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chrispevanss · 4 years

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Sinful Intensions

A/N: A smutty, smutty, filthy, Priest!Bucky AU. I’m not a catholic, and I had to google a lot of this, so if I messed up, don’t come for me.

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Unprotected Sex (remember: no glove, no love), Blasphemy

I don’t own or claim to own the pictures used below

Your fingers slid across the crucifix that hung from your neck as you slowly approached the old church. You hadn’t been there in years, but at your mother’s insistence you decided your niece’s christening was the exception.

The instant you walked into the church your nerves fired up, little pin pricks that made your skin crawl. You weren’t sure if it was God smiting you from above or the old school nuns looking condescendingly at your slightly too short, and definitely too low cut dress that clung to your figure.

The old pew creaked as you sat down, the cool wood pressed against your thighs and you shivered slightly. The church smelled musty, old, but familiar. Your mother’s eyes caught the hem of your dress and she twisted her mouth in disdain.

“You didn’t have anything else?” She whispered “This isn’t the club, you know. This is God’s house! You aren’t supposed to be parading around on display like that,” she spat. You smoothed the material down your thighs, willing it to somehow grow longer.

Before you could brace yourself from the same barrage of words you were sure were going to come from your father as well, mass had started. A man stood up at the front, your brother and his wife cradled their newborn baby girl in front, her godparents sat to the side. You knew you should be focusing on your niece, it was her day after all, but when you looked up and caught the eye of the celebrant, it all went out the window.

He had dark hair, closely cropped, steely blue eyes, and even though he was cloaked in an oversized vestment, you could see that he treated his body like the temple he preached it was. Thick fingers wrapped around the Bible in his hand, a kind smile lit up his face as he spoke of the blessings of parenthood. The joys of raising a child in the church, to walk in and live in Christ. Verbiage you had heard hundreds if not thousands of times growing up.

You unconsciously shifted in your seat, pressing your thighs together to stave off the warmth that began in your toes and traveled north.

“May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you.” His voice washed over you, pulling you from your less than holy thoughts.

“Amen,” You muttered with the congregation. You stood up, eager to shake the uncomfortable feeling this church gave you. You silently waited as others passed you, searching hopefully for a break in the crowd, when you were stopped.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, I’m Father Barnes.” Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up and met the very eyes you had spent the entire mass getting lost in. He held out his hand and you shook it with a kind smile.

“Y/N. My niece was the one you baptized today,” You slipped your hand from his grasp. He pressed up against the edge of the pew as your great aunt, Agnes shuffled by.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you at church before. Your parents are William and Cindy, correct?” You nodded and stepped out of the pew, following the young priest as he began to walk up the aisle.

“I, uh, church is complicated.” You breathed out, wringing your hands. You half expected him to tell you he was different and to give the church a chance.

“I understand. We all have a relationship with God, some choose to have that relationship in a church, some choose not to.” Father Barnes unlocked a large wooden door and pushed it open, gesturing you into his small office.

You took a seat in an overstuffed, puke green, crushed velvet chair. Gasping as you leaned back a lot farther than you gauged, your knees practically up to your chin. Father Barnes chuckled softly and pulled open a small closet door.

“Why aren’t you judging me for not coming to church and not being on 7 different committees, and basically being the polar opposite of my super fu-super religious parents, Father?” You chewed on your bottom lip at your almost swear, wishing you could sink back even further into the chair.

The young clergyman didn’t answer you as he slipped his white vestment over his head and hung it neatly in the open closet. You stole a glance at the way his black dress shirt clung to his body just so. The way his slacks molded to his ass and thighs. Father Barnes was, in a word, delicious. He moved to stand in front of you, leaning against the old desk, hands planted firmly on top.

“Because I was like you once. Fresh outta high school, I joined the Army with my best friend. Before that though I hadn’t been to church in years, didn’t even know if I believed in God. And then I spent 6 months in Kuwait. After seeing all that death, seeing friends die, I found comfort in God. And when I was discharged a few years later, I joined the seminary.” He looked down and unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. Heat spread outward as his tattoos peeled out from underneath the shirt he wore, something about the move and his look feeling much more sexual than it should have in front of a priest.

You gasped softly as your eyes trailed up and down his forearms, admiring the work of art his body was. Literally.

“See something you like?” Father Barnes smirked and grabbed your chin in between his fingers, forcing you to stare into those steely blue eyes of his.

“I, uh, um…” You started and he chuckled softly.

“Cause I sure do.” He winked and released his hold on your chin as your mother rounded the corner.

“There you are!” She huffed, walking into the small office, standing next to you, her eyes bore holes into your skull as you sat there.

“We’re all heading over to the house for lunch, if you’d like to join.” She practically sneered. You gulped, and pushed yourself out of the chair.

“Yes. I’ll meet you at the car. I was just talking to Father Barnes about rejoining the congregation on Sundays. You met Father Barnes’ steel blue eyes, his gaze sent a rush of heat through your body once again.

“Alright,” Your mother conceded, turning on her heel and walking back up the hallway, exiting through the large door at the end.

“So, see you Sunday?” Father Barnes raised a brow in your direction and you couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across your face.

“Front and Center, Father.” You purred, stepping closer. You could hear a groan bubble deep in his chest as you let the scent of Pine and Musk overwhelm your senses.

Before Father Barnes could form thoughts that were appropriate for a priest, you had gathered your purse and coat and were standing at the door.

“See you Sunday,” You blew a kiss and winked at the stunned priest before making your way down the hall. You could feel his gaze follow you, and you wiggled your ass just a little, teasing him.

——

Sunday came all too quickly, and at the same time, not quick enough. You swiped on a layer of lip gloss, and adjusted the top of your romper. You wanted to give Father Barnes a tasteful glance at your cleavage, not have your tits on display for the congregation. It was still a church after all.

Your gold crucifix laid delicately against your cleavage as you slid in the pew next to your parents. Father Barnes had already started service, and you smiled softly as he grabbed your gaze. His eyes grew wide at your choice of outfit and you smirked as he stumbled over the Bible verse he was reciting.

You bowed your head, your eyes closed as you attempted to look focused on the Homily. But as interesting and attractive as Father Barnes was, sermons were just as uninteresting. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep yourself from slipping over the precipice of sleep.

As the Homily came to a close, you found yourself shuffling along the worn carpet to the front of the chapel for communion. You followed your parents, almost obediently, keeping your gaze cast down to the floor until you approached the front of the line. You looked up at Father Barnes, feigned innocence clouded your eyes. You opened your mouth and accepted the small wafer, winking as he swallowed thickly. You whispered a meek, “Thank you Father,” as you retreated back to your pew.

As the service came to a close, you found yourself hanging back, almost hopefully, as the chapel emptied. Father Barnes approached you, you couldn’t quite put your finger on the look in his eyes, but it excited you nonetheless.

“Y/N, So good to see you!” He beamed, clutching his old, well-read bible to his chest.

“The service was great today, Father,” You smiled back, following him up the aisle to the doors. “Do you have a moment that I could talk to you, privately?” You whispered.

He nodded, opening the doors into the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him to that same cramped office as before.

“For you? Always.” He unlocked the door, setting his bible and service notes on the massive desk. He moved to the closet, slipping off the white vestment to reveal that same, all-black outfit that made you weak. He carefully hung it on a wood hanger and turned to face you. You shook your head, trying to clear it, and swallowed thickly.

“Everything alright?” Father Barnes leaned against his desk. You hadn’t moved from the doorway. Your eyes met his and you nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just distracted by some personal stuff I guess,” You laughed softly and sat in the same overstuffed chair as last time. Father Barnes unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and began rolling them up his arms, revealing the beautiful, intricate line work of his forearms.

“Alright. What did you want to talk about?” Father Barnes shuffled through his notes from the service. He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, pushing the dark tendrils back. You chewed thoughtfully on your bottom lip as you stood up.

Father Barnes’ gaze met yours as you approached, standing close enough he could smell the sweet coconut of your shampoo. A scent that sent a shot of arousal straight through his body. You swallowed thickly as you played with the edge of his collar.

“Wh-What’s goin on?” Father Barnes chuckled uncomfortably, taking a step back. You followed him and cupped his face in your hands, pressing your lips to his. His lips stilled for a moment as yours moved insistently against his. You slid your hands to his hair, knotting the chestnut locks in your fingers and tugging softly. Father Barnes groaned softly and wrapped an arm around you. You gently licked at his lower lip, prodding him to open, he complied and you moaned as his tongue met yours. It was electrifying, the thought of doing something so taboo with Father Barnes. It made you feel alive.

Your hands slid down the front of his black dress shirt, and tugged it from his slacks. You were desperate to feel every inch of him. But he stilled. You pulled back, panting slightly, a smirk danced across your face.

“What is it, Father?” You whispered, a hand reached up and twirled some hair at the base of his neck.

Father Barnes stepped away and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“We-I can’t.” He sighed. Your face dropped, your eyes cast down at the worn burgundy carpet. The clock ticked as the two of you stood in uncomfortable silence.

“You should go.” He finally broke the silence. “We shouldn’t meet like this anymore, either. We can’t. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

You swallowed back the hot tears of embarrassment that pricked at your eyes. You quickly gathered your purse and started for the door.

“See you Sunday,” Father Barnes called from his desk. You nodded softly and walked towards the large doors at the end of the hall.

————

It was three weeks before you dared go near the church again. Confessional was held on Saturday night, you tentatively approached the church, stepping inside, your stomach churned.

The familiar smell of old wood, and must filled you with comfort as you stepped towards the confessional booth. You let out a breath, before speaking.

“Bless Me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was..” You paused thoughtfully, almost laughing when you couldn’t remember. “Many years ago..”

“I see,” The priest mumbled from his side. And you drew in a shaky breath.

“See, I’ve been having these thoughts about a man I considered a friend and a confidant. They have been incredibly impure thoughts, and I acted on them a number of weeks ago. He didn’t return my affections, and I haven’t been able to face him since. He was the first one in a long time who understood why I fell away from the church, and he helped me. A lot. Both personally and spiritually. I saw how good of a person he was and it made me want to be a better person.” Tears rolled down your cheeks and you sniffed softly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

“Is there anything else you wish to confess?” His voice filtered through and a fresh wave of tears streamed down your face as you shook your head.

“N-No Father. That’s all.”

Father Barnes swallowed thickly before he broke the silence.

“I see you are remorseful. But you did commit a sin in the eyes of our Father and must do penance to receive his forgiveness.”

