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officialwittek · 4 years ago

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pt. 1

*gif is not mine*

word count: 2,097

please forgive me if this is rough. i been outta the writing game for a minute. enjoy!

7:30 am.

The obnoxious ring of my alarm disturbs my peaceful sleep. I groan and move the blankets off my legs, stretching my arms to the ceiling. After my morning stretch I walk to my bathroom and turn the water to the hottest it can go before stripping my pajamas off. I quickly step in the shower, welcoming the warmth on my skin. I let out a sigh as I felt all the tension from my restless night glide down the drain. After a good 15 minutes I finally muster the strength to step out and wrap my towel around myself. I finally dry off and go to my closet to pick out an outfit for the day.

My eyes scan the closet before finally landing on a black pinstripe blazer dress with a zipper slit on the thigh, a thick belt around my waist with a chain in the front, and some knee high boots with black beret. After getting dressed I started on my hair and makeup. I went for a natural but full beat with my favorite pair of falsies and put my hair in a simple French braid down my back. I walked out to meet my roommate Carly.

“Good morning sleeping beauty” I says, she acknowledges me with the wave of her hand and walks back to her room as I smile and start making my matcha latte

I boil some water and grab the oat milk from the fridge. After making my latte I settle on some Oreo cereal for breakfast. I glance up and see my roommate exiting her room, looking ready for the day.

“Whatcha got planned for the day?” Carly asks, I shrug and look at her casually

“I might have a meeting to discuss signing with Arista, and making my own album” I comment casually, watching her eyes widen with excitement

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? Is David hiding somewhere with his camera?” Carly replies, I shake my head and watch her eyes fill with excited tears

“Baby!!! We have to tell everyone” she exclaims, I shake my head and cross my arms in an X shape

“We will tell them when I finish the meeting, I don’t wanna jinx myself” I whine, she nods understandingly

“Alright I should get going, let me know where you guys are so we can meet up after. You can ONLY tell Erin. I’ll see you later” I say, grabbing my work bag and keys from the counter

After a nerve wracking drive to the office I finally arrived. I take a deep breath and walk into the building where an assistant meets me. We take the elevator to a conference room.

We finally finished the hour long meeting. I brought a friend, who happened to be a lawyer to look over my contract before signing it. I shook their hands and said we would let them know in a few hours. After our meeting my friend and I headed out to get some boba and take a look at the contract. I quietly drank my black milk tea and sent a few texts to my friends.

“Looks pretty good, initial here and here... ok and just put your signature here” She said, I nodded signing and initialing away

They called the label and let them know we had signed the contract. My friend went and dropped off the contract while I headed to David’s. When I opened the door I noticed almost everyone was here, except for Jeff and Scott. I took my shoes off and quietly headed into the house.

“Soo.. what’s the verdict?” Carly asked, everyone looked to me in confusion

“Signed, and I’ll be starting my music journey with Arista today” I yell, my friends jump up in celebration and crowd around me

“We celebrating tonight bitches” Zane exclaims, and at this point who cares that it’s a Monday morning and they’ll most likely forget tonight

“Make sure you guys invite Jeff, and we’ll get Sage so drunk she can tell HIM how horny he makes her” Carly says, prompting David to take out his camera again and makes Carly repeat it

“God I tell Carly ONE time that I would get Jeff crush my head between his biceps and suddenly I’m being crucified for being horny” I retort, earning loud laughs from everyone else

“Tell David what you told me last night, after seeing Jeff’s insta post” Carly commands with a wide smile, I sigh and look right at David so I’m not looking straight into the camera lens

“Allegedly when I was a little litty last night, I was stalking his instagram and I saw the picture of him spraying water on himself in your merch… and allegedly I said that I would let him knock my cervix into my lungs and I would apologize for simply being too weak to handle it” I whispered, but everyone heard me anyways and as if on cue the devil himself walked in through the front door

“Jeff come listen to this” Jason says, showing the footage he recorded of me saying what I just said, I stood there in shock, Jeff quickly turned to me and smirked

“Come here baby” Jeff says, throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me to a bedroom while our friends laughed

“Finally, I’m getting the dick I deserve” I yell, Jeff puts me down gently after we round the corner

“Also Todd told me we’re celebrating for you, what happened?” He asks, I tell him the news and he lifts me up again

Jeff and I had been close from the minute we met, it really felt like I met my platonic soulmate to be completely honest. We’re always jokingly flirting with each other for the vlogs and if I’m not with the girls I’m usually with Jeff. Although, lately he’s been too busy to hang out or workout together, on the contrary he’s always free for David and the rest of our friends but when I want to hang out one on one there’s always something. It felt nice, just being the two of us. But alas, as soon as he finished the hug he waltzed right back to our other friends.

“Yea I’ve been doing good, how about you?” I mumble to myself, walking back to our friends as we talk about what to do until the rest of our friends are free to go out for the night

Natalie, Zane, David, and I decided to go somewhere and film some stuff and have a little photoshoot while we were at it. We took some videos of us fucking around in the parking lot of some mall. Zane decided to provide some commentary for the vlog as Nat and I took pictures.

“Look at these whores, won’t take no fucking pictures with me. I’m SAgE anD i’M a FaMoUS MuSICiAn, FuCK YALl” Zane yells, I hand my phone to Nat and walk over to David’s Tesla, grabbing the small paintball gun in the trunk

“Fuck with me again little bitch” I said, walking up to him and shooting him two times in the leg with the paintball gun, he cussed me out on the floor while the three of us laughed our asses off

“Alright let’s get going so we can collect everyone before we go out... or we could have it at David’s house so I don’t have to worry about flashing my ass to random people?” I ask, making puppy eyes at David as he reluctantly give in

“Fine, but you’re helping clean up after” He says, I nod eagerly as the four of us pile into the Tesla

“I’ll let Suzy and Jonah know, everyone else will probably be at the house anyways” Natalie says, quickly typing on her phone

We arrive at David’s house as the sun is setting and we start getting ready for everything. Toddy and Jeff go on an alcohol run, while the rest of us started setting everything up. Natalie and Zane go to get more solo cups and some extra things. I’m helping David put away some valuable things while everyone makes the house presentable and work on making it Zane and Heath proof, which could be impossible.

“Can I be in control of the music king?” I ask, David rolls his eyes at the horrible nickname and nods I connect to the speaker while pouring shots for everyone with the alcohol we have at the house

After I was done pouring the shots the ones who went to run errands came back and we all huddled in the kitchen. I put the down the bottle and we all hold our glasses up.

“May we all get absolutely plastered, and some of incredibly high. Maybe both? And may Zane stay away from the hospital for one fucking night, amen” I yell, we all cheers and take shots

After smoking with some of our friends I go back in the house and find it absolutely packed with people. David is multitasking with taking disposables and filming an incredibly drunk Zane and Ilya. And above all the talking and yelling I hear the familiar beat.

‘Do it, baby. Stick it, baby. Move it, baby. Lick it, baby...’

I scream and run to the make shift dance floor, my girls behind me as I start grinding on Corinna as she smacks my ass. I’m screaming the words, someone hands me a drink and I slowly start to feel myself get loose. Everyone making a circle around Corinna, and myself. We switch and I fall on the couch while Corinna gives me a lap dance.

“PUSSY SO GOOD HE GOT MY NAME ON IT” We scream, grabbing each other as Zane somehow finds himself on my lap too

After the song I make my way to the bar with Zane and Heath, my favorite drinking buddies. After getting a lot more alcohol in me than my entire being can tolerate we go back and start dancing. I was swaying to the music, occasionally dancing with our friends when I feel someone grab me.

“What do you think you’re doing? Shaking your ass for everyone to see” the faint linger of that Staten Island accent makes me smile, but it quickly changes to a frown when my brain registers the words he said

“What do you think Jeffreyyy? I’m-” “Zane what the fuck” I turn and see our friends huddled around the bathroom

“Watch out everyone” Natalie says, backing up and taking a running start towards the door and successfully kicks it down

“Zane why didn’t you say anything? We thought you were dead man” Jeff laughs, I walk into the bathroom and laugh at the sight

After a few more hours the strangers have left the house and our friend group is still going strong. I quietly nurse my water that Jeff forced me to have. David taking some disposables of the rare quiet moment.

“Zane.. I bet you won’t try and fight Jeff right now” I slur, my world still spinning from the poison in my body

“For what?” Zane replies, I smirk and look at Jeff

“Dude I’ll straight up kiss whoever wins” I say, David immediately bringing his vlog camera out and quickly explaining the situation

“Wait I wanna fucking get in on this” Ilya says, the three of them getting up... well Zane and Ilya could barely stand let alone fight Jeff, the most sober one here

The three of them start pushing each other, I’m a little too drunk to really understand what was going on. Before I know it Jeff had them both on the ground and was declared the winner

“Sageee... you gotta kiss Jeff” David teases, shoving the camera in my face as I chuckle

“Oh y’all know I wanna do more than kiss. Come here dumb bitch” I say, turning around on the couch as Jeff stabilizes me and plants a kiss right on my lips as our friends scream and jump around. I pull away and David turns his camera off for the moment.

“Can I pleasee have more shots.. Zane, Ilya get your dumbasses up we’re getting more drunk so David has content” I yell, the two of them immediately getting off the floor and walking with me to the kitchen

“David, come here I have a secret to tell you” I yell, stumbling over to meet him halfway

“Closer, closer..... I’m so fucked up”

#vlog sqaud #vlog squad imagine #jeff wittek #jeff wittek imagine

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decepticon-nerd · 4 years ago

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I just want to know how you people are heartless enough to think Trump is the good guy here.

Yeah I know Joe's a bitch and a half too but he's not a raging dumpster fire with too much spray tan that wants to be the richest man alive at the cost of hundreds of people suffering.

Maybe he is, idfk.

