's common knowledge, he even admitted it. After he finished using her for his convenience and after probably treating her just like he treated Shouto and Touya, he pushed her 'til the breaking point and then accused her of being unstable while the only reason for her unstableness has always been his presence in her life. We had a snippet of Rei before she married Enji, and she was a perfectly fine woman. Maybe reserved, but fine.

Then, Enji happened. She lost her rights on her body, the man married her just to breed a valuable heir after all. She lost her rights as a mother, because I think Enji hasn't ever allowed her to interfere with Touya and Shouto's education and lives in general, just think about how Touya treated her when she found out he was still training in secret. She lost her connections with the world, too, I guess, because I don't think she would be free to go and come at her will, considering how Enji thinks about his family members as his properties.

Then, she slowly started to lose her mind to the point of disfiguring her own child because his eye reminded her too much of the man she was forced to live with even though she clearly dreaded him, and she lost it. She crumbled under the pressure of what Enji did to her and to her children - that I guess she never actively tried to protect, maybe to save herself from the man's wrath, maybe because scared of aggravating things - and Enji took her out of the picture without even try to comprehend why she did what she did.

I'm not saying that she isn't guilty about the whole situation, I'm saying I can see her redemption arc. I can understand it. Now she's free of the shackles that held her down the whole time she was with Enji, and she wants to try and do something to make amends. I can see it, I can understand it.

What I cannot understand is the thing they're trying to do with Enji's redemption arc.

Like, are you kidding me?

He's an abuser, a manipulative man who hides himself behind a façade of ideals and stoicism, a person who looked his own kid in the eye at the age of eleven and told him he was not enough for his father and should get lost with his other two siblings, casted aside since birth because they too didn't meet his expectations.

Fuyumi is still hanging by the threads of hope that someday they will be an happy and functional family, but those threads started strangling her a long time ago, and I think she didn't even realized it yet.

And Touya.

God, Touya. He attempted suicide by the age of fourteen, being it consciously or not. Maybe he actually did it on purpose, maybe his emotions took the upper hand on him, but his mind couldn't accept the fact that his father's love was so conditional. Touya tried his best to satisfy the man, and Enji never acknowledged him beside to berate him for training without his permission. And Touya still tried, tried, tried to be seen by the man that put himself at the center of his child's universe since Touya was young enough to comprehend what heroes were.

No wonders Touya broke that night on Sekoto Peak, no wonder he died.

No wonder Dabi was born.

He's the incarnation of Touya's resentment after all, of the hate he feels towards Enji, towards the society that idolatries the hero without looking at the man, without understand that the monsters people fear aren't always the criminals and the villains on the streets, but hide themselves in plain sight, under a spotlight.

Touya was fourteen, he had all his life in front of him, and he still chose to trust the man he called father to care for him even without the incentive of his quirk, and his trust, his prayers fell on deaf ears.

I don't know yet what happened after Sekoto Peak, I guess what remained of Touya was find by someone - maybe Shigaraki's doctor himself -, put back together and brought back from the dead. And Touya didn't know what to do with the time that someone else borrowed him, so he set himself on the path of revenge to find some sort of justice for himself.

I'm not saying that Dabi's modus operandi is right. He's a murderer and his ways are almost always extreme, and his mind clearly isn't in the right place, but I can still understand him, his motives.

An hypothetical reception arc.

Before everything else he's a victim, after all, just like Rei.

Dabi wants to avenge what's remaining of Touya, of his inner child, and the only way he finds fitting is to take Enji's life to compensate the life Enji took from him.

Enji, on the other hand, doesn't deserve it.

He has seen that his ways were wrong only when everything came crushing down on him, and he cried on his hospital bed about being a terrible person after all the years he spent without questioning even one single time his actions.

How many times he made Touya cry? And Shouto? And Rei, Natsuo, Fuyumi? And his own fans, for God's sake? How many people he deluded without realising it, without even thinking it was an actual chance of him doing wrong?

Nope. Sorry, nope, I'm not fine with that. I don't think he deserves the pardon of all the victims of his actions, or surely he doesn't deserve to be forgiven so fast.

I don't approve the death of characters only because I don't like them, I know that's not how it works and it's simply stupid wanting someone dead just because, but fuck if i want him dead. Like, actually dead. Maybe it's because what he represents hit a little too close to home, maybe it's because I can't see a possible way to actually redeem him without stomping again on everyone he hurt, maybe I just can't stand him, I don't know.

I don't even know if I actually want Dabi to be still alive, at this point. I really like him, his character, his dramatics, but he's a dead man walking, literally. Maybe death would put an end to his suffering, maybe confronting Enji would be so cathartic to actually help him to recover the parts of his mind that he lost in the flames, in the walls of the house he grew up in, among the discouragements and the conditioned love he almost drown into.

The only thing I know is that I really hope Dabi lives long enough to see Enji's ashes scattering to the ground, being them the ashes of Endeavor's legacy or the ashes of his own body, cremated by Dabi himself.

#boku no hero acedamia #my hero academia #dabi #endeavor #anime #character analysis #bnha

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fractualized · 5 months

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I totally see where you're coming from with how you like your mix of comedy and seriousness and I think I'm really similar! I can definitely tolerate a lot of cheese but I'll almost always consider it a one off situation. I recently rewatched Batman and Robin while my wife was making a cast of my body so we could make cosplay and it was just so funny and silly that like it reminded me of what one of those really campy comics would look like in real life and I respected the fact that they could commit to it that way and make an artful movie that brought that to life but there were a few elements that didn't make sense to me like Barbara being Alfred's niece that I was just like whatever man and I knew I couldn't like... use it as a foundation for my basis of characterization, like I can with other media! I really love the animated series too, I grew up with it being my first experience with Batman and I always really respected it as a medium that I could trust to be satisfying and whole. I also really really liked Batman beyond because it felt like the closest continuation of that story even though I know it's really not canon and it kind of doesn't work, I like to view it as like a semi-official what if fan fiction from the original writers lol

I completely get what you mean about the comics, cuz I kind of view official comics like fanfictions even in their own right? I mean when you think back on like Bill finger and Bob Kane like eventually every other writer is going to be writing fanfiction of their characters but it's really fun to go through all the different Batman media and see whose stories you kind of like more and then whose stories you kind of tend to avoid

and when I mentioned I knew you liked comics, I was also speaking more from the perspective that you seem to have more knowledge about them Rather than I thought you had a preference for them, because you put together that comic PDF with batjokes moments and I was really impressed with that ☺️

i love your telltale fics and the games as a beautiful breath of fresh air into the life of batman so sometimes I like to imagine the animated series would be a great way to say where is juce 10 years later, if those universes were more cohesive setting wise lmao

Yeah, Barbara randomly being Alfred's niece is definitely one of the aspects of B&R that just… I guess it breaks up the campiness? That and Ivy being in love with Freeze for no discernable reason. And teaming up with him even though he'll kill her plants. And poor Bane! And then that weird bit at the end where Freeze is sort of forgiven but Ivy can't be? And Alfred almost dies. Should taken all that stuff out and added more camp.

I really enjoyed Batman Beyond too! I didn't even realize a lot of people didn't like it until recently. Honestly it's one of those things where I don't look into the reasons too much. lol I liked it and I'm fine with having liked it, no notes!! (OK I sorta lied. That bit in JLU where they made Bruce Terry's bio dad, that was bizarre.)

I am definitely in the "anything not created by Bill Finger and Bob Kane might as well be fanfic" camp. Like, sure, if DC puts resources behind a project, it has a better chance at being worth your time, but when I get down to it, I can't put a lot of weight behind the idea that someone's official derivative story is more valid than another someone's derivative AO3 post just because there was a cash exchange with a company that owns the original "asset." People who want to lean into that idea, that's their business.

The wild thing about the batjokes spreadsheet is I know that it's only a fraction of what's out there. I have read hundreds of comics at this point and I still feel like it's not enough to totally have a handle on things. Especially knowing how little I've retained. 😅 But that's another reason for the spreadsheet!

Thank you for enjoying my fics! And for implanting the idea in my head of a Telltale universe animated series… Just hijinks and maybe a little more murder with John and Bruce, bestest buddies.

#ask #my jibber-jabber

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daincrediblegg · 1 year

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You asked for it babe! WORST JARED HARRIS CHARACTERS PLEASE

ASK AND I SHALL ANSWER (tho I’m sorry no gifs for this one bc like… these roles are so bad nobody has bothered to gif them which is very funny to me). And I should clarify- these are not him *acting* poorly- but rather roles that fill me with rage for one reason or another (usually that he isn’t in it MORE honestly). Like these are just roles that fucking VEX me terribly bc I know (we ALL know) he’s a good actor. And yet… and yet…

5. Septimus - Pompeii

He gets some slack on this list because like listen. Pompeii is a fucking terrible movie on every goddamn level. But Jared, king that he is, still put his whole pussy into the one trait his character has: which is loving his wife. And that kinda redeemed having to watch the rest of it just a little, but just barely (also should note I saw this IN THEATERS. I PAYED MONEY FOR IT. You’re welcome Jared).

4.Captain Anderson - To The Ends Of The Earth

Look. If Jared Harris is a sea captain in something, I will watch it. The pretty red hair and beaming smile will get me through anything. Was it worth it to suffer through bennedict cumberbatch for like 3 hours tho?? … jury’s still out but as my parents taught me (who are both lawyers) the longer they’re out the more likely it’s a guilty verdict. Benebum cuminmyass is really not worth watching I’m so sorry. But I did get my beautiful man whore in tight 19th century pants and making fun of him the whole time so thats a plus. He’s too pretty to be mad at for long.

3. Sanders - The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

You know. I really don’t know what I expected. It’s a Guy Ritchie joint. He will avoid casting JH in a prominent role like the Plague. I sat down to watch this hopeful that he had changed, but alas. My mans has maybe 5 minutes of screentime tops. And my family has made me watch it 2 more times since my initial viewing. Every time I suffer. Because he’s just Not. Fucking. THERE. Guy Ritchie give my man a decent fucking role for ONCE challenge. I’ll be waiting with a sledgehammer in the corner of your room while you sleep until you do.

2. Captain Mike - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Look. I love him in this. I really do. He’s such a slut. Such a beautiful whore. Cherry, what you have done with him in fic is better than what anyone could have ever done with him. Also with the exception of perhaps the most recent tarantino films I fucking hate brad pitt generally. There needed to be more of my man. Justice for better writing and better side characters. Yes? Yes. (Also how is this a David Fincher joint? How? You’re better than this dude).

1. Andy Warhol - I shot Andy Warhol

I have literally never even seen this one. But I literally don’t have to to know its terrible. Just google up JH in that and you will understand. They massacred my boy. He deserves better.

#all of these are difinitive proof that star power acting ain’t shit #no small roles only small actors. and Jared is certainly not. thank you and good night #ask games #jared harris

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

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ruined, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Why is there a mostly shirtless man in your bedroom and why is it Kim Namjoon's, your roommate's, fault? All you want to do is play League of Legends, not be visually attacked by ridiculously attractive Jeon Jungkook as his six friends perform living room karaoke at the top of their very drunk lungs.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; classic Namjoon ripping clothes; you don't have to know how to play LoL, I explain most of it; smut (fem reader, dirty talk, begging, scratching / marking, nipple play, edging / orgasm denial, handjob, (unintentional?) voyeurism, little bit of cum-eating, choking, cowgirl, cock warming); non-idol!BTS – purple-haired, kind-of-a-brat, sub!Jungkook x gamer, noona, dom!reader, ft OT6 being chaotic in the background XD

@yn-the-reader linked me in this and I was already writing about him. a prophet, maybe? XD

“WHY ARE YOU SHIRTLESS?”

You died.

Not literally, but also literally.

“Fuck!”

Now you had thirty-seven seconds of gray screen to figure out why the fuck Jeon Jungkook had busted into your bedroom on this cheerful night with his black dress shirt three-quarters of the way unbuttoned, revealing most of his – oh, sweet Satan, very muscular – pecs and the upper half of his abs. He was holding something in his hands, looking helpless and sad, while you were panic buying Liandry's Anguish and experiencing a special form of anguish yourself.

“Noona, um–”

That’s right, because you were in the middle of a League of Legends game, playing Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace, also known as half-snake lady or the lamia of the champion roster or a mean version of Monster Musume’s Miia (if you know, you know, and if you don’t, be glad you don’t). Your roommate was having friends over after going drinking. All this was fine and dandy with you, because you were going to spend all night wearing headphones and playing League of Legends, therefore ignoring the outside world, until the outside world came to bother you in the form of Kim Namjoon’s – your roommate’s – mostly shirtless friend Jeon Jungkook.

He wasn’t mostly shirtless most of the time, only right now.

“Noona, Namjoon-hyung ripped my shirt…” Jungkook whimpered hesitantly, chewing on his lip. He looked awkward and distraught despite his long dark purple hair giving him a rather fierce, bad-boy look.

Namjoon was a great roommate. He was smart, conversational, and insightful. A chat with him usually led to an enriching, open-minded perspective. He was relatively clean, considerate, communicative, nonjudgmental, fun to be around, and only set the kitchen on fire twice.

The second time was your fault.

You shouldn’t have let Namjoon in the kitchen the second time.

Also, Namjoon with his friends was a wildly chaotic time. All of his friends, especially drunk, were fucking nuts. Normally, they were probably relatively calm people (maybe not Kim Seokjin or Jung Hoseok, they were very excitable), but together they were a mess. You often wondered how they could function as a group.

Currently, however, you were trying to collect your brain cells as you had mere seconds before respawning onto the platform and were forced to play again. Timing in League of Legends was very important. Seconds can mess up wave management of minions and wave mismanagement can lead to game losses if you weren’t careful. The nuances of the game were often ignored by casual players.

You were, in short, a nerd about it.

“Fucking s-shit, what h-happened?” you sputtered out, turning back to your screen, unable to look at mostly shirtless Jungkook because he was MOSTLY SHIRTLESS. Honestly, he had quite nice pecs, and you should not be thinking about that, but it was incredibly distracting, just like how it used to be distracting when Namjoon was shirtless, but several years of living with him made you accustomed to his impressive pectoral muscles, to the point where you could joke about them with him.

But this was not Namjoon – this was his younger friend Jungkook and you had no idea Jungkook was ripped, mostly because you didn’t pay attention to Namjoon’s friends.

There were too many of them and you were too introverted for that.

“I don’t know, he just grabbed my shirt and it ripped and I managed to find all the buttons, but, but…”

Cassiopeia respawned on the platform and you couldn’t ignore the snake lady any longer. You had to play the game because four random people on your team were counting on you and you couldn’t exactly type, sorry, there’s a hot man in my room with his shirt practically off and I don’t know what to do with my life, so you had to suck it up and play the damn game.

