#but I wanted to cut things down in my own mind to the truest and most bare essentials

[itspileofgoodthings]

I give my grad speech in a week, have been writing a million versions of what I want to say in my head all year, talked to my mom last night, boy did she separate the wheat from the chaff.

[hwangism143]

mistakes.

arguing with chan felt like knives cutting through your skin. it pained you both, but sometimes it was just unavoidable. tonight was one of those nights.

after a heated argument on something you can't even remember, you and chan decided to sleep in different rooms. you both needed space, and that's what adults did. an hour later, you were still adamant about staying in your room.

what a lie. you needed chan the way a flower needed the sun.

tears threatened to spill out as your knuckles hovered over the door to chan's room. it was painted beige, but you could still see the small yellow smiley face chan painted on the corner, a remnant of newlywed bliss.

finally, you knocked, your knuckles rapping against the door in dull, hollow echoes. you stood for what seemed like an eternity, doubts creeping into your mind.

in what felt like forever but must have been five seconds, chan finally swung open the door. the sight of his disheveled hair and red, puffy eyes finally did it for you.

you broke down into sobs. "i'm sorry, i don't want you to think that marrying me was a mistake, i'm so so sorry."

the same tears slid down chan's cheeks as he held you close. your cheek was pressed against his shoulder as a smoothed your hair and whispered his own apologies into your ear.

when you finally calmed down, chan pulled away to look you in the eye. "i promise that i will never make you feel like me marrying you was a mistake. loving you has been the best thing i have ever done and i'll tell you that every damn day if you want me too because that's the truest thing in my life."

you sniffed, about to reply with a passionate sermon of your own, when your stomach rumbled. chan looked down at your stomach with the hint of a smile.

"cookies?" you asked, extending an olive branch.

chan chuckled and placed his lips onto yours. he kissed you long and slow, like he had all the time in the world. and he did.

you would bear every argument. you would cherish every laugh. you would live every moment, if it meant that you would be coming home, hell that your home, would be this man.

: ̗̀➛ current permanent taglist:

@linoalwaysknows @moon0fthenight @hyulino @palindrome969

@squishybinnieee @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @stayinlimbo @farfromsugafanfic

@hongshuaknow @cookiesandcreammy @kayleefriedchicken @toomanybiasz

@seooj444 @soaplickerrr @nappynapnaps

: ̗̀➛ requested by: anon <3

[gnomishcunning]

Re: requests, literally any nsfw for Zevlor? I love one (1) sad old tiefling

i, too, love one sad ole' tiefling. he and karlach own my wholeass heart. some of my own headcanons/portrayals of him snuck into these, hope ya don't mind.

(please send me more asks about zevlor i love him so much)

nsfw below the cut! MDNI

in general-

zevlor's a hopeless romantic in the truest of sense. his entire life has been about devotion - he joined a group of soldiers that you can't quite, he's a paladin who lived by his oath for decades, and he followed the literal god of guardians. he believes in devotion, and that undoubtedly leaked into his concept of relationships

maybe back in his young soldiering days, zevlor had some one-night stands, maybe an occasional fling or two. but his devotion to his duty came first, and he sadly never found time to fall in love like he wanted, or start a family.

so, if you somehow managed to lure zevlor into your bed? you need to know it's because he loves you. even if he hasn't told you.

he's an old, broken paladin. he's not willing to risk heartbreak and further grind down his sense of self-worth, not with everything he's been through.

he's already lost everything that made him who he was. he can't loose you, too.

the first time around? it's all sweetness. he approaches your naked body with a sort of reverence, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. that this is actually happening.

his attention to detail is paramount. he's trimmed all his talons to a dull sort of safety, he's got warming oil tucked into his belt-pouch, hell - he brings his own contraceptive herbs, if he's with the type partner where that's a concern. he'll eat em in front of you if that helps.

consent is the sexiest thing, and he unwraps you like a present, carefully asking with every piece of clothing removed, dipping his head to press kisses to every new bit of your beautiful self revealed to him.

His hands tremble as they travel over soft skin, careful on every curve he covers. he's constantly checking in, making sure you're okay- can he touch here? caress you?

it's admittedly a very vanilla affair, but it's probably the most tender, loving sex you'll ever have.

he's going to want to top, and gods, how can you say no to that face?

you'll come first. no matter what. he presses kisses down your body until he can attend your clit or cock with careful flicks of his tongue, he'll dribble oil onto his fingers in front of you so he can slowly work you open, taking one finger, then two-

and gods, you just know he'd have amazing hands, right? callused and dextrous after a lifetime of sword-wielding, but ever-so careful and exact.

he won't want to take you until you've made a mess of the bedsheets, and when he does? he wants to take you in missionary so he can reach you everywhere, kiss every bit, and watch - commit every bit of this to memory, just in case he never has the opportunity take you apart, ever again

he's going to do his gods-damned best to insure you both cum at the same time. he'll press careful kisses to your mouth as you fall apart, one hand cupping your chin, just so he can watch your face as you cum

he's not a very loud moaner, but he repeats your name on loop until he finishes.

he gets hella clingy afterwards, and if you two have the right kind of relationship where he feels safe enough to be vulnerable which of course you two do, he'll probably cry afterwards

thankfully, this becomes a regular occurrence for both of you

in terms of kinks? zevlor's a bit of a mixed bag. he's got a lot of things he's passingly thought would be very hot to try with a partner, but he may carry some weird guilt about it.

in kinky, bdsm terms-

i'm a firm believer he's a switch, and he's equally willing (and wanting, tbh) to take both roles on, depending on the night. while bdsm wouldn't be a lifestyle-like thing for him and the majority of y'all's sex is vanilla, there's definitely occasions where he wants to indulge. and they're usually like, specifically-planned and orchestrated occasions, set to consume a whole evening, for both the kinky sex and the aftercare.

safewords include the faerun equivalent to the stoplight system (which i'm still working on), or something simple and straightforward that both of you can easily remember.

'bridle' is what comes to mind off the bat

he's absolute delighted if his partner wanted to take care of him, and yield without a fight. if he verbally protests he should be taking care of you, just say you wanna show him how much you love him. he'll fall apart in moments.

as a submissive? his biggest kinks would be praise and body worship, especially contrasted with some light verbal degradation. he's got some guilt to work through, and it's nice to do that with someone he trusts implicitly. but focus more on rewarding good behavior, rather than punishing bad behavior. he's disappointed enough in himself.

it's worth mentioning, this man is the furthest thing from a brat (for the most part). he wants to be good and get praised, since nothing else gets his heart beating as fast - but if you're being a tease, he's not above squirming and cursing at you in infernal

bondage is a yes, but he prefers one particular facet: rope. shibari's equal parts art form and bondage, and he'd appreciate the care and attention to detail that goes into it.

ironically? you wouldn't need bondage to hold him still. he's pretty damn good at following orders, and he's definitely eager to please. i don't think he'd be into 'good boy', but call him a 'sweet lil soldier'??? hahahaha oh wow

sweet and reassuring aftercare is a necessity, there's like a 95% chance he'd cry in a weird, cathartic sorta way. he's definitely a candidate for subdrop, so watch for that.

regardless of how pretty he is when he falls apart, he'd additionally play dominant with just as much eagerness. just say you trust him implicitly, he's incredibly handsome and attractive when he's in-charge, and you want him to take control. he'll more than happily agree - he's enthusiastic about it, especially when he sees how excited you are about the concept

speaking of- titles. Master sits weird with him, but "Sir" and "Commander" are both on deck. he kinda a fun lil illicit thrill using his old title in the bedroom. it'd go a long way to restore that ole' Hellrider Commander confidence, ngl.

he's a very firm, but very kind dominant, if that makes sense? he issues his commands, wants and expects them to be followed. his rewards good behavior with praise and petting (hair, or elsewhere on your body)

he's got a very good understanding about the lengths and limits of subspace given how well he knows you, he's incredibly attentive about how far his submissive has sunk, mentally, and he'll take them as far as they're looking to go- whether that's just taking their mind off a situation with some sweet tending and an orgasm or three, or totally obliterating their brainpower in a positive way with the paladick(tm) treatment

very into getting his partner to the point all they remember his name, designation, and 'please'. equally as fond as leaving hickies/marks/love bites all across their body, especially where people might be able to see. leaving physical evidence of his effect on his lover is a big turn-on

as equally into bondage and rope as a dominant as he is a submissive. it's a hobby he occasionally indulges in, and he enjoys prettying you up in fancy hemp ropes he probably dyed himself

he's fan-fuckin-tastic with aftercare, it's kind of insane. he's soft and careful, getting you a glass of water, he draws you a warm bath and helps you clean up, and then lures you back into your body from the weird, floaty world of subspace with soft touches and sweet praises. he'll get you snacks afterwards if you need them, and do just about anything you'll ask - from reading a book out-loud so you can listen to his voice, to granting you another orgasm if needed.

for the record if y'all want deets about how he is with a brat or an obedient submissive, someone needs to bite the bullet and send the ask, otherwise this post is gonna extend into forever

[blackstarchanx3new]

On a scale of 1-10 how much do you dislike the canon manga Red?

This turned into a rant lmfao.

Gotta make Red simps hate me more than they already do X'D

Like a 5 at least.

The problem mainly boils down to how I perceive him due to MY OWN PERSONAL READING OF THE TEXT.

So, the start: I'm not a fan of those types of "i'm so cute teehee" characters to begin with but for Red specifically...I just hate how inconsistent and poorly utilized he is.

He just morphs to be whatever the narrative needs him to be instead of having a real character.

He's a plot device more than a character tbh and it's why I struggled SO MUCH with figuring out a direction for him in FSR.

because...all the plot is character driven.

And I literally had no USE for a character who's soul purpose was filling in gaps when there weren't any with this cast.

His behavior isn't ever fully dived into like the other three.

I've mentioned this before: I think they cut a stand alone Red Chapter somewhere in development because the way his scene ends to where we see him later after they split up is SO WEIRD.

Funnily enough I find Dark Link and Red very similar. (Which is a huge problem but I'll get into that some other time)

Except Dark Link's inconsistencies and overall character loops back to his creation and he himself being a conflict of interest in Vaati's mind when he created Dark. he WANTED HIS Link back the only person he felt a connection to who he last had on good terms with, paired with wanting to HURT and destroy the current incarnation of Link.

making a twisted as hell individual who simultaneously embodies Link and is Link's twisted mirror image.

Naive uncertain and full of inner turmoil due to his purpose.

But when Dark REALIZES what he is to the truest extent he has to justify or crumble under the weight of his reality. There's a reason i described early Dark link as "Delusional" because he was.

