#ficlet bingo

[film-in-my-soul]

Future fic- Steddie?!

I had a lot of fun with this :3

.⋆｡°✩ 2015. The time has come. ✩°｡⋆.

At a few years off from fifty, Steve Harrington thinks he should be well and truly through with feeling anxiety so strong it threatens to take him out at the knees. Demogorgans, demodogs, Vecna, seventh graders... he should be over it. And yet, he's thankful he's sitting because his joints are feeling a bit like jelly, and he's been compulsively twisting the ring on his third finger over and over again, the metal warm under his fingers from how long he's been spinning it.

Realistically, Steve knows he's got nothing to worry about. Nancy's been on top of things since he'd asked for her help six months prior, and Robin's been on the warpath since that morning, arms loaded with coffee boxes from Dunkin' and a gaggle of adults Steve still sees as snotnosed little shit-heads in tow. Everything is going fine.

And yet he's expecting a dozen different things happening that will mess it all up, including but not limited to the Upside Down rearing its ugly head and ripping a portal through the middle of the Byers-Hopper's backyard, a shady government worker descending on the ceremony to say "Actually, there's been a mistake," or even Eddie finally deciding after close to three decades he can do better. All highly unlikely, but they run marathon loops through Steve's brain as he sits, knee jumping up and down, twinging on every third repetition.

It's only mid-afternoon; he's still got an hour before he needs to be downstairs. Each second that drips by, slow as molasses, Steve regrets losing the 'who has to walk down the aisle' coin toss. He's about to make a break for the window, just to get out of the room that Robin had locked him in once he'd started pacing, when the sound of the door knob jiggling catches his attention and draws his eyes.

Steve watches, blinking and a bit dumbfounded, as the lock clicks over twice and the door creeps open at a snail's pace. It makes sense why the motion brings to mind someone sneaking in because they are. Emerging from the other side of the door, Eddie in a half crouch, butter knife still held up to the knob he'd just jimmied open, beams at him. His hair, just as long as it was in 1986 but streaked through with silver-gray, is pulled off his shoulders in an artfully messy bun; he's not wearing his suit jacket or tie, barefoot in his dark red undershirt and black slacks.

He's gorgeous.

He's also in so much fucking trouble.

"Are you crazy?" Steve whisper-yells, leaning forward almost so far he topples off the end of the bed. Eddie winks at him, holds a finger to his lips, and closes the door behind him as he frogsteps forward as quietly as he can, only answering Steve's rhetorical question when he reaches his legs.

"Crazy about you, maybe." He's smirking, hands on Steve's knees to keep himself balanced, obviously pleased with himself. Steve is almost exasperated enough to push him over. Instead, he smiles despite the cheesy line and huffs a fond sigh, eyes closing as his forehead meets Eddie's when he bends to lean against the other man.

"Nancy is going to murder you."

"Only if I get caught."

Steve shakes his head and sits back up, one eyebrow cocked.

"You think she's not going to realize one of the grooms has gone missing?"

Eddie's smirk widens, and Steve wants to kiss him so badly that he aches for it (still, even after all these years).

"Not when she's fighting with Mrs. Byers over how the catering needs to be arranged." He sounds amused at having used an opportunity to sneak away, but Steve winces. Between the two women, it's a toss-up who will win, but if he had to put money on it, it's Joyce all the way.

Steve is brought back into the moment as Eddie reaches forward, teetering just a little in his squat, taking Steve's hand, the same one with the ring that Steve's been playing with.

"It's gonna be weird, replacing this." Eddie traces over the raised surface of the black skull ring he'd placed on Steve's finger back in 1992, a promise they're finally fulfilling roughly twenty-three years later.

"I told you," Steve says, turning his hand to tangle his and Eddie's fingers together, "I don't care if we do it with this or ring pops, just that we do it." And he can admit, having a semi-traditional band in place of the heavy jewelry he's worn for so long will be strange.

The expression that takes over Eddie's face can only be described as gooey, and Steve can't stop himself from dipping back in and pressing his mouth to the corner of Eddie's lips. The kiss doesn't stray away from chaste, mostly because even though Eddie isn't dressed yet, Steve is, and if he has to have Max do up his bowtie again, he's going to die of mortification.

"I promised," Eddie says, soft and low, bringing his free hand up to Steve's jaw, tracing the apple of his cheek with his thumb, "I was gonna do right by you, Harrington."

Steve smiles. He turns his head into Eddie's hand and kisses the curve of his palm.

Then he pushes Eddie away and bites back a smile when he falls right onto his ass with a loud thump that will no doubt be heard from the floor below.

"Then get downstairs and help so you can make me an honest man faster."

Eddie's grin is wicked, even as he stands and rubs at what no doubt will be a bruise.

"You're gonna be kissing that better later." He says, just as a call of "Edward Wayne Munson, you get your sewer-rat ass down here right now!" floats through the floorboards.

"Promise, now go. I don't have a lot of interest in marrying a corpse."

Eddie laughs, ducks back in, steals a kiss, and then, far too spry for his age and shit lungs, races back out of the room. Steve watches him, relaxes back against the bed, and finds that all his previous worries have been stolen, too.

Ficlet Bingo! (Still Squares Left!)

[chuuminn]

i will die on the 'fukuzawa has a breeding kink' hill.

are you gonna tell me he adopts troubled gifted ( and ranpo ) like they're collectables and doesn't find himself wondering about having his own kid ??? that he doesn't find the thought of you waddling around carrying his child incredibly appealing.

nonono. hope you've got stamina on the day it *clicks* for him, fukuzawa spouse. 'cause if you think you're finished after one round, you are so wrong. you're on your back, panting as you come down from your high and reaching up to pull him down for a sweet kiss like you always do. only instead of his head tilting towards yours, he's looking down to where your bodies meet, at how his cum is dripping out of you. the muscle in his jaw twitches as you call his name, softly drawing his attention back to reality.

"again-" he finally grits out, rocking his hips forward to fuck his release back into you. his gaze finally met yours, allowing you to see the intensity that's brewing behind his eyes. "you can go again. can't you, dearest?"

[lbibliophile-sw]

A new type of General

Also on AO3 [215w] @corrieweek - day 5: fix-it @clonefandomevents - CG bingo: Senator AU

After the War, the Vode have many decisions to make, redefining themselves as both individuals and a group. One of the more important of these is choosing a Senator; their hard-won voice in the Republic they were made to serve.

In the end the choice seems obvious.

Most vode assume Commander Fox will take that role. The commanders were trained to lead, and Fox was trained to lead from Coruscant. It only makes sense that he would continue in that duty.

Those who know Fox better, his batchmates and most of the Guard, expected Fox to choose anything but that. Surely he’s spent more than enough time dealing with difficult Senators for any lifetime? But then again, Fox was never one to let go easily.

Only the other Corrie Commanders truly understand. That the War might be over, but their war is just beginning. And Fox has not spent the last three years gathering ammunition only to walk away now.

There is a certain smile that the Senate will come to recognise. One that says ‘we might have been voiceless, but we weren’t blind. Now that we have a voice, what if I shared what we saw?’ It’s not blackmail, not quite. It doesn’t need to be. 

Senator Fox takes to take to the battlefield.