The whole Black Lives Matter thing isn't black people are superior to white people. It's black lives matter too. Defund the police isn't get rid of em, it's fucking fix it cuz it's broke and make it so people can call mental hospitals or people actually fucking trained for the situation instead of a bunch of fat old white people that gorge on donuts charging in guns a blazing because HeEe HoOo I wOnT bE aRrEsTeD fOr MuRdEr SiNcE i CaN aBuSe My PoWeR

Like literally you bitches want us to keep police like that? Huh? Are you such a dumb fuck that you don't realize how bad it is for other people cuz you have your head stuck up your fucking ass because you're a fucking white person? Yeah, I've met "nice" police. They were only nice cuz I'm white. If I was a black kid crying my brains out during that car accident I might I been shot; I was fucking hysterical because the entire back of the car had been crumpled like a soda can RIGHT BEHIND MY HEAD and a black kid can't act like that because tHeYrE a DaNgEr To SoCiEtY

Get your head outta your ass Karen and realize the fucking stakes of this election. Death Valley has had the hottest temperature ON EARTH, FUCKING EVER, IT'S A NEW GODDAMN RECORD KAREN, THAT'S SOMETHING THAT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE KAREN, GLOBAL WARMING IS A THING KAREN, realize that so we can fuCKING FIX IT before the world becomes a fucking raisin

AND FUCKIN WEAR YOUR MASKS PEOPLE. IT'S NOT THAT HARD. I HATE IT TOO, BUT I'M AN ANTISOCIAL BITCH WHO STAYS IN HER ROOM ALL DAY WISHING SHE COULD YEET INTO HYRULE TO EXCAPE THE BULLSHIT ON EARTH SO I DON'T INTERACT WITH PEOPLE, BUT WHEN I DO BET YOUR FUCKING ASS I'LL WEAR A MASK THAT MAKES MY EARS BLEED

The Simpsons didn't predict the future. Our fuckin reality has become so fuckin broken it's worse than satire.

Are you shitheads really so selfish and racist that you'll push your agenda to squash people because Oh BoO hOo I wAnNa Be RiCh wHiLe OtHeRs SuFfEr

BLACK PEOPLE ARE TARGETS. TRANS PEOPLE ARE TARGETS. WHY ARE THEY TARGETS??? THEY'RE STILL FUCKING PEOPLE SO FUCKING TREAT THEM LIKE KT???? IT'S NOT THAT HARD?????? IT'S CALLED DON'T BE AN ASSHOLE??????????

Literally look at it like this: if a person is sinning by being gay with their gay significant other, don't fucking bother them. Why? They'll go to Hell happy with the person they love. Don't push your views on them. Just

LEAVE PEOPLE THE FUCK ALONE AND DON'T BE A DICK????

AND LISTEN TO FUCKIN SCIENCE BECAUSE WE WILL LITERALLY ALL DIE IF YOU DO NOT

vote Joe Biden or I will decapitate your kneecaps

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whatareyousearchingfordean · 5 years ago

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Going Up

Pairing: Jensen x Reader (platonic), Jensen x Danneel, Reader x OMC David

Word Count: 2.7K+

Summary: Running late to an important meeting has the reader rushing onto the first elevator in sight. It's crowded, but it's going up and that's all that matters. When the elevator shutters to a stop in between floors, the reader comes face to face with none other than her favorite actor, Jensen Ackles. What will the unlikely pair make of their time together in the small space?

Warnings: Language, angst (if you squint), fluff

Author’s Note: This stemmed from a post I saw that read “Imagine you and your icon trapped in an elevator”. So here you go, it’s a crack fic. Also my first RPF so be nice please!

My Masterlist

“Wait, hold that door!” The yell slipped from you as you chased the crowd of people down the hallway. There was just enough room for you to shove yourself into the elevator and you’d be damned if you missed it. Sure, waiting for the next elevator would take less than five minutes, and though you technically weren’t late, you were going to be in trouble. Alice had a strict ‘fifteen minutes before’ arrival time for meetings, and according to your watch, she would most definitely rip you a new one later.

A huff of relief escaped you as you slipped into the cramped elevator. With a quick check that the button had been pressed for your floor, you turned your attention back to the portfolio in your hands.

This was a big project, so one last check to make sure you had everything wouldn’t hurt. This meeting needed to go perfect, or else you’d be hearing about that too.

The elevator stopped at a few floors, the mass of people exiting, and finally allowing you a little breathing room as you stood still facing the doors. The next floor was your exit.

A long drawn out screech and subsequent deep shudder of the elevator cart had you bracing yourself from toppling over. This was so not happening right now.

“Motherfucker.” You growled. A deep chuckle had you whipping your head around, not realizing anyone else remained with you.

“You think this is funny?” The words came out in a hiss as you eyed the tall stranger behind you. His height brought him still above you in heels, a feat which not many could accomplish at your height. He was slender yet still built, the dark slacks and button down clinging to him in all the right places. A dark pair of aviators hung on his nose.

“No ma’am.” The man chuckled with a slight southern drawl as he brushed his knuckles across his rusty colored beard. Hearing a southern accent in Texas was nothing new to you, but something about it sent a chill up your spine.

“Then don’t laugh.” You turned back towards the panel and hit the emergency button. Nothing happened so you tried again. Granted you weren’t exactly sure what was supposed to happen, so all you could do was hope that it notified somebody.

You turned back to the man, who had his phone held above his head like he was searching for a signal. Fear gripped you as you pulled out your own, only to find an out of range warning in the upper corner. A small whine escaped you as you stomped your foot like a child.

“Nothing?” The man had already returned his phone to his pocket.

“What the hell do you think?” The man shrugged still clearly amused with your frustration. “And take those damn sunglasses off, only douchebags wear sunglasses inside.”

“You got me.” The man held up his hands in surrender before pulling the dark specs from his face. Your heart leapt into your throat as you took in the pair of deep emerald eyes now staring back at you.

“Oh my god.” The words tumbled quickly from your lips before you stop them. “Shit sorry, that wasn’t the most dignified response…” you trailed off. Did you just fucking quote Dean Winchester to Jensen Ackles? How had you not even realized it was him? Your mind really was focused right now.

“No you’re totally right. Dean knows what he’s talking about, but sometimes I like to try and stay under the radar.” Jensen placed the glasses on top of his head as you just stared at him, completely lost for words. There was shakiness in your limbs as you attempted to control your heart rate.

Supernatural had been your lifeline since the show started. The family you had made and the home you found in them being the one constant in your life through all the shit being thrown at you. And now here you were, in Jensen Ackles personal space, trapped for god only knows how long.

“I’m gonna be honest I don’t even know what to say. I’m such a huge fan, I’ve seen just about everything you’ve ever done.” You extended a hand and offered your name to him.

“Thank you so much.” Jensen shook you hand and stepped back to lean against the wall. “So tell me, what has you a wound so tight?”

“What?” The question caught you off guard as you watched the man lazily swipe his tongue over his lips. “Oh yeah, I’m so late for a meeting with the board of the hospital for their new pediatric wing. My boss is gonna kill me for missing this meeting. I guess some big donor for the playroom portion is gonna be there and she has been freaking about it all month.” You had almost forgotten about it when Jensen had taken off his sunglasses, mesmerized by the hottest man you’d ever seen.

“Yeah?” Jensen’s one eyebrow lifted as he watched you. “You work for the hospital then?” Jensen slid his hands into the front pocket of his slacks.

“No, my firm is designing the whole thing. I was finally given a big project, making headway with the partners, and now I’m so fired.” The realization hit you as you dropped your things to the ground, sliding down the wall with them. Your ass hit the ground in a hard thump, but you didn’t even feel it.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m missing the meeting too.” Jensen walked over to where you were and crouched down in front of you. Your brows crinkled in confusion before you understood his meaning.

“You’re the donor?”

“Well technically my wife and I are, but she couldn’t make this meeting. I promised to show her everything though.” Jensen smirked as he moved to sit next to you, his back against the wall, your shoulders almost touching.

“How did I not know this? I feel like I should have known this.” You turned to him, the fear of possibly losing your job had tears brimming in the corners of your eyes.

“Danneel and I try not flaunt around our money. We give back where we can and don’t like to make a big deal out of it.” Jensen had his hands in his lap as he spoke, not really looking up at you. “The twins were born here, and while everything turned out just fine, we know that it isn’t always the case, especially for multiple births. This hospital does great work and we want to continue to see it do that work.”

“God I hate how perfect you guys are.” Jensen chuckled at your admission, before denying it. “No really, you two are like the most down to earth celebrities like ever. You’re both hot and so talented like how the hell did you ever stay so humble? Couldn’t you be assholes to kinda balance out the universe? It’s not fair to us lesser humans.” You laughed.

“Lesser humans?” He cocked his head at you.

“Yeah, those of us that do not look like Greek gods.” Jensen let out a full bodied laugh at that, and you couldn’t help but join in, his smile contagious.

The elevator shuttered again then, causing you both to jump back to reality. The doors slid open erratically, leaving you facing mostly dark concrete wall. Only a sliver about a foot tall at the top of the elevator revealed the floor of the level above you.

Jensen was on his feet in a flash, offering you a hand to help you up.

“Hello?” He called out. Suddenly you were face to face with a couple of firefighters peering down at you. You recognized both faces instantly, the weight in your chest lifting.

“Babe, you okay in there?” Your husband called down to you.

“Uh, physically yeah, emotionally not so much. I’m so gonna be fired after this.” You mused, your husband flashing you back an amused smirk.

Jensen spun around to face you, obviously thrown off by the interaction.

“Oh sorry, honey, this is Jensen Ackles, Jensen this is my husband David.” You introduced the two.

“No way! This is like your every dream come true.” David’s best friend Mark was still on his knees, watching everything going down.

“Yeah, listen babe it’s gonna be a while until we can get you out of there. I know he’s on your exception list so just use protection okay.” Blood rushed to your face as you gasped. Sure, you and your husband enjoyed messing with each other, but this was unexpected.

“I’m so gonna kill you when I get out of here.” You growled at David as he and his best friend laughed.

“Take this while we work on getting you crazy kids outta there.” Mark joined in as he handed down some bottles of water and protein bars. Jensen muttered a thanks before the doors slid back into place. sending you and Jensen alone again.

“Exception list?” Jensen twisted the lid off his water and took a sip. Oh yeah, David was so paying for this.

“Oh, you heard that?” Jensen nodded and signaled for you to continue. “Well you know, couples make a list of like, a few exceptions to the rule that if the opportunity arose…” you tried to choose the words carefully. “You are allowed to seize said opportunity.” You made a face as you stumbled over the words.

“And I’m on your list?” This man was having too much fun with your apparent uncomfortability.

“Maybe.” You lied. “Yes. Okay, yes.” You relented as the man laughed at you again. “Oh you are just having the time of your life in here aren’t you? Always laughing at my expense.”

“Who else?”

“What?” The questions caught you off guard.

“Who else is on that list of yours?” Jensen pushed.

“Briana Buckmaster.” You don’t take your eyes off Jensen as you talk your own drink of water, his jaw slightly slack.

“Can’t say I disagree with your choices. I’m honored to be up there with the likes of Briana.”

“You should be.”

Jensen moves past you and slid back down against the wall in his previous spot. He reached next him and picked up your portfolio, opening it up on his lap.

“So, we might be here a while. Why don’t you show me what you got?” He wiggles his eyebrows up at you, the double meaning not lost on you.

“Alright Ackles, but I’m not sure you can handle what I’ve got.”

