#but once i settled into the idea of the results more fully

[xicanaroja]

4B got surface level feminists acting like

"cis men dni" are you ready to come out of your "no boys allowed" treehouse yet. its time for lunch.

[inkedells]

look at me a little more | dbf!joel miller x f!reader

A/N: first of all, SMUTTT so much smut up ahead. holy crap this is the longest thing i've ever written (pathetic, i know, blame the commitment issues) enjoy lovies!! also lmk if you want a part 2 maybe possibly!?

m!dni | requests open.

summary: dbf!neighbor!joel accidentally drenches you (virgin!reader) while washing his car and you can’t help but notice the way he eyes you up. it’s only once he’s in your bedroom, fixing your closet door as an apology, that you realize the best person to rid you of your virginity and teach you precisely how to please yourself and others had been right in front of you the whole time; it's getting joel on board with the whole idea that's the hard part.

word count: 5.5k

tags/warnings: SMUTTTT, virgin!reader, dbf!neighbor!joel faces moral conflicts (to fuck or not to fuck!?!?), porn with plot, sooo much tension, dirty talk, use of pet names, blowjobs, handjobs, cumplay, reader eats joel's cum, grinding, making out, oral sex, no!outbreak au, reader's innocent in the sense that she doesn't really know how to do a lot of things when it comes to sex but still has a ton of desires

masterlist

There was a certain shame that came with being infatuated with your dad’s best friend.

You were sitting around on the porch on a hot summer afternoon, wearing your shortest cotton shorts as you sipped the juice box brand you had loved since you were a little girl. Legs crossed, foot tapping the air, and most importantly, eyes absolutely trained on the ripple of Joel Miller’s biceps as he washed his car.

You didn’t know why you liked to stare at him so much. But you did know it was wrong. Immoral. Eyeing up someone in their forties? What was wrong with you? That was your dad’s best f—

“Hey, Mr. Miller!” You called over, shutting down every ounce of doubt in your mind.

He turned around without hesitation, and when he did, you waved. The first time you’d done that, he had to work a little harder to figure out the source of the voice, eyes searching in random directions before finally settling on you. But now, it was like he knew exactly where to look—And, well, that was all it took for you to decide you would be spending the next hour washing a car if it meant spending time with Joel.

So you settled your juice box down on the wooden floor of the porch and skipped over to his house. He must not have heard your footsteps behind him over the sound of the hose, so your simple tap on his shoulder resulted in him whipping around, hose in hand, as he consequently drenched you.

You yelped, breaking out into nervous laughter both from shock and how cold the water was. Joel fumbled to turn off the hose as he began profusely apologizing. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry—”

Then he properly saw you. From Joel’s perspective, your clothes were reduced to translucency, practically melting into your skin.

But you didn’t know that. You never fully grasped just how vulnerable you had become from his accident, so when you caught him averting his gaze as quickly as he could, you were a little confused.

“You—Uh—I,” Joel stumbled before clearing his throat, “There’s clothes. Inside. Sarah’s. You can, um, you can go and… y’know. Change into them. Walkin’ all the way back to your house doesn’t seem like a… viable… option.”

By then, a blush had already risen to your cheeks just from how delicately Joel was treating you. As if you were something he had to be careful with, like if he didn’t think long and hard about every word coming out of his mouth, there would be consequences. 

“Lead the way.”

Joel gave you a firm smile before swallowing the lump in his throat and motioning for you to follow him as he walked. Once he had the front door open, he let you go in first. Even as you carefully walked past him, you could feel his eyes staring at you.

“Up there,” Joel gestured, “Um, first door on the left. I’ll… be outside.”

As he explained, you subconsciously scanned over the planes of his body—probably a habit you picked up from the multiple weeks of watching him work. But then he was turning to leave, and you could tell he was still really tense. You didn’t know why a simple accident had him so tripped up, but you had the urge to alleviate his worry.

“Hey,” You called, arms wrapped around yourself in an effort to stave off the cold. He turned around, concerned until he saw your soft smile and relaxed a little, “On a scale of one to ten, how sick and tired are you of washing that truck?”

There was only one way to break Joel out of his nervous state; you had to make the situation lighthearted; you learned that from years of watching him hang out with your dad.

He searched your eyes for a beat, eyes completely unwavering, before muttering, “Like a fifty.”

You both breathed a laugh at that. For the briefest moment, you thought you noticed Joel’s gaze flitting to your chest. Your breath caught in your throat, but before you could do a double take, his eyes were glued to yours again.

“So then,” You started, regathering yourself and pushing away whatever your brain was conjuring up, “How do you feel about replacing one lousy chore with another?”

“What kinda chore we talkin’?”

“Well, my closet door’s all screwed up. And you know, instead of apologizing for soaking me by way of expensive concert tickets and a brand new car, like how I know you were planning on doing—”

“—Oh, of course,” Joel sarcastically remarked, playing along as you quickly noticed the worry on his face faded into a crooked grin.

“Well, I really think I can just settle for the closet door fix. Go ahead and save the brand new car for when you break my toaster.”

“Okay, okay,” Joel laughed, “I get it. Go change, then you can lead me to this broken closet door.”

-

Sarah’s clothes definitely belonged to a fourteen-year-old. Not your taste, but then again, if you were fourteen like her, you probably would’ve dressed like that too.

You couldn’t settle on a top, all of them were either too small or bore a graphic design too childish for you. You did find a pair of stretchier shorts that fit alright though, so you decided you’d just pick up one of Joel’s shirts from the pile of clean laundry you saw sitting atop the washing machine downstairs.

When you made it out the front door, the hose was away and his toolbox was resting on the ground by his feet. Joel was drying up his car with a cloth, and when he heard you hop down the steps and subsequently turned your way, you weren’t exactly expecting him to completely stumble at the sight of you in his shirt.

“Oh—You, uh, I thought you were gettin’ Sarah’s clothes?”

“I was, none of her tops fit so I grabbed one of yours from the laundry downstairs.” You absorbed Joel’s cryptic reaction and began to worry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, I really should’ve asked—”

“—No, no, it’s fine. Really. Doesn't matter.”

Joel picked up his toolbox, then the both of you began walking over to your house. It wasn’t that far away at all, probably a couple of hundred feet at most, but he opted into small talk anyway.

“Um,” Joel began, “What’d you come over for in the first place? Didn’t really get a chance to ask ‘cause of this whole… debacle.”

You giggled at his old man vocabulary. Debacle.

“I wanted to help with your car, but looks like those plans got derailed.”

He breathed a polite laugh. “Yeah, well. Guess it turned out that way.”

Before an awkward silence could fall upon the both of you, your brain settled on something to bring up.

“Hey, my dad’s having that July 4th barbecue the day after tomorrow. You’re coming right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, honey.”

Honey? Honey. Honey honey honey honey—

He cleared his throat. “Where is your dad, anyway?”

You were both standing on your porch now, Joel’s eyes raking you over as you fumbled with the front door.

“Um, I think he’s out working.”

“Great.”

Great?

Before you could ask him what he meant, Joel realized what he had said. “Wait, no, not great. I don’t—I don’t know why I said that. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

You pushed the door open. “Hey,” You brought a hand up to his chest and patted it, “You’ll give yourself a heart attack if you keep assuming all your mistakes are colossal and worthy of that much panic.”

His shoulders seemed to relax a little at that—you weren’t sure if it was your hand or your words that did it.

Eventually, you both found yourselves in your bedroom. You were sitting on the edge of your bed as you watched Joel work. Kneeling on one knee with a screwdriver in hand, he fumbled with one of the closet door’s hinges as he muttered little things to himself under his breath.

“Thanks for this, Mr. Miller.”

He turned to you, nodding as he seemed to process that he was in your bedroom. Your bedroom.

“So,” Joel began, as he dug through his toolbox, “Is your boyfriend visiting too? Or, y’know, girlfriend. Three months is a long ti—”

You softly smiled. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.”

He turned to look at you again as he turned a screwdriver, this time scanning you over. “Hm, I don’t believe you. Sweet thing like you? Single?”

“Oh, stop,” You blushed, shooing him off.

Joel stood to his feet, dusting his hands off on his thighs. “All fixed. Next time you ne—”

“—I’ve never been in a relationship before. Actually.”

Joel stared at you for a moment before diverting his gaze to the ground. “I, um…”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. You don’t wanna know about my completely nonexistent dating history,” You lightly smacked your forehead, “Wait, it’s existent if we count the boy I dated for a week in fourth grade.”

Joel laughed, sitting down next to you on your bed. “It’s okay. I haven’t really dated anybody since Sarah’s mom, either. Long-term, anyways.”

“Yeah, well at least you’re not a virgin.”

Joel seemed to tense at that, and you immediately regretted saying it.

“Oh gosh,” You cringed, hands gripping your head, “I really just say anything, don’t I?”

Joel chuckled, head hung between his shoulders with his eyes squinted shut. You eventually laughed, too, simply because—and you realized it sounded stupid—Joel’s laughter was contagious.

“Alright, alright,” Joel beckoned, “Lemme be serious for a second. C’mere.”

You slumped down next to him, staring up at the ceiling before turning to make eye contact.

“That’s not something you have to worry about. You got time, honey, you’re in college. All that crap about late blooming isn’t real. It’s about whenever you’re ready, and whenever you find the right person to do it with.”

You smiled up at him softly. “Thanks, Mr. Miller.”

“Joel. Just Joel.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him. So you stayed like that, searching his eyes for something you didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

“Joel,” You echoed, repeating his name back to him, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“I, uh…” Joel trailed off, his gaze flitting down to your lips. “I…” He tried again, but it went nowhere.

You exhaled, and almost immediately, his hands cupped your face as he leaned forward and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to your lips.

It was warm, and gentle, and amazing, and you didn’t know if you could ever let him stop kissing you with how delightful the scruff of his beard felt against your skin.

He did break the kiss after a few seconds, though, and it left you breathless. “Joel…”

His muscles seemed to visibly tense as he mistook your speechless state for confusion. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why—”

“—No. No, I liked it,” You smiled softly at him, “I, um, you know. Wouldn’t mind if you kissed me… again.”

With reassurance that you weren’t absolutely appalled, his limbs relaxed. He leaned forward again until he was kissing you. Slow at first, languid. But then it turned fervent and desperate, breaths being exchanged into one another's mouths as lips slotted together like fingers intertwined—so perfect, as if they were biologically designed to do so.

It wasn’t long until he had your back flat against your bed, and you felt his growing hardness dig into your hip.

“Y’know what that is, don’t you?”

You nodded hesitantly.

“You know why it’s there?”

You shrugged.

He gripped the fabric of your—no, his—shirt as his voice rumbled, “You prancin’ around in my shirt did that.”

Without a second thought, you clumsily palmed him there through the thick fabric of his jeans and reveled in the consequential shuddering moan he let out

“Joel, I don’t… I don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay, honey, I’ll teach you.”

Propping himself up with his elbow, he placed his hand atop your own and guided the movements of your open palm. Things like pressing your hand further into him so as to increase the pressure between his legs, and encouraging back-and-forth motions that had his hips rutting and his breath hitching.

Once you got the hang of it, he removed his hand from your own. You felt his hand snake down your neck, then the side of your torso. 

“I trust you,” You whispered, fingers playing with the happy trail peaking Joel’s pants, hoping to absolve him of any guilt or doubt.

But the second Joel’s fingertips grazed the waistband of your shorts, he froze. He was staring off somewhere to the right, so you followed his gaze until you found what he was so disturbed by.

A framed photo on your nightstand, one of you standing next to your dad on vacation in Maui.

You understood immediately; that picture was an astute reminder of exactly who’s daughter Joel was about to debauch.

Your hand fell away from his crotch as he leaned back on his haunches and ran his hands through his hair with worried eyes.

“Joel?” You whispered, but then he was completely backing off of you as he muttered curses under his breath. “Hey, no, come back. What’s wrong?”

It was a dumb question. You knew what was wrong. Even though you were well beyond legal, it seemed to mean little in the situation—the facts were, if he touched you, it was betrayal.

“This is…” Joel panted, standing to his feet and raking his hands through his hair, “I shouldn’t have… Fuck. Fuck. I have to go.”

And just like that, he was gone.

-

That night, your lights stayed on and you didn’t close your curtains.

You stripped yourself of Joel’s shirt first, going excruciatingly slow in case Joel happened to be watching through his neighboring window. You occasionally shot glances at his window on the off chance that the window illuminated, but you quickly realized if the two of you made eye contact that wouldn’t be good either. You’d gotten all the way down to your underwear before you spotted his light flick on from the corner of your eye.

So you did the first thing that came to mind; You turned your back to your window. Panties halfway down your legs, torso bent with your knees straightened as you slowly shed your clothing. Hoping. Hoping for him to avert his attention ever so slightly and accidentally catch you like this. Hoping he would think of it every time he talked to you.

Without ever making eye contact, you would never know if Joel actually saw anything, and he would never know you hadn’t actually “forgotten” to close your curtains.

No pressure on either of you.

You went to sleep with a hand shoved down the front of your panties as you thought of all the things you wanted Joel to do to you.

-

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Jesus. What time was it? You stretched until sleep left you and opened your eyes as wide as you could (not very wide at all). From what you could gather, the sun was definitely up. You, however, did not have the willpower required to read off of your phone screen 5 seconds after waking up, so you answered the phone without reading the contact.

“Hello?” You groaned, voice gruff from sleep.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

You knew that voice anywhere. Almost immediately, you shot upright and cleared your throat as you rubbed your eyes. “Oh, hey Mr. Mill—uh, I mean, Joel,” You breathed a nervous laugh before remembering his question, “No. No, it’s okay I was like, basically awake already, um, so… what’s up? Why’d you—Why’d you call?”

