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mugglebornmarvelite · 7 months ago

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A Snowstorm, a Grump, and a Game

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: The snowstorm traps everyone inside the compound, but you're determined to make the best of it. The rest of the team is scattered around, playing games or lounging, but you’re already on a mission: pestering Bucky into joining you for board games.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Fluff, like two swear words, teasing, playful threats

Author’s Note: Thank you to my mom for unintentionally giving me this idea <3

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The compound was a war zone of boredom. The snowstorm raging outside had the Avengers grounded for what felt like forever, and everyone was handling it differently. Tony was shouting at Clint for cheating in Monopoly, and Natasha was kicking Steve's ass at poker. You were up to something different. You’d made it your personal mission to annoy Bucky Barnes until he played a game with you.

You hummed, skipping into the Common Room, with a miechvious smile on our face. You spotted him on the couch, with a book in hand, looking like every bit of a grump. Your favorite grump.

His hair was messy, dark strands a little messed up from him running his fingers through it, and his scowl was as deep as ever. Perfect.

“Mr. Barnes,” you called, plopping onto the couch beside him. “You’re such a buzzkill. It’s not even fun teasing you anymore. I may just give it up entirely.”

“Good,” he said without looking up, his voice as flat as he was pretending to read, his attention now on you. “Now fuck off.”

You gasped, clutching your chest. “You wound me, Bucky. Right in the soul. How am I supposed to enjoy board games without my partner in crime?”

His eyes flicked up from the book, unimpressed. “Sounds like a you problem, baby.”

Determined, you slid closer, reaching for the dice you’d conveniently left on the table next to him, knowing it would bait him hook, line and sinker. “I don’t need your attitude, I just need these-”

Before you could grab them, he moved quicker.

In one swift motion, he pulled you onto his lap, making you yelp in surprise. His vibranium arm was around your waist, pinning you down like you weighed nothing.

“Stop being a fucking menace,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly in your ear. “You send my blood pressure up.”

You wiggled, grinning despite yourself. “Oh no, what will I do now? Big, scary Bucky Barnes has me trapped,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock distress. “I’m terrified.”

His chest rumbled with laughter, a rare sound that made you feel like you’d won something. “You should be,” he said, though his grip on you was more protective than punishing.

His hands were strong, but he held you like you were breakable, and something about that made your cheeks heat. That heat also pooling in your stomach.

“I am not even scared, not even a little bit,” you pointed out, squirming just to annoy him more. “Honestly, this is kind of disappointing. I expected more from you, old man.”

He huffed, setting his book down without loosening his hold on you. “You’re impossible, дорогой.” Sweetheart.

“And you secretly love it,” you shot back, leaning your head against his shoulder with a satisfied smile.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against your side. You melted like butter on warm toast.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost fond. “Yeah, well, don’t push your luck, doll.”

You sighed contently.

“Will you play a game with me later?” you asked, batting your lashes at him like a total brat.

“We’ll see, brat,” he said gruffly, looking at the ceiling, avoiding your doe eyes.

“Please?”

“Maybe.”

“Please!”

“Don’t whine.” He tugged on a strand of your hair.

You were undeterred, already used to how he pretended to be mad at you but always handled you gently. Your smile grew even wider as you started chanting, “Please, please, please—”

“If you don’t shut up-” he growled, but you cut him off by leaning in and planting a kiss on the tip of his nose.

The room seemed to freeze. His blue eyes widened slightly, and his gruff demeanor faltered for a split second before he exhaled sharply, huffing like a frustrated old man. He was your old man.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you in a snowstorm for that,” he muttered, but his hand on your waist betrayed him, his thumb brushing soft reassuring circles against your side.

You tilted your head, trying to hold back a laugh as you watched his icy exterior crack just a little more. “So you’ll play a game with me? Pretty please?”

He sighed like it physically hurt him to give in, but he always did.

“Fine.” Bucky said so softly you almost didn’t hear him.

You grinned liked the cat the ate the canary.

“One game. If it’ll get you to shut the hell up.” His large hand was warm on your back.

“Two games.” You pushed, with a hopeful smile and poppy dog eyes.

“Don’t push it, sweet girl,” he warned, though his tone lacked any real bite.

You grinned triumphantly, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you made yourself comfortable. “We both know you’ll cave,” you teased, your voice full of smug satisfaction. “You always do.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. His tone was low, threatening in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Are you so sure, дорогой?”

“Keep it up, and the only game we’re playing is who can survive the longest in the damn snowstorm. Spoiler alert, it’s not gonna be you.”

You laughed, the sound soft and bright, and you felt his chest rumble faintly with a chuckle of his own.

“Whatever you say, Bucky. Just don’t forget, I always win.”

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he replied, “The only thing you’re winning is a one-way ticket to getting thrown off this couch, your cute little ass hitting the ground.”