[fohatic]

(manip by me, original poster by art chantry)

welp there's a (short!) fic now 😏

for the "kink: condoms are fun!" square of my @cap-ironman stony bingo round 2 card, 1.5k, rated E:

Like so many 21st-century notions that most modern folks took for granted, getting Steve Rogers onboard with the idea of condoms for gay sex was yet another concept that required some getting used to. As ever, Tony was more than willing to help him adjust to it -- was particularly eager, in fact, to demonstrate it for him. 

So he took Steve’s hesitant objections in stride. Though he conceded that STDs weren't actually an issue between them, Tony still felt obligated to get Steve up-to-date on one of the primary functions of using protection. He didn’t blame the poor guy for assuming that “VD” was only something that men contracted from women, given how the sex-ed propaganda of Steve’s time pointedly ignored the existence of homosexuals at every turn (yes, Tony had become quite the WWII-era culture buff ever since he and Steve got together). “Rubbers,” ergo, were only used to prevent pregnancy and war effort-undermining cooties from ‘loose women,’ as far as Steve was concerned.

He hadn’t yet learned about the AIDS epidemic. He hadn’t learned anything at all, really, about homosexuality, aside from what little he’d gleaned from his limited exposure to different cultures and social norms during his stint as a soldier. Just getting him to come out of his internalized-homophobic shell even a little bit after Tony had finally figured out that the tension between them stemmed from a sex thing rather than the other kind of dick-versus-asshole thing was a huge challenge all on its own; one which Tony had only persevered through because he was already way too far-gone on the guy by then to consider giving up. 

But now— after way too much dithering and denial and a gradually-dawning acceptance of the earth-shattering truth of the matter— they were finally fucking each other. Enthusiastically, and often. Tony’s patience had won out big time, and his rewards just kept on coming. And coming. And coming.

Turns out, Steve has a refractory period that’s basically non-existent. One of the many benefits of being serum-enhanced. Truly, Tony has no complaints on that score, considering his own notoriously rabid sex drive. Match made in heaven, in all honesty. It would seem that Steve is intent on making up for lost time, and Tony is only too happy to oblige him at every opportunity—

—which is where the condom thing comes in. Tony doesn’t mind that they’re fucking like rabbits now. It’s great! Amazing! Best thing that’s ever happened to him, really! But honestly— it can get kinda messy, given how Steve seems determined to fuck on every conceivable surface he can think of -- and often during moments that might not be entirely convenient, such as in the immediate aftermath of a mission; be that during touchdown at SHIELD headquarters when he and Tony are still suited up, or even on the freshly-vacated Quinjet on a number of occasions... -- occasions which their teammates definitely weren’t as oblivious to as Steve had been quick to assume in his lust-clouded fever (Tony had seen Nat’s knowing look after Steve had asserted his captain’s voice to tell him, “Stark: hang back a moment. There’s something I need to discuss with you in private.”) He was so disastrously conspicuous sometimes, but Tony wasn't bothered by it. He just found it ridiculously charming. 

So Tony’s started carrying condoms around with him at all times now, knowing that Steve’s delightfully unhinged libido could strike at any moment. It's his privilege to always be ready for him. 

The first time Tony fished one of these out of his pocket and pressed it against Steve’s big, warm chest during a heated make-out session in the locker room, Steve frowned down at the little packet with the most adorably confused expression Tony had ever seen on a full-grown human. 

“...A rubber?”

“Uh huh,” Tony had breathed out, eagerly rolling his hips against the massive thigh still shoved between his legs. 

“What for?”

It was actually really funny, just how nonplussed his face looked in that moment. Tony bit back his reaction to laugh, though, knowing how sensitive Steve could be when he thought Tony was laughing at him. 

“For sex,” Tony grinned, deliberately pressing his hard-on against the larger man and feeling a little giddy with how much he wanted exactly that, pronto. “What else?”

“We’re both fellas, though,” Steve needlessly pointed out, getting that deep furrow between his brows as a particularly splotchy flush spread over his face -- Tony knew by now that these together were more of an indication of embarrassment than arousal. Uh oh. 

It was sometimes a bit of a tightrope walk, maintaining a modern homosexual relationship with a man as complicated as Steve Rogers. Tony was still learning how to navigate his changeable moods and specific triggers, but it was a task he was surprised to find himself more than willing to put up with. It was actually kind of thrilling, the way he was always keeping Tony on his toes.

So that first, clumsy attempt in the locker room hadn’t convinced Steve that condoms were a convenient means of mitigating the messier aspects of assfucking, which in retrospect was Tony’s bad: Steve wasn’t wrong when he'd pointed out that the showers were right there.

Then later that week, when Tony tried again by attempting to argue that condoms were actually “fun,” Steve had gotten a bit petulant when he'd mistakenly jumped to the very erroneous conclusion that Tony didn’t actually like getting pumped full of an unholy amount of hot supersoldier jizz on the regular. On the contrary, it was something he often enjoyed with a zeal that bordered on some kind of perversion… Only, there was a time and place for indulging in what basically amounted to a serious cum-inflation kink, which—in his modest opinion—was best enjoyed in the comfort of an actual bedroom. 

Later, ensconced in the privacy of said bedroom, he explained this to Steve. In so much detail. He made sure to be very clear about what he liked and when/where he liked it, ensuring that there would be no doubt as to how sincerely he meant it by encouraging Steve to properly fill him up right there on his oversized bed. Then—just because Steve seemed to really appreciate these sorts of practical demonstrations—Tony made it very clear what occurred afterwards, illustrating this by strutting naked around the bedroom and letting Steve’s jizz drip down between his legs while he continued to elaborate on the pros and cons of letting Steve put him in such a state while out in public. He definitely had Steve’s rapt attention, this time.

Still, he didn’t fully sell his argument until the following weekend, when they’d been out together at that gala all night in their well-tailored formalwear, making eyes at each other in between all the endless schmoozing and sipping from champagne flutes and munching on canapes. 

Steve found a little secluded balcony that wasn’t in use, because of course he did. Say what you will about him being a late bloomer; there was no denying that the guy had quite the aptitude for arranging semi-covert assignations at a moment’s notice. 

He wasn’t wearing his utility belt, though, which meant that he didn’t have his handy dandy lube tube that he’d taken to carrying around these days. So when Tony caught him trying to spit on his fingers after getting a hand down Tony's pants and squeezing Tony’s ass in a signal he’d come to recognize as Steve’s signature “I wanna fuck you right now” move, he intercepted him just in time to demonstrate the magic of 21st-century lubricated condoms.

Getting to bend Tony over the railing like that and have at him at the drop of his $3000 pants with no prep required—then coming profusely into Tony’s grateful ass without spilling a single drop of superspunk on either of their very nice garments—was something of an eye-opening experience for Steve Rogers. 

He could admit, afterwards— as they righted their clothing and kissed like they’d been waiting all night to get their mouths on each other in order to finally breathe properly— that Tony might’ve actually had a point about the “rubbers.” 

“They’re fun, aren’t they?” Tony smirked as he smoothed his hands down the fine weave of Steve’s black dinner jacket, continually enamored with the way that all that broadness narrowed down to such a grabbable little waist. “...Anytime, anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, looking at Tony with a fondness that couldn’t possibly have just been about the whole condom thing. Sometimes when Steve looked at him like that, it felt like his insides were melting; like Steve could reduce him to literal goo with just a look. Quite the superpower, that one. 