Right-clicking and keeping your eyes only on your computer monitor.

Half-listening to that trembling, silvery voice coming up behind you, making your hairs stand on end even though all he was doing was dumping the tiny buttons on your desk.

Oh, fuck me, you thought to yourself.

“Can you repair it? Please? My mom bought me this shirt and Namjoon-hyung said you can sew, so maybe you can sew them back on? Please?”

“Yes, Jungkook, I can, just not right now, I’m in the middle of a game,” you rambled, suddenly trading damage with the enemy Viktor, trying to avoid the laser from the Machine Herald, swearing under your breath as you stutter-stepped and stunned him, poisoning him quickly enough with your abilities to avoid dying. “I will help you, I just – fucking shit, get the fuck away from me Udyr, fuck!”

“Wow, you curse a lot, noona. It’s kind of funny.”

“I – fuck– I mean, sometimes, and what are you guys doing out there? It sounds like a deranged cabaret club,” you remarked, ticking your head towards the direction of your bedroom door.

“Karaoke!” Jungkook replied brightly, still standing behind you, why was he standing behind you, it was freaking you out a little, but Ocean Dragon was being taken and a team fight was about to happen, so you had to ignore it and support your teammates in chasing down the enemy support.

Seokjin hit a high note that was so shrill that you heard it through your headphones.

“… Wow, he’s got some lungs on him.”

“Do you wanna join us, noona?”

“I can’t sing.”

“Neither can we.”

“Pretty sure all of you can sing better than I can, even Yoongi and Namjoon. I’m fucking terrible.”

“I’m not that good.”

You barely survived with thirty hit points after that debacle of a team fight, but your team had the dragon and you all were slowly on your way to victory. You pressed the ‘B’ key to return to base, but kept your eyes on the screen, lest Udyr, the Spirit Walker and serial bear stun-slapping enemy jungler, ran your ass down and killed you.

“Jungkook, your voice is absolutely heavenly. Fucking beautiful. I’m sure every human being on Earth would want to be serenaded by you.”

Silence that you didn’t notice was awkward for him because you were too busy letting out a sigh of relief and building your next item, typing quickly to your teammates. You all were about to set up for vision around Baron Nashor, a large purple worm-dragon monster that when killed provided a significant, sometimes game-ending buff.

“R… really?”

“Yeah, and you’re handsome, gorgeous, and hot as hell too, so the whole damn package,” you responded absentmindedly, realizing the enemy were trying to split-push and trade objectives so you sent some pings to your teammate to take care of that as you accompanied the main group to help clear waves of minions.

Heat.

You heard him shift beside you and suddenly his face was next to yours, watching your screen closely.

Side-step, cast your ultimate, cast your Miasma ability to ground the enemies and prevent them from dashing away, switching between auto-attacking and piercing them with Twin Fang, all in the span of a mild freak-out because why was Jungkook so FUCKING close?

“Wow, you’re so good at League.”

“I’m Diamond rank, so not that good, but definitely better than all seven of you combined.”

“Haha, true, we’re all pretty bad,” Jungkook laughed next to your ear and, oh, shit, is warm breath feathered on your neck, why weren’t you wearing a turtleneck or something and not your self-cropped oversized band t-shirt and slinky black leggings, why weren’t you cocooned in layers of clothes, because you were quickly highly aware of how attractive Namjoon’s friends were.

To top it all off, you were in the middle of a game, so you just had to tolerate it and stay calm for the sake of your teammates and your elo.

“Maybe you could teach us and we’ll teach you something in return.”

“You guys don’t even listen to each other, why would I assume you all would listen to me?”

“I’d listen to you, noona.”

Now your team was doing the Baron dance, skirting in and out of vision, daring the other team to make a move, daring each other to make a mistake so the other could capitalize on it, slowly, slowly, watch the waves, watch the minimap. Careful. You could control the situation if you were calm and not too trigger-happy. Tension in your fingers and tension in your neck because your roommate’s friend was right next to your head, observing your every move.

His violet hair brushed your shoulder.

Soft, delicate strands against your skin.

“You’re more experienced, so you would know what to do.”

Your support snap-engaged a fight and you were immediately in the zone, right clicking rapidly, cycling through your abilities, keeping track of the opponents’ spells, determined not to let any of them get away, following your teammate’s calls and not hesitating, because hesitation as death and loss, and you were so close to winning you could taste it, going after it with passionate vigor and a slow-forming grin, seeing and hearing the in-game announcer declaring, QUADRA KILL.

You didn’t kill all five of them because someone took the pentakill from you.

You might have cared about that except your ear exploded into clapping as Jungkook excitedly applauded for you, cheering you on, reminding you that a mostly shirtless man was standing right next to you.

Thanks, Namjoon, you thought sarcastically.

“Wow, you played that so well, dodging the Viktor ult and stunning three people like that–”

You felt your cheeks heat at the compliments, busying yourself with your team killing Baron. You didn’t usually have someone commenting on your games. Your eyes flickered to the small buttons on your desk.

Especially not a mostly shirtless guy.

Mostly shirtless hot guy.

Back to screen, seeing your jungler’s typed instructions, suggesting you all to destroy as many structures as you could and then prepare for the next fight for Ocean Dragon Soul and – oh? Your eyebrows raised as the screen abruptly jerked to the enemy base, the nexus inside exploding into shiny gem-like fragments that became the VICTORY banner.

“They surrendered?” you uttered with surprise, clicking on the CONTINUE button. “Why?”

Your eyes flickered to the kill score.

“Oh, thirty-two to nine… maybe that’s why….”

Your team had the nine deaths and the opponent team had thirty-two so, well, maybe that’s why they surrendered the game.

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Jungkook pouted as you clicked on the damage screen. Second most damage. Okay, you could take that. You were a little distracted.

“So, about your problem–”

You spun around to, ack, realize that, yes, Jungkook’s shirt was still flapped wide open to expose his chest like an unwrapped piece of caramel candy. He seemed to realize it too, making a surprised face and yanking the sides closed, as if you hadn’t gotten a damn eyeful already.

“I can resew the buttons back on, but you should borrow a shirt from Namjoon in the meantime,” you managed to say, clearing your throat. “Because I, ah, can’t really sew it when you’re still wearing the shirt.”

“Oh… Oh, right, yeah.”

Then he started yanking his shirt out of his slacks.

UMMMMMMM.

Usually, you didn’t care about this stuff. Men were men. They had chests. But you had things you liked too. Just like how men like tits and ass, you liked well-built pecs and forearms. Actually, you appreciated a nice ass and thighs too. And cute faces. Fuck, you loved a cute face.

“Uh, Jungkook…”

He looked up, questioningly. Big round brown eyes, his violet bangs framing his chiseled jaw, parted pink lips, the small mole underneath his lower lip looking so, so kissable, quivering slightly.

Fuck, Jungkook had a cute face.

His shirt was very open.

Fuck, his lightly tanned skin.

He was hesitating around a button, his deft fingers flexed, ink black tattoos standing out on his knuckles and the back of his hand. Your legs were slightly spread, thighs flush to your gaming chair. Half a second and Jungkook’s eyes flickered back up to your face, pretending he hadn’t been looking.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Are you really just gonna strip in my room and walk out asking Namjoon for a shirt and hope none of the six guys think anything about it?”

His eyes shifted around your room. Bed with black sheets and black velvet duvet. Television with your gaming consoles. Your collection of character figurines from various games. Your black denim jacket hanging on a hook, covered in monotone patches that you had sewn yourself, mostly occult-themed, skeletons, skulls, cats, ghosts, potions, eyeballs, that kind of thing. Back to your desk.

Your legs.

Really staring at your thighs, hips, and crotch.

Up your torso, your hands, your exposed collarbones.

Your face.

Guarding his expression, testing the waters.

“Maybe,” Jungkook said slowly. His eyes darted away and back, teeth catching his lower lip. “I really am hoping you can fix my shirt.”

You watched his face carefully, the flare of darkness in those brown orbs, a hint of naughtiness, dancing with danger. Jungkook had a mischievous streak. You could tell by the way he interacted with his hyungs, listening but talking back, helping them with things but not without a roll of his eyes or a smart remark added, probably because all his friends were older and he was the youngest. He knew he could get away with it.

In short.

Brat.

“What would you like in return, noona?” Jungkook purred, smile dancing on his lips.

Honorifics were supposed to honor you. Show a sign of respect and all that shit.

All I wanted to do was play video games, you grumbled internally. Not suddenly have a thirst fest for one of Namjoon’s best friends. You narrowed your eyes a little, seeing the smirk on that perfectly shaped mouth. He’s not stopping either.

Outside your room, something fell with a loud crash. Probably Namjoon by the depth of that startled yelp. Everyone else started laughing and a very loud, cheerful melody was blasting from the living room television. Nobody was coming to investigate you and Jungkook.

Yet.

“Turn around and ask for a shirt,” you sighed, waving a hand. “Then take off your shirt in the bathroom and then, only then, do you come back and give me your dress shirt.”

You saw Jungkook frown, not expecting that as your answer.

“Oh. Okay.”

He seemed disappointed, lowering his hands.

The silky fabric of the dress shirt slid off his right shoulder, partly revealing his tattoo sleeve and fully revealing his right collarbone and shoulder.

You sucked in a breath, eyes flickering to it. Then his face. Then back to his body. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Jungkook jumped, startled by the fallen fabric and reached over to grab the fallen collar. Your hand moved faster than you had time to think. You had good reaction time. It was the gaming obsession.

You slapped his hand down.

Jungkook squeaked, head snapping up, purple hair floating around him, gold chain on his neck glittering as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Strangely, his chain resembled your sterling silver choker that you were wearing right now, except you also wore another necklace with a circular white gold pendant with your zodiac sign.

Not that anyone was ever close enough to inspect it.

“N-Noona?” he breathed, sounding strangely winded.

Shit.

You hadn’t meant to do that. Your body reacted faster than your head.

Shit.

Fuck, he had a nice body. His pecs. Even had a nice dark nipple – well, he probably had two, but you could only see one at the moment – and it all trimmed down to a slim waist and shapely hips. You could tell because of his tailored black slacks. He had been wearing a blazer earlier in the evening too. It was probably on a chair somewhere in the apartment.

Shit.

What did Jungkook need to look so damn good for?

“Where did you guys go to be dressed like that?”

Yes, you were really just going to interrogate him with his shirt dangling off like that.

Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, the tiny mole underneath bouncing up and down as he spoke. “We went to a fancy hotel rooftop bar to celebrate Yoongi-hyung’s award that he won at the music show for producing that song–”

“Ah, right, Namjoon mentioned that earlier today.” Dress code must have been black tie.

Those dark brown eyes found yours, observing you carefully.

“I would have liked to see you there, noona.”

You stopped staring at the tattoos on his bicep and made eye contact. Fuck. Those eyes. Sparkling with deviousness. Trying to see how far he could push your buttons.

“I wonder what kind of dress would you have worn?” he murmured, musing to himself. “I bet you would have looked hotter than any girl there.” Jungkook smiled, playful and boyish. He wasn’t being sleazy about it. Every word was light and honest. “A tight little black dress? Maybe bright red? Short, because you have incredible legs. It would be a crime not to show them off.” He was only complimenting you. His tone wasn’t trying to be suggestive.

Yet.

You didn’t close your legs. You had nothing to be shy about.

Instead, you leaned back in your gaming chair as if it was a throne, resting your left elbow on the armrest and your chin on two fingers, thighs wide open, and your other hand in between them, fingers curled inward to your inner thigh.

Jungkook’s pink lips curved ever higher, ever more roguish.

“Whatever you would have chosen, you would have looked so, so sexy.”

You ticked your head.

“I know.”

Because you did.

Look here, Jeon Jungkook, I’m here minding my own damn business and you’re here inserting yourself into my life, so if you can’t handle me knowing my self-worth, you can fuck right off.

He reached up and tucked a bit of his purple hair behind his right ear, grinning at you.

“You sure you don’t want anything from me?” he asked, a slight flicker of pink tongue between white teeth. “I can give first and then you can decide whether or not you want to help.”

Honestly, those sultry eyes could stop a heart.

You removed your hand from your chin, tapping the air with those two fingers in a dismissive manner.

“Hm.”

Outside, Kim Taehyung and Jung Hoseok were singing a soulful duet and Park Jimin was hooting at inappropriate moments to ruin the atmosphere as much as possible. That raspy, breathless laugh was Min Yoongi, who was probably doubled over on the floor in his expensive suit. Classic genius music producer of the year behavior right there.

Jungkook tucked his hands in his pockets, shirt sleeve falling down, revealing his blacked-out inner elbow. Mountains with a dark sky. It must have hurt, doing something like that. Still, he did it. For aesthetics?

You heard the smirk rather than seeing it, mostly because you were looking at his body.

“I would look so damn good on you, noona.”

Alright.

You closed your eyes slowly and reopened them to look directly into those dangerous, dangerous eyes.

“Lock the door.”

Not really an order. More of a statement. Jungkook could do it or not, you knew. He couldn’t be coerced to do anything. He did things because he wanted to do them. He was nice because he wanted to be nice. He was childish when he wanted to be childish.

And.

Jungkook was obedient when he wanted to be obedient.

He turned around, went to your bedroom door, and locked it.

Well then.

He came back and stood in front of you. A little closer now.

You cocked an eyebrow. “They’re going to come looking for you.”

Jungkook smiled down at you. “I’m sure they will.”

You frowned, lowering your hand to tap the end of the armrest. “They’re going to think I started this.”

“You kind of did.”

Your eyes narrowed sharply. He grinned, taking a step closer.

“Because it’s not my fault you look so good,” Jungkook breathed, voice deepening, leaning down, your expression unchanging, not pulling back but not encouraging anything either. “Not my fault your body is hotter than a summer. Not my fault your confidence is the biggest turn-on I’ve ever had in my life.”

Your thighs were still as open as his shirt.

Jungkook put his knee in between them.

His dress shirt was basically almost completely off his body now, falling off the left shoulder too and dangling off his forearms, exposed collarbones and shoulders, tan skin taut over muscle. A delicious body line, so fucking close to you that you could feel the heat. You still didn’t do anything. You weren’t going to do anything. You didn’t prompt this. You were simply minding your own business commanding a snake lady to victory, not expecting to get seduced by a mischievous bunny-like smile and a tiny black mole under a cute pout.

“I can’t help myself around you.”

You usually didn’t say more to Namjoon’s friends than a mere hello, not wanting to bother them with your presence. They were all men after all. You expected them to want bro time or whatever. Also, you were too busy being obsessed with men that didn’t exist in real life to pursue men that did exist in real life.

At least League of Legends had 3D models so no one could say you lived only the 2D lifestyle.

That didn’t mean that you didn’t partake when the dinner laid themselves out to be eaten. They often had to, because you wouldn’t pay attention otherwise.