****

“You’ve seen every episode how many times?” Jensen gaped at you. It had been almost two hours since the elevator had stopped in between floors, and about thirty minutes since the two of you put aside your design for the pediatric playroom. You had begun talking about more personal things, including his family. He even showed you this video he had of the twins being adorable and funny. To say it was surreal would be an understatement.

“At least six times, some of the older ones more.” You reiterated.

“Do you do anything else?” You laughed at that.

“I mean no, not really. This show helped me through some really tough times. I even met my husband at a convention. I owe just about everything to you, and Jared. I don’t think if I had met David when I did and all you guys do for your fans, that I would have been able to make it through.” You admitted.

“Well I’m so glad that you are still here. Otherwise I would be stuck in this elevator by myself, or worse, with some uppity interior design partner.” Jensen teased your hate for your boss. “And I’m sure your husband is glad you are still here. I mean I only met him for a minute or two, but you guys seem genuine.”

“He’s my real life Dean Winchester. He’s a hero and the most loving man I could ever hope for.” You agreed. “It just sucks that I have to kill him for embarrassing me.”

“Ah, there’s the girl I’ve come to know.” Jensen mused as you returned to your usual joking self.

The weight dropped from your stomach as the elevator came back to life and dropped a floor before rising back up to you original destination.

Jensen and yourself gathered your things and stood, more than ready to be out of the small space.

Though, you had to admit, you were sad. You weren’t lying when you said that Supernatural had helped you a lot. And spending two uninterrupted hours with the shows star had been like a dream. It was not one you were ready to wake up from.

“Ah David, your wife seems a little too happy after spending two hours stuck in an elevator.” Mark teases David as you and Jensen exited the elevator. You threw him the bird before playfully punching David’s shoulder.

“How’d it go in there?” David smirked at you.

“Oh, we had fun, right?” Jensen came up behind you then, his smack on your ass a little harder than you were expecting. But it got the reaction from your husband you had hoped when the two of you had planned it. His jaw dropped a little in disbelief as Jensen eyed you up and down, biting his lip.

“Gotcha.” You pinched David’s chin between your fingers and planted one on him, quick but needy.

“Thank god, I did not want to have to kick Dean Winchester’s ass.” David shook Jensen hand.

“Like you could.” You mocked.

“There he is!” A deep voice had you all turning towards a man in an expensive suit coming towards you all, flanked by your boss Alice. “Mr Ackles I am so very sorry for the inconvenience. Truly, this has never happened before.”

“Ah no problem Carl. I uh, actually had a very interesting partner to go through it all with and she made sure that I was still productive in my absence.” Jensen shook the man's hand before gesturing to you. “She actually showed me her ideas for the playroom, and I have to say, I’m absolutely thrilled so see them come to life. I would love to move forward with everything.”

“Is that so?” Alive spoke up, the fire burning in her glare.

“Yes, actually. And I know my wife will be just as equally excited.” He affirmed.

“Well then, all is done. Join me in my office to sign the paperwork?” Carl suggested to Jensen who nodded and followed after.

Once he was out of earshot, Alice began her hushed tirade.

“What were you thinking? I can’t believe that not only do you not show up to this meeting, but you show the client without my approval. You are so done. You will never work in this town after this. I can’t believe the audacity.” She snarled, her hands gesturing wildly.

“The audacity? Alice, he asked me to see them. He opened my portfolio all on his own. Besides, I thought you trusted me with this? I got the job didn’t I?” You stepped away from your husband as your boss tore into you like never before.

“Trust me when I say it will be your last…”

“Mhmm.” Jensen cleared his throat as he stepped behind Alice, effectively cutting her off.

“Actually, I like the plans so much, I was thinking of hiring her on as the designer for the new bed and breakfast my wife and I just acquired. What do you say?” Jensen turned from Alice to you.

“Me?” You were dumbfounded. Honestly you thought Jensen only agreed because the two of you had spent that time together and it would have been awkward otherwise.

“Yes, just you.”

“Uh hell yes!” You gushed as you latched your arms around his neck. Jensen laughed as he hugged you back.

“Well then, I will call you sweetheart. David, hold onto that one.” Jensen returned the glasses to his face as he disappeared behind the door to the staircase.

“Shit,” David whispered as he watched where Jensen had disappeared. “I think I love him.”

#jensen x reader #platonic jensen x reader #jensenxreader #jensen ackles x reader #jensen acklesxreader #platonic reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #fanfiction #fanfic #jensen ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfic #jensen ackles fic #going up #mine #alex writes

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gingersnapwolves · 5 years ago

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Kouri re(watches) Teen Wolf 3B, episode 5

Random thought on the previous episodes: if you were an adult with no knowledge of the supernatural, if you see selfies on a girl's phone where she's wreathed in flames, are you going to think "omg demons are real and this girl is one!" Or are you going to think "huh, that's a cool filter, wonder where she got that?"

man Gerard was such a dick

"what if he doesn't even remember you?" rude who could forget Chris Argent

"Yeah, those demonic ninjas!" wow this is the first time I have actually enjoyed the twins being on screen

ohhhhhhhh, shit, okay. I either missed this the first time around or forgot about it (or never saw this episode? anything is possible) but I didn't realize the nogitsune wiped the blackboard clean and took the key off Stiles' keyring and made it look like he had just imagined/hallucinated all this stuff. Scott, I take back the mean things I said about you in fics where I said you didn't believe Stiles about the whole thing.

"I don't feel good about bringing either one of you" that's okay Chris in AW you can bring Tom and Peter =D

brb crying forever over this scene with Stiles and Melissa

Claudia died how many years ago? There is no way her chart is still just sitting on a shelf at the hospital. That thing has been in storage for years at least.

"It's just a drawing in a children's book" Scott you look like something out of every B movies made in the 60s maybe don't be so dismissive

why *does* McCall have a key to the house wtf someone needs to mace this guy

Katashi's werewolf henchman has such a deep voice I'm finding it distracting

damn these are some punctual demonic ninjas

hell yeah, get the stabbing started!

"she's a kitsune idiot" Derek ILUSM

so Oni can get through mountain ash, true alphas can get through mountain ash, they just make up new mountain ash rules every damn season

NOBODY GIVES A HOOT RAFAEL MCDICK WE ARE FRESH OUTTA HOOTS WE ARE HOOTLESS

I remember screaming my head off at the end of this episode the first time, when void!Stiles shows up and takes out the Oni, and now I'm just over here like "that is the hottest God damned thing I've ever seen" ah how our priorities change

Eye roll count: 4

#liveblog #kouri watches teen wolf #teen wolf

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gatsbyjwilson · 5 years ago

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The Highlight Reel (A Cautionary Tale)

“Uh huh. And you say you went to Parnidge University and studied film?”

“P-Partridge, Sir.”

“Huh.”

Two gleaming black eyes stared back across the cluttered, coffee-stained desk to examine the short, spindly, and overdressed specimen opposite them.

“T- Technically I studied accounting with a minor in film- my Mom told me to do that in case ‘The whole Hollywood Thing doesn’t work out.’”

It was remarkable how the beady little man sitting nervously in front of the heavy-set producer was able to keep his armpits dry. It was the hottest day in June, and the sun had only just begun to creep towards the West over the hills. Donny had already removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and even with the rickety old fan spinning precariously over the desk, Don was sweating up a storm. The pencil-neck opposite him, on the other hand, seemed acclimated to the hotter-than normal weather. “Kid’s so thin, maybe they can’t wring no sweat outta him no more.”

The fat man allowed himself the shadow of a chuckle at the thought.

“So uh, why aren’t you applying to be an accountant?”

“That’s not what I want to be, Sir.”

“So why the hell’ve you majored in accounting?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself.”

Those beady, tight-knit eyes wandered across the room. Maybe they were searching for a way out, maybe they were just admiring the torn and faded posters on the wall of an ancient age forgotten long ago- the early eighties.

“So-”, The past-his-prime producer started, wiping his brow with a stained Roy Rogers napkin, “You wanna be a comedian.”

“Well, I’m already a comedian, I want to host my own late night show.” Cracking his first non-forced smile, the eager young man continued- “It’s been my dream since I was a little boy watching Letterman on my little rinky-dink TV.”

At this, Donny was now thoroughly amused.

“Heh. You wanna know what my dream was as a kid?” He said, as his fat lips curved into a long, unnerving grin, “A Janitor. Always had my eyes set on a spiffy blue uniform- cleaning up, lending a helping hand- then I realized how much of a shit job that is.” His coffee-stained teeth once again receded past his swollen jowls, resuming his exhausted, resting face. Dropping the paper clearly in the already resume-stuffed wastebasket, he once again drew his discouraging grin and spat- “I’ll think about it.”

***

Leaning back into the well-worn seats of his Camaro, the previously well-postured man dropped any hint of optimism and sank into the seat, loosening a cheap coffee labelled ‘BENJAMEN’ from its holder. The sun was well-set by now, and pounding rain had settled nicely into the area, draining remorselessly over the Hollywood Hills. A hole in the roof above the passenger seat had begun to drip into the car, but at this point Ben didn’t care. Wrenching himself into an upright posture, he drew a small notebook from his pinstriped breast-pocket. He crossed out Happy Times Studios from the list, marking the end of the page. Two straight months of interviews and cheerful schmoozing had left him with nothing. No money, no job, and no prospects. The drive from Ohio was a long one, but the beat-up, sickly orange 90’ Camero had made it, with some minor repairs. Ben was preparing to make the drive back in the morning. After 30 minutes of traffic and unconsciously turning to the empty slot where a radio should be, he pulled up to a tan apartment complex and turned the car off. He turned melancholically to the window. Still rain.

***

He unlocked the door to his apartment, soaking wet. At least he was home, he thought, stepping into a strategically placed land mine of cat dung. A long, drawn-out sigh emanated from his gaunt visage. Not bothering to wipe them, he kicked his shoes off and went instinctively towards the TV remote. He slumped into the leather couch, resting his feet on the broken ottoman he had propped up on a stack of books. He flipped the TV on just in time to see Tom Hanks laugh uproariously at a witticism Conan O'Brien had uttered. Ben leaned over to a half-empty Coors gathering dust on the floor by the couch. He picked it up, sniffed it, and began to sip. His eyes began to glaze over, resting unfocused on the technicolor tube TV. His cat walked steadily over to sip from the pool forming on the floor from the Coors that had leaned out of his hand as he fell asleep, drifting off into peaceful, dark, unconsciousness.