Steve’s eyes did that funny thing where they grew impossibly warmer as he reached to fix Tony’s hair with gentle fingers, telling him, “I think I’m coming around to the idea.”

♡

[cable-knit-sweater]

When you’re close up, give me the shivers

a moodboard by cable-knit-sweater

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Rating: T

Wordcount: 1.4k

Tags: au - model/photographer, au - modern, photographer Steve Rogers, model Bucky Barnes, age difference, slutty Bucky, flustered Steve

Written for: @stuckybingo | card: R4005 | Square: N5 - AU: Model/Photographer

A.N: This was gonna be a different fic. Then it was going to be a short blurb. Then it turned into a ficlet. I blame @late-to-the-party-81 😂💖

Summary:

Steve’s been a professional photographer for over a decade. His work has been featured in countless magazines, on billboards, in fashion articles and photography books. He’s shot some of the most beautiful, most interesting, most powerful people in the world. He’s won numerous awards, is sought after by so many for his work. It means his schedule is fully booked, like, always. It also means he earns enough money to afford a gorgeous loft apartment that can easily double as a studio when he wants to.

Steve’s mostly unfazed by the supposed glamor of his job or the world he inhabits. He can see how some of the models he’s photographed represent some sort of beauty ideal, even if he doesn’t necessarily always agree. He’s not actually always a fan of the circles he works in — because of the beauty ideals, but also because there’s some sort of toxicity in it sometimes, one he tries to avoid. It’s made him somewhat of a recluse, at times, which in turn has caused people to speculate a lot about him — and his personal life.

For some reason, there’s this assumption that he probably has hooked up with some of his models. Sure, he’s found some of his models attractive, but he’s never pursued anything. He’s aware of how he himself looks and he’s had models make a pass at him, or ask him to go out on a date after they finished shooting, but he’s always declined. Steve doesn’t mix business with pleasure. He’s seen how that goes. It’s a rule he put in place for himself long ago and it’s worked out fine.

He’s going to have to break that rule.

When the model he was supposed to shoot doesn’t show up…he’s annoyed, to put it mildly. It’s happened before. Most models are - even if they’re demanding sometimes - conscientious of his time. He doesn’t want to sound like an asshole, but standing him up like this is rude, and his time is valuable.

He calls the agency — and they apologize, telling him the model will be there in 15 minutes, almost half an hour after they should have started. Steve sighs. He can make it work, but they’ll lose some of the light. He’s frustrated for sure, but all he can do is wait.

When the model does show up… At first Steve is grateful for being patient for once, because the model is gorgeous. Then he curses everything in existence including himself because the model is gorgeous, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to keep it together.

It’s not even the soft looking - albeit slightly messy - curly brown hair, or the gorgeous grey-blue of his eyes, or the dimple in his chin. It’s red bitten lips, the look in his half-lidded eyes that makes him look like pure sex, a jawline that could cut glass. He’s wearing a leather jacket over a black t-shirt, impossibly tight black jeans. Steve forgets to breathe for a moment, looking at the guy a little dumbly.

Those red lips curl into a slightly wicked smirk, like the guy knows exactly what kind of effect he has on people. On Steve.

“Sorry I’m late,” the guy says, looking up at Steve from below his eyelashes, with big blue eyes that have Steve entranced. “My cat locked me out of my apartment.”

It’s the dumbest reason, the dumbest lie, Steve has ever heard. No one in their right mind would believe that. “Th-that’s okay, no worries at all!” he stammers out. “It happens?”

What the fuck. Who is he?

The guy giggles a little. It’s a great sound. Steve wants to roll around in it. 

“I’m Bucky,” he says, “it’s an honor to get to work with you.” 

“I-uhm, I’m- me too, I mean, I’m Steve.” 

Steve needs to get himself together. Not in the least because Bucky bites his lower lip to stop from laughing, undoubtedly about how much of an idiot Steve is. It’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. He wants to pull that lip from between Bucky’s teeth. With his own. 

But Steve’s a professional.

So much of a professional he’s completely forgotten what the assignment for this shoot is by the time Bucky has gotten ready. 

This isn’t showing off clothes, or a formal portrait. Bucky is an actor – Steve will need to look up his work after this – and this shoot is for some sort of magazine article. They want Bucky to capitalize on the image he’s made for himself through some of the TV shows he’s been in and…

Steve remembers laughing when he’d first seen the note. “Ideally, a sorta messy twink look,” it actually says. That’s…that’s the idea they’re supposed to be going for here. He’s definitely not laughing anymore. He also definitely needs to watch more TV.  

It doesn’t start off too smoothly. At first, Steve is too tense to actually focus on Bucky enough for the photos to come out well. Then later, when Bucky “has an idea” – which apparently involves taking off everything but his jeans – it doesn’t go so smoothly because Steve’s heart goes into overdrive and his skin feels completely on fire.

He doesn’t usually get this flustered. But everything about Bucky just seems to make him lose a little bit of higher brain function.

The way the dog tags he’s wearing nestle between sparse chest hair covering toned pecs.

The way his hair gets even messier the more he runs long, elegant fingers through it.

The way he continues to bite his lips until they look positively indecent.

The way he touches Steve’s arms, telling him to relax, making Steve shiver instead.

The way he looks at Steve with a gaze so heated that it feels like it burns into Steve’s skin.

The way he says “where do you want me, Steve?” in a voice laced with so much innuendo…

Steve is only so strong. He��s barely hanging on. 

They do a couple of shots near the window, while there’s still enough light. The camera loves Bucky and it should be easy, but it really isn’t, given all the distractions.

They do a couple of shots with Bucky laying on Steve’s bed – Bucky’s idea, again. It almost makes Steve’s heart give out, makes his fingers itch to touch. He wants to scream. He’s a professional.

Bucky keeps making it worse with the looks he gives the camera - he gives Steve. He’s being a tease, Steve’s pretty sure of that by now, but he decides to stick to his rule. He’s never broken it before. He’s not gonna break it now, as much as he almost aches to give in. 

It’s not until they do some shots in the bathroom, that Steve’s resolve crumbles. Bucky has put on his tank top again. With the water pouring down on him, the fabric clings to his body. But it’s the way he looks up from underneath his wet lashes, with his mouth half open and his lips so red, looking like, like…

Bucky knows exactly what he looks like and he knows Steve knows it too. 

Then Bucky says, a smirk on his face, eyes knowing: “You wanna join me? Maybe a cold shower would be nice?” 

And Steve gives in. He cannot take it anymore. Bucky has completely broken him down.

He puts down his camera as calmly as possible – when he’s feeling so far from fucking calm – then breathes in, gives Bucky one more look, then takes a couple of quick steps towards him, crowding Bucky against the shower wall and pushing up against him. He barely spares a moment to look into Bucky’s eyes, to see if this is what he wants – whether he wasn’t just trying to rile Steve up without wanting to follow through on anything – before claiming his mouth with his own. 

Bucky kisses back eagerly, pressing up against Steve even more. Steve can’t bring himself to care about completely ruining his clothes. He finally gets to take Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth. He pulls on it a little in admonishment, growling: “Wanted to do that all fucking day.”