Purple hair drifted into your vision, surrounding you in a curtain of violet and dark brown eyes, warm exhale and trembling pink lips, trapping you in Jungkook’s gaze, but you refused to relent, keeping your gaze even. Steady breaths to disguise your racing heart.

You kept your hands closed to prevent him from seeing your shaking fingers.

“Every time I see you, I want you to touch me,” he whispered, trying to hide the edge of nervousness by lowering his voice, enticing you to lean in to hear him better because someone was wiping a damn window in the living room outside your door or was that Kim Seokjin laughing?

There was no difference.

Jungkook’s forehead touched yours and you stopped thinking about Seokjin.

“I just want you to feel me up, rip my clothes off, and fuck me until I can’t think straight. Use me, abuse me, wreck me, ruin me,” he shuddered, definitely thinking about it, and one blink and you spied the obvious tent in his pants.

“Maybe I’m a lazy girl,” you finally said, touching your nose to his, inhaling his breath, a little bit of alcohol, a little bit of fruitiness, and that hint of cologne, fresh, clean, and intense. Something else too. Musk, maybe his pheromones or something like that. Whatever it was smelled fucking delicious, just like you. What did your perfume smell like? Spiced fire blended with addictive sweetness.

You shrugged casually.

“Maybe I’m a pillow princess.”

Jungkook chuckled.

“I can tell you’re not.”

You had to smirk.

Of course, you weren’t.

You closed your thighs around his knee and squeezed, raising to your tiptoes. He gasped softly, shivering at the simple touch of your soft thighs pressing around his muscular leg. It was disturbingly noisy out there, but here it was silent, pared down to your breathing and Jungkook’s breathing, mixing together, blazingly hot, closer, closer, doing the careful dance, daring each other to make the move that was so obviously going to happen.

“What are you gonna say when they ask you where you’ve been all this time?” you whispered, avoiding letting your lips brush against his.

“The truth.”

His tongue flickered out and barely touched your lips.

You didn’t make a sound.

Jungkook moaned, the sound drifting into your throat, and you could taste his desire.

“I tripped and fell into your lap.”

Your lips curved into a smirk.

He kissed you.

His hands on the armrests of your rolling chair, pushing it back into your desk, pressing his lips to yours, inhaling deeply, wanting to breathe you, wanting to taste you, wanting you, shivering as you finally touched him with your hands, but this was you, and your first touch wasn’t going to be wasted on a conventional innocent touch.

Your fingers closed in on his rock-hard erection and stroked him through his pants.

Jungkook moaned your name right in your mouth, eyes half-lidded, his violet hair encircling your face as he rolled his hips into your palm, whining deep in his chest.

“Fuck, yes, noona, play with me…”

You flitted your tongue between his lips and he chased it, begging you for more, and yet you continued to tease, light flicks between those soft pillows, nipping at them, even pushing up his lower lip so the tip of your tongue could draw a small heart around that mole, kissing it, so gentle, so delicate. His entire body shook, your hand palming his hardness through his pants, nails scraping against his balls, caressing all of it, acting like you owned it. Jungkook was certainly humping your hand like you did.

“You only want me because I didn’t want you,” you taunted, not bothering to hide your smirk and your slight disapproval.

“That’s not true,” he panted, attempting to get you to touch his chest, pushing you back into your chair, and yet you kept the fingers of your free hand on the cusp of what he wanted, heat close but no contact, causing him to whimper every time your fingernails barely nicked his skin. “I want you because you’re pretty, gorgeous, and hot as hell.”

Hm, that sounded familiar.

“I want you because I love watching you play your favorite games,” he chuckled, kissing the side of your lips, nose to nose. “I want you because I love that little smirk you make when you do something good. I want you because I love that aggressiveness that comes out and how you seem to lose your filter. Shit, it’s so fucking hot when you’re focused. Makes me wanna see your face when you’re pinning me down and having your way with me. Makes me want to obey you and disobey you at the same time, because I want you to reward me and punish me, I just can’t decide, fuck, you make life so hard for me.”

He punctuated hard by violently humping your hand, rattling your desk with his force.

Outside you heard Namjoon yelling “CANNONBALL” and throwing himself onto that giant gray furry beanbag you paid far too much for about six months ago. It was now a household party favorite, due to its massive size and fluffiness. At the moment, it sounded like a pile of six guys in semi-formal clothing was beginning and, instead of watching this heap of hot dudes being constructed, you were making out with the seventh guy’s face and grabbing his dick.

You’ll take this trade.

You felt Jungkook’s hands groping around, undoing his pants and the zipper, trying to get you to touch more, more, desperate for you to be all over him.

“P-Please… please, I don’t know when they’re going to notice…” he pleaded. “You’re so close, so close, ah, I can’t think, please…”

“Shh…” you soothed. “The door is locked.”

Your fingertips finally touched his chest, not disappointed in the slightest when you touched those delicious-looking pecs. They felt just as nice under your palm, his pounding heart and wanton moan vibrating up your arm.

“Aren’t you a needy little brat trying to distract me from my games, hm?”

Your fingertips hooked over the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“You’re going to have to face the consequences, Jungkook.”

You said his name like a delicious sweet about to be eaten, growl in your throat as you yanked down his underwear, capturing his lips, robbing him of his cries as you clawed down his chest, grasping his cock and pumping him, long, complete strokes from base to tip, curling your fingers around his balls, juggling them with your fingers teasingly as he squirmed and groaned. Your free arm shot around his back, digging your nails into his spine, not letting him get away. His black dress shirt was falling, falling to your floor, his bluish-purple hair in your face and his strong hands on your shoulders, sliding down, kneading your breasts through your clothes, whining that you were still wearing a bra – of course, you were, six dudes were coming over and they didn’t need to see your magnificent nipples on display, although clearly one of them wanted to see – and he was trying to get to the hem of your shirt, but you smacked his hands away, building the pressure and speed, pre-cum leaking between your fingers and adding slickness to lessen the dry friction.

Fuck, you could smell him and he smelled so fucking good.

“Noona, please…” Jungkook gasped, hands on the armrests of your chair, tipping his head back at the pleasure, pants at his fucking knees, chest, crotch, thighs on display. “This is… embarrassing…”

He meant him being mostly naked and you being dressed.

You shrugged, acting indifferent. “Not for me.”

He whimpered at your words, so noticeably dominant despite not using an aggressive or commanding tone. Either that or he was very invested in you jacking him off. You suspected it was a combination of the two, considering how eagerly his cock twitched when you answered.

“What should I do, Jungkook? Should I let you cum? Or should I play with you and stop, make you put your clothes back on and walk out there, desperate to be finished off?” you mused aloud, running your nails up his back, not that hard, but he leaned back into it so they sank into him, wordlessly begging you to do it harder, so you did, setting your jaw and scratching at his back, forcing him back into position. His cock throbbed in your hand, pulsating wildly.

Hm, he really loved it, huh.

“P-Please… wanna cum, please don’t be mean…” he gasped, thrusting his hips into your punishingly tight grip.

“Hm, why does it matter? You’ll just run to the bathroom and finish yourself off anyway, right?”

“Want you to do it, please,” he begged, his long hair curling around his jaw, dark purple locks framing the sharpness, lashes fluttering as you rubbed your thumb against the underside of the head, smearing pre-cum over the slit. “Your hand feels so good, so fucking good, better than I thought, please, I need you to touch me or I can’t get off, please…”

You removed your hand.

Jungkook cried out in denied despair, pitch hiking, the sinful sound clearly audible despite the debaucherously loud ruckus outside your bedroom door that included not one, but two people howling like werewolves for some unknown reason. At this point, you were mildly curious.

But you had a job to do.

He grabbed the front of your shirt, almost sobbing with need. Somehow his violet hair was a mess and you hadn’t even touched it. It cascaded over one of his eyes, an indigo curtain, the other chocolate orb shaking and pupil dilated, black prominent in the dark brown.

“Please don’t–”

You shoved two fingers from your right hand into that pleading mouth and raised your left.

He choked, gagging a little on your fingers.

You stuck your tongue out and licked your palm, slathering it with a thick layer of slick saliva.

Jungkook’s eyes widened at the dirty action and then rolled back into his head as you wrapped your hand around his aching cock once more, now covered in saliva, swiftly and fervently jacking him off, hard, fast, tight, nearly choking his cock, pushing his chin up and his chest to your hungry mouth, tongue and teeth and lips, all over those dark nipples hardening under your persistent touch, heedless to his rising moans, so very obvious now what was happening in your bedroom.

It didn’t bother you at all. Jungkook walked in here and asked you to wreck and ruin him, so you did exactly what he asked you to do, leaving harsh bite marks and slippery saliva all over his soft skin, your perfume rubbing off onto his body, coating his chest in your scent and his pulsating thick length with your spit, and he was so fucking hard that you were impressed, feeling his mouth suck on your fingers desperately and wetly, your name a messy garble above your head.

“Fuck, yes, umpf, oh fuck, I’m so close, so close, gonna cum, goona cum for you…!”

“Jungkook?”

You had no idea who called his name through your door, because the next second Jungkook was pitching forward and shooting his cum up your thigh and chest, thick white strings painting your leggings and band t-shirt, soaking into the fabric and creating a sticky mess on your skin, your head lifting in response to his movement to avoid knocking into him, your fingers sliding out of his lips, strings of saliva snapping as they left, and suddenly Jungkook’s face was in your face, his lips on yours in a passionate kiss, rutting into your hand to increase the sensitivity, shoulders and hips flinching, whimpering gratitude and ecstasy into your mouth, his hands in your hair, kissing you deeper, more ravenously, ignoring the questioning voices, lost in the pleasure of his orgasm.

You heard Namjoon say outside your door, “I think he made his move.”

You asshole, at least warn me, you thought irritably.

“You’re so good… so good, exactly what I need… I knew you would be… fuck…”

You thrust your tongue into his lips once and backed off, chuckling as he whined for more.

“Go ask for a shirt.”

Jungkook shook his head rapidly, violet hair flying everywhere. Your hand was still wrapped around his semi-hard cock, his cum dripping onto your wrist. His ears were turning red.

“I can’t… They know something is going on…” he mumbled, scooting closer to you, as if your body heat could somehow mask the fact that you just jacked him off with six of his friends standing outside your bedroom door whispering.

“Maybe you wanted them to know.”

You squeezed his ass and he trembled, clutching your shoulders.

“Easy way to tell them that you want to be owned by me, right?”

You could tell by the way his eyes were darting around rapidly that the thought crossed his mind more than once.

“Jungkook.”

You said it loud enough for a keen ear to hear it if they were really eavesdropping. You looked up at Jungkook, his eyes immediately fixating on yours because of your tone.

In control, not to be questioned.

“Get on your knees.”

Dead silence outside your bedroom.

“B… but…”

His cheeks flushed pink.

You took his chin and pulled him down to your face, murmuring to that mole under his lips, pecking it daintily, almost innocently, his wispy moan drifting over your nose. Your words were barely above a whisper, only for him.

“You made a mess. Clean it up.”

You stroked Jungkook’s chin with your thumb, your other hand tucking his long hair behind his ear.

“I’ll let you sleep in my bed tonight, so be a good boy for me right now and I’ll let you be a bad boy in bed.”

His head tilted and Jungkook whispered your name into your mouth, drenched with desire.

You smirked, stroking his jaw fondly.

He got to his knees, in between your open thighs, leaning forward, subservient eyes on your face as his pink tongue extended, licking at his own cum staining your clothes, eyes closing at your hand on the top of his head, not directing the movement, but reminding him who was in charge here, reminding him with nails in his scalp that he was going to be fucked until he couldn’t think straight.

Used, abused, wrecked, ruined.

“I don’t wanna.”

“We both know you do.”

“But I want to fuck you,” Jungkook protested, speaking softly because everyone was sleeping, or at least it seemed that way, not that either you or Jungkook cared, because you were forcing him to his knees on your bed, pushing his torso back, nails digging into his chest, towering over him, his naked body already covered in your bites and scratches, focused on his inner thighs and chest, none on his neck because that’s where he wanted it the most.

And you knew it.

“Noona, please…”

He said please a lot for someone who did not, in fact, want to be pleased, but tortured.

You grabbed him by the chin, cocking an eyebrow.

His hands were behind him, arms shaking as they held him up, shivering delightfully under your petrifying gaze.

“Please what? Hm? Saying please when you come crawling into my room, begging for dirty things with your friends right outside, saying please when you interrupt me and distract me, jeopardizing my chances to win my game?”

You leaned in close, you knowing you were only crafting a scene, him knowing that you didn’t actually care, but Jungkook wanted to hear the words, wanted you to put that malice in your tone to caress his ears, wanted you to cannibalize his sanity and put him in a different headspace, his cock already responding to it, bobbing in the air, purple-red and achingly hard from multiple orgasms, and he still wanted more.

“Saying please so you can say please when you’re under me, helplessly begging me to let you cum?”

You could hear his whines vibrating under your fingertips, pupils blown wide, lower lip trembling, begging you already, such a needy little thing, those lovely brown eyes full of submission, muscles tense with anticipation, every passing second spiraling him into increased frustration, because instead of doing anything, you were only smirking wider and wider, pushing his head back.

“Well? Tell me if you’re a dirty boy or not. Maybe I’ll do what you want.”

His violet hair cascaded to his shoulder blades, his low moan coursing through your fingertips and the heated air of your bedroom.

“Y… Yes, I’m a d-dirty boy…”

“Noona,” you prompted.

Just because you could.

His lips curved into an open smile, two of your fingers hooked over his lower lip, fingertips rubbing his tongue. Your thumb nail pressed into his mole.

“Noona.”

You ripped the condom open with your teeth, which was not advisable unless you were the kind of person that practiced that for hours on end, spending an obscene amount of money on unused condoms to perfect your technique, because nobody wants a broken condom or lube in their teeth. Why would you want to learn such a thing? You were a stickler for details. A perfectionist in perfecting a perfect display of raw dominance.

You spat out the torn corner onto Jungkook’s chest and he whimpered, unashamedly amazed.

Your left hand removed the condom from the package and your right slid out of his mouth and encircled his neck.

You inspected the condom, lazily turning it to the correct position, fingers pressed to the sides of his neck, leaving plenty of space for his trachea between your thumb and forefinger. You didn’t bother looking at his face. Instead, you spread your legs, poised and naked over him and his throbbing cock.

Your right hand started choking him.

Your left hand started rolling the condom down his thick, hard length.

Your name leaked out of his lips in a thin gurgle, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Say please, Jungkook.”

A sharp, distinct order.

“P… Please…” he gasped out, chest shuddering.