“ARE YOU A SKILLED WRITER, DIRECTOR, OR COMEDIAN???? DO YOU WANT TO BE RICH, SUCCESSFUL, AND FAMOUS???? THEN COME VISIT HIM AT 304-”

Ben shot up, knocking the ottoman off of its improvised leg. He breathed heavily, drenched in sweat. He looked around for the source of the blaring job offer. The TV played only static. He looked over at his clock radio. 3:00 AM. Silent as a mouse. Was it possible he dreamed it? More than likely, he supposed. His fatigue, momentarily lost, returned to him. “3 AM,” he thought. “I haven’t had dinner.” Ben moseyed on over to the refrigerator, drenched in the harsh fluorescent glow of his nearby lamp. He opened the door and leaned down into it, taking a pause and closing his eyes to enjoy the stream of cold air that trickled from the machine. Ben looked down into the crisper drawer, pulling out the bottom ra-

“AVENUE!!! HE’S WAITING TO SEE YOU!!! AND HE KNOWS HOW SKILLED YOU ARE, BEN!!!”

He shot back, slamming his head against the roof of the refrigerator. He fell backwards, landing hard on the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He heard it- that time he really heard it. And it said his name. His eyes darted back to the TV, which continued its inhuman lullaby of crackling sound. Nothing. Absolutely Nothing. Ben would have thought it was a friend playing a trick on him, if Ben had any friends to play tricks on him. He had left that all back in Ohio. No, this was something different. He looked to his cat, who, obviously startled by his fall, stared intently at him. He got up, ambled over to the couch once again, and lay down. He reached over and turned on the remote. The TV shut off with a fizzle of static electricity.

After 10 minutes of trying, the same warmth of sleep eluded him. He lazily opened his eyes again, peering across the room to the short hallway that led to his real bedroom and the bathroom. The cat, seemingly curious, meandered into the darkened hall. He came back a few moments later and came close to Ben’s face, and licked his nose. At this point, he was too tired to care, and continued to sluggishly watch his companion walk back to the hall and stop at the mouth. The cat remained at the entrance of the hall and meowed. A beckoning, perhaps, to another cat that had gotten into the building somehow. Ben remained on the couch, until the cat turned back to him, meowed again, and turned back to the hall. It was a quick movement, like a deer turned to a hunter in the forest, piercing black eyes shooting back at the predator.

The cat stared for what seemed like hours, unblinking. Then, in a moment of eerie stillness, the cat walked forward, being swallowed up by the darkness. With his only entertainment having left him, Ben turned to face the ceiling. “I think I’ve finally lost it,” Ben thought to himself. There was no real explanation for what he heard, besides maybe his mind thinking it heard certain words in a mix of wordless sound, the same way his eyes tricked him by making him see moving shapes in the darkness. He sat upright, gazing out at the city below. “Three in the morning and still buzzing,” he thought. The rain had ended, so Ben had put his shoes back on and donned an inconspicuous, faded, bomber jacket. Being an insomniac, he had gotten used to taking nighttime walks to clear his head and spur him into sleeping. He took his keys off the counter and walked out, prepared to take his last looks at the city he had dreamed about.

He resolved not to take the Camaro, lest he fall asleep at the wheel and never see the light of day. Instead, he began to walk into the heart of the city. The opioid epidemic had stuck this part of town hard, and it was hard to find a street corner without some junkie muttering to himself or dancing off to wonderland thanks to the needle in his arm. Tonight was different, though. Perhaps some good samaritan had opened up a new homeless shelter, for tonight, the streets were clean of addicts and alcoholics. He walked through streetlight after streetlight, closed storefront after closed storefront, the scenery so decrepit and frequent it seemed the walls were simply repeating themselves every block. Coming to a four-way intersection, Ben looked up at the street signs to get his bearings and begin to head home. The chill of the night breeze had finally set into his bones.

When he looked up, the street names were unknown to him, so he had the option to either double back on Ciacco Street or turn onto Sordello. He attempted to look for the shining lights of the Sunset Strip to give him some sense of direction, but the boarded up shops and apartments stooped far too high for Ben to get a sense of his location. He turned onto Sordello, and passed by a fenced-off psychiatric hospital. What was left of the sign read ‘ST. BERN RD A YLUM’. A small pink sheet on the front of the wrought-iron gates read ‘CONDEMNED’. Mildly unnerved by the rotting exterior of the place, Ben pulled his jacket tighter to him and continued on. The chill still clung to him, no matter how close he pulled it.

Rounding another corner past the asylum, he walked onto a long, dark, and eerily quiet street. He stepped out onto the road and looked down. Cobblestone paving. He was in a far older part of town. He looked back to the corner he had just rounded and saw only darkness at the cutoff. The last streetlight he had passed had gone out. The new street was oddly clean. The chill had left his bones, he remarked. He still had no idea where he was. He decided to find some 24 hour bodega and borrow their phone. None of the lights in the shop were on, except for a small decorated lantern that hung over a wooden sign.

Ben walked closer to the sign, peering up at the faded paint. ‘FOUST’S APOTHECARY’, it read, and he pushed open the wooden door with the same name written on it in gold lettering. There was the brief chime of the door’s petite silver bell. It was a small shop with a counter and hardwood flooring, all neatly polished. He looked beyond the counter and saw a shelf with columns and rows of bottles marked with tiny labels that were impossible to read without a magnifying glass. He sat down in a leather bar seat and ran his hands over the wooden counter. Was it open? Would he have to-

“I wasn’t under the impression that we would receive customers tonight,” Remarked a thin old man dressed in scarlet from the corner of the shop. “Not many people show up here at all, so I’d hardly expect someone, especially at this hour.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that- you see my car is at my apartment and I got lost while walking, and-”

“Oh, slow down a bit, young man, I know exactly why you’re here.”

Ben’s brow furrowed slightly, and the man in the corner put down his dense manuscript and stood up to shake his hand.

“Well you need medicine! Why else would you have wandered into an apothecary at this time of night. You’re in your hour of need, and no one else will help you. Well, as it so happens I am just the man you seek. Doctor Johann Faust- at your service.”

He walked around the counter with long strides, removing some bottles from the shelf and placing them on the counter with a swiftness Ben hadn’t expected from such an old man.

“That’s very kind of you Sir, but really I just need to borrow your pho-”

The scarlet man cut him off- “Yes, yes, just a minute, I’ll get to that. You happen to have some more pressing matters, I believe.”

At this point Ben was too tired to interject, and elected to simply lean on the counter and let the scarlet-clad doctor rattle off his sales pitch.

“Benjamin, I am a man who solves problems. And many times they aren’t simply illnesses of the mind or of the body. They’re illnesses of the soul. Have you ever felt like you were simply meant to do something, but you are impaired somehow? This is an illness of the soul, you see. You were always meant for the silver screen, but the cruel and ignorant men above you simply wish to stop you from rising to the top.”

At this, Ben sat up. He had never told this man his name, much less his plight of reaching his dream as a host. He wanted to get up and leave, but everything around him told him to not move and stay exactly where he was. He could leave, but the back of his mind kept him in his chair. The impending, screaming sensation that if he left now, he would lose out on a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity.

“H-How do you know that?” Ben sputtered out. “I never told you any of that.”

The old man stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. He turned around and peered into Ben’s eyes. It was only now that he realized that the Doctor was quite a bit taller than him. The velvety voice began again:

“You didn’t need to. It was all written there on your face. You see, all throughout my life I have seen poor, innocent people suffer because of the actions of those above them. How is it that the people who should never lead become the mightiest of the mighty? It’s just so... unfair. So I make it my business to help those less fortunate people achieve their goals. All pro bono, of course.”

Ben looked back at the eyes of the frail man in front of him. He seemed so kind, so purely helpful, like an innocent child who simply wants to help another reclaim the swing set he was pushed from. But his eyes… They spoke of something deeper, something darker and more purely maleficent than anything Ben had seen before. The Doctor turned and returned to his task. The pillowy baritone of the pharmacist resumed:

“I can help you, Ben. You and I both simply want the same thing. To bring joy to everyone. To dethrone the ignorant simpletons who have made themselves the kings of kings.”

The man turned to face him once again, and placed a small vial of a dark, glittering liquid before him. “Fallacem Argentum- a very rare and specialty concoction. It has the rather helpful effect of making anyone seem hilarious and confident- the two most important qualities of a show host, don’t you agree?” Ben instinctively reached for it, but his hands were guided away from the vial by the Doctor. “I’m afraid, Benjamin, that you need a prescription for this, and that’s something you simply don't have. However,” The Doctor started, holding the bottle up to the light, “I can write you one- in exchange for a small favor.” Ben was fixed on the vial. Everything was leading up to this. This is what he needed. This is who he was. Ben had already disturbed the pharmacist by intruding at this late hour, so if he could repay him with whatever favor he needed, it would be only fair.

“Anything.”

A thin smile crept up the sides of Foust’s face, contorting his features to reveal a deep eagerness at Ben’s agreement.

“There will come a time when I require your service. At a time least expected, I will be there to claim what is rightfully mine. That’s all there is- I’ve already collected the down payment before you left.”

With this, the Doctor placed the bottle in front of him once more, and Ben grabbed it unimpeded.

“How does it work?” He asked, eyes still locked intently on the bottle.

“Simply take one drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops…” The Doctor’s face fell a bit. He looked from the bottle to Ben’s eyes, which had momentarily broken their gaze from the bottle.

“Three drops for what?”

“Three drops, my boy, will lead you down a path you may never want to walk. Three drops and your fame and fortune will be… eternal. But all who have tried have regretted it. They were simply too weak-willed for it, I suppose. They just didn’t have the Passion. Best to just stick with two, then.”

The pharmacist produced a small red-leather ledger and placed it in front of Ben.

“Simply sign here, a good hearty handshake, and then you’re off.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The eager smile returned to the Doctor’s gaunt face. Ben suddenly found himself holding an ornate fountain pen. The handle was made of what seemed to be polished obsidian, and the deeper Ben peered into the side of it, the more he wondered if he would lose his mind in the endless, spiraling darkness. Ben was so tired. If he just signed, he could go back to sleep and be left alone. All he needed to do was-

A short, clear tap on the ledger indicating where he was to write his name brought him back to reality. He paused, reading over the names. So many people… Who was this guy? Wait a second- what was he doing here? He needed to get home, to feed his cat, to-

Before he knew it, Ben had signed the paper quickly, and the pen, suddenly wielding an immense weight, dropped from his hand. The scarlet man closed the book and placed both it and the pen in his breast pocket. He offered a bony hand.

Ben shook it.

The face of the pharmacist was whipped into utter delight. He let loose a deep, hearty chuckle. All previous refinement lost, he said-

“You can go.”

***

Ben started up in his bed. It was dawn, and the rays of the California sun had finally broken through the blinds to wake him. Everything that had happened the night before seemed fuzzy. Ethereal. Unreal. He walked over to the large bag of cat food and filled a bowl marked ‘EMBERS’. He looked around for the cat, who usually came running at the slightest hint of food. The soft pitter-patter of his feet never came.

