#and if you're thinking that these kids are going to appear in

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Something that's ours

Written for round one of the @steddiebingo

Prompt: Basketball

Rated: T

Tags: Modern AU; No UD AU; Steve is Dustin’s dad; Established relationship; Moving in together; Domestic fluff; Found family; Sexual innuendo

Notes: Happy birthday, @thefreakandthehair! It's the Someone who cares boys! It's basketball! It's for you! Hope you have the greatest of days! 🥰

“So,” Robin’s voice crackles over the speakers. The car is a little older and a lot less less fancy than the one Steve used to drive, and he's still getting used to the tinny sound. “That's it, then? You sold the penthouse?”

“Yup,” Steve agrees. “Signed and sealed.”

“How do you feel about that?”

He hums in thought.

“Dunno. I thought it would feel different. I've lived in that place since I got out of college. Dustin made his first steps in the living room. But now that it's gone … It's weird, but all I feel is relief.”

“I don't think that's weird at all,” she says. “That place never really felt like yours.”

“You're right.” Now that the glass and chrome of the skyscrapers outside has made way to the smaller houses and green lawns of his new neighborhood, he feels like he can breathe more freely. “My dad got that place for the son he wanted, not for me. It feels good to finally get rid of it.”

“I'm happy for you, dingus.” Even with the tinny speakers, he can hear the fondness in her words. “Any plans for the shitload of money you got for the place? You gonna treat Eddie to a romantic luxury cruise? Propose on the beach at sunset?”

“Very funny,” he quips, turning into their new street. He's been thinking about proposing an awful lot lately, but she doesn't need to know that yet. “Most of it is going into our savings. God knows we'll need it until I fall back on my- Jesus fucking Christ!”

The tires screech as he slams on the brakes and the car grinds to a stop at the edge of the driveway.

“What?” Robin shrieks. “What is it? Are you okay?”

It takes Steve a moment to tear his eyes away from the sight behind his windscreen.

“I'm fine,” he mumbles when he finally does. “I’ll call you back.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he disconnects the call and climbs out of the car.

“Eddie? What the fuck are you doing?”

Eddie, perched atop the large folding ladder that's inches away from his bumper, glares down at him, like an angry, curly-haired gargoyle.

“The question is what are you doing? Trying to kill me? Because that's how you kill a guy, Stevie!”

Steve has half a mind to reply that this is how a guy gets himself killed, wobbling around on ladders in the middle of driveways, but he's way to confused. He didn't even know they owned a ladder.

Then again, he also didn't know they owned a basketball hoop, yet here they are.

“Why are you mounting a basketball hoop to our wall?” he asks dumbly. “You don't even like basketball.”

“You wound me,” Eddie pouts as he clambers off the ladder. His hair is tied away from his face with a bandana, his cut-off band shirt is sticky with sweat and there's a screwdriver sticking from his back pocket. Steve wants to bite him. “I said you'd never catch me playing, but I don't mind watching. And besides, we're a good, honest suburban family now. You gotta throw hoops in the driveway.”

Steve is about to open his mouth to ask if he's met Dustin, because the kid wouldn't touch a basketball if his life depended on it. But that is when Eddie picks up the ball he had lying by the garage door and presses it into his hands, and it clicks.

“Wait, what? Is this for me?”

Eddie shrugs. “You said you always wanted one growing up, didn't you?”

Steve nods, a bit dumbfounded. It's true. He always wanted one, but his father said it would damage the facade and ruin the appearance of the house.

“The beauty of having your own place,” says Eddie, leaning over the ball for a long, lingering kiss, “is that nobody gets to tell you what you can and can't do, right?”

“Right,” Steve says. He knows he's grinning like an idiot, but he can't stop it. Not like he wants to. He wants to take this house and make it a home, wants to fill it with all the things that are unabashedly theirs. His sports equipment and Dustin’s science stuff and Eddie's books. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, sweetheart.” Eddie wipes his flushed face with the hem of his shirt, grinning at the way Steve's gaze catches on the naked stretch of his chest and stomach. “Now, Dustin won't be home from school for another hour or two. How about you try this out, work up a bit of a sweat … and then we hit the shower together? There's some other balls I wouldn't mind playing with.”

More Steddie Bingo

[misctf]

For the Team: A Real Man

“I’m not going to stand here and let you belittle the team.” Brett slammed his locker shut and turned to face his coach, “We’re trying out best.” The locker room fell silent. No one talked back to coach.

Coach Andrews glared at Brett, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in anger. “You think you know better than me, boy?” he growled, his deep voice echoing off the locker room walls. “I've been coaching football for decades, and you're just some punk kid who thinks he knows it all.”

“With all due respect, Coach, your behavior towards us is unacceptable.” he replies firmly, trying to keep his voice steady. “We're here to improve our skills, not be belittled and humiliated.”

The other players watched in silence, unsure how their coach would react to their star quarterback’s bold challenge. Coach Andrews' face turned an alarming shade of red, and he took a menacing step closer to Brett.

“You think you're so special, huh?” Coach Andrews sneered, his hot breath washing over Brett's face. “Brett, you don't understand a damn thing.” He chuckled, “Throwing a ball well doesn’t make you a leader.”

“I'm just telling it like it is.” Brett snapped back, “Why would we want to dedicate ourselves to this team if you’re treating us like shit during a regular practice?”

The other men remained quiet. No one knew what to say, but they watched closely. Brett was always their leader. Sticking up for them. And while they mostly agreed with him, they weren't about to face coach's wrath.

“You wouldn't know true leadership, dedication, or what it means to be a man if it bit you in the ass.” Coach Andrews replied, crossing his large, hairy arms, “Let me show you, boy. Let me show everyone here.” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. With a swift motion, he reached out and grasped Brett's chin, forcing the younger man to meet his gaze.

Brett tried to pull away, but the coach's grip was unyielding. A shiver ran down his spine as he felt the coarse hairs on Coach Andrews' palm brush against his smooth skin, “First and foremost, these arms. You think these toned, well-groomed arms make you a man?”

As he spoke, Coach Andrews' hands began to glow with an eerie light. And he dug his hands into Brett's impressive arms. Brett gasped as he felt the coach's fingers making contact with his skin. Brett's eyes widened in shock as he felt the coach's glowing fingers sink into his muscles. A tingling sensation spread through his arms as they began to shift and contort. The definition in his biceps softened, the veins disappearing beneath a layer of new flesh. His forearms thickened, growing hairier as dark brown locks sprouted from his skin.

“Wha...what's happening?” Brett managed to choke out, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and disbelief. He tried to move his transforming arms, but they felt heavy, cumbersome. Bulking with both muscle and fat. The skin becoming tanned and weathered with age, “Coach, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

“Real men have substance, not just flash.” Brett gasped as coarse, dark hairs sprouted from his shoulders and traveled down his back.

As the coach's hands moved over Brett's chest, the young athlete felt his pecs begin to expand and contort. The lean, defined muscle mass that had once been there gave way to a softer, more rounded contour, reminiscent of Coach Andrews' own mature physique. Darker, coarser hair erupted across the changing skin, until Brett's chest was covered in a thick mat of brown fuzz, mirroring the coach's own hirsute appearance.

“What...” Brett whimpered, horror dawning in his eyes as his previously firm pecs sagged, “I...” He looked at his teammates- his friends. All just stared wide eyed, unsure what to do, “Please! Stop...”

“Keep quiet and take it like a man.” Coach Andrews commanded gruffly, squeezing Brett's newly enlarged, hairy pecs, “Maybe then you'll understand the importance of discipline and hard work, right boy?”

“I’m no boy! I’m a fuckin’ man!” Brett's eyes widened at his sudden outburst, while Coach Andrews just grinned, “No, why did I...?” Brett tried to understand where that outburst came from.

Coach Andrews leaned in close, his breath hot against Brett's ear as he whispered, “Because deep down, you crave the power and control that comes with being an alpha male. Your body is responding to its primal urges, even if your mind resists.”

As he spoke, Coach Andrews' hands continued their work, sliding down Brett's torso to grasp his hips. Brett felt a strange heat emanating from the coach's palms, seeping into his skin. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his abs started to shift.

Coach Andrews grinned, seeming to relish Brett's distress. “That's it, boy. Let it happen.” he purred, his hands sliding across Brett’s firm torso, “Feel the power surging through you. It's what separates the men from the boys.” Wiry hairs sprouted from Brett’s abdomen as coach’s hands made their way down. Each strand growing thicker and curlier.

“No...no, please!”