Your hand tightened around his throat and your pussy clenched around his cock as you forced yourself down on him.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck…”

You didn’t bother asking if he liked it. His vicious fisting of your sheets and trembling body, cries and cock included, told you everything you needed to know. You only watched the color of his cheeks, knowing there were limits to how long you could choke him. Therefore there was no time to be wasted, already starting your favorite pace, rough and hard, filling yourself with that delicious cock built to take your abuse, jaw set, gripping his throat, blood pounding under your fingertips, slapping hips to crotch, heat sparking though your veins, hotter, hotter, your smirk growing more and more smug, tongue tracing your lips as you witnessed Jungkook’s descent into sin, raising his head so he could watch you bounce on his cock with hazed brown orbs, mouth open, tongue lolling out, circulation thinning, purple hair wild around that cute, distressed face.

You let up the pressure on his neck, dark snicker rumbling in your chest.

“This pussy worth it, brat?”

The rush of missing blood into his brain, the suffocating pleasure of your pulsating walls wrapped around his twitching cock, your authoritative growl and merciless words tearing through him – you saw it all taking over Jungkook, forced to respond honestly from pure instinct because there was no time to compile pretty words or a smart comeback.

“Yes, noona, yes, I love it, I love it, this brat fucking loves what you do to him…”

You immediately choked him again and slapped your pussy onto his cock like you were whipping him.

His eyes rolled back and a wild moan tore out of his chest, cut off by your hand.

The bed creaked under you, bearing the weight of your roughness.

“I know you love it,” you snarled, leaning in, fucking him into your bed with vigor, straining his knees, so uncomfortable and so comfortable for him at the same time, pain and pleasure, clearly something he craved and loved from how hard he was. “You said you need me to touch you or you can’t get off.”

You knew that couldn’t be true.

Jungkook probably got off hundreds of times thinking about you, otherwise he wouldn’t be so ecstatic about you violently riding his dick right now.

His teeth sank into his swollen lower lip, staring at you through his lashes, his voice a thin whisper laced with insatiable need.

“I can’t cum without you anymore.”

You removed your hand.

Your hips stopped abruptly, fulling sheathing his cock inside you.

“No!”

His shout was so loud and desperate that you had to conceal your surprise, not expecting the frantic ferocity of his tone, nearly an agonized sob as he grabbed your upper arms in a crushing grip, his indigo locks crashing into his high cheekbones, sticking to his sweaty face and sharp jaw. It took everything in you to stay calm, everything to not give in and let him have what he wanted. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was knowing the role you were playing, maybe it was the sadistic side of you, who the fuck knew, but there was only a beat of hesitation, a second of you staring into those beautiful dark brown eyes, so perfect.

Just perfect.

Perfectly wrecked, willing to do anything in this moment for you to continue.

Before he could utter a peep of a plea, you shook out of his grip and seized his head, crashing his lips onto your neck.

Jungkook bit you.

Instant, searing pain, taking out all his sexual frustration on your neck, sucking at the skin, hot tongue lapping, groaning, moaning, half-crying because you didn’t move. You just sat on his dick and forced his mouth onto your neck, gleefully savoring his despair, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to feel the pleasure, his hands and nails digging into your waist, his teeth latched to the side of your throat, his stiff cock shuddering inside you, your tight heat keeping him hard but not letting him cum, repeatedly squeezing the engorged head brutally, driving him insane.

Insane.

You could feel his lips move, but you muffled his words, pushing his head into your neck.

Please.

Deep inhale, his wonderful scent filling your nose.

Please.

Riding the high that was Jungkook’s desire for you, fingers tangled into violet strands.

Please.

He felt so, so good, spoon-feeding the dom in you with his tiny whimpers and distraught sniffles.

“P… Please…”

You pressed your lips to his hair, murmuring his name sweetly.

“Jungkook.”

No quiver to your tone, only serene calm.

“Noona…”

His hands slid up your back as your hips began to rock, slow, so painfully slow, building the frenzy layer by layer, his hardness swelling inside you, his soft lips pressed to his hickey onto your neck, even more turned on because he knew you let him mark you, he knew in this moment you were his and only his, everything he wanted and more, his hips rising to meet yours, deepening your thrusts, matching your force, burying his face into your skin and your scent, wanting nothing more than your command over his body.

You turned his head, tucking his hair behind one ear, speaking dark whispers into that curve.

“You look the best when on your knees for me, Jungkook.”

He shivered, your name falling sloppily from his lips, drunk from your power and lost in his service.

You let go of his head and grabbed his shoulders instead, putting all of your weight onto him, now letting yourself chase it, chase the orgasm that you had been building for yourself all this time, letting yourself feel Jungkook and feel the full force of the pleasure he gave you, because, yes, of course, you served him first before you, even if it didn’t seem like it.

Because when it came down to it, Jungkook came to you, opening himself petal by petal to show you his vulnerable side, testing the waters, hoping, wishing, praying that maybe, just maybe, you were the kind of person that he was expecting, wanting, needing, and you, knowing how difficult that was because, well, you had made it difficult, only focusing on games and not on those longing eyes that watched you whenever you came into his view.

Eyes that you looked into now.

Half-lidded, glazed over, fucked-out, still honest.

His large hands were still on your waist, holding you to him as you rode him with furious slaps, muscles flexed in his chest and arms, tattoos on his right arm tense and taut from holding this position for so long. He looked so good. Felt so good. Had an amazing cock.

And fuck.

Jungkook had a cute face.

You genuinely smiled.

“I’ll take care of everything,” you drawled, injecting your words with conviction and adoration.

That did it.

His lips parted, low groan emitting from his throat as his head tipped back, purple waterfalling onto his back, thrusting up into you and shooting into the condom with fierce jolts, unable to hold back any longer, his entire length flinching uncontrollably, sweet whimpers at his release, feeling sorry that he didn’t let you cum first, but that didn’t matter, because you rode through it, already there, falling, falling, your sigh like laden smoke as your orgasm slammed into you, welcoming the bolts of cruel pulses flying through you, concentrated onto your core, Jungkook’s moans hiking into pitched ecstasy at the convulsing clenches of his oversensitive, overused cock, arms embracing you tightly, hugging you for dear life, chest to chest, pounding heart against yours.

Your fingers tangled into his hair.

His hand fitted around your head.

Lips to lips and you took care of everything, claiming that mouth as yours, holding him up even though you were the one in his lap, your kiss onto that perfect mole under that pretty pout, cherishing every mumble of your name, lowering him onto your pillows, soft kisses in between. You took care of everything, lifting yourself off him, chuckling as he whined, pawing for you to come back, but you rapped his knuckles and calmed him, removing the condom and cleaning him off gently with a towel, soft kisses in between because he wanted the attention, deliberately not closing his eyes until you crawled back into the bed, tucking the covers around you and him, Jungkook immediately turning and yanking you into his chest, nose against your skin.

“Who’s the pillow princess?” you teased, ruffling his long violet locks.

His lips pressed onto your hickey, his mark on you, and he sighed in content, drifting into sleep.

In the morning, you found a pile of five guys in the living room sleeping in various positions on the giant gray furry beanbag and the sofa. Jungkook was in your bed, passed out. The last guy, Min Yoongi, was in Kim Namjoon’s room, sleeping on his bed, because he was a smart man and took advantage of a perfectly good bed that five drunk hooligans undoubtedly forgot about.

You chuckled and rubbed your neck as you brushed your teeth, seeing yourself and the large purple hickey Jungkook had made last night in the bathroom mirror.

You went back to your room after retrieving the sewing basket from the living room, spending the morning calmly stitching the small buttons back onto his black dress shirt as the seven guys in your apartment continued to snore away.

Then you went back to playing League of Legends.

Ah, Cassiopeia, I had an eventful evening, but I have returned to you.

drabble morning-after hungover breakfast

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #jeongguk x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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eolewyn1010 · 3 years

Text

LGBTQIA+ characters and representation in season 2 of Charité

I'm gonna talk about what's in the title, but first things first: Warnings.

Spoilers for all three seasons of "Charité". Duh.

This is all personal opinion and should not be taken for objective truth.

I'll do this by quality, not chronology, by which I mean I'll talk about season 1, season 3, then season 2, in that order.

Season 2, you know what that means: Nazis. Mentions of euthanasia, genocide, extreme homophobia, all that shit.

I'm gonna get babbly; buckle up. We'll be here for a while. I wanted to do this in one go, but that got way long, so I'm splitting it by seasons.

Let me start this off by admitting that I'm blatantly biased on this front because I'm helplessly in love with Charité's second season and its characters and, yes, the lovestory between Otto and Martin. But there are actually reasons for this - namely, season 2 avoids a lot of what makes me feel unwell about the LGBTQIA+ characters in season 1 and 3.

First and foremost, Martin and Otto both are fully-fleshed out characters who have their own agencies - and that is despite their lovestory being definitely their main arc during the season. Yes, we do see them spending time together, learning to trust each other, confessing their feelings, dealing with the daily threat of getting caught and brought to a concentration camp. But also, either of them is established in their own life experiences, their own social environments. Hell, Martin is only a side character, but we get a pretty good grip on him real soon. That he has a warm and trust-based relationship with both his bosses, that he feels he has a value, prosthetic leg be damned, that the war experience has left him choke-full of wry snark because he's too smart to be loud about his political opposition. Also interesting: He was an actual soldier, and then became a nurse, in opposition to Otto who was only ever a medic. I think you could make a pretty good point of him drawing a lot of personal consequences after his extremely traumatizing experiences.

And Otto - where do I even start? In the first episode, he's not remotely established as the character we are served later. We get this poor little uwu boy who's suffered sooo terribly from the war because you know, Nazis are people too and war is terrible for everyone involved. Otto is someone who smiles charmingly, does his patriotic duty, salutes in the right way, looks snazzy in a uniform - and he's the Aryan dream of every German girl. Tall, strong, beautiful; they didn't cast Prettyboy McCheekbones for nothing there. I get it; I like to look at his stupid grin and his baby blue eyes and everything. I just think he's neat. And so thinks Christel who blatantly stares at him when she sees him for the first time and hasn't spoken a word to him yet (and continues to have very superficial contact with him - she's the one who objectifies Otto, not Martin whom she accuses of that and whose bond with Otto relies very much on time spent together and trust built). They establish all of this - and then re-establish it in a queer context, when it's not Christel but Martin whose eyes linger for a second. And then he looks away quickly because whoops, Christel is allowed to gawk at a pretty man, but Martin isn't. It's such a tiny thing, but it does wonders for the world-building. And seeing how Otto functions in this world gets really interesting when we find out that he's in love with Martin - and with how honest he is about it and how his sister handles the whole thing, there's the implication that Otto (and maybe Anni) has known that he's gay for a while. And with that, this whole perfect German man act is just that, an act. Otto lives between perpetrators and has adapted, but he's also explicitly part of a persecuted group.

Also, within that role, they repeatedly allow him to subvert the expectations society puts on him. First time that shows up is when he tells Christel that, on the front, he's only ever served in the sickbay, and she quips: "Aw, and here we thought we'd get a real war hero." Which is a tease, the way she says it, but the implication is clear: If Otto hasn't hurt or killed anyone in war, he's not what the Nazis call a hero. No, he won't let that soldier take the fall for self-crippling without even trying to help him (it's a very stupid attempt, but his impulsiveness is something I love a lot about Otto, especially because it works out both in his favor and to his detriment at times). No, he doesn't judge someone for being married to a Jewish woman ("Can love be a sin?" - har har, I see what you did thar. Subtlety, thy name is German television). Yes, he'll yell at his sister for her passive compliance instead of minding his own business as a good Nazi should do. Yes, he'll screw masculine stereotypes and be the caretaker of a small child for half a year. For all the emphasis on the lovestory, a lot of Otto's queerness is established in how he acts and thinks, in how he accepts other people and himself in a way that doesn't value the Nazi standards of what makes a good person or a good German or whatever. His man is a cripple? He's about the strongest person alive, and also beautiful, thank you very much. His niece is mentally disabled? Well, she's the cutest baby on earth, fuck you. That woman whom he doesn't know at all who seems to be entirely out of it, emotionally and psychologically? And that makes her life less valuable why? I don't know how he has internalized this with the way he must have been socialized; maybe it is because he just can't fit the expected standard and always had to lowkey expect to become a name on a list of those who disappear into the unknown. But anyway, I love him for it.

Note also that, different than Therese in season 1, he very much gets to be proactive about his feelings - and gets a response. Not a universally positive response because Martin is scared as fuck, for a good reason, as we know. But he makes clear he reciprocates Otto's feelings, and they try to work around the daily risk of concentration camps, of castration, of degradation. Martin's arrest is only the tiniest fraction of what could have happened to him, and what happened to his first lover, and it's awful enough on its own. They both face that when they get involved, and while Martin goes from "we can never do that again" to "I'll take that risk", Otto goes from sweet-talking Christel and playing into her crush to basically telling her to go fuck herself. Despite what Christel and de Crinis and society have done to them, they actually both wind up at a point where they're not willing to be afraid anymore because they know that this whole fucked-up construct around them is not working in the slightest and will break asunder rather today than tomorrow. And they don't deny it anymore, either - Charité is rather sanitized in that regard; they're working in a hospital, not on the front or near a death camp. But at one point, Otto just plainly says it: "They're gassing people there." And that's something that, during and after the war, very few people are willing to admit, the sort and the sheer extent of the crimes committed by Germans.

So, and after all this gushing, I'll end on a note of critique: The drama. After all they have been through, when the war is already ended for them, when Berlin has fallen... Otto catches a bullet. I'm even pretty sure it's a stray bullet because they can't really have seen him up there, but we need to have one of our protagonists on the brink of death in the last few minutes. They don't go through with it, which, thank you; I wouldn't have forgiven them another Bury Your Gays after the trouble Martin and Otto had to go through to have a freaking happy relationship, but they like twisting the knife, and they couldn't resist repeating that subversion theme for Otto. *sigh* That's Charité for you. But I'm not made of stone and that scene of Martin carrying Otto downstairs kills me every time, so I'm lowkey willing to forgive them for that.

#Charité #Charité at War #feeling queer about this #character analysis #look at me being a big old sap

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owenthetokencishet · 2 years

Text

I'm bored. Time to do my extremely Marvel fatigued takes on every MCU... Thing.

-Iron Man: Holy shit it's a movie! It's actually a movie!

-Captain America: The First Avenger: ROCK SOLID. Shoutout to Agent Carter for being cool enough for her own spinoff series

-Thor: there is nothing remotely Norse looking about any of this

-Iron Man 2: -10 points for Elon Musk, whole thing is freakishly libertarian, but I like Justin Hammer as a villain

-The Avengers: Look, you can hate on Joss Whedon all you like and probably be correct, but this was the gold standard of superhero movies for a good while and with good reason.

-Iron Man 3: Character development??? In MY bloated superhero movie franchise????