Ben didn’t think much of it. After all, cats were lazier than most humans. He rose from the food bowl and suddenly stopped. His eyes were locked with an inky black vial on the counter.

He paused for a while, the memories of the previous night flooding back to him. The Asylum, the empty streets, the unnatural chill of the nocturnal air settling into his bones- it all came back. The eyes of the Doctor. Even now, he felt the endless abyss behind them boring holes into the most secluded parts of his being.

He put one hand on the bottle, and sloshed the liquid inside around. It was dense, like mercury. He debated simply tossing it out and considering the events of the past night a ‘stress-induced psychotic break’. “I would, but I paid for this-” He paused for a moment to briefly recall the events of the previous night once more. How much did he pay for this? Faust had said he wrote the prescription as a favor, but he had no memory of what he had given him in return.

He momentarily shook himself back to reality and looked around for Embers. He walked toward the hall where he had watched the cat slowly enter the previous night, but stopped at the entrance.

“I’ve already collected the down payment.”

The Doctor’s words echoed back to him now. He stared into the hall, which even now in pure daylight was held in a subtle darkness, with the door to the bathroom being closed and the windows in the bedroom covered by the curtains, which had been drawn shut. He lingered for a moment, and turned to face the bottle once again.

It felt like days, staring into the inky liquid in the bottle. Considering what he would do with it now that he had it. “How bad could it be? Two drops of anything can’t kill me,” He thought to himself. He went to the cupboard above the counter and removed a small coffee cup, placing it down next to the bottle. He put it under the faucet and filled it. Then, carefully unscrewing the lid of the bottle, he drew some of the liquid into the dropper and held it for a moment, careful not to release any of the pressure from his fingertips.

He kept the dropper suspended above the water.

“One drop for confidence and humor, two drops for fame and fortune, and three drops-”

Two drops of the onyx liquid fell into the cup. Ben’s hand held still over the cup for a moment, as if to tempt fate for another drop to fall from it. None did. He downed the cup. The liquid was bitter at first, but his tongue quickly acclimated to the taste. He recognised it from somewhere, but couldn’t put his finger on it. It was like a childhood dish with a main element removed- enough to offer the memory, but merely a shadow of what it truly was.

He stepped out into the air, which had changed rapidly from a blazing heat yesterday to a room-temperature atmosphere. Perhaps it was a few degrees too cold. The sudden focus on the sensation of the air on his skin reminded him of how fervently his sneakers chafed. It seemed completely normal, and yet, a creeping uneasiness stayed with Ben no matter where he went.

He began to walk toward his favorite cafe, a small, unambitious little shop owned by an immigrant family from Japan. Nice folk, yet the mother had the unappealing tendency to stare with intense scrutiny at anyone who entered. As a consequence, it was always empty. This was a bonus to Ben.

He walked in, and offered a slight wave to the mother’s 10-year-old boy, who sat in the back corner of the sun-bleached shop playing something on his GameBoy. The wave, to Ben’s dismay, went unnoticed. The mother, Pauline, emerged from the backroom and gave a warm smile, which was quickly snuffed at the sight of Ben’s wrinkled flannel.

“The usual?”

Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.

“Actually, I was thinking a rum and coke this morning.”

A brief, yet hearty chuckle emanated from Pauline. Where had that come from? He didn’t know, but he was proud of it. “A nice way to start my last day here.” Ben thought to himself.

“If you find one, get one for me too.”

Pauline began making a double-shot espresso, Ben’s favorite, and he left the cash on the counter and sat down. He looked out the large glass windows to gaze lazily across the street. The sun was in the first third of the sky, and the smell of the coffee had brightened his mood. Today was going to be a good day.

He went up to the counter and took the espresso. He resumed sitting, and took a long sigh. In that moment, Ben seemed to be held in a peculiar stillness, as if his entire life had been slightly blurred, and only now came into focus. He noticed every little thing. The pallid creak of the plastic chair he was sitting in that accompanied every slight movement. The furious, yet practiced clicking of the GameBoy. The dull hiss of steam from the coffee makers. It all seemed so real, so present, and yet- so disconnected. Despite the lucidity in which he viewed his surroundings, Ben couldn’t find himself immersed in it. He felt held within his own interior stillness, quiet and unnoticed by the outside world.

He stepped out of the shop and began to walk back to his apartment. Just then, a neon-swept teenager on a skateboard shoved a flyer into his hands. The teen sped past and absentmindedly shouted “Come to open mike night at The Hooligan House!” Ben looked down at the dry pink paper in his hands. “Why not?” He postulated, “What the Hell?”

***

The atmosphere of the comedy club was tipsy and jovial, with silver-tongued crooners smooth-talking to well-dressed ladies scattered throughout the club. People of all sorts were here, and the only one who felt out of place was Ben. He slipped into one of the front-row booths and sat down. A waitress came up to him and he asked for a beer. He sipped the foamy liquid courage and turned towards the stage.

“Uh, welcome to open mike night here at California’s own HH.”

The dull announcement was met with thunderous applause and cheers from across the club. The obviously stoned, flannel-clad man continued.

“Basically the rules are you have a max of five minutes, no racist or sexist shit, y’all know the drill.”

A man dressed in a loose polo went up. He flashed a cheesy smile, grabbed the mike with familiar confidence, and began:

“You know, I recently had to put my mom in a nursing home.”

The audience met this with sympathetic sighs.

“Yeah, her house parties were loud as hell- I couldn’t get any sleep. This bitch had to go.”

Uproarious laughter showered the comedian. His routine consisted of the same type of jokes. He presented his eighty-year old mother as a virile teen going through the angst that puberty brings on. A couple other people went up, and something deep inside Ben said:

Get up there. Show em’ what you’ve got.

Ben scooted out of his seat and briskly walked up to the microphone. There were scattered claps throughout the establishment. In an effort to hide his shaky hands he gripped it with both hands and began. He peered into the black faceless mass that was the crowd. He paused for a moment, trying to remember his jokes. He cursed under his breath. He’d left his book at home. I suppose he’d have to improvise. His mind was blank- he frantically racked his brain for anything resembling a joke when he heard a voice, perhaps his own, begin to speak.

“So the other day I was walking home, and I saw this homeless guy sweeping the streets with a branch.”

Small chuckles came from the crowd. The voice continued, and Ben was in a trance- was the voice his own? He’d never know. All he knew was that he was talking and it was working.

“First of all- good for him for keeping his community clean.”

A hearty laugh came from the crowd. Ben relaxed his grip.

“It’s not every day you see someone like that. I was honestly so surprised I just kinda watched him do it. At least he’s trying, right? Just look at him go- sweeping in two directions so the dirt stays in the same place. By far the most responsible crackhead I’ve seen in a while. He compares only to good ol’ Stabby Power-washes-the-street. Both upstanding men in the community.”

Ben continued on, caught in a stupor of the limelight- The words flowed effortlessly out of him- he didn’t need to think and they were already there, sent out to the crowd for them to devour. He finished his set and sat down. The audience cheered. The stoned manager from before came out and wished everyone a good night. People got up to leave, and as Ben was putting on his coat, a hand gripped his shoulder. Ben spun around and was face to face with a well-dressed little man in his forties, who stood a good foot shorter than him.

“Rick Barnaby- Talent Agent.”

He flicked a sleek black business card out to him and thrust it into his hands.

“And you got talent, kid. Real talent. The way you had that crowd busting their guts? Beautiful. Listen, gimme a call if you’re interested in working as a writer or something. There are tons of small studios in the hills that would love a guy like you!”

The balding man clapped him on the shoulder and walked away. Ben couldn’t help a smile from flooding over his face. He turned to the bar and asked to settle his tab.

The cheeky comedian from earlier sat at the bar, staring at him.

“You know, you’ve got chops, I’ll give you that. Guys like Barnaby are small fry- He goes after every wide-eyed comedian who can get a chuckle out of these idiots.”

Any previous levity was gone from the comedian’s face. He emptied his glass and got up.

“You want my advice? Wait until the big names go for you- but for that you need a club a lot bigger than this one.” He turned to the barkeep and gestured to his empty glass. “That one’s on him.” The now-sullen comedian quickly departed.

Ben begrudgingly paid his tab, along the extra charge for the other comedian’s drink. He stepped out into the sweet Hollywood air. The city glistened across the darkness. It was like the whole place was stuck in a haze of limelight. Before, He was nothing. Now, the city was his. He stepped off into the darkness.

***

Ben awoke yet again into a day he thought wouldn’t happen. He once again stared into the inky black liquid. He strode past the untouched food bowl, eyes locked in place with the vial. He outstretched his hand to it, but quickly withdrew it. He got another mug and placed it near the coffee maker.

All who have tried it have regretted it. They just didn’t have the Passion.

He picked the mug up again and filled it with water. He placed the mug on the counter next to the vial. What was he doing? The Doctor had said that all who have done it have regretted it.

Because they didn’t have the Passion.

Ben looked at the vial again.

“I have passion.”

Yes, Benjamin, you do. The people who regretted it didn’t have the same fire you possess.

“W-what if I don’t? What if it’s really not in me?”

There are always a million reasons not to do something. All this worry is so… negative. Let go of your inhibitions.

Ben unscrewed the cap and dropped the third drop in. He downed the cup. The taste was the same alluding flavor- but he was more passive to the subtle bitterness now. He knew that this was truly him.

He stepped out into the daylight- ready to make his way in the world. He was gripped by the strong sensation that the world was his. He had the fire. He had fought for this. Now it was time. Time to become the man he always wanted to be.

He stepped onto the crosswalk, not noticing the flatbed truck hurtling out of his peripheral vision. Ben took his last step with profound purpose. And all the world was gone.

***

“AHAHA, HOLY SHIT!”

Ben was in a leather armchair, face to face with a slender, neatly dressed man sitting across a dark mahogany desk. He was cackling and slamming the desk with laughter. Every beat against the hard wood was deafening. The true sadistic nature of the laugh made Ben fall sick to his stomach.

The fireplace burned brightly behind the still-laughing man. The eager flares mimicked the chaotic swelling of the laughter. All around the office was dark wood. He wanted to turn around, but fear kept him in his place.

“Ohh, ohh, oh my goodness-”

The man’s face rose from his desk and he wiped a tear from his eye. His skin color was an aggressive crimson. A horrible realization dawned on Ben. The truck- wait- How did he survive? Unless… The realization shot into him brutally.

“That is, without a doubt- one of the best ones I’ve seen. I mean, you took the third drop and, like, immediately get hit by a truck. I mean, hot damn. Wow. Really, really, great stuff. Okay- let’s take a little look-see at your file here.”