And yet, neither of you made any move to separate, content to sit there tangled up in each other as the snowstorm raged on outside.

You soon fell asleep on his lap and Bucky made no move to wake you.

In fact, when Peter came to poke you, Bucky hissed at him, and Peter scampered off.

Bucky pulled a blanket over you, holding you snuggly against him, cradling the back of your head with one hand and rubbing circles on your lower back with the other.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Happy Holidays!

If you'd like to be added to my taglist

Much love x

- Maeve

#james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #winter feels #comehomebucky

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cassiemaebarnes · 3 months ago

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Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 6

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 3735

The next morning, when you hobbled into the kitchen, it was quiet. Too quiet.

You shuffled over to the coffee maker, determined to start your day like usual. You didn’t need Bucky to make you breakfast or rinse your dishes or lean against the counter with that stupid soft smirk while you teased him. You just needed coffee.

Your first problem: the mugs were on the top shelf.

You stretched up on one foot, wobbling slightly. The crutch under your arm shifted at the worst possible angle. You grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from tipping over, heart lurching.

“Seriously?” you muttered to yourself, staring up at the mugs like they personally betrayed you.

Eventually, you set your crutches aside and pulled a barstool over, climbing onto it awkwardly. You grabbed a mug and exhaled in victory – then nearly fell off trying to get back down.

Next, you wanted to make eggs.

You shuffled to the fridge, pulled a couple eggs out, then hopped away so the door could shut behind you. It was going fine, until you lost your balance and reached out for the counter.

One of the eggs rolled out of your hand and landed on the floor with a splat.

“NO,” you said dramatically, staring down at the sticky mess.

You sighed as you bent down to clean it up, cursing softly to yourself. This was ridiculous. This wasn’t even a hard task, and somehow, if felt impossible without Bucky.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you missed him. More than you expected.

And it was only day one.

The next day, you opted for cereal instead of making something, assuming it would be easier.

Until you were staring at it on the counter, wondering how you were going to get it to the island so you could sit down. You did not think this through.

So, you ended up eating it while standing at the counter, balancing on one leg like a flamingo.

Later, you wanted to distract yourself by doing some reading. You plopped down on the couch with a book you’d been meaning to start, a throw blanket, and an ice pack. You propped up your ankle on a pillow, then had to reach down to try to position the ice pack so it wouldn’t fall off.

It was harder than you thought.

You finally got it to stay, then leaned back with a sigh. It was so much easier when Bucky was here to do it for you.

The third day, you settled in the same place, almost done with your book.

The quiet was peaceful for a while, but then, you kept glancing up from the pages, half-expecting Bucky to wander in and plop down next to you, putting his arm behind you on the couch like he usually did.

You were halfway through a chapter when something under the chair in the corner caught your eye. You leaned forward and squinted – it was small and red. You flung your blanket off and hobbled over to pick it up.

It was a Monopoly hotel.

It must’ve gotten thrown during your game and neither of you noticed it while he was picking up. You smiled softly, remembering how fun the game was and how you laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

You set it on the coffee table and stared at it for a while.

It was dumb, honestly. But something about the tiny, red hotel sitting on the table made your chest ache.

The next day, you decided to watch a movie since you finished your book. And, of course, you fell asleep.

When you woke up, it was dark outside, a different movie had started playing automatically, and your neck and back were killing you from the weird angle you were slumped in.

You slowly sat up and groaned, rubbing your eyes. Your ankle throbbed as you turned off the TV and reached for your crutches.

It was easier when Bucky was there. He would just pick you up without a word and carry you back to your room.

As much as you teased him for it, it was always comfortable in his arms.

You pulled yourself up, stretched, then situated your crutches under your arms. You made your way back to your room, almost faceplanting a couple of times, missing Bucky more than ever.

Wrong. Now you were missing Bucky more than ever.

You tried to make yourself lunch without drama today. Emphasis on tried.

Everything was going well, until you were hopping over to the island, carrying your plate of freshly made nachos.

But because it was just a layer of chips on the bottom, they started to slide when you reached your chair. You tried to save it, but overcorrected.

The whole plate of nachos slid off and landed on the floor.

You just stared at it, eyes starting to sting.

You slumped down into the chair, crossing your arms on the table and laying your head down while a few tears slipped out. It was stupid to cry over dropping your lunch, but it was the fact that you felt like you couldn’t do anything on your own that upset you.

And you missed Bucky so much.

Not that you would admit that to anyone.

You finally lifted your head up, wiping your eyes, and grabbed your phone, sending Bucky a quick text: Hey

He had texted you a few times earlier in the week, but it had been a couple days. You knew he probably wouldn’t respond until later, but you just wanted to talk to him.

While you were sitting on the couch later, scrolling through your phone, he finally answered.

Hey, you okay?

You’re eyes started to sting again. Of course he knew you weren’t okay.