Captain America: The Winter Soldier: trying to be deeper than it is when really it's just Steve fighting hydra again

Thor: The Dark World: well, that sure was a movie.

Guardians of the Galaxy: James Gunn's skill with the needle drop rivals Quentin Tarantino. Not just in this film but in all of his actually

Avengers: Age of Ultron: oh god why is the ROBOT quipping please make the robot stop quipping. Oh look Quicksilver's dead.

Ant-Man: this would be really good if it was directed by a director instead of two million overworked VFX artists

Captain America: Civil War: Hey, y'know that actually fairly interesting character conflict we brought up about government regulation of superheroes? What if we pretended it never happened by act 3 and then completely ignored it for the rest of forever?

Was there another movie here or did I make that up?

Doctor Strange: I love it when rich assholes meet poetic justice and the costume design on this film was unmatched. Although I still think it should have been directed by Lana Wachowski with Michelle Yeoh playing the ancient one but that's just me

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2: teaching your dipshit male protagonist that toxic masculinity isn't something to strive for and showing him how to be better? FUCK YEAH. Also found family in a shitty spaceship my beloved 💖

Spider-Man: Homecoming: this is the closest the MCU has come to an accurate portrayal of Peter Parker, it's only downhill from here. Wait, why is Ganke here?

Thor Ragnarok: It's all the humour of a Taika Waititi movie with none of the compassion. Man's gone on record to say he only makes Thor movies for the money so if this is the price we pay for Jojo Rabbit, Reservation Dogs, and Our Flag Means Death, I'm okay with that.

Black Panther: hey maybe having your villain and only your villain saying racism is bad isn't such a good idea

Avengers: Infinity War: HE CAST TOO BIG FOR HE GOTDAMN MOVIE. Time to strip all these characters down to their barest bones because we don't have the time to do anything more nuanced!

Ant-Man and the Wasp: My Favorite versions of these characters will always be from the 2010 animated series and these ones just don't compare

Captain Marvel: we made a feminist girl power movie! What's particularly feminist about it? Carol gets catcalled exactly once and that's about it!

Avengers Endgame: is it over? No? Oh no.

Spider-Man: Far From Home: Peter Parker is not the "next" Iron Man, he's Spider-Man. Just let him be Spider-Man. Also seriously this is the wrong spidered man for Ganke why is he here

WandaVision: I am completely ambivalent about WandaVision

FATWS: are we supposed to believe that Sam and Bucky are friends? Also didn't fans give Wyatt Russell the 'non white male actor in a star wars movie' treatment for some reason?

Black Widow: 😐

Loki: Started strong and wandered off into the wild blue yonder of selfcest

What if: HEY WHAT IF...? YOU PAID FOR SOME DECENT ANIMATORS INSTEAD OF WHATEVER NERDS WITH BLENDER YOU CAN UNDERPAY AND WORK TO DEATH YOU MULTIBILLION DOLLAR CHEAPSKATES

Shang-Chi And The Legend of the Ten Rings: A post-endgame Marvel Movie that ISN'T hot garbage!

Eternals: couldn't be arsed

Hawkeye: Just different enough from My Life As A Weapon to avoid giving credit to Matt Fraction and David Aja

Spider-Man: No Way Home: Lots of things have been adapted into movies over the years: classic novels, comics, TV shows, plays, even video games! This however, is the first time a comic-con panel has been adapted into a movie. Also, no Spider-Man anywhere ever would EVER say "I just want to kill you myself" get a grip. I think I've now made my point about stealing Miles' best friend and giving him to Peter

Moon Knight: that's not an exciting Easter egg, that's an essential part of the character that you completely cut out and grafted on to the end

Multiverse of Madness: Nothing nowhere all at once. Themes? Character development??? PLOT??? Are you INSANE???? A good movie is one that's nothing but cameos and references to OTHER, BETTER MOVIES!

Ms. Marvel: Y'know, Kamala being a shape-shifter was kind of important because, comedic irony, top text learns she doesn't need to change for others, bottom text is a shape-shifter, you know how it is

Thor: Love and Thunder: haven't seen it, don't really want to

She-Hulk: Attorney at law: please just... Stop.

Comics are very good though! Read some comics!

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

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

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #wilbur soot #nihachu #tommyinnit #fundy #philza #tubbo #jack manifold #dsmp fic #/rp #cw depression #cw self-hatred #cw disordered eating #long post #cat writes fic #at last it is done #literally triple the word count it was supposed to be but it is finished

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rachetmath · 3 years

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Favorite (Characters)

Ruby: *barges in* RatchetMath!

Me: What is it Ruby?

Ruby: You’re showing favoritism.

Me: Okay. And?

Ruby: You need to stop. Why not draw us for once?

Me: Hm, maybe because I like Jaune more. Hell I like Penny and Neo more than you or your team.

Ruby: Why?!

Me: Because your team is horrible.

Ruby: So is team JNPR!

Me: Yeah, but only because they have to follow you. They have some individuality but we don’t explore that as much. Plus, your team would be dead without them. But you know what Ruby, I would rather draw Yang, Blake or any other character except Weiss than you right now.

Ruby: What?! But I’m-

Me: The main character that barely does main character things. Woman, Salem was in Atlas! Why was she not your top priority? Why was James your problem?

Ruby: Um well…

Me: Ruby, she knows your mother! She might know what happened to her! I get Yang was some levels your mom but shouldn’t learning what happened to your actual mom be just as important? Especially after that dark memory.

Ruby: That is true.

Me: You have silver eyes but you still don’t know how to use them. There was army of grimm around Mantle and that would have been good practice. And a better solution than Ren.

Ruby: But then I be overpowered.

Me: No. Ruby your silver eyes only work on one person. If someone sneaks up on you or doesn’t care about that light you give off then, you’re dead. Maria is proof on that.

Ruby: Um..

Me: Plus, the question that everyone in the audience could have an answer to is whether your silver eyes can even work on Salem. In all honesty, it proves the writer don’t keep track of the characters and their personalities to where they fit together in story. You know what I have been making skits, trying to be funny but… the jokes died. Look guys I-I’m sorry but… let me explain.

1. Ruby and Blake should have stayed in Mantle. Why?

1. Salem is the main villian. She knows Ruby’s mother. You know the same mother who left for a mission and didn’t come back. The same mother, who Ruby knows nothing about while everyone seems to have different perspectives of her. Or has a better clue on who she is, than Ruby herself. Plus wasn’t Salem after her too? She basically would be killing two birds with one stone by kidnapping Oscar and giving Ruby a reason to see her. That way Ruby isn’t assuming what happened to her mother. Let Salem antagonize Ruby. (Question: Can silver eyes work on Salem?)

2. Perfect training for silver eyes. Let’s face it, Ren proved to us he can mask a bunch of people without Jaune’s help. All he needed was concentration. However, Ruby is more effective because silver eyes seem to be able to destroy multiple grimm on sight. And with lives on the line that gives Ruby plenty of reason to start using them.

3. Ren calling Ruby out on her issues. Look I loved how Ren was willing to tell the truth, but him revealing Jaune cheated Beacon was… weak. Reason being it relates to Jaune’s character and Ren still follows Jaune’s orders. However, Ruby, who is supposed to be a prodigy because she came to Beacon two years ahead of her class, has not proven once that she is worthy of such praise. The only reason-The ONLY reason Ruby was enrolled into Beacon was her silver eyes. Ruby even in volume one has been nothing but liability. Initiations, she almost dies from a Stinger. Stake out, she almost got run over by a truck and it ended in failure. First mission, she gets kidnapped and almost destroyed a city block. Roman, a man with no semblance or aura continues to beat her four times in a row. And it gets worse. Ruby almost got her uncle killed. She was the first to get knocked out by Emerald. Almost dies by a robot and Godzilla. And the moment she arrived in Atlas her first move was to lie to James. She didn’t even try to stop Tyrian when she saw him. She had her gun with her too. Ren is not her sister, he might as well tell her the facts so she can do better.

4. Blake is Faunus. Mantle hates faunuses. Why not have Blake help them to prove faunuses are people too? Let Blake represent her people. I mean Velvet and Sun represent faunses more than she does her whole existence. Blake also can relate to Ren’s problem. How? Blake was a part of the White Fang, so there were expectations she had to fulfill. Especially when trying to measure up to Adam. However, she explains the longer she was in the White Fang, the more she found out how messed up and extremely bias it was. Including with Adam to the point she decided to leave. She even states she was lucky that Yang even forgave her after all the trouble she caused her. Blake challenged her bias nature, and it made her stronger for it. Blake would be basically telling Ren the more he tries to live up to someone else’s expectations, without seeing their flaws, the more he loses touch with himself and everyone around him.

5. Oscar shouldn’t have been able break out of Salem on his own: I’m sorry but… Oscar got beat up. Took a magic beam to the chest. Had to switch between him and Ozpin and mind you he had no aura to help him. He should be tired and unable to move. (In my opinion, this kid was given too much screen time. At first I was worried about him but now I’m wondering why was I worrying at all.)

2. Jaune and Yang should have gone to Atlas.

1. Penny is basically Pyrrha in the opposite light. Penny’s special because she’s a robot with a soul, a mind of her own and an attitude to prove it. She is just as human as everyone else, but no one seems to treat her as such. James only sees her as something of a weapon. Pietro treats her like child even though she’s more mature than the rest of the female cast, except Maria. And now with maiden powers, everyone is out casting Penny even more. Jaune is perfect for her because he has experience with this kind of issue. However, he would’ve had to take different route to the situation considering his failure with Pyrrha last time they had discussion on maiden powers or responsibilities (Destiny.).

2. Jaune already has been a part of maiden business since volume three. His reason to be with Penny would be make sure she doesn’t meet the same fate as Pyrrha or Amber. Not just for himself but for others around him. Especially since Cinder was in Atlas and is willing to hunt her down for the maiden powers. And James was willing to turn Penny into a soulless machine to follow his every command. (Actually, Watts is more a fault considering he hates Pietro.). James and Cinder are also opposite to Jaune in some ways. James earned his position and earned respect from his military. Jaune on the other hand cheated, and unlike James might not have everybody’s respect. Cinder treats her allies like tools. And with power she just consumes and gives nothing return. Jaune however treats his allies like family. And instead of just taking power he gives power to others around him. He’s the reason Cinder has maiden powers. So, him making it his personal mission to make sure Cinder doesn’t get more power only increases his resolve to protect Penny. (Especially since he already had to kill her in the canon finale.) In other words, James and Cinder purposed a challenge to Jaune. Can he pervert history from repeating itself? Can he really protect the maiden powers? Is he truly worthy of being a huntsman? What is he willing to risk in achieving his goal? (Also let’s be clear. Hazel beat Oscar down for the password to the relic. James shot the kid and was willing to let him fall to his death. Qrow intentionally punched the kid. I don’t care if it was for Ozpin, he still punched Oscar. Lion before even knowing Oscar was Ozpin reincarnation was already about kill him anyways. All Jaune did was push him to a wall. Yes, Jaune still would have hurt Oscar, but he didn’t. He walked away.)

3. A lot of the situations could’ve been avoided or mattered if Jaune was there. Don’t believe me? Well let me explain. Was Ruby the only option when sneaking pass Central Command? No, because they had Weiss, Nora and Penny. Weiss could have done a freezer burn like in her fight with Marrow. Or Nora could have thrown her grenades and Penny just shoots them before the hit the ground or damage anything. Both causing a smoke screen, so no one sees them. Plus, they were already caught by using Pietro credentials. Did Nora need to get knocked out for the team to escape? No. If she had Jaune with her they could’ve one caused an EMP wave being Jaune has gravity and Nora has lightning. Or two, if Nora still went through with it, Jaune would have healed her immediately. Penny lifting and keeping the arena in place. If Jaune and Weiss were with her then once Amity was in position, Weiss with Jaune’s assistances can keep it place so Penny can come back inside and the whole video could be played. Also, Pietro would know what was going on with his daughter and can properly explain how to fix her. (Better than Jaune healing her.)

4. Nora’s whole character is knowing who she is without Ren right? Then why not just have her lead the evacuation once she’s done with Atlas? Why not have her and Yang work together along with the happy huntress to evacuate Mantle? Especially if their friends disappeared to save Oscar. (And before ya’ll tell me they can’t do it….. Yang, blocked a punch from a mech, held off a Manticore, and has a semblance that literally lets her take damage and dish it back five times harder. Nora who literally crushed Weiss and Yang in a food fight. Knocked a giant horse down on its knee. And knocked Hazel away. Are you seriously saying these girls are not enough to take on a few little tigers? Come on!) If the whole point of Nora’s character development was finding out more about herself then let Nora try something without Ren. Let her call the shots. Let her take charge. Give her a character. (Hell don’t stop there. Have her interact with other characters. Like Jaune. Yang. Weiss. Or anyone other character than Ren. Let them tell her what they think about her. Let Nora be a solution to a character’s struggle. Ya’ll make it sound like Nora has no friends.)

5. All Yang needed was a break from Ruby and Blake. In all honesty Yang should have been the one to see the hounds face and kill it. Why? Well Ruby is Yang’s sister and only reminder of her nonblood related mother. And Blake is her girlfriend. And if we saw the hound’s face, we know it’s not just a silver eyed person. It’s also a faunus. This will give her a reason to protect both her loved ones because by seeing the hound she knows Salem intention with Ruby and want to keep her, and Blake from meeting the same fate of being turned into monsters. Yang should’ve been the 2nd to 4th member of team RWBY to fall. Why? One, a Yang vs Neo fight. Two, Cinder and Neo both wanted Ruby dead. So why not get rid of Ruby first? The fights would have been more thrilling and seeing the character, the show is named after, presumed to be dead would have added stakes and tension to the fight. (Also let me say this. Why is it, that the only great display of the maiden powers I’ve ever seen, was from Amber and not the maidens, as of now, Winter, Raven, and Cinder? The maiden powers are basically magic right? Why isn’t Cinder using any other element than fire?)

6. Weiss was completely useless. Look, as the saying goes, “You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.” And when it came to Weiss and family, she has little to no clue of what it is nor deserves it. Weiss should have been more of an inspiration for Whitley to do right. How? By simply talking to him. What reason would she have other than Mantle? Simple, he’s her brother and she started off like him. Beacon, she was a brat. She was arrogant. And more importantly a jerk. Blake ran because of her racist attitude. Ruby literally had to impress her to prove she can be leader. Even though Weiss is not leadership martial herself. Plus, hearing May and how she and her family never resolved their issues should inspire Weiss to not repeat that mistake. And guess what, her mom, Willow, the drinker of the family, wasn’t wrong. Both her and Winter left Whitley alone. Klein wasn’t there for him either. All Whitley had was his father. So Weiss, actually acting like his sister and trying to help him allows him to feel less alone. Instead Weiss was complete Jacque through out the entire volume.