The young athlete tensed, expecting another painful alteration, but instead felt his stomach muscles relax and soften. The six-pack that had once been so prominent began to fade, replaced by a rounder, flabbier midsection. Still, Brett could appreciate the muscle behind the soft, hairy flesh. Brett's face contorted in anguish as he watched his own body take on a different form. 

“Don’t you want to be a real man?” Coach Andrews goaded, “Like me?” He emphasized.

Brett's gaze dropped to his reflection, his heart pounding in his ears as he took in the sight of himself. Gone were the chiseled features and athletic build he'd once possessed. In their place was a heavier, more imposing figure, with a rounded belly and broad, muscular shoulders. Thick, dark hair now covered every inch of exposed skin, from his chest to his arms to his back.

“I...I look like you.” Brett whispered, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and awe. He couldn't deny the raw power radiating from his new form, the sense of strength and dominance that seemed to pulse through his very being.

Coach Andrews nodded approvingly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “See? This is what it means to be a real man. Not some hairless pretty boy. You’re learning what it means to be a real man. To be me.” Coach Andrews replied, admiring his work so far.

With a firm squeeze, Coach's fingers made contact with Brett's pert ass. The skin rippled and shifted, the muscle mass shifting as it grew and filled with fat. The lean, chiseled curves of his rear gave way to a broader, heavier set of cheeks, now covered in a thick, wiry mat of dark hair. The muscles softened, turning to pliant flesh that jiggled slightly with each movement. Brett winced as the process extended to his thighs, the lean, toned flesh giving way to a heavier, more bulked-out build, marred by jiggly fat.

“But I don’t want to be like you!” The transforming quarterback insisted, shifting uncomfortably as a forest of dense hairs sprouted from his new legs, “It's too much...I can't...” 

Yet, even as he spoke, he found himself admiring the new contours of his body in the mirror. The heavy, hair-covered muscles seemed to throb with power, drawing his gaze like a magnet. Coach Andrews noticed the change in Brett's demeanor and smirked knowingly. 

“You're starting to come around, aren't you boy? Admitting that maybe I know what I'm talking about after all?”

Brett swallowed hard, his mind reeling as he struggled to reconcile his conflicting desires. Part of him still longed for his old, lean physique, but another part - a darker, more primal part - reveled in the sheer masculinity of his new form. 

“N-no, I don't...I mean, yes, I guess.”

Coach Andrews simply smirked as he ran his hands through Brett’s hair, “That's it, boy. Embrace your new reality. You're no longer just a pretty face and a strong arm. You're a force to be reckoned with.”  

As the coach's glowing fingers massaged the quarterback’s scalp, his proud locks began to fall away. Brett could only watch as his styled hair fell in front of his face. Each lock making their way to the locker room floor. Finally, coach let go and Brett shivered at the cool sensation of the air on his bald head.

“N-no, I won't...” Brett protested weakly, but his voice lacked conviction, “This isn't me. I'm not...I can't be...”

But Coach Andrews shook his head and brushed his glowing hand against Brett's cheeks. Immediately, the youthful contours began to blur and shift. His angular jawline softened, rounding into a squarer, more weathered shape. All of which was quickly covered in a beautifully thick, manly beard. His high cheekbones receded slightly, and his nose lost its sharpness, taking on a more bulbous, fleshy appearance. Even his eyes seemed to alter, losing their bright, eager sparkle in favor of a duller, more world-weary gaze.

“All done.” Coach Andrews grinned, “You’re perfect. A true man.”

Brett stared at his reflection, his eyes turning to Coach Andrews. And in that moment, he realized- they were the same, down to the last strand of hair on their chest. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. His own resistance was crumbling, swept away by an unfamiliar surge of masculine pride and dominance.

"Brett!" One of his teammates called out, "Don't...!"

"Shut it, Johnson!" Brett growled, his voice low and gravelly- the same as Coach Andrews'. His former friend took a step back, clearly intimidated by the transformation in their usually affable leader.

Inside, however, Brett was reeling. How could he have spoken to his friend like that? He'd always prided himself on his kind heart and good judgment. Now, well now...

Coach Andrews placed a meaty hand on Brett's shoulder, “Now you're learning, son. Don't let weakness cloud your judgement. A real man stands tall and asserts his authority without apology.”

Brett nodded slowly, his expression hardening into a mask of stoic determination. He could feel the change coursing through him, reshaping his very essence.  

“I needed a little help coaching you pathetic excuses.” Coach Andrews says turning to his team, “And who better to assist me than me? Right, Coach Andrews?” He says, looking over at Brett.

Brett stared blankly at his reflection, his mind struggling to comprehend the enormity of the transformation. The man staring back at him was no longer the person he once was - not even remotely. Every fiber of his being had been rewoven into the image of Coach Andrews, right down to his thoughts and desires.

“I am Coach Andrews.” he muttered, the words feeling foreign yet comforting, “My team needs discipline. I'll whip them into shape, no matter the cost.” He turned to face his stunned teammates, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sent a chill down their spines, “Listen up, boys. From now on, I expect nothing less than perfection on the field. Any slacking off will be met with severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

Brett's teammates cowered under his intense glare, nodding quickly in fearful agreement, “Yes, Bre... er, Coach Andrews” one of them stuttered.

Brett/Coach Andrews sneered at their subservience, his chest puffing out with pride, “Good. Now get out of my sight and report to the practice field immediately. We have a lot of work to do to turn you into the champions I know you can be.”

Both coaches watched as their team scrambled to obey the orders, a twisted sense of satisfaction filling them. Coach Andrews could only grin at the sight of the new coach- his twin- a specimen of true masculinity. And without another word, together, the two Coach Andrews stepped out onto the practice field, ready to unleash their unique brand of discipline upon their team.

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 5

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability, mentions for Rafayel stories, and myths, violent imagery and arguments.

Word Count: 5456

Written: 9th January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. Rafayel is so hard to write for a lot of reasons, but also is one of my favourite characters in any story because he's just... contains multitudes. I also feel like he's the one who struggles most with all these other people in MC's life. I also feel like he's so fixated on pain, and struggle, that he forgets kindness can be offered to him with no price. Anyway, I enjoyed working on this bit a lot even though it was hard. Enjoy! Also as a side note, the song of choice I can only partially explain, Rafayel out of all the boys makes me think of regency romance on a level I truly cannot explain. (even though he doesn't have a dancing scene... YET!!)

Now Playing: All I Want, by Kris Bowers

Masterlist AO3

<- Previous

Rafayel loves you. That is never in doubt. He finds himself bitter and aching that there is so much you have shared that only he remembers.

Sometimes it comes out in harsh words or lies. Even though he knows it is unfair to punish you, when you can't control it.

Mostly, however, he tries to enjoy moments with you. Hoping that something will spark, and you will look at him and see long years of history.

Remember his longing and his love in all its forms.

Remember all the facets that make him up. Perhaps it's cowardice to want your memories to fill in the blanks that he is too scared to tell you. Blood on his hands, heart offered up. He does not want to see your expression change. For you to fear or hate who he is… who he can become.

He thinks about beautiful blue seas, and the breath stolen underwater.

When he finds himself thinking of the beach he waited at, every year, he pushes himself into his work.

Now, he spends most of his days at your side. In case you need him. He watches closely, because he's used to you hiding your struggle from him. When you're sick, you've hidden it, he's reminded you that you're not a superhero. As much as you put on a brave front for every kid that sees your hunter reels.

Rafayel has watched this version of you for a long time, before he finally met you again. Properly.

He has seen so many renditions of you, no matter who you have been… he has loved you. He has and will love you for eternity and beyond, even if it might be easier not to.

Rafayel has finished most of his work for his exhibit, as he stares at the final piece that is missing something that he cannot find.

Sun blends with sea, as the tides recede. As silver bones are left behind to bleach.

He stares and stares and nothing comes. Just that vague, irritating feeling of incompletion.

"You're going to burn a hole in it, fish."

"Sylus, leave the man alone, he's actually working."

Rafayel huffs… and therein lies his other problem. Your consortium of bizarre attachments. If he were less observant, he could pretend they see you as a friend only.

But he is a man who can kill another, who can plan his revenge, who can hide in plain sight. Who is capable of sneaking up even on the N109 Zone Leader.

So he can see and he can't ignore. He also can't ignore that they comfort you as well.

You have teased him for being childish, and he thinks the irritating feeling in his gut, that demands he steal all of your time, that you are his bonded partner, confirms such a claim. He is not possessive of a lot… your heart is his.

He tries to ignore the doctor and the crow. Staring straight ahead, hoping that answers will come to him, but he cannot. He can feel their presence and it is on the edge of his consciousness. Poking at it.

Like he is a crab on the beach and a child wants to watch his pincers clasp.