“Thought I was gonna have to spell it out for you,” Bucky chuckles a little breathily, “F-u-c-k m-“ 

Steve cuts him off by claiming his mouth again in a heated kiss, hands traveling down to unbutton Bucky’s jeans. 

Bucky ends up on his knees in the shower. His lips end up an even more indecent shade of red. 

And Steve ends up breaking his rule. Maybe some other things in his apartment too, in their rush to get to Steve’s bedroom later on. Who knows.

So what. Sometimes, rules are meant to be broken.

Faced with Bucky Barnes, Steve really never had any other choice.

[jovenshires]

happy first day of spommy week!! come play spommy fic bingo with me :3

[hardly-an-escape]

skin | surprise | "You want me and you know it." • 794 words • Smurch fill list

tags: human AU, coffeeshop AU, storage room blowjobs, right in front of the scones, the pining is mutual they're just idiots

“A crop top, Hob? Really?”

“It’s called fashion, sweetie. Look it up.”

Morpheus dumped a bag of beans into the industrial grinder and hit the button, wincing at the noise. He hated opening. He was emphatically not a morning person.

His coworker Hob, on the other hand, was both a morning person and a seemingly incurable optimist. He loved his job, loved their customers, loved trying new things. Including, apparently, very fashion-forward clothing choices for six o’clock in the morning on a cloudy Tuesday.

Morpheus did not like customers, or small talk, or new things, or much of anything about his job aside from dialing in the espresso machine and baking scones. Coffee and baking were predictable. Reliable. There were rules, and if you followed the rules, good things resulted. He appreciated that.

And he appreciated Hob. He appreciated his coworker quite a lot, in fact; perhaps more than was reasonable for a professional setting. He especially appreciated the extra skin on display as Hob stood on tiptoe, his colorful cropped T-shirt riding up as he stretched high to write the special of the day on the chalkboard.

“I am merely pointing out,” Morpheus said, shutting off the grinder, “that it may not be the most appropriate choice for work.”

“Uh huh. And I am merely pointing out,” said Hob over his shoulder, “that you want me and you know it.”

“I think you – what?” Morpheus’s mouth snapped shut as Hob’s actual words registered.

“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

He turned to face Morpheus and leaned against the counter. The space they were inhabiting, between the espresso machine and the cash register, suddenly felt very small.

Morpheus opened his mouth to protest. Nothing came out. He closed it again.

“And… if I said…” he licked his lips nervously and Hob’s eyes darted down to catch the movement. “If I said you… weren’t wrong?”

Hob pushed himself off the counter and took a step toward him.

“Then I’d probably say…” His voice was low and teasing and sent a thrill down Morpheus’s back. “I’d say there’s a big, mostly empty storage room downstairs. And I’d say that the front door is still locked and we don’t actually open for another twenty five minutes.” He took another step, until they were standing practically toe to toe. “And then I’d ask if I could kiss you.”

Morpheus answered by leaning forward, grabbing a handful of the shirt that had apparently started all this, and pressing his mouth to Hob’s. The kiss was fierce and messy and weeks of longing and not-so-thoroughly tamped-down arousal bubbled under his skin like hot coffee.

Five minutes later they were in the downstairs storage room, and Morpheus’s cock was so deep down Hob’s throat that he thought he might die.

“Why – didn’t you say something – sooner?” he gasped, then immediately regretted the question when Hob pulled off him to answer. His eyes were a little glassy and a thin strand of drool connected his bottom lip to the tip of Morpheus’s prick, which a distant semi-functional part of Morpheus’s brain filed away as the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Why didn’t you?” asked Hob hoarsely. “I know you’ve been staring at my arse since Easter at least. I thought I was being pretty damn flirty.”

“I…” Morpheus didn’t know what to say. I’m shy and awkward and everything makes me uncomfortable while you seem to swim through life with the grace of an otter was probably too much. I didn’t think you were flirting with me because you kind of flirt with everybody, likewise. How am I supposed to have a conversation or open the shop in eighteen minutes when all I can think about is the sight of your lips around my cock and all I want to do is come in your mouth and drag you down with me and smell of you for days was a serious contender. “I don’t know.”

His hips twitched forward of their own accord and Hob smiled with those glossy, spit-wet lips.

“Well,” he said, and leaned back in, dragging a deliberate tongue slowly along the hard, needy length of Morpheus’s prick, a wide swipe from root to tip that drew a surprised and whimpering fuck from his mouth. “Why don’t you think about that for a minute while I’m down here?”

Then he sucked him all the way back down and Morpheus couldn’t think about anything for quite a long while.

There was an angry comment on the shop’s Facebook page later that day, all about how they’d been half an hour late to open that morning, with no note left on the door or anything. But neither Morpheus nor Hob could bring themselves to care.

[sparkagrace]

seize the clay | @sparkagrace steve x bucky | t | 1.1k words

tags: pre-serum Steve, beefy Bucky, pottery, tiktok, modern au, social media fills: @allcapsbingo | card AC1006 | march adoptable: social media

Steve has a tiktok series called Steve Skills Up where he duets with other creators and tries to learn new skills. One day he finds himself tagged in someone's video asking him to duet with a new viral creator. Bucky Barnes is a potter who posts videos of him making various bowls and cups. Oh, and he does this shirtless...

Steve didn’t intend to become a content creator. He was just bored and downloaded tikok after Clint kept sending him videos of dogs being reunited with their owners and cats becoming friends with ducks. The intention was to only use the godforsaken app whenever he was sent a video, but then the thing got interesting and he was being shown videos of dubious cleaning hacks (it did force him to do some of the deep cleaning he’d been putting off forever), cooking inspiration (he was able to impress his friends at the last potluck with his sugar cookies), and a few prank videos that was absolutely 100% scripted (but he still watched every single one).

All this is to say, somehow he started scrolling and ended up on various art pages, which were actually interesting and gave him a lot of inspiration to pick up his sketchpads and paints again. He started off slowly: filmed timelapses of his painting, showed how he went from sketch to canvas, talked a little bit about why he prefers oil painting to watercolors. All of that was fun and he had a very small following.

Until he decided he wanted to learn more art mediums and styles because thinking about what to paint was hard and sometimes he just wasn’t feeling it. So then he started a series called Steve Skills Up, where he dueted with other creators and tried to replicate what they were doing: knitting, cross-stitching, sculpture, splatter painting (that one was messy but fun). Usually doing it wrong but eventually working it out. That series started to get popular and then he started getting people tagging him in videos and begging him to ‘Skill Up’. It’s fun, but it’s hard work. He finds that some of it is frustrating and there are just some days he doesn’t feel like getting in front of a camera, especially when his asthma acts up or after a full day of working. Unfortunately his online fame hasn’t meant that he can give up his day job.

One day he wakes up to hundreds of mentions. He sleepily looks at his phone to find out what people want him to do now. It’s a video that has racked up almost a million views and the username is @BuckysBowls. The guy in the video is sitting in front of a kiln in between his legs – shirtless – and there’s Ginuwine’s Pony playing in the background. The guy on screen is extremely hot: practically all abs and toned biceps. He definitely knows what he’s doing when he oh so innocently drops the mound of clay into the wheel, wets his hands and begins manhandling it; the slapping sounds sending something strange down Steve’s spine. Steve cannot stop watching. He’s completely entranced by the way the wheel spins so quickly yet this guy – Bucky – is able to keep such control over the clay, seemingly allowing it to do what it wants but also bending to his will.