And that’s all. Look I know I should have seen this coming but I had to say it. Volume 8 could’ve been good. The problem was.

1. Characters are not placed well within the story.

2. We lost track of who said characters are.

3. The ships are in the way.

4. Being dumb for the plot. (Sometimes it’s necessary.)

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mischiefmanaged71 · 3 years

Text

Turning Tables (5/8) - Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary: After Y/N is injured on a mission, Joaquin is called over and she’s got a confession to make. Surprisingly, so does he.

Author’s Note: This series will continue based on how the last episode goes :)

Warnings: fluff, slowburn!, action & canon-level violence!

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x fem! reader

Word Count: 2.5K

You groaned in discomfort as you adjusted yourself on the bed. With your left leg resting upon a pillow, you reclined and stared up at the ceiling anxiously. The smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol fills your nose, surrounding you. Chills run along your arms as you feel the cold seep through the impossibly thin hospital gown.

After the whole fiasco in Munich, Sam called you to meet him and Bucky in Riga. To say you were surprised to see Zemo with them was an understatement. You were initially hesitant to work with him but later he proved useful with getting information. It was Walker who really irked you. He kept getting in the way and each time you could slowly see his mind grow worse.

It was on that last day that he’d finally gone off the deep end. Zemo had destroyed all of the vials of Negel’s super serum that Karli had. At least you all thought he had, not before a collision between the Dora Milaje and Walker allowed Zemo to escape unnoticed.

You’d never seen such pure rage and intensity in a person before. None of you had realised John took the serum until it was too late.

He went on a rampage after Karli killed Lemar, using the shield to quite literally decapitate a man in the Town Square in front of an entire crowd and their phones.

It was in the aftermath that led you, Bucky and Sam to the warehouse where Walker retreated to in his dazed state.

Your eyes close and suddenly your back in the warehouse, re-living the previous day.

***

“Walker…”

“You guys should see a medic, you don’t look so good.”, John noted, striding past to leave the building.

Sam confronts him, “Stop, Walker.”

John backtracks, “What? You saw what happened. You know what I had to do. I killed him because I had to! He killed Lemar!”

You all watched John wearily as he continued to shout.

“He didn’t kill Lemar, John.”, you exclaimed.

John scoffs, shaking his head as he paced.

“Don’t go down that road. Believe me, it doesn't end well.”

“I’m not like you.”, John spits out with gritted teeth to Bucky.

Sam tried to talk him down,

“Listen, it was the heat of the battle. Okay? If you explain what happened, they may consider your record. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

You glimpse at the blood coating the paint of the shield, a scarlet red splattered across the side as it dripped down. He used Steve’s shield to murder someone. A shield that Steve used to defend and protect, drenched with the blood of an innocent.

“John…you gotta give me the shield, man”, Sam paused wearily, unsure of John’s next move.

Suddenly, John looked up at Sam, an epiphany clear in his eyes,

“Oh, so that's what this is. You almost got me.”

Sam shook his head in denial, “You made a mistake.”

John looked between your trio, “You don’t want to do this.”

“Yeah, we do.”, Bucky answered with conviction.

It all began when Bucky lunged for John and you jumped for the shield to wrench it out of his grasp. Each of you attacked from a different side. You remember ducking to avoid his swipe for your neck, aiming a fist at his side and sending him sprawling. All of you were drained after the repeat conflicts with super soldiers.

You remember when Bucky ended up a far distance away, incapacitated due to his arm and an electrical surge. Sam’s wings were ripped from the sockets, leaving his flight out of the equation.

You had jumped on Walker’s back, securing your arms around his neck to get him off of Sam. Wrenching his body to the right, you were sent sprawling and rolled forwards to stand over John and grab for the shield. He jabbed it upwards to smack your head but you released, dropping on your back to somersault a few feet away.

“Just give me the shield, Walker and we can all walk away.”

He grunted angrily and striked the shield on the ground to help him stand up as he marched toward you. You tilted your head and smacked your fist against your palm, igniting flames in your hand. Flames collide with vibranium and from there, it was a tussle of fire, punches and the occasional spray of blood.

A stabbing pain in your side flared as you threw another punch. Even the burning fire in your eyes began to fade as your energy depleted. Walker used that to his advantage as he swung the shield into your head which knocked you a couple feet back. Disoriented but determined, you widen your stance and launch a stream of fire at the shield. Fire bellows around the shield you once fought alongside, moulding against the shape.

He crept closer and closer until he swiped around and rammed into you, slamming you to the floor. His fists collided with your face repeatedly as beads of blood burst from the open wounds. After your lack of movement, he rises from his crouch and walks away to deal with Sam, finally. Your hands shake at your sides, your face numb, head spinning. With the last breath of consciousness you have, you form a lasso, gripping his arm. The shield-bearing arm is wrenched backwards, gaining his attention. Pushing yourself up, you kneel and lean against a crate to stand.

Anger and spite pierced his sight as he stalked over and wrenched you back by your hair to knock you to the ground. This time however, he doesn’t aim for your face. You hear the crack before you feel it in your leg. His boot collides with your leg, a piercing scream wrenched from your throat as he shattered the bones in your lower leg. You arched your back in agony as he removed his boot and the pressure was released.

Bucky and Sam are startled by an ear-piercing scream from the opposite side of the warehouse. They’re both up and back into the rush, not without struggle, to aid you.

Blood rushes from the rest of your body to your injury, working to heal the wound. Pain pulsed through your entire body, throttling your brain as you tried to grasp for oxygen. You gasp for breath through the incredulous pain but black dots spot your vision, encasing you in darkness.

***

Your return to reality is brought upon by the knock at the door. You hum and tilt your head as you can’t see through the blinds covering the windows. Sam enters through the door dressed in his civilian clothes. He sports a couple scratches on his face and some bruising, but nonetheless, looks unharmed for the most part.

“Hey, how you feelin’, Y/N/N? You took a hard hit yesterday.”

You let out a deep exhale as you stare at the cast covering your leg, the IV tubing dragging along as you straightened out your blanket. Your mind was a bit hazy given the amount of pain relief you were on.

“It's rough, I’m not gonna lie.”, you chuckled.

Sam grinned knowingly,

“If I know you, that cast isn’t gonna stop you from doing anything. Please be careful though, I need you in one piece.”

You shake your head,

“Sam, you don’t need me.”

“Nah, why are you suddenly so humble?”

A sliver of shame seeps into those wounds carved from previous years. Tears prick your eyes, causing you to shut them tightly and lean back on your pillow.

“I don’t know what happened out there.”

“Y/N/N, don’t beat yourself up. You held your own and I couldn’t have done this without you.”.

Your eyes creep open slowly and you’re finally able to see the big picture. You’ve always trusted Sam and his judgement. Whenever in doubt, you went to him for advice and he always seemed to have the answers. If the big circular bag leaning against the wall had to say anything, it was certainly a good omen of your efforts together.

“It's that big heart of yours, Y/N/N. You always pull through for everyone.”

A smile creeps on your face and you finally feel yourself relax into the soft mattress of the bed.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam’s phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket, checking the message. A smirk threatens to creep on his face but he suppresses it,

“There’s something I also need to tell you.”

You nod and urge him to continue.

He walks to the door and pulls it open,

“I’ve got a present for you.”

You look into the doorway and an eye-crinkly grin splays on your features. Joaquin Torres himself walks through the doorway, clad in his Lieutenant’s air force uniform.

“You’re here!”, you exclaim excitedly.

He’s here.

“Y/N/N, how are you? Are you feeling okay? I rushed straight over as soon as I could.”, Joaquin rambles, scanning over you in concern. Cuts scatter across your face and jaw along with a black-eye under your right eye.

“I’m okay aside from the obvious broken limb. Don’t think I’ll be walking any time soon, that’s for sure.”, you both chuckled.

He nods thanks at Sam and skirts around the bed to take his seat beside your bed.

“I’ll let you kids chat, but I’ll be back later.”

You mouth a thank you to Sam as he smiles and nods to you before shutting the door behind him.

Your attention is brought back to Joaquin as he sits forward in the chair, anxiously fiddling with his fingers. You stop him, grabbing for his left hand and squeezing it.

“Hey, what’s up? You seem more anxious than I’m feeling.”

Joaquin’s throat tightens and he strains to get out a sentence.

“I didn’t know how bad it was gonna be when I got here. Sam just told me you were in the hospital after the fight with Walker and-and I was really scared.”, he admits, tears glistening his sight.

You remain silent, gripping his hand to acknowledge you are still listening.

“I know you’ve been on more missions than you can count. Maybe I shouldn’t be this worried but...what happens when I walk through that door and you’re not okay?”

He shakes his head, clenching his jaw tightly,

“I-I don’t know what…what I’d do.”

“Don’t worry about what if’s...”, you tilt his chin up to look at you.

“I’m here. I’m a little banged up, yeah, but it’s been worse.”, you embarrassingly admit with a soft smile.

“I don’t think I could handle worse.”, he lets out a breathy laugh.

“Then you, Lieutenant, would not have liked me a couple years back.”, you teased.

Joaquin’s eyebrows perked up,

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I was always getting into trouble on missions. I remember this one time, I dived in front of a knife for Steve and got stabbed.”

His face returned to a blank expression as he pursed his lips.

“Yeah it hurt a lot, but you know what, it’s those missions that made me stronger. My final flaw will probably be stepping in even when people don’t want me to.”, you shake his hand again to greet his eyes.

“But I’ll always be there, Joaquin when you need me. Even when I’m not physically there, I’m with you. Every step of the way.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to be there to jump in front of you.”

Your eyes shoot up in confusion.

“If you’re going to be throwing yourself in the line of danger, you bet I’m gonna be there. Every. Single. Time.”

“Well, I guess I’ve already welcomed you to my world.”, you smirked, pushing yourself up to lean on your hands.

You lean closer to Joaquin as he sits on the edge of the bed, meeting you so you’re both at eye level.

“I-”

“Can-”

You both let out breathy laughs, lowering your gaze before glancing back up.

“You go first.”, you nod in encouragement.

“No, no, it’s fine.”, he shakes his head.

You perk your eyebrows teasingly and urge him to continue with a smack on his arm.

“Y/N...I, Uh, care about you. A lot, actually. And I, uh, wanted to tell you before but things got in the way and-”, he pauses as he gazes softly at your endearing gaze. You listened to him with intrigue and interest, sending a warm feeling into his chest.

“I love you.”, he’s flickering across your features and body language to gauge your reaction, shock filling him the moment the words leave his lips.

You’re suddenly tugging him forward by the waist and resting your head on his chest. His arms remain still in shock but encircle you as soon as he relaxes. You sigh and melt into his embrace, allowing him to just hold you. It’s been a long, long time since someone held you like this.

Gazing upward at him, you encircle your arms around his neck,

“I love you, Joaquin.”

“Pinch me so I know this is real.”, he whispered, his face hovering close to yours.

“How about I do something better?”

You hovering lips meet Joaquin’s and meld together in a passionate moment. His hands grip your waist gently as you tug him closer to deepen the kiss. It's a sweet, sweet moment that you’ve both been waiting for. You don’t believe in soulmates but with Joaquin, you certainly had something akin to that feeling since you first met. You pull away, gasping for breath as Joaquin hovers closely to your face, also breathing deeply. You grin and peck his lips once, twice before he’s capturing your lips once more passionately.

“For the record, I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a long time, Flyboy.”

Joaquin laughs, shaking his head, “I’ve been wanting to do it for just as long,”

You can’t suppress the grin that splays across your face as you intertwine your hands and pull him to lay next to you in the bed. You dismiss his protests that he might hurt you, laying your head on his chest. Joaquin slides one arm around your waist and the other to grip your hand in his. You listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat and count them.

“Stay with me?”

You feel the rumbles of his voice as he replies,

“Of course, mi amor.”

***

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#Joaquin Torres X reader #Joaquin Torres #Joaquin Torres imagine #Marvel x reader #MCU x reader #mcu x y/n #TFATWS #TFATWS x reader #TFATWS imagine #Winter soldier #bucky barnes #sam wilson #joaquin torres x femreader #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers

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migilini · 4 years

Text

Roadtrip - Charlie Gillespie

a/n: just a daydream I had when I saw this GIF. It’s not proofread. I’m open to requests.

Words: 2k

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

You and Charlie were on a road trip from LA to Oklahoma and last to Chigaco. Your boyfriend had to move there due to the fact that he got cast in a movie and you were fortunate enough to move with him, being able to work from home. It wasn't your idea to drive all those miles via car, but Charlie doesn't like flying so he avoided it at all cost and because you love him, you accompanied him for those dreadful hours.

It was way too early for your liking, of course Charlie knew that and put up with your grumpy, nontalkative mood, simply shoving a large cup of coffee into your hands. “Ma cœur, how much longer until you're more awake to talk to me?” Charlie asked after a while, as he glanced over to you on the passenger side, his free hand tracing little hearts on your thigh. You yawned and took a sip of the now lukewarm coffee. “About this much.” You measured the amount still in the cup, making him chuckle.

You and Charlie have been dating for nearly one and a half years now, however it feels like it's been much longer. From the start, the two of you were attached at the hip, instantly comfortable around each other. Everybody said that you two moved too fast because you moved in with each other after only three months of dating, but because of Covid you didn't want to risk being apart. Even though objectively speaking, you and Charlie were not the same, you were more daydreaming than actually paying attention and you didn't need the adrenaline in your life, you completed him in a magical way.

Right now you two were two hours in, the coffee was empty and you ass already sore from all the sitting. It was something you always despided about yourself, you could spend all day laying in bed, but you couldn't sit still, changing position every now and then. Tapping your foot to the beat of the song streaming from the radio. Charlie calmly hummed along to the song, his fingers also tapping along. You looked over at him and couldn't love him more.

“Are you excited to see Owen and Jer?” You asked him, breaking the silence. A breathtaking smile overtook his face “You know it! How about you?” You nodded, also excited to see the boys again. “Mhm. I missed them a lot.” The song on the radio changed and you huffed in annoyance, you hated that song. Sensing that, Charlie took out his phone and connected it to the car.

“Charlie! Don't drive and be on your phone!” You snapped it out of his hand, giving him a displeased look. Scrolling through Spotify you eventually choose a song to your liking. 18 by OneDirection blared through the speakers, while you put the volume higher you turned in your seat. “I have loved you since we were 18. Well technically 20 but that's a detail.” You whispered the last part. He scrunched his nose in amusement, a quirk you loved dearly.

The two of you screamed lyrics at the top of your lungs, the car driving on an empty highway. The rest of the world fading away, leaving the two of you in a cozy little bubble of your own. The day continued just like that, the two of you singing to songs and just enjoying the company. You loved seeing him drive, something about it was just so attractive to you, maybe it was the way his arms flexed when he moved the wheel, or the fact that you yourself were unable to drive. Even with your 21 years of life, you refused to sit behind the steering wheel and Charlie had tried several times, it always ended with you in tears.