"Maybe you should take a walk, get some fresh air."

"Do you want the fish to suffocate, Doctor?"

"Truly, you are incapable of not prodding at others aren't you?"

He huffs this time, turning his face to look at the two. Zayne is typing on his laptop, barely looking up to converse, while Sylus is on his tablet, glasses on the end of his nose.

The two look eerily similar like this.

Rafayel tries not to compare the doctor to the crow, it's unflattering. At least the doctor can heal your wounds.

When he speaks though, his irritation comes out in the snippy tone he takes, "Your opinions are noted, dumb crow. Then swiftly discarded."

The man does that irritating little laugh he does, that is more a puff of air than a real laugh. Like it's too much effort to feel anything, and Rafayel wants to pluck his feathers.

How you can tolerate him, he'll never know.

At least the hunter is quiet…

Still, he wants to get out of here, they make it harder for him to think, and he can't make progress like this. So he stands, shrugging at them and heads towards the door, as he goes to make through he almost collides with you and Xavier returning from the hospital. He isn't surprised when you move out the way just in time, you're a hunter and your training has made you capable. Still as he greets you, you hesitate, before tugging at his shirt before he can leave.

He looks down, your hand holding onto the fabric, not tough enough to tear, but enough to halt his movements.

"Are you alright, Raffy?" 

It shouldn't surprise him that you notice the tick in his jaw, or the stress under his skin. It isn't the first time, and you've shown many times to have been able to pick out when his mood has dropped. You're observant as part of being a hunter, you're careful, you pay attention. You're smart.

You care.

About him, about his mood… about his life. His irritation settles, soothes at the edges, and his smile is easier, "I need some fresh air. Want to come with?"

You hesitate and he watches the fear enter your eyes. Wavering. You walk between the hospital and the apartment when you don't take Zayne's car, but that's the extent of your journeys. He wants to pull you by the hand… make you see the sea with him.

"Where are you going?"

"Whitesands."

It's far enough removed, very few people visit it, and he will get a walk somewhere familiar. Perhaps it's familiar enough for you to follow him.

He extends his hand, carefully, trying to keep the need from bubbling to the surface. If he could take you away far from here, he would. Take you to everything he's ever seen, so he can see it with new eyes. Yours.

Your hand stretches out, and your fingers tremble, before you finally take his, "Alright, if it's quiet." Your request is one he'll happily grant. Both of you alone, he can't think of a better way to spend his time.

The walk is kind to him, as they head towards Whitesand Bay, he gets to keep your hand in his, listen to the song of the world, and watch as your steps become lighter. You stop staring down at your arm and checking around you, eventually focusing on the sky and him.

As feet crunch on white sand, and approach the edge of tides. You let go of his hand to walk a little further out, and he watches. As you crouch, as you reach fingers to the water.

Rafayel paints everything he thinks is beautiful, tragic, or brings pain to his soul. You hurt him too, in ways he aches for. Like he is placing his hand in a burning flame, and holding it there, because the longer he holds it, the closer he gets to what he craves.

Like there is an answer there, waiting over the edge of agony. If he tumbles after it, he'll find what eludes him.

There's a feeling in him that wants to drown you with him. He could swim out, with you in his arms, and pull you under. On the edge of the question of life, before he gives you the means to breathe alongside him. He's warned you of the nature of sirens, and you've looked him in the eye and told him you don't fear him.

You should, though, he knows. You should fear the ocean's grasp as well as his own, because he wants your heart for his.

As you turn your eyes back to him, soft smile tugging the scar on your face, his heart thunders and then stills. Flames and agony. The need to touch and hold it in his hand… Lit against the contours of your face, and the glimmer in your eyes.

His inspiration is always closer than he thinks.

—-----

Rafayel dislikes your companions.

The prince gets to spend all of his time with you, working together, protecting each other. Where Rafayel had to convince you to be his bodyguard, just for a fraction of that time.

The doctor is who you trust with your injuries and your wounds, he is who you go to when something hurts. You hid your sickness from Rafayel before now, so he didn't doubt your capabilities.

The crow… the crow gets under his scales. Like a tick. Biting and bleeding and ruining his skin. Yet you trust him, a man who built all his life on violence. Who has blood on his hands. Who is open about his sins… While he cannot tell you for fear of the look in your eye changing.

It is safe to say the crow is his least favourite. The one who grinds at him most, who plucks and pulls. Like a hook in his upper lip. He dreams of drowning the man… he would if the look in your eyes didn't stop him.

So he hates them, he thinks. The anger and irritation and the childish petulance. He wants your attention and he fights for it, he wants you to trust him most. It took too long to gain entrance into your home, reminding himself that time builds strong bonds. That he should be patient. He did not want to scare you, to startle you. Like you are a small fish and he is a bigger… hungrier beast.

There is no peace when they are around, and normally pain brings him inspiration, an answer on the end of a paintbrush. A vision in the agony.

Whatever feeling they inspire is not pain, and it brings him no art to create, no feelings to share in blues and greens. Nothing to show for it.

He has thankfully, however, finished his final piece. So there is a relief in him, even as the crow looks down at him, eyebrow raised.

Rafayel ignores the man, looking straight ahead, signing his work. Paintbrush steady. Steadier than the racing heart in his chest.

He will not lose a game of chicken with an overgrown bird.

So when the crow turns to walk away, he is relieved, and so smug, until he hears a crunch. Looking over quickly, and staring down at the floor.

"Ah, what a shame."

One of Rafayel's paintbrushes snapped in half by the stupid crow's foot.

He levels a glare at the man, "Are stupid crows clumsy too?"

"Are all fish messy? Your things have spread across the apartment."

"I'm working!"

"Quite diligently I see, despite galavanting off to the beach. Inspiration was it?"

The look on the crow's face is too level. It's too calm. He does not respond to the rise of Rafayel's voice. He does not flinch at the glare in his eyes. He does not move, from where his foot is still on his brush.

It is a feeling of irritation that burns and scorches where it stands.

He has to tolerate and bite his tongue. He has to think and be careful. He has to share, where he does not want to share.

You are his heart, why does he have to look at the eyesore in his vision, and think about his hands on you too.

His anger bubbles and froths and overflows. A pot that has been left, and forgotten. You will forget him too, in favour of a crow! A stupid. Foolish. Irritating crow.

He stands and presses forwards, fangs bared and sharp. He is a predator of the seas. This man is nothing. He is a god of the tides. This man is a petty criminal.

Rafayel knows you better, he has seen more incarnations than this man can even comprehend, and he dares to play at favour?

"If you wish to be drowned, crow, I am happy to oblige."

Eyebrow quirks at him, a look in his eyes that Rafayel can't make out, but it glitters and twinkles, "I'd love to see you try, fish, but I'm afraid you couldn't hope to kill me."

"I am more than willing to try."

"Then you'll simply be hurting your 'beloved bride', wouldn't you?"

He snarls, a low noise in the back of his throat, hand reaching out to grab at the man's throat. To snap it, bite through it, to cut his voice permanently, he isn't sure. It will hurt, and he will deserve it. For calling you what he cannot. Too many memories that you cannot hold in your heart.

The crow steps forwards, as if daring him to try. To wrap his hands around his throat and twist. To slice his throat open with a dagger. To see. To show him if it's true.

"Raffy?" Your call comes from the side, stumbling in, voice wary.

His hand hovers, he debates. Thinks for a moment. Stares at the crow's adam apple as the man swallows his laughter down. The dare is there, waiting for him to take… and they both know he won't.

So he rips his hand back, offers you the kind of smile that shakes at the foundations, "Hey cutie, I was just going out for the exhibit."

You open your mouth to speak, and he shakes his head, grabbing his canvas. Lifting it far too quickly to be safe, and turns on a heel, "I'll see you later."

The speed he leaves the apartment leaves the door frame shaking behind him. Heading out, running from the place. From the crow's dare, from the wary look in your eyes.

From the inadequacy… the guilt… the irritation. The pain.

What lurks over the abyss could just be nothingness. A world where you don't want him, or need him. Where without your memories you do not look at him, hear him call you his beloved bride, and love him as you once did. Where his bond with you is not enough, and he simply has to experience the heart that cannot beat for anyone but you.

That he has lied and hidden and kept from you for too long, that a criminal with blood on his hands who does not hide… claims your heart for his.

His heart…

There is pain behind his art and in his soul. A reminder that he cannot always be with you in every life, and he prays this is not one of them. An alter of suffering that he would cut his chest open at, if you would always look at him.

—--

You cannot stop thinking about the look on Rafayel's face.The agony in his eyes as he'd darted from the room. You'd asked Sylus who had shrugged, "I broke his paintbrush." But not explained further.