“Right, so just to preface, I understand things are not... ideal... between us right now. But to be honest, you’re the only person available who I trust with this, and… let me just explain. I got called into work unexpectedly and Sarah’s gonna be home alone. Lately, she’s been getting into these rebellious fits, and I just don’t want to risk another situation where she sneaks out at night to meet up with her boyfriend again.”

“Sarah and rebellious fits? Really?”

“Yes, believe it or not. So do you think you could just hang around my place for, to be honest, a long while? It’s looking like I’m gonna be home really late tonight. Oh, and I can pay you.”

“Oh, shut up, you’re not paying me.”

Joel exhaled appreciatively through the phone. “Okay, well I’m home right now if you wanna come by and eat some breakfast. Least I could do. I gotta leave in like thirty minutes by the way, so. Take your time but also don’t take your time?”

You smiled, hoping he could hear it in your voice. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, honey.”

Oh god. There it was again. You thought you might actually pass out, but you quickly turned off your racing brain enough to mutter a small “mhm” before abruptly hanging up.

Okay. Joel Miller. Your dad’s best friend, who was this close to absolving you of every ounce of innocence in your body… just asked you to watch his daughter. What could go wrong?

When you got to his house, he had left already (you definitely took too long in the shower). He did leave out a plate of food, though, along with the message, “Thanks again. Enjoy the pancakes,” scratched out on a post-it note.

And boy did it turn out to be a long day. Sarah wasn’t that much of a handful, she mostly took care of herself. The hard part was lunch.

You attempted to cook something for the two of you, but it only ended in disaster when you left the quiches in the oven for too long. Then you decided Penne a la Vodka couldn’t be that hard, and you couldn't be more wrong. A whole box of pasta was ruined because Sarah didn’t realize the pasta went in after the water boiled, not before. Eventually, you both just accepted defeat and ordered Panera Bread.

Later, Sarah popped into the living room to let you know she was going up to her room to take a nap, and you figured you’d do the same on the couch.

The last thing you read was the time on the cable box; 7:37.

-

Metal clanking. The turn of a key. The creaking of a door. The blaring siren of an alarm system.

“Jesus—Fuck. I thought I told her to turn off the alarm at 8.”

And Joel’s voice.

You jolted awake, blinking wide as you moved to sit upright on the couch. The time on the cable box was 11:50.

Soon, the alarm stopped, and not long after, Joel’s figure came into view. He was wearing a denim button-up with work pants and work boots.

“Hey,” Joel called, setting his things down next to the kitchen island.

“Hi,” You replied, “How was work?”

Joel gave you a polite smile before pulling open the refrigerator door to retrieve a beer. With his head still poked inside the fridge, he replied, “The usual.”

“Well, what was the usual li—”

“—Were you asleep?”

“Uh…" You cleared your throat in an effort to stall as you debated whether or not you would lie. "Yeah, I was. Sorry.”

Joel took a swig of his beer, staring at you from across the room for a minute before blurting out, “The usual is busy. Extremely busy and tedious. But, um, how was Sarah? Hope you weren’t asleep too long.”

“Nope,” You lied, “I Wasn’t asleep long at all. Sarah was great. We had a bit of trouble with lunch, but everything ended up fine.”

“Good. Good. Well you can head out now, thanks for taking care of her.”

No. You did not want to "head out." You rose to your feet. “Joel?”

He looked around as he swallowed his beer. “Uh, yeah?”

“I actually wanted to talk to you. About yesterday.”

He peered down at the ground, swishing around the bottle in his hand. “That’s—That’s okay, honey. I think it’s best we forget that happened.”

“What? But why?”

Joel crossed the room and sat down next to you, leaning back against the couch while you sat back down on the edge with your elbows resting on your knees.

“Come on,” He started, “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why we’re… this… is impossible.”

“Joel, I—”

“—I’m sorry. You should get home now.”

You turned around to face him. “Joel. No one has to know.” 

“As I said, I’m sorry. I handled yesterday… terribly. There were a million different ways to go about that, and I somehow chose the worst one. But we don't work. We can't work.”

You felt your eyes begin to water, but you tried to push the feeling down.

“Hey, hey,” He lulled, the hardness of his attitude falling away as he noticed the sad shine in your eyes, “Don’t cry.” He pulled you against him, rubbing your shoulder firmly.

“Joel,” You mumbled in a small voice, sniffling against his denim shirt with a frown.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to justify what he was quickly realizing was inevitable. You were an adult, somebody else independent of your father. It was your choice who to get involved with, just like it was his. This was mutual.

He knew he would regret it later, but your innocence and desperation allured him to the point of no return.

“It’s late,” Joel began, voice gentle as he offered you one last out, “You should go home. You need sleep, you’re not thinking straight. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“No,” You replied, removing yourself from his body so you could look him in the eye. “I don’t want to leave. I want you to… I want you to do what you said you’d do.”

Knowing exactly what you were talking about, he redundantly asked in a whisper, “And what’s that?”

You wiped a stray tear as you clumsily moved to straddle his lap. Almost automatically, his hands found their way to your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into the slivers of skin peeking between your cami tank top and the waistband of your shorts. But it seemed at some point his consciousness realized what he was doing because his hands suddenly dropped to his sides. And, well, you just wouldn’t have that, so you grabbed hold of his wrists and returned them to where they were settled on your hips before you rested your own hands on Joel’s chest.

“You remember, don’t you?” You shifted in his lap, “You said you’d teach me.”

“How to have sex.” He said it more like a confirmation rather than a question.

You blushed at his blatant use of the word. It was like every fifth thing coming out of his mouth was sending your brain spiraling. You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Yeah, sex. Blowjobs, orgasms, literal sex. All of it.”

Silence for a beat. “I have one condition,” Joel warned.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“The second I suspect your dad is onto us, that’s it. It’s over. No more messing around, none of it. I can’t lose my best friend.”

You nodded. You probably shouldn’t have agreed so easily, but you didn’t actually think you and Joel would ever get caught.

“Okay, then,” Joel whispered. “Good. What do you wanna do first? Start off easy.”

You looked around the room nervously, careful not to make eye contact as you spoke. “Like. I dunno. Maybe for right now, I could just… touch you. Touch it, I mean.”

Joel nodded, and when your breathing began to grow the slightest bit uneven from nervousness, he noticed and rubbed your upper arm reassuringly. “Hey. Relax. Climb down and sit right there on the ground between my legs, and I’ll show you where to start.”

And so you did. Joel peered down at you with heavy lids as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and thus began your first lesson.

“Unbuckle my pants.”

With shaky hands, you removed his belt and undid his fly. You couldn’t explain why, but as soon as you caught sight of the bulge in his boxers, your mouth watered.

“What…” You began, “What now?”

“Whatever feels comfortable.”

With a light, feathery touch, you delicately traced a singular finger along the outline of his cock. Joel shivered at the contact, hands shooting to grip the sofa. Touching it felt different this time, more intense because you could feel every ridge and vein; you blamed it on the much thinner fabric dividing your fingers and his cock.

Your breath shuddered before speaking, “Can I take it ou—”

“—Yes, God, yes.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, pulling downwards until his cock sprang free. It was thick, long, and wet at the tip, and you found yourself instinctively leaning further into it.

“Okay,” Joel sighed shakily, “Now just form a circle with your fingers and stroke it.”

You did as Joel said, and when your fingers finally made contact with his cock, you sighed at how velvety the skin was there. Soft and smooth, except for the trimmed hair surrounding the base. You stroked him steadily, biting your lip as you watched the wetness leaking from his tip spread down his shaft.

“Twist at the tip, honey, twist at the—Yeah, just like that. So good, you’re doing so good.” You couldn’t help but smile when Joel tilted his head back from the pleasure of it all.

With Joel still reeling from the contact of your hand, you took his momentary refusal to look down at you as an opportunity to surprise him a little.

You leaned forward and kitten-licked his tip, and it had him finally making eye contact with you as he whispered, “Oh, do that again.”

And so you did, adoring the look of pleasure strewn across Joel’s face.

Joel offered you a quick, crooked grin. “How’s it feel?” He asked, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip as your tongue played with his tip.

You pulled away for a moment to respond, “How’s what feel?”

“Licking a man’s cock.”

You let the spit that had gathered in your mouth drip down onto his length. “I have the urge to do more with it.”

“Like what?”

“Like put it all the way in my mouth.”

And so kitten licks turned into long stripes up his shift, which turned into eager suckling on his tip, which turned into forcing his cock down as far as it could go without making you gag.

Joel’s hand gripped the back of your head, but he never pushed you down. Whenever you did accidentally end up gagging, he petted your hair, mumbling encouragements as best he could through the blinding pleasure. Things like, “Yeah, honey, doing so good. That’s it. Just a little more. Mhm.” And his affectionate nature, his gentleness, his reassuring words—he was exactly how you hoped he would be like. Not to mention, the general hotness of it all had your hips canting down against nothing, in desperate search of relief.

“M’close, sweetheart. Take it—Take it out.”

“I don’t wanna,” You replied in a hoarse voice as you jacked him off.

“You’re not ready for that, honey, just take it out. Take it out.”

You reluctantly complied, removing him from the tight heat of your mouth, drool dripping down your chin as you stroked him rapidly.

“Joel, I… I think I’m wet.”

He moaned a curse at that, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths as his orgasm approached him. “Jesus f-fuckin’… Tell me more.”

“I need you to touch it for me next time. Please. Maybe you could… Maybe you could put your mouth on it like how I put my mouth on you.”

“Yes, yes, oh fuck, I’m cumming, don’t stop stroking it,” Joel moaned, hot white spurts shooting up and all over your hand as you stroked him through it.

With his breathing still labored, he panted out in a high voice, “You’re lying. You’re f-fucking lying. Tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“This isn’t—You’ve done this before. No way you made me cum this hard and it’s your first time.”

“Well,” You breathed a nervous laugh, “That’s flattering. But you’re my first. Trust me.”

When his orgasm fully subsided, Joel lay slumped against the sofa with his legs spread wide. You remained between them with your head resting on his thigh as you just stared at his cock. Took it all in, every curve, every vein, and inevitably, the cum that spurted itself over the surrounding area.

“What are you doing?” Joel chuckled, petting your hair as you smiled.

“I’m… I don’t know really. I just can’t stop looking at it.”

But then curiosity got the best of you, and you began to drag your fingers through the mess at his base. It caught Joel off-guard, his entire body stiffening as he watched you.

“What does it taste like?” You asked quietly as you examined the cum on your fingers. 

“Oh my god,” Joel groaned through his labored breathing, “I swear, if you do what I think you’re about to do, I’ll be hard again in five seconds.”

“I’ll take my chances,” You joked, bringing your finger to your mouth and licking it clean, ultimately wincing at the taste. “It’s like, bitter. And salty. And kinda sweet. But mostly bitter and salty. To be honest, it’s kinda nasty but I can see myself getting used to it.”

“Wow,” Joel sighed, “You just really know how to set the mood. Make things real romantic.”

“Oh, shut it,” You huffed, playfully swatting his thigh before getting up and plopping down next to him on the sofa as he got to work stuffing himself back into his pants despite the mess he made—that was a problem for future Joel. 

“Gonna miss you, little Joel,” You joked to his crotch.

“Oh my god, you’re the worst,” Joel chuckled painfully with his fists in his eyes. “I’m never letting you near ‘little Joel’ again.”

“Mm, no, because I just made you cum so hard you thought I was lying about being a virgin.”

He sighed at that. “You got me there.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

You both laughed at that; In fact, you both were laughing a lot. And at everything. In your head, you blamed it on the ecstatic high of being in each other’s presence this way.

When the mutual laughter died down, Joel looked at you for a moment, admiring you. Then, slow and hesitant as ever, he leaned in to kiss you.

“Do you taste it?” You whispered, breaking the kiss as you fought another giggle.

“Yes, actually. Wait, don’t say it please, this is actually a nice moment—”

“—Your cum!” You loud-whispered.

Another sigh. “My cum.”

You eagerly kissed him back after that, swearing off mood-breaking jokes for the rest of the night. Eventually, you even became too tired to kiss, simply letting your forehead rest against his. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hand snaked up your leg and inched under the leg of your shorts, using force to push your legs open wider.

“Need me to take care of this?” He asked into your mouth before letting his kisses travel down to your neck.

“Joel,” You breathed, breaths beginning to come out in rapid succession as your hips gyrated in response to how dangerously close Joel’s hand was to your pussy. “I… I’m tired.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do a thing,” Joel breathed, removing his hand from beneath your shorts in order to pull down the waistband. “It’s a yes or no question. Just give me a yes or a no.”

Your breath hitched as you opened your eyes and stared at the little bit of empty space left between you and Joel. The throbbing between your legs was bad, but it was something about the delayed gratification of saving things for later that stopped you from saying yes. “No, I… I think that’s it for tonight.”

Joel withdrew his hand, reassuringly cracking a brief smile. “Hey, uh, spend the night. It’s way too late, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, but what about Sarah?” 

“I came home super late, you fell asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

You thought about it for a second before agreeing. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thank you. But I’m taking the couch.”

“What? No—”

“—Joel. I’m taking the couch.”

He looked at you skeptically but then agreed. “If you change your mind just let me know.”

“I will. Goodnight.”