“Do you want to stop somewhere to sleep? It's getting kinda late and you have been driving the whole day.” you questioned, looking at the horizon as the last beams of yellow and red vanished slowly. “Yes please. Can you search for a hotel around here?” Nodding, you took his phone and went onto google maps.

“There's one about two hours away in New Mexico. Reviews look good and the price isn't too high. Sadly no breakfast included, so we're gonna get you something on the road, not gonna let you starve, otherwise I will be stranded here.” He gave your thigh a playful slap and a squeeze “Yeah, yeah love you too, Char. I will look it up… Ah perfect! There's a Dunkin Donuts five miles from the hotel. Does that sound good babe?” He hummed in approval.

“Ah a man of words!” he took one of your hands and gave it a light kiss. “You know me. I always wanted to be a Mime.” he joked.

Before you knew it, the car came to a stop in the pitch black. Only a little yellow neon sign lighting up the hotel parking spot.

“This looks like this one Teen Wolf episode…” you murmured, not feeling the best about this place. “You’re just saying that because you're scared of the dark ma cœur. I'm here to protect you. No Monsters are harming you tonight.” he teased, getting out of the car. In typical Charlie fashion, he walked around the car and opened your door and held out a hand for you, immediately intertwining your fingers.

You smiled up at him, squeezing his hand. “Ha ha…”

The two of you were happy to finally walk off the stiffness of your legs, as you walked over to the reception.

“Hello. We would have a room please.”

The receptionist was in his late 30s, his greying hair falling messily in his eyes and a big smile sat on his thin lips. “No Problem. Is a king bed alright with the two of you?” he didn't want to assume anything. You and Charlie chuckled, nodding slightly “Preferred actually.”

Five minutes later, you waited in the room 345 while Charlie insisted on getting your bags. Stretching, you tried to get rid of the soreness in your back, your eyes nearly falling shut.

Charlie opened the doors, giving you a tired smile. “Let's get to bed. Tomorrow we rise early!” you groaned, making him chuckle. Standing up, you walked over to him, your arms wrapping around his familiar frame. He was stroking your head, giving it a kiss before walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

In the meanwhile you changed your clothes, changing from some jeans and one of his hoodies to sweatpants and an oversized shirt.

You gave him a hasty kiss as he came out of the bathroom, smelling the mint of the toothpaste still lingering on his lips. After you washed your face and brushed your teeth, you let yourself fall into the bed. His arms sneaking around your waist, pulling you closer into him.

“Thank you.” Turning around to face him, you traced his features with your fingertips “For what?”

“Coming on this drive with me. You could have easily convinced me to fly, you know.”

“I know mon amour.” you said, looking into his eyes, as you tried your best to keep yours open. You left several kisses on his bare shoulders until your lips met his. He smiled into the kiss and then nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, pecking it several times before stopping.

“Good night. I love you.”

“Good night babe. Love you more.”

The next morning came way too fast and you didn't want to move out of his comfortable and safe arms into the cold car, but you had to. The sunrise hadn't even begun, the sky still a dark blue, when the two of you drove into the Dunkin drive through, to get you a coffee and a donut. You had to have something sweet in the mornings.

“Actually, I saw a little restaurant on the way here that should have takeaway, do you mind if we take a quick stop?” you shook your head, trying hard not to fall asleep again. An idea ignited in your head and you sat up straighter. “What if we go live while you drive? Maybe I'll be more awake or I'll have stuff to read.” you requested, looking at your boyfriend with a slight pout.

“Sure thing. I'll bet they'll love it.” Smiling, you grabbed his phone from his hand and went into Instagram.

“Hey Char and y/n here.” you introduced while trying to balance the phone on the dashboard “Its freaking early and I’m nearly falling asleep so I thought you guys could entertain me a bit. Mister Gillespie over here isn't as interesting as you guys.” he pouted into the camera, you leaned forward quickly and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The chat was already flooding with hey’s and questions about your relationship and where you were going.

“Is it true that you sometimes talk french to Charlie?” you read from the chat, your eyes widening a little in surprise.

“Sometimes. I mean my french isn't the best but growing up in Europe, I picked up some stuff.”

“She’s just being humble, she understands a lot and her accent is hella cute.” Charlie piped in, pulling into the drive through he mentioned earlier. “Je vois que tu comprends." He said to you, a slight smile playing on his lips. You got lost in his eyes for a second before responding. “Of course I understand babe!” he grabbed your hand and kissed it softly while chuckling.

“OMG that was just so cute!” you read out loud from the chat. Blushing slightly, you giggled, “He loves to do stuff like that when he’s driving. Always showing affection in one way or the other.”

“Uhm next question...What are you two doing so early? Someone asks.” with an raised eyebrow you look over to your boyfriend “I think you can answer this.” you turned the camera a bit so he was more in frame. “We're going to Chicoago, Chigacoooo.” he quoted the iconic Victorious scene, his eyes scanning the road before him.

He got himself a cheese thing of some sort, you couldn't quite make out what it was and parked on the side of the road, getting his food ready in front of him.

He bit into his cheese thing while you sipped on your coffee conversing with the chat. Just earlier you had begged for music suggestions, telling them to send their best road trip songs. Charlie looked really good right now, his hair was pulled together in a bun and he was wearing a blue shirt. You on the other hand had your hair in a top bun and the same hoodie from yesterday, a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. You just wanted to ask if you could have a bite, when he got cheese all over his chin.

He laughed as he looked over to you. Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned forward in your seat. Your face mere inches away from his, you could feel his breath on your face. You stuck out your tongue and licked the cheese away, your eyes never leaving his.

Without giving it a second thought, you settled back into a comfortable position and took a sip from your coffee with a prominent smirk on your face. Leaving a dumbfounded Charlie and a screaming chat.

Not even an hour later the clip of you licking his chin, in maybe a bit of a too sexual way, went viral in the community.

#charlie gillespie #charlie gillespie fanfiction #charlie gillespie imagine #charlie gillespie x reader #charlie gillespie fluff #charlie gillespie fic #charlie gillespie images #charlie gillespie fanfic #charlie gillespie x y/n #charlie gillespie x oc #jatp

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imaginary-portal · 3 years

Text

Unspoken - Part Five

Bucky Barnes x Fem Reader

Summary: Y/N is a superhero with telekinetic and healing capabilities. The only catch, she doesn’t speak (italicized words are thoughts).

Content Warning: slightly sexual content

Word Count: ~1.9k

Part One Part Four Part Six

Masterlist

Enjoy!

——————

The team took advantage of the day off, and slept into the late morning. Y/N was the first to wake up, and she went out to get the guys breakfast. Y/N struggled with leaving Bucky alone in the bed. She just wanted to stay there with him forever. But at least now he’ll know how she felt the other day, waking up without him beside her. She came back to the room to find Sam and Bucky laying in their beds, watching television. “Food!” Sam said happily. Bucky smiled charmingly and gave Y/N a wave. He remembered how perfect last night was. The simple kiss on the cheek drove him wild.

“I didn’t know what you guys wanted…” Y/N trailed off while the two men came and rummaged through the food, taking what they liked. Y/N took the leftovers and ate it, quickly getting bored of the television. She grabbed her book and left the room. The door reopened behind her. “Y/N, where you off to?” Bucky asked. Y/N raised her book, signaling she would be reading. “Do you mind if I come with you? Maybe you can find me a book I’d enjoy.” Y/N accepted his invitation by motioning her head forward. Bucky followed Y/N like a puppy as they walked to the nearest book store. They were greeted by a cashier and Bucky gave them a small wave. Y/N walked to the classic novel section and chose the most boring book she could think of and handed it to Bucky. Bucky tried to be polite but as he flipped through the pages he realized the joke. “I get it because I’m technically a hundred years old. Funny stuff.” Y/N took the book hunt seriously now, heading for the fiction section. She grabbed a book that was about a war, betrayal, and friendship. Bucky seemed very interested when reading the back cover.

They purchased the book and found a park bench to sit at and read. Bucky was immediately sucked into his book, impressed by Y/N’s sense of judgement. He couldn’t help himself, however, from letting his eyes wander from the page to look at her. The way she focuses on her reading, he’s never seen anything like it before. She’s in her own little world. I want to be part of that. “Hey, Y/N.” Y/N broke from her trance and looked over at Bucky, who was so lost in her beauty that he forgot what he was going to say. “I um- I-“ Y/N smiled, realizing the situation. She closed her book and turned towards Bucky. She placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him butterflies, a feeling he thought he was too old to have. “Sometimes things are better left unspoken.” Y/N leaned in and kissed Bucky, their lips molding perfectly together. Bucky cupped Y/N’s face as he kissed her more passionately. The two rested their foreheads against each other and smiled like idiots. Y/N turned back to her book, wrapping her arm around Bucky’s and resting her head on his shoulder. Bucky smiled and returned to his reading.

——————

Y/N and Bucky walked home near sunset, holding hands the whole time. Sam questioned about where they were all day. Bucky simply said they went reading. Sam could tell by the look on Y/N’s face that unfortunately that was true. “Don’t you guys want to have fun?” Bucky chuckled. “Says the guy who stayed here and watched tv all day.” Sam laughed. “Touché. I guess I should do something today. I’ll go fetch us dinner.” Sam got up from his bed, grabbed his keys, gave Bucky a wink, and left.

Y/N stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do. However, she knew exactly what she wanted to do right now. I just want his lips on mine. Bucky thought the same thing. Unsure of who would crack first, Y/N sat down on the bed. Bucky looked at her sitting there, looking perfect. He couldn’t stop himself from biting his lip. Y/N took note of this and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Bucky also sat on the bed and remembered Y/N’s advice from earlier. Sometimes things are better left unspoken. But Bucky doesn’t want to leave it unspoken how amazing Y/N looks. He turned to Y/N and leaned in for a kiss. Y/N hovered her lips over his, teasing him a little before meeting his parted lips. The kisses quickly escalated. Y/N’s hands found their way into Bucky’s hair and she lightly tugged him. Bucky’s hands rested on her hips, squeezing them every so often. Bucky slipped his tongue gently in Y/N’s mouth, earning a moan from her. The moan gave Bucky a rush, pulling Y/N closer to him. “You’re so beautiful, doll.” He said in a raspy voice. Y/N was now sitting on Bucky’s lap, where she could feel his member harden. Y/N broke the kiss to leave a trail of kisses along his neck, earning a grunt from him. “We should stop.” Y/N said in between breaths. Bucky’s lips found their way back to Y/N’s. “Yeah, we should.” But neither of them could detach from the other. Suddenly, the two hear keys jiggling in the door. Y/N squeals as she jumps off of Bucky. The two sit a few feet apart, obviously out of breath. Y/N makes a last minute run to the bathroom to fix her hair. Bucky grabs a pillow and places it casually over his crotch. He runs a hand through his hair as Sam enters the room with a bag of food. “Thanks for helping me in by the way. The stupid lock is broken.” Bucky smiled softly, the only thoughts running through his mind were of Y/N. He didn’t know if he could keep it together when he sees her again.

Y/N comes out of the bathroom, looking normal and relaxed. She comes over quietly and grabs some food, avoiding eye contact with Bucky. Bucky watches her every move, finding perfection in all of it. Sam sat, clueless of how to understand this interaction. Y/N sits next to Bucky, resting her head on his shoulder as she ate. “Oh so you two are a thing now?” Sam asked. “Now you see that makes more sense why you’re being so weird today. I’m happy for you guys.” Bucky smiled and placed a kiss on top of Y/N’s head.

Before sleep that night, Bucky whispered in Y/N’s ear, “We’ll have to finish what we started sometime.” Bucky nibbled Y/N’s ear and placed a kiss on her neck before falling asleep.

——————

At the next mission, the team had to go indoors and split up to find the super soldiers. Y/N made it to them first, but she quickly felt her powers wipe away from her body. She entered a room with runes on the walls. Y/N looked around to see who might’ve done it, but she couldn’t imagine any of the super soldiers being capable of this. Y/N pulled her torturer’s necklace out of her pocket, securing it safely around her neck, the red light beginning to glow. While Y/N’s physical body remained standing where it was, her spirit temporarily transported to a different realm. “Are you joining the collective?” A voice whispered to her in the dark. “No. I just need to get out of here, away from the runes.” Y/N tried bargaining with the spirit. “Tsk tsk tsk. We only let you use the power if you join us. That is the price you pay.” Y/N looked around her, seeing only an abyss. She tried feeling her powers, they had returned. “And what if I don’t listen to you?” She said with a new confidence. “Then you’ll have even more people after you. Brutal people who want justice for the powers of the collective.” Y/N used her senses to feel around. There was something that she could grab onto with her telekinesis. She pulled the object closer to see a frail old woman in a robe. The woman had a look of shock on her face. “You’re not like the others. You looked behind the curtain. You must be one of the chosen ones. We permit you our power, you don’t have to join us.” The old woman bowed to Y/N, her weak legs kneeling on the ground. Y/N was incredibly confused but delighted to get this haggling over with.

Y/N was brought back to reality, where only a few milliseconds had passed. With her newfound powers from the necklace, she destroyed the runes by crumbling the walls around her. The super soldiers stood in shock. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” One said to the other. “What will we tell him when he gets here?” Y/N started attacking the super soldiers that came after her. Sam and Bucky followed the noise and joined the fight. Bucky noticed that Y/N was wearing the necklace and her powers were different. He stayed close by her as he fought.

Y/N left in the middle of the fight, running out of the room. “What the hell?” Bucky yelled. Y/N climbed to the rooftop, where she felt a formidable presence. “Well, well, well. Look who it is.” A man Y/N remembers from her captivity unleashed sparkles from his hands, casting runes on the ground. Y/N destroyed them at the blink of an eye, and that is when the man recognized her necklace. “You’re with the collective?” Y/N shook her head and the man looked worried. “Call for backup.” He spoke to his servant. Y/N and the man began fighting, and she had him pinned down before the super soldiers had arrived. The man tried reaching for the necklace, but Y/N twisted his arm tighter. “What are you waiting for? Kill me.” The man pleaded. Y/N grew frustrated. “Wait, you can’t kill me? What a twist!” He laughed hysterically. “Y/N!” Sam and Bucky yelled running towards the scene. “We need to take care of this guy.” Y/N said. The message didn’t get through to either of the men. “Little miss powerful doesn’t have what it takes.” The man smirked. “You. With the blue eyes. Kill me. Do it. You’ve done it hundreds of times before.” Bucky looked at Y/N reluctantly, and she looked down. Bucky aimed his gun at the man and fired, knocking him dead. The super soldiers and servants scurried away like mice. “Y/N, who was that?” Sam asked gently. Y/N couldn’t hear anything over the whispers from the necklace. She still held on to the dead man’s arm tightly. “Y/N?” Sam and Bucky looked at each other in worry.