“Yes, Father,” You whispered meekly, wringing your hands.

“I require of you 3 Our Fathers and 5 Hail Marys. As well as regular church attendance.”

Before you could open your mouth, he had already exited the booth, the door slamming behind him. You tentatively pushed the door open, hoping to spot him. But your stomach sank as you realized you were alone. You spent the drive home in silence. You didn’t sleep that night and were nearly late to mass the following morning.

You slid into the pew next to your parents as Mass began, breathing out a sigh of relief. Father Barnes looked haggard this morning. Dark circles under his eyes, and when he spoke, he didn’t have as much enthusiasm or that usual sparkle in his eye.

Communion came and you shuffled up to the front. Your eyes didn’t meet, Father Barnes’ and you held out your hand for the small wafer. The feel of his fingers touching your skin as he placed it gingerly in your palm was electric. You heard him stiffen as you placed it on your tongue and walked back to your seat. You spent the rest of the service with your eyes cast down, your hands in your lap.

“May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you.” Father Barnes’ bible closed with an audible thud and you glanced up.

“Amen.” You muttered with the rest of the congregation. You stood up as soon as the hymn ended, eager to leave the building.

“Can we talk?” A shiver crawled up your spine, and embarrassment reddened your cheeks as you turned to face the man behind you.

“Good Morning, Father.” You plastered a fake smile on your face as you greeted the clergyman.

“Can we talk? In private.” Father Barnes restated his question before you could put a thought together though, you had already agreed. You followed him out of the chapel to that same office. That same offending office you had been in three weeks ago.

You sat timidly on the edge of the puke green chair and watched as Father Barnes shut the door and began moving around. He removed his vestment, hanging it in the closet, and set his well-read bible and notes on the shelf behind his desk.

“Father, I-if this is about confession last night, I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just wanted to say I was sorry for what happened a few weeks ago but I couldn’t bring myself to face you and tell you.” Your head snapped up when he chuckled softly. You scowled at him, how dare he laugh when you’re here pouring your heart out!

Father Barnes didn’t answer, he simply followed his routine of rolling up his sleeves and leaning against the old desk in front of you. He smiled gently and tucked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“First, call me Bucky, when we’re here, I’m a friend, not a priest. Second, well..” He leaned forward and took your lips in a gentle, passionate kiss. You whined softly as his tongue traced your lower lip. He licked into your mouth as he pulled you out of the chair to straddle him. Your knees dug into the edge of the desk, the uncomfortable pain was the last thing on your mind as his hands ran down your back and grabbed 2 handfuls of your ass.

“Fuck,” You whispered as Bucky broke the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your neck, licking and sucking at the soft skin. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging at the chestnut tendrils as a wanton moan escaped your lips. You ground your still clothed core over the bulge that was beginning to form in his slacks. Bucky stilled for a moment holding your hips in place.

“Fuck, doll, if you keep doing that I might not last long and believe you me, I wanna feel that pretty little pussy wrapped around my cock.” He nipped your earlobe, your hands trailed down his front, unbuttoning the black dress shirt, pushing it down his arms. He let go of you for a moment, only to toss the offending material behind his desk. But then his lips were back on your neck, hungrily kissing and sucking at the already tender skin.

Bucky stood up and carried you over to the couch next to the door. His hair was mussed, his lips, kiss swollen as he laid you down and slotted himself between your legs.

You started unbuttoning your sundress, when he stopped you.

“Let me,” His voice was gruff but his actions were gentle as he pushed each button through the hole, slowly revealing your body to him. When you were clad in a simple white bra and plain cotton panties, Bucky sat back on his haunches to admire you.

“God, you’re like a fuckin work of art, babe.” He grunted, leaning down to kiss you, dropping your dress on the floor. Your hands reached down, desperately seeking his belt buckle. You groaned softly when you felt the leather slip from the metal buckle. Bucky’s hands met yours and he quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants letting them fall to the floor with your dress.

“Someone’s a work of art,” You muttered as you trailed your hand down his chest and stomach, marveling at how toned his whole body was. You traced a nail across the linework of a tattoo that sat right on his left pec before dragging your hands back down and toying with the edge of his boxer briefs.

“You just gonna tease me all day, doll? Or are we gonna do this?” Bucky canted his hips forward, nudging your still clothed clit. You whimpered, biting your lip as a fresh wave of arousal shot through your body.

“Buck. Please.” Your nails dug into his shoulders, and you moaned against his neck as he repeated the action.

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty little pussy since I first met you,” Bucky drawled in your ear, he dragged his fingertips down your body, stopping when he reached the band of your panties.

“You gonna do something about it?” You mocked his earlier argument. His fingers curled around the waistband of your panties, bunching the thin cotton between his fingers. Before you could protest, he ripped the material, discarding it on the floor.

“Come here,” Bucky growled, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pulling you to him and kissing the sensitive skin. Breathy moans escaped your lips as he continued his ministrations.

“Oh fu-mmmm” You grabbed Bucky’s hair in between your fingers as he gently kissed your clit.

“Fuck, Princess, you’re so wet.” Bucky slid a finger inside your waiting heat as he wrapped his lips around your swollen clit. You nearly screamed at the sensations overwhelming your body.

He added another finger, scissoring you open, his mouth never leaving your clit. You thought you had died and gone to heaven when the coil in your belly snapped and you came all over his fingers.

“That’s a good girl,” Bucky smirked, licking his fingers with an exaggerated pop as he crawled back up to kiss you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, moaning as he licked into your mouth, usually, you’d find the thought of tasting yourself a complete turn-off, even gross. But something about tasting yourself as Bucky’s tongue explored your mouth turned you on even more.

You hooked your feet into the elastic waistband of Bucky’s underwear and pushed it down, freeing his strained erection. You gasped softly, he was bigger than you had imagined, thick, the tip dripped with precum as you slid your hand up and down his shaft. Bucky’s cock was, in a word, beautiful.

His large hand covered you and he kissed your cheek chastely before moving to whisper in your ear.

“I’d rather cum inside you, than on you.” A shiver ran up your spine, a soft whimper escaped your mouth.

“Do it, then,” You challenged him.

Bucky sat back on his haunches again, spreading your legs as far apart as they would go. He tenderly dragged the head of his cock through your wet folds, both of you moaned at the sensation. And finally, ever so slowly, he sank into you, filling you up, making you feel like you were about to burst.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Bucky bottomed out, stilling his hips for a moment, his lips met yours tenderly. He rolled your pebbled nipples between his fingers as he began thrusting. Your toes curled and you gasped against his mouth.

You whimpered a meek, “Faster. Harder.”

Bucky grabbed your calf and lifted a leg over his shoulder. The angle made him feel so much bigger, so much deeper. You were almost positive you wouldn’t walk out of this normally. Bucky’s hands dug into your hips as he thrust into you, almost animalistically. You cried out, fingers tugging on your nipples.

Your head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

“You’re so fuckin tight, Princess. God, squeezing my cock real nice,” Bucky panted above you. A thin sheen of sweat covered both of your bodies when he pulled out suddenly. You protested at the loss of sensation until he flipped you over, one leg propped up on the arm of the couch as he slid back inside.

“B-Bucky!” You cried out, tears of pleasure streamed down your cheeks as you neared your second release.

Bucky’s hand traveled around your hips, the roughened tip of his pointer finger began rubbing your clit in time to his thrusts. And that’s when everything exploded. You swore you saw stars as your walls clenched down around him. Your fingers dug into the back of the couch and you couldn’t contain the shout that escaped your throat in a fit of passion.

“Ah fuck, baby, just like that,” Bucky cooed in your ear, his arms wrapped around your front and held you up as he found his own release. You moaned at the warmth that filled your belly, Bucky kissed your shoulder softly and helped you lie down on the couch. He lay behind you, cock still firmly tucked into your pulsing cunt.

“Holy shit,” You laughed, reaching down to Bucky’s hands on your stomach and lacing your fingers with his.

“Yeah..” Bucky chewed thoughtfully on his lip. You didn’t want to intrude, but the words left your mouth before you could think.

“Is everything okay?” You asked, you rubbed the back of his hand with your thumb. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

“I don’t think I can be a priest anymore, and after meeting you, I don’t know if I even want to.” Bucky squeezed your hand in his, taking your lips in a tender kiss.

“Wanna go on a date?” Bucky chuckled softly. You laughed, rolling over on the couch to face your partner.

“Only if you shower first, you smell like sex,” You chided playfully. Bucky’s arms tightened around you and you giggled through his assault of neck kisses.

“And then after, we can run away together, and live on the beach, and be naked 24/7, and fuck like bunnies,” Bucky muttered against your neck. You sighed in contentment, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I like that. A disgraced priest, and his sinner girlfriend living on the beach, naked and fucking,” You laughed as Bucky placed another kiss on your lips, pulling you closer to him.

#Bucky Barnes #James Buchanan Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel #the winter soldier #Bucky Barnes Fanfiction #Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan fanfiction #marvel fanfic #Bucky barnes AU

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wormstacheangel · 4 years

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Day 28: Hellscape

Word Count: 2497

Summary: Cas has to leave the bunker for his own sanity. Hopefully to come back less in love with Dean but, of course, Dean would make it hard for him. (angsty/miscommunication but happy ending) Catch up on my Suptober fics HERE

Cas has dealt with a lot in his long existence. He has seen the world drown and burn only to start all over again. Apocalypses have gone by without so much as a mention because the next one was always just around the corner. He has died and been brought back more times than he actually remembers. Then he even trapped his own father in the Empty where he would sleep for all eternity because he was nothing more than, well to put in simple terms, a dick.

Now the world was as peaceful as it ever has been. Enough that the brothers spend more time at home arguing if they should go visit Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon for their next road trip than about monsters or secret deals. Everything should be sunshine and rainbows now that he was just another human. Now that he is at home with his family and no threat looms over them.

He should be happy but he’s not.

He’s in a constant hellscape of longing looks and almost kisses with his damn best friend.

Before the big Chuck battle they shared their goodbye’s and a few confession’s escaped. Even a brief but long awaited kiss was shared between them but Dean acts like nothing happened. Whenever Cas tried to bring it up he would always change the subject or they would get interrupted. It’s been months now and Cas would rather be tortured down in hell with Rowena than in his own damn home.