You thought about lying, telling him you were good and just wanted to check in, but you couldn’t do it. Plus, he would’ve seen right through it.

I haven’t eaten all day because I dropped my whole lunch on the floor. I miss you.

He texted back less than a minute later.

I’ll order a pizza to the compound. I miss you more.

You smiled down at your phone. Of course he would do that from thousands of miles away.

Half an hour later, the pizza was delivered (and already paid for), and you hopped over to the table with the large pizza box in your hand from your favorite place. You opened it up to your favorite toppings. It looked amazing.

You inhaled four pieces before sticking the rest of the box in the fridge.

On day six, your laundry basket was overflowing, so you attempted to do laundry.

You hobbled down the hallway, dragging your basket, and by the time you got to the laundry room, you were sweating and panting, genuinely considering giving up and wearing the same three outfits forever.

You leaned against the washer for a second, before finally dumping half your clothes into the washer, not even bothering to separate colors.

You crutched back to the elevator, went back to your room, and flopped down on your bed with a sigh.

Bucky would be back tomorrow. You just have to get through one more day.

When you were finally done with your two loads of laundry, you drug the basket back to your room. Once again, you were sweaty and out of breath, so you jumped in the shower before folding your clothes.

When you were done, the last thing you wanted to do was put your laundry away, but you forced yourself to do it. You didn’t want to be the girl that couldn’t function without her boyfriend.

Not that he was your boyfriend. But still.

The next morning, you woke up and tried to ignore the fact that you were smiling like a fool.

Bucky was coming back today.

And everyone else. You tried to convince yourself you were just happy because it wouldn’t be dead quiet around the compound anymore, but you knew what it really was.

You were excited to finally see Bucky and his stupid smirk again.

----

Bucky

The second he shut the door and started walking to the quinjet, he already knew the week was going to suck.

He stood in front of the jet, his bag slung over one shoulder, and his eyes drifted toward the door again. A dull weight settled in his chest.

He hated that she’d be alone while they were gone. Hated that she’d try to play it off, like it didn’t bother her, when he knew damn well it would. Hated that he wouldn’t be around when she needed help, or needed a laugh, or just needed someone to reach the damn mugs on the top shelf.

And he hated that he wouldn’t get to see her every day.

She wasn’t just a teammate anymore. Not to him.

When Bucky woke up to his alarm the next morning, the room was quiet. Too quiet.

He’d slept awful last night. He tried to convince himself it was because it was a new bed he wasn’t used to, but that wasn’t the real reason. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He sighed as he pulled himself out of bed, moving on autopilot to get ready. Before he left his room to join the others, he sent her a quick text.

Fall asleep on the couch last night?

He knew she wasn’t up yet, and he wouldn’t see her response until tonight when he got back, but he just wanted to talk to her.

When they got back to base later that night, Bucky went straight to his room and grabbed his phone, opening the text from her.

No, didn’t have someone comfortable to fall asleep on

He smiled, then sent a quick text back.

Glad I’m not being replaced

She answered minutes later.

I could never replace you. Tell your shoulder I missed it. And the rest of you too, I guess

He let out a chuckle, smiling down at his phone.

Yeah. He definitely missed her.

The next morning, he woke up groggy, blinking in the bed of his temporary room.

He dreamed about her.

It wasn’t anything crazy. Just her. Laughing. Sitting on the couch, half-asleep, head on his shoulder. Looking at him like he’d just said something dumb.

And for a second, he reached over to the spot beside him like she’d be there. But it was empty.

He sat up and rubbed his face before running his hands through his hair. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to make it the rest of the week now.

The third day, they were sitting around the base, eating dinner. He was zoned out, thinking about the mission that day. Thinking about her.

Suddenly, he was pulled out of his thoughts by Tony saying his name.

“Hmm?”

“Did you hear what I said?” Tony asked, one eyebrow raised.

“No, what’d you say?”

“I asked if you thought your girlfriend burned down the compound yet. She’s not exactly the best cook,” he said, laughing along with the others.

Bucky blinked, then scoffed. “She’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Sam repeated, grinning. “Barnes, she burned her food the first time she tried to cook something at the compound.”

“That was one time,” Bucky muttered.

“Yeah,” Nat replied. “The only time she’s made something.”

“And it ended up tasting good, it wasn’t fully burnt,” Bucky said, sitting up straighter, voice just a little too sharp.

Everyone paused.

“Ohhh, you’re in deep, huh?” Clint said, shaking his head.

“I’m not–” Bucky started, then stopped, jaw flexing. “I just don’t like you talking about her like she’s helpless.”

“We didn’t say helpless,” Tony said, smirking. “We said she’d burn the place down trying to make toast. Which is, frankly, adorable.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and went back to poking at his food.

”It’s a good thing you’re down bad, you can just keep cooking for her to save the compound from destruction,” Sam said, laughing.