Joel squeezed your leg before getting up and making his way to the stairs. “Goodnight.”

masterlist

A/N: strikethrough means i can't tag you, check your settings

taglist:

@basicoccult @myhusband2cool @fleuraimer @chunguk @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucufifluclu @pintsizedsunshine @s1eepy-bear @daddysuperduperlonglegs @worhols @evyiione @criesside @saph-cyare

@gswizzsstuff @baloobalee @gessmiller05 @trynasurvivelol @yazsos @marchai @pompii @alyssa1216 @daddy-din @msmagix4 @blooming-bubs @huffle-punk @whorrorain @iliketoeatstrawberrypocky @onlineplant @totallynotastanacc @hiddenbabynyc @thedoctorofpoop @kamcrazy123 @afterglowsb-tch13

@redplaidedandcladed @simping-soldat @martyluvsu @mingiast @teddybonkers1960 @brittmb15 @ellswilliams @laurasunsole @senaar-ika @whore4ellie @harrysbitvh123 @atremises @silkiers @bbyanarchist @pawnshopbluess222 @https-hann @cassiesolos @xanqels @jawgrinder

@daylighthrry @victoriamay1357 @jeezkiddo @its-spooky-these-days @pedro-luvr @chibimosa @sagethephantom @loathsome-gargoyle @alejaa-a @greenclues @june-julie @spenciesprincess @donttamethebeasts @alec0 @djarinsimp 

[strwberri-milk]

MC and Xavier/Zayne/Rafayel have a unplanned kid (or kids, i like the idea of twins too)

They are dating for only some months now, having a unplanned kid now would be a problem?

How would she talk about it with them? Or, would them be the one to notice first that something is strange? (I mean zayne is her doctor and ask for regular exams, you doctor is always the first to know the results right?)

They are just dating and never talked about marriage, would a baby change it? (I think rafayel is the romantic one who would want to marry before the baby is born)

How would them act while mc is pregnant? (Not to mention she tecnically have health problems)

Would them be extra carefull about her health?

What about her job as a hunter?

When its birth time, how would them react? (Maybe rafayel would freak out a bit?)

Besides that, what about the fluffynes, or feelings?

.

Also already leaving this here for another post (not that i would mind if you want to do it all in the same one): what about them as dads?

Starting at birth, how would be see their kid/kids the first time?

Would they take care of mc so she can recover after birth? (My friend had a 28h birth and breastfeeding was painfull, it was nothing like the in movies yk)

How would the kids be like? And what they would have in common with their parents?

.

Thank you very much since now ♡

nothing personal against you but this is a quick reminder to anybody whos new here to please please please check out my rules before requesting! I will be doing the dad hcs section and ONLY the dad hcs - nothing about pregnancy, pregnancy recovery, etc. etc. because i do not write for pregnancy - i can see youve put a lot of energy into this ask and i appreciate it but just as a heads up for the future please check my rules first!

Zayne is a great father. He isn't able to be as active as he would like to be in the earlier years of childhood because he wants to make sure that the child has enough money to be provided for for their entire life. He doesn't throw himself fully into work but he also is just as busy now as he was before the arrival of the child.

Once things settle and he gets used to a rhythm he might start taking less odd hours at the hospital. He's been interviewing for another surgeon or three that can replace his manpower when needed, not wanting to be the absolute backbone for the hospital anymore so he can be home as often as needed.

He can't totally get rid of those odd hours or being on call because it wouldn't be fair to the other staff as he isn't the only parent that works there but the load is definitely lessened with the way that he's worked things out. He wants to be as present as possible and he always does his best to get days off for any special events in the child's life, or just for the family in general.

He will definitely broach the idea of you being an at home parent. He wants there to be someone who can be there for the child at any given time and if you refuse he'll respect your wishes without saying much. It doesn't bother him too much but it is something he wants to bring up.

Xavier is immediately concerned about your lives as hunters. He's very confident in his ability to keep himself safe and it's not to say that he isn't confident in you, but he does worry about you being reckless. It's simply a case of him not being able to be with you at all times and being nervous about it. He'll try to convince you to take a safer job or consider working in a sector that wouldn't require you to be on the field as often.

In all fairness he also stops going off by himself for missions as often and makes it easy for you to find him or know where he is in case he has to go somewhere more remote. He'll be a little picky about who he works with just because he doesn't want them to impede the way he works. He already started playing it safe when you confided in him how much you worry when he does things dangerously but now with a child in the mix he's more aware of himself.

He is very active in the child's life. Definitely loves doing tummy time with it and cuddling with it. He gives both you and the child so much love and attention - there's no way it'll grow up without knowing how in love its parents are and how much its parents love it. You definitely love watching him interact with your child, finding it so adorable to see how he coos and plays.

Xavier also loves to read to your child. He's got a small collection of space themed children's book and now his nightly routine is reading a few of them to your child as it rests on his chest, pointing out all the little pictures and constellations and teaching it all about them.

Rafayel buys the cutest little outfits for the baby. He's definitely the kind of parent who buys designer clothes that will only fit for the week but the good thing is at least he doesn't pick anything that's overtly designer. He just likes dressing your baby well and he has expensive taste and the money to pay for it.

Rafayel is a little awkward at first being a father. He's used to communal child rearing being standard practise (a headcanon I have from the way he talks about his childhood/how I read interactions during myths) so he's a little out of his element. His Aunt definitely comes over constantly to coo over the new family member and Rafayel wouldn't mind hiring additional staff to help keep the home in order and support child rearing as well. He just doesn't want the nanny becoming a primary parental figure for the child - he thinks that honour should go to you and him.

Since he basically works from home he inadvertently spends a lot of time with the baby. He tries to get you to quit your job, citing that he makes more than enough money for you to either stay at home or find safer work but also won't stop you. However, if you continue actively working as a hunter in the field his anxiety around your absence worsens tenfold. He'll ask you to keep your phone on you as much as possible and with your permission will want the ability to monitor your location. He just wants to make sure you don't get hurt and really has your safety at the forefront of his mind at any given moment.

He's also going to be watching for any signs that your child is going to have any Lemurian traits. He doesn't want anybody to find out about it in case harm befalls your little family and also wants to be able to help your child through those changes the best he can. You'll be seeing a lot of his aunt around now to help the two of you - she never minds even if the child isn't Lemurian like they are because she just finds it adorable.

[blue-rose-soul]

"Great Alastor Altruist* died for his friends!"

This scene has been spinning in my brain since Thursday. Like a lot of other people, my first thought was that this was an indication that Alastor had grown to care for Charlie and her friends at the hotel. And it's not because of the words he says. Even if you're watching without subtitles and don't see the quotations around that phrase, it's pretty obvious that he's laughing at the very thought.

"Me? Alastor? Dying for them?"

"Ridiculous."

"Absurd!"

"Utterly laughable!"

No, what makes me think that there might be a kernel of truth there isn't the words by themselves. It's the look on his face as he says them.

This is the part where Alastor's angry snarl breaks and he begins to look genuinely afraid. He clutches his chest. He digs his fingers into his scalp, drags his hand down the side of his face. And that's a perfectly reasonable reaction to nearly dying! It's very human! But I think it's very telling that this expression doesn't settle on his face until he's talking about dying for someone else. Before this he looked more angry than anything, and he lapses back into anger up until he begins talking about trying to find a way out of his deal.

Now, don't get me wrong, I understand why anyone would think otherwise. The thing about Alastor is that, despite how blatant it is, his mask works. Like I stated earlier, I find myself searching every word, expression, and gesture from Alastor for double meaning. Ostensibly, there's no one here for Alastor to lie to**. No one he has to put up an act for. But his smile, which he's already fully admitted is faker than fake, remains firmly in place. I wonder if putting up an act is so second nature to him at this point he can't help but do it even when he's alone. Maybe he tries to fool himself as much as other people.

I believe that he has come to care, but I can't fully believe it. I won't be surprised to be wrong. But there are some scenes that just don't make sense to me if he really doesn't care at all.

His chat with Niffty the night before the extermination, for example. Niffty isn't really someone he needs to trick. He has power over her, whether it's because he owns her soul or because of her blind devotion to him. It's telling that while everyone else is hanging out together, sharing drinks at the bar, Alastor keeps his distance and positions himself above them. At this point, Alastor seems to care about them the way we, the audience, care about them; as entertainment. He's enjoying watching their story unfold up close, but that's all there is to it. He admits to Niffty that one could get accustomed to being with them. Not him though! He's above all that.

Then the battle happens. At first, Alastor's role in the battle didn't require him to assume too much risk. He was on crowd control, limiting the number of exorcists the rest of the hazbins have to deal with at once. And he slayed a not insubstantial number of angels in the process***. But then Adam broke through Alastor's shield and singled him out. It would have been reasonable for Alastor to put some distance between himself and the Lead Exorcist. Charlie did say it was his job to deal with Adam, but as I've already discussed, Alastor really had no hope of winning that fight alone. Maybe if he'd escaped right then and there, or fought Adam alongside Charlie things would have turned out differently. Granted, I don't think his pride would have allowed him to take either of those options.

Regardless, the end result is that Alastor did come very close to dying for a cause that wasn't his. Considering what Adam did to the hotel, Alastor's pretty damn lucky he's not in two pieces here.

Now, I don't think this means Alastor is immediately going to turn around and integrate int o the hazbin family. Immediately after this line where he mocks the idea of dying for Charlie's cause, he gets angry again, leans further into the Radio Demon persona and starts contemplating ways to escape his contract. I think, that like someone recoiling after accidentally touching a hot stove, Alastor's going to pull further away from them. One thing I am certain about is how Alastor feels about his leash; he hates it. He wants to be rid of it. He doesn't know how to do that yet, but he's working out a plan and having Charlie in his corner is part of that plan. Giving a genuine shit about her or the other hazbins is not part of that plan. It's another leash, not as literal as the one connecting him to his patron but just as binding.

Alastor realizing he might actually care about these people may just make him more dangerous to them than if he just didn't care at all.

-

(*The word 'altruist' here being used as a title, not a name. Like something you'd see in a newspaper headline, or on a headstone.)

(**There do seem to be some odd eye motifs in the environment, but at no point does Alastor give any indication he is aware of them or acknowledge their presence in anyway. And I highly doubt he would have said certain things if he believed his patron was actively watching him.)

(***Taking this opportunity to go off topic a bit to call the Vees out on their hypocrisy. For all their bluster about 'taking the fight to Heaven' and how 'pussy' the older Overlords supposedly are, I didn't see any of them on the battlefield. Alastor was. He fought as long and hard as he could. There was nothing cowardly about him living to fight another day.)

[gofishygo]

[PRIDE MONTH- WEEK FOUR] : through green hydrangeas (my heart lies) price x ftm reader (part 2/2) - UNFINISHED

(i will complete this once i am unsuicidal and motivated)

[PART ONE] | notes: medical settings, description of injury, should have a good ending but like rn its not necessarily very bonita for either of them

The next time you and Johnathan price meet each other is indeed, in Burningham.

The doctors treating you had come with a prognosis- a puncture to the intestine. Through the whole eight hours of the surgery, the whole two weeks of an induced coma, he’d shadowed it behind a glass window. His now practically immune to the scent of disinfectants, the lemon-stained chemicals burning at his nose until the chemoreceptors in them saw nothing, felt nothing. He compares it to a black hole, how his sensory limbs have dulled since his career; his ears are now half drowned, all noose shallow and diasporic, left behind at a botched mission in 2002 Moscow. The keenness of his nose now snuffed by a recent disaster with chemicals. His body is trying and failing, pulling the weight of the world on its shoulders and inside the gaping voids of his chest, always consuming, killing, but never truly settled. Never truly sated.

And now his eyes have resulted in you being eaten, now his ears have resulted in you being ripped at your core. His body has chewed you and, and was left to spit out your body, just like Johnny-

He is scared of looking into closed eyes-they remind price too much about him. So, he leaves the living pearls alone, refuses to peel the skin back to see your colours. He never wants to chew again, not after this.

In every other world be should have stayed attentive, should have yelled at you to not mount the doorframe. But now you are here, bandage wrapped vice-tight below your own scars under your chest and blanketing part of your tattoo, and guilt and pity and some dark festering emotion he couldn’t pinpoint layer and boil like bile in his kidneys. Threatens to spill over into his throat and all over the bed when he is finally allowed to take the compression off. It reveals the shooting star of a wound, crusted tail stretching and expanding into arms that seem to try reach across your skin, to take more of the body it had infested. And he fears you will meet the fate of Johnny- that the wound had claimed your soul instead of your life. And it was an early death too, for the man he had met, for the private who’d body he thought he’d fully memorised a decade ago. The short-lived life of the man who smiled with his whole face for the woman who couldn’t. He knows you have changed, have grown up and out of your past life.

But he can only hope that now; you are strong enough to live through it.

On the nineteenth day of your bedrest, John seems to notice that the slow trickle of bouquets and cards of condolence had been wrung dry, petals brown and crusting on the small bundle of roses that Gaz had left on the bedside since the beginning of your stay in the hospital. The colour of the wilt now matched his increasingly darkening eyebags, crow’s feet near buried, shallow dents in the corner of his peripherals. Pads of his fingers rest atop your forehead- and he knows no matter how dysregulated your internal temperature was since the mission, the number of degrees in your body would always be more than the amount of “get well soon’s” you were given. Some stone of pity seems to snowball at the tip of his tongue and lodge in his throat at the lack of a similar last name on any of the unopened cards left to collect dust on the table. Perhaps, since you’d dropped your original name, the people who’d carried your last refused to see you. And maybe, the idea that the number of degrees your body temperature was also outmatched the number of times you’d seen your relatives since your transition. And maybe, you had been alone for that stretch of years, without familiar flesh to grip onto or a face to share your ashtray and lighter with.

(When long-abandoned lawns are left unattended, they seem to flourish. Rainwater fills the cracks of pavement, toadstool and wildflowers sprouting between the roots of household weeds. In miracle, you had thrived in your isolation.) With one of your eyes slightly peeled open and fixed towards him, and voice barely gathering into the creak of a tree deforested, you ask what is wrong. Price swallows: and he replies with silence.