Bucky’s hands wrap around the clay as it moulds to whatever shape he needs it to, presses his fingers gently but steadily through the wet body as it continuously spins and forming a hole that gradually widens evenly. Both his hands remain steady and covered with clay as he draws up gently to lengthen the sides. And as he does, he shoots looks to the camera, smirks and gets back to work. Sometimes his face can’t even be seen, and Steve wants to reach into the screen to lift up his chin so he can look into his eyes. Steve thinks he might be drooling. The work is so precise and yet Bucky seems to be doing it so casually, as if he woke up that morning and was like “sure, I’ll make a bowl”. He may well have because Bucky’s hair is rumpled and there’s little bits of clay in it from where he’s pushed back his hair. Even from the phone, Steve can see where parts of his bare skin have specks of clay water as he works.

He has to watch the same video four times at least because he finds himself too distracted and missing parts of the bowl progress by getting too caught up with Bucky’s eyes and general being. Then he scrolls and watches video after video of Bucky making cups and vases and jugs and even more bowls. Every single time that his fingers press into the clay, Steve thinks he's going to pass out. Steve clicks through to his profile and sees the address to his store in Brooklyn – Seize The Clay – just twenty minutes away from Steve's apartment. This got much harder.

Despite him spending at least two hours lying in bed and watching Bucky’s tiktoks, he doesn’t respond to any of the requests aside from liking a couple. Steve doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get the materials for this first of all because he knows it’s expensive to get kilns and he lives in a small apartment. He has no idea where he’d even put one unless he found a pottery place that would let him film in there. Not only that, he has no idea how he’s supposed to even follow along without blushing because Steve is already unable to look at Bucky directly on a recording. He just doesn’t know where to start so he just presses 'follow' and puts a pin in it.

Over the next few days, the tags keep coming and his algorithm shows him Bucky's videos constantly. People are desperate for Steve to replicate what they’re seeing Bucky do. People even want him to do it shirtless, which is it’s own set of problems with the prominent scar down his torso from heart surgery as a kid. Besides, in a duet next to Bucky, Steve is going to look even weedier. Urgh.

BuckysBowls: hey! i keep seeing ur name tagged in my comments so i checked out ur videos. they’re pretty cool! SteveGR: thnx. i’m sorry about the comments. i really like your videos too. so impressive

They go back and forth, talking about creating content, their backgrounds, Brooklyn, how weird it is to go viral.

And then...

BuckysBowls: so when are you gonna duet a vid? no pressure but i assume it’s on the list? SteveGR: uhhh maybe a bit too skilled rn. beyond my wheelhouse haha BuckysBowls: if u need any help getting started lmk SteveGR: well, unless u know how i can get a kiln into my apartment… BuckysBowls: come to the store? SteveGR: i work fulltime and i don’t get many pto days BuckysBowls: steve quit making excuses. i’ve seen your art and ur series. i know u can do this. give the people what they want! 💪 SteveGR: i wouldn’t even know where to start 🙈 BuckysBowls: i give private lessons after hours. the first one is always free…

After that, Steve doesn’t really have a choice.

notes: this is totally inspired by the many, many, many videos of guys doing pottery shirtless that somehow found their way to my fyp. Shout out to the accounts: potteryboy, stonemeetsclay, and lowham_ceramics who were all incredible Bucky inspo ✌️

[film-in-my-soul]

Oh for Bingo can I get Outsider POV IceMav? 🥰

.⋆｡°✩ Carole eavesdrops but only because she loves her friend. ✩°｡⋆.

Pete thinks he's slick. He thinks that his late-night phone calls and dashes out to the mailbox when he's off deployment are sneaky and well concealed, but Carole Bradshaw didn't spend years hiding boyfriends from her daddy not to recognize the same tactics when they were waving right in front of her face.

At first, she ignores it, giggles behind her hand when Pete's not looking, ruffling Bradley's hair when he mimics her. There's no harm, she figures, in letting Pete keep his sweetheart to himself. He's never been shy before when it comes to love, but maybe, she thinks, he's growing up a bit, learning to slow it down when it matters. All Carole cares about is that he's happy, and by the way he can't quite keep the color out of his cheeks or the stars out of his eyes when she spots the edge of a letter or hears the soft whispers of a hushed phone conversation, he is.

The more she hears, though, the more she really looks, the more she realizes that maybe it's not because Pete's trying to be quiet about this thing he's got going on. It might just be because he has to.

As much as it's Pete's home when he's stateside, Carole doesn't try to tiptoe around her house; privacy is never a guarantee. Still, when she's up getting water or just needs to go outside and breathe in the chilly night air to chase away some stray tears sleeping in her half-filled bed leaves her with, she can't help stumbling on Pete tucked around the corner of the kitchen, phone cord stretched around to give his hiding place away.

He doesn't always see her, and she doesn't let on that she's there. In these moments, they're just two boats passing in the night. It doesn't mean that she can't hear, though, and try as she might not to listen, well... she doesn't get much gossip at the Post Office.

Pete's voice is even, a little tired given the hour, but more lovesick than stricken, so what little guilt might have clung to Carole if this had been one of the bad times when Pete needed whoever was on the other end isn't there.

"They're keeping you out there for another week?" He sounds positively anguished, and Carole sees the edge of Pete's foot kick out all discontent. There's no doubt it's his mystery girl. Pete doesn't even get that childish when Bradley steals the last strip of bacon. It makes Carole stifle a snort as she tries her best to open the back door without setting off its telltale creak.

She wonders if maybe Pete's girl is on a carrier somewhere, a secretary or something like that...

"But you're still gonna make it for Christmas, right?" He sounds hopeful, and then he lets out a chuckle so light and fond that it twists up Carole's heart in the best way.

"Look, I know you don't celebrate, but I still want you here." A pause. "Carole won't mind. I'll come up with somethin' to tell her."

Carole's brow furrows, and for a moment, she wants to speak up because Pete has to know that she wouldn't tell him he couldn't bring someone around for the holidays, especially if it's-

"Ice," Pete says with a sigh, and Carole feels her entire brain turn a bit on its axis, realization slipping into place between her wide-eyed slow blink as he continues, voice still soft, "It's not gonna be like that. And you know," his tone brightens. Carole feels that twist again, deeper somehow, "I've always been pretty good at thinking on my feet." Pete tappers off with a laugh, one Carole's heard more and more as the months have drifted by. Now she knows why, now she understands, and even though the tears had dried up when she'd walked down the hall, they're threatening to fall again for a hundred different reasons.

She leaves Pete to his call, then manages to slip out the backdoor without a hint of old wood croaking for attention and looks up to the sky.

Slowly, a smile pulls the corner of her mouth up as the stars blink down on her. The more she lets the understanding stew in her thoughts, the more she finds nothing changes. A part of her, somewhere deep, for a moment in the stillness of her brain making the connections between Pete's secrecy and the reasons why, had been worried something might. Because hoping you act or feel some way in the face of the unknown and knowing is different, and she's glad to know she's not any way she doesn't want to be when it comes down to it. When it's important.

And in the morning, if she passes Pete the last strip of bacon and asks him if he might be wanting to bring someone around for the holidays since it had just been them the last time he was on the ground, well, she's just thrilled when he says, cheeks going hot and eyes sliding away, that maybe he just might.