Red just...doesn't have any of that kind of retrospection or intrigue in cannon.

Dark's innocence comes from his naivete but where the fuck does it come from with Red? (and it's proven to be fake anyway because he's the first one to stab someone who they think is their knight friends buuuuuut-)

Red's just canonically a contradiction with no real point and it's never pointed out in the narrative so like...it's just weird and kinda unnerving.

Like I pointed out, he literally acts like Lil Gideon before the reveal he's a crazy maniac.

Except we never GET the reveal for Red.

Red doesn't have any flaws that aren't him playing up his baby persona and fucking shit up for the others. He's just stupid af sometimes and helpful others without much rhyme or reason.

...Again I've said this before but if he was smart in areas Vio was dumb in (liKE IF THE DIRECTIONS THING WAS MORE OBVIOUSLY A CANNON THING IDK IF VIO BEING DICK WITH DIRECTIONS WAS JUST SMTH THEY ACCIDENTILY REPEATED A FEW TIMES OR A REAL INTENTIONAL TRAIT OF HIS) it could have been a fun dynamic but Vio and Red barely interact.

Honestly most of the dynamics I find myself WANTING with Red revolve around Vio...

And, imo his persona is blatantly fake from how often he just...drops it when the plot requires him to or when...idk it's just not NEEDED?

Him not shedding a TEAR when Shadow dies continues to creep me out.

because everything we know about Red tells us he should at least LOOK sat but he just...isn't.

And you can't be like "Oh but Shadow was their enemy"

bLUE GOT HIS ASS KICKED BY THIS ASSHOLE SO MANY TIMES AND HE LOOKS SAD. WHY DOESN'T RED WHO CRIES OVER KILLING ROCK MONSTERS IT'S CREEPYYYYYY.

Like no, I didn't want Red to dramatically burst into tears and ruin the moment, but dude didn't even look SAD.

Didn't look sad a dude with his face DIED.

Burned Blue's ass after JUST CRYING about him being DEAD and just WALKED AWAY.

Like if he had any depth to him this shit would be dived into but he's as shallow as a puddle and I dislike it strongly.

Like if ANY of this shit was even addressed in the manga I'd like him WAY MORE.

but it feels UNINENTIONAL which is the issue I have with Red as a character.

Long as hell walk to say:

I don't wanna spoil stuff but I do think you could have fresh ideas with Red being VERY DIFFRENT from link but my main issue with him in the actual cannon manga is:

He doesn't feel realistically like a part of Link due to my interpretation of the text and it's storytelling, and the WAY the text WANTS portrays him doesn't line up with his actions, and I don't like it.

[podcastenthusiast]

A new series about each spawn sibling's first night at the palace (minus Aurelia, because I hate writing Cazador, but she's in this one a lot.)

POV: Astarion/Second Person

Next up: Violet

--

Your first night at Cazador's palace is not the hardest you will experience in the coming centuries, not by half. It is, however, the night you most strongly believe there is some way out of this. You cling to that false hope as if it could save you. You just want to go home.

But your family buried you. You died and woke up six feet underground and clawed your way you out. Now you're trapped here.

None of it feels real quite yet.

A tiefling woman enters the room carrying a wash basin and a cloth which she sets down before you. Her eyes are glowing. Perhaps you are actually in the hells.

"The master says you are to be clean," she tells you, emotionless. "You will be given one set of new clothes. He wants you presentable for your first hunt."

Hunt? What in all the gods' names is she talking about?

"You're a vampire," you realize. There are more of them.

"Vampire spawn," she corrects. "Just like you."

"I'm not...I'm not a monster."

"You are to be clean," she says again.

You must look a dreadful state, to be fair. Maybe that is why this body doesn't feel like yours anymore. Fingernails broken and knuckles split, caked with dried blood and dirt.

You peer into the water. No reflection looks back at you. Scrubbing your hands vigorously, the cold water turning red, you try to suppress a wave of rising panic.

"Master Cazador wants you completely clean. Your clothes are filthy; take them off," the tiefling says, like it's nothing, when you show her your now spotless hands.

"What? N-no! I--" Your useless pleading is cut off by a painful cough. Your throat is still and raw. You screamed yourself hoarse in that coffin, and retching up grave dirt didn't exactly help either.

Cazador, the "master" himself, soon sweeps into the room.

"Is our newest addition settling in well, daughter of mine?"

"Y-yes, Father," the tiefling replies.

"And yet my orders have not been followed. I must say I am disappointed. This one has such...potential, doesn't he?"

He draws nearer, uncomfortably so.

"Let us see him. You want to see, do you not, child?"

Her eyes glow like embers. "Yes, Master."

"Don't touch me!"

You kick the basin hard, splashing murky water across the floor under Cazador's feet.

"Insolent boy," he snarls. "Have you not understood yet? We do not need to touch you. We are connected, you and I, sire and spawn. Blood-kin, if you will, in the truest sense."

Pain lances through your mind. You watch, helpless and horrified, as your very own hands move without your input to strip off first your shirt, then your trousers and undergarments.

You stand there all but frozen, your body exposed and vulnerable, completely laid bare. Cazador's cold crimson gaze scrutinizes every inch of your flesh. What he might be looking for, you don't know. Imperfections?

More likely he simply enjoys watching you squirm.

"Acceptable," he declares after a while. "You may dress once you have shown me you can behave as a respectable member of this family should. Do not forget I saved you from a rather untimely end. The polite thing, the noble thing, would be to thank your rescuer."

You meet his eyes.

"Fuck you," you spit.

The ensuing blow to your empty stomach is unexpected. Your knees buckle. In that moment you feel Astarion Ancunin the living man begin to slip away. You are a naked, shaking heap of limbs upon the wet tile floor. You are sharp teeth and shattered pride. A pathetic creature.

"Louder, boy, I did not hear you properly."

"Thank you, Master," you gasp out, unsure if it is compulsion or ordinary fear driving you to say the words.

"Manners, at last. Clean up this mess, both of you."

And with a strangely dispassionate kick to your ribs, he departs.

The tiefling quickly gets to work washing the floor, as instructed. You can't seem to move. You haven't ever scrubbed a floor in your life, anyway; you don't plan to start after death.

"It is easier if you obey him," she says softly.

A lesson you won't thoroughly learn until one dark, silent year of torturous hunger and solitude.

"Is he always like that?"

The tiefling shakes her head but, before you can feel relieved, adds, "The master was very merciful. Perhaps because you are new. I do not know."

"You call that mercy?"

"Yes. I do. Now, we must clean. I should not be talking to you. You are going to get us in more trouble."

She flings a towel at you, perhaps with more force than necessary. You feel the faintest stirring of renewed hope. There might be a person still in there somewhere after all.

"We're family, apparently, aren't we? I don't even know your name."

Her hands briefly falter but she continues scrubbing at the same steady pace. She doesn't speak for a long time.

"...Aurelia," she whispers.

"Lovely. My name's Astarion. I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, Aurelia, but, well..."

Aurelia makes a broken sound you think could generously be called a laugh.

"I have not been called that in such a long time."

"How long have you been here?" you ask, decidedly uneasy.

She shrugs.

"Is it just you and...him? Are there others?"

"Start helping me clean up your mess, Astarion. Then I will answer your questions. I may also report to the master that you demonstrated adequate obedience."

Hm. Clever girl.

"Fine. I suppose I would like to cover myself sooner rather than later."

The pair of you work in awkward silence. You get the feeling Aurelia has grown accustomed to the quiet, that she believes it's safer somehow. Familiar. She never asks you any questions.

Eventually, you are permitted to get dressed. The outfit provided for you is of finer quality than you dared to anticipate, not altogether unlike the silk garments probably gathering dust in your wardrobe back home. Unless, perish the thought, your things were donated to the less fortunate. Mother always has been a bleeding heart.

You don't let your mind drift to memories of home. You must focus solely on what is in front of you, on survival, and finding a way to free yourself.

"Aurelia?"

"Yes, brother?"

Ugh. That is definitely not happening. Not ever. You refuse to play house with these freaks. Bad enough you have to sleep in a dormitory with your new "sister" like you're at boarding school again.

"Aurelia, I can't see my reflection. Be my mirror. How do I look? Does this color bring out my eyes?"

She stares at you.

"It clashes with the red. You need something like a light blue, not magenta."

You stare at her.

"Aurelia...firstly, how do you know that, and secondly, are my damn eyes red?!"

"Shh! The master demands a quiet house."

"This is my home too, now. I can be as loud as I want."

"Pretending you are not scared won't make it so, Astarion."

"Want to bet?"

Aurelia shakes her head, frowning like you're a lost cause.

"I have my own orders. Come find me when you are ready to listen," she says, turning to go. "Red as blood, by the way."

"I-- What?"

"Your eyes. They are red as blood. I used to make dresses, I think. Colors were important."

She spills the scraps of her half-remembered mortal life at your feet and scurries out of the room, as silently as she'd come.

Alone, the grief and despair threaten to overwhelm you.

How do you mourn your own life?

You don't have much time to find out, as it happens. Soon enough, Cazador calls for you.

It is a very long night.

[haledamage]

Chin for Kira and Adam 👀👀

[ CHIN ]: as they stand close to one another, the sender hooks a finger and tenderly lifts the receiver’s chin, tilting it up so that they can look at one another, and running a thumb across their skin lightly.

A bit of closure I found missing from TWC book 3. Spoilers for pretty much the whole book. 1700 words, Kira/Adam, also starring my truest Wayhaven OTP, Kira/Emotional Vulnerability because my girl thinks she’s Elsa. You can’t “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know” your way out of this one, Kingston, with musical guest “Adam’s attempt to  distance himself is no match for Kira being sad”

--

There was an envelope on the kitchen table that had Kira’s name on it.

She approached it cautiously, half expecting it to be another fancy invite to some horrifying auction. When nothing jumped out of the shadows or attempted to kidnap her, she gave in to her gnawing curiosity and picked it up.

It looked like a perfectly normal letter, addressed to “Agent Kingston” with the facility’s address underneath. A yellow sticky note was attached to the front covered in Rebecca’s familiar, tidy handwriting:

“Kira, This letter was given to me by mistake. I apologise for opening it, but I promise I stopped reading as soon as I realised it was written to you.”

Kira laughed fondly to herself at her mother’s message. Always so formal, even when accidentally committing mail fraud.

She turned the envelope over to find the neat slit that had been cut across the top, and pulled out the simple sheet of notebook paper inside. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, so she scanned the note quickly to see who it was from and why:

The Agency told me this was the best way to get in touch with you. I really hope they gave me the right person because otherwise I’m going to sound crazy. I guess there are two Agent Kingstons here? This is for the one in Unit Bravo, so if you aren’t her, can you get this to her? Thanks.