Bucky shot him a look. “I’m not down bad. She’s just injured.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Steve replied, shaking his head.

And as everyone else was laughing, beneath the grumbling, Bucky was fighting back a smile. Because, yeah – he might be down bad. And if they were going to tease him about it? Fine.

She was worth it.

The next morning, he woke up from another dream.

Another dream she was in.

This time, she was trying to make pancakes and kept threatening him with the spatula when he teased her. He’d made some dumb comment about her flipping skills and she’d told him she was going to “accidentally” hit him with the spatula if he didn’t shut up.

When he woke up, he could’ve sworn he smelled maple syrup. He hadn’t even eaten pancakes in months.

After he got ready, he walked into the kitchen where the others were, still in a funk.

“Morning, Buck,” Steve said as Bucky walked in, going straight to the coffee machine.

“Morning,” he mumbled, grabbing the pot and a mug, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

He poured his coffee slowly, stirring it in that half-zoned-out way that usually meant his brain was miles away.

Sam leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at him. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Bucky replied too fast.

“Uh huh,” Sam said, grinning. “You sure you’re not thinking about your girlfriend?”

Bucky sighed and took a sip of his coffee without answering.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You miss her?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just kept staring into his mug.

That was all the confirmation they needed.

“Aww,” Nat said, smirking over the rim of her cup. “He does miss her. Look at his little grumpy face.”

“Grumpier than usual,” Clint added. “You been writing poetry in your bunk, Barnes?”

“I will throw this coffee,” Bucky muttered.

“Yeah, yeah, violent threats, deflection. Classic symptoms of a man in love,” Tony said dramatically. “Soon he’ll be doodling in a notebook and putting their initials together.”

Sam tilted his head, mock curious. “You been dreaming about her too?”

That made Bucky freeze for just a second – just long enough.

Nat leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “You have been dreaming about her.”

“I’m gonna regret showing up to breakfast,” Bucky muttered.

Sam pretended to swoon. “Was it a romantic dream? Were you two holding hands? Staring into each other’s eyes?”

“Pfft, no,” Tony said. “It was definitely domestic.”

Bucky glared at all of them. “She threatened me with a spatula.”

“Oh my god, like the first night you met,” Steve said, actually laughing now.

Nat clapped once. “I knew it!”

Sam leaned over, grinning. “Hey man, dreams like that don’t come outta nowhere. Sounds like your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “Yeah. It’s telling me to stop talking to you.”

Tony raised his coffee like a toast. “Too late. You’re in it now, lover boy.”

And despite his best efforts to look annoyed, Bucky’s lips twitched. Just a little.

Because yeah. He missed her.

The fifth day, they had spent all day out on the mission.

When they got back to base, he went straight to his room, checking his phone to see if she had texted. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that she did text, but it was just one word.

Hey

That was all. But it was enough. He knew her, and knew how she normally texted. That “hey” wasn’t casual.

He opened the text and stared at it, guilt twisting in his gut.

He replied right away.

Hey, you okay?

It took a few minutes, but when the dots appeared on the screen, he didn’t look away once.

Then, her text finally showed up.

I haven’t eaten all day because I dropped my whole lunch on the floor. I miss you.

He swallowed hard, feeling guilty that she’d been feeling like this for hours.

He typed so fast his thumbs blurred.

I’ll order a pizza to the compound. I miss you more.

Right away, he went to the website of her favorite pizza place, placing an order for a large pizza with her favorite toppings, choosing the delivery option and typing in the compound’s address and his credit card number.

After he got the confirmation email, he sighed, dropping his phone back on the nightstand. He hated that she didn’t have anyone to help her. Hated that he wasn’t there to help her.

He took a quick shower, then headed downstairs for dinner. The second he walked in, Tony called him over.

“Barnes, why did I just get a notification that someone was at the door to the compound, saying they had pizza for James Barnes?”

He barely had time to process the question before Sam turned around in his seat, eyebrows raised.

“Wait, you sent a pizza to the compound?”

Bucky grabbed a tray and started scooping food onto it like he didn’t hear the question. “Yeah,” he said casually. “She hadn’t eaten all day.”

“Aw,” Natasha cooed, voice full of fake sweetness. “Our little soldier’s gone soft.”

Bucky shot her a look. “She dropped her lunch. That’s all. I was just helping her out.”

“Oh sure,” Tony said, leaning back dramatically in his chair. “Just helping out the damsel in distress. Purely professional. Not romantic at all.”

“It wasn’t–” Bucky sighed, setting his tray down with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t like that. She’s been stuck at the compound, injured. I figured it was the least I could do.”

Sam grinned like a shark. “And I’m assuming you knew what her favorite pizza place was, and ordered it with her favorite toppings?”

Bucky didn’t answer. He shoved a bite of food in his mouth and stared at his plate.

“Man,” Clint said, shaking his head. “You’re so far gone, it’s kinda cute.”