You'd seen Rafayel break his own paintbrushes in his studio, stepping on them, falling over them. Resulting in a trip to the hospital because of how messy things were.

You help Sylus clean up some of the mess, containing it in a corner with the rest of Raffy's things, hoping it would alleviate some of the feeling you can't seem to shake in the air. A stagnation. It feels like decay, and you can't open enough windows to air it out.

If Sylus decides not to share, he won't. You've known him long enough, pried at his secrets enough, that you don't waste the strength anymore. He shares what he wants, when he wants to.

So you abandon the effort and go about your day. It drags. Waiting for time to pass, working through your exercises, before you have to leave.

As the time approaches, the clock hand moving, it begins to click harder. The sound impending.

You think about other exhibits, the amount of people, the noise…

It cuts through the excitement, the peace of the wait, the boredom.

You pause as you're getting ready, staring at the prosthetic arm flexing in front of you. The movement of metal fingers, the clear indication of your injury… your failure.

You're going to see Rafayel. A man who people will be looking at. Commending.

Taking photos of.

Do you really want to be stood next to him like this? To draw attention to yourself and him?

An icy chill runs up your spine, and you stop. You have to get these clothes off. You have to cancel. You can't go.

You can't be there.

You feel the chain on your ankle, it tugs and it pulls, and it drags you back. The beast that settled, has woken up. It is hungry and it is angry, and it is laughing at you for trying.

A mistake, this was a mistake. You made a promise to someone you care about, and now you're going to hurt him. Either way, you're going to hurt him. Make him look stupid. Make him hate you.

You're going to break this fragile peace. Bring that agonised look into his eyes again.

Take from a man who gives you so much. Love, affection, kindness, warmth, acceptance, joy.

You are ripping all those things from his hands, and returning nothing.

"Kitten?" You stumble, when the voice startles you out of your thoughts. Falling back onto the bed, looking up as Sylus enters, not bothering to wait for an answer. Ever since your mission had gone wrong, he has been far less hesitant. If he could ever be said to be hesitant.

When he sees you sitting, tears in your eyes, he approaches you, kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Soothing your skin. His skin is so warm, it's like a brand. You almost pull away. On fire, itching, hurting. He notices your flinch and pulls his hands away. The relief of the cool is intense, and you choke on the feeling.

You're the mistake. Too fragile to be touched. Too useless to be helpful. Too much work.

He takes in your rumbled clothing. The shirt half pulled off, the jacket thrown away from you, the trousers unclasped. You are shivering, and shaking, and while you can see his hands twitching. Yearning, needing to soothe, he knows he can't. So he tries to speak, hesitant now, "Don't you like them?" You think about the time he spent, finding things with Rafayel that are easier to wear. Clasps that can be done easier with one hand, or buttons bigger for your unsteady metal fingers.

Things that require the least amount of struggle. If he could not find them, he had them made.

The two of them, you think as you try to fight through the fog, are dangerous.

You shake your head numbly. "I can't go."

It doesn't require much more from you, even without his eye, Sylus reads people. He reads you. He's said sometimes he cannot understand the workings of your mind, but he improves everyday. It is terrifying to be seen by him. Terrifying for him to look under the rough exterior, to the rougher interior.

You wait for the moment that he realises you're not worth it.

"You'll be with us." He starts, and you look down at where his hand twitches towards you, then back. "You won't be alone."

You haven't been alone, you think. In all the time you've spent with this. This weight, first on your back, then on your ankle. They have come to find you. Looking.

Just like Caleb did.

Is it enough? This could be that wakeup call.

"Rafayel wants you there, he's excited to see you." It is odd. It is hearing Sylus say 'Rafayel' and not 'fish', that jolts you back. Just like the moment you saw them in your kitchen, arguing. Just like when you saw them all walk through that door when the blanket was your only defence.

It is a realisation of how odd this is. How bizarre they are.

It almost makes you hiccup a laugh. The idea of Sylus speaking for Rafayel. You think about how warm he is to you, how he takes your hand easily.

I will always want to look at you.

"What if it's too much work?" You finally manage, the agony lightening so you can speak, no longer tearing at you. Though you can feel the creature on your ankle. Tugging. Like a dog with a chew toy.

"The important things are worth it."

Important.

Learning to use your prosthetic is hard. Learning to trust is hard.

It was with Caleb, it is with all of them. It is a constant struggle. A constant weight. To try.

They catch you, with a security net. Give you space to breathe, so you can stand back up again.

You think about what you want, think about what will make you happy… what is worth living for.

It is the reason to keep getting up.

You want to see Rafayel's work, you want to see the people you care about. You want to keep your promise to a man who values you. A hesitant shaky hand takes Sylus' where it hovers. The way you can watch him heave a sigh, the tension in him easing, as he clasps yours between both of his. Tight, but not suffocating. He grounds you, and it doesn't burn.

"What do you think, Kitten? Do you want to try?"

Sylus has never belittled you for tears, or made you feel your emotions are a mistake. When you are drowning, he offers a hand. When you anger and hurt, he is there, either to join you in your hurt, or to help appease it.

He offers you a choice, and he means it. If you truly do not want to, you know he will accept it. If you want to, he will help.

"I want to try."

He nods, pulling you up with him, to stand, straight into his chest. So that you can feel his uneven heart beating against you. "Then let's get you ready."

—-----

He should never have left so early. He should have stayed with you.

Rafayel left the apartment in frustration and anger and now he stares at his phone, hoping to see your name pop up.

It is an agitating feeling. To be stood on the edge of the cliff and not know if there's water below.

He has forced himself to listen to Thomas, to go through the motions, to ensure his exhibit is set up correctly. He has sat under too bright lights, feeling himself drying up, as he waits. As the clock hand moves, as he thinks, and he struggles.

If he keeps running, will you stop chasing him?

As his exhibit starts, he checks again, only to see a message from the doctor, 'Good luck today'. He doesn't respond. He stares at it. It's unsettling. He doesn't want the doctor to wish him good luck. He doesn't want his comfort.

He doesn't need it.

Even when his agitation settles a moment, and he hides it from Thomas who asks him why he's smiling. He's not.

That doesn't mean anything.

He does not wave at Xavier as he walks through the door, milling around the paintings quietly. Avoiding the bigger crowds. He tries not to think about the fact that he's come to see.

It doesn't matter.

As time passes, Rafayel fidgets.

Stares at the door.

Fidgets.

Stares at the door.

He walks around the room, passes Xavier, who hands him water quietly, then walks off. He stares down at it, but he's parched, the crowds are tiring him out, the people are talking like they understand him, and he just wants to be somewhere else. So he downs it, and lets the relief of the chill settle in his throat.

He talks absently to people he doesn't really care to listen to. Thomas gives him a talk about doing his duties.

Irritation settles in his stomach. He doesn't care about his duties. He cares about seeing you.

He checks his phone, and is relieved, though irritated, when he gets a message from the crow, 'We're on our way'. He sends back a thumbs up, though it is through a shaky hand. Excitement makes it unsteady.

It is when he is not staring at the door, when he hears your voice behind him. "Raffy?" Pulling away from where he is avoiding Thomas' lectures, he takes you in. Your hand is grasped in the crow's, eyes darting around the room. You're wearing your prosthetic, a dark blue jacket over your shoulders, painted with green and blue flowers. Flared trousers and a light shirt. He absently thinks that the crow's style isn't too ridiculous, if it means you visit his exhibits like this. Like one of the flowers in a garden he wants to take you.

"Cutie!" It is relief and it is the weight of hundreds of years that shed. He waited, he waited, and you came. He takes your hand away from the crow, not without giving a smug little smile, which receives him a smirk, and kisses the back of it. "You made it."

He watches your eyes glisten, he can feel the heat off your cheeks. Not all embarrassment, he knows some of it is stress, but it is enough. "You don't have to stay long." He promises, it doesn't matter how long you stay. You came. You came, no matter what.

You came, and he knows it wasn't easy.

The laugh you release, it trembles, like your hand, but it is accompanied by the small smile he is learning to draw with his eyes closed. "Show me your work?"

"I'll go find the prince, call me if you need me." The crow offers, he leans, kissing your temple, before he leaves. You blink after him a bit, touching where he kissed with your hand, pulling it from Rafayel's grasp, and then look at him. He glares after the man, but doesn't offer much of a response.

"Come on then cutie, you're mine." He doesn't look as he grabs your hand, and he knows he is grinning at you. Pulling you forwards with him, darting to where his art calls for you.

He doesn't notice the chill in your hand, until he eases his fingers over it. Feeling grooves and edges. He almost releases when he realises he has grabbed your prosthetic, you are staring down at it with him.