Hi. You probably don’t remember me. But I wanted to thank you for saving my life. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be in Trapper custody now. Or worse.

I don’t know how you did it. The last thing I remember was that big man with wings taking me, and then I woke up in the hospital a few days ago. The doctors said someone found me unconscious in town and brought me in.

The rest of the words on the page blurred as Kira’s eyes filled with tears. Her knees gave out under her, and she didn’t bother trying to catch herself before she collapsed to the floor, clutching the letter tightly as she tried to breathe around the lump of emotion in her throat.

As if in a daze, she looked down at her arms, her mind conjuring the memory of long, jagged lacerations carved into them, and the girl that had done it. She remembered her face with vivid clarity, wide-eyed with terror as Sin had practically ripped her from Kira’s grasp. 

Several of those marks had scarred, leaving a permanent reminder of that day etched into her skin. One of them bisected the tattoo on her wrist, the black crown broken into two uneven pieces. Numbly, she pressed her thumb to it; she could feel the frantic flutter of her own pulse underneath.

“Kira? Kira!”

She barely heard her name being called. The first time, cautious and surprised, or the second, harsher with the edge of fear.

But she felt it when Adam joined her on the floor. His arrival broke through her daze and what little remained of her composure, and tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

Adam’s hands shook as he wiped them away. Kira could feel the tremble in his fingertips where they brushed her face. She covered his hands with her own before he could try to hide it, pressing them more firmly against her skin. Even after everything, she still craved his touch, greedy for every second of it she could get.

He swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

She shook her head, attempting to give him a shaky smile. “Nothing. Everything is fine.” It sounded so ridiculous, she couldn’t help but laugh. It just sounded like a sob.

Finding the fallen letter on the floor, now tear-stained and partially crumpled, she held it out to him. She watched his expression as he scanned it, but whatever reaction he may have had never showed on his face.

Somehow, Kira’s voice remained strong, even if the rest of her was falling apart. “When she wasn’t with the others at the auction, I--I thought she was--” She didn’t know if she meant to say “dead” or “already sold”, or which would have been the worse fate. A new wave of tears came, and she squeezed her eyes shut as if it could stop them. “But she never made it to the auction. Sin never handed her over. He saved her.”

Adam hooked a finger under her chin, gently coaxing her to open her eyes and look at him. When she did, he smiled softly, eyes warm and shining with pride. “He didn’t save her, Kira.” His thumb brushed lightly over the swell of her bottom lip. “You did.”

A ragged sob tore its way out of her throat, and Kira buried her face in Adam’s shoulder before another one could escape. His arms immediately wrapped around her, pulling her closer until she was practically in his lap.

Through everything that had happened these last few weeks, Kira had refused to let herself cry. She had kept moving, one persistent step at a time, bottling up all her pain and fear and heartbreak. Through the bounty, and the kidnappings, and the breaking and slow mending of her friendship with Verda. Through too much work on too little sleep, and juggling more and more secrets, and buildings collapsing on her head. Through swallowing her rage as she met Anwir’s eyes and hiding it behind a hollow but convincing smile. Through the constant tidal flow of Adam’s affection, pulling her close only to push her away again while all she could do was try to weather the currents.

If she was honest with herself, she’d been fighting to hold everything in for a lot longer than that. Since Murphy’s assault on her apartment. Since she learned the truth about the supernatural. Maybe since the first moment Unit Bravo had stepped into her office.

But this one tiny, unexpected victory had shattered all her hard wrought restraint. The bottle was broken, and everything came pouring out.

Adam held her through all of it, warm and strong and solid, the only place in the world that she felt truly, completely safe. His hands were a soothing weight in her hair and down her spine, his voice a comforting rumble in her ear, though she was too far gone to process anything he was saying.

Even when Kira finally ran out of tears, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let her go. That felt new. A delicate tendril of hope unfurled in her chest, and for once she let herself feel it without trying to push it away.

Taking a deep and blissfully unfettered breath, she sat up a little, just far enough to rest her temple against his cheekbone. “Thank you.”

Adam chuckled, a gentle and fond sound that made her heart do somersaults. “There is nothing you need to thank me for.”

She leaned back a little more so she could see his face. “For being here to put me back together. Again.” This time when she laughed, she sounded like herself again.

Adam brushed her hair out of her eyes before settling his hand against her cheek. “I will always be here for you, Kira.”

“I know.” And she did know, but it felt so good to hear it out loud. She mapped out the shape of his smile with her fingertips, tracing the curve of his lips and the slight indentations of his dimples. Committing all of it to memory. “I’m here for you too. Whenever you need me.”

“I know.” He almost sounded like he believed it. That was new too.

Before either of them could sabotage the moment by overthinking it, Kira leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like the first kiss they shared. There was no edge of despair or desperation, none of the bitter taste of “goodbye”. It was slow and sweet, heat simmering under the surface but never boiling over to become something else. Hungry, but without any bite.

Adam broke away first, gasping in a shaky breath, and Kira braced herself for the inevitable moment when he closed himself off again. With as raw as her emotions were, she’d need a little more time to swallow down the pain.

Except it never came.

When he turned away, it was only to brush his lips against the inside of her wrist. He trailed light kisses along the length of one of her new scars, followed by a firmer kiss on the broken crown tattoo, and a final one in the center of her palm.

He looked up at her, naked need in his eyes and his lips still pressed to her skin, and she forgot how to breathe.

It took every ounce of restraint she could muster for Kira not to immediately grab him and kiss him again.

Adam didn’t give her the opportunity. He dropped her hand and his gaze, suddenly unable to look at her anymore. Clearing his throat did nothing to make his voice less rough. “How do you feel?”

Weightless. Like if you keep kissing me like that, I could fly. “My head is fucking pounding.” It was also the truth, but a much safer one. Still, she couldn’t help but add, “Except for that, I feel great, actually.”

The glint in his eyes told her that maybe he’d heard the part she didn’t say, too. He knew her too well not to. “Then I shall make you some tea, to help with your headache.”

“Wait.” She grabbed his shoulders as soon as he started to move away, clenching her hands into his shirt like it would make any difference if he actually wanted to leave. “Can we… just stay like this a little longer?”

Adam didn’t respond except by settling back down on the floor. He leaned his back against a nearby side table, and then his arms wrapped around her again, pulling her close. Kira released a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She rested her head on his shoulder and melted against him, trusting him to hold her up.

The rest of the world would still be waiting for them, when they finally decided to move. But for the first time in a long time, Kira felt ready to face it… eventually.

[logosastros]

Every spirit has it's own life wheel, or circle of life. You begin your earthly life journey in the spiritual cosmos, outside of time, outside of the 3rd dimension, outside of any physical realm, you enter earth life through your vessel.

Likewise every life journey ends by exiting your physical vessel and entering back into the cosmos, either to begin a new earth life, remain in the spiritual cosmos, or to follow a new and different adventure in another realm. There is much mystery surrounding this part of our lifespans as we are not yet fully connected with the spiritual cosmos and everything beyond. We will all find out about it when we leave these bodies. It is clear that this spiritual realm has much much more to offer than our physical, limited, 3 dimensional minds can ponder.

But being in an earthly body, in a 3 dimensional realm, does not completely cut you off from your spiritual home. Your spirit remains ever connected, although not fully, we can access part of that spiritual realm from which we came, and we can choose to move our consciousness from our bodies into our spiritual beings, which remain tethered to the spiritual cosmos.

I want to point something out to you in light of this. In the cosmos, we have access to our whole lives, beginning, middle and end. In our physical bodies this would look like access to the past, present and future. In our spiritual beings, this is simply looking down on our existence outside of time.

This means, that if you choose to be in your spiritual self, via meditating, prayer, or whatever way you connect, you are able to connect to your whole life. Past and future.

Now you are not a god, you cannot bend it completely to your will, the universe holds you in a certain balance, just as all of the physical things in your environment do. But you can send energy to the past and future.

Right now, I want you to use this understanding to connect to your past self. To your child self. I want you to hold a picture or image of your child self in your mind. Look at them as if they were your own child. And from your spiritual self, from the cosmos, I want you to send them whatever they needed most. Right now. From wherever you are.

You are bigger and stronger now that you were then. And whatever that child needs, you can send to them. Not in terms of changing physical circumstances, as many of us so deeply wish we could do, but you can send love, you can send nurturing energy, you can send comfort and peace, you can send life and hope.

So right now, remember that you are a spiritual being at your core, that in your truest essence, time does not have any hold on you, you have your entire life before you, past, present and future. Hold your child self in your hands, and give them the biggest spiritual hug you can. They deserve it. They are you, they are your purest, most innocent version of you.

Take this time now to connect to them and to heal yourself by sending them the pure, safe, protective, and enriching love that they need. Take a deep breath. Tell them your proud of them. Tell them that they're doing a great job. And find healing from your past through this.

Take time to be with your child self as often as you like. Take moments to encourage them, love them, laugh with them. Be the person for them now that they needed most then.

Be blessed, bask in gratitude.

Grow ever wider and taller and deeper in the light my friends.

[sennamybeloved]

yk what? fuck it. in honor of 4/20, here are some stoner headcanons for a bunch of my f/os.

cw for recreational weed usage below the cut.

SENNA — total stoner. stoner in the truest sense of the word. smokes all the fucking time. uses weed as a coping mechanism. — very high cannabis tolerance. — grows her own weed in our garden/the basement of our house. also makes her own edibles (it's the only thing she can make without burning the house down, somehow.) — gets remarkably chill when she's high. the heaps of stress she deals with constantly kinda disappear if she smokes enough, which is why she does it so much. — gets very giggly sometimes. becomes 100x less mature than she usually is. — ends up laughing every time i try to talk to her. — shows me stupid videos on her phone that made her laugh a little too hard. — either that, or she just gets really sleepy. she lays on the couch, eats chips, and watches bad tv before taking the best nap of her fucking life. — gets the munchies so severely. she could eat lucian and i out of house and home. — with some strains she can actually get up and make art. she does beadwork/jewelry-making and paints sometimes. — has the best advice for coping with bad highs. — generally just has the best tips if you want to get into smoking; she was a huge help to me when i first started. — being around her while she's high is a great experience. 10/10.

LUCIAN — significantly less entertaining to be around. — will pass out after 20 minutes no matter the strain. — sleeps so hard. you could like, hit him with a semitruck and he'd still be snoring. — wakes up with major munchies- but not as bad as senna's. — sometimes gets too high and lays on the ground at looks at the sky/ceiling/whatever for hours, floating between different planes of existence. — smokes to turn his brain off when he feels depressed. works about half of the time. — (un)surprisingly cuddly. clings to senna and i like his life depends on it. — overview: sleepy.