Steve was trying not to smile, but he leaned over and gave Bucky a gentle nudge with his elbow. “You care about her. That’s not a bad thing, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “She just needed someone.”

“And it just so happens that someone is you,” Wanda said softly, a little smile on her lips.

“You’ve officially become the team softie,” Nat said, biting back a grin.

Bucky pointed his fork at her. “You take that back.”

“Sorry, lover boy,” Sam said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “You ordered pizza. You forfeited your right to be scary.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.

Because he knew she would feel at least a little better after having her favorite pizza.

The next morning, when his alarm went off, he was already up. He had been up for a few hours.

He couldn’t sleep.

He’d tossed and turned for hours before finally falling asleep, and he woke up way before his alarm, just laying there. Thinking about her.

He should’ve been there.

Helping her make meals. Reminding her to ice her ankle. Letting her fall asleep on his shoulder. Carrying her back to her room. Just be there for her.

But, they were almost done with the mission. He would see her tomorrow night.

That’s all the motivation he needed to pull himself out of bed, ready to start the day.

The next day, they finally wrapped up the mission, although it was a couple hours later than anticipated.

They got back to the base and had an hour to shower and pack before it was wheels up.

He couldn’t wait.

He was packing up his things, getting ready to head to the jet, when Steve walked in.

“You’re in a better mood,” Steve said, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied simply. “Going home.”

Steve gave him a knowing look. “Or just going back to her?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

He hoisted his bag over his shoulder and started down the hallway toward the landing pad. The others were still packing up or grabbing something to eat last-minute, but Bucky was already halfway to the quinjet.

When he reached the jet, he set his bag down near the ramp and leaned against the side, arms crossed, waiting.

A few minutes later, Sam and Nat showed up, both carrying their bags and looking far too amused.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said. “Look who’s suddenly early for departure.”

Nat raised a brow. “You trying to impress someone, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t even glance at them. “Just ready to go.”

“Uh huh,” Sam said. “You’ve been grumpy all week and now you’re out here smiling like you just won the lottery.”

“I’m not smiling,” Bucky muttered.

“You are, though,” Nat said, smirking. “It’s kind of adorable.”

Bucky groaned and ran a hand down his face. “Why are you both like this?”

“Because it’s fun watching you squirm,” Sam replied. “So tell us – what’s the plan? You gonna swoop in and give her the world’s most dramatic hug?”

Bucky gave him a look. “No.”

“Oh,” Nat said innocently, “so you’re going for the slow-motion hallway run into each other’s arms?”

He didn’t answer.

Sam grinned. “You have been rehearsing this in your head, haven’t you?”

“I have not,” Bucky snapped.

Which, of course, was absolutely not true.

He’d already imagined the way she’d look up when she saw him – maybe still leaning on those crutches, maybe sitting on the couch. Her eyes lighting up. That smile. He could picture it so clearly it almost hurt.

Steve finally walked up, duffel slung over his shoulder. “You guys giving him a hard time again?”

“He makes it too easy,” Nat said.

“Man’s glowing,” Sam added. “Love looks good on him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You all need hobbies.”

Tony arrived next, eyeing Bucky like he was suspicious of how calm he looked. “Barnes, you’re smiling. You’re standing in a relaxed posture. Did someone put something in your protein bar?”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s in love,” Nat sing-songed.

Bucky picked up his bag and walked up the ramp without another word, shaking his head, ignoring the chorus of laughter behind him.

Yeah, maybe he was in a better mood.

And maybe it had everything to do with the girl waiting for him back home.

Part 7 | Masterlist

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jackwhiteprophetic · 11 months ago

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Board games that have been banned at the 118 and why:

MONOPOLY: Ravi kept talking about real estate, Chim made an awkward lawsuit joke when Eddie got sent to jail and Buck kept demanding he be allowed to pay the bail.

SETTLERS OF CATAN: Buck and Eddie just simply end up sharing all their resources because they can't say no to each other. Buck said "thanks I'm so bricked up now" after Eddie traded him bricks once and Bobby threw the board off of the loft balcony.

CLUEDO: Chim has NO poker face (poker is ironically also banned after an LAFD wide notice was sent around following the poker date) and Bobby kept trying to call Athena for tips.

UNO: No one could agree on the rules and Hen ended up trying to use the official Uno twitter posts as proof and Bobby stormed off. On a second attempt, Chim started a +2 chain that went around the group twice and ended up with him having to pick up +16 cards, and as revenge he said the Q-word. Bobby burned the pack at the next group barbecue.

PICTIONARY- Eddie and Hen are too good at it because they've had to spend recent years deciphering their kids' drawings.

They also tried to do heads up but Buck didn't know any of the films and Eddie refused to use a phone for a "board game".