A bright red folder produced itself in a quick burst of flame. The man opened it and began to read, mouthing most of the words. Wild expressions darted across his face with every new sentence, most of them being jovial surprise.

“Excuse me but what am I-”

The man made a ‘Shut-your-mouth’ gesture with his hands and Ben fell silent. Ben put a hand to his mouth and felt around it. He gagged- It was sewn shut. He traced his fingers over the stitches and let loose a muffled scream. The scream was met with not even an apathetic glance from the man. He kicked his feet up onto the desk and sank back into his leather chair. He tossed the folder into the fireplace behind him.

“So, uh, normally Paul, the demon in charge of your case, would be the one doing this, but he’s uhh, kind of busy right now, so here I am. You know, I almost turned down this overtime shift. But this… oh this is definitely worth it. Now, unless you’re a full-blown brickhead, you’ve probably figured out where you are by now.”

The demon let loose an excessive, toothy grin.

“You can talk, genius.”

Ben took in a sharp breath and felt around his lips. No stitches, no scars.

“W-wasn’t I h-h-hit by the t-t-”

“Ehh, wuh-wuh-wuh, buh-buh-buh, Speak up, moron. Yeah, you’re in the ol’ H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks all right. In here for a doozy of a sin, too. Deal with the Big Guy, huh? How’d you manage a score with the head honcho ‘round here? Ya sleep with him?”

The demon once again launched into cackling laughter.

“Naw, naw, I’m just giving you a hard time. Don’t take it personally. I do this to everybody, it’s sort of my job. You get it.”

Ben looked around for cameras. Perhaps this was some sort of practical joke? He thought if perhaps he just waited a bit, a man with a clipboard would come out and tell him he made tonight’s news, and that California 48 would be televising his reaction to the prank.

No such relief came.

The... Demon? Man? Hapless actor? It didn’t matter. The beet-red, snappily dressed thing that sat across from him was nothing short of delighted to be looking over his file. Ben gathered the courage to look around. A ludicrous amount of mahogany. Behind him, at the back of the room, was a large aquarium with a beefy coconut crab.

“You know, that’s the crab that ate Amelia Earhart..”

“What?”

Ben turned back around to face the demon, who was leaning far across the desk, studying every aspect of Ben’s terrified expression. The demon sank back and looked at his watch.

“Oh, shit. We gotta get you out to hair and makeup right now.”

“W-what?”

The demon immediately grew a short beard that didn’t cover his chin, and a puffy afro.

“SAY ‘WHAT’ AGAIN! I DARE YOU, I DOUBLE-DARE YOU!”

Ben fell backwards, out of his chair. His head hit the hardwood with a bang. An intense, sharp sting immediately pulsed from the back of his head. The demon once again launched into violent laughter, and then pulled him upright in his chair again.

“Oh, my bad, guy. I can’t have you all fuzzy for what’s about to happen. I was just kidding about hair and makeup, by the way. You go out just as ugly as you are now.”

Hair and makeup? What the hell was he on about? There wasn’t any-

A neatly dressed, presumably female, demon with her hair in a tight bun quickly opened the door and leaned in.

“You’re on in five, Cal.”

“Thanks, Toots.”

She looked at Ben and squealed excitedly.

“Is that the guy?”

Cal responded cheerily, “Yep. In the… well, I guess you wouldn’t say flesh.”

The assistant once again squealed excitedly, and then quickly left and shut the door.

Ben, collecting his bearings, sputtered out,

“Look, I think you have the wrong guy. I-I’m not a bad person, I j-just-”

Cal looked at his watch and smiled.

“Showtime!”

He snapped his fingers, and it felt for a brief moment that a fireball had covered Ben. Not enough to burn him, but enough to flash-heat him and startle him again. This time, he was behind a dark red curtain. The neatly-dressed demon from earlier was right next to him.

“I’m Prinne. I’m an Assistant Executive. I just wanted to say, on behalf of all of us, how much your sheer stupidity means to us. Really it's… inspiring. Oop- this is you. Bad luck!”

She scurried off somewhere, and the heavy curtains swept open before Ben, momentarily blinding him from the industrial lighting. He briefly heard,

“... Ben Harding!”

A jazz orchestra flooded out an upbeat piece, as Cal walked over and moved him to a plush suede couch. He could barely hear anything of the swarm of cheers that washed over Ben. Cal sat down at a desk next to him.

“Isn’t he great, folks?! Look at that- two arms, two legs- the works!”

This was met with guffawing laughter. The crowd quieted down, and Ben’s focus turned towards Cal. Cal was beaming, and he took a sip from a cup that Ben was positive wasn’t coffee.

“So, Ben. I always start my guests with the same question-”

The crowd finished his sentence loudly.

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

Ben stuttered, his mind blank.

“A-a TV show?” was all he managed to get out.

Cal turned to the crowd inquisitively. “What do you think, people, did he get it?”

There was a loud mix of ‘Boos’ and cheers. It was impossible to hear what the majority thought. Cal started again- “I’ll give you a hint, pal. I told you earlier.”

Ben somehow turned paler than he was before.

“Oh, God…”

“NOPE! NOT FOR YOU!”

Deafening laughter resumed. Ben knew what it was. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the reality he was facing.

Cal answered for him:

“You know what, guy? I’m a kind fella, so I’ll take that pale, mortal face o’ yours as the correct answer! You’re in…”

Once again the crowd responded.

“HELL!”

A red, flashing marquis sign lowered, illuminating the word. The crowd burst out with laughter once more. As Ben stared directly up at it, he began to weep uncontrollably. This was simply too much to handle. He wanted to go home! He wanted to hug his mother! He wanted to see his cat again!

“What’s that? Your cat? Why would you want to see him again? HE’S THE ONE THAT BROUGHT YOU TO OUR ATTENTION!”, Cal shouted with sheer glee.

Ben was confused beyond words, beyond thought. Cal continued.

“That’s right! He did! If you still want to say ‘Hi’ to your little buddy, then good news! He’s here in the audience tonight!”

A spotlight wheeled around to shine on Embers in the front row, sitting upright, like a human, waving a paw at the cameras and smiling to the extent that a cat could smile.

Cal began again-

“You see, I don’t know if you realized this, but cats just tend to walk between Hell and the mortal plane all the time! It’s just kinda a thing they do. I think the real tug-at-your-heartstrings of it all was the fact that even though you loved him, even though you fed him, even though you cleaned up his stanley steamers all his life, he still couldn’t give a rat’s ass about YOU!”

The crowd busted a gut at this statement. Ben was speechless, staring at the dark, shapeless crowd. The spotlight returned to Cal.

“Alright, folks, It’s time for one of my favorite segments. You know the one-”

The crowd returned-

“GIVE! HIM! MORE! EYES!”

Ben, still weeping, let loose a scream of complete and utter fear for his existence. He tried to get up, but his legs simply wouldn’t allow him to do so. He beat on his legs with his fists, seemingly endlessly, hoping to get them to work, so they could speed him out of this waking nightmare.

“Aww, I think he wants to go.” Cal made a harlequinesque frown at this comment.

The crowd boomed back more laughter. Cal continued,

“Don’t worry, stupid. This next segment isn’t about you. We just want you to watch.”

Cal gestured to a platform where a man strapped to a board rose out of the ground. His mouth was sewn shut, as Ben’s had been earlier. Cal walked over to the pot-bellied, balding man and began, placard in hand.

“Our next contestant on G.H.M.E. comes to us from Snerling, Indiana. Gabriel Mortson, welcome to Give Him More Eyes!”

He screamed a suppressed wail of terror.

“Now Gabey-boy, you sexually assaulted over fifteen minors in your time on the mortal plane! How do you plead, asswipe?!”

Gabe once again wailed a muffled cry. Cal resumed,

“Sounds like ‘guilty’ to me, folks.” The crowd cheered in agreement with the verdict.

Cal bellowed another sadistic laugh and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a thousand cuts ripped across the man’s entire body. He tried his hardest to scream, but nothing came from his tightly-shut mouth. Blood oozed out of every cut, and one by one, human eyes that looked exactly like Gabriel’s own quickly festered from each cut. The muffled scream went on endlessly. Ben’s eyes were fixed, even through the tears. No desire had ever been as strong as Ben’s was for death then. What he believed was true death, an endless, peaceful sleep. Cal’s joyous expression reminded him that his belief was not the case. Gabriel, drenched in his own blood, receded down into the floor of the stage once more.

“Benny Hill! Back to you, buddy. You are an ‘especial’ case. For you, dear friend, we have a game we rarely get to play. This one is reserved specifically for people who make deals with the Big Fella!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheered again. A small stream of urine trickled steadily down Ben’s pant leg. Cal continued.

“The rules are simple- walk down this hallway, don’t open any of the doors, and just leave!”

Ben was confused. There must be a catch. Ben was sure of it. Nothing Cal said would ever be trustworthy. Not after what he had seen.

“Alrighty then, Ben-to box! Best of luck!”

Ben saw Cal’s hand move to snap his fingers, but he was gone before he could have heard Cal’s snap. It was odd. He looked down an average hotel hallway. It looked exceedingly calm. The carpet was a stripe of red with beige on both sides. The walls were a neutral cream. Each of the doors had a small, excellently polished door knob on them. He took a step forward. There was no sound, no creak. Ben took another, and was startled by a loud crunching behind him.

He swiftly turned around, and was put somewhat at ease at the realization that it was simply an ice machine. He resumed his path forward. That was when he heard the first voice.

“Benji?”

A soft, frail voice came from the first door on the left.

“M-mom?”

Ben’s hand instinctively went towards the handle. He caught himself and whipped it back, holding both of his hands tightly in his armpits.

“Benji, please… please come in. I want to see you. Where did you go, Benji? Why did you leave me?”

Ben tried his hardest to shut out the voice by clamping his hands to his ears. It did nothing. The voice continued, as Benjamin picked up the pace moving forward. The voice grew louder and louder, coming from every door that he passed.

“Benji… Benji, please!... BENJI!... BENJI!”

The farther he got from the first door, the louder and more demonic the voice became, until it was an unholy shriek, cutting deeply into his ears, punishing him, until at once it stopped. Ben fell to his knees and assumed the fetal position, crying loudly and uncontrollably. He laid there, weeping, until he heard that voice in his head once more.

“Keep moving.”

He got up and wiped the tears out of his eyes. He turned around, and he had passed about a dozen doors by then. Only six remained before the slightly open door at the end of the hall. There was a soft golden light coming from the edge, but he couldn't see what was out there. He heard an old TV turn on inside one of the rooms.

“Now, It’s The Late Show- with Ben Harding!”