Bucky pulled Y/N’s arm off of the man. “Y/N?” Bucky cupped Y/N’s cheeks with his hands. The look in her eyes was desolate. “Y/N snap out of it. God damn it.” Bucky walked away in frustration and kicked his gun. “Y/N!” Sam yelled her name louder. Y/N heard his voice faintly. She started to control the voices much like lowering the volume on a remote. “I have to go.” Was all she said before she jumped from one rooftop to another. Bucky started to chase after her, but Sam blocked him. “Don’t do it Buck. You won’t make it.” Bucky ignored him. “Bull shit. I did that all the time when I was the Winter Soldier.” Sam fought harder to keep him back. “You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore. I couldn’t even chase her right now if I flew after her. I’m sorry Bucky. We have to let her go.” Tears formed in Bucky’s eyes. Sam brought him into an embrace. “I don’t understand what happened to her.” Sam held back tears. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out. I’ll be sure of it.”

——————

Tags: @learisa @harrietbaudelaire

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan #marvel #mcu #marvel imagine #mcu imagine #fanfic #crush imagine #imagine #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader

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rebeccccccaaa · 3 years

Text

𝕳𝖚𝖒𝖆𝖓

______________________

sᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʀᴏɢᴇʀs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: (ANON) hey i just stumbled on your stuff. it's really good!! and this is my first ever request so i don't know if i'm doing it right, but do you think you could write something where the reader is insecure about her body hair and bucky or steve is just like comforting them and maybe some slight smut??

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: SMUT 18+ minors dni, major fluff miss girl

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’s ɴᴏᴛᴇs: idk if you were looking for just coochie hair but this was really real for me so i made it like an all around insecurity about having hairy arms, shoulders, back, belly, the whole shabang i hope that was ok . this really hit home as a Latina/Hispanic with prominent body hair so i really hope you guys like it

________________________

“What about this one?” Nat held a silk dress, the front cutting low as well as the back.

“It’s pretty,” you started.

“Yeah?”

“Pretty revealing,” you snorted.

“Nat I already told you, I was thinking maybe something with long sleeves, maybe a pant suit? That's a power move,” you laughed.

“Y/n, you have a gorgeous body and you should show everyone,” she said smiling softly.

“It’s not that, it’s just….”

“Just what?” she asked concerningly.

“It’s stupid,” you chuckled nervously.

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you this much,” she said.

“I don’t really like to wear clothes that show off a lot of skin because I don’t- ugh,” you huffed out, “I have a lot of hair, Like everywhere.”

“You’re human; you’re supposed to,” Nat chuckled.

“I know, but it's very visible and I get a bit insecure,” you mumbled.

“Awe, it’s ok. You’re still the most beautiful girl in the whole world, did you know that?” Nat smiled hoping to lighten the mood.

“Shut up,” you pushed her playfully.

“No seriously, you’re so stunning and if a guy, who probably looks like a fucking werewolf, has the audicity to say you’re too hairy can literally stick a razor up their ass,” she said making you giggle.

“You know Steve wouldn’t care,” she wiggled her eyebrows.

“Stop it,” she was always teasing you about Steve, and as much as you did like him, it’s so embarrassing.

“Come on buy this one and flaunt that gorgeous body so y’all can fuck.”

“Oh my- If I buy it will you shut up?”

“Yes.”

You snatched the garment from her hands and walked prissily to the counter hearing the red head snicker behind you.

You stood in front of the mirror staring at your appearance. Your skin glowed against the silk fabric, the tie resting on the side of your waist pulling the fabric in to accentuate your features. The back was cut low with practically no fabric above your sacrum.

Those little hairs crept along your back and you couldn’t help but frown at them. The fuzz was so visible and you just wish you had thin hairs, hardly noticeable like those girls on social media. Growing up people always had something to say about the hairs on your shoulders and your arms. Nothing’s changed as an adult now and it fed horribly into your insecurities.

“You ready?” Nat came into your room, making you snap your head towards her.

“Oh my goodness, you look so beautiful!” Wanda said walking into your room as well.

“Thank you, guys,” you smiled softly. You couldn’t help but hide your arms placing your hands over your forearms and Nat looked at you gingerly and grabbed your hands softly.

“Everything about you is beautiful, ok?” she smiled.

“Thanks,” you responded before heading downstairs.

The music seemed quiet compared to the voices that chattered up and down the halls and rooms. It was very crowded and you were quickly left alone; Nat headed to the bar and Wanda instantly spotting Vision.

You held your head high and walked through the crowd to the table where Tony had appetizers and snacks for the guests. You felt confident after Nat’s words and you definitely caught the eyes of many different oglers there. One particular man had walked with poise stopping before you with a smile.

He was quite handsome and you returned a smile, casting your eyes down shyly. He wore a classic all black look, a black button up collar with sleek balck suit pants. His shoes were also black and he looked very put together. He had pitch black hair and gorgeous green eyes. You were hypnotized.

“You look absolutely ravishing darling,” he spoke smoothly.

“Oh, uh, thank you. You look very nice too,” you said timidly.

You two made small talk before migrating to the bar. Nat gave you a look before Wanda spoke to you, her eyes as well as yours glowing red and her voice echoed in your head.

What about Steve?

Get out!

“Woah, what’s with your eyes?” the guy said surprised.

“What?” you retorted.

“They- They were red for a second,” he stuttered.

“Maybe you’ve had a bit too much to drink,” Nat swooped in.

“Yeah, probably,” he chuckled.

You two continued to talk until he asked the dreaded question. The question that always makes you unbelievably self conscious and gross. The question that every goddamn man on earth feels they need to ask for no fucking reason.

“Why don’t you shave your arms?”

“What?” you asked dumbfounded.

“Well, you’re very uh- hairy. Do you shave your legs?”

“I- uh. I don’t understand.”

“Well, I just noticed you’ve got a lot of hair on your arms and your shoulders. You should probably shave it, you know?” he said.

Nat and Wanda exchanged shocked and foul looks, rolling their eyes at the man’s remarks. You smiled sarcastically before storming away. Men seriously have nothing but the audacity. You covered your arms and caved yourself in just trying to run from the situation. Before you could head to the elevators you bumped into a strong body.

“Y/n, I was looking for you- Wow, you look- wow,” he said with wide eyes. He’s never seen you in a dress quite like this. The silk was shining beautifully like your glowing skin and the straps fell from your shoulders making Steve fight the urge to kiss and nip at your soft skin. The color complimented your skin tone incredibly and he was so enamored by your beauty; not that you weren’t always the most beautiful.

You were angelic.

“Thanks um, I’m gonna back up now. Not really feeling too hot,” you mean that quite figuratively.

“What, but the party’s just getting started! I haven’t gotten to dance with you,” he gave that gorgeous smile that would make any woman fall to their knees.

“Steve-”

“Come on just one dance?” he grabbed your hand.

“You have to buy me a drink first,” you smirked, dragging him to the bar. Upon arrival, Nat smiled knowingly at you before making your favorite and Steve handed a twenty dollar bill. The later the night got, the more Stark’s guests drunken themselves into a careless party vibe.

The lights were dimmed and the music grew louder. You finished your drink and Steve raised his brows waiting with a grin on his gorgeous face. You grabbed his hand and made your way to the makeshift dance floor that Tony’s guests had created.

Steve came up behind you with his hands on your hips and swayed with them to the beat of the music. Strangers around him had created quite a sexual tension filled aura that definitely affected you both. Your head was thrown back on Steve’s shoulder and your eyes were closed.

Steve looked around before catching his gaze with Nat’s smirking and nodded as if to tell him to make a move already. He looked down at you again, you were so beautiful in his arms. He ran his nose along the side of your face and sensed your head slowly leaning into him.

You smiled slowly and Steve pressed a soft kiss to your temple. He kept pressing faint kisses down your neck as his hands trailing up your sides giving your goosebumps. He ran his nose along your shoulder and pressed kisses there too when you suddenly became overwhelmed with insecure questions; what if he notices the hairs? What if he asks the same question? Or worse, what if he gets disgusted by that?

You pushed him off and quickly ran away through the crowd. Confused, Steve chased after you. You walked quickly after leaving the crowd and made your way back to the elevator as you did earlier in the night. Steve was concerned that maybe he might’ve done something you might not wanted and scared you away.

“Hey, hey,” he reached for your arm, of which you quickly retracted.

“Wait, Y/n,” you avoided his eyes as you round the corner towards the elevator. Steve stepped in front of you, pushing your back against the wall caging you with his arms.

“What happened? I thought- I thought we were you know, having a moment,” he smiled guiltily.

“Steve, I’m sorry but…” you trailed off.

“Is it me?”

“No! J- Ugh, Steve. Please,” you just wanted to go to your room and cry; you let your insecurities get the best of you once again and ran away from something that could’ve been.

“Then what is it? Because I like you; I really like you. And I need you to tell me if you don’t feel the same because I’m just gonna think that I did something wrong and that I hurt you; and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did,” he told you.

“You didn’t do anything,” you teared up; you brought his forehead to yours and brushed his nose against yours.

“Growing up people always teased me for my body hair. Guys always told me that I needed to shave my arms because being able to see the hair was gross. I feel so ugly. And that fucking asshole tonight; I really thought he was gonna be different. They’re all the same.”

“Y/n, look at me. You are so fucking beautiful. Everything about you is perfect and I want nothing more than to show you.”

“You don’t think I need to shave,” you pouted.

“No, and anyone that tells you that, you let me know and I’ll punch them,” he said with a deadpan look making you grin.

“Sorry. No one’s ever said those things to me, about you know,” you cupped his face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You smiled softly before leaning into him and pressing your lips against his gingerly. You could feel him smile into the kiss and his hands cradled the back of your head as he deepened the kiss.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said against your lips.

He pulled away and turned around briefly to call the lift. He grabbed your hand and pulled you inside pressing you against the wall to kiss you sloppily. Your chest heaved up and down at his passion and when he pulled away you were left breathless.

He led you to his room where he was on you in an instant again, your back pressed against his door and his lips on your neck. Your head was thrown back as you basked in the feeling of his lips against your neck. Your hands making home in his hair.

He pulled your strap down pressing kisses along your shoulder. You tensed a bit out of natural habit but his lips felt so soft and gentle, you relaxed and indulged in his attention. Your finger made work with his baby blue button up that complemented his eyes perfectly and pushed his collar shirt off his broad shoulders.

You grew a bit of confidence and pushed him off backing him up until he sat on the edge of his bed. When Steve plopped down he couldn’t help the huge grin on his face. His hands went under your dress caressing your thighs with his thumbs waiting for your next move.

You bit your lip as you slowly untied the string that cinched your waist; unveiling your body to him wearing simply a pair of nude lace panties. You could hear the lustful groan that came from Steve, his eyes wandering your body as if he were memorizing everything about you.

Hyper aware of your insecurity now that you’ve told him, he noticed the soft hairs that gloss over your skin. He had no problem with it. He thought it was beautiful; especially the little happy trail down your stomach. His hands came up your side and he leaned forward to kiss your belly. You instinctively pulled away and tensed before muttering apologies under your breath.

“You don’t need to apologize, doll,” he looked up at you.

He leaned forward again, his lips making contact with your hot skin this time. The eyes he gave were soft yet hungry and you couldn’t help the arousal that pooled between your thighs. He pulled you forward so you sat comfortably on his lap and grabbed your hands in his own. He placed them around his neck turning his head to the side to kiss the inside of your forearm all the way up to your shoulder.

“You are so gorgeous, absolutely ethereal, celestial, heavenly, god I could just look at you all day,” he said, making you grow flustered.

“It’s true, darling.”

“Thank you,” you said with teary eyes.

Beautiful. Angelic. Divine. Perfect. Steve whispered those words against your burning skin as he turned you over to lay on your back. You kissed him messily before he moved down your body slowly practically peeling your panties from your body.

The sight of your dripping cunt was enough for Steve’s cock to harden painfully. He stood up eagerily and dropped his pants and boxers surprising you. He was much bigger than you had anticipated and the nerves fluttered in your belly whether he’d fit comfortably or not.

“You ok?” he rubbed your leg when he saw concern in your face.

“Yeah, you’re uh- you’re really big,” you said, making him chuckle.

“We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable,” he reassured.

“No, I do! I really do,” you said quickly making him laugh harder this time.

“Here, I think this will make it easier,” he grabbed your hand so you could sit up easily before quickly grabbing a condom and handing it to him. He pulled you close to let you straddle his legs as you did moments ago. He pumped his erect cock for a second before tearing the foil and wrapping it around his girth.

You stood up on your knees and stared into his eyes as you felt his tip at your entrance. You slowly sank down onto him feeling absolutely stretched to your fullest. You and Steve both moaned simultaneously as you took his entire length. You hadn’t even moved yet and Steve could you feel you pulsating around him.

Your walls were so soft and velvety, Steve knew he wasn’t going to last long.

“Ugh, baby, you gotta move please,” he moaned.

“You feel so good,” you whimpered. You lifted yourself before returning to settle back down over and over again.

Steve leaned forward pressing kisses to your breasts whilst holding your waist to steady your bounces. He looked at you with nothing but adoration and devotion relishing in the moment he has with you. You were so goddamn beautiful above him, Steve couldn’t help the quickly approaching release.

He could feel your wall clenching around him signaling how close you were. You began to grow tired and you were no longer bouncing up and down but rather rocking your hips forward and back now. Doing this stimulated your clit, rubbing against his pelvis and soon enough that had you body shaking in pleasure.

“Fuck, Steve, I’m coming!” you gripped onto his shoulders. His finger dug into your own flesh surely to leave marks of some sort later and his head was thrown back as he chanted your name like a prayer.

You pressed your lips against his neck kissing and sucking leaving purple and red marks and bites on him as you reached your climax. Every muscle in your body convulsed and tightened against Steve until you finally felt like you could relax.

“You were so good, baby girl. So good for me,” he soothed; his hand rubbing and scratching your back gently.

“Fuck,” you breathed out.

“Sh, I got ya. Relax, baby,” he could feel your slightly trembling body limp against him.

“That was amazing,” you whispered, continuing to press faint kisses on his neck.

“You’re amazing,” he said cheekily.

“Thank you; for making me feel beautiful again.”

“I’d do anything for you. You deserve the world. You’re so stunning and anyone who wants to say otherwise is just jealous and full of shit,” he said making you grin.

“You want me to run you a bath?” he asked softly.

“Only if you join me?”

“Deal.”

======================

ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ: (For all my work)

@mathletemadison

@buckybarnes101

@l-sofiamia-l

@pluto-grl

#steve rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #marvel fics #marvel smut #chris evans smut

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