AHRI — becomes the worst version of herself. — really fucking obnoxious. her mind is running totally free, prompting her to spew out every stupid thought that comes to her. this is only entertaining for the first 10 minutes or so, until you realize that she is not going to shut up! — very giggly and talkative. — never passes out, no matter the strain. — her favorite thing to annoy me with is different variants of 20 questions. either turns really hilarious or really, really depressing. — prefers edibles over actually smoking. tends to eat more than she should, causing her to green out... a lot. — two words: playful aggression. roughhouses me, rips joints out of my hands, shoves/hits/scratches me, says the meanest fucking things with a big, shit-eating grin on her face. — has bitten me so hard that it's drawn blood. — has a great time. the people she is with will probably not have a great time, though. except for me, because i think she's wonderful.

MARLENE — not a huge smoker honestly. she only got into it after she started hanging out with me. — smokes to relieve stress. — totally chill when she's high. prefers to just hang out and watch tv or eat. — very cuddly. keeps her hand in mind or an arm around my shoulders when we're talking. enjoys laying with her head on my chest, or mine on hers. — she isn't very good at formulating words when she's intoxicated, but she likes listening to me talk. — likes to smoke while listening to music. i have a playlist made specifically for when we get stoned. — doesn't like to smoke alone; sometimes suffers from a little bit of paranoia. — has the best sleeps of her entire life when she is high.

T BUG — doesn't smoke a whole lot. it's a fucking ordeal whenever she does, though. — already a philosophy nerd, but becomes even more of a nerd when she's high. her philosophies start making less and less sense, until they either devolve into garbled quotes from ancient philosophers or borderline conspiracy theories. — has managed to convince herself that arasaka has her chipped. — has also tried to convince me to rob a building owned by a corpo while we were both high. i said no (we would've both died) but i considered it. — major munchies. bad takeout food is a must. we've gotten lost on the streets of night city searching for a burger joint before. — she smokes to help with the headaches and nausea she suffers as a result of the injuries she received during the arasaka tower attack. — usually very talkative, but gets sleepy after a while.

DUTCH — oh my god. he is the worst! — doesn't shut the fuck up. like ever. — also philosophizes, except everything he says is so mind-numbingly stupid. you just want him to shut up so bad. — states really basic concepts like they're profound and groundbreaking. — either that, or he will become really in touch with his emotions and memories (and by extension, is poor behaviors) and get really whiny and start talking about how he doesn't deserve me and blah blah blah. — after that he'll pass out so fucking hard. like i couldn't wake him up even if i tried.

ILLAOI — seasoned stoner. very chill about it. — she smokes like all the time with other buhru people. it's a bonding exercise in their village. — very high tolerance. smokes more than could ever be considered reasonable and never greens out. — owns a collection of fancy ceramic bongs. — becomes super relaxed and zen and in touch with her faith when she's stoned. it's one of her favorite experiences. — doesn't usually smoke along; she enjoys sharing stories and laughing with friends- or me. — she will try any weird edibles people offer her. the less she knows about their origins, the better. she views it as a fun challenge (someone could poison her and she wouldn't gaf.) — gave me the best advice when i started smoking. never had a bad high with her because she's just so chill. she makes everything great. — whenever i feel like i'm floating away she'll wrap one of her big ass arms around me and just hold me against her body. fixes me every time.

[youareallowedchips]

sexuality/gender headcanons about the sherlock gang

18+ (not really nsfw) content under the cut ♡

post author is bi & nonbinary! these are just my own personal hcs that i keep in mind when i write fic, it's 100% fine if you don't agree c:

sherlock holmes

homosexual, grey-aromantic transmasculine.

sherlock, despite public perceptions, has an absolutely average sex drive, but had never really felt romantic attraction in his life until he met john, and he can't imagine falling in love with anyone else. he spent a fair bit of time on hookup apps prior to meeting john. sherlock is KINKY.

he's known he felt more aligned with masculinity since he was very small, but never felt the need to go on hormones or have surgery, because he finds society's expectations of trans people restrictive and doesn't want surgical recovery to slow him down. he binds (sometimes unsafely, much to john's annoyance), and it does wonders for his dysphoria.

john watson

allo, bi cis man.

dating sherlock from the great game until the fall, and after mary's death. john's romantic attraction STRONGLY leans towards women and femmes, but sherlock is The One for him. he had a purely physical relationship with sholto when he was still in the army.

john's sex drive is actually super high.

mycroft holmes

allo, gay cis man

a lot of people assume mycroft is aro/ace, because he never seems to get himself involved with anyone. mycroft is married to his work, in the truest sense of the word, and simply doesn't have time for sex or relationships.

mycroft is in a bonded pair with his right hand.

greg lestrade

allo, straight cis man. (token cishet white man!)

dating molly, unofficially just after aSiB, officially asked her out in tSoT, when they were tipsy at john & mary's wedding. greg is super comfortable with his sexuality/masculinity and he's experimented plenty. before john & sherlock got together, he kissed john in the pub once, just to see if he'd like it. he had a fling with a bloke in police academy when he was young, but decided in the end that dudes weren't for him. he appreciates beauty in all genders, and isn't afraid to point out an aesthetically pleasing man. he's also VERY much an ally, most of his friends (and his girlfriend,, uwu) are queer. he fiercly protects his queer friends and coworkers.

greg is an absolute HORNDOG. filthy filthy filthy. he'd be doin' it every day if it was up to him. he's a pleasure/service dom and

molly hooper

demisexual, bi, cis woman.

dating greg. is pretty much split 50/50 in her attraction, maybe with a slight lean towards men. even though she's shy, her sexuality is one of the few things she's open and proud about.

mary morstan

haven't really thought about it much, but if there was a gun to my head, i'd say shes a bi cis woman?

mary doesn't like to label anything about herself, much less her sexuality. she goes with the flow.

(i don't think about her much bc i don't like her, also amanda abbington is an unspeakable terf)

irene adler

allo, lesbian cis woman.

irene didn't come out until her late 20s, struggled with A LOT of comphet, explaining what she thought was an "attraction" to sherlock. they're seriously just bros now, though.

irene actually couldnt really care less one way or another about how often she has sex, but she knows she's good at it and can use it to make money.

sally donovan

allo, bi trans woman

sally is t4t, and dating anderson. she lives stealth, almost nobody knows other than

philip anderson

allo, straight trans man

dating sally. anderson is quite insecure in his trans identity and used to be truscum, explaining the animosity between him and sherlock. he blamed himself a lot after the fall, and took a long hard look at himself and his politics, helped along by a kick up the arse from sally.

[wiry-psychiatrist]

Here is what I want:

Now that I'm on my own, I can start doing the things I want to become closer to the version of myself in my head. I will take steps towards these goals, with a set plan of action, even if it has no specific time frame. This is in an attempt to find the truest version of myself, as opposed to the life I have been living for others. I am doing these things for myself, not to impress anyone or for anyone's validation.

physical appearance/sense of self:

-I want to be skinnier, with smaller hips and thighs and a more balanced/androgynous physique

-I want slightly shorter, darker, wavy hair (maybe permed) in a wolf/mullet cut

-I want my jawline to be more angular, and my features to lean more masculine

-I want a slightly lower voice, and to be louder when I speak

-I want to choose my name and pronouns and be comfortable enough with them to ask others to use them, whatever they may be

behavioral/emotional traits:

-I want to be able to feel my feelings more deeply, and unlock some memories that I previously shoved down/blocked out

-I want to be able to express/regulate these feelings as needed, via stimming, crying, etc.

-I want to recognize when I am getting overstimulated/burnt out, and accommodate myself before I reach a critical point of dysregulation

-I want to be able to be more calm in my mind, and have a clear head

-I want to be able to hear the other parts of myself and listen when they have something to say

-I want to be able to appreciate silence and not always need some level of stimulation/electronic in front of me (this will most likely require finding another way to self-regulate that doesn't involve social media)

social/interpersonal:

-I want to explore my new city, and try different restaurants/shops in the area

-I want to invite my friends to my new apartment, and cook for them

-I want to join online communities and be involved in groups that share my interests

-I want to go to events with like-minded people, and talk to strangers

-I want to be less afraid of doing things on my own, instead of waiting for someone to experience the new thing with me

-I want to show my truest self and my truest personality to strangers, even if the outcome may not be 100% positive. I will worry less about how other people perceive me, as their validation means nothing compared to my own self-validation.

I will try, starting today, to take steps towards these goals, and I will understand that progress may not be linear or immediately obvious. I will not give up on these goals just because I don't see results immediately. I will keep periodic updates to remind myself of my end goal.

[little-superstar-penny]

published in an August issue of Vanity Fair, full text below the cut.

STORMY NO MORE: PENNY FORRESTER ON HER CLEAR SKIES AND NEW BEGINNINGS AWAY FROM THE SPOTLIGHT

Nestled in an enchanted forest, Swynlake is worlds away from busy Sidney Studios in Glendale, California or the old streets of Los Feliz, where Penny Forrester used to call home. The town has it's own movie magic though, found in the nooks and crannies of its idiosyncratic businesses: one beloved tea shop with cups that keep themselves warm; one cozy and cramped bookstore, said to be haunted by ghosts; and a classic English-style pub near a peaceful lake where the town's very own sea monster lives. Most of Swynlake's original buildings have stood the test of time, its crooked skyline whispering of greater mythologies than the chatter that lines the streets. Is it any wonder that Hollywood fell in love with the town for the set of an upcoming World War II movie? Is it any wonder that Penny Forrester wants to stay?

"It sounds like I'm making it up, but I really did feel at home in Swynlake immediately," says Forrester at her new (to her) cherry wood table, a piece she picked up from Swynlake's own antiques store, Whosits and Whatsits. The former Stormy and Bolt star initially refused to do any press following the announcement of her retirement. Now, we conduct the interview on her terms - no set dressing, minimal make-up, and a strict time limit with pre-approved questions. With these rules in mind, I went into the interview expecting Forrester to be tight-lipped, but she's anything but.

"What people don't realize is being a Magick in Hollywood is more isolating than anyone is allowed to say. We have to exist based on specific rules. We only have our union looking out for us. We're a small community. But in Swynlake, all of that fell away."

It was precisely Swynlake's unconventional embrace of magic that provided Forrester with her first glimpse of a life outside of Hollywood. Starring in Bolt at only 8 years old, most of her life can be traced scene-by-scene on the silver screen. Forrester later worked in two Sidney Channel series, several TV movies, and launched her own musical alter ego, Penny&thevibe, all before turning 18.