Ben continued on, passing through the doors, each one playing a variation of a late-night talk show hosted by Ben. That was, until he came to the sixth door. It was the only door with a small brass door plate in the shape of a star with ‘Benjamin Harding’ inscribed on it. Behind it, he heard:

“Where is he? He needs to be on in two minutes! We can’t have this stupid show without this stupid host!” He then heard light, but stern footsteps pace around the room. Under the door, a shadow danced accordingly. The voice behind the sixth door was the softest. Still, Ben found it the most alluring. His hand slipped out of his armpit and gently onto the knob. The handle was nice and warm. Ben was cold. Perhaps someone has opened a window. There was the same chill in his bones as there was that night. That chill that inched him forward, towards the warm, convenient shop. He felt as he did when he held the drop of the liquid above his cup.

No turning back now.

But there was. He turned to his left, and saw the final door. It’s light was warm, but not enough to warm him the way he felt the sixth door would. Ben took one final look at the sixth door, and slipped his hand off the knob. Somehow, he could feel the crowd’s disappointment, even without hearing them. That was his victory. For the first time all night, he cracked a smile. He had won. He would fix his mistake. He left the sixth door behind and exited through the final door at the hall. It was warm, just as he thought. He was standing in a field of wild wheat. He turned around and the door was gone. “Ohio.” He thought. He saw abandoned train tracks to the East, and started walking that way. It was a serene afternoon. Not humid, but breezy. A single cloud hung in the sky, moving across the horizon. He walked toward the tracks, and with a single, intense ‘thwack’, he was greeted with the loudest laughter that the crowd had let loose.

Searing, unbelievable pain shot through his leg. Ben dropped to his knee, and tried to pry off the bear trap he had stepped in. It wouldn’t budge. He looked up, and the kind, serene sun was gone. All there was was the harsh light and the crowd. Cal knelt down with him and put a hand on his shoulder. He was tearing up with laughter.

“YOU DON’T GET TO LEAVE, YOU IDIOT! I’M AFRAID THAT SHIP HAS SAILED!”

The crowd continued its tsunami of deafening laughter. Ben’s section of the stage was being lowered into the darkness, just as Gabriel had been. All Ben heard before the darkness was the crowd’s inhuman cackling, and Cal’s voice say:

“That one’s going on the Highlight Reel for sure!”

#horror #fiction #my writing #short story #dark academia #creative writing #quarentine #story

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sian22redux · 6 years ago

Text

Entanglements

by sian22redux

For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem

Prompt: ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’

Bucky x reader

Rating: M

Summary: The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.

How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.

Timeline: After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.

Tags: oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst

Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!! And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!

—————————————-

The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.

The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York. You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on. Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm, blushing at his gushing praise.

Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing. Or speeches. But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit. He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.

Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.

Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?) Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor. Time for some fun. Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs. He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms. The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in. Cheek to cheek and hip to hip. There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.

Oh god.

You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue. Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach. The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.

Fuck, what were you thinking?

Weren’t, obviously. You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be. This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.

Best not to stick around. You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.

Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps. Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole. All set.

Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.

Gently.

But not planning on letting go.

“Doll, where ya going?” Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “No one’s on this morning. Tony promised.”

“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.

Again.

Or ever.

The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid. You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long. At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.

“Thank… thank you.”

Safe. Or almost. Steve Rogers wakes up early. He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray. He’s grinning. Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.

“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”

You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.

“Captain… uhh.”

What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??

Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke. Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks.

“Not hungry, Corporal?” Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside. “Suit yourself.”

You do.

But no regrets.

It had been too wonderful for that.

—————-

The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.

It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call. Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care. But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.

There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.

You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.

Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees. He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago.

After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well.

James Barnes loves plums and granola bars. Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books. The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs. A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears. A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights. The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done. When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering. Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.

At least he is a better subject than most. Always watching. Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps. Or you.

It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door. The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog. You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape. Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm. Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant. Arm akimbo and hiding something.

You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run. It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing. You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.

The subject drops. Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.

Yeah. Well. Me too, pal.

You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.

Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.

There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb. God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest. Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch. Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth. As if he’s read your mind.

“Soldier?” Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness. Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.

“Umm, yeah…” Buck licks his lips and starts again. “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell.

Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye. After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.

“Get outta here. Both of you.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.

Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating

Fuck. Wrong choice of word.

Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse. He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.

Hard.

With his prosthetic hand.

The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.

“Steve’s off doing PR.”

The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on. Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops. His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over. You are both horizontal. On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core. You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.

“Y/N I ain’t gonna last. I…”

You open your eyes and catch his gaze. His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder. As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there. Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are. Nope. Nuh unh. This is sex, not making love. Scratching an itch. Purely mechanical.

“Bucky, move!”

You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.

This time you deliberately stay the night.

You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak. Just can’t pull yourself away. It’s warm. And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.

When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.

For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no. Way too risky. Too much like normal couple life.

You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.

Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased. You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare. That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.

Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away. Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.

You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…

————————-

The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…

You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise. Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush; you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for downtown New York. Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far. Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair. Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels. Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.

Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there. Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde. It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be. He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.

One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat. Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox. Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been. (You like old rifles. What can you say?)

How can you not fall for this man? He’s sweet and kind and deadly. Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.

Scratch that. Is. Is impossible to resist.

Damn his super hearing. One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret. Cruising the racks in exactly your right size. Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.

Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?

It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.

Oh god.

This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house. No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark.

When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed. Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.

“Y/N? Where’s the fire. It’s early yet.”

Fuck, he makes this so very hard. Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.

“Ah…” You don’t know what to say. The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor. He’d shoved it off. Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.

Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.

“I want to get in a run.” The lie comes easily. You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly. “You’ll need your coffee first. Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”

You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.

“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans. Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage. And fruit salad with blueberries.

The table is already set for three.

In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.

“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice? Buck’s mom was British.”

The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much. Turning him down again would be far too rude.

You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.

The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.

From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle. Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks. Going yet another round.

Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.

“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack. “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”

It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.

Again.

Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.

———————————–

A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night. A watcher on his six. Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.

You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach. Dispassionate execution. It is part of the reason you are so very good. You do not get distracted. At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).

It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck. Sarcastic jokes. Lips like silk. Muscles rippling underneath your touch.

It shouldn’t matter but it does. The mission is to protect him.

Even if it means from yourself.

———————————-

It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.

Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off. Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you. Never you. Your concentration is absolute. You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in. Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.

Next to the man you are sworn to protect.

Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face. “Sure ain’t your work.”

Your cheeks flame up. He doesn’t mean it. This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing. What were you thinking of? Slim hips in black tac pants. A stubbled, chiseled jaw. Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.

Shit.

Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself. It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head. You want to know how he’s doing. Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…

Stop.

You’re shocked and frankly terrified. Is this love? Infatuation? A school-girl crush? Your heart is raw but what is this for him? A diversion? Something steady? You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious. He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy. Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.

If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report. A black mark on your copybook. Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.

You have to be a perfect shot.

For him.

His life depends upon it.

When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.

Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest. “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It does.” You raise your chin. “I am here to protect you. I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”

“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”

Really? You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head. “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem. This is different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Not true.”

His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this. I thought we had something. Were working on it. Can be something more.”

“Please.”

He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare. Lost eyes dark and pleading. More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.

You can’t. You wish you could, but no.

“It has to be this way for me.”

To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.

Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.

‘I thought we had something?’

The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.

——————————-

You do your job. Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition. Keep well away. Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.

Both of you are miserable.

You hide it. Bucky not so much. His blue eyes lose their spark; become haggard and bloodshot. You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.

Everybody notices. On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot. Next to him, no one knows. You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend. They know Bucky, too. How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay. You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder. Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.

The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach.

You can’t be there at all.

————————-

You never planned to work for SHIELD.

You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked. And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions. Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.

Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.

“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.

The rest is history.

——————————

“You want to be reassigned.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare. “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork? Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”

You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective. Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.

“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats. FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”

Oh fuck no. The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.

It takes everything in you to do that nod.

Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof. “You are serious.”

“Sir. I am.” You’ve called his bluff. You stand to attention and wait for it. The serious suggestion you know is coming.

“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view. “It involves training. As hard as anything you’ve done.”

Really? You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.

What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.

“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit. Watch Sergeant Barnes full time. Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”

Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head. “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”

“Mhmm.”

But that means… “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”

“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”

Your mouth is hanging open. “But you can’t…”

‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.

“You’re going to let him…”

Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.”

“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat. He’s stupidly reckless. Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed. “Not ready,” you finish lamely.

“You disagree with the psych eval?”

You shuffle your feet. This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees. “No, Sir.”

The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get. Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube. “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”

So true. But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all. “Sir, he forgets…” To care about himself enough.

“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned. You are the best markswoman we have got. Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever. Stark says he’s ready. The -ologists say he’s ready. And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.” You wince inside, knowing the cause of that. “Getting some of his own back might even help.”

It might.

And someone will try to take Bucky out again.

And he will be focused on everything but himself.

Shit.

There is no choice.

You know you can keep him safe.

Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.

———————————

Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.

Steve’s in charge, and Nat. Both merciless. Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun. It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.

Bucky is there training, too.

It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof. Circling each other. Carefully. Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.

“Corporal.”

“Sergeant.”

You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct. No physical contact outside sparring. No first names unless you can help it. No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest. Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss. You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual. Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.

It takes a toll.

You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts. They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals.

They come and go. Days. Weeks. The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean. This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play. He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.

It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.

They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.

“His nightmares are getting worse.”

Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo. I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”

“Yeah. But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.” Sam sounds resigned. “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”

“He’s not the only one.”

Steve, you realize later, says this for you. His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.

“Corporal.”

“Captain.”

“You good?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock. Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone. Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope. Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe. It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.

(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.)

While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard. Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good. You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry. He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.

You don’t have long to wait. Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair. You’re shocked. It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly. He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts. The sense of failure. The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

Bucky’s not safer with you there. He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.

You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.

You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.

You need to leave.

Entirely.

Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time. The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover. You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.

His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows. Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck

“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”

The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.

You’ve screwed this whole thing up.

Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?

Miserable in his company. Miserable without.

In love.

Fuck.

This is not how things should be.…

You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.

The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head

You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back. The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.

You fall.

There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse. Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift. It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down. Don’t disturb it. Don’t make the situation worse. You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.

That has to be good, doesn’t it? It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…

Ok.. just…lie. Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue. Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.

The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.

And with it your space to get some air.

“Y/N!”

From somewhere to your left there comes a voice. Faint and muffled. As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it. You are going to die. No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok. Bucky is allright. You saw him flip and roll away. That’s good…that’s everything. You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths. Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes. Float, indistinct at the edges. Nothing hurts too much right now. It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.