Rafayel looks at you, tries to read the look in your eyes. It is soft, and awed and gentle. So he raises it to his lips, kissing the wrist. You tremble, blinking, before tightening your grip just a little.

It is the soft, warm look in your eyes, as you tug him forward a little bit more, a laugh bubbling out of you. "Come on Raffy."

He takes you around all of his paintings, and just watches you.

You don't offer him opinions or thoughts often, he has learned if he gives you space to look, you can tell him how you feel. What his art brings out in you. If he looks closely at your face, he can watch it. Trembling in your eyes.

As you flit amongst paintings, like a butterfly amongst flowers, tugging him along with you. He follows willingly.

There are moments when you stop, and your hand twitches out. Like you are holding back the urge to run your fingers over the paint. Tracing shapes, touching at his heart directly.

He wants to tell you that you can do as you please. That you are the one who he wants to understand him most. That his art, and his soul are yours to do with as you like. That you could tear images from his canvas, and he would still paint more for you.

Finally you find yourself in front of his struggle. Bleached bones on the beach, tides easing out. Leaving scars behind.

At the edges of the horizon, the sun rises again. Painting the once dreary sky in a rainbow.

You are the sunrise that greets him, that reminds him that time moves forwards. That there is something to see after the night.

That tomorrow has a chance for better than today.

You bloom like a flower before his eyes, a sight he could never have seen beneath the waves. A reminder of why he came to visit the surface every year. A reminder of all the wonders of land that he idolised as a child.

"Beautiful." Is exhaled, and he is unsure if it was you or him. The twinkling in your eyes, perhaps it was both.

Eventually he feels the strain in your countenance, the exhaustion, so he sneaks with you out of the exhibit. Escaping into gardens that are quiet, and closed to others. A locked gate has never kept him out of anywhere, however.

It is the quiet that settles you, and he settles alongside you. No longer wearing a mask he does not want for people who come to stare at his work. He pulls you amongst flowers, fields of lilies, and whispers of petals.

Secluded and alone. The way he feels best with you.

Lying down in the grass, to look up at the sky, stars twinkling.

It is with the view of the stars that you speak, voice tinged in a guilt he wishes to chase away, "I almost didn't come. I'm sorry Raffy."

His eyes turn to you, to read the draw of your lips, the pain in your eyes, the way you tighten your grip on his hand. Cool metal against skin that reacts to you more than any other. Sensitive, aware.

Your touch will always alight his senses.

He knows the hesitation, he thinks about the way you wavered on the edge, hand extended to you as you feared to take it. He knows that you are adjusting. He regrets asking you to promise, to put that weight on your shoulders.

He is relieved you came. To see him, to stare at the workings of his heart, and yearn to trace it with fingers.

His patience and his need fight often. His awareness of pushing, his desperation. It is hard to balance.

"What changed your mind?"

You edge a little closer on the grass, so that the heat of him spreads over the sensors of your prosthetic. Alongside the gentle stroking of his thumb over your hand. "Sy told me you wanted me to be here… and I wanted to be here for you."

Rafayel's first instinct is the kind of reaction he's seen cats get to water. Hissing and jumping up. Shaking himself furiously.

There is great dissatisfaction at comparing himself to the demons.

There is greater dissatisfaction at the crow, helping him. In any way.

It is a feeling of being pulled back by the scruff of his neck, away from the abyss he seeks out. The fall into the ocean.

The agony on the edge of the conscious.

You poke his cheek with your other hand, then brush hair back and his heart settles its seething. "I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"That they care for you." It is whispered, and it is tentative, and he sees the worry in your eyes.

The fear at his arguments before. The anxiety that you are causing distress.

Forcing them. Making them clash in enclosed spaces. Like caged beasts.

It is the wary voice that calls out to him, tries to ask the question about the pain in him, the voices and the agony ripping and pulling and hurting. The pain that grants him no inspiration.

They care.

A message sent to wish him luck. A quiet presence bringing him water when he dries. A fool giving you the push to move forwards to lead your feet to him.

You have not stopped looking for him and at him, and he has been holding you like a toy he does not wish to share…

It is a feeling he isn't ready to digest or question, not when the stars are bright and you are safe next to him. It is one he will think about in days to come, as he watches the doctor help him clean. As he is offered a pillow the prince favours in order to sleep better.

When the crow argues with him, but gives him food that satisfies a hunger he forgets to appease for himself.

When you do not look at him any less. That he has not lost anything, he is not lesser.

It is a feeling for later.

To help paint canvas he wants to share one day, though pain is absent, and something else glimmers in the sea.

[thatgenericwriter]

Bedazzled || Gregory House

Paring: Gregory House x fem!reader

Summary: who would have thought an angel would be so comfortable hanging around the devil

Warnings: none

Word Count: 0.7k

p.s. based on a request by anonymous

P.s.s. takes place around the first few seasons

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

When you first walked into House's office everyone was convinced you were lost, but when you walked up to House and started to talk with him without hesitating, no one knew what to think.

The ducklings watched in shock as the head of the pediatrics department, a person who could accurately be described as the kindest person in the hospital, casually chatted away with House.

You paid them no mind as you continued to talk with House who watched in amusement as you vibrantly describe to him one of your patient's symptoms, your bracelets clinking against each other as you wave your hands around rapidly.

The ducklings quickly pretend to be working on something as you and House walk through the adjoining door. You greet all of them by pulling out a handful of candy from one of your lab coat's pockets and placing it on the table. "Hi! I'm y/n and I'm the head of the pediatrics department! Here is a token of my appreciation for helping me with this patient!" You smile at all of them before taking a seat at the head of the table.

As you settle in you miss the looks of confusion and shock that passes everyone's faces. Once you're comfortable you swivel towards House. "Take it away boss man!" The ducklings swear they see a hint of a smile on his face before he starts to go over the case details.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You had first met House in the cafeteria after accidentally spilling your drink all over him. You quickly started to apologize before digging your monster truck themed tissues out of your bag and offering to him. The next time you were in the cafeteria line a brand new pack of monster truck tissues appeared on your tray.

You and House had been eating lunch with each other for a month before you had asked him for help. Leading to the funnest four days you ever had.

When you were not trying to save a kid's life, you were helping House bedazzled his pill bottles, decorating his cane with goofy stickers, and pulling pranks on Wilson.

His team watched in pure shock as House allowed you to do all these things to him without a single snarky comment or rude gesture. They had come to the conclusion that you were magical. That was the only explanation for why House was so nice to you.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the case was over, you bid your goodbyes to the team leaving them with yet another pile of candy and a special friendship bracelet for each of them.

After thanking everyone once more you feel a tug on the back of your shirt and turn to see House gesturing you towards his conjoining office. You walk through the door and hear the blinds close from behind you, effectively blocking the ducklings' view of you both.

"If you're feeling left out don't worry! I made you a bracelet too!" You hold up his bracelet along with the matching one on your wrist. "Yours is extra special cuz it matches mine!"

"I don't want your friendship bracelet." You look up at House with a disappointed look on your face. "Oh." Sadly you avert your gaze away from him.

You feel his hand under your chin before you're being forced to look at him. "I don't want your friendship bracelet because I don't want to be just friends with you."

Your eyes widen in surprise and you open your mouth to respond, but House's lips are on yours before any sound gets out. Quickly, you kiss back tilting your head slightly to deepen it. A muffled moan leaves your lips before you are shocked out of the kiss by the sound of the blinds opening.

You quickly move away from House only to see Cameron and Foreman handing Chase cash. "They were betting on us!" You march towards the door and watch as the three ducklings speedily try to leave the room.

"Nuh uh! All of you sit down right now!" All of them sit down at the table as you walk up to Chase. "Money. Now." You stick your hand out and Chase places the money in your hands before looking down at the table shamefully.

You giggle before yelling over your shoulder to House. "Lunch is on me, babe!" 

[lyricwritesprose]

Me versus a fanfic idea, trying to cohere

Having been watching some of "My Adventures With Superman" lately, and I have become kind of obsessed with a crack idea that came to me last night at fuck o'clock in the morning, that being: what if (in the MAWS continuity or any one in which the Kents are both alive) Jonathan and Martha got roped into briefly housing or fostering a teen after Clark was out on his own?

I mean. Like. Imagine you're this kid. You are staying with the most tragically uncool individuals on this planet, but they're honestly nice, they aren't bothered by all the stuff that got you labeled A Troubled Youth or the gender stuff you may have going on or any of that, they just seem fundamentally Able To Roll With It, and, okay, this is going to be fine. It's temporary anyway. Just keep out of trouble.