PLEASE ADD MORE IDEAS THIS IS SO FUN

Also thank you to @wayfarers0 @eddiesfagstache @blue-desert13 AND THE OTHER AMAZING EDDIEBUDDIEBLR PEOPLE I LOVE YOU ALL

#911 abc #9-1-1 #9 1 1 #911 show #hen Wilson #eddie diaz #buddie #jwpyyy #evan buckley #bobby nash #chimney han #ravi panikkar #tops #silly ones #fic prompts #500 #1000

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mckitterick · 11 months ago

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Walmart is the first place I noticed enshittification, back in the late 1990s, with the humble Q-Tips

back then, I didn't know to avoid the place. I distinctly recall buying a box of Q-Tips brand swabs from Wal-Mart (how it was spelled back then), and noticing that not only was the stick weaker (it bent under normal use) but the heads used less cotton

naturally, I never again bought Q-Tips from Wal-Mart, but I began to notice a weird thing: these crappier Q-Tips - still the premium brand, not just generics - started showing up everywhere. Walmart had not only procured a cheaper-made product, but in doing so made all the Q-Tips everywhere just as bad

and this is only one of countless examples that people Of A Certain Age remember, and why we rail against unfettered and unregulated capitalism:

corporate greed will always yield enshittification

dragging down entire markets until people grow accustomed to buying garbage

The one weird monopoly trick that gave us Walmart and Amazon and killed Main Street

I'm coming to BURNING MAN! On TUESDAY (Aug 27) at 1PM, I'm giving a talk called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE!" at PALENQUE NORTE (7&E). On WEDNESDAY (Aug 28) at NOON, I'm doing a "Talking Caterpillar" Q&A at LIMINAL LABS (830&C).

Walmart didn't just happen. The rise of Walmart – and Amazon, its online successor – was the result of a specific policy choice, the decision by the Reagan administration not to enforce a key antitrust law. Walmart may have been founded by Sam Walton, but its success (and the demise of the American Main Street) are down to Reaganomics.

The law that Reagan neutered? The Robinson-Patman Act, a very boring-sounding law that makes it illegal for powerful companies (like Walmart) to demand preferential pricing from their suppliers (farmers, packaged goods makers, meat producers, etc). The idea here is straightforward. A company like Walmart is a powerful buyer (a "monopsonist" – compare with "monopolist," a powerful seller). That means that they can demand deep discounts from suppliers. Smaller stores – the mom and pop store on your Main Street – don't have the clout to demand those discounts. Worse, because those buyers are weak, the sellers – packaged goods companies, agribusiness cartels, Big Meat – can actually charge them more to make up for the losses they're taking in selling below cost to Walmart.

Reagan ordered his antitrust cops to stop enforcing Robinson-Patman, which was a huge giveaway to big business. Of course, that's not how Reagan framed it: He called Robinson-Patman a declaration of "war on low prices," because it prevented big companies from using their buying power to squeeze huge discounts. Reagan's court sorcerers/economists asserted that if Walmart could get goods at lower prices, they would sell goods at lower prices.

Which was true…up to a point. Because preferential discounting (offering better discounts to bigger customers) creates a structural advantage over smaller businesses, it meant that big box stores would eventually eliminate virtually all of their smaller competitors. That's exactly what happened: downtowns withered, suburban big boxes grew. Spending that would have formerly stayed in the community was whisked away to corporate headquarters. These corporate HQs were inevitably located in "onshore-offshore" tax haven states, meaning they were barely taxed at the state level. That left plenty of money in these big companies' coffers to spend on funny accountants who'd help them avoid federal taxes, too. That's another structural advantage the big box stores had over the mom-and-pops: not only did they get their inventory at below-cost discounts, they didn't have to pay tax on the profits, either.

MBA programs actually teach this as a strategy to pursue: they usually refer to Amazon's "flywheel" where lower prices bring in more customers which allows them to demand even lower prices:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaSwWYemLek

You might have heard about rural and inner-city "food deserts," where all the independent grocery stores have shuttered, leaving behind nothing but dollar stores? These are the direct product of the decision not to enforce Robinson-Patman. Dollar stores target working class neighborhoods with functional, beloved local grocers. They open multiple dollar stores nearby (nearly all the dollar stores you see are owned by one of two conglomerates, no matter what the sign over the door says). They price goods below cost and pay for high levels of staffing, draining business off the community grocery store until it collapses. Then, all the dollar stores except one close and the remaining store fires most of its staff (working at a dollar store is incredibly dangerous, thanks to low staffing levels that make them easy targets for armed robbers). Then, they jack up prices, selling goods in "cheater" sizes that are smaller than the normal retail packaging, and which are only made available to large dollar store conglomerates:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

Writing in The American Prospect, Max M Miller and Bryce Tuttle1 – a current and a former staffer for FTC Commissioner Alvaro Bedoya – write about the long shadow cast by Reagan's decision to put Robinson-Patman in mothballs:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-08-13-stopping-excessive-market-power-monopoly/