“Y/N!”

This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.

A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.

“Y/N, are you hurt?!”

You blink through the blood that gums your lashes. Bucky’s there. Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.

Fear.

You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard. “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.

“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.” Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen. He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space. When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.

There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely.

But sadly not enough.

The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.

“Y/N!” He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest. “Stay with me, babe, stay with me. Cavalry is coming.”

But we don’t have any horses…

The wry smile on his face is blurry. You must have whispered this out loud. He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement. Flexes up again. “Aiighhh!”

The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.

“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?” Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.

“Got it, Barnes!”

“Took you long enough!” Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.

Sam is crouched behind. You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken. Can’t risk a pneumothorax.” Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose. The dizziness fades some more.

“Better?” His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.

You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts. At least the world does not swim. Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap. You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut. “Sorry. Sorry.”

He glances around the narrow space. You’re basically in a coffin. Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet. When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth. A dish? A beam? The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut. “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess. Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”

Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time. “Is it safe? The cell?”

You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard. You’re useless pinned. But if there’s shooting still going on…

“Relax, babe, we got ‘em. That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed. Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”

Thank God. Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator. You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket. It’s better, but now it’s time to wait. Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard. You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.

A whimper escapes your lips.

“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s all gonna be ok.” But it really isn’t. His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair. This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.

And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You’re stammering. You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.

It doesn’t matter. You need to be strong for him. Move on and let someone else have the watch.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side. Both make sense. The sounds of working are getting louder. “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.

A cool metal finger strokes your brow. “Hey, not much longer now.”

You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”

There, you’ve said it. SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.

It’s brutal but better than being an irritant. Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.

“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”

His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration. There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown. Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world. “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out. I get it now. You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable. Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way. There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage. Wanda manages with Viz. Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals. I need you everywhere. At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile. You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”

Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek. It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.

Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.

“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”

His whisper is rough with meaning. He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.

This time his kiss breaks you….

——————–

tags: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt @pegasusdragontiger @winters-beauty

@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

#star’s marvel mayhem challenge #sian22redux #engtanglements #bucky barnes #reader #prequel to Private Party #angst #smangst

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endenogatai · 6 years ago

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The Winners of The Europas Awards 2018 show Europe’s startup power

Yesterday The Europas, the European Tech Startup Awards and Unconference once again held its annual jamboree in London, throwing together an afternoon of deep-dive panel discussions on the hottest topics in tech, a “Pitch Roulette” session of early-stage startup pitches, and a glittering Awards ceremony, honouring the hottest startups, unicorns founders, investors and blockchain projects in the European ecosystem.

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The awards are based on thousands of votes gleaned from a round of public voting, combined with industry judges drawn from founders and investors.

The photos from the night will shortly be up online.

To keep the conversations intimate and real, there was no live stream, but you can follow the coverage on Twitter here.

An annual celebration of Europe’s brightest and best tech companies, The Europas Unconference and Awards for European Tech Startups has been an established fixture on the European scene since 2009, when it was first held in a London bar. This year a block of free tickets were given away as part of “The Europas Diversity Matters Tech Pass”, to ensure that the event included more Seed or Pre-Seed-stage founders who are also women and people of colour.

Over 60 speakers were at the casual series if afternoon panel sessions, ahead of the industry Awards finale in the evening. There was also a pitch competition “Pich Roulette” where AiPod, BFF, Coinweb, PsycApps/Equoo, Frogology?, Tube Chat, Lookhealth.io, Blockchip and Loveshark pitched. PsycApps/Equoo was selected as the winner.

Over the last few weeks, startups had been able to either apply for an award or be nominated by a third-party. The winners of that round were combined with the top picks by an expert judging panel and the results combined to determine the hottest European startups across all categories. No fees were paid by entrants or winners to enter or accept the awards, marking this the only truly editorially independent tech startups awards in Europe.

The Europas is held in partnership with TechCrunch and all attendees, nominees and winners of the Europas Awards will get discounts to TechCrunch Disrupt in Berlin later this year.

The sponsors and event partners were: Bizzabo Isotoma Blockchip Malta Blockchain Summit Barclays Bayer BlueArray Coinweb Columbus Capital Ihorizon JAG Shaw Baker Orrick Outlier Ventures Fieldhouse Associates aiPod Burlington CEW Communications London Tech Week

Who were Awards judges? They were: Michael Jackson, Mangrove Capital Stephanie Hospital, One Ragtime Jason Ball, Qualcomm Ventures Tugce Ergul, Angel Labs Jeremy Yap, Angel Sitar Teli, Connect Ventures George McDonaugh, KR1 Carlos Eduardo Espinal, Seedcamp Andrei Brasoveanu, Accel Partners Candice Lo, Blossom Capital Richard Muirhead, Fabric VC Nancy Fechnay, Blockchain Investor Eileen Burbidge, Passion Capital Tina Baker, Jag Shaw Baker Scott Sage, Crane Venture Partners Eze Vidra, Remagine Ventures Saul Klein, LocalGlobe

The winners, selected from the finalists, were:

Here are the finalists for The Europas Awards 2018, July 3, London

1. Hottest Media/Entertainment Hatch Entertainment Judges’ comments: Potentially “the Netflix of Mobile Games”

2. Hottest eCommerce/Retail Deliveroo Judges’ comments: Utterly ubiquitous! You can’t walk down a street without a Deliveroo rider rushing past you, and increasingly international.

3. Hottest Fintech sponsored by Orrick, Herrington & Sutcliffe LLP Starling Bank Judges comments: Huge growth in the last year, putting the heat on other challenger banks

4. Hottest Games Startup Bossa Studios Judges comments: Innovative new games which defy convention

5. Hottest Startup Accelerator sponsored by BlueArray Founders Factory Judges comments: Cleverly matching corporates with startups for wider distribution partnerships and collaborative innovation

6. Hottest Marketing/Adtech Startup AppsFlyer – Now Europe’s leading platform for mobile attribution & marketing analytics.

7. Hottest Education Startup sponsored by Isotoma Lingumi Judges comments: Language learning platform for pre-school kids encouraging parent participation

8. Hottest Mobile Startup Depop Judges comments: GenZ’s eBay – A hit for ‘merch drops’ so teens can later “depop” their hot fashion.

9. Hottest Enterprise, SaaS or B2B sponsored by Barclays Signal Media Judges comments: An amazing AI startup turning data into accessible business knowledge

10. Hottest Hardware Kano Computing Judges comments: With new funding secured, a powerhouse of European hardware

11. Hottest Platform Economy / Marketplace Syft Judges comments: The “Taskrabbit for hospitality industry”

12. Hottest Health sponsored by Bayer Digital Health Ada Health Judges comments: Definitely your future doctor

13. Hottest Cyber Security sponsored by ihorizon Digital Shadows Judges comments: A cyber security powerhouse straight out of Europe

14. Hottest Travel & Mobility Startup Seatfrog Judges comments: Making upgrades effortless for airlines and passengers, it’s on a roll with investors, press and consumers alike

15. Hottest Internet of Things Smarter Judges comments: Smarter kitchens of the future, but today

16. Hottest Technology Innovation Ultrahaptics Judges comments: Just wave your hand and you too can become a Jedi Knight with this amazing technology, which will probably end up in our homes and cars.

17. Hottest FashionTech Startup 21 Buttons Judges comments: A fashion social and shopping network growing like a weed.

18. Hottest Tech for Good BuffaloGrid Judges comments: Bringing connectivity to the next 3 billion

19. Hottest AI Startup Black Swan Judges comments: The leading European startup in Smart Data and Predictive Analytics, making uncanny predictions on what we’ll buy.

20. Fastest Rising Startup of the Year Revolut Judges comments: A challenger bank that’s challenging the other challengers, and is now even a player in cryptocurrency

21. Hottest GreenTech Startup Asperitas Judges comments: The next wave in Greening datacentres – Crypto miners take note!

22. Hottest Startup Founders Joel Gibbard + Samantha Payne, Open Bionics Judges comments: These founders are changing people’s lives with futuristic prosthetics

23. Hottest CEO of the Year Pieter van der Does, Adyen Judges comments: van der Does has skilfully piloted his company to a smash hit IPO this year

24. Hottest Angel/Seed Investor Reshma Sohoni and Carlos Eduardo Espinal, Seedcamp Judges comments: Still hungry for Seed startups, and has even raised a new EU-backed fund in tough political times.

25. Hottest VC Investor sponsored by JAG Shaw Baker Pär-Jörgen Pärson, Northzone Judges comments: A popular industry player and an early backer of the powerhouse that is Spotify and many other European unicorns

26. Hottest Blockchain/Crypto Startup Founder Mona El Isa, Melonport Judges comments: El Isa is considered a blockchain industry thought leader and Melonport is poised to change the game in crypto asset management and governance

27. Hottest Blockchain Protocol Project, sponsored by Outlier Ventures Polkadot.io Judges comments: Straight outta Berlin – The biggest project out there to link the world’s blockchains

28. Hottest Blockchain DApp, sponsored by Blockchip Verisart Judges comments: A real-world blockchain application taking the art world by storm

29. Hottest Corporate Blockchain Project sponsored by Coinweb Billon Judges comments: Billon is using blockchain to reimagine the flow of regulated money and data.

30. Hottest Blockchain Investor Europe sponsored by Malta Blockchain Summit KR1 Judges comments: An pioneering blockchain and token investment player doing big things under the radar

31. Hottest Blockchain ICO Europe sponsored by Columbus Capital Bancor Judges comments: Bancor has created new standard for cryptocurrencies convertible directly through their smart contracts, and managed an amazing public ICO.

32. Hottest Financial Crypto Project BlockEx Judges comments: BlockEx’s digital asset exchange platform has made positive waves in the crypto assets world

33. Hottest Blockchain for Good Project United Nations World Food Programme “Building Blocks’ Etherum Project (with Parity Technologies) Judges comments: The combined United Nations, World Food Programme and Parity project on the Ethereum blockchain has changed the game for aid distribution to Syrian refugees in Jordan and is poised to be applied to other humanitarian projects globally.

34. Hottest Blockchain Identity Project Trunomi Judges comments: If data rights are the furture, Trunomi is helping to unlock that future.

35. Hall of Fame sponsored by TechCrunch Saul Klein and Robin Klein, LocalGlobe Judges comments: An incredible long-time double-act of European venture & startups. Every startup needs a Batman and Robin to help them, and Saul and Robin keep delivering!

28. Grand Prix Unicorn Award, sponsored by Bizzabo Adyen Judges comments: Adyen’s IPO was one of the biggest of the year and shows that Europe can produce the next wave of global Tech Unicorns.

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gyanpoint · 6 years ago