And they have an adult son who comes around sometimes? He's kind of nice too. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, he's built like a moose and you'd think he'd be imposing but he's kind of shy and awkward and somehow just fundamentally Not Like the people who beat you up before, so you're pretty chill with him. He knows all the good places on the farm to sit and think, or sit and draw. One time when he comes around he shows you the creek and you learn all about the frogs and the crawdads and the snakes. Tells you about the corn snake he rescued once. Stuff like that.

Only some things really don't add up.

Like, there's never a car in the driveway when he shows up. And it's not on weekends or anything like that, it's weird times.

And there's a note on the fridge that says, "If you drink all the milk please replace it THIS MEANS YOU," and before long you figure out it's gotta be meant for him, because he will take a gallon and finish it a glass at a time and who can even do that without throwing up? Wasn't there some kind of ghastly TikTok challenge about that?

And when you joked to his Dad and Mom that he seems to have a real superpower for figuring out whether there is going to be pie, you got such weird, almost nervous looks that you quickly dropped the subject.

And one time you swear he appeared out of absolutely nowhere to walk you back to the house because Mr. Peterson's bull broke the fence and is wandering this way. (He was the first one to realize this. How did he realize this? He's sort of guiltily evasive on the subject.)

And he reassures you one time that you don't actually need to fear the Kansas Mothman because he accidentally started that legend. How? He really doesn't want to talk about it.

What with one thing and another, you start wondering…

Maybe he's a ghost.

Maybe something awful happened and he can't move on. You don't want to suspect the Kents, they are honestly pretty top-notch for parental types (especially after some of the ones you've known) but other people in the town? You know personally how ghastly a small town can be to That Weird Kid. Maybe something really bad happened.

(Maybe it could happen to you too.)

So you've got to figure out what's going on so you can get justice for your friend. You start to investigate. Smallville does have rather more than its fair share of Weird Shit—like possibly a lot more—but you're not really getting anywhere. And it occurs to you that you don't really have the wherewithal to go and try to find—well, let's not put too fine a point on it, to find an unmarked grave—that could be anywhere.

Meanwhile the world has at this point in time started to see some Seriously Weird Shit, although at this point it's largely In Other Places because that's where everything in the world happens, there is absolutely Nothing Significant In Kansas and probably never will be, but it gives you an idea. Slightly insane and scary idea, but you've hit so many dead ends that it might be worth it.

You're going to try to contact Superman and see if he can use his rumored X-ray vision to figure out what happened to Clark.

…

Just to be clear, I have no idea what the ultimate punchline is for this piece of ridiculous meandering is, and it's the sort of thing that does require a pretty good punchline. So I don't know if it's ever actually going to get written. On the other hand, it is one of my favorite dishes, which is Canon Characters Helping Queer Kid, with a heavy helping of Following Logic-like Structures To Wrong Conclusions sauce.

So I thought I might post the idea, because I have this lovely optimistic belief that sometimes, I am in fact extremely funny, and tumblr is a place that often eggs me on.

[fanfictiongirlie]

Marvel: Unplanned Chapter Nineteen

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (First person written though)

Description:

"It says...it says it's positive doll" His voice matching mine in a quiet shaky whisper.

"Fuck... I'm pregnant?"

"Yeah doll, you're pregnant"

"Fuck" I whisper.

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, smut

Chapter Words: 1,584

The phase didn't stop. A month later Jamie was still sleeping in mine and Bucky's room. She would cry and scream every time we even tried to put her to sleep in her own room. 

Bucky was getting increasingly frustrated with the situation. The lack of privacy and alone time was starting to wear thin on his patience. 

"Jamie, sweet girl, you have to sleep in your bed, this is mama and dada's bed" I sigh as I walk back and forth with Jamie, she clings to me, her small hands gripping my shirt firmly. 

"No" She whined "Stay with mama and dada"

"Why don't you wanna sleep in your own room? Like a big girl?" 

Jamie puffs out her cheeks, her little face a mixture of sadness and stubbornness. She clings tighter to me, her small body trembling ever so slightly. 

"Scary, dark...Want mama and dada"

"Oh darling" I whisper, stroking through her lovely brown locks. Bucky then walks into the rom, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. He walks over to us, sitting on the bed close to where I stood. 

"Any luck?" He asks. 

"We got you that nice night light, it's not dark anymore" I whisper. 

"Maybe it's not the dark that's scaring her" 

"What then?" I ask, sitting next to Bucky on the bed. He scratches the back of his head, thinking for a moment. He frowns, his brow furrowing as he tries to figure it out. 

"Maybe she's afraid of being alone...Or there are...monsters?" He started to say "Some small kids are scared of monsters right?"

"I hope not" I mumble, I then look down to Jamie, her blue eyes looking up at me. I smiled softly, her eyes were the same as Bucky's. "Jamie, what scares you in your room baby?"

"Scared" She mumbles. 

"Baby, there's no such thing as monsters, plus you're extra lucky...Wanna know why?" I ask her. Jamie looks up, her eyes wide and curious. A glimmer of hope appears in her teary eyes as she nods, her small hands loosening their grip on my shirt. 

"Because your mama and dada are superheroes" Bucky adds, a wide grin on his face. Jamie's expression goes from sad to wide-eye wonder. She looks at both me and Bucky with newfound awe, her fear momentarily replaced by fascination. 

"Mama...dada...superheroes?"

"That's right baby, we're superheroes!" I grin. 

"And you know what happens to monsters when they come near superheroes?" Bucky asks. 

"What dada?" Jamie asks, twisting her body to face Bucky. 

Bucky leans a little closer to Jamie, his voice dropping to a whisper, a hint of playful menace in his words. 

"They run away, Superheroes like mama and dada scare them away with our powers. No monsters would dare cross us" 

"Exactly baby girl" I add. 

Jamie looks between Bucky and me, her fear slowly fading, replaced with a sense of security. 

"No monsters, mama and dada scare them away"

"Precisely, so will you try  and sleep in your own room?" I ask her. She nods, her small hands clenching and unclenching my shirt as she thinks over the request. 

"Okay mama" 

"That's my girl", now give dada a kiss and I'll take you to bed" I smile. She pulls away from me, reaching out to Bucky. He takes her in his arm, holding her close, Jamie leaves a sloppy kiss on his cheek and he follows by peppering kisses all over her face, causing her to giggle. 

Once the giggle session was over I take Jamie again, walking her to her room. I laid her in her crib and read her story, staying with her until she falls asleep. I wait a few more moments, watching her sleep, stroking her hair from her face before leaving, confidant she was going to stay asleep. 

I turned away from her, only to see Bucky waiting by the door, leaning against the door frame, I jumped slightly, shaking my head I walk over to him, wrapping my arms around his middle, his arm went around my shoulder, holding me tight. 

"Looks like she's out like a light" He whispers. 

"Think she'll stay?" I ask back. 

"I hope so, we need some alone time" He answers, we turn and leave Jamie's room and walk back to our own room. Bucky walks over to the bed first, flopping down, he lets out a weary sigh. 

"Yeah we do" I smirk, crawling into the bed, pressing my body against his. Bucky slides his arm around my waist, pulling me closer against him. His touch was firm, yet gentle, a silent affirmation of his need for me. 

"Ever since Jamie started sleeping in our room, it's like we've forgotten what alone time is" He grumbles. 

"Tell me about it, I think I've forgotten your touch" I say with a slight giggle. Bucky chuckles, the sound low and deep in his throat. His hand trails up my side tracing the curve or my hip and waist. 

"Well, I guess I better remind you then" He says, and with a quick and fluid motion he rolls me onto my back, pinning me beneath him. A small unexpected moan left my lips as he did. 

"Please?" I begged. Bucky moved slightly, his lips finding their way to my neck, he trailed a line of kisses down to my collarbone. His touch was firm and possessive, as his lips nipped at my collarbone. 

"Fuck" I muttered "Skip foreplay, I need you now baby" I said, my voice sounding whiny and needy. Bucky looked back up at me, his eyes darkening at my words, a predatory look replacing the usual gentle gaze in his eyes. His hands gripped my hips tightly. 

"Patience, doll. I plan to savor this" His lips find their way back to my neck, his teeth nipping at my skin as his hands begin to roam over my body, his touch growing bolder and more urgent. 

"You evil teasing man" I say with a grin. 

I could feel Bucky smirk against my skin, his breath hot against my neck. He grins, his hand moved up to my chin, tilting my head slightly, so our eyes met. 

"You love it, don't deny it" He smirks. 

"I love you" I say, looking up into his eyes, feeling overwhelmed with my feelings for this man. His expression softens for a moment, a wave of tenderness passed through us. His grip on my chin loosens, his touch becoming more gentle as he caresses my jawline with his thumb. 