But great success often comes with great cost. Many child actors before Forrester have had similar trajectories, only to crash and burn very publicly. For many, it's drugs and alcohol. For Forrester, trouble began as soon as filming started. An early incident involving one of Swynlake's business managers, an out half-succubus woman, led to Forrester shutting production down. She made a public statement on her Twitter, the reception of which was mixed.

"I mean, for a long time, I was scared of what everyone would think of me. But I thought about my fans who write me these letters about how Stormy's bravery makes them brave. I thought, 'What am I doing? I'm being a hypocrite, living a life I don't believe in. I don't want to do this anymore.'"

Things came to a head during the final days of shooting Olive Bright. Allegedly, an animal was endangered on

the set of the Daffodil Dance, which led to Forrester quitting on the spot. Reports also say that Forrester bit the executive producer on set. If true, Forrester's Icarian fall had come.

At the mention of the incident, Forrester looks directly at me. She had been fiddling before this; many reporters before me have written about her preference for interviews on-the-go. But now, she stills, as if she is on the red carpet, preparing to give her audience the perfect shot - or to give me, in this case, the answer she has rehearsed.

"That day, I acted in the way I felt truest to myself and how I grew up," she said. "I was raised to stand up to bullies. I have always tried to be an advocate for those without a voice, especially animals. But I also failed, in a lot of ways. I learned that I don't have the tools I need to be that advocate. And that's the moment I knew I had to change that."

What could have turned into scandal was instead a personal reckoning. It didn't take long for Forrester to decide to study law, and even less time to choose Pride University. Come fall, she'll have shed the punny gadgets of Stormy and Bolt for textbooks and laptops. But she's not completely out of the spotlight.

"I need time away," said Forrester. "But I still want to express myself. It's not going to be radio silence because I suck at that. I just hope that my fans are okay with me telling my story in my way, whether that's on Instagram or in my music. I'm still figuring it out."

Before I go, Forrester insists that we go to a Swynlake staple: Hatter's Tea Shoppe. There, I order a coffee in one of their magical mugs that keep my drink at the perfect temperature. We sit and feed the birds, and someone waves hello to Penny, as if she's one of the locals. She smiles and waves back, looking perfectly at home -finally in the role she was born to play.

[gotnofucks]

Will you make me a drabble where I ask Steve to be my daddy or just make him my daddy🥺🥺👉👈 love you bestie!!

Title: The Journey to Daddy

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Summary: Five times you call Steve ‘daddy’, and the one times he asks you to.

Words: 1.6k

Warning: slight smut, daddy kink, some jealousy and possessiveness, 18+ Only

A/N: There is only one person who can ever make me go soft. Berry, this is for you. Love you more my queen @donutloverxo

+++++

1.

Sometimes, you felt like an onion. You had a lot of layers around you: secrets, insecurities, dreams you were scared of living, things that were never said. And every time, it felt like Steve would peel a layer to expose the truest form of you. You'd never felt as naked as you did when his eyes were fixed on you, with no judgement or question, only love.

You'd been going out for months now, learning about each other, exploring your boundaries. Steve was the most attentive boyfriend. He was caring and respectful, always there for you before you even asked for him. He'd lift you up when you needed something from the top shelf. He'd cook for you because he knew you liked the domestic look on him. He'd tickle you to tears when you were down, trailing kisses down your forehead to your nose to your chin before blowing a raspberry on the hollow of your neck that would have you giggling.

Steve was so perfect, and it was very unconscious the first time you called him Daddy. You were in the kitchen and had broken a plate when Steve came rushing out, carrying you away from the wreckage to make sure you were okay. he wouldn't let you clean it, afraid you'd hurt yourself.

"You're okay baby?" He had asked.

"Yes daddy" you had softly replied into his neck, soothed by his smell. And though he didn't say anything, the thought kept running in his head. Daddy?

2.

Your cries got higher with each thrust, nails digging into Steve’s shoulder as he pumped into you. He loved it when you got like this, all dumbed down and messy, garbling words that felt like poetry to him. You came around him again, squeezing his length between the velvety walls of your sex and he released into you with a growl.

Sweaty and spent, you looked a beauty to him as you laid under his naked body covered in his essence. His large body framed yours and as he leaned in to kiss your glistening and bruised lips, you tiredly said, "I love you, daddy".

He stilled, whispering a love you back before collapsing next to you. Looking at you drifting away, he got up to clean you and cover you up, holding you close as his thoughts ran wild. There it was again. Daddy. Why did you call him that?

3.

Your birthdays were more important to Steve than they were to you. Every time, even when you’d not been dating, Steve would pull all stops for your birthday. He’d arrange a party that would consist only of your closest friends and family, cook all your favorite food, and would make sure everyone got you a present you liked.

There was that time Steve had made a list and gave it out. “Just get her something from this. I know what she likes.” Idiot. He should have put only his name on the list, since there was nothing you wanted more than him. Today, as you celebrated this day as a couple, he decided to make it intimate and private.

He decorated the balcony in your favorite fairy lights, lightening soft candles and putting your favorite flowers everywhere so that it smelled divine. You both sat under the stars, holding each other as you snuggled in the blanket, talking in hushed tone.

“What did you wish for when you blew the candles?” He asked, pressing his lips on the crown of your head. You looked at him, eyes reflecting the candles that danced in the wind.

“I have everything I want. Here.” You said, touching his chest. “You’re all I want. Thank you for today, daddy.”

You kissed him, not noticing the slight hitch in his breath as you said that. Daddy, he liked how that sounded.

4.

The sounds of typing were a normal in your house, but it bothered Steve when it went past midnight for the third night in a row. He saw you stifle another yawn, rubbing at your eyes as you tried to finish this project on time. You worked way too hard if you asked him.

“Baby, come to bed. It’s late.”

“I can’t, really need to get this done.”

Steve sighed, washing your now empty coffee mug before sitting beside you. He counted three more yawns along with four curses whispered under your breath and he knew he needed to step in. Gently stopping your hand, he turned you to face him and cupped your face.

“You still have four days before you need to turn this in. Come to bed honey, you’re tired and I don’t wanna sleep without you.”

You pouted, tired and internally glad that he finally stopped you. Nodding, you allowed him to more or less carry you into the bedroom and put you into pajamas, tucking you into the warmth of his body as he turned out the lights.

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll make you your favorite breakfast tomorrow so you’re all charged up for another day of working. I love you.”

His arms came around you, your back to his chest. Tangling your fingers with his, you pressed a sleepy kiss on his knuckles before whispering into the dark, “good night daddy. Love you too.”

5.

The fifth time you did it, you scared him.

The Avengers Gala was something Steve hated and loved. He loved he could have you on his arm, his girl to proclaim before the world. His friends got together and had a nice time, and people he hadn’t seen for a while surfaced too.

What Steve couldn’t handle was the audacity of men to ogle you. Despite you being on his arm, they would follow you with their creepy eyes, trying to sneak in a word whenever someone pulled him away from you. He knew he mustn’t be jealous; if there was anything Steve was ever secure about, it was your love for him. But he couldn’t stand still watching some good for nothing bastard try to win you over with a pick up line that was older than he was.

“Excuse me gentlemen” He almost growled, taking your arm possessively before whisking you away into a dark corner, intent on having you all to himself. You rolled your eyes, used to this act by now. You’d never told him, but it was almost endearing watching a man like him get so antsy over you.

“You can’t always hide me away!” You chided him but didn’t push him away. You preferred his company over any other, and if were to take you home right now, you wouldn’t mind. Steve bit his lips before cutting a glance to the men who were flirting with you earlier, a snarl lodged in his chest.

“No, but I can do this!” His lips crashed on yours, pulling you into a deep kiss that tasted of his power and love. You melted into his touch, arms hooking around his neck to bring him down to your height, tongues tangling together in a sloppy kiss. Steve didn’t let up until you had to finally break to breath, both panting hard.

“What was that for?” You asked, softly touching your lips that tingled.

“To remind everyone that you belong to me!” He said, pulling you closer. You smiled, pressing another kiss on his lips before tucking your head under his neck.

“Of course I belong to you daddy.”

He spent the rest of the party distracted. You’d called him that a lot recently. But why? Did you want him to be a daddy? You'd both decided to never to have children in the early days of getting together. Why then did you call him daddy? And why did it send a thrill down his back? God, he hoped you weren't pregnant.

+ 1

The morning after the party, he woke you up with kisses trailing down your neck, soothing the sting of the bites he had placed there last night. As you whimpered, wanting to sleep some more, he pushed a hand under your top to tickle your ribs, smiling as you giggled and squirmed.

“Steve!” You squealed as he reached under your breast. He chuckled before kissing up your exposed tummy, loving the sounds of your laughter as he reached your mouth and pressed deep and slow kisses there.

“Good morning.” He said, nuzzling his nose into you. You sighed in happiness, snuggling into him and breathing in his scent.

“Good morning.”

You stayed that way for a while, him gently rocking you back and forth as you hummed, enjoying the quiet morning together. It was after a few minutes that Steve spoke.

“Why do you call me daddy?”

A sudden shyness came over you and you buried your face deeper into his chest, not speaking. Steve tutted, gently pulling you back and titling your face up to meet his eyes.

"Do you want us to have a kid?" Steve asked and you shook your head.

"No." You said, embarrassed.

"Then why do you call me daddy?"

You looked at him with glittering eyes, cupping his cheek softly that was threatening to develop a scruff if not shaved.

"Because I trust you." You said. "I never have to hide from you, never have to worry. You look after me, you love me unconditionally. You care about me in a way no one has ever before. When you take charge, it makes me feel good. I love it when you guide me in bed. I love it when you step up and look after me. Calling you daddy puts those feelings into words."

Steve couldn't look away from you and your eyes. The love and trust you put in him made him a better person, it made him feel worthy. All he ever wanted in life was to have someone to call his own, to hold them and love them and never let any harm come to them. Looking into your eyes, he knew he had all he wanted. He held you closer and tighter, brushing your lips with his.

"Say it again then, baby."

"Daddy"

[modx-reborn]

It Dosen't Feel Like Falling

One of the three fic's I have been working on! I felt like it was high time I did another DreamXD piece and as I do write for Philza that I do a full piece with him in it.

This is inspired by an ask I had gotten once. So! Here we are, two in one!

SMUT UNDERCUT! MINORS DNI!

Old gods, new, gods, server gods, the minor gods with the name of admin. You had met them all, served under just as many as you had met and yet here you are, serving another serve god when you could have branched off, made your own server, reached beyond what you had been before but no of that seemed appealing to you. Days of crafting landscapes, months of an empty plane as mortals come and go not settling as you would have invited them to do, just a total lack of appeal.