They tell the story of Robinson-Patman's origins in 1936, when A&P was using preferential discounts to destroy the independent grocery sector and endanger the American food system. A&P didn't just demand preferential discounts from its suppliers; it also charged them a fortune to be displayed on its shelves, an early version of Amazon's $38b/year payola system:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

They point out that Robinson-Patman didn't really need to be enacted; America already had an antitrust law that banned this conduct: section 2 of the the Clayton Act, which was passed in 1914. But for decades, the US courts refused to interpret the Clayton Act according to its plain meaning, with judges tying themselves in knots to insist that the law couldn't possibly mean what it said. Robinson-Patman was one of a series of antitrust laws that Congress passed in a bid to explain in words so small even federal judges could understand them that the purpose of American antitrust law was to keep corporations weak:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Both the Clayton Act and Robinson-Patman reject the argument that it's OK to let monopolies form and come to dominate critical sectors of the American economy based on the theoretical possibility that this will lead to lower prices. They reject this idea first as a legal matter. We don't let giant corporations victimize small businesses and their suppliers just because that might help someone else.

Beyond this, there's the realpolitik of monopoly. Yes, companies could pass lower costs on to customers, but will they? Look at Amazon: the company takes $0.45-$0.51 out of every dollar that its sellers earn, and requires them to offer their lowest price on Amazon. No one has a 45-51% margin, so every seller jacks up their prices on Amazon, but you don't notice it, because Amazon forces them to jack up prices everywhere else:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/01/managerial-discretion/#junk-fees

The Robinson-Patman Act did important work, and its absence led to many of the horribles we're living through today. This week on his Peoples & Things podcast, Lee Vinsel talked with Benjamin Waterhouse about his new book, One Day I’ll Work for Myself: The Dream and Delusion That Conquered America:

https://athenaeum.vt.domains/peoplesandthings/2024/08/12/78-benjamin-c-waterhouse-on-one-day-ill-work-for-myself-the-dream-and-delusion-that-conquered-america/

Towards the end of the discussion, Vinsel and Waterhouse turn to Robinson-Patman, its author, Wright Patman, and the politics of small business in America. They point out – correctly – that Wright Patman was something of a creep, a "Dixiecrat" (southern Democrat) who was either an ideological segregationist or someone who didn't mind supporting segregation irrespective of his beliefs.

That's a valid critique of Wright Patman, but it's got little bearing on the substance and history of the law that bears his name, the Robinson-Patman Act. Vinsel and Waterhouse get into that as well, and while they made some good points that I wholeheartedly agreed with, I fiercely disagree with the conclusion they drew from these points.

Vinsel and Waterhouse point out (again, correctly) that small businesses have a long history of supporting reactionary causes and attacking workers' rights – associations of small businesses, small women-owned business, and small minority-owned businesses were all in on opposition to minimum wages and other key labor causes.

But while this is all true, that doesn't make Robinson-Patman a reactionary law, or bad for workers. The point of protecting small businesses from the predatory practices of large firms is to maintain an American economy where business can't trump workers or government. Large companies are literally ungovernable: they have gigantic war-chests they can spend lobbying governments and corrupting the political process, and concentrated sectors find it comparatively easy to come together to decide on a single lobbying position and then make it reality.

As Vinsel and Waterhouse discuss, US big business has traditionally hated small business. They recount a notorious and telling anaecdote about the editor of the Chamber of Commerce magazine asking his boss if he could include coverage of small businesses, given the many small business owners who belonged to the Chamber, only to be told, "Over my dead body." Why did – why does – big business hate small business so much? Because small businesses wreck the game. If they are included in hearings, notices of inquiry, or just given a vote on what the Chamber of Commerce will lobby for with their membership dollars, they will ask for things that break with the big business lobbying consensus.

That's why we should like small business. Not because small business owners are incapable of being petty tyrants, but because whatever else, they will be petty. They won't be able to hire million-dollar-a-month union-busting law-firms, they won't be able to bribe Congress to pass favorable laws, they can't capture their regulators with juicy offers of sweet jobs after their government service ends.

Vinsel and Waterhouse point out that many large firms emerged during the era in which Robinson-Patman was in force, but that misunderstands the purpose of Robinson-Patman: it wasn't designed to prevent any large businesses from emerging. There are some capital-intensive sectors (say, chip fabrication) where the minimum size for doing anything is pretty damned big.

As Miller and Tuttle write:

The goal of RPA was not to create a permanent Jeffersonian agrarian republic of exclusively small businesses. It was to preserve a diverse economy of big and small businesses. Congress recognized that the needs of communities and people—whether in their role as consumers, business owners, or workers—are varied and diverse. A handful of large chains would never be able to meet all those needs in every community, especially if they are granted pricing power.