But even in your quarter-dead state, the captain can’t seem to stomp out the embers of your stubbornness. You’d always cared for him, affection growing teeth and latching onto him with a grip near impossible to pry. In warmth, it held him, in cold, it smothered him. “Put a lid on it, private,” its some form of rumbled warning, a predecessor to earthquakes that would split continents open. “Laswell called. All six targets got taken down, thanks to the work of you and the ULF. Another mission cleared, another day of living.” The dynamics of your exhale sound oddly like a rendition of price’s puff of a cigar. He can faintly recognise the lethargy, energy seeped out of your injuries, clearly exasperated by the way he slams shut at your prying. “You don’t need to worry about me,” But you’re attentive, even in your indigence, and notice how his eyes are not focused on the explosion of scab across your torso, but on the scars that adorned the underside of your chest. “Or is there something else on your mind?”

Price- he truly does hope that you register his stifled grunt and the widening of his eyes as shock instead of horror. Your words catch him off guard, a bear trap that ensnares his tongue instead of his legs, and he is left thrashing in desperation for new words. “no, it’s not- its not that you’re transgender. I don’t care for that. Why didn’t you contact me? What made you think that I would despise you, just because you changed? Just because you were happier?” did you think I could ever hate you for that? “no, its not your fault kid. m’ mistake.”

Silence from the only person who’d dared to raise their words to match all his own, isolation from the man whose touch anchored you down to the ground of the earth and the heat of his skin- it’s smothering him still, a phantom weight that chained the both of you to the bones in your knees and the cuffs of your necks. (If love Is liberation, maybe you two could have been set free-)

[pooks]

time to nag about my headcanon "Percy has Seer powers" and why that is a great idea

first of all, a little clarification; this isn't common knowledge to the younger siblings. only Arthur, Molly, Bill and Charlie knows. they kept this secret after Fabian and Gideon Prewett died

this implies that they died to protect Percy, who was just this tiny toddler who had absolutely no control over what he could See

the result is to keep his Seer powers secret

some background info; Percy's Seer powers is a rare gift that is apparently passed down from the Black side

Cedrella, aka their paternal grandmother, had it and has taught Percy how to use and control it. that's why Percy had a more closer bond to his granny than the rest of the family.

Arthur did not inherit it, but one of his brothers did. unfortunately, his poor brother is dead (it's not Billius, but someone else cause Arthur had three brothers accourding to the wiki) because he rather die than to let himself being caught by Voldemort and used as a tool.

while he doesn't understand Seer powers too well, Arthur respects it and is trying to be supportive for Percy.

also at a later point, Percy had 1 Bad Incident™ involving his Seer powers and it slightly traumatised him enough to not try to use it again

he takes divination in his third year for two reasons; 1, he also want to achieve 12 NEWTS like Bill. 2, he wants to understand his weird future-seeing power.

Oliver, his roommate (oh my god they were roommates) finds out by accident and keeps nagging him about the future Quidditch match results. Percy refuses cause that's SPOILERS

and now ONTO THE FUN STUFF

Percy can look far into the future, but he settles for the fun stuff

he occassionally makes references to memes and vines

his siblings doesn't understand them at all

at least until they're all adults with families in the future

and they be like "YOU KNEW"

and Percy just smiles innocently even though he absolutely isn't

Harry and Hermione aren't safe from Percy's Seer Shenanigans either

everytime Hermione is working with a crossword, Percy's eyes flashes green for a moment and when he opens his mouth, Hermione hits him with a pillow cause he was about to reveal the answer

Harry asked Percy once if his Seer powers was why Fudge promoted him. Percy simply smiled and said "yes, that was the reason. but the idiot didn't realized that i tricked him all the time and sent him on a wild goose chase."

aaaaand some Ministry shitshow stuff;

HEADCANON TWO; PERCY MADE LIFE SOUR FOR FUDGE AND THE IDIOT NEVER REALIZED IT

ofc Percy would be petty af once he figured out Fudge only wanted him because of his Seer powers. which means the fucker looked at the classified information in his personell file. Percy is obvs mad about that, but it's too late to tell his family about it and he decides to be an absolute menace about it without being caught

"getting caught means that you weren't smart enough to get an escape plan"

Percy takes full offense of being treated like a tool instead of a human with rights

he burns several draft-ups for the "updated law for underage magic" because they're fucking awful and he knows the bastard wants to ruin Harry's education. that also means he would ruin his baby siblings' educations.

he also burnt the suggestion papers about giving Azkaban prisoners the dementor's kiss without trial.

the law suggestions about banning human rights for werewolves, wizard hybrids and squibs also got BURNT INTO ASHES

Percy: I decide the future now. >:)

Scrimgeour makes an early bird appearence cause Fudge can't find the law suggestions anymore and he was the idiot to not keep copies.

after investigating privately, Scrimgeour finds out that Percy burnt them up and this madlad explains why.

suddenly Scrimgeour fully supports Percy and says his late uncles would be proud. bonus: Scrimgeour simply says to Fudge that he can't find things that may be gone forever, it's sadly "lost media" now.

Percy, getting the idea from the twints, orders dragon fertilizer (it's dragon dung lol) subscription from norway's dragon research center and sanctuary and sends it to Umbridge, using her forged signature

he's careful to not get caught, so he looks into the future (a bit at the time, though)

feel free to add some of your own ideas/suggestions/headcanon about Seer!Percy Weasley :)

[fortjester]

an angle that i can't remember anybody pointing out abt Gideon re: christ allegory is the idea of Wake as Mary conscious of what her role entails. Mary conscious of and accepting of the sacrifice her child will be used for.

she's visited by one of god's lyctor's – directly contacted by Mercymorn with an opportunity – and outside her interactions w G1deon, she's the only one of them Wake ever meets. in the bible, the angel who visits Mary is the same angel that directs the wise men to seek Mary and Jesus out in Jerusalem, which adds a more sinister parallel to Mercy being the one to direct G1deon to Wake's location over the Ninth.

Wake has no direct interaction with John/God until after she’s already dead, and therefore Gideon’s conception is, like Mary’s conception of Jesus, almost completely separate from God at all, except that the resulting child will be his biologically (or spiritually in Jesus’ case).

she takes a literal journey while heavily pregnant to reach the Ninth, and has to give birth in less than ideal conditions and surroundings. and the story diverges further from there, because instead of being visited and given gifts for her child’s birth, she’s attacked, betrayed, and murdered before she can complete the mission she did any of this for.

(one could argue that G1deon and Pyrrha’s role in this allegory is both that of the wise men (keeping up three separate identities = three wise men right? g1deon, pyrrha, and the Saint of Duty all visited on her in one form. much to think on) – but also of Joseph (especially given Pyrrha tells John in HTN that she didn't tell him abt Wake's pregnancy because she assumed the child was hers, and upon finding out Gideon isn't hers, she's obviously conflicted abt it, but inevitably settles on wanting to be a parent/parental figure to her despite the truth and the complexities of Wake's actions) but that’s just a whole Can of Worms, because we know very little of what actually went down during their interaction leading up to the airlock, so we’ll just let the concept lie there for the moment.)

Wake conceives, carries, and gives birth to Gideon, the distanced but biological child of God, knowing she’ll be used as a sacrifice, knowing through trial and error that the only viable method for this plan to work is through carrying the child herself. she does it all under the faith that if she does it all correctly, if she works hard enough, toughs it out, it will all be worth it. arguably, she never sees the Tomb fully opened, but she sees it breached.

another fun tidbit from this train of thought is the idea that her niece is named Our Lady of the Passion, a tangential name for the Virgin Mary in some sects of catholicism. beyond death, Wake’s belief in her mission to rid the universe of John and the Houses, her passion, as it were, is once again present in Pash, who is not exactly present when the Tomb is opened, but is around and conscious enough of her connections and roles to realise her dang cousin is also hanging around on the same planet her aunt died on. excited to see whatever dynamic she and Gideon develop in atn, Muir willing.

[color-coded-bear]

Redza Innit AU

Tommy dies to Dream in prison, and awakens thousands of years in the past. The only proof of his death being a white streak in his hair.

After figuring out that this is in fact not the afterlife, he spends years trying to get back to his time, before eventually giving up.

He starts building a life for himself, even managing to catch the attention of the Goddess of Life (MotherInnit) and being gifted a pair of leathery, red wings and immortality.

More years pass by, and he wanders, never truly settling down. Then whispers of someone called the Angel of Death reaches him.

He pays them no mind.

Why would he? This isn't the same Philza he knew. This Philza is still young, lacking centuries of wisdom and experience, and only just starting to make a name for himself.

Tommy has no plans of meeting this Philza, and so he ignores the whispers and continues on with his life

Or at least, he tries.

One thing he's forgotten in the many many years since he first appeared in the past, is that while he may be older than this Philza, he's still technically his clone.

As Philza's reputation grows, more and more people begin to mistake Tommy for him.

It gets to the point where Tommy can barely go a week without some idiot trying to fight him in order to 'defeat the Angel of Death'

Fed up with it all, Tommy decides to find Philza himself and put an end to the confusion once and for all (and also ask him to stop making so many enemies because Prime does he have a ridiculous amount of enemies)

So Tommy finds Philza, and an unspecified confrontation ensues.

By the end of it, whispers of the Angel of Death and his doppelganger spread. The Angel's "Red Shadow"

Tommy decides good enough, and while he originally planned to fuck off as soon as he got the confusion cleared up, he realizes that messing with this Philza is as fun as messing with the other one. So he decides to stick around for a little

He ends up staying longer than anticipated, so long that eventually Technoblade joins the picture. And then Wilbur. And then, Tommy joins the picture, fresh from the lab and newly escaped.

(He never actually told any of them his name. Philza always referred to him as Red, and when Wilbur joined the picture, he became Redza.)

With Tommy now in the picture, Red is torn. Because while things have slightly changed with him in the picture, it hasn't changed enough to prevent Wilbur and Tommy leaving for the Dream SMP.

Does he leave? Start wandering again, despite fully knowing what these younger versions of his family will go through?

Or does he try to change things? Go with Wilbur and Tommy to try and change things? Protect them from what awaits them on that server?

This is far as i got with planning this AU.

I was mainly considering Red trying to change things, which would eventually lead to a 'Redza is actually Tommy from another timeline' reveal. Though I did play around with the idea of Red letting things play out as they originally did, which would then result in Tommy versions of all the Colorzas.

Here are the old doodles I did for this AU:

[foxholewriting]

Orphan Heart

Crux/Male Reader - Mystery/UA sorta - Words/ 1,042

Pronouns - He/Him ; Pet Name(s) - None

Mention - Talk of dead parents (Or parents that never existed)

This isn't fully canon accurate, that is okay! Unless the creator asks me to change or delete this I won't change a thing, this is sorta an AU/theory series

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

Half past 2am, it’s been three weeks since Y/N had ended up in a messed up version of home and he had barely settled down. Determined to find a way home or even find a way to make this place less deadly, both with souring results. Black and Crux were to be avoided or for now kept at a distance, was it hard for Y/N to do that? Maybe. But he knew the only reason he was even here was because of them or at least Crux, it was hard to get any sort of information from anyone it was as if he suddenly appeared in the universe and there was never a trace of him before. 

If what Crux said was right and every universe or timeline or dimension had one of Y/N that means there either should be someone already here that's some form of him or at least an idea of what the hell was happening. The libraries weren’t very helpful, either books were in languages Y/N had never seen or the information was too complex. Talking to anyone about leaving this place got him weird stares or more questions that he didn’t want to answer, why did they want to stay? 

“Should be around here.” Y/N mumbled as he held a crumpled piece of paper, the writing was like chicken scratch and words overlapped but it said to meet at the tree. He figured if he died he died, if he learned anything was that he had no control over this world or his own fate. He didn’t have the heart to tell Grete on the off chance something did happen to him and he never comes back that she’d feel guilty for not stopping him or worse try to get Crux to stop him. 

Navigating the tree was weird, it felt overwhelming like he knew everything and nothing at the same time. He stepped closer making sure to avoid being seen and taking extra caution to not be near the scientist, something about him made Y/N skin crawl. 

Lost in thought on what this random meeting could be around he fell over a metal box, tucked away inside the rusty metal was baby photos of Y/N but they felt wrong. Everything was wrong with them, he touched the plastic material and even that felt wrong. It was him as a baby in the photos but he didn’t recognize the people around him, but in one photo they were kissing his cheek and another celebrating his first birthday they all looked eerie. An aged letter sat at the very bottom of the box, he plucked it up and unfolded it. 

“Dear Y/N, 

Our sweet baby boy, I hope you don’t miss us nearly as much as we miss you. Maybe you won’t even remember us if this goes well, maybe you’ll find a safe family and you’ll be protected. We can only hope, but in case you do remember us then we are sorry. We are sorry we couldn’t protect you, we are sorry that you are probably lost and confused, maybe even hurt but remember to keep that book we gave you. That will protect you.

In case you don’t remember us, why are you here? You shouldn’t be here, you should be at home any home but here. Don’t be fooled by the tree or the people or the ones that watch you”

The letter ended there, the bottom half was torn off and the back was smeared with black ink, Y/N checked the metal box no book or anything else was in there, just this half torn paper that gave him little to work off of and baby photos with people he’s never met. The air suddenly felt thicker, even more than usual for being near the tree and Y/N learned fast enough to get the hell out of the area when he felt that feeling. Sprinting away before whatever it was decided to pull it’s next move, once tucked away behind a dumpster he tucked the half letters and photos away in his pocket before the long walk back to Grete’s house. 

Small beeps and buzzes came from the phone, which Y/N ignored for the last few days Black and Crux seem extra persistent to get a hold of him which only drove him to ignore them harder. Almost dying wasn’t in his cards again after Black seemed to be pretty determined to put himself and Y/N into life ending situations, but Crux was different. Y/N has seen him around but did his best to avoid him, he was looking for his own answer and didn’t want to be wrapped up in what nonsense that he could be dragged into by Crux or Black or any other creature that walked this dimension. 