But working under one of the established gods? Now that you can do, this is familiar and easy to work around, even if this was the third server you had served in.

Unlike the others, this servers god was very shall we say inactive in the early days of the server, not really doing much bar sending you to pass messages to the admins and keep the portal to the server clear of the unwelcome.

In doing this you met someone new, a traveller with letters from the server tales of what had been going on with one of the mortals that had been building and bombing each other as of late. Each time he came to the server entrance he would wave the letters at you, asking when he could come through even just for a visit to the one sending the messages, but every time you only could tell him 'No one comes to visit here, if you step through you cannot leave.'

Each time you told him the same look would pass over his face as he looked at the portal, longing but confused, it's not till he comes back with no letter in sight just his cloak and a small bag that you get a name and an explanation for his eagerness for a visit.

His name was Philza, a man that much like yourself had spent years serving one of the older gods and earning his title of the angel of death, and through the portal lay his son. A young man he called Wilbur, telling you this and that from the letters, flitting every now and then to the bag to reach for something only to change his mind, likely some of his son's letters lay inside.

The visit felt like a bid for him to earn your favour so that he could eventually walk the path to the server his son had settled in, yet time and time again he returns. No letters insight, but looking to hold a conversation with you, enjoying the access to someone that may be just as old as he is, if not older, it's enjoyable, to say the least having someone to chatter with on these long periods that you spend perched on top of the entrance portal.

It's almost a friendship if not for the vast difference in your roles, especially when the day comes that he holds an actual invite to the server, the portal is now open to him and he looks so happy as he calls to you. Excitedly calling out that he was finally going to see his son, that even if he couldn't come back the way he came right this second he was finally going to see the person he had been so eager to visit.

But we all know how that tale ends, you were unfortunate enough to have not been at the portal that day, standing beside the server god as he flicks through image after image of the server. Marking areas and places for things to come, writing out invites that will beckon new faces and bring new activities, but one of the images hold stead against the shifting masses, an image of the large settlement that had been in strife since day one.

There amongst the rubble stands your friend, the crow winged man Philza, cradling the body of what you assumed to be his son.

That was death, a final one for this server of three lives, the list of active mortals blinks with two lost names, but your god XD barely reacts, casting his hand across the list and marking their deaths as true, there would be no coming back from that not without XD stepping in and granting them life once again.

Days after that are spent in the endless white halls of the server gods realm, pointing other servants of the world to their duties, never far from the main hub where XD would oversee the server.

"My lord, if I may I have a question for you?"

"And what would that be little one? It is not often one of you who serve have questions."

"I just wanted to ask about the crow, I grew rather fond of him when he was attempting to visit the realm in the early days and I-"

"No."

The abrupt answer stops your questioning, most times anyone talks with XD he is not this blunt, rather sticking to the vague and avoidance of clear answers and yet here he is, clearly expressing a dismissal of your question and bringing more questions to mind.

"My lord what do you mean-"

"It means no little one. No, I will not tell you about the crow or what he may be up to. No, I will not let you into the server to see him, and it means no more questions are to be asked do you understand?"

Server gods do tend to be possesive of their underlings in the presence of other gods, but the crow was a mortal now, bound to a law of another server that was allowed to carry over with him. Blessed or cursed depending on the person, to have only one life and one life alone, but the way XD had reacted was beyond how he would when any of those in his service would be baited into another gods control.

Yet you had not served as long as you had to know that blind loyalty would get you what you want, letting the subject drop and returning to your watch over the server alongside XD.

The moment you had an excuse to leave his side, being called to aid one of the admins in cleaning something from the server did you start to act out. Leaving the admins side to search out Philza, using the knowledge you have of how often XD was watching to weave your way around till you found him, sitting locked away in a house amongst the rebuilt city. Knocking against his door before slipping in, knowing that XD rarely watched inside the mortal's homes, not being interested in watching what went on inside.

This was all you needed to anchor a point of entry for yourself in the home of the crow, watching how his face lit up at the sight of you, springing to his feet and reaching out to take your hands in his own. Seeming excessively happy at the sight of you, pulling you into another room of his home offering you a seat and something to drink, accepting despite knowing you would get nothing out of the substance.

"Been a long time since I last saw you mate! How have you been? Still posted out by the portal, or have you been moved?"

"No no I am no longer by the portal, X-Ahh the lord prefers to have me help with the observations. Actually, I am not even meant to be here right now..."

The look you cast at him when you admit to breaking the god's rule is pure mischief, one that he returns with a slight laugh, knowing exactly what it has been like to the same.

"Well regardless I am glad to have some company, not many people come round these days. Landed myself on the-ahh wrong side of things for the moment, tried to keep someone safe is all."

The visit is short knowing that you would be cutting it close even as you left Philza's home, quickly returning to the post you had abandoned temporarily, not even batting an eye when XD looks down at you. He may not have visible eyes when he wears the mask that mimics his head admin, but you can feel the way he looks at you, trying to unravel just why you were so happy now that you were back.

Things are quick to change between you and the server god when you would normally stand beside him, now one of his many hands are keeping you seated in his lap, unrelenting in their grip on your waist. Trapped in the truest sense and even when you dare to attempt to ask why the only response you are given is a distorted 'mine' and the hands-on you waist tightening their grip.

There are a few more sneaky visits to Philza when you are allowed onto the server, your friendship shifting more and more each time, the hands the guide you to sit in his now tundra bound home linger longer than before, friendly gaze now turning dark when you come in your less casual and more revealing clothes meant for the work you had been planned to aid in.

Somedays even having to bat him away as he follows you back to your return point, laughing when he grabs you trying to keep you from the portal back, enjoying the time you spend together and basking in the understanding that another servant of the gods can bring. Letting yourself slip further from the idea of friendship as well, welcoming the lingering touch and brushing your hands over some of the dark feathers as you pass him by.

All in all, it is a dance around each other to find out who will be the first to falter and give in, enjoying the play as much as you do the person you are playing with despite the way you know in the back of your mind that XD is watching, building to whatever punishment may be coming for defying him and his 'No' from so long ago.

But the punishment you face is so different from what you had in mind, thoughts of being stripped of your service and made mortal being the main ones and yet this outcome is not unwelcome after all these days under watch and quite blatantly breaking a rule that had been set for you and you alone.

Today had been another chance to break free of the hands holding you to the server god, another day that you could spend with someone that had become dear to you. But when it came time to leave Philza's lingering hands stop you, pulling you close and pressing his head to your own, eyes flicking across your face before he speaks.

"You don't have to leave you know dove, you could stay here for a little while longer..."

And so you are made weak, nodding and giving in, letting him lead you back into his home, hands pulling at each other's clothes and stripping down till skin meets skin. Minds to caught in each other to feel the static building in the air, foretelling the arrival of someone that had laid claim to you long before the crow had even known of anything like you.

It's the moment when you are bent over, braced on all fours as he holds your hips to his, buried in you, leaning over you to place more marks on your bare skin looking forward to the blooming marks that will likely not survive past the next few hours, not that he cared. But in how you moan at the feeling of his lips on your skin, you hear the static once again only this time it's not just noise.

Before you forms XD, your lord, god of the server and from how green light is spilling from the cracks of his mask, and his ever manifested hands reach for you lifting your head and pulling you away from the hybrid that had been fucking into you and making you sing, the actual physical hand of your lord wraps around your throat not squeezing just reminding you that he is in control.

His mask is tilted away from you, pointed at the man behind you, whose hands have once again found their way to your hips hoping beyond hope to pull you back and away from the being that had just manifest in his home.

"They are MINE crow, not yours. There is nothing here for you, no matter what you may think, no matter what may happen they are mine."

Any words that may have come from you is lost when your lord's grip falters for a mere second allowing you to be pulled back and into Philza's chest when he speaks, the ghostly hands of XD now pressing into your mouth silencing you as they press against your tongue, a clear show that this was between the hybrid and the god.

"I do believe they chose me mate, seeing as they are here with me, breaking your rules and taking my cock like a good little thing. Not yours."

The pressure on your jaw increases for a moment before distorted laughter fills the air, the bottom half of XD's mask dissolving to show a sharp smile, the display nothing but teeth in truth.

"Maybe so crow but so long as they serve me, they will belong to me. You can have your fun, but not alone."

The few sections of the conversation that reach your mind are muddled the moment your legs are spread once again, still pressed flush to Philza's chest he is quick to lift and line himself up once again, using how you are seated in his lap to have you sink down on his length, once again being fully sheathed in you. While the ethereal hands in your mouth dissipate letting you release an almost feral noise at being filled once again.

To soon after your mouth is emptied are you being pulled forward, the hands of your lord forcing you down onto all fours, putting you at the perfect height for him to press the head of his cock to your lips using the way your mouth falls open as Philza starts to move to press in, weaving a hand into your hair guiding you further and further down his length with every jolt forwards.

The god's doubled voice was louder than the sounds of skin on skin, and even your own choked noises.

"That's it little one, take all of me. It's time you knew your place, you can play with the mortals all you like but you will always come back to me. Always."

And he was right, even if you kept sneaking down here to see philza there were things beyond explanation that bound you too XD, and yet feeling the way Philza was fucking you, thrusting with little care for how it was making you almost choke on the length that was already pressing into your throat was intoxicating in its own way.

There was nothing to prepare you for what was about to come, hearing XD release a breath before his hips begin moving in a proper sense, short thrusts turning to rough snaps of his hips, using your mouth to chase his own pleasure. Watching how tears began to build and fall from your eyes, his smile still nothing but teeth as he fucks your face at the same pace as Philza was.

Neither mortal nor god was caring at that moment for anything beyond showing you their claim on you, from the drool that had slicked your chin as XD kept up his brutal use of your throat, to the bruising grip on your hips as Philza finally begins to find his end. The crow hybrid giving in to the feeling of you clutching around him even though throughout this ordeal neither of them had been focused on your own pleasure.

Selfish they may have been, but there is something that feels so good about being pressed between a mortal that had worked his way into your care and the god of which you had sworn service to, despite the voice in the back of your mind that whines when Philza pulls himself from you his hands moving from your hips to spreading your cheeks to watch how his cum drips from your hole there is nothing but want still colouring your thoughts.

Strings of spit connect you too XD when he pulls free from your mouth, ethereal hands once more form to grab at you, pulling you away from Philza and into the god's lap.

"What comes next little one is for my eyes only."

You can feel a brief moment when Philza tried to reach for you, fingers slipping through the fading form of you and the server god, leaving him alone on his bed.