The fight against monopoly is only secondarily a fight between small businesses and giant ones. It's foundationally a fight about whether corporations should have so much power that they are too big to fail, too big to jail, and too big to care.

Community voting for SXSW is live! If you wanna hear RIDA QADRI and me talk about how GIG WORKERS can DISENSHITTIFY their jobs with INTEROPERABILITY, VOTE FOR THIS ONE!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/14/the-price-is-wright/#enforcement-priorities

#monopsony #monopolies #Walmart #Amazon #enshittification #Q-Tips

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docjayfeather · 8 months ago

Text

All of the Ren Lore i’ve compiled from his single player series and old streams

Favorite meal is roast lamb and roast potatoes

Has an ex-girlfriend

Hates One Direction

Was on a boating team in high school

His mother’s first cat’s name was Ebony

His single player world started in 1.2

Ren’s favorite language is Spanish

Ren has been to Spain several times

His brother had a dog named Rorschach

Ren’s favorite armor set in the original Diablo was the Moon set

Ren and his brother used to have to shower/bath together, then dry off infront of an electric fireplace. Through a series of events, young Ren got his butt stuck to the glass pane of the electric fireplace, and has had a scar on his butt since.

Ren has said “I always think about [Ren’s brother’s username] when I think about my butt”

Ren knows how to do a cats cradle

Ren used to have frosted tips

Ren’s favorite commander deck is Kraum/Tymna

Ren got kicked in the literal butthole by a horse

Ren likes burning things

Ren created a rigged marble slot machine in high school

Went on an introspection journey, visiting all the places he lived and all his jobs pre-YouTube

Did the insane thing of asking the lady who was now living in his first house if he could go inside and check out his old room

Ren had a patreon tier where he’d sent his patrons a “Ren Crate”, a lootcrate full of stuff

Ren doesn’t drink (anymore)

Officially has OCD

Ren loves apple juice

Ren loves driving games

Event manager for The Deftones once

Plays MtG on Sundays

Ren wants to retire with Doc

Ren’s wants his spirit animal to be a shark

Ren’s favorite book series is LotR

Ren is “below-average hairy”

Ren’s favorite season is Autumn

Ren’s birthday is October 11th

Ren is a slut for tiramisu and ice cream

Ren wants to open an LGS/tabletop cafe

Ren is not a religious person

Ren worked in a seedy pool bar

Ren almost got an upper back tattoo

Ren loves green tea

Ren is Left Handed

Ren was at one point a vegetarian for several years

Ren has lost his wallet multiple times, once leaving it on a train

Ren eats a whole lemon every day, and drinks lemon juice straight from the lemon

Ren got in trouble at boarding school for “trying to summon demons”. He was just playing MtG.

Ren has had a pair of lucky underwear since he was 18

Ren’s favorite ice cream is strawberry

Ren loved getting aggressively physical in rugby

Ren loves cinnamon buns

Ren used to have super long butt-length hair

Ren really liked playing with fireworks when he was younger. They’d bury huge ones in the sand near their house to make craters.

Ren loves Love Island

Ren can only sleep on his arm

Wears exclusively Star Wars socks and has matching pajamas

Beat Gabriel Nasif in a Magic Grand Prix

Ren hates Oysters

Ren’s favorite dog breed is a chihuahua??

Ren’s favorite dnd class is bard

Ren enjoys cleaning the bathroom the most out of any room

Ren’s favorite musical is Les Miserables

Ren has a favorite kitchen knife, and used to cook a lot.

Ren’s favorite tool is the hoe (of course)

Ren and Iskall used to play League

Never farts irl

born in the same city as J R R Tolkien

Ren named his first car Maximus

Ren is a bath person

Natural Mace Race runner

Ren really likes pet rats

Ren has a very consistent shopping day of tuesday

Ren has an extremely strict sleep schedule

Ren has 7 pairs of the same pajamas to wear 24/7

Ren has a BA in English

Ren does 100 push-ups a day

Ren does a 15k bike ride every day

Ren had a max weight of 110 kilos, is now down to 80

Ren uses youtube in light mode

Ren has seen Metallica live

Ren wore fake glasses in college

Ren has 20/20 vision

Ren has been in plays during school, and blinded the lead with glitter accidentally during one of them, trying to spice up his one line.

Ren has a “black book” of atleast 9 board game ideas

Ren gets pretty motion sick

Ren enjoys mosh pits

Ren really likes competitive monopoly and risk

Ren burned his eyebrows off with a bunson burner once

Ren still cries at The Lion King

Ren plays Ornn, Urgot, and Tristana in League

Ren was allegedly born in 1982

Ren drunk-puked into his shirt in a german taxi the night he met Doc infront of the people sponsoring them

Ren drives stick shift and loves it

Ren thinks he might have a gluten allergy

Ren puts butter in his coffee

Ren tried to write a YA fantasy novel, got