When he returned home the house was empty but thankfully he had remembered to grab the key Grete gave him when he first moved in. The house felt warm unlike everything in this dimension; it felt like it wouldn’t kill Y/N with one wrong move. The room had slowly been changed over the past few weeks, different things he found, news articles on missing citizens, notes he rummaged for in the scientist’s trash and other miscellaneous things scattered across the surfaces. The letter, photos, and the meeting notes were added to the pile he decided later he’d look through everything he had to piece together a new lead but as if this moment the only thing he could think about was the letter. 

Who was watching him, was this planned way before the accident? Was Crux wrong about saying this was an accident, was this all meant to happen but doesn’t that mean that Y/N didn’t die and was still alive? He shook his head and sat down at his desk to write more notes. There wasn’t a defined answer for any of this but maybe he was a step closer with these photos, he made mental notes to take the photos down to the library and maybe he could find photos of these people if anything he could match handwriting to other things he may find.

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

@doubledeadstudio

Sorry for the influx of my confusion in the inbox hope my little fic shows that i'm not that crazy

[softluci]

inappropriate everything [mdni plz]

this is probs the most explicit post i’ll ever do, just because i cannot get it out of my head, but um: immediately minors dni. immediately no. IMMEDIATELY no. k thx.

so, um. i have friends who are perfectly sane and normal people until they see an attractive person who they like, be it a celebrity or a character or whoever. right? okay. here are some of the things my friends say when they see someone they find just, like, Absolutely Stunning:

“i’m literally creaming—sorry, i mean creaming—SORRY, I MEAN—” “my back is arching” (alternatively: “why is my back arching?”) “almost meowed” “mmmeow” “purring…” “i’m literally chewing/gnawing on my phone” “my throat feels so empty rn :/” “i want them so bad please i am on my hands and knees BEGGING” “gripping my sheets” “sir your boobs look a little heavy…do you need me to hold them for you?” “bites them bites them bites them bites—” “they are so sexy it’s like a disease” “i want them so bad” “every time i see them i grip my sheets and curl my toes" "they're too fine i want to slam my head into the wall” “just moaned out loud”

anyway. this is gonna be pt 1, w/ just luci; when will i do the others? who knows! i'm returning to the abyss right after this, but enjoy!

lucifer 

he isn’t in the wrong here. you are—why were you on the phone in the kitchen and not your room? what lucifer was doing hardly counted as eavesdropping, really. voices carry in the house as is, and you were being loud. as a matter of fact, he was on his way to tell you to quiet down, and he just so happened to be curious as to what you were talking about, and with whom.

“no, barbatos—don’t fucking laugh, this isn’t funny—” you could hardly speak, trying not to laugh yourself.

eyebrows raising in mild shock, lucifer leaned against the doorway, waiting for you to notice him. thinking about it—lucifer was being very courteous. he could’ve listened to barbatos’s end if he wanted to, but he had enough respect for him to refrain from doing so. he contained his “eavesdropping” to you out of the kindness of his heart and, as a result, he had no idea what—who—you were talking about.

“that man, look—that man. you get it. you get it. you’re the only one around here who knows my heart, i’m telling you.” 

the conviction in your voice stung him, jealousy simmering in his chest. he’d heard enough, he decided, and pushed off the doorway with his shoulder. he stepped towards you in silence, fully intending to interrupt this clearly fruitless conversation—

“lucifer is such a genuine problem, but there’s no solution.”

he stopped, eyes widening. was he a problem for you? why would you go to barbatos instead of him? what—

“that man is so sexy, it's like a disease. no, it—why are you laughing?” your laughter was loud, strong enough to have you leaning against the counter for support. 

lucifer blinked. once, twice, before your words sunk in. then, while you gasped for air, he continued towards you, pride swelling in his chest. a smirk settled onto his face, threatening to widen into a grin as he let you carry on.

you tried to continue talking as best you could, “barbatos, i am in distress—i am dismayed—do you know what i go through when he calls me to his office? do y—i have to prepare myself. i have to steel mys—you don't know what it's like.” you collapsed against the island in a fit of giggles, inhaling sharply to try and catch your breath. 

lucifer heard—because all bets were off now—lucifer heard barbatos in a similar predicament on the other end, chuckling quietly. for barbatos, that was quite close to hysterics. by that point, he'd truly heard enough. more than enough, actually. he thought it best to alert you to his presence, as a courtesy—otherwise, who knows what other secrets you might've spilled? and what if someone less kind heard you? that wouldn't do.

lucifer took a final, soundless step forward, standing close enough that you couldn't turn around without touching him. he reached forward, plucking your d.d.d. out of your hand with ease. you whipped around, and he inched closer, trapping you between him and the counter. “barbatos,” he drawled, grinning at you, “they'll have to call you back. apropos of nothing, of course.” 

perhaps not polite of him, but lucifer hung up before barbatos could respond. although—he imagined his friend was quite amused at the moment. he slid his free hand around your waist, to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. your heartbeat was erratic—you were so dramatic, it was cute. he slid your d.d.d. into your back pocket, aware of the steady rise in your temperature. he kept his hand on the small of your back, bringing other up to your chin. lucifer enjoys eye contact, you understand, right? now—

“a disease?” he leaned into you, breath ghosting along your face. “that wasn't very nice.”

[seraphtrevs]

I feel as dense as Jesse because I just don't see it about Walt loving him even more than Skyler and going completely feral when other people hurt him? Like obviously he loves him because he can easily manipulate him but I just... don't get it? Is it that he wants to be the only one who hurts Jesse?

But Walt doesn't think he's hurting Jesse. He thinks he's protecting him. Every time Walt does something shitty to Jesse, he convinces himself it was for Jesse's own good.

Like when he let Jane die. Walt's true reason was that Jane tried to take Jesse away from him. But Walt thinks that the reason he did it was to protect Jesse. Jane got him hooked on heroin. If he stays with her, she'll kill him. In a way, Walt killed her for Jesse.

And I don't think Jesse was actually that easy for Walt to manipulate at first. Jesse kicked and screamed the whole way as Walt dragged him into their partnership. Things changed when their relationship became more intense - when they loved each other, Jesse became easier to manipulate. But Walt didn't fall in love with him because he was easy to manipulate since that didn't come until later.

A big part of the reason their relationship is so intense is that they've been through several life-and-death situations together now, starting from the beginning when Krazy-8 comes for them. Walt kills Emilio in defense of himself and Jesse. Later, he kills Domingo, sparing Jesse from having to do it.

When Walt killed Emilio, he wasn't doing it specifically to save Jesse (he was saving them both, so it was as much self-interest). But once the dust settled...I think Walt felt excited about the idea of killing someone in defense of someone else. A huge part of Walt's psychology is that he loves the idea of being a protector (and a provider). In mundane life, there's no opportunity for doing something that primal. He can't kill for Skylar and the kids...

...but he can kill for Jesse.

The other thing he can do for Jesse is provide. (Yes, they're partners, but Walt views himself as the leader.) The only person in the whole show who ever feels happy about getting money from Walt is Jesse (that doesn't last long, but he was very excited at first).

Heisenberg is Walt's ideal self - powerful, rich, dangerous, feared. But he has to hide his ideal self from Skyler and his son, even as he's in the process of fully realizing fantasies he's had for years. (btw Heisenberg is nowhere near as cool as Walt thinks he is, but that's how Walt feels when he's running his empire). A huge part of this fantasy is being a protector - he can't be Heisenberg unless he has someone to protect. So that person becomes Jesse

Jesse used to be his student, so he already had some residual protective feelings for him, which puts Jesse in the role of a child - a son. But at the same time, these fantasies are VERY sexy to Walt - he tries to bring it home to Skyler to mixed results. So with that energy frustrated and needing a place to go, Jesse also becomes like his wife. (What can I say, he's a sick person.) Their relationship plays out more like a romance than a father/son story, in my opinion, but there's definitely an element of both, which is what makes it so disturbing and fascinating

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"The Taste of You"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 6250

Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, kidnapping, cannibalism, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, ignoring of sexual boundaries, dub-con bordering on non-con, (mostly humorous) gore, (mostly humorous) body horror

Summary: Just when he's given up on ever finding Mr. Right, Steve meets the (seemingly) perfect guy at the grocery store.

A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.

It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen" ... or something like that

8. Mouthfeel

Wait! I haven't read a previous chapter. Story Masterlist

Bucky

Bucky wakes up at five o’clock and goes for his run. He gets home, glances at the bed that only he slept in last night, and sighs. He misses the sight of Steve’s blond head peeking out from the covers. He misses kissing him awake, trading lazy blowjobs, protectively spooning him from behind. It’s going to be a long time until Bucky gets to have all that again. He knows it’s important to be patient, but he still mourns the loss.

He makes quick work of his shower that morning, eager to prepare Steve’s breakfast and see how he slept. He fixes a tray and goes downstairs cautiously, still not confident of which state he’ll find him in. Most of Bucky’s guests take a week or more to really settle down, and he knows that Steve still doesn’t fully believe him when he says he has no intentions of killing him. But Steve is sitting placidly on the mattress when Bucky opens the door. He offers him a smile. “Morning, Handsome.”

Steve’s eyes flick to the tray instead of Bucky’s face. “Morning.”

Bucky tries not to be offended. He knows Steve still feels betrayed by what’s happened. Bucky has a lot of work to do, to show him that this is all out of love and that he doesn’t want to hurt him. “Here,” he says gently, setting the tray down and sliding it into Steve’s reach. “Brought you breakfast.”

Steve nods, still looking at it and not Bucky. “S’it vegetarian?” he asks, voice glum.

“Steve,” Bucky sighs. “You know it is.” It’s clearly just a bowl of oatmeal and jelly toast, a banana still in its peel. Hot tea. “I’m not trying to trick you,” he says. “I never will. You need to trust that.”

Steve’s eyes finally come up and meet his. “Oh. I need to trust that?” he says waspishly.

Bucky sighs. Steve’s woken up in a bad mood. “Eat your breakfast,” he says sadly, turning to leave. “I’ll be back to get the tray.”

When he returns, Steve seems better. Bucky feels encouraged and thinks that maybe Steve’s just not a morning person in general. Maybe he only brightens up once he’s gotten some food in him, some caffeine. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s getting the idea that he gets better results if he behaves himself.

Bucky takes the tray and sets it aside, then returns to sit in front of Steve. “How 'bout you let me check on that?” He takes Steve’s hand in his, and though Steve seems surprised, he doesn’t try to pull away when he realizes that Bucky’s going for the bandaid on his finger. There’s blood on the bandage itself, which isn’t surprising considering how bad of a cut it’d been. But Bucky gapes as he sees Steve’s finger, almost completely healed. “Wow,” he says. “That’s really good.” He’d been halfway worried that he’d made the wrong call by not insisting on stitches. “Guess it wasn’t as bad as it looked,” he says.

Steve doesn’t seem too impressed. He just nods and pulls his hand back to himself. “You put it in your mouth,” he says. “Licked the blood. Were you thinking of it then? Of eating me?”

He says it like it’s something despicable, and Bucky’s heart sinks in disappointment and hurt. “No,” he says softly, looking away. “No I wasn’t.”

He’s lying. This is the first outright lie he’s ever told Steve. He pulls back and stands up, feeling unhappy at having lied. He wishes it wasn’t like this. He wishes he could be open with Steve about this part of himself, but he knows it’s too soon. Steve won’t understand. Bucky’ll scare him away. He sighs and picks up the tray of dishes and goes to the door. “Do you need anything?” he asks, not much heart to it. Steve says he’s fine, and Bucky leaves him to sulk.

Upstairs, He hears Steve’s phone buzzing from over in the living room. The ringtone is the theme song from The Golden Girls, and it makes Bucky smile. He’ll have to remember to tease Steve about that later, when he’s in a better mood.

The missed call is from Steve’s friend, Clint. There are two other missed calls, a voicemail, and a slew of texts:

📱Clint [Friday 8:12 pm]: Where’s my text? ~Safety Officer C. Barton 📱Clint [Saturday 12:17 pm] : Hope you’re having fun. Send me his address when you get a second free from fucking his brains out. 📱Clint [Sunday 6:44 pm]: Jesus, Steve. Check your phone. 📱Clint [Sunday 9:57 pm]: call me i’m actually worried now 📱Clint [Today 8:26 am]: hey if you don’t answer me i’m seriously calling the cops dude

Bucky frowns. The most recent text was from that morning, and it’s approaching dinnertime. Today’s the day Steve was supposed to be back from their trip. Bucky listens to the voicemail for posterity, then turns the phone off and removes the SIM card. He throws it in the incinerator, secure in the knowledge that no cop would try to ping a phone before the standard "wait and see" period of forty-eight hours.

He goes through Steve’s weekend bag. It’s filled with toiletries, a few changes of clothes, and lube. Bucky smiles fondly when he finds that last, thinking that Steve definitely had the same plans for their weekend together as Bucky did. Plans that are now ruined. Bucky tries not to let it put him in a bad mood, reminding himself that this is actually going to turn out to be for the best. He learned his lesson with Ian that withholding secrets for too long isn’t in anybody’s best interest.

Minus a belt and a razor that he removes from the toiletries kit, he takes Steve’s bag downstairs and gives it to him. Steve accepts it with a grateful expression. He seems less glum now, and Bucky’s not sure if it’s because he’s accepted his situation (not likely), or because he’s committed himself to a plan of murder and escape (more likely). In the long run it won’t matter. Bucky’s just glad to see him in a better mood.

“Thought you might want your things,” he tells him kindly, and then leaves.

He avoids going downstairs for most of the day. Of course he wants to spend time with Steve just like before, but he knows that it’s important to instill in Steve that, without Bucky, he doesn’t get much of anything. So for most of the day Bucky stays upstairs and sticks to the plan.

Being with Bucky = Steve gets nice things. Once Steve learns that, they’ll go back to normal.

Bucky’s aware that it might take months, if not a year or more, but he cares about Steve and he’s in this for the long run. He’s going to make this work.