Dean wouldn’t even let them be in the same room alone without some sort of distraction. An escape plan just in case Cas did decide to bring up whatever was going on between them. He once asked to go out to eat alone with him like they have done hundreds of times before and he agreed. Cas was so excited only to find Donna waiting for them at the restaurant. The car ride was also filled with loud music to stop them from having any form of conversation.

This was getting to be too much that it was just starting to hurt.

“I just think I need some time on my own for a while.” Cas tells Sam as they finish their morning run. “Just to clear my head and sort out some feelings.”

“I get it, man.” Sam patted Cas’s shoulder. Trying to look supportive but this news did come out of nowhere so he was giving him his twitch ‘So not okay with this but trying to be.’ kind of smile. “You do what you have to do. This time, how about leave with some money?”

“Thank you, Sam. I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Jack and Dean. I’ll tell them myself.”

Telling Jack was hard only because he kept asking why but Cas really couldn’t tell him. Sam knew only because he was the one that found them. Everything was chaotic and panic ridden at that time that they really didn’t get the chance to register what happened. Now that enough time has passed Cas figured that Dean probably kissed him out of pity. They thought they were all going to die and Cas just confessed to him so he panicked. He kissed him, something Cas would always treasure, and even repeated the words back to him. It was quiet and almost shy. Now Cas sees them without the rose colored glasses. They were forced.

“I’ll call you and when I settle somewhere I let you know so you can visit me.”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“No, Jack, this is your home. You should stay here.”

“This is your home too. We’re your family. You should stay here with us.”

“You are my family, Jack, and I’ll come back soon but I just need some time. Some time to myself with no...no mission. Just me.”

Jack pulled Cas in for a strong hug. Tucking his head and wrapping his arms around Cas’s waist like the child he really was. “Promise? Promise, you’ll come back.”

Cas easily hugged his son back, smiling softly as he hid his face into Jack’s hair. “I promise.”

After saying his goodbye’s Cas decided to leave that night. It would be easier on them all if he was just gone by morning because it would be easier on him. He can’t look at his son and Sam who knew he was leaving while Dean would have no clue. They both needed some space. A space where they wouldn’t be dancing around each other and Dean could finally be comfortable in his home again.

Cas left that night with two duffle bags, one filled with clothes and the other filled with sentimental stuff because he has things now, and his truck. Cas only left one sentimental thing behind, the mixtape. He couldn’t have that small hope around him anymore. So it will rest at his bedside table until he could come back and listen to it without looking too far into it.

He drove 10 hours, listening to the playlist Jack had made for them a while ago, and stopped at the nearest motel he could find. He was starting to pass out as the adrenaline of leaving was starting to wear off. His hands were still shaking when he walked into the old musty room but he didn’t care. He just wanted a hot shower and a long nap on a bed before he kept driving. Still not sure where he was going but going to visit Claire was still on top of his list.

He was in the middle of a shower, the hot water was nice but the water pressure sucked compared to the one at the bunker so his muscles were still stiff, when he heard pounding at his door. Cas poked his head out of the shower curtain just to make sure it was his door that was being knocked on but he was also sure he was only one of the three people staying in this run down place.

He wrapped a towel around his waist as he rushed over to the door, the angel blade out just in case. The pounding got louder, more desperate as it continued, and Cas could feel fear run up his spine.

“Great,” Cas sighed as he rolled his shoulders back. Trying to fight the anxiety off so he wouldn’t lose grip of his blade. He has been gone for less than a day and already has monsters picking a fight with him.

“Cas! Open the damn door!” He then hears as another round of knocking started. “I will kick this damn door down!”

Cas paused for a second before he made himself go open the door for, “Dean?”

Dean stood outside his door still in his pajama bottoms and robe tied loosely around his waist. He looked angry and the scrunched up note in his hand could be the cause of it but Cas really wasn’t sure.

“What the hell is this?” Dean motioned for the crumbled up note, Ah, so it was about that. Dean pushed his way inside the room and shoved the note to Cas’s chest. “What? I didn’t deserve a goodbye like everyone else?”

“I-I didn’t think you would want me too.”

“I wouldn’t want-!” Dean slammed the door shut behind them and Cas flinched but made no other moves as he held the note in his hands now. Dean ran a hand down his face while the other one pressed to his hip as if he was trying to calm himself. “Cas, I thought the whole running away thing was out of your system.”

“I’m not running away, Dean.”

“The hell you are!” Dean stepped closer to him with a menacing glare that Cas simply returned. “What do you call leaving your family in the middle of the damn night then? Cause I call that being a damn coward.”

“I didn’t run away.” Cas repeated as he shoved the note back at Dean before he walked over to put away the blade back in his duffle, to give his back to him. “I needed a break from,” You. “Everything.”

“From what? From hunting?” Cas could hear Dean walking closer to him. “Cause we haven’t done a case in weeks.”

“No, Dean-”

“Do you need a case? Cause we could go find one! I could call Sam right now and we can-!”

“Dean! This isn’t about hunting!” Cas said as he turned around swiftly to face him but his anger melted as soon as he saw Dean’s expression. His eyes were wide and were trying so hard to hold in those tears that betrayed him. He had his tongue poking at his cheek while his lips twitched to hold whatever he thought he needed to hold in.

Cas reached for him but then pulled his hand back as he looked down at the ground. “Dean, I think...I think we both need our space.”

“From me? You needed space from me.” Cas only nodded not wanting to meet his eyes because the shaky voice hurt hurt him already. “Got it. Cool. Glad we got that sorted out.”

There were a few heartbeats of silence between them before Dean spoke again.

“Do you,” He let out a shaky breath. “Do you hate me now?”

Cas looked up at that and noticed how Dean wasn’t fighting his tears falling anymore. “No, of course not.”

“You should.” Dean chuckled darkly as he wiped his face with his sleeves. “I’m a dick.”

“You are but I don’t hate you for it.” Cas told him with a teasing smile. “Well, I don’t particularly like it but I don’t hate it either.”

Dean then reached over with his other sleeve to wipe Cas’s cheeks. Oh, I’m crying too.

“Dean,” Cas took Dean’s hand away from his face and held it between both of his. “Dean, I still love you.” Dean took in a sharp breath but before he could say anything Cas put a hand over his mouth so he could continue. “Just let me talk. Please. I need to get this out before we separate because I-I need this closure.”

Cas looked back at Dean’s eyes to see them bright and soft as he nodded once.

“Good. Thank you.” Cas pulled his hand away to see a smile. “What?”

“Nothing. I love you too but go on. Say what you wanted to say.”

“Oh, um, thank you. I just wanted to explain the note more because I did want to say goodbye to you but thought that…” Cas then blinked a couple times as Dean’s words registered with him. “Wait did you-?”

“I did.”

“But I thought you didn’t...Dean, I thought you didn’t,” Cas was the one that took the shaky breath now as he tried to read Dean but he looked too bright for it to be a lie. “Do you love me?”

“That’s what I said, dumbass.”

“Say it again then, assbutt.”

Dean took a step closer to him to erase whatever space was between them. “I love you, Cas.”

“Bullshit.” Cas glares up at him to Dean’s surprise. “If you did then why did you act like a complete ass the last few weeks! You know what, fuck you! Fuck you, Dean Winchester!”

Cas pushes him away and starts dragging him out the door.

“But Cas!”

“No, I don’t wanna hear it! Fuck off now I’m gonna be gone cause you pissed me off.

“Castiel,” Dean made his body heavy and Cas cursed his human strength but tried to keep pushing Dean out of his room. “Can you please just listen?”

“I don’t want to.” He struggled to say before he just sighed and let Dean fall. It was carpet he should be fine. A rug burn won’t kill him.

“Ow!” He heard but Cas turned to walk back to the bathroom.

“I’m gonna go finish my shower. I want you gone, Dean.”

“Not until you listen to me!”

“Fuck off.” Cas said one last time before he slammed the bathroom door shut and continued his shower. The hot water is definitely not going to do anything for his strained muscles now.

When he got out, of course, Dean was still there. Waiting for him on the bed. Feet propped up as he rested with his back against the headboard and looked through video on his phone. Cas was too mad to even think that he looked cute.

He pulled a shirt over his head while he gave Dean his back.

“So, are you gonna listen?” Dean finally asked but Cas ignored him. “Are you,” Dean chuckled as Cas pulled on his boxers. “Are you seriously going to give me the damn silent treatment, Cas?”

“I have nothing to say to you. Except, get off my bed. I want a few hours of sleep before I head out.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m not going home.”

Silence as they stared at each other for a second too long. Always a second too long.

“I thought you didn’t like me anymore.” Dean quickly said before Cas could stop him. “Our first night after Chuck I asked you to stay with me and you said no.”

“Jack needed-”

“I know! I know, Jack needed you. I got that but it kept happening. Anytime I tried to initiate anything between us you were always busy. Not only with Jack but with heaven stuff and then earth stuff. Fuck even the Empty needed your help. You were being pulled in every direction. I didn’t...I didn’t want to fight for your attention.” Dean crawled over the bed so he could kneel in front of Cas and he reached over to cradle his face. “So I gave you space. I’m sorry if you thought that I stopped loving you but I didn’t. I just...I didn’t want you to think that you had to pick me over anything you were doing.”

“I-I would have, Dean. If I would have known that you felt this way then-”

“No, I know you would have.” Dean put a hand behind Cas’s neck to bring his forehead down to meet his. “And I love you for it but you were doing important things. You were fixing the whole world, Cas. I wasn’t going to stop you just because I wanted you to sleep by my side.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas reached with hesitant hands to cradle Dean’s face between his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. Maybe we should work more on that communicating that couples are always talking about.” Dean pressed his nose against his own and Cas could feel the heat radiating off Dean’s lips.

“Are you calling us a couple?”

Dean laughed as he grinned. One of his hands looping around Cas’s waist to pull him closer. “A couple of dumbasses? Yeah.”

Cas laughed along with him before he finally pressed his lips against Dean’s own. Falling back into bed with Dean holding him close.

Tag List: @galaxycastiel

#suptober20 #yes im late shh #Destiel #Deancas #Supernatural #SPN #A More Profound OTP #My Writing

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maladaptive-ninja-returns · 5 years

Text

The Bad Guy (1)

Bucky x fem!Reader

CHAPTER 1: THE FAKEOUT

Series: A Bad Guy ruins Bucky’s day. But turns out it’s the bad guy he needs to seek help from after all. New York may not have changed much for him, but there are certain things he is discovering to be quite new!

Chapter warnings: swearing.