Ficlet Bingo!

[soldieronbarnes]

Kinktober #1 -- Humiliation, hair pulling

Joining kinktober super late, but if you have any prompts, just drop them in my ask box!!

“Look at you,” Obi-Wan says, and his voice is so full of derision that Anakin squirms, gasping, tears welling up in his eyes. His Master so rarely resorts to contempt, hates having to do so, he knows, and he knows he deserves the scorn, he does, after defying his Master so openly, so carelessly, in front of a Galactic senator no less.

Usually, his Master is so, so gentle and understanding, unless Anakin pushes him too far, and he did – he pushed him too far, knowingly, and he wonders if Obi-Wan knows that it’s a punishment as well a a reward, the way his Padawan braid if wrapped tightly in Obi-Wan’s fist like it’s a leash, the way red blooms around the shape of his Master’s hand on his bottom and makes everything more sensitive, the way the pace of his cock against Anakin’s prostate is just this side of too much too fast, pushing the air out of his lungs and making his spine bend and melt into the movement. 

“Look at you,” Obi-Wan repeats disdainfully. “You think you can defy me? You think you are ready to be a Knight?” 

He tugs harshly at the braid, and Anakin whines. “Master – Master, I’m –”

“Look at you,” Obi-Wan snarls. “You’re so needy, so desperate for a good fuck. You can’t go three days without panting for it like a dog. You go any longer without anyone fucking your brains out and you turn stupid, unable to formulate any clearly thought out plan, as you demonstrated today. And you want to be a Knight?”

Anakin keens. He needs Obi-Wan to fuck him harder, to evaporate any coherent thought. “Master, Master, please –”

Cruelly, Obi-Wan slows his thrusts until they are shallow, the movement barely noticeable. “A Knight is self-sufficient. A Knight is selfless, serving the people of the Republic. A Knight doesn’t want or need anything.” 

He leans down, plastering himself to Anakin, chest to chest, and whispers in his ear. Anakin grasps the opportunity to wrap his legs around him and kiss him, panting against his lips when Obi-Wan pulls back. 

“A Knight is separated from his Master, because he can be trusted to act on his own. Do you think you can be trusted to be on your own, away from me for months and months? You can’t,” he says. “Look at how much you need direction, how much you need a cock in you. You get stupid when someone doesn’t fuck you right for a few days. What are you going to do when you are apart from me, hm? Are you going to doom entire civilisations because you are horny and stupid? Are you going to just fuck anyone to keep you in check? Are you going to be happy hanging off the first thick cock you find?”

“I wouldn’t,” he cries, hot tears running down his cheeks. “I wouldn’t, Master!”

“Yes, you would. You’re so hungry for it. You’d let anyone fuck you, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t”, Anakin protests.

“My pretty little liar,” Obi-Wan croons. “You think you can think straight without getting fucked? How will you complete missions on your own, then? Tell me.”

“I’d make a replica of your cock and fuck myself with it,” Anakin gasps, because there’s no line in the sand he hasn’t relished in stepping over. It’s the perfect solution, too; he’d get to go on his own missions without missing anything. 

To his surprise, Obi-Wan just laughs. “You think all you need is the shape of my cock, and that will save you?” he asks. He pulls out, wrestles Anakin on his belly before he can protest, and lets the head of his cock kiss Anakin’s hole. “Go on, then. If you think you don’t need me, just my cock – prove it. Get yourself off.”

And Anakin – well, he tries. The instructions are simple enough, and the position he’s in allows for a decent range of movement. He starts slow and sinuous, and ends up with a quick and brutal pace, and it should be enough – enough to entice Obi-Wan to move, to touch him in any way, enough to get off – but it isn’t, and soon enough he’s sobbing with need. He can’t rock back onto Obi-Wan’s cock at a satisfying angle, not quickly enough, not when he’s trying to strip his cock with his hand, and he’s so, so, close, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not enough. 

“Let me ride you,” he begs. 

His Master snorts. “You think that’ll help you?” he asks, but he lies down on his back, pulling Anakin on top of him, surprisingly indulgent. “There you go. Try your best.”

The taunting challenge in his voice makes Anakin set a quick, rough pace, because he can do this, he can  – except Obi-Wan refuses to touch him, crosses his hands behind his back and allows Anakin to use him, but won’t even put his hands on him; won’t touch his cock, won’t grip his hips in those wonderful broad hands of his that can span so much of Anakin’s waist, won’t tease his nipples of pull his hair like he usually does and it’s – it’s torture, is what it is. Anakin rides him until his thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, until tears are rolling down his face and the gasping breaths he takes turn into shaking sobs. 

He’s so, so close, still, but he cannot fall over the edge, no matter what he does.

“Master,” he begs, “Master, please, I want to come –”

“And why,” Obi-Wan asks, “do you think you always deserve to get what you want?”

A desperate whine escapes him. “Please, I promise I’ll be better, I’ll be good –”

“Will you? Will you be good so you can be a Knight? So you can be trusted, away from me?”

“No,” Anakin gasps. “I’ll be good for you, I will, but please don’t send me away, I need you, I need you –”

And finally, finally, that’s the right answer. Suddenly, Obi-Wan’s hands are on his hips, the grip tight and bruising, holding Anakin still as his hips piston up into the scorching heat of his hole, the pace fast and relentless and unforgiving and finally, finally enough. Anakin comes with a silent scream, spine bowed and fingernails raking visible trails down the fair skin of Obi-Wan’s chest. He thinks he blacks out for a second, and when he comes to, he’s half collapsed on his Master’s chest, his cock still moving in and out of him at a brutal pace, making him shudder with the aftershocks of pleasure. 

“Give it to me,” he whines, speech slurred with how good it feels. “Master, come inside me, mark me, please, give it to me, show everyone I’m yours!”

Obi-Wan curses under his breath, and before Anakin can even parse his words, he’s dumped unceremoniously onto his back, and he could cry at the sudden emptiness. 

“I’ll mark you, for everyone to see,” Obi-Wan promises, his voice dark and heated, kneeling over Anakin and stripping his cock quickly, wildly, and Anakin keens when he realizes what’s about to happen. 

“Yes, yes Master, please –” He barely has time to open his mouth before the first thick, hot stripes of come coat his face and tongue, his neck and chest and –

“Look at this,” Obi-Wan says, tugging at his Padawan braid. That, too, is covered in white strands of his Master’s come. Anakin whimpers when he sees it, and despite himself, he feels his cock twitch with interest. “Do you know what that means?”

“I’m yours,” Anakin whispers, his voice hoarse. “It means I’m yours.”

Finally, finally, Obi-Wan softens. “Good boy,” he praises, and leans down to kiss him, and everything else fades away. 

[lbibliophile-sw]

Hypothermia of the Soul

Also on AO3 [210w] @corrieweek - day 6: Force-sensitive clones @ailesswhumptober - day 9: hypothermia

It takes a few weeks for Fox to truly notice, but Coruscant is cold.

It shouldn’t be. Between the climate-controlled atmosphere and his temperature regulating armour he should spend his whole deployment in a comfortably human-standard environment. Yet somehow, a chill has crept its way in to settle against his bones.

Nothing seems to touch it.