"I love you to, doll. More than anything"

He shoots me another smirk and moves down, his lips find my neck again, kissing lower travelling from my neck down to lift my shirt so I was left naked on my top half. He moves his fingers to toy with my nipples as his lips kiss along my lower abdomen. 

"Mmm baby" I moan softly. Bucky's hands move up, his fingers skimming over my skin, tracing a path from my hips to my stomach. His mouth follows, his lips marking a trail up my body, pressing kisses along my abdomen, up to my chest.

"You like that, doll?"

"Love it" I whimper back, his fingers finally dip into my pyjama trousers, his lips were on my neck again, as his fingers move down the folds of my pussy, I was wet, more than usual, due to how needy I felt. 

"You're so responsive" He whispers as he finally pushes two fingers into me "I love it"

"Bucky please, need you inside of me" I begged, moving my hips up against his fingers. His fingers felt great inside of me, but I needed more, something bigger. 

With a swift movement Bucky wiggles down pulling my pyjama trousers down, he makes quick hast to make to come a few times on his fingers and tongue a few times, before finally giving me exactly what I wanted. 

He pressed his thick cock into me, stretching me the way I liked. I held onto his shoulders tightly as he holds onto my hip as he thrusts into me. 

"It's been so long baby, not sure I'll last" He groans, his voice breaking into a whine. 

"Fuck, I don't care, just needed you, needed this, fuck I love you" I rambled. 

Bucky groans at me words, the sound guttural and filled with lust, his hips slammed into me hard, we both moaned loudly. He stopped for a moment, moving his fingers down to my clit, pressing circles into the bundle of nerves. 

My legs started to shake as I held them against Bucky's hips, he slowly moved in and out of me again, his cock hitting my g-spot perfectly, sending me into a surge of pleasure, it shaking through my body hard, as I close my eyes and slam a hand over my lips to muffle my moans. 

Bucky groaned loudly, pressing his head into the crook of my neck as his hips slammed into me, coming deep within me. We laid there gripping onto one another, our breath heavy and our chests rising and lowering in sync. 

"I'm sorry I didn't last longer" Bucky said, his voice muffled by my shoulder. 

"I don't mind baby" I say stroking his back gently "That was really good"

He finally moves, collapsing beside me, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me tight against him. 

"I missed this, missed being able to touch you like this, have you all to myself" He murmurs. 

"I missed you too darling"

Taglist:

@quinquinquincy @jaybbygrl @wintrsoldrluvr @sebastians-love @learisa @hi172826 @ravennablue @purplecolordeer @a-small-blue-nebula @buckitostan @knyaotjjkbiatch

[dragonsdendoodles]

(From your angst hcs post)

You think that the library is still in operation during the kids’ time? How do you think it works now that the librarians aren’t there? (Well Jacob is there of course but he doesn’t exactly know what he’s doing) Did it never stop working?

I always thought the library stopped working after it was hidden by the librarians. That it was created by the giants and old peculiars when they started having normal children and wanted to give them peculiar souls because they thought that peculiarity was dying out.

(This isn’t supposed to be rude or anything Im just curious for your opinion :))

I don't think the library needs librarians to run, if that makes sense?

Peculiardom doesn't seem to have a religion of any kind, but the Library of Souls seems to function as their version of one, or the closest match. The library and the soul jars in it are presented as the peculiar afterlife, that is where you go and what happens to you when you die. (For the sake of argument we're disregarding that time Bentham was a ghost for some reason.) I do like the idea that it stopped working without them, I think that would be really interesting, but to me that brings up too many questions: how do soul jars work? Do the librarians make them? How would they engrave them if nothing but the librarians can touch them? Are the souls extracted like ambrosia? If so, why can all peculiars take ambrosia but not all peculiars can see and interact with the jars? Are all peculiars there, or are there multiple libraries and only one is well known? What happens to peculiars who never knew they were peculiar? What happens to peculiars who died after the library was hidden?

I've always believed the library functioned supernaturally, without human input. We already know this can happen by knowing that history is on a set course and can actively fix itself--if you go back and kill Hitler, you're not gonna stop WWII. I think when a peculiar dies, a jar is created/recreated and appears in a certain place with at least the peculiarity housed inside it, but I'd like to think it also includes names and dates of the people who have "checked out" that second soul. I think they're ordered by peculiarity, but within that organization they could also be sorted by name or by most recent use, which feels more likely to me as by name would get confusing since the implication of a library-like system implies if not outright states that multiple people can use one second soul. Some spots are permanently vacant due to extraction for ambrosia, some jars are damaged due to people like Caul, but that's what happens to libraries sometimes. Books get lost or damaged, and that little piece of history is lost. When a soul is checked out, it disappears. When that peculiar dies, it's returned with a new entry on the check-out card. Just like a library book.

Because the librarians, at least to some ymrbynes, could qualify as an offshoot of deadrisers, I think they would function less like they're in charge of the place and more like the assistants to the natural function of the library itself. Their purpose is to handle the souls for whatever is needed, be it visiting a loved one or like you said, allocating peculiarities to those who don't have their own. Perhaps that was linked to the downfall of Old Peculiardom and why librarians are even more scarce than they presumably already were.

In all honesty, I don't think any living peculiar truly knows how the library works, and maybe no peculiar has ever fully known. Jacob is, to everyone else's knowledge, the last librarian. He may be the only one whose soul is still checked out. (He doesn't know, and you can't convince him to go check.) He has a completely unique access to peculiar history, at least as soon as he actually learns to read Old Peculiar.

Plus, if the library does need librarians, Jacob has one hell of a backlog to sort through all by himself.

But those might be fanfics for another day.

[ljf613]

Genuinely obsessed with the three unnamed kids from HTTYD: Homecoming.

Why are you like this, small children?

LOOK AT THEIR FACES

This one kid never uncrosses his arms and it's GREAT

"What is that weird old guy doing?" (Also, when did the blond girl put on a copy of her friend's shawl? Did she pull it out from somewhere when we weren't looking?)

"Should we maybe get him some help?"

"Let's just get out of here." "Yeah, sounds like a good idea." (And I stand corrected-- he DOES uncross his arms sometimes.)

Is that the same kid in the back right? I think so. And look, he's sitting with some other, smaller child! Is that his brother, or is he just being nice and looking after a younger boy?

Alright, I think that's the tall girl in the middle left (four rows back), wearing that same red shawl. And there's the pouty boy in the front right (to the left of the child who looks like their head is sitting on top of a lantern), next to the same little boy as before-- and he's actually smiling! But where's the blond girl with the hat? Do any of you see her?

He's still here, but the kid next to him seems to have disappeared. The seat is empty, though, so maybe the small child just got up to use the little Vikings' room. But WHERE'S THE BLOND GIRL???

Okay, I spotted him at least THREE TIMES in this one frame. (Four, if you count the kid behind and to the right of Zephyr, who's got the same hairstyle but a different colored shirt.) Are they triplets, or is Dreamworks just trying to be sneaky with repeating character models? I SEE YOU THERE, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ME!!! (The tall girl doesn't seem to be in this shot, though, and STILL no sign of the blond girl. WHERE IS SHE???)

He's in this frame twice, but the blond girl STILL doesn't even get to be here even once??? SMH. (Side note, that one boy in the yellow shirt is in here AT LEAST five or six times. Three of the copies are literally SITTING NEXT TO EACH OTHER!!!)

At least both versions of him are excited here.

Awww, he let that scared little kid over there hold onto his arm! (Not the same little boy he was sitting with earlier, but that's fine. Maybe younger kids just like being near him.)

Tall girl in the red shawl has reappeared (to the the left of the guy in the middle) and I THINK that's the blond girl (on the middle guy's other side). She's got the same haircut and dress, she just isn't wearing that hat. Where's your hat, sweetie?

Aww, look!!! They really ARE good kids! (And the hat's back! YES!!!)

Mad respect for the tall girl who got her friends to do the hard, dangerous part and just gets to stand there bossing them around. You go, girl!

"How's that?" "I think we're good!"

ANYWAY, this has been an appreciation post for these three specific children and these three specific children ONLY.