A/N: @writing-prompt-s once gave a prompt last year that stuck with me…I don’t remember the exact wordings but it had something to do with the reader/writer being the villain having a crush on the hero, always finding excuses (or crimes) to meet them. One day they are getting their ass beat and you decide to jump in and save the day. This one is same but with a liiiiiiiitle twist

Word Count: There are times I wish I was a llama. or a cat. Now is one of those times.

“You can do it. You. Can. Do. It. You’re the man. You’re the freaking man. Yes. Yes. You got it. You absolutely got it.”

“You okay, man?” Bucky had to ask.

“You absolutely don’t got it. I can’t do it, man. I’m outta here.”

Bucky grabbed Scott’s arm before that guy could rush back to the SUV they had come in. As much as he wanted to kick this sweaty ex-thief out of here, he knew the plan wasn’t going to work in Scott’s absence. He needed a guy to make him seem legit. At least that’s what Natasha had told him.

“Calm down,” Bucky reassured the man who was sweating tennis balls by now, “you just need to show the ID. Natasha has taken care of the rest and I would be doing the talking. Okay?”

Scott was half-listening by the time Bucky had finished. “Huh? Yeah! Yeah! Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool!”

Bucky could empathise on some level with Scott. After all, it was weird for an ex-con to visit a prison as a fake lawyer while trying to get a felon out of there under the noses of the authority.

The plan was pretty simple. Arrange a meeting with that woman whom Bucky had met earlier, gain her trust, get her out of jail under the pretence of getting her to help with an unsolved case and find out the location and identity of the people behind the theft of Tony’s precious painting.

Simple.

Then why was Bucky’s back feeling so wet whenever a humid wind blew at the opening of every rusty door in the maximum-security prison?

The room was covered in cameras in all corners. To Bucky’s satisfaction, Natasha already told him and Scott they did not record any conversations for lawyer-client confidentiality- so any conversation that was about to happen was going to stay between these three. The musty smell of the room was somehow familiar to both of them, bringing mixed feelings to the surface- to which they barely had time to react when a figure in orange jumpsuit walked in, forcing all their attention on it.

“Hey boys!” You greeted the party, already recognising Bucky from the rendezvous you two had a few days ago. “Ay!! You’re that beat cop no one listened to that day!”

Bucky did not know how to react to that. He was not really expecting their interaction to go this way. Scott, on the other hand, was a little relieved to have your attention glued on anyone but him.

“Oh, right! I told you we’d be having the conversation after I get processed,” you added with a tone of realisation, “Wow, I didn’t know you were so into that robbery!”

You dragged the chair out with your leg and sat on it, legs spread wide- keeping comfort over societal mannerisms. Resting your cuffed hands on the table you gave a knowing smirk to Bucky, who was trying to figure out what exactly was going on behind that viciously delicious smile. “Or is it something else that is intriguing you?” You raised a brow. "Did I use that right? Intriguing you? Something that you're intrigued by?"

"That sounds better," Scott blurted out, regretting it the very second because now your suspicion-filled eyes were all for him.

"You…" you narrowed your eyes at Scott, making the man sit straight in his chair.

"He's my lawyer," Bucky was quick to dive in, "I mean, he's the lawyer we-I... he is interested in represen...He’s a lawyer." For the first time in his life, Bucky was glad Scott and Sam had forced him to watch Law and Order.

“...ok...kay.”

"Scott. Scott Lang," he introduced himself, bringing his hand forward for a shake.

“You have the eyes of a thief,” you stated while Scott’s hand was still in the air, making the poor man slowly take it back while his pale face looked at Bucky with an ‘I told you so’ expression. “No wonder you’re a lawyer.”

Next moment, you slumped into the chair, looking a little offended at something Bucky did. Or so he thought. “Did I hurt you?”

Bucky blinked at you before his brain smacked his accelerating heart to give something instead of just sitting there. “I’m sorry?”

“Did I hurt you the last time we met? I get that I have some kinda...powers but I don’t just throw them around. We could have had a conversation over some prison coffee. You didn’t have to bring your friend here.”

It took three seconds at minimum for Bucky’s brows to shoot up and his lips to crack wide in a smile. “W-what? No! He’s not here for me. He’s here for you. We’re getting you out of here.”

It was hard to put a word into the expression you just gave. Your eyes shifted between the two men while your open lips were shut and your face tilted a little towards the door.

“Uhhhhh-” was the only thing coming out of your mouth till your body got up from the chair and your cuffed hands pressed together towards your company- “listen, cop guy...man. I really meant it in a casual way when I said we’ll ‘talk later’. I don’t really know how much you’ve read into this. I mean, I would say ‘at least buy me dinner first’ but I am kinda scared as to where that might lead us. Good, God! Now I’m wondering what would you have done if I’d said something more like ‘hey, let’s f-”

“NO!” Bucky nearly jumped off his seat, his hands over the table trying to stop your words from coming out from a safe distance. “I’m not getting you out of here because I like you-” he stopped right when he heard himself, watching your curious eyes witness his mouth play him like a ten-cent flute- “no, I mean I like you but not in that kind of...what I mean to say is I know why you tried to steal that painting. I found out from my sources that these paintings are being used by this new mafia around the world supplying narcotics and codes on the trafficked girls and boys to their buyers for bids. And I was hoping you could help us catch the people behind the...painting.”

Bucky was cursing himself right and left, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks at nearly messing it up. Why did she have to be this accurate? His inner voice mocked him before smacking him in the head and calling him a jock.

“I don’t know if you remember but I was caught by you guys while threatening the New Yorkers.”

“While you were trying to help Ste-Rogers. Captain Rogers. And no one caught you. You surrendered yourself.”

“I hate cops. I can’t work with them.”

“You won’t be working with them. You’ll be working with us. Me and a couple of my friends.”

“I don’t work for free. And before you put a price tag on my work, remember that I am inside this prison because I want to stay here. For now.”

“How about a date with Steve Rogers?”

“Dude, you can’t put a price on my-wait what?”

“I’ll ask him to go out with you if you catch those sons of bitches.”

Maybe it was the serenade playing from somewhere inside the prison. Or maybe it was the sun strolling in from the windows. Or maybe it was the mention of his best friend that made your pupils go wider, your fingers work over the skin on your arm, doodling some invisible hearts with a bitchface before you straightened from the table and the sound from your cuffs nearly made Scott fall off his chair.

“I don’t work with supes. They disgust me. Especially Tony Snark and his redhead sister and that C-grade Legolas. I’m out.”

“We won’t be working with them. But I can pull a few strings to get you that date. I promise. And I’m sure Steve...Rogers would be more than willing to go out with you if there is one less bad guy walking out on the streets.”

“...you better not be joking about this-”

“James Barnes.”

“James. Because if you are, I will drive a monster truck into your house, take away your pet and fuck your mother till she forgets her own name.”

“My mother’s dead,” he was quick to add while Scott gasped at the audacity of this bitch- you; you were the bitch.

“Your girlfriend, then,” you simply shrugged. Bucky’s brain straight away flashed to a two-second fantasy of you and Natasha in her room, on her bed.

“Bold of you to assume he has a girlfriend,” Scott chortled till he could see Bucky’s Winter Soldier parts staring at him with all the coldness.

It wasn’t in his nature to give a place to bad things inside his Bucky heart. It definitely wasn’t in the now peaceful Winter Soldier’s nature to peek from inside Bucky and stare with stars in his eyes at the woman coming out in her shirt and jeans topped by a leather jacket. She’s bad, his mind kept ringing the gong, real bad. And when that wasn’t enough, she put on those aviators to shield her eyes from the harsh noon sun, walking towards him with the strut that said she was woman enough to grab someone by the balls if need be. You’ll get yourself killed by a woman, Barnes, his mind went off again.

“No, I won't,” he muttered out loud.

“What?” Scott asked.

“What?”

Bucky tried to ignore him, his eyes stuck on you as you came and stood by them.

“Keys,” you ordered, watching Bucky fish his pockets without breaking eye contact and handing the keys of the Land Rover to you. “Let’s go.”

Scott grabbed Bucky by the arm to pull him closer. “Dude! She has the keys!”

“...okay? Why are we whispering?”

“Wh-What are we gonna do if she tries to do something...evil!”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t know, throw us off a cliff! Or drive us into a wall. Or worse, go over the speed limit in the city!!”

“Relax! I’m here,” Bucky reassured before opening the door to the back seat of the car for him. “I got you.”

Hopping in and sitting next to you, he noticed for the first time how you smelled like a pleasant mixture of spring and citrus.

“What cologne is that?” you called out from nowhere while turning on the engine, turning to look at Bucky.

“Uhhh….it’s an aftershave. For men.” He nodded, cursing himself instantly for adding that last bit. Of course, it’s for men, you twat!

“Smells nice,” you complimented before turning out of the parking spot.

“I’m glad you’re on board with this,” Bucky stated, trying to undo the mess he made a few seconds ago, “I wasn’t trying to overstep when I-we decided to get you to help us out.”

You chuckled, shifting gear.

“Oh, sweetheart! One, I loved this isn’t an automatic. Those are for weak testicled-babies. And two, you clearly misinterpreted me in there. When I said I was not expecting you to bail me outta jail for a date, I wasn’t grossed out by it, darling. I liked it.” You leaned a little closer to Bucky- having a glorious view of his pupils go wide like oceans with endless pits- to end him with one last whisper and wink. “In a very kinky way.”

And just as the car swerved out to the wide road, Scott could feel the air leave his lungs. “What have we done,” he whispered to himself, questioning all that was about to come.

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rewrite-canon · 5 years

Text

Detroit: Become High School

Chapter 1: "Start of Sophomore" (Connor's POV)

On normal days, Connor would be fine waking up. But today was the first day of his sophomore year at Cyder Line Academy, and he wasn't particularly looking forward to it at all. He knew there would be more stacks if homework, horrible teachers (like Mr Perkins, who hated his guts), the stressful social school hierarchy and Gavin Reeds, a man who found solace in picking on him. But if Connor knew anything, it would be to get up quickly before his dad and brother start yelling at him.