[silkenstarlight]

in the softest hours of night

Summary: Bucky gets a haircut and (Y/N) helps him to fully wrench himself from the clutches of his past.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warning/s: fluff, cuddling, kissing, mention of Bucky’s past trauma

Word count: 1.6k

Author’s note: this made me feel very soft

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The sound of Bucky singing in the shower always made you smile.

He didn’t know that you could hear him from your spot in the bedroom. Sometimes, you considered telling him that you were his audience, when the guilt crept in and you felt as if you were intruding on a private moment. 

But, most times, you chose to lie beneath the blankets and listen. 

You could only ever make out fragments of lyrics-- tonight, he was singing Gene Sullivan. 

“When my blue moon turns to gold again… you'll be back in my arms to stay.”

It was soft and tentative, his breathy, murmured syllables of blues-y jazz and swinging pop bouncing off the tiles with a sweet, echoing reverberation. He seemed to weave in between thought and song, quietly uttered lyrics often followed by a long period of silence before he picked the melody up again at the next chorus. Sometimes, his words were rushed and garbled, as if he were leaning into the shower head’s stream to wash shampoo-scented suds from his hair. Other times, he embraced the song head-on, crooning confidently into the clouds of steam, as if he were imagining brazen trumpets and thrumming drumbeats backing his vocals. 

Whenever his volume crescendoed like that, you couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. He sounded so peaceful, so free, when for the past several decades, he had been the prisoner of his own mind. His singing was a small thing, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

You heard the water turn off and you turned onto your side, burrowing into the sheets and wiping any evidence of eavesdropping from your face.

A few seconds later, you heard his feet padding against the hardwood, and you turned to face him, smiling sleepily. He was bare, save for the white towel wrapped around his hips, minuscule water droplets rolling off of his muscled body with every step. His shoulder-length hair was drenched, framing his face in a slicked chestnut curtain. 

He reached the dresser and pulled out the top drawer, picking out a clean pair of boxers. He slipped them on beneath the cover of the towel, and you smirked at his unnecessary, but courteous, sense of modesty. You had seen him naked before, but he still preferred to stay covered in nonsexual situations such as this. So traditional.

He unwrapped the towel from around his waist and tossed it in the dirty laundry bin, and then walked over to your side of the bed. You reached up to him and he eagerly climbed on top of you, grinning as he nuzzled his face into your neck.

You stayed like that for a moment, even though his wet hair slid against your jaw and his weight crushed the breath from your lungs. You didn’t care that you couldn’t breathe. You loved it when he was mellow. He was his truest self when he was at his most vulnerable, his eyes crinkling at the edges with affection, his lips turned upward in a toothy smile that stole your breath and colored your cheeks a rosy pink.

He shifted, pushing up to rest his forehead against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut before he pressed his mouth lightly against yours in a delicate gesture of warmth, his lips warm and soft. His hair fell against your face, brushing against your skin and tickling your cheeks.

You broke the kiss, dipping your chin down and giggling. You opened your eyes to meet his gaze.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” Bucky repeated back, his voice low, his tone similar to the one he used when he sang quietly in the shower. He returned your smile, until more of his hair slid down, blocking his vision of your face. He pushed it back with a dissatisfied grunt and frowned slightly.

He sighed. “Would you-- would you mind braiding my hair for me?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, sitting up. “I don’t like the weight of it all. My hair, I mean.”

You sat up as well, instantly understanding the dual meaning behind his request. He wanted the hair out of his face, yes, but he also loathed the identity that was tied to it, the decades of mindless, brainwashed life that it represented. He hadn’t trimmed it since the forties, his hair an immortalized vision of his pre-war self, an artifact of the abuse he faced at the hands of Hydra. His hair carried the weight of a lifetime.

“Absolutely,” you responded.

He shifted, sitting at the edge of the bed, and you sat behind him, your legs caging him in. Despite the fact that he was almost naked, his modesty preserved by his plaid boxers, he was warm. You leaned into his broad back, savoring the heat that he provided, walking your fingertips lightly up his spine in a teasing gesture before brushing them through his hair.

“Your hair is really soft after you wash it.” Your fingers carded through Bucky’s shoulder-length locks, fingernails lightly scraping against his scalp. You brushed through the wet strands, gently untangling a few nasty snarls with adept ease.

“Well, I did have to borrow your conditioner. Hope that’s okay.” Bucky said quietly, his back to you as you separated his freshly-washed hair into three sections.

“I don’t mind,” you mumbled, pushing your tongue between your teeth as you began to concentrate on the braid. “Makes you smell good.”

He scoffed. “Did I not smell good before?”

You paused, strands held loosely in your fingers. “I-- well, yes.”

He huffed a laugh, but was silent after that, enjoying the dull tug as you weaved his hair into a neat plait. 

You were reaching the end of the braid when a thought crossed your mind. You paused, still grasping the three separate sections, and looked at the back of Bucky’s head.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice gentle. “We could cut your hair, if it bothers you this much.”

He paused, breath stalling, and considered what you said. Although he hated the years of violence attached to his hair, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to completely sever it from him. So much pain, so much history, snipped off and swept away in the blink of an eye-- he wasn’t sure who he would be without it. He surely wouldn’t be the same man as he was before all of this, so smug and cocksure, so smooth-talking and suave, the perfect image of 1940’s lady-killing swagger. But, he also wasn’t sure if that even mattered. That was who he was before. Now, he had lived through years of torture, decades of service as a trained assassin. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Maybe a fresh start would do him some good.

“Can we?” His voice cracked, throat tight with a sudden urgent need to bid farewell to his past incarnations.

“Do you want to do it now?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Go into the bathroom. I’ll find the scissors.”

Bucky followed your orders, reaching back to undo the braid you had so carefully woven. Silken, freshly-washed strands slipped through his fingers until he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for you to rid him of this long-held burden. He stared at his reflection, the tired, light purple crescents that shaded beneath his eyes, the natural down-turned tug of his lips, the deep, worried crease between his brows. A hard knot of self-hatred began to form in his throat, but he swallowed it as he heard you approach the bathroom.

You slipped behind Bucky, scissors in hand, and tapped his shoulder. At your signal, he knelt, folding his arms in front of him and leaning his head against the counter to allow you easier access to his hair. 

“You ready?” you asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“Absolutely,” he said, nodding slightly, granting you permission to proceed.

You combed through his locks one last time, savoring their slippery, soft texture, their bristly split-ends. And then, you grasped a large section from the back and snipped.

You watched as the hair fluttered to the tiled floor below. Bucky smiled.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

Slowly, you began to cut away more and more sections of hair, trying your best to avoid creating any harsh, choppy lines. You weren’t a hairdresser by any means, though, so once the bulk of the length had been cut away, Bucky’s hair was a haphazard mess.

“Oh, god,” you breathed, shakily placing the scissors on the counter. “We’ll have to make an appointment with a hairdresser tomorrow.”

He stood, brushing stray strands from his shoulders. “That’s fine.” He turned towards you, not bothering to look at his reflection. “Just wanted to get rid of the length.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, whether in shock at his new appearance, or in embarrassment at your amateur handiwork, you couldn’t tell. But he just wrapped his arms around you, hugging you to his chest as you both shook with laughter. 

He leaned back, reaching up to your face and tucking your hair behind your ear. “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded and let him lead you back into the bedroom, turning off the bedside lamp and climbing under the sheets after him. He settled on his back and you wrapped yourself around him, tucked into his side, breathing in his fresh, soapy scent. 

“Goodnight, doll,” he breathed, and you kissed his ribcage before letting his breathing lull you into the gentle space of sleep. 

He simply smiled and stared up at the ceiling, a decades-old weight suddenly lifted from his neck. No longer did he feel the tendrils of his past slithering against his neck with every movement.

So this is what it’s like, to be free. 

He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, tugging you just a little closer as he drifted to sleep.

[yououui]

I don’t have my books with me right now and it’s been such a long time but... I’m pretty sure Fai casted a spell on Kurogane so he can call out the sword like Syaoran did before they went to Celes? And it’s not Ginryu, he used another sword called Sohi in Celes, I think...?

Anyway it’s still a big moment for kurofai and I love this scene too <3

Yes! Right before they went to Celes, Fai cast a spell on Kurogane's left arm to hold Souhi the same way Syaoran holds his sword. And also yes very big!!! many much important!!! All about the Very Important Left Arm of Symbolism!

I know you didn't ask for it but as you said it's a big moment so I'm gonna overanalyze this part because I love it

Kurogane's left arm is his Important Symbolic Character Growth Arm. It's the arm he's been cutting to feed Fai his blood and it's the hand that Tomoyo scarred after his village was destroyed, and now it also holds Fai's magic (kinda like Kurogane's blood is in Fai huh). Kurogane's scar is in full display, and we also get a somewhat sweet moment of Kurogane expressing full shock and then concern, because he knows how much Fai never wanted to use his magic. It's a short but powerful moment, seeing Fai willingly use his magic for one of the first times in the entire series for Kurogane, especially when you look back in retrospect and know that Fai knew what fight was coming in Celes, and that this would help protect Kurogane and also help him kill Fai

And then right after this he CUTS THE DAMN THING OFF. He has to chop off his left arm to save Fai from Celes and he does it with no hesitation and the symbolism keeps on giving baby

He cuts off the arm he's been using to feed Fai, which we've seen as a strangely intimate but also very disconnected encounter. Fai drinks from Kurogane's wrist as Kurogane holds his arm out, effectively allowing Fai to remain at a distance despite how close they really are. By cutting off this arm, it's like he's severing that line of disconnect between them

But then, of course, the scar. The scar that Tomoyo gave him and holds all his trauma. That scar. For as much as Kurogane doesn't like to dwell in the past, this scar is a constant reminder to both Kurogane and the audience of Kurogane's past (clamp doesn't draw it prominently for no reason). More specifically, for Kurogane, it's the physical representation of his failure and weakness. In his mind, he lost everything and ultimately received that scar because of his own inability to protect his family (and it's not like he could have done anything, but that's childhood trauma for you). It's the catalyst that fuels Kurogane's main goal from that point onward: true strength, so that night can never happen again. It's the moment that led him down the misguided path of being a murdering ninja assassin and got him sent on the journey in the first place. And it's always right there, a constant reminder for him to always try to be stronger in the truest sense of the word without realizing what "true strength" actually is.