Exertion or external heat sources leave him flushed and sweating without doing anything to thaw the icy numbness inside.

Blankets are more variable. The thin mass-produced ones of the medbay and barracks offer bare protection even against more physical drafts. Wrapping himself in the bright patchwork quilts made from scavenged cloth and thread, however, is enough to offer at least the illusion of warmth.

Body heat seems to be the only effective cure. A warm line pressed against his side, even through armour, and he is sagging against the vod beside him. An arm around his shoulders and a face buried in a neck – theirs or his own – and everything else fades away.

The cold is only truly banished when Fox finds himself buried in the middle of a vod-pile, limbs tangled together, the whole mass shifting to the rhythm of calm breaths. He sinks into the sensation like a warm bath.

[metalbvcky]

Lazy Evenings, a Bloom!Verse moodboard + drabble

"Is that my sweater?" "No," Bucky says with a smile so wide, it hurts his cheeks. He tips his champagne glass at the thin leather around Steve's waist. "Is that my belt?" Steve leans against the archway and smirks, arms crossed. "I don't know. You tell me." Bucky props his feet on the table in response to his boyfriend's teasing. The sun warms his skin. Lazy evenings like today are nice. Steve crosses the short distance between them, brows softened, blue eyes shining with love. Their lips slot together in a gentle kiss. "It looks good on you." Bucky smiles.

Bucky Barnes Bingo | U4 - [image of Bucky/Sebastian's profile] @buckybarnesbingo Stucky Bingo | G4 - Sharing Clothes @stuckybingo BBE Build a Bucky Bingo | December Prompt - Social Media @buckybarnesevents

[heartsandmuses]

weekly lineup

for @stonyauniverse january week 3 // "nice try, canon"

for @warmandfluffybingocards // square: "free space"

marvel cinematic universe. tony stark/steve rogers. rated g. 1k.

canon-divergent au where steve and tony are still alive to lead the next generation of avengers.

— — —

Tony’s favorite thing about spending Sunday mornings in the Compound was watching Steve post the weekly team lineup.

“Alright, no pushing and shoving, this’ll be up here all week. You can take a look at it whenever you need to, okay?” Steve reminded everybody, though his gaze drifted pointedly toward the kids—the newer recruits—who were practically bouncing in their seats out of pure excitement. Slowly, Steve grabbed a Mjlonir-shaped magnet and stuck the roster in its usual spot on the fridge, backing a few steps away before he said, “Okay, it’s up! Go ahead, everyone. And remember — if your name’s at the top, you’re on-call this week, if you’re at the bottom, you’re on the reserve team, and if you’re not up there at all, you’ve got the week off.”

The words were like a starting shot, and despite Steve’s warning to take things slow, Peter, Kamala, and Kate all made a mad dash towards the list. Honestly, Tony was surprised none of them had knocked over any of the kitchen stools in their haste, though it seemed like Peter nearly tripped over himself on the way, his spidey-senses catching him just in time.

Steve looked over at Tony as if to say, can you believe this? even though he’d witnessed this exact scene play out countless times before. Tony just smiled behind his mug of coffee and offered a fond shake of his head to reply, I know.

It was a good system they had going on. Now that the rotating lineup of Avengers was growing every day, only about half the team needed to be on-call anymore, barring an actual end-of-the-universe level threat. And with so many newer, younger team members coming in, it only made sense to pair each of them up with a more experienced, more seasoned pro to learn the ropes. They trained together, they went on missions together, they learned from each other, and the next week, the newbies were partnered with someone else to repeat the process. It allowed them to hone different skills with different mentors, and see which personalities and powers meshed well together. 

It was certainly working out well so far, Tony had to admit. The newer Avengers were already starting to show a ton of improvement from all of the practice and mentorship, and the older ones benefited immensely from the occasional time off. Even if all the gods and super-soldiers around here weren’t slowed down by age, they still could use the rest — missions could be just as emotionally and mentally draining as they were physically, sometimes even more so.

In any case, it sure made things a lot easier than being on-call—and on edge—24/7. Besides, there was something to be said about having a general work-life balance, something that Tony wouldn’t have even dreamed of back in the early days. Now, he was finding that it wasn’t so bad, taking some time for himself. For the people he cared about.

He exchanged another glance with his co-captain.

“Come on, move over, I wanna see!” Kamala said, stuck peering over Peter and Kate’s shoulders, the shortest of the three of them.

“Aha! I got Natasha!” Kate said, finally moving out of Kamala’s way to give Nat a high-five.

“I’m with Thor!” Kamala announced, once she found her name on the roster. “Oh, this is gonna be so cool!”

"I've got Captain Rogers!" Peter glanced at Tony with a bright grin. “And— did you see, Mr. Stark? You're not up here this week!”

“I did see, Mr. Parker,” Tony replied with a laugh. “I made that list, y’know. Well, helped make it. If I had it entirely my way, Steve and I would both be getting the week off.”

His pointed look was met with a fond eye-roll, as Steve settled into the seat next to him. “We will, soon enough,” he promised, giving Tony a gentle pat on the arm in consolation. “Once we know that the trainees can handle themselves without us.”

“Hey, c’mon, give us some credit,” Kate scoffed. “We’ve been doing great so far!”

“She’s got a point there, Cap,” Natasha chimed in. “It won’t be the end of the world if you and Tony take a vacation. And if it is, we’ll call you back in.“

“Yeah, we’ve got things covered,” Kamala said confidently.

But before anyone else could offer up their two cents on the matter, the alarm went off overhead. Over the speakers, Maria Hill announced, “We’ve found a hidden HYDRA base operating out of the Catskills. All on-call team members and trainees report to the Quinjet immediately.”

Steve stood back up, just as the rest of the team turned their attention to him, waiting for orders. “Alright, Avengers, if you wanna prove something, now’s the time. Let’s give it our best out there,” he said, gaze softening as he looked over the newer recruits, then his husband. “And depending on how it goes, we can reconsider next week’s roster.”

Tony’s expression brightened, and he couldn’t help but lean in for a brief kiss, ignoring all of the feigned gagging from the rest of the team. When he pulled back, it was with a dazzling, determined smile. “Well, you heard him, everyone — suit up and head out! It’s time to kick some ass!”

Steve gave Tony a nudge. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Oh, no, you’ve got it, sweetheart. It’s your week, anyway.”

The anticipation in the room was nearly palpable as Steve cleared his throat. “Avengers, assemble!” he called, and everybody moved at once, rushing to get ready.

As always, the kids were the first ones out the door. 

[hidey-writes]

sunday six

He bends forward to blow gently over the ink to dry it. Zhao Yunlan tilts with him, uncomfortably warm across Shen Wei’s shoulders, and Shen Wei merely bears the additional weight forward and back again. As Shen Wei sits back up, Zhao Yunlan lets go of him. A momentary respite of cool air and then Zhao Yunlan is stepping over Shen Wei’s crossed legs, climbing onto the couch beside Shen Wei, and plastering against his side, skin-to-skin wherever it’s possible. Mostly this means Zhao Yunlan’s face shoved into Shen Wei’s neck above the collar of his shirt, and Zhao Yunlan’s hands trying to undo Shen Wei’s belt to get at the skin under his shirt.  Shen Wei carefully caps his brush pen, transfers it to his other hand, and uses his free hand to shove Zhao Yunlan back across the couch.

the longest, slowest sentences from the fic i'm writing for guardian bingo prompt 2 -- i was seized somehow by the urge to write very languid and domestic summertime weilan, so i'm giving in to it. i've made it through a down draft (this is from that) and an up draft (thank god). i'm still figuring out how to stick the landing at the end, but it's pretty close!!