Read more chapters: here

~~~

“Connor! The fuck are you doing? Get up!”

Connor stirred drowsily, trying to mentally block out his dad’s insistent yelling.

“Connor, I swear to god, I will bust down your door in a few moments if you don't wake up!” He heard his father grumble outside.

Preferring to not have an enraged, tired father invade his room, he quickly responded with an “I'm up! I'm up!”

He blinked and stirred, his eyes slowly adjusting to the morning light slipping through the blinds, and the warm air of the stuffy, unventilated bedroom. As Connor groaned and rolled himself out of bed, he glanced resentfully at his calendar and sighed. September 19th, 2019. The day he will be starting his sophomore year. And he already knew it was going to be difficult, if freshman year told him anything. There were to be more suffocating homework and exams, the pressure of colleges, dealing with horrid teachers and, of course, Gavin Reeds, who was a problem all on his own.

He then walked over to the large tank of brightly coloured fish, and quickly fed them. He smiled, because the fishes did looked quite content with their breakfast, which made Connor feel nice himself. Connor made a beeline to his birch closet, and tried not to feel the stress of picking out the most appropriate attire for the first day. But alas, it was quite inevitable.

Upon picking and choosing his shirt, his small moments of privacy was soon cut short as his older brother stepped in without bothering to knock.

“Normally, I wouldn't care if you were late, but dad would crack the shits if I don't personally drive your ass to school,” he stated, coldly. “And you're taking forever.”

But his chilling expression soon changed into a patronising sneer as he saw his brother’s distress.

“Having trouble choosing what to wear?” He asked, his eyebrows raised. “What? Are you trying to impress someone?”

“Go away so I can change, Ronan.”

“Whoa, someone's grumpy today. Now I've got two grumpy family members to deal with.”

Connor took one look at what Ronan was wearing and pouted. Ronan always got it right. He was wearing a white shirt with the Detroit Tigers logo on it. On top of it, he was wearing a light denim jacket, that was cuffed at the sleeves, dark jeans and white Vans. His sunglasses were also hanging loosely off his neckline. All in all, it wasn't much, and he looked quite normal, but Connor thought it was fashion genius. It wasn't too flashy, but it wasn't laid back. It made Ronan genuinely look nice, and more older and mature, though he was anything but.

“How do you do that?” Connor blurted.

“What?”

“You know, make yourself look so cool without even trying?”

Ronan just laughed fondly albeit condescendingly in response, his blue eyes flashing with amusement.

“I'm serious! You're the one starting your senior year, you should be close to tears! It's your last first day of high school ever!”

Ronan rolled his eyes and ruffled Connor’s hair.

“Well, if you want to be like me, you've got to become more faster, stronger, resilient and be equip with all of my brilliant charms,” he said, turning to walk out of Connor’s room, and grinning like his older brotherly ‘advice’ was very helpful.

“I never said I wanted to be like you, I just wanted to know what to wear!” Connor called, but Ronan was already out of the door.

He sighed and faced his closet forlornly. With a few more minutes of stressing and inner debates, Connor decided to go with grey jeans, a Detroit hoodie and his wristwatch that his dad got him for his birthday last year. And whilst looking at his wristwatch, he realised that he really needed to hurry up if he wanted to avoid both his dad and Ronan yelling more at him.

So he quickly rushed over to the bathroom, speed-brushed his teeth, and thanked god he packed his school bag the night before. Upon arriving to the kitchen, Ronan was ready to leave and was now yelling at him to hurry, and Hank looked conflicted as to which one of his sons he should murder first. Connor then quickly grabbed a stale muesli bar from the pantry and gave Sumo a nice pat, before embracing his dad.

“You take care, Connor,” Hank said gruffly, before letting go. “Now you boys go to school and Ronan-” he pointed a finger at Ronan who smiled innocently on instinct, “no causing trouble on your first day. And Connor-” his finger shifted to his youngest son, “try to not look so goofy and clueless. It's weird.”

Ronan was unsuccessfully trying to suppress his snickers as Connor nodded obediently. Hank gestured towards the front door.

“Now go. I still need to make my coffee and take a shower, because god knows I smell like Satan’s musty anus,” he sniffed.

By the time they made it to Cyder Line Academy, Ronan had already informed Connor about how ridiculous he looked.

“You do realise the temperature today is going to be about 84°, right?” He asked, staring at his hoodie. “And your pants and shoes really don't go together.”

Connor huffed and wished for the thousandth time that Ronan would one day miraculously cease to speak, and that his school will enable uniforms.

They arrived about a good twenty minutes before the start of the first bell thanks to Ronan’s insane driving. Connor watched blankly as friends were tearfully reuniting with others and burst into conversations about what their summer had been like. Connor saw new couples that had no doubt sparked the wheel of gossip in the school, and he spotted old ones, who were wrapped up in each other’s arms. He spotted some new faces of the school, but mostly old ones, though the new freshman sure did look nervous. And rightfully so, Connor thought, as his eyes coincidentally landed on Gavin Reeds.

Once Gavin met his eyes too, a large scowl blessed his antagonising face. Connor gulped as Gavin looked as though he may come over, but as Gavin pivoted his body, he stopped short, his eyes widening at something directly behind Connor and turned back around reluctantly, though he was still radiating pure hatred. Connor turned to see Ronan death-glaring at Gavin coolly.

“I thought you already left to hang out with your friends or something,” Connor said dumbly, shivering at the thought of being on the receiving side of brother’s glare.

“Let me know if he comes at you again,” Ronan ignored, his tone one that could send a stampede of rhinos running in the opposite direction. “He's not allowed to mess with you anymore.”

Connor nodded slowly as Ronan walked off, possibly to go hang out with his many, multiple, cooler friends.

Connor never planned on telling Ronan or his dad about the number of verbal offences Gavin had thrown at Connor over the past two years. Sure, ever since seventh year Gavin had been horrible to him. In eighth grade, when Ronan witnessed one of the many assaults that was delivered by Gavin and his gang, he got so mad, and threw some punches himself. Connor shuddered when he thought of the scene, and how mad Ronan was. After, he had dragged Connor back home and explained in detail to Hank what had happened. It took hours to convince his two family members not to go to the principal.

Ronan had roughed them up pretty badly, and Connor figured Ronan was the only guy Gavin legitimately feared. Connor knew he should use that to his advantage, but if he was being honest with himself, he would rather Ronan (and his dad) be kept in the dark about all of this.

It wasn't the number of threats Gavin spewed at him every time they did go toe-to-toe, it was the plain fact that he was fed up of living under his brother's shadow. He knew Ronan was generally better than him, and that annoyed him quite a bit. He had been living under Ronan’s protection for too long, and if Gavin should fear anyone. It should be Connor. And Connor will eventually stand up for himself.

But that day was not today.

Once Ronan left, Gavin immediately started to make his way towards Connor, his other insolent friends not too far behind him.

“Hey Connor,” Gavin sneered, slinging an arm around him tightly, “how was your holidays?”

“They were ok,” Connor answered evenly.

“Really? I'm glad they were. But unfortunately, your bitchy-ass is back in school now, and we have a lot of things to catch up on.”

With that, he shoved Connor into the nearest wall, which turned out to be the greenhouse, and the hot plastic wall burned against him. Connor shifted uncomfortably.

“Still not trying to stand up for yourself? Well I wouldn't expect much from such a retarded pussy,” Gavin spat, as his friends laughed.

All Connor could do was glare back at him, though it wasn't as nearly threatening as Ronan’s ice blue eyes can produce.

“You look so stupid,” one of Gavin's friends laughed. “What kind of dog’s vagina were you birthed from?”

Connor just wanted to leave. Or rather, he would rather they leave. And he knew the quickest way they would was if he remained quiet. They wouldn't have a physical go at him before school started.

“You just never get upset with this, do you, Connor?” Gavin sneered, tightening his hold on him. “You never cry or scream or fight back or do anything. What are you? Some sort of fucking robot?!”

With that, Gavin punched him right in the face. Welp, I was wrong about things not getting physical, Connor thought.

It wasn't a hard punch. It wasn't enough to cause a bruise or start bleeding, but the punch to the chest might've bruised.

“Are you going to go crying to your asshole brother after this?”

“You're so pathetic.”

“You just think your Mr-fuckin-Perfect, don't ya?”

Gavin was smiling now. He was enjoying it. He must've missed picking on Connor. He raised his fist to strike a blow again, but is eyes caught something else exiting the greenhouse.

“Ralph will be planting all sorts of flowers! Yes! Yes! There will be sunflowers. Ralph will plant lovely sunflowers!”

The boys turned their heads to spot the blonde boy skipping excitedly into the greenhouse, not noticing Connor or Gavin and his gang. Gavin’s hands immediately slackened.

“Oh lookie here, it’s the psycho freak,” Gavin cackled, gesturing at Ralph. “What do ya say, guys? Maybe we should go rough him up a bit. Can't have him forgetting how much of a creep he is.”

“He'll probably grow up being a homeless pedo,” said another one of the boys. “You know, living on the streets and shit, and sucking dick for money.

“He'll definitely be a drug addict. Or a rapist. Maybe both. Maybe he already is.”

“He's so fucking weird. I don't know, he even scares the shit out of me. I saw him approaching my little sister with a flower once. Had to teach him a solid lesson,” said another guy, who cracked his meaty knuckles.

Gavin let go of Connor and started making his way over to his next target, his friends in tow.

“I'll catch you later, fag,” Gavin insulted, before spitting in Connor’s face for good measure.

What a lovely start to the day, Connor thought sarcastically as he heard Ralph cries from inside the greenhouse.

Connor made his way to his locker, keyed in his code and started to get ready for his first two periods. Double geometry. That didn't seem so bad. He had a few acquaintances within that class, and he didn't mind the class itself. But, first he had to get through a boring, all-school assembly, that was sure to be a pain.

And it was.

Upon making it to the assembly with the rest of his Homeroom class, the principal stepped up on the small podium, and smiled at the academy proudly. She welcomed back old students, and greeted new ones, then went on with some inspirational speech for 2019, and all of the blatant hopes she had for the school. Connor listened nevertheless, but he couldn't help but notice there was a new student in his class.

The boy looked nervous, his eyes occasionally scanning the sea of students, but also trying to look normal and blend in. Unfortunately for him, new students who weren't freshman stood out like a sore thumb, and others were casting some curious glances at the tanned boy.

Once assembly had ended, Connor made his way down to the room where he was assigned double geometry. He watched as few students trickled in, some who even said a small ‘hello’ to him. They all went to sit in their seats, flunked with their friends.