With that in mind, he calls up Carlo and asks if he has time for a remodel on one of the bedrooms in the basement. Bucky wants to afford Steve a more comfortable living space, given the circumstances. He doesn’t elaborate to Carlo about who the room is for, just tells him of the work he wants done.

Carlo says he can get started that week, if Bucky will supply a repeat of what he bartered before.

“Three months, max,” Bucky bargains. “One girl. It’s only the one room this time.”

Carlo is the contractor who built the house. He’d outfitted everything to Bucky’s express specifications, taking an especially personal approach when handling the more … compromising details of the basement. He’d done the work in exchange for a year’s worth of free meals, plus the guarantee of no sharing. He didn’t want anybody else snacking off his girls, and Bucky had obliged. For twelve months, the sunset room had held only Carlo’s girls. And Bucky was nothing if not thrifty: He’d managed to make three women stretch the entire twelve months (and had been rather proud of himself for that).

Carlo agrees to begin the work that Friday, but Bucky will also need to begin fulfilling his end of the bargain within the month. He grumbles a bit about this, as it'll mean more time spent working. He hadn’t planned on acquiring new product in the near future, not when he’s got Steve to focus on. But it can’t be avoided, so he makes a mental note to start searching soon.

But back to Steve. Bucky wants to show him that life can be good here with him, so long as he behaves himself. Steve hasn’t acted up in almost twenty-four hours, so Bucky decides to make him an extra special dinner. He cooks a sirloin with truffle potatoes and garlic green beans, puts it on a tray along with a cup of quality wine. There’s even a real fork and steak knife.

Steve’s eyebrows raise sky high when the tray is set in front of him—whether at the meat or the cutlery, Bucky can’t know.

“It’s ‘vegetarian’,” he tells him, using the term they seem to have developed for it. He watches Steve’s face carefully, interested to see how he’ll react. This is the first time Bucky’s served him a straight up slab of meat.

Steve is prodding at the steak with his fork, as if he can get answers out of it if he pokes it hard enough. “Would I be able to tell the difference, if it wasn’t?” he asks, eyes flicking up to Bucky.

Bucky tries not to respond too eagerly, though his heart does flip a little at Steve showing an interest. He takes a seat on the floor—within the danger zone of where Steve can reach with his chain, but still a few good feet from the tray and its steak knife. “Well,” he says, thinking carefully about how much he should venture into this right now. “Yeah.” He watches Steve, who’s still poking his steak dubiously. “Maybe not by sight. We tend to look very similar to beef, even more so once cooked.”

Steve gives him a withering look. “You’re really inspiring confidence in me here.”

Bucky chuckles. “Yeah well, don’t worry. I have zero interest in watching you take a first bite unwillingly.” Steve seems to pale a bit at that, and Bucky regrets having said it. Too soon, he scolds himself. Steve may never want to share in it with him, and now isn’t the time to scare him off with that additional burden. “Anyway,” he hurries to move on, “Taste is an entirely different matter. You’d know right away what you were eating by the taste.”

“Oh?” Steve says, breathless.

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Compared to us? Everything else tastes like roadkill.”

“... Is that why you don’t eat meat?”

“Uh, yeah actually.” He blinks, surprised to have been asked the question. “I don’t, ah, partake, as often as my clients. It’s different for me. I’m pickier.”

Steve nods, looking back down to his plate. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, picks up the knife and fork. Bucky sees it the moment that he re-realizes what he’s been given. His little hands freeze on the utensils, fine-boned fingers tightening around the handle of the steak knife. He doesn’t say anything, just pauses for a few tense seconds, then starts cutting his steak.

Bucky tries not to be offended by it. He knows Steve will be thinking of murdering him for quite awhile. It’s to be expected. He reevaluates the distance he’s put between himself and Steve’s dinner, but decides he’s safe enough to avoid an attack.

Steve has speared a cube of steak onto his fork. Bucky watches as he lifts it in front of his face, turning it this way and that, staring at it. “Sorry,” Bucky apologizes. “I didn’t know how you like it cooked. I always err on the side of caution. Nothing worse than an overcooked piece of meat.”

Steve’s eyes slide over to him, narrowed to slivers, and Bucky gets the distinct impression that he’s trying hard not to laugh. “I like it medium-rare,” he says, not complaining because they can both see that the steak is cooked to a perfect medium-rare. Still looking Bucky straight in the eye, he pops the bite into his mouth. He stares him down and chews.

Bucky grins when Steve is forced to concede that he isn’t a liar: he’s fed him regular old beef. “I told you,” he says softly, almost lovingly, watching Steve take another bite. “You’re totally safe with me.” Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He just sits there and watches in contentment as Steve enjoys the meal.

Steve

It’s very awkward, eating an entire meal with someone else right there who’s not eating, only watching. Bucky stares at Steve the whole time he eats his steak and potatoes, never looking away for more than a few seconds. It’s as if it’s fascinating to him. It’s creepy.

Despite the fact that everything is seasoned and cooked perfectly, and despite the fact that Steve is 99.9% sure it’s beef he’s eating, the food still turns thick and unpleasant in his mouth as he chews with an audience. He forces himself to get through it, eating every bite of what’s on the plate in front of him. Bucky seems immensely pleased with him for it, at least. And there’s no sick gleam of delight in his eyes or anything like that, which makes Steve even more sure that he hasn’t been tricked into joining club cannibal.

When he's finished, he sets the silverware back down. He sees the relief and happiness flash through Bucky's expression, at Steve having given back what would’ve been a useful weapon. It’s hard to let it go, for sure, but Steve knows he’s better off playing along for now. Bucky will trust him more down the line, and that’s what really matters. It's important to be patient.

“Thank you,” he says primly. “That was … that was actually really good.” He picks up the plastic cup that’s filled with wine and sips it, thinking that it tastes expensive. He’s suddenly thrust back into the memory of their first date. He remembers how nervous he’d been, how excited, how he’d drank the vintage wine that Bucky had purchased for them, and how handsome he’d thought Bucky was. Steve scoffs. He’d thought Bucky was too good to be true.

He was.

“You should let me know what your favorite meals are,” Bucky is saying, enthusiastic now that Steve’s shown receptiveness to his cooking. “I’ll make them.”

Steve hums, fighting not to let his eyes trail back to the steak knife that Bucky still hasn’t taken away. “That’d be nice,” he says. A moment later and Bucky is indeed taking the tray and sliding it towards the room’s door. It’s too far away. With his wrist chained, Steve can’t reach it now. He frowns, disappointed even though he’d known he’d lose that opportunity.

“Steve?”

His eyes shoot up. “Hm?”

“I said: can I sit with you for a bit? Can I hold you?”

He freezes up, surprised. This is the first time Bucky’s tried to initiate any kind of intimacy between them since Steve first came to, chained and imprisoned in the basement. “Um,” he says, slightly panicked at the idea of Bucky touching him. He fights not to shrink back. Bucky is already moving toward him. “Uh, I—”

Bucky sits beside him, pulling him in against his body. He’s warm and firm and smells good. He’s just the same as Steve remembers from days ago. Only now it’s so different. Steve fights not to pull away.

“Relax,” Bucky says softly, giving him a squeeze. Steve’s breath shudders out of him in a little whimper and Bucky rubs his back. His face is above Steve’s head, kissing at his hair. “It’s still me,” he reminds him. “It’s still us.”

It’s not, but Steve knows he can’t say so. He’s able to relax a little bit as the minutes tick by and Bucky keeps doing nothing but cuddling him. It’s soothing, and for a very short while, he starts to feel like he used to when Bucky would hold him close. For a second or two, he closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of being held.

It ends quickly, though. Bucky starts talking to him again and Steve loses that elusive feeling, remembering that he’s in the arms of a murderer. Bucky’s voice rumbles through the buzzing of Steve’s harried thoughts, “—though I don’t know how long it’ll be till he’s finished. I forgot to ask him that.”

“What?” Steve looks up. “Till what’s finished? Who?”

Bucky’s lips quirk. “You zoned out on me.”

Steve flushes and averts his eyes again, accepts the affectionate squeeze Bucky gives him. “Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“I was just saying how I’m going to get you some nicer digs,” Bucky says.

Steve’s heart leaps. “Upstairs?” He pulls back from Bucky, excited. “Really?!”

But Bucky is looking peeved. He shakes his head. “No. I told you: I’m having one of the bedrooms down here remodeled. So you can have more stuff.” He looks put out, like Steve has ruined the specialness of his surprise. “It’ll be a lot nicer for you.”

Steve stares at him, open-mouthed. “Oh,” he eventually says. He can see that Bucky was hoping for more. He must’ve thought Steve would be grateful, maybe even excited. But the news that Bucky is renovating one of the cells to better accommodate a long-term stay only drives home the reality of Steve’s situation. Bucky doesn’t plan to let him leave the basement for a long time. “But … I was hoping we could be together like before. Ya know … upstairs,” he says meekly, already seeing the growing discontent on Bucky’s face. Bucky pulls away and stands, agitated, and Steve regrets having spoken at all. “I’m sorry,” he tries to amend in a hurry, reaching out across the carpet. “Bucky. I’m sorry. It’s a great surprise, really.”

Bucky sighs in frustration, but he does come back over to stand near Steve. He palms his face. “I know it’s hard,” he tells him. “Being here, like this. You know it wasn’t the plan.”

“I know,” Steve says quietly, trying to show he can be docile. He pushes his cheek against Bucky’s palm, and Bucky’s features pinch.

“Aw, Honey. It's not gonna be like this forever. I want you to know that.” He kneels down and pulls Steve in for a kiss. "I already miss you so much."

Steve is taken aback, but he only freezes for a second before reminding himself to loosen up. He lets Bucky kiss him, even moving his mouth and kissing back. It feels nice, but then again it always has. Bucky was a good kisser right from their very first date.

Bucky’s the one who ends the kiss. He pecks Steve’s forehead and gets back up. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says fondly. He picks up the tray and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Steve sits in place, unmoving, listening to the sounds of Bucky going up the stairs, unlocking and opening the door, closing it and resetting the lock. Then he’s left in silence. He brings his unchained hand up to touch lightly at his lips, thinking of the kiss and how it’d felt almost good. It had almost been just like before.

If only anything else was.

Bucky

Once again, Bucky starts up his process of scouting new product.

People would probably be shocked to know that most of Bucky’s intel comes straight from legit public records. What he can’t get there, he gets through illicit channels (cannibals come in all walks of life, including certain government officials who are more than willing to provide Bucky with a few, very useful database passwords). He sifts through page after page of information, by now familiar with all of the red flags that indicate a potential target. He combs through police reports and social service records, clocking drug busts and DUIs, custody hearings and notes jotted down by social workers and beat cops.

He finds a potential, her address in Harlem. But she’s black, and he can’t remember if Carlo is race-selective or not. Many of his clients are, and Bucky long ago learned never to lie to them about what (and who) exactly it is he’s serving them. Sighing, he jots down a reminder to double check the race thing, but he keeps the woman on the list. There’s a note in the social worker’s paperwork about cigarette burns that makes him silently hope that Carlo isn’t race-selective.

It’s always amazed Bucky, the kind of shit that slips through the system. He’s been doing this for going on fifteen years, and he’s never had to once worry about harvesting an innocent. Plenty of scumbags walking the streets, getting away with everything short of murder. For a select few of them, Bucky becomes their justice. And that’s something he’s always relished.

He spends the week scoping out a handful of potentials, silently cursing the fact that he’s going to have to make the drive back into the city to accomplish this mission. Not that Steve has any chance of escaping, but Bucky does feel guilty leaving him alone so much. Oh well, there’s no avoiding it. He’s doing all of this for Steve, anyhow, so that he can have nicer accommodations. Bucky’s already got plans for a safe and secure way to include a flatscreen television in Steve’s new room. He’ll have cable and even a slew of streaming services.

He gets the word from Carlo that “only white chicks or Asians” will do, and two of the six candidates get scratched off his list. They’ll never know how lucky they are. Undeserving, but really damn lucky.

He harvests the remainder of Eileen. He has a guy in Toronto who favors the organs, so a lot goes to him, the rest to one of his Russian buyers who always wants the woman’s hair included in the care package. Bucky thinks it’s stupid, but whatever. He gives Eileen her very last haircut, then tosses her severed head in the incinerator.

The only thing that doesn’t sell are the kidneys, which isn’t unusual. Nobody realizes that they’re actually really fucking amazing if you cook them right. Bucky soaks them in milk for a few hours, eyeing them and thinking of his mom while he chops vegetables. She hadn’t been as horrible as Eileen, he supposes. Nobody ever actually raped Bucky as a kid.

Unlike many of his clients, Bucky’s not an impulse killer. He doesn’t, as a rule, get off on the fact that he’s killing people. That’s not the point of it for him. But he does regret not having had the chance to kill his mother. Bucky’s not an idiot; he realizes that his victim pool is largely influenced by the actions of Harriet Barnes. Every time an Eileen comes through his kitchen, he gets a tiny fraction of the kind of satisfaction he thinks he'd have gotten if he'd done away with dear old Harriet himself.

Oh well. Can’t have everything. Bucky’s dad remarried years ago—a perfectly nice woman named Winnifred whom Bucky has zero interest in eating.

He stares at Eileen’s kidneys where they’re soaking in the milk bath, and has a sudden bit of inspiration. He’ll need to call up a specialty butcher, but Bucky’s got the number of every meat man within a fifty mile radius saved to his contacts. He dials one up.

“Hey Fred: you have any kidneys laying around?”

Steve’s eyes get wide and full of hope when Bucky tells him they’re going to eat dinner together; upstairs. “Hang on, Honey,” Bucky stops him gently at the foot of the stairs before they go up. He produces another wrist restraint and sees Steve’s face fall.

“I’ll be good,” he promises. “You don’t have to.”

Bucky smiles softly at the promise that he knows is a lie. “Just a precaution,” he tells him gently, putting the leather around Steve’s other wrist, then hooking them together. “This way you won’t be tempted to try anything. Don’t want to spoil our nice night, right?”