So Kurogane cutting that arm off is like cutting off that reminder, that moment, his past that's been holding him back, whether he realized it or not. He'd been growing and slowly developing an idea of true strength over the entire series, but this was the moment he finally shed the last bits of his past self. Because it's in that moment that he realizes that his strength is useless. It doesn't matter how strong he is, he can't physically pull Fai out of Celes and save him. And then he learns that he can save Fai if he chops off his arm, which he does without a second of hesitation. You think chapter 1 Kurogane would have done that? Of course not, he needs his big muscular arms to be all Strong and cutting one off will hinder him.

But now he knows that his strength won't save Fai, his sacrifice will. So he chops off the Important Symbolism Arm full of scars and Fai's magic and saves Fai, and at the save time, cuts off the last bits of his past that were weighing him down.

[achillieus]

we’re fools. (bucky barnes x reader)

summary: for all bucky barnes knows, he hates clichés. and this thing between you two, happens to be the biggest one.

(enemies to lovers trope or i watched the society on netflix recently and based this entirely on harry bingham and cassandra pressman)

pairing: college au!bucky x reader

warnings: alcohol, angst, too much tension, bucky and reader are stupid and in  denial, sexual tension all around the place

tagging: @tonystankschild​

(other parts)  (masterlist)

part 2/3:

And then it’s the last week of February and you have an assignment together, you and Bucky, the boy with black hair and a mind that you’re certain is not as clever as he insists it is. You know this cannot possibly end well. You feel it when he sits beside you and his knee brushes past your leg. You feel it when you take a breath and smell his aftershave. Sandalwood and vanilla. It makes you want to lick your lips. Please, get a grip. You try to get away, even propose to write the whole thing alone so you wouldn’t have to spend any time around him. In your mind, you call it self defense. But Bucky’s boastful and you can see him pumping the muscles in his neck, trying to intimidate you.

“My dorm, tomorrow at 7,” he says “Don’t be late.”

-

(your late night instagram search history)

(00:38 AM) #literaturememes

(01:15 AM) @buckybrns

(01:30 AM) #newgirl

(01:50 AM) @buckybrns

(02:10 AM) @buckybrns

You find it annoying; how he’s present even when he’s not around.

-

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that everyone, boys and girls, adore him alike. He’s charming, he’s crafty, he’s brilliant. He’s everything they want him to be and even more. It nearly condones his megalomania.

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he’s aware he has an audience. Always plans his moves, knows how to play his character perfectly. He wears dark designer jeans and plain Henley shirts, buttons open, fabric tight around his biceps. Sometimes even a black leather jacket and a tag necklace. Girls are intrigued by the bad-boy, straight A student contrast, while the boys are envious enough keep him close and invite him to all of their parties. Bucky gives them whatever they need.

The thing about Bucky Barnes is that he’s utterly lonely. He has never said so, but it’s the truest thing about him. He has Sam. But for how long? Bucky’s used to people going away. It has been imprinted on him. His best friend, Steve, left with his girlfriend in an exchange program last month and Natasha, the one girl he ever came close to loving, just started dating Clint Barton. Clint fucking Barton. What a downgrade.

And then there’s you, sitting at the end of his bed, playing with the ring in your finger, reading some neatly written lecture notes. Usually, Bucky would think about 129 cheeky comments he could make to a girl in his room. But not to you. Are you sure, Bucky? He has grown accustomed to disliking you. It’s the one constant he has left and he’s not planning on losing it.

He leans down and takes the place next to you, a bottle of beer dangling loosely in his hand.

He offers and you decline.

“We need to concentrate on the project.”  

“You’re the biggest killjoy.” Bucky says with a hint of a smirk.

“I’m studying, Bucky.” He can see your left hand holding that dark green pen in a tight grip and your eyes trying to focus everywhere but on his face. He can see your hair glistening in the warm afternoon light that comes from his window. He can see the soft red blush on your cheeks and the beauty mark on your neck. What a tricky thing it is to see. And to feel. And to want.

Is that what dislike tastes like, Bucky?

-

He talks a lot, that’s the first thing you notice. He says all sorts of things, most of them having nothing to do with your project. You’re certain it’s because he’s feeling as uncomfortable and agitated as you. But still, it’s annoying as hell.

“Listen,” you say and turn to his side “I’m not going to fail this class just because you have the attention span of a two year old.”

A laugh escapes his lips and you watch, completely in awe, the way little wrinkles form around his eyes and his nose scrunches. Right now, he looks tender and warm. No, he doesn’t.

“I think we’re both pretty smart,” Bucky says nonchalant and wets his lower lip with his tongue, before he adds, “We’ve got this, so relax doll.”

There are rules, things that are solid, de facto.

Example 1: Bucky never praises you. At least not out loud.

Example 1: Not valid anymore.

Example 2: Bucky uses the word “doll” approximately ten times a day. To other girls. The girls he likes. Not to you.

That’s actually wrong, he called you doll the first time you met. That doesn’t count. He didn’t know you then.

Example 2: Not valid anymore.

It feels foreign. Pleasant and beguiling, but foreign.

“You always call girls “doll”. What is this?” You ask and he looks up. “Is it like your thing, your flirt move?”

Bucky meets your gaze, his forehead creased, and holds it for some seconds before he laughs again. Is this amusing him?

“No, I’m serious.” You bite your lip. “You even did it to me when we first met.”

“I did?”

Of course he doesn’t remember, what did you expect?

“Yeah, when you helped me find the admission office.”

“And you remember that, an entire year later?” He raises his eyebrows, looking entertained and partly interested.

Your mind empties and for some time you feel out of place, embarrassed. But you’re quick to recollect yourself. You can’t let him get you.

“It was my first day as a college student, I remember all of it.”

Liar. You don’t even remember who you sat next to.

Bucky smirks a little too long for your liking and then he leans in, his body bending in a way that makes you forget to breath. He’s so close and you only see blue, a rare kind of blue between the depths of the ocean and the brightest shade of the sky at noon. This would be so much easier if he wasn’t that handsome. Handsome and indomitable. What an awful combination.

“Interesting.” He whispers and lies back, touching the wall.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and clear your throat.

“I should go, it’s obvious we’re not making any progress.” You pick your books and stand up. “Sometimes I wonder how you get all those perfect grades, you clearly-” You merely finish your sentence before he grabs your arm and swiftly, he has you pressed against his wooden bookcase. You don’t have time to blink.

What’s happening? He was sitting down a second ago.

“That day,” he says while his thumb draws circles on your wrist. “You were wearing a denim dress and some Saturn shaped earrings. And you were holding a cherry juice box.”

It’s utterly terrifying how your emotions toss and turn the moment you realize what he’s talking about and the fragile muscles of your heart ache because Bucky cares. Bucky remembers.

“It wasn’t my first day of college, but I remember.”

You want to throw up. Or kiss him. You’re not sure. You know you hate Bucky. Do you? You’ve taught yourself to. And it was never supposed to change. It shouldn’t have to.  

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he shakes his head and steps back.

“You should go.”

And you do. And you’ll never tell him, but you’ll always regret not kissing him then. You’re sure now.

-

your inbox, the next morning

(10:25 AM) from buckybrns@gmail.com

              I’m sending you our assignment. You only need to add a few things and it’s done. If anything else comes up, it’s better we work on our own.

-

For Bucky, it all came crashing down the moment he first saw you. It was all over the moment his eyes met yours. A gourmand perfume lingered in the air around you that day and it stained his pores. And it’s been with him since then. Clinging onto his flesh.

It’s partly obsessive and partly romantic and Bucky tries to keep it locked inside. He thinks he can make it go away easily, the way he flicks a crumb off his expensive cashmere scarf. He thinks if he doesn’t talk about it, it’ll be less true. That’s not how things work, Bucky.

Yeah, he’s starting to notice.

And he’s trying so hard to hate you. The problem is, he doesn’t think he can.

(his late night instagram search history)

(00:45 AM) #tomfordperfumes

(01:30 AM) @y/n

(01:50 AM) #funnycats

(02:15 AM) @y/n

(03:45 AM) @y/n

-

You make it your mission to avoid him and it’s going well until the fifth of March. You spot him at Sam Wilson’s party. You should have known he’d be here, they’re friends. There’s a thick cloud of cigarette smoke all around, but still, you can perfectly see him. He’s standing alone, his skin changing colors under the neon lights, a plastic cup in his hand, eyes crystal blue and swollen and fixated on you.

The room is small and everything feels known but unfamiliar at the same time; the atmosphere, his gaze, the lump on your throat.

They’re suffocating you, the looks you give each other.

-

“Buck, what do you want?” Sam asks, holding both vodka and gin and he observes the way Bucky merely turns his head to look at him.

What do you want Bucky?

Not to play a role anymore. For Steve to be back. Maybe, Natasha. No, he hasn’t thought about her in a month. Perhaps a Pulitzer Prize. Definitely a new pair of sunglasses. But there is one more answer he has behind his teeth.

Y/N, he almost says. Always.

“Vodka.”

-

He leaves before midnight and you can’t remember where the urge came from, yet you’re following him. You know he has noticed. But he just keeps walking until he reaches the door of his dorm and presses his back against it. He sees you and you see him and his eyes cut your heart open.

“Your place is on the other side of the building.”

“I know,” you mumble, “I just never got to say good job on the assignment and I wanted to.” You are unable to meet his eyes. You sound pitiful and you want to hit a wall; with your head.

Why the hell did you follow him here?

Because sometimes you do stupid things.

Bucky mockingly opens his mouth, as if shocked. It almost makes you groan.

“Did Miss high and mighty just comment something nice about me?”

“Why do you have to contradict everything I say?”

He shakes his head and you can feel your heart beat loud and irregular and it’s not because you’re mad. It’s because he’s coming closer, almost chest to chest now. And it’s because you can swear, he just glanced at your lips.

“Someone has to, you can’t act like you know everything all the time.”  

“I don’t do that, you don’t know a thing about me Bucky.”

“Oh, but I do. You’re Y/N, you like plaid skirts and Homer and dark green pens. You expect everyone to be perfect. You expect yourself to be perfect. And you always want to do the right thing.”

His pupils are dilated. Yours must be too. Bucky Barnes is dangerous and fatal. He makes your blood coil and your mouth dry. And there’s a tension, almost pain, almost agony, deep in your lungs and it burns. And you don’t know who leaned in first, probably you because Bucky isn’t that brave yet, but suddenly your hands are everywhere. Your fingers blending in his hair, his digging in the skin on the back of your neck. He’s bringing you closer and it’s a mess and all you can hear is the beating of your heart; a rapid vibration between your ears. It’s pure and raw and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

He tastes like ambrosia and a year-old despair and you think you can go on forever. You eventually break apart because you both need to breath and for a second you worry because he looks like he’s ready to cry, but instead he smiles, softly touching your cheek.

“Did I do the right thing?” You whisper.

...

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