“Hi, Connor,” Daniel greeted, sitting next to him tentatively.

“Hello, Daniel. How was your summers?” Connor asked politely.

“Pretty good. My family and I went to Chile and Peru. Emma really enjoyed it. How about you?”

“I just stayed around in Detroit, but that's okay. Gave me a chance to relax before school started up again.”

Daniel nodded in understanding, and a content silence settled over them.

Daniel and Connor weren't exactly friends, but they were close acquaintances with each other. Both of them being quite unpopular, and leaning more towards the introverted side, they could find some sort of solace in that. Daniel was seen as somewhat of a punching bag to the other boys at school too, so Connor assumed he didn't have any friends either.

Then the teacher walked in with the new kid.

“So sorry! I'm a bit late,” Mr Collins exclaimed as he shuffled to his desk and dumped his heavy satchel. “But welcome back everybody! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. And on the topic of ‘welcoming’, can everyone give a warm welcome to our newest student at Cyder Line Academy, Markus.”

There was a scattered applause, and the new guy, Markus, smiled uncomfortably. Though he looked a little hesitant, Connor picked up that he held himself quite confidently. He had a brown buzz cut, coffee-coloured complexion, but the most striking thing about him was his eyes. One leafy green, the other sky blue.

“Go and introduce yourself, Markus,” Mr Collins encouraged, running a hand through his greying hair as he searched for something in his satchel.

“Ok, um,” he started, “hi. I'm Markus Manfred. I moved here from Delaware to Michigan not too long ago when my dad got a new job opportunity to continue his career in art. Um, I was homeschooled for most of my life, so attending an actual school is really different. But I'll get used to it.”

The teacher nodded, seemingly satisfied with Markus’ introduction.

“Well, I'm sure we are all very honoured to be your first time at school,” Mr Collins said, unaware of the suppressed snickers throughout the class. “You may take a seat next to North.”

Upon hearing her name, North looked up in surprise. She maybe been zoning out before, and though she was one of the most beautiful albeit intimidating girls in the school, Markus obliviously dumped his things next to her, and sat down with ease.

With that, double geometry began. And so did the actual school year.

6 notes · View notes

saintjane · 7 years

Conversation

"The Six Wives" by a couple of mentally exhausted high school kids with horrid senses of humour

Henry: I NEED the two s’s in life: sex and sons

Catherine: HARK - arthur died and i’m a little caesar’s pizza

H: wanna fuck???

C: *subtle nodding*

*still births and miscarriages*

Squire: IT’S A BOY-

H: ah heck yEAH

S: Wait nevermind it’s dead. IT’S A G-no dead. ANOTHER BO-another death, dang okay

C: hey i’m pregnant again

H: will it work this time?

C: *gives birth to daughter Mary* We’ll name her Mary

H: It didn’t work smh

Anne 1: *sultry-model walk-by with a flirty lil wink* aye bb you know you want this

H: *wolf whistles* you heckin bet i do

C: *awkwardly raises hand to slap him but then remembers you can’t hit a king & deep breath*

A1: sorry henny. i will only hop on that dick if it makes me queen, otherwise imma just lead you on

H: in that case, imma hit up ma main man the pope

H: Yo, popey, my wife is broken. Please fix her. The bible says I shouldn’t have married her ‘cause she did the dirty with my bro. I want sons that don’t die. Send help

Pope: your bro has to be alive, dinkis. And your wife is, like, related to the totally not German emperor cause Germany isn’t a thing yet lol, soooooo I’m not gonna cross her. You also told me they didn’t do the dirty you fracken liar. Find a better waste of my time you fukin weeaboo. P.S. what kind of loser looks for really obscure bible verses? Get a life, ginger

H: But what if I give you money?

P: Then I’ll have money and you’ll still have a wife. are u dense????

H: what am I going to do?

A1: here, read this

H: what is it?

A1: 95 Reasons Why Fuck The Church by Martin Luther

H: this is solid. hey popey screw you i’ll create my own church

P: You can’t do that

H: Watch me. *walks to catherine and hands her a paper* it’s not me, it’s you. you’re broken. enjoy a musty dusty crusty castle and don’t ever try to talk to your daughter

C: *runs out hiding her face*

H: hey Anne wanna fuck

A1: heckin yeah

A1: *births elizabeth*

H: *unamused* what is this

A1: a daughter

H: well you definitely had it because of incest and adultery and not at all because i’m in love with Jayne Seymour

H: I King Henry VIII order Anne Boleyn to be executed on the date of May 19th and on Tower Hill. An expert swordsman from Calais will be coming in to do the execution. He slices and dices heads like its nothing.

*leaves to go hunting anne walks on stage gets on knees before executioner*

Executioner: any last words, cause imma slice you up anyway

A1: the king is a total 10/10. everyone should fuck him. very fair and kind lover. also, it’s a good thing I have a long ass neck because then i know for a damn fact you won't botch this

E: cool *slices off head*

H: *pops up out of thin air* She dead yet?

E: Totes

H: hey Jayne wanna fuck

Jayne: *shrugs* why not

J: *births Edward*

J: I give to thee a son

H: good lord finally someone who isn’t broken

J: *dies*

H: *laying on the floor in a ball rocking* oh,,, ok

H: I need a rebound

Squire: *holds up painting* how bout this hottie?

H: yeah sure

Anne 2: sup

H: ehhhhhhhhhhhhh wanna fuck or whatever

A2: I mean yeah we’re supposed to

H: idk i’m just not in the mood though tbh

Kathryn: *exists and breathes near the king*

H: oh dang

A2: k, i’ll just leave since we didn’t do the dirty and I’m pretty sure I never broke up with my last hubby

H: k, imma just call you “King’s Sister” ‘cause that’s not weird at all

A2: k cool bye

K1: hey

H: wanna fuck

K1: that’s kinda forward but yeah ok. Can i fuck everyone else too

H: no, that's my thing

K1: sucks *winks*

H: I don’t get it

K1: oh you will just not from me

H: wait a diddly darn minute *dramatic pause*

H: I think she’s cheating on me

S: Noooo. You don’t say

H: somebody Anne Boleyn her

E: you rang?

H: I, still King Henry VIII, once again sentence my wife to death cause this one is a jerk, guys. Okay? She just *sighs* she just isn’t loyal. These girls ain’t loyal. So kill her. Please.

E: any last words? The last girl was uber lame

K1: sorry he just couldn’t get it up and sex was so boring. 3/10. couldn’t do it anymore. I have needs and they have to be met, you know?

E: understandable. have a nice day *sword goes ching*

E: lmao. I love this job

H: now what?

Katherine: Hey big boy

H: flustered oh dang

K: my hubby died and I can’t marry your dead wife’s brother soooo, wanna fuck?

H: oh cool

K: btw, I’m named after your first wife. I’m basically an infant but let’s not talk about that

H: Whatevs

K: I find your reformation of the church mildly attractive

H: thanks I guess

K: so ummm, when are you gonna die?

H: Right now *drops dead*

K: Yay I’m free to marry that Thomas guy. Btw, do you want help with your whole regency thing Eddie?

Edward: get out don’t call me eddie, you swine

Mary: what about me?

E: no

M: Yes

E: ok. *dies*

M: yay, now to undo my father’s work *kills protestants with fire*

Elizabeth: can I be queen when you die?

M: no

E: please

M: no

E: fine, jerk

M: imma die now, just don’t let my sister become queen *dies*

E: ha ha. Get wrecked cunt. imma redo my father’s work and never marry cause guys are dumb and also HA looks like i'm getting the last huzzah enjoy your tomb in the protestant church bitch. soon i'll be buried on top on you maybe you should have played dolls with me more when we were children lololol

THE END

#king henry viii #the six wives #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #jayne seymour #anne of cleves #kathryn #katherine #world history #history #we tried our best guys #i find your reformation of the church mildly attractive #hopefully the formatting doesn't fuck me this time #enjoy #chat #text post #mine

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paxpaxpax-3x · 7 years

Text

{DWP} CHAPTER 3: Momma said

The ride from the prison to my old house wasn’t long at all. No more than five minutes of silence as we rode through the North side suburbs. Now we sat in front of our childhood home, graffiti sprayed on and all around it, a car sat in the driveway reading “South Engleton Medical” along the door. Sarah hopped of the bike, still holding her heels in her hand and walking to the front door, which was already partially ajar.

I sat in silence for a moment, contemplating if I really wanted to step into that house again after all this time. I shook my head after a moment and nearly started the bike again when a hand grabbed my shoulder. It was firm and strong, a slight scent of a familiar perfume wafting through my helmet as a voice, cheerful and yet somehow stern. “It’s been a while Riggsy boy. You finally come to your senses about coming back?”

I take off my helmet with a sigh and shake my head, getting off the bike and turning to face the now much older woman behind me. Hazel eyes, a cigarette in between her chapped lips and graying brown hair, a leather jacket with the same decorations as Sarahs with a wolf patch over her heart. “Rossi, good to see you again.” I say, making the disdain for her in my voice more than obvious. Rossi responds with her usual cackle, shaking her head as she tosses the cigarette away and crosses her arms.

“Yeah fucking right kid, you tried to kill me before you left here. You had some balls on you before you left, where’d they go? Living on the South Side make you go soft Chase?” I grit my teeth and huff through my nose before speaking again “What do you want Rossi?” she grins and looks over my shoulder then throws up her arms “Sarah! Get over here you little bitch and give me a hug.” Rossi shouts as she steps past me towards Sarah; who emerges from the doorframe. Smiles and laughter follow.

I heave a heavy sigh and walk past them and up the driveway and through the front door into the musty, smoke filled interior of my childhood home. A man in scrubs, ‘South Side Medical’, written over his heart. appears from a hallway, pausing to look at me for a moment before smiling. “Mister Riggs, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I wasn’t expecting a visit from you. She’s-” The raspy voice of my mother cuts him off “Daniel! Who in the fuck are you talking to?” She croaks as she appears just behind him, looking from him over to me.

A number of emotions cross her face in only a few seconds; betrayal, confusion, happiness, just to name a few, and she stands up straight, or as straight as she can get before speaking. “Chase. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.” I nod at her, putting on my best ‘I’m a good son’ smile “Figured I’d surprise you. Sarah and Rossi are outside too.” That makes her face brighten up, just like it always does, and she starts making her way slowly past Daniel and me, out the front door, croaking out a string of curses that are meant to be complements in the slums of North Side.

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head and starts talking again “Your mother is a tough bitch Chase. With the amount of booze and cigarettes she consumes I would have thought she would have died of cancer or liver failure at this point.” I scoff, rolling my eyes and looking out the living room window to the group of women outside “Yeah. That’s Amanda Riggs for you.” I glance over to him “You have to be a special kind of breed to run with that Flock. There’s a reason that gang has so much power around here, she’s it.” Daniel grows pale, looking out the window to his patient and my mother, no doubt thinking about the rumors he’d heard of the Flock before audibly swallowing and returning to the back room.