Steve mumbles sadly in agreement and Bucky hugs him. Poor thing. He’s still scared, Bucky can tell. Maybe not of imminent death like he’d been before, but still worried. Bucky hopes that he’ll feel safe again soon.

He takes him upstairs, leading him gently with a hand at the back of his neck. He guides him over to the dining table and has him sit, unhooks his hands and locks the left cuff to the arm of the chair, while the right remains free. “There,” he says, pecking a kiss to his mouth. Steve inhales sharply, but he doesn’t tense or pull away like he was doing before, so Bucky is pleased. They’re making some progress. “I’m cooking us dinner,” he says, standing up and going back into the kitchen. He knows Steve can see him from his seat at the table. “Something a little different, but I think you’ll like it.”

“What?"

Bucky shoots him a grin from over the countertop. “Before I tell you, you have to promise to at least try a bite.”

Steve's lip curls. “Is it 'vegetarian'?”

“Yes.” Steve makes a doubtful noise and Bucky promises, “It is!” He indicates the two soaking containers on the countertop. “See? Mine,” he points. “And yours.” He goes to grab a skillet for the stove. “Yours is vegetarian.”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. Bucky can practically hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “But yours isn’t,” he says, voice a near whisper.

Bucky chose this meal purposefully, is the thing.

“No.” He looks up to see Steve’s reaction to the truthful answer. “I’m having a slightly more expensive version.” Forty thousand dollars more, to be exact. He watches as Steve swallows thickly. “You’ll be able to see the difference,” he reassures him. “It’s obvious in this case. I’m not trying to trick you.”

Steve nods, looking tiny and scared in his dining chair. Bucky’s heart throbs sympathetically. “Here.” He abandons the preheating skillet and pours Steve a generous glass of wine. “It’s a Beaujolais,” he tells him gently as he hands it over. “Notes of cherry.” He’s pleased when Steve takes the glass without hesitation and takes a sip. Bucky smiles at him and returns to the kitchen. “It pairs excellently with what we’re having.”

“Which is?”

“The thing with kidneys,” Bucky says, fishing Steve’s out first and plopping it onto a cutting board, “is that they taste excellent, unless you overcook them, which is what everybody tends to do."

“Oh my god,” Steve whines.

“You promised to at least try a bite!” Bucky reminds him gleefully, pointing at him with the chef’s knife. “You have to try it.”

Steve grumbles something discontent over at the table, Bucky can’t hear what. He chops Steve’s kidney and sets it aside, prepares his own—much smaller and smoother—version and puts it in a second skillet. “See?” he calls out, knowing that Steve is watching his every move. “Separate pans and everything. No cross contamination. Yours won’t touch mine at all.”

“It better not,” Steve grumbles.

Bucky makes sure to have them off the flame after two minutes on each side. Perfect. “Bon appétit,” he says, when he slides their plates onto the table. He sits at the head of the table, just catty corner from Steve. He reaches out and takes Steve’s hand in his, giving it a light squeeze. “I really think you’ll like it, Sweetheart." He waits it out as Steve's eyes flick from one plate to the other, critical. “See?” he prompts. “Totally different.”

Steve nods slowly, because the difference is indeed unmistakable. They're eating different species. “... What’s mine?”

Bucky grins. “Calves’ kidney. The gold standard.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “If you say so.” He picks up his fork and begins to poke at the meat, much like he'd with the sirloin, only this time with a far more distasteful expression on his face. “Just one bite?” he checks.

“Yes.” Bucky watches him with baited breath, very aware of how much trust Steve is placing in him right now. It’s a delicate moment, and an important one. “Go on,” he coaxes. “Try it.”

Steve takes a piece on his fork. He stares at it for another second, then seems to make up his mind. He raises it to his mouth, then his eyes lock on Bucky’s, and Bucky’s heart stops. Steve holds Bucky’s gaze as his lips part and he puts it in. He closes his mouth, draws the fork out slowly. His mouth works around the bite of food as he chews.

Bucky feels borderline aroused. “How is is it?” he asks, voice coming out breathier than he intends.

Steve swallows. “Good,” he says, almost timid. “Different, but really good, actually.”

Bucky smiles, satisfied and also thrilled that Steve has let him feed him like this. That he’s trusted him yet again. “Knew you’d like it,” he says, and he cuts into his own, taking a bite. It isn’t until he hears Steve’s gasp that he remembers that this is a first for Steve—he’s never seen Bucky eating before.

Bucky watches him cautiously as he finishes chewing his bite. When he swallows, Steve gulps. Bucky reaches out and puts his hand palm up. “Hey, gimme your hand,” he commands softly. Steve does, and Bucky gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Yours is vegetarian. You know that.”

“I know.” Steve’s voice is tiny and timid, and Bucky sees him eye the plate again. “It’s just … intimidating, to see it.” He looks back at Bucky, and there’s something in his eyes that Bucky doesn’t like. It’s not disgust, not quite, but something related to it. “Who … who is it?”

Bucky releases his hand and goes to take another piece onto his fork. He eats it, unashamed. “It doesn’t matter,” he excuses, knowing that it won’t be good for Steve to hear names put to the food. “You know,” he says conversationally, “medically speaking, there’s no health difference between eating animal meat and eating ours.” He watches Steve for his reaction. “There’s not,” he insists. “I’m a doctor. You think I didn’t look into it before I started this?” Steve puts his fork down and reaches for his wine glass. He takes a very large gulp, then another. Bucky takes another bite of his kidney, this one larger and more obvious in his mouth as he chews and Steve watches. “Compared to animal meat, you’re actually less likely to contract a number of diseases, and your risk of getting a tapeworm or other parasite drops to almost nothing.”

“Ew,” Steve mutters.

“Yup.”

“Well, now that the conversation’s veered in that appetizing direction." He resumes eating from his own plate.

Bucky watches with interest, pleased once again at how Steve clearly enjoys the prime piece of meat that Bucky’s prepared for him. “The only issue is the brain,” he says. That gets Steve’s attention fast, and he chuckles. “You know how people eat veal brains and stuff?”

Steve makes a face. “I guess. Ew.”

Bucky laughs. “Those crazy French, right? Anyways, humans are different. The brain is the one part you don’t want to eat. It’s dangerous. Causes prion diseases and shit. It can be deadly.”

Steve sighs. “Duly noted. Got any other lovely dinner topics?”

Bucky switches to talking about the improvements he’s planning for Steve’s room, and for the rest of the meal they discuss that, Steve hardly paying attention to Bucky’s plate from then on.

Carlo comes over to begin the work. Bucky tries to prepare Steve for it, gently reminding him that Carlo is like him. He’s a client who knows exactly what goes on in Bucky’s basement.

Steve still calls out when he arrives, tries to appeal to a nature that Bucky tried to warn him Carlo doesn’t have.

“Please!” he calls out from the center of his room, unable to make it all the way to the slatted door with his wrist chained. “Please help me!”

Bucky shoots him a withering glare as he guides Carlo down toward the beach room. It’s at the end of the spiral, the last of the six bedrooms. Bucky thinks it’s the best choice because Steve won’t ever have to see him transporting in anybody new, taking them their meals, bringing them to or from surgeries, that sort of thing. It’s for the best.

He walks Carlo through the revisions he wants done. Bucky has sketches and pictures to show him. He’d researched the architecture of jails and other such institutions, mental hospitals and the like, for inspiration on how to keep things safe. He's annoyed to hear Steve yell out a few additional times as he talks with Carlo, but the man takes it in stride and acts like he doesn’t hear Steve’s cries for help at all.

“Didn’t know you trafficked in men,” he eventually says, when they’ve concluded their business and Bucky’s seeing him to the front door.

“No,” Bucky agrees demurely. He’s got zero desire to tell Carlo any more about Steve than strictly necessary. Steve is for himself, not the animals Bucky does business with. “But everyone has their requests.”

“Right.” Carlo asks him if he’s got somebody lined up for the payment they agreed on.

“A few.” Bucky sends him off with the basic profiles of the women he’s narrowed it down to, allowing him the final pick. He never tells the clients about his own private criteria for product selection. He’s sure they’d protest, claim that the women’s actions or personalities tainted the meat, or some such. Utter bullshit of course, but Bucky knows his clients down to a tee. Most of them like to believe they’re feasting on scared and innocent little virgins.

Give him a break.

When he returns to the basement it's late. He comes armed with an Old Fashioned. Steve pouts for several minutes before he finally accepts it.

Bucky sighs and collapses down to the floor at the opposite wall. He slumps back, watching Steve. “I know that was hard for you.”

Steve is drinking the alcohol. He shrugs, swallowing heavily. “Don’t know why I was surprised. You warned me.”

“I did.”

He shakes his head, upset. “I just hate to believe that they’re out there, ya know? Just … living normal lives. Doing this.” He shivers, clearly disturbed.

Bucky doesn’t like where he’s taking the conversation. “They’re not normal,” he tells him curtly. “Most of them are rich and entitled as fuck. The one percent of the one percent. You have any idea how much a meal costs these guys? Fifty grand is nothing to them.”

Steve’s eyes bug out of his head. “Fifty … fifty grand?” he gapes. “No.”

Bucky shrugs and leans back against the wall. “It depends, but yeah. Thirty to seventy.”

“Fuck.”

He watches as Steve drains his glass to half full. “Should I make you another?” he asks, only half serious. He’s tired after the visit from Carlo, wants to go to sleep, wishes it could be with Steve but knows it’ll have to be alone.

“What about me?” Steve asks abruptly, startling him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“What about me? How much would I go for?”

He’s deadly serious, Bucky realizes. He also knows this is a game they shouldn’t play. “No,” he says gruffly. “Steve, no.”

“Come on, just tell me,” Steve cajoles. It’s a taunt, less friendly and more of a challenge. He sticks his chin out, defiant. “I can handle it. What would one of your clients pay for me?”

Bucky swallows, feeling doubt still roiling in him as he says, “Well … usually it wouldn’t be just one person. People pay for … specific parts.”

Steve scowls. “Christ.”

“You asked.” Bucky doesn’t bother mentioning that almost nobody wants a male. It’s just not where the market is. “Don’t get pissy at me for answering.”

Steve seems to take that in stride. He takes another big swig from his glass. It’s almost empty now. “Fine then, what’s the sum of my parts?”

Bucky sighs and looks him over, does an honest assessment without factoring in Steve’s gender. “You’re small,” he says, “So that’s less right off the bat.”

Steve laughs bitterly. “Right.”

Bucky grits his teeth and does some rough mental math. “Somewhere between seven and eight hundred,” he eventually says. “Depending on how long I could keep you alive, and then however much I could get for the organ meat. That tends to be hit or miss.”

Steve stares, shocked. “Eight hundred … thousand?”

Bucky glowers at him. “Don’t you hold it against me, now. You’re the one who asked.”

“Yeah, but …” Steve lifts his drink, drains the last of it and sets the glass down heavily. He swallows. “I didn’t expect it to be so much. That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is this conversation,” Bucky snaps, already regretting having played into Steve’s hands. “Nobody’s ever going to eat you.”

Steve’s eyes fix on him. “Not even you?”

Bucky growls and shoves up to standing. He collects Steve’s empty glass and leaves him there to make what he will of the information.

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[endless-summer-soldier]

ice ice baby - chapter nine

pairing: CollegeHockeyPlayer!Bucky x CollegeFigureSkater!Reader

summary: Bucky is a college hockey player, Y/N is a figure skater without a partner. What's happens when these two opposites start sharing the ice...

warnings: enemies to lovers trope, some alcohol use

word count: 1.3k

taglist: @sebsgirl71479 @whiskeyrosepoetry

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series masterlist

Y/N was pacing around her apartment. The press conference was scheduled to start in five minutes and she couldn’t sit still. A heavy knock on the door startled her and pulled her from her frenzy. She opened the door and found Bucky on her doorstep with two cups of coffee in his hands.

“I thought you could use some company,” he smiled. She gave him a small smile and let him inside. He handed her the coffee and they sat on the couch, waiting for the broadcast to begin. Her knee was bouncing up and down as she took a long sip of her java.

Bucky placed his hand on her knee to settle her down, “Maybe the caffeine was a bad idea.”

She shook her head, “No it was sweet, I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous about this. We have no control over the situation, so there’s no point in stressing.”

“I know, you’re right. I just don’t like all this anticipation.”

“Just take a deep breath and relax,” he said, rubbing her leg. The snapping of cameras drew their attention to the TV as the USFS president approached a microphone.

“Hello, we are here today to address some concerns over the scoring of the US National Figure Skating competition that took place recently in Chicago. After a thorough investigation it has been discovered that three of the judges at the competition accepted bribes from a competitor. The judges have been removed from the organization effective immediately. The competitor responsible for the bribes has been banned from all future competitions. As a result of this investigation, we have reviewed all scores from the competition. There are score changes for multiple skaters and the updated scores will be posted on the US Figure Skating website within the next hour. We apologize that this situation transpired. We will be reviewing our internal processes to ensure a situation like this does not occur again in the future. Thank you, no questions at this time.”

Cameras continued going off and they could hear reporters asking questions and trying to get more information. The statement was vague, as she knew it would be, and there were still some unanswered questions. But the figure skating community was small, and the real story would get out at some point.

“So what now?” Bucky asked. 

“We open up the website and we refresh until the new scores are posted.” And that was exactly what they did. They sat there and hit refresh until there was finally a change to the webpage.

Y/N let out an audible gasp and Bucky immediately focused his attention to her phone screen. And there were their names, at the top of the board. In the gold medal spot. Before Y/N could say anything, Bucky had picked her up and was spinning her in the air. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck and couldn’t stop smiling. He planted quick kisses all over her neck and cheek as she giggled.

“You’re going to the Olympics,” he whispered into her hair. 