[the-casbah-way]

not to beat a dead horse but jesus christ can you just leave people alone in public bathrooms i just want to fucking piss girl i'm so tired of feeling anxious and trying to avoid using public bathrooms because of how fucking weird cis people are about it. i tried to go into the bathroom at work today (i have worked here for years) and this woman who has worked here for two weeks and doesn't know me laughed and tried to like. steer me in the direction of the men's toilet instead and was like "wrong way!" are you fucking kidding me fuck off

[total-drama-brainrot]

my total drama oc is a reversal of the show's pre-established "villain" archetype.

right off the bat, they're just the worst person; outright antagonistic towards everyone and constantly causing conflict amidst the cast, openly orchestrating people's eliminations, blatantly cheating but in such a way that technically they're not breaking any rules- without disguising themself behind a mask of geniality (like alejandro, heather and julia did).

and they're kept around well into the competition because their villainy? it's ratings gold. people love a good antagonist, especially one that's so productive. the audience loves to hate them, or hates that they love them, and everyone is gunning for their downfall- which only becomes more and more tempting with every elimination.

plus, chris is more than happy to enable them so long as they keep things interesting.

interestingly enough, they never seem to use the confessional. or at least, none of their confessions are aired. well, that's not exactly true. one confession is aired, and it's them boasting to the audience that they wouldn't understand the inner machinations of their mind, and that they don't deserve to hear their thoughts.

consequently, the audience has no idea what they're thinking at any given time, only seeing glimpses of their schemes throughout the episode until everything comes to fruition- like a puzzle finally being completed. it's a smart move for the network, because it means the audience gets to watch their plans play out in 'real time' without their insight/foreknowledge, making it just as impactful to the viewers as it is to the competitors. it helps with immersion, which is a boon for the ratings!

until their elimination, wherein their confessions are played out on the big screen, and it's heartbreaking.

they explain, in their first confession, that they were accosted by chris at the beginning of the competition to act as the main antagonistic force for the show, and that he's turn a blind eye to their antics so long as they kept the viewers watching, even paying them a decent salary if their act was good enough. because they're smart- smart enough to play the rest of the cast like a fiddle if they wanted to, and chris wants them to.

what a great deal, right? being given blanket permission to be as conniving as possible, and a pay check to boot- who wouldn't take the opportunity?

and they round it out by "getting into character" on camera, sneering haughtily at the lens and- you guessed it- boasting to the audience that they wouldn't understand the inner machinations of their mind, before giggling dorkily at the silliness of their statement, commenting that it'd we way too obvious they were faking if they acted that snooty. they're a theatre kid at heart, so the idea of "playing the villain" is exciting! it's going to be so fun!

but their second confession is sombre. they're visibly tired, wiping away at the concealer under their eyes to reveal some heavy bags, and they're curled up into a pitiful ball in front of the camera. they divulge that the pressure to constantly live up to the shows expectations of antagonism is crushing, and their status as a social pariah is more draining than they'd care to admit, and that- despite the apparent glee they've been committing these acts of villainy with- being so outwardly morally corrupt has left them with a constant churning of guilt in their gut. they only agreed to be the "bad guy" for the money, which would help their family's financial situation tremendously, but they're growing increasingly uncertain if the reward justifies the risks.

by the third confession, they're actively sickened by their actions, eventually devolving from airing their frustrations, lamenting their choice to method act as such an awful person, to throwing up into the confessional's toilet as they hold back guilt-leaden tears and repeat a mantra of "i'm sorry, i'm sorry,". they're drowning in the murky waters of their persona, and backing out now would only lead to more scrutiny and suspicion from the people who were supposed to be their friends, and they know they'd deserve the mistrust. plus, backtracking from their deal with chris would jeopardise everything- from the dirty money they've earned from their antagonism to their place in the competition itself; they'd be voted out in a heartbeat without the network's safety blanket of plot armour!

they don't know what to do. they barely even know who they are anymore.

and then the camera's focus cuts to the real-time them, who's sat ashen-faced and deathly still as their weakest moments are broadcast, not only to the people who rightfully hate them, but to the whole world.

[jewishbuckley]

"was there a reason you didn't cancel this" honestly I thought I had so no there wasn't a reason but also if clients are going to have Your personal number and reach out to You about canceling (when they Should be reaching out via email per our cancelation policy) then You should be canceling the appt anyway imo. all the other trainers cancel their appointments AND add their appointments to the system 🤪

[fearcicada]

I wish there were more tma agere fics that weren't just the archives polycule 😭 or even ones that just didn't include Martin in them PLEAAASEE

[crystalkitty1220]

I’m planning on making an incorrect summary of ibvs and this was one of the first ideas i had

THIS REMINDS ME OF THE TIME I WAS BORED IN CLASS AND WASTED LIKE TWENTY PAGES OF MY NOTEBOOK BY SCRIPTING A "IBVS IN A NUTSHELL" THING

tags are just me being nostalgic

[memento-mariii]

I'm not scared of getting older, I'm scared of new opportunities getting shut off from me :(

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

having a lot of inarticulate thoughts about pericles' genderousness this evening, in particular how i imagine/interpret his expression of it having changed over time, but they will not coalesce. when will my one brain cell for queer readings return from the war

[saeun]

+ extra: canon-type family relations: jin itadori & sukuna are brothers, itadori is a child here ( 8 years ).

boyfriend-girlfriend life with sukuna except he thinks he's being replaced — in all seriousness. sukuna's seconds away from destroying his nephew's remote-controlled cars collection.

can the kid move? he wants yuuji gone. he's not jealous of him, he just wants your undivided attention back on him. if he knew beforehand that agreeing to jin's invitation over would result in this, he'd probably fly out of the country with you to avoid it.

manspreading on the sofa with one hand slung over the backrest, he swirls the beer in his other hand. his brother's in the kitchen, stacking the extra beers in the fridge.

“you can help me, you know?” jin calls sukuna out, lacing his voice with slight annoyance.

“nah,” sukuna responds, waving him off.

he's busy watching you sit on the floor with yuuji, pretending to race against time with him.

it's not all that bad when he thinks about it — never mind, it is. the kid's had you on the floor since you walked through the door. not a moment spared for his uncle. all yuuji did was look up at sukuna, stick his tongue out, and engulfed your legs in a big hug.

ever since then he's been sulking in the corner. jin can only pity him for so long — it's been an hour, he needs to get over it.

jin sneaks up behind sukuna, gathering his fingers to surprise attack him. in only a matter of seconds he's subjected to the ear-pinch-and-ring combination.

sukuna flinches, immediately swatting jin's hand off.

“you must've gone fucking crazy!?”

he gets yet another ear-pinch-and-ring combination from jin.

“i have a son, don't curse.”

“fuck that boy,” he whispers under his breath, cupping his ear. it's hot from the pain — most likely already gained a red shade.

even after such commotion both yuuji's and your attention didn't turn to them. you both are far too immersed in the racing game.

the brothers are now both on the sofa: one has his attention on you and the other has his attention on the unattended mail on the coffee table that's been neglected two days ago.

“this one? no... that one? also no...”

“jin, quit mumbling.”

“cover your ears then.”

rolling his eyes, sukuna downs the last bit of beer remaining in the bottle. he's now officially out of beer and too lazy to get one.

being left without a distraction, he's forced to observe jin's house. it's nothing extraordinary. he believes his house to be better.

he voices out a sigh, slouching and spreading his legs further apart. the boredom's hitting him earlier than it usually does — this is your fault. if you weren't busy zooming cars around the living room with yuuji then he wouldn't be bored.

as sukuna's busy with complaining, he doesn't notice yuuji speed walking to the sofa with a broken car in hand. you're right behind him, sporting a smile that says you got yourself in some trouble.

“daaad, the car!” yuuji whines, climbing onto the free spot between his dad and his uncle.

jin hums, raising his eyebrows but his gaze is fixed on the mail as he's still sorting them out.

“it broke,” the boy complains, pouting at the toy.

“it lost control and rammed into the wall,” you explained further, sitting on the armrest on sukuna's side.

sukuna's arm fixes itself around your hips. he's slightly smirking at the news.

that doesn't go unnoticed by you. you're more than familiar with your boyfriend's joy at other's misery. you shot him a glare with a light tap on his shoulder.

“is that so?” jin's attention is now fully on his boy. he takes the glasses off, pulling yuuji onto his lap.

taking the car into his hand, he inspects the damages. it's not too much, and it's fixable.

“dad will fix it later, okay,” reassuring yuuji, jin ruffles his hair.

yuuji nods, jumping down from his dad's lap to return to the toys. as he's on his way, he turns, appearing to have suddenly remembered something.

“(y/n), come play with me!”

“no, she won't,” sukuna answers for you, ignoring the harder hit you gave him on his shoulder.

“i'll be right there, yuuji,” this time you answer, giving him a warm smile and a thumbs up.

“give the boy a fucking brother,” sukuna grumbles, looking at jin with pure annoyance.

jin shoots his brother a smile, giving him no reply before he goes back to reading the final mail of the bunch.