It’s not long before the trio step inside, chatting among themselves with Sarah being the only one to give me any sort of recognition, saying “You going to stay for dinner? The boys are coming over tonight, figured you’d want to see them after so long. I think Riley still has your jacket.” I try my hardest not to grimace and fail miserably. Before I have the chance to say anything Amanda speaks up “Yes, he is staying because his mother told him to.” Rossi cackles again, the noise makes my ears want to bleed “You heard her Riggsy boy, you’re stuck with us tonight. No going back to your fancy South Side apartment tonight.” I sigh.

Shit.

It’s not long before the sound of motorcycles fills the entirety of the street and the smell of booze and weed fills the air for almost a block as a mass majority of the Flock arrives for the ‘party’. Nearly every person that lays eyes on me looks at me with one of two emotions; Rage or Sadness.

I can’t blame those angry with me, I almost killed the boss when I was in line for it. Now the ones with the sad looks on their faces? I blame them. They know I was right and won’t admit it. Though one actually comes up to me, carrying a jacket over his shoulder and looking at me with a smug grin.

“There’s the Dragon. South Side get to be too slow for you?” Riley says chuckling as he hands over a cheap beer to me. Riley is one of the few decent people in the Flock. It’s a damn shame he didn’t join me. I take the beer with a small smile and turn it in my hand, wrapping my hand around the neck of it, ready to swing it. “Nah, I’m only back for the night, was the one who brought Sarah back from prison. I’m surprised you’re even alive Riley, still running?”

“Nah man, Rossi has me going for protection now. What about you? You still hard enough to drink like we used to?” He flips the bottle in his hand, adjusting it so he has the same grip on it as I do. I nod and without a word, I swing the bottle into a post, breaking the bottom portion of the glass and holding it up to Riley, some beer falling out of it as I do so. He laughs, doing the same and returning the same gesture before we both start drinking from the bottom of the bottle, keeping our lips away from the broken glass.

Riley tosses the jacket at me before wiping the beer off of his face, smiling a crooked smile that only Riley could ever have “So Richie Rich, what’s South Side like?” I shrug, taking a seat in the grass of the front lawn, looking down at the jacket, eyeing the dragon patch before turning the jacket over so I don’t have to see it. “South Side is what I would call Beverly Hills on steroids.” I say, looking over at him “Too many fake tits and spray on tans. That and too many fucking cheap fucks who think that they can’t have their asses handed to them on a silver platter.”

Riley snorts, nearly spitting out his beer as he heaves with laughter, swallowing hard and laughing more until he can catch his breath “Got’damn, seriously? And what the fuck have you been doing? Starting shit and paying off the cops to look the other way now?” I grin, in response nodding my head and taking another drink before responding “I have an assistant that does all that shit for me. Sheva.” Riley goes wide eyed at that “Sheva? That Sheva? The fucking Dragon groupie Sheva? What the fuck Chase?”

“Listen man, I needed someone in South Side to get me where I am today. Sheva comes from a rich family and was more than willing to help. Not to mention that she has more access to almost every insider secret there is today. I would still be down here pulling a fucking Valentine's day massacre every other day if it wasn’t for her helping me the way she has.” I say, taking another large drink, downing the rest of it before throwing the broken bottle somewhere in the lawn. Riley pulls back his auburn hair into a ponytail, snickering as he does so.

“And to think that your one stint as a Flock member into South Side would have resulted with you getting one of the keys to your success.” He says, finishing off his drink before throwing it in a random direction. The sound of glass shattering and a shout follows shortly thereafter. “Shit.” Riley groans before standing up, doing the same myself as a man with a bear symbol over his heart steps up. “What the fuck!” he shouts, shoving his hands into Riley’s chest. “It was a fucking accident Oscar! Back the fuck off man, fuck.”

Oscar persists, shoving Riley some more and eventually into me “Hey! Fuck off you fucking cunt!” I shout, grabbing the back of Rileys coat and pulling him to the side, stepping forward, barely within a foot of Oscar. “Or fucking what traitor?” he says, glaring down at me. I hadn’t realized it before, but he’s a full head taller than me, now sneering down at me as his hands ball into fists, knuckles cracking.

I stick my tongue in my cheek as I look at the gathering crowd, most of them going silent, watching the two of us stand off, some exchanging money and bets. “You know what Oscar? You have three seconds. One…” The crowd laughs along with Oscar as he cracks his neck “Two…” I’m hefted up by the collar of my shirt as Oscar throws his forehead into the bridge of my nose before throwing me into the grass. I can see stars and my hearing goes fuzzy and before I have time to sit up, Oscar is straddling me and throwing his head into my nose again.

My vision goes black for a second before it blinks back, Oscar still over me and sneering, no doubt my blood on his forehead. “Three…” I reach up and grab the collar of Oscars tank top, pulling him down as I throw my head up, missing my mark and hitting his mouth with the top of my forehead. I can feel a tooth dislodge and cut me before Oscar reels back, screaming and holding his mouth as I throw my fist into his temple, knocking him off of me. He falls to the ground, still trying to stand as I clamber over to him, pushing him down on the ground and holding him down with one hand as I throw one, two, three more punches into his face before standing and throwing a kick into his ribs, falling back as I do so, still reeling from the blows to my head.

I fall on my ass, watching Oscar writhe in place for a moment before he rolls over and climbs up to his knees and looks at me, some sort of bestial rage in his eyes before he throws himself at me. I barely manage to move out of the way, but am caught by one of his outstretched arms, bringing me down next to him and before I can even realize what’s going on I can feel his teeth sink into my shoulder. I scream out a string of curses before I start throwing punches into the back of his head, eventually making him pull away. I roll away, standing, albeit barely, my legs shaking under me as Oscar stands, apparently still good to fight.

I quickly look around at the crowd around me until I find someone with a pistol tucked in the front of their waistband. Oscar starts running at me and I barely have time to think about what I’m doing, grabbing the pistol and pushing the person away before I fire into one of Oscars knees. Whatever cheering that was coming from the crowd goes quiet as the gunshot rings out and Oscars wailing cries echo throughout the night.

I lumber over, kneeling down and pressing the gun to the temple of Oscars head and whisper “When I say back off, you back. The. Fuck. Off.” Oscar nods his head, now crying and holding his knee as it bleeds out onto the front lawn. Standing, I toss the pistol back into the crowd, not caring who at before I glare at each member of the crowd until I throw one more kick into Oscar, the point of my wingtips hitting and going partially inside of his mouth, breaking several more teeth and making him cry more in the process.

There’s silence for a moment before Riley starts clapping “There he is! The Dragon of the Flock! Fucker didn’t stand a fucking chance did he Chase?” The crowd is still silent, now looking up to the patio, the silhouettes of Sarah, Rossi and Amanda all looking down on the fight. There’s a second before Amanda’s broken and coarse laughter fills the air as she claps “Did you fucking see that!? Mother fucker got what he deserved, but that don’t mean shit around here does it?” She asks, seemingly to no one, but Rossi answers anyways “No it don’t Amanda. Fox, get Riggsy boy out of here. Cool him off.” Riley falls silent before clearing his throat and nodding “Alright boss, Chase let’s-” he puts a hand on my shoulder, I immediately shrug it off before pushing past the crowd to my bike, turning the key before looking back to the crowd.

“You fuckers think you owe everything to those women? Grow a fucking pair and decide something for yourself you bunch of pussies. If you want a decent fucking career that pays more, come talk to me, you know where you can find me.” I put on my jacket, the Dragon patch stitched over my heart makes me want to vomit but I hold it in as I put on my helmet and then pull out of the driveway and head down the road.

I make it to the bridge before I get a call. I pull my phone out to see Rileys number. He never calls me. I answer anyways. “What?” The voice I hear isn’t Riley's, it’s that bitch Rossi’s. “Well fucking done Riggsy boy, you took down one of the biggest mother fuckers we have in the Flock. Now, if you were still Flock, I would commend you for it. But you ain’t, so here’s how this is going to work…”

“Fuck you. You want to come after me? Just you fucking try it.”

#Drunk with Power #chapter 3 #language tw #c slur

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wendyimmiller · 5 years

Text

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd.

Beth Chatto’s Gravel Garden built on the remains of an old car park gives hope to gardeners everywhere that matching the plant to one’s conditions can spell success.

Guest Rant by Marianne Wilburn

Given the choice of dinner companions at an industry event, with fourteen topics on the table and the wine flowing softly and smoothly, Scott Beuerlein would be at the top of my list. He is entertaining, clever, and charmingly self-deprecating — and an excellent conversationalist.

That’s why it pains me greatly to say that he has his head right up his smart ass.

When, in his July/August column for Horticulture[1], he advocated for the total abandonment of British garden writers by American gardeners, and went so far as to tell the late and sainted Beth Chatto to “bugger off,” he no doubt knew he’d get some pushback.

And as it happens, I’m just in the mood.

“Brit garden writers have had it so good for so long!” he wailed. “[Their] books, gloriously illustrated…filled with classic design ideas and expert care instructions – are naught but works of deception. They have brought us Yanks nothing but suffering and heartbreak.”

Beuerlein’s passionate words went on to decry the injustice of meconopsis. Christopher Lloyd’s name was taken in vain. A Big Gulp was inexplicably referenced.

“Just sell your damn books to the Australians,” he ended. Or at least he should have done.

I am not a British garden writer. But I admit to a dog in the fight in that I hold two passports.

Although one of them will no longer be looked upon with favor in European airports after Brexit (the other one never was), I have a certain fondness for the country.

I went to university there. My son was born there. I developed a deep and abiding love for gin and tonics there, and have recently begun guiding other like-minded souls around its great gardens under the auspices of CarexTours.

These admissions might crush all pretense of neutrality if it were not for the following statement: I am not and never have been an inhabitant of the Pacific Northwest — the only region in North America whose populace can guzzle from the well-spring of British garden literature and never taste bitterness.

Instead I live in Northern Virginia, bitterly cold in February, life-suckingly humid in July. Each year we are offered the promise of an English spring and then delivered an Amazonian summer.

Oh yes, I have tasted the bitterness. Big frothy gulps of it.