“We’re going to the Olympics!” she corrected.

“Well I gotta make the hockey team first.” With that simple comment, she fell through the cloud nine she was briefly camped on. She knew it wasn’t rational for her to think he would accompany her to Seoul, but she was secretly hoping he wanted to go with her. 

“Oh, duh.” She attempted to hide her confusion, but it was evident in her voice. He gently put her down and looked at her, trying to read her expression.

“Don’t worry, Ace. I fully plan to be on that roster.”

She gave him a fake smile and desperately wanted to change the subject when a text came through from Natasha.

FUCKING SHARON! 

It took her a moment to figure out the context. And once the light bulb went off, she couldn’t hide the shock on her face.

“What is it?” Bucky asked. Y/N flipped back to the scores and realized Sharon and her partner weren’t listed.

“It was Sharon! She paid off the judges.”

“No fucking way. How do you know?”

“She’s not on the list at all. And they blackballed the skater responsible so it has to be her. Or her partner.”

“Damn, I mean I’m not exactly surprised. She’d do anything to get ahead.”

“Yeah she even sunk so low to flirt with you,” she joked.

“Woooooooow,” he replied, smiling and shaking his head.

“Like who in their right mind would flirt with you?” she layered on, teasing him.

“Oh you’re gonna pay for that one,” he said, giving her the mischievous smile she’d grown to love. He lunged towards her and she ran off into the kitchen, attempting to escape his advances. Her efforts were futile, as he easily caught her and trapped her in a bear hug. As he squeezed her, he planted a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him and he leaned in to give her another kiss, this time on her soft lips.

He eased his grip on her and placed his strong hands on her shoulders. He looked her in the eyes and seriously asked, “Are you excited for the Olympics?”

She nodded, “Yeah, I am.”

“It’s funny because you don’t seem excited.”

“I’m excited!”

“...What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She let out a deep breath, knowing she couldn’t escape his steely eyes. “This is going to sound stupid, I just…I had this vision in my head of skating at the Olympics with you. And I didn’t really think much more about it until today when I realized it won’t be you because, of course, hockey is your first love. This was always just a temporary arrangement.”

He looked at her with the sweetest eyes, “If it makes you feel better, you were never temporary to me. Just imagine how great you’ll be when you have someone who knows what they’re doing out there. And this is only going to motivate me even more to make the US team because there is no way I’m going to miss seeing you kick ass at the Olympics.”

She smiled up at him, “You always know the right thing to say.”

“What is this, you’re being nice to me now? What happened to the cute yet cheeky woman I fell in love with?”

That was not what she expected to hear. Her eyes went wide and her jaw nearly hit the floor. 

All the color drained from Bucky’s face as he realized what he had just said.

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath. He let go of her and put his head in his hands as he took a step back from her. “I’m sorry, I-”

“No, it's fine.”

Bucky was the one pacing now, his mind moving a mile a minute. “I’m gonna go,” he finally said.

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll text you,” she added. He nodded at her, gave her an uneasy smile and then walked out of her apartment.

“What just happened,” she whispered to herself once he was out the door.

The rational side of her took over and told her it was far too soon for love. They’d only known each other a few months. They didn’t even like each other until recently. They’d been on one date. They’d kissed a handful of times and everything was still so…new. 

Yet despite all those thoughts, things with Bucky just felt…right. She had very little experience with romantic relationships, but he was the one person she always wanted around. She felt butterflies in her stomach whenever he would brush his hand against hers. And that smile. It was infectious. Even thinking about it now, the corners of her mouth twisted upwards.

She was kicking herself for letting him walk out the door. She needed a minute to process what he had said but now her head was as clear as ever. 

She picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, looking for one name in particular. The phone rang briefly and the voice on the other line greeted her.

“Hey, I could use your help with something…” she started.

[bigfan-fanfic]

Different Kind of Hunt (Male!Reader x Dean Winchester)

Requested by anonymous for Can you do a fic or headcanon about Dean and his boyfriend house/apartment hunting?

It was a little rough for Dean once he left the hunting lifestyle.

Especially once it came time to fully separate from it.

Part of him seems to have expected to live in the bunker forever.

Even after Sam moved out, Dean hung on, still trying to convince you how cool it would be to stay living there.

But you both know that Dean will never fully let go if he's still immersed in the lifestyle.

Part of the disconcerting thing for Dean is that for all his machismo and guy's guy posturing, Dean has never had a steady job, or earned much money. Most of the time, his experiences with having money has come from scamming credit agencies and committing tax fraud. He's not even sure that he counts as an actual legal entity anymore.

So there's fear of the future, of that apple pie life, and guilt at not being the provider in this relationship, and the realization of not being reliable in a conventional sense.

However, he is willing to try. Especially when you talk about how fun and sexy it would be to have him be your kept man for a while. You know, reward him for all those tough years on the road...

It's hard to decide where to settle down. Motel living doesn't exactly make it easy to know what to look for in a house.

Dean struggles, trying to be helpful and useful rather than actually thinking if he can see himself living there with you.

And also, it's really not as annoying to be assumed to be gay when the man standing next to you is your boyfriend and not your brother.

This house is too big, this one too little, this one doesn't have a nice enough kitchen space, that one doesn't have a guest room for Sammy.

Finally, you admit to Dean that it's okay if he doesn't want to get a house with you. You explain that you just thought it'd be nice to have a clean break - a space that hasn't been tainted by hunting or death and blood.

And yes, a place for Sammy to come too, if he needs to.

Dean kisses you hard then. He had had no idea of how much thought you put into this decision, as opposed to just wanting to leave the bunker behind.

He throws himself fully into it at that point, and you see him doing actual research for once.

It's Dean that finds THE house.

It's a nice house over in California. Not on the beach but in a town close enough to drive to the ocean. It's actually in the same city as Stanford, ironically enough

Not at all what you imagine was in Dean's mind when he thought about the typical white picket fence.

Dean bashfully points out that it's intentional. The more he thought about going to that apple pie fantasy, the more he realized it'd always be something he'd be afraid of losing.

The house isn't big, but it's enough. It has a nice garage for Dean to work on the Impala in, and a guest room for Sam. There's a nice living room and kitchen, and it's... nice. It's a really nice place.

You look at him after you visit the house and meet the realtor for the tour.

"Dean... is... is this our house?"

He smirks. "I think it just might be."

You have an image in your head so clear, it might as well be a vision. Dean is sitting in the backyard, sweating in the summer heat. Sam is grilling burgers, having playfully wrestled Dean when he complained about the veggie patties Sam brought as another option. You see Cas, Bobby, Ellen, so many that you've met, some that you've lost. But now you're home. California summer heat, the smell of barbeque, and the beautiful stillness of a life free from the hunt.

This final hunt will not result in that reward for a while. There's the first few months, spent without much furniture - the settling into the new life, the worry, the ptsd...

But all of it can be overcome. As long as you have each other.

[inklesspen]

A thing you see a lot in Star Wars material is "The Will of the Force". It's simply taken for granted a lot of the time. Oh, Jedi can argue about what the Will of the Force is in a particular situation, but nobody (except Kreia, I suppose) is ever seriously arguing that maybe the Will of the Force shouldn't automatically be obeyed. My guess is that this has something to do with how the Will of the Force is often synonymous with the Direction of the Plot. It's certainly convenient, but it raises ethical issues with which Star Wars rarely if ever bothers to engage.

“Well, the Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.”

I was thinking about how you can have a Jedi take direction from the Force in a way that's generally reliable (after accounting for individual error), but which doesn't require setting the Force up as a moral authority, and I came up with this:

To begin, let‘s suppose that part of how the Force interacts with sapient beings is that when you make choices — when you settle on an intent — that creates a sort of “status effect” in your connection to the Force. Even if you have no idea how to wield the Force, you‘re still leaking out that intent. And part of what a Force adept can do is basically query the intent states of sapient beings in her vicinity. This is generally done at a subconscious level. A Jedi wants to be able to intervene in unjust situations? Well, then her connection to the Force is basically running a query across all the nearby Intents, looking for someone Intending to do unwarranted harm (according to the Jedi‘s moral guidelines). This is less a "configure search agent, send it to search the net, read results later" scenario like we‘d see with technology and more like a constant feedback loop between the Jedi‘s moral instincts and the collective Force auras of everyone in town. And this produces what the Jedi senses as "the Will of the Force". (We can also say it‘s slightly acausal, allowing Jedi to react to Intents that haven‘t actually been formed yet.) But the same function that queries Intents can also “broadcast”, which is how Obi-Wan mind-tricks the stormtroopers, and part of how Battle Meditation probably works, and so on.

He called upon the Force, gathering it to himself and wrapping himself within it. He breathed it in and held it whirling inside his heart, clenching down upon it until he could feel the spin of the galaxy around him. Until he became the axis of the Universe. This was the real power of the dark side, the power he had suspected even as a boy, had sought through his long life until Darth Sidious had shown him that it had been his all along. The dark side didn’t bring him to the center of the universe. It made him the center. He drew power into his innermost being until the Force itself existed only to serve his will.

The Sith warrior, of course, has other priorities. He will certainly want to keep abreast of certain Intents in the Force, but he‘s doing a lot more spamming of his own Intent upon others. It won‘t always work, but he only has to overpower someone once, right?

Which brings me to a thing that I‘m pretty sure is just fanon — the idea that beskar‘gam can protect a mando‘ad‘s mind from jetii tricks (or, that someone wearing real Mandalorian armor is effectively a void in the Force). If this is true, then someone wearing beskar‘gam isn‘t radiating their Intent into the Force like everyone else does, though a Jedi can still sense them, if imperfectly, by the way their actions influence other people‘s Intents. Still, if you have to go up against a Force adept it‘s worth it to wear beskar if you can, because it effectively removes their precognitive sense; they can‘t react to your Intents until you‘ve acted on them in a way others can see.

So what about droids? There‘s a lot of stuff in the Clone Wars show about the battle droids being fully sapient, with feelings and fears and individualized reactions. But they‘re still networked, still driven remotely.

And that‘s because, yes, a droid can have an Intent in the Force too. Not every droid; not the little mouse droids, or at least they only have small, simple Intents. But a droid with a complex personality, like Artoo? Sure thing. He presents in the Force like any other living being. And the battle droids are getting up there in complexity.

So what do you think happens when a droid has an Intent aura, but doesn‘t do what that Intent would suggest? When a droid wants to do anything other than run headlong at the lightsaber-wielding maniac and the legion of clone troopers, but is forced to do so anyway by its programming?

I think the result is a lot of Jedi being badly served by their instincts. They know what the droid wants to do, and they want to react to what the droid wants to do, but the droid doesn‘t actually do that thing, so they have to force themselves not to react that way. They have to force themselves not to pay attention to “the Will of the Force”. And doesn‘t that sound just like something Palpatine and Dooku would want for them? The better they get at killing droid armies, the worse they get at being Jedi.

[qhazomb]

i really like this one theory i saw here that brought up the idea that rainbow isn't really desmond's "shadow." or at least, he wasn't originally, and isn't JUST desmond's shadow.

because when you compare rainbow to the other characters' shadows, he's VERY different from all of them. the other shadows often felt like they were one and the same as the people they represented the negative parts of. rainbow meanwhile feels entirely unique from desmond. some notable differences being his disdain for cats (whereas desmond clearly loves cats), he plays piano instead of guitar, and heck, dude also seems to be a way better artist than desmond is, when you compare the various doodles he includes on his notes to the faces desmond drew for the mannequins.

thinking about my spin on what exactly rainbow's deal is. maybe he was an entirely new consciousness that came into being as a result of so many people's minds becoming connected by the rainbow chemical. all that mental energy just kinda... coalesced into a brand new entity.

and then, for whatever reason, he found and attached himself to desmond. desmond's mind definitely influenced the way rainbow appears in the mindscape, and maybe his personality didn't fully solidify until he "settled down" in desmond's head. maybe he took on the role of desmond's "shadow" as the main thing the chemical was being used for was inducing extreme fear/mentally breaking people by bringing out their "shadows" to the forefront. he took on the role of desmond's shadow and also a representation of the psychoactive chemical that more or less created him. he did steal its name for himself, so.

basically, rather than truly being desmond's shadow, he's more like a... mental parasite, i guess you could say.

...and comparing him to a parasite feels pretty apt, imo. having him around actually helped desmond, in the end, and they do say that having parasites can actually be beneficial, as they help to calm down an over-active immune system and such. all the pushing and prodding rainbow had been giving desmond's brain finally pushed des to get his act together.

also, when considering the "not really a shadow but a mental parasite" idea, maybe a reason rainbow's so worried about mayer being stopped and the rainbow chemical being rid of, is because it might mean he'll be gone, too. if he truly was just desmond's shadow, then yeah he would still definitely be a permanent part of desmond's mind. but if he's actually something foreign, that was only able to get into desmond's head due to the chemical agent? then i could see why he'd have concerns about... being evicted, so to speak.

that said, i think des' brain has been so damn saturated in the stuff (that 'brain pulsing' comment at the end) that his brain chemistry has likely been forever changed, and rainbow might not actually have to worry about no longer getting to live rent-free in there. (especially if he continues to push the idea that oh yeah he's totally a natural part of desmond's mind, same as anybody else's shadow, don't worry about it, please put the mental de-wormer away, it's fiiiiiine.)

kinda but maybe not really?-related: i dunno if i just missed a note or failed to trigger some dialogue, but as far as i can tell, rainbow never seems to acknowledge rosemary, even once? like, not even when she completely foils his attempt at wasting desmond's time in the crypt. he never offers any reaction to that. and like, i feel like he couldda used her as further demotivation for desmond, like "if even the head researcher for this project was murdered for trying to stop it, what makes you think YOU'LL fair any better?" or something like that, but no. he never says or writes a word about rosemary.

not sure where i'm going with that bit, but i just thought it was interesting :U