[scottxlogan]

This art and ficlet was created for Cerylid for the Scogan Secret Santa Bingo @scoganbingo​

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Comicverse) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Logan/Scott Summers Characters: Logan (X-Men), Scott Summers Additional Tags: Gift Art, art & ficlet, Romance, Digital Art, Quiet, Touching, Non-Sexual Intimacy Summary:

Scott and Logan share a quiet moment in the aftermath of a long day with the team.

[camaro-and-smokes]

Wounded deer

My entry to @steveharringtonbingo card 1, square B1: Shoulder to cry on. Also entry for @billyhargrovebingo card 1, square B1: Busted lip.

Rating: Teens and up Warnings: No warnings Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Tags: Bruises, Angst, Harringrove, Angst and Hurt/Comfort Words: 1,262

Summary: Sometimes Billy came in with a black eye, or a busted lip - like today - and Steve didn’t ask why. Because when he came in like that he was like a wild animal, a wounded deer. Once you gain its trust to let you help it, you better not make any fast moves or it runs off and never comes back.

::::::::::

Steve opened the front door and his eyes grew large. “Wha-what's that?” Steve asked when Billy pushed past him through the door. “A new jacket,” Billy mumbled. “No...okay, yeah, it’s a nice jacket. But...” Steve pointed vaguely at Billy’s face. Billy grimaced. “‘is nothing, okay?” he snapped. “Let it go.” Steve’s brow furrowed and he crossed his arms on his chest, his lips as a tight line. He wanted to know, he wanted to help, but... “Okay,” he sighed.

Steve knew that something was off at Billy’s home. But he also knew that what he and Billy had...he wasn’t sure what they had. Billy came over, mostly they just talked but lately they'd also started to make out.

Sometimes Billy came in with a black eye, or a busted lip - like today - and Steve didn’t ask why. Because when Billy came in like that he was like a wild animal, a wounded deer. Once you gain its trust to let you help it, you better not make any fast moves or it runs off and never comes back.

So, he walked to the bathroom and came back with the emergency kit and handed it to Billy. “Just...if you want to clean that up. I mean, you don’t have to. Not for me. But...for you.” Billy took the box and looked at it for a while. “Thanks,” he whispered, and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Steve stood in the foyer the whole time Billy was in the bathroom. When Billy came out, Steve saw that he had a butterfly bandaid pulling the sides of the cut together and bloody wipes in his hand. “Where can I put these?” he asked quietly. “Kitchen. Come,” Steve said and started towards the kitchen.

Once they got there, Steve opened the bin door for Billy and went to the fridge. “Want a beer?” “Sure.” But Steve didn’t offer it for Billy to drink. Billy held the cold bottle against the cut and closed his eyes. “I just want you to know that...if you ever feel like it, you can--you can, you know, talk to me about it,” Steve said. When Billy glared at him, he raised his hands in a placative gesture. “Only if you want to. You don’t have to.”

They stood like that in silence for a while: Billy holding the bottle against his face, glaring, and Steve his hands held up. “I’m here for you,” Steve finally said. “I’ve been here for you for a while. I hope you know that.”

Billy knew. He’d known for a long while. Ever since they started this...thing. He didn’t know what it was that they had. All he knew that being with Steve was easy. Well, ever since they had settled what happened at the Byers. He didn’t have to worry when he was with Steve. He felt safe with him.

But he also didn’t want to bare his insides to anyone. While he knew he could trust Steve, it was really hard to open himself up. He’d learned to live with keeping everything inside - because that was what real men did - and letting the walls down he’d so meticulously built and kept up...it horrified him. But even now, as he glared at Steve, he just wanted to cry. Because he didn’t want to keep Steve away. He wanted Steve to know.

And that thought was what broke the dam.

Billy looked away his chin quivering and his lashes fluttering as he desperately tried to keep the tears from falling, but failing. He wiped his face angrily, but the tears kept rolling on his cheeks like a waterfall, and he cried quietly there, in Steve’s kitchen, the salt of his tears stinging the still raw cut.

Steve bit his lip when he saw Billy broke into tears. He didn’t think, he just acted. Before he realized what he’d done, he was hugging Billy, his arms wrapped tightly around him, his chin on his shoulder. Just holding him.

And Billy hugged him right back. Big, ugly sobs fell out from his mouth. “I can’t...I--I...” he stuttered. “I just can’t... It never ends.”

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Steve whispered and hugged Billy tighter.

The words made Billy just cry even harder. He knew Steve meant what he said. Really meant.

No charade to make him think that maybe this time would be different. No empty promises of never to be hit again. No apologies that led him just to be disappointed by actions.

Steve felt his neck and shoulder get wet. But honestly, he didn’t mind. It was the very first time Billy really opened up - even though not by words - and while Steve still didn’t know what was actually going on, he sure as hell wouldn’t let tears and snot on his skin and shirt spoil the moment. They could be cleaned away.

But he wouldn’t let this wild and wounded animal get spooked and run away. Because at that moment Billy needed him. And it meant the world to Steve. More than he had ever thought it would.

They hugged until Billy’s sobs finally eased. Then Billy let go and pulled himself away. He turned and wiped his eyes with the heels of his palms and his nose to his sleeve.

Steve grabbed a stack of tissues from one of the cupboards and handed them to Billy.

Billy nodded as a thanks and blew his nose to one and taking another to wipe his whole face. “I’m sorry I messed tonight. I didn’t come here for this," he said between hiccups.

“Hey. You don’t have to ever be sorry for that. Not with me.” Steve was quiet for a while, pondering if he should say the words he was thinking out loud. “I don’t know what’s going on. I guess it has something to do with your dad?” He looked at Billy for a while saying nothing. Billy still wouldn’t look at Steve. “This isn’t the first time you come here with a bruise of some kind,” Steve continued. “But you don’t have to tell me. I see that you hurt, and all I wanna do is to... to be there for you." Billy just nodded, trying to ease his hiccups. “You want to drink that beer?” Billy shook his head. Steve took the bottle from the table and put it back into the fridge. “I got Advil. Want one?” After a while Billy nodded. Steve dug the box from a cupboard and handed it to Billy with a glass of water. Billy grimaced as he opened his mouth to eat the tablet he took from the box. He emptied the glass with just a few gulps, and handed it back to Steve. “Wanna watch a movie? Or something?” Steve asked. Billy nodded.

They went to the living room, and sat on the couch, both in the either end. Steve looked at Billy and placed his arm on the backrest. “Hey. Come here.” Billy finally looked at Steve. He had red eyes that pretty much matched the reddening around the bruise on his lip. After a while, he got up and snuggled onto Steve’s side. Steve smiled to himself and wrapped his arm around Billy’s shoulder, placing a kiss on his head.

Billy closed his eyes. A wave of utter relief ran through his whole body. This is where he wanted to stay for forever.

Safe and far away from the rabid wolf he knew would at some point finally eat him alive.