And yet my shelves are overflowing with the very best of the Brits. In addition to scores of excellent books and articles penned by American garden writers, there lurk the Vereys, the Chattos, the Lloyds and the Dons. Three shelves are given over entirely to British garden essayists, and I admit to the profligacy of international subscriptions to Gardens Illustrated and Country Living UK.

And Scott, here’s why:

Prose as poetry

Musa basjoo towers over the century-old yew hedge at Great Dixter, where in 1993, Christopher Lloyd shocked the establishment by ripping out roses and planting an exotic garden.

Christopher Lloyd was as caustic & clever as Dorothy Parker, but as loveable as Ogden Nash. Chatto beguiled us with the humble words of a self-taught gardener, but won ten successive gold medals at Chelsea and created a global masterpiece in the Essex countryside. Monty Don (as author, not as television sex symbol and international man of mystery) writes with a sensuousness worthy of Coleridge:

There are peaches to be eaten warm from the brick of the wall they are grown against, peas picked off the tendrilly plant and shucked straight from pod to mouth…tomatoes waiting to release their own musty muskiness as teeth break their skin.[2]

When he starts undressing figs with his fingers I need a moment to compose myself.

Critical eyes, witty tongues

Wit is an elusive quality in gardening prose. There are millions of outrage merchants out there, but it’s quiet, clever criticism that gets my attention – and keeps it. At this the British excel.

Here’s Christopher Lloyd, calling out the snobs:

There are some gardeners in whose company I feel vulgar. They will expect you to fall on your knees with a magnifying glass to worship before the shrine of a spikelet of tiny green flowers…yet will themselves turn away disgusted from a huge, opulent quilt of hortensia hydrangeas.[3]

Or the ideologues:

I confess to being unattracted to the concept of gardening with a moral implication. It puts a dampener on going all out to garden full-bloodedly in whatever way appeals to you most.[4]

The best British garden writers have honed the ability to inflict dagger-sized wounds with the prick of a pin. Even when it’s your own ideologies that lie bloodied and martyred, you cannot help but smile.

And read more.

An abundance of foliage and flower leading to The Hovel at Great Dixter.

Gardening as a cultural premise

The British population is presented at birth with a trowel and a bit of twine. They are also presented with a packet of Bishop’s flower and sternly told to call it Ammi majus. Thus the population is primed and ready for garden writers who won’t have to waste precious time explaining what a cold-frame is before they can explain what to do with it.

The British don’t have to vainly search an HGTV channel to find a bit of G. Gardening programs run freely through their radio and television networks, their streaming choices, and quite possibly through their dreams at night.

This premise results in a different approach toward garden writing. Authors don’t need to claim that “it’s easy.” They assume you know it may be difficult, but it’s worth it.

In the words of St. Beth:

If Damp Gardening sounds like hard work, I can assure you that, unless Nature provides for you, initially it is…But when it is successful I think it is possibly one of the most beautiful forms of gardening.[5]

We’re frightened to do this as American garden writers. We know we’re often holding people by the fine thread that connects ‘lifestyle’ to ‘the garden.’ Saying “it’s difficult” could send them over to scrapbooking.

Garden gravitas

They’ve simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are older. Their tools are better oiled. There is nothing television-worthy about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.

We can chafe and grumble at such cosmic injustice and lash out with words like ‘stodgy’ and ‘predictable,’ but Lloyd was never predictable, nor is Noel Kingsbury, nor Dan Pearson, nor Keith Wiley. And they get to apply all that generational knowledge and exciting innovation to gardens that sport stone walls older than a bit of Brooklyn Brownstone.

Green, juicy envy

Scott, sometimes we need a bit of envy in our lives. We need inspiration. We need something that, by its sheer sumptuousness, primes the engines within us and gets us moving.

Something that gets us thinking. Gets us creating. Makes us fall in love again.

That’s Christopher Lloyd’s Flower Garden, Hugh Johnson’s The Principles of Gardening, Rosemary Verey’s The Making of a Garden; and, I have no doubt, Jimi Blake & Noel Kingsbury’s new book A Beautiful Obsession.

Have you ever read Hugh Johnson, Scott? You’d think the man wouldn’t have time to pen clever words about magnolias with the amount of French wine he’s quaffing from his veranda in central France. Johnson’s words could ignite envy in the Dalai Lama.

I want to be Hugh Johnson. Failing that, I want to read Hugh Johnson.

The long border at Waterperry Gardens in Oxfordshire on a sunny September day.

The Accent

The only thing better than reading Monty Don is listening to Monty Don read Monty Don.

That’s got to piss you off, Scott.

I understand. A Cincinnati short-a accent grappling with ‘clematis’ just doesn’t have the same…well…gravitas.

Sure, these people garden with the sweet Gulf Stream at their backs and beautiful French plonk just a day-trip away. My garden no more resembles theirs than Vita Sackville-West resembles Mama June.

But then, my garden doesn’t resemble Jenks Farmer’s gorgeous farm in South Carolina either, or Nan Sterman’s xeriscaped designs in Southern California. This is, after all a big country.

I study their words anyway, and try Farmer’s crinums when winters are kind, and Sterman’s agaves even though they never are. I appreciate Henry Mitchell’s wit and the grace of Elizabeth Lawrence, and lap up anything Andrea Wulf is serving on either side of the Atlantic.

We take what we can from each of these authors – British or American – and feel connected in our shared passion. Particularly over a very large gin and tonic.

Therefore I urge readers to reject the obviously tortured, Zone 6, possibly 5b words of Scott Beuerlein. Do not give up on the gorgeousness of great British garden porn in a burst of American Puritanism, or avoid an occasional doomed flirtation with meconopsis. Let those Brits tempt and tickle you. Love affairs should not be squelched because they are hopeless.

Sometimes those are the very best ones.

__________________________________________________________

Marianne is a garden columnist and the author of Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at smalltowngardener.com or follow @smalltowngardener on Facebook and Instagram.

[1] Scott Beuerlein, “Time for a Grexit,” Horticulture, July/August 2019, 64.

[2] Monty Don, Gardening Mad, London: Bloomsbury, 1997, 108.

[3] Christopher Lloyd, In My Garden, New York: Macmillian, 1984, 220-221.

[4] Christopher Lloyd & Beth Chatto, Dear Friend and Gardener, London: Frances Lincoln Ltd., 1998, 15.

[5] Beth Chatto, The Damp Garden, Second ed., Sagaponack, NY: Sagapress Inc. 1996, 13-14.

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. originally appeared on GardenRant on July 18, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/07/dismiss-british-garden-writers-absurd.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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turfandlawncare · 5 years

Text

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd.

Beth Chatto’s Gravel Garden built on the remains of an old car park gives hope to gardeners everywhere that matching the plant to one’s conditions can spell success.

Guest Rant by Marianne Wilburn

That’s why it pains me greatly to say that he has his head right up his smart ass.

And as it happens, I’m just in the mood.

Beuerlein’s passionate words went on to decry the injustice of meconopsis. Christopher Lloyd’s name was taken in vain. A Big Gulp was inexplicably referenced.

“Just sell your damn books to the Australians,” he ended. Or at least he should have done.

I am not a British garden writer. But I admit to a dog in the fight in that I hold two passports.

Although one of them will no longer be looked upon with favor in European airports after Brexit (the other one never was), I have a certain fondness for the country.

Instead I live in Northern Virginia, bitterly cold in February, life-suckingly humid in July. Each year we are offered the promise of an English spring and then delivered an Amazonian summer.

Oh yes, I have tasted the bitterness. Big frothy gulps of it.

And Scott, here’s why:

Prose as poetry

Musa basjoo towers over the century-old yew hedge at Great Dixter, where in 1993, Christopher Lloyd shocked the establishment by ripping out roses and planting an exotic garden.

When he starts undressing figs with his fingers I need a moment to compose myself.

Critical eyes, witty tongues

Wit is an elusive quality in gardening prose. There are millions of outrage merchants out there, but it’s quiet, clever criticism that gets my attention – and keeps it. At this the British excel.

Here’s Christopher Lloyd, calling out the snobs:

Or the ideologues:

I confess to being unattracted to the concept of gardening with a moral implication. It puts a dampener on going all out to garden full-bloodedly in whatever way appeals to you most.[4]

And read more.

An abundance of foliage and flower leading to The Hovel at Great Dixter.

Gardening as a cultural premise

This premise results in a different approach toward garden writing. Authors don’t need to claim that “it’s easy.” They assume you know it may be difficult, but it’s worth it.

In the words of St. Beth:

Garden gravitas

They’ve simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are older. Their tools are better oiled. There is nothing television-worthy about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.

Green, juicy envy

Scott, sometimes we need a bit of envy in our lives. We need inspiration. We need something that, by its sheer sumptuousness, primes the engines within us and gets us moving.

Something that gets us thinking. Gets us creating. Makes us fall in love again.

I want to be Hugh Johnson. Failing that, I want to read Hugh Johnson.

The long border at Waterperry Gardens in Oxfordshire on a sunny September day.

The Accent

The only thing better than reading Monty Don is listening to Monty Don read Monty Don.

That’s got to piss you off, Scott.

I understand. A Cincinnati short-a accent grappling with ‘clematis’ just doesn’t have the same…well…gravitas.

Sure, these people garden with the sweet Gulf Stream at their backs and beautiful French plonk just a day-trip away. My garden no more resembles theirs than Vita Sackville-West resembles Mama June.

But then, my garden doesn’t resemble Jenks Farmer’s gorgeous farm in South Carolina either, or Nan Sterman’s xeriscaped designs in Southern California. This is, after all a big country.

We take what we can from each of these authors – British or American – and feel connected in our shared passion. Particularly over a very large gin and tonic.

Sometimes those are the very best ones.

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Marianne is a garden columnist and the author of Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at smalltowngardener.com or follow @smalltowngardener on Facebook and Instagram.

[1] Scott Beuerlein, “Time for a Grexit,” Horticulture, July/August 2019, 64.

[2] Monty Don, Gardening Mad, London: Bloomsbury, 1997, 108.

[3] Christopher Lloyd, In My Garden, New York: Macmillian, 1984, 220-221.

[4] Christopher Lloyd & Beth Chatto, Dear Friend and Gardener, London: Frances Lincoln Ltd., 1998, 15.

[5] Beth Chatto, The Damp Garden, Second ed., Sagaponack, NY: Sagapress Inc. 1996, 13-14.

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. originally appeared on GardenRant on July 18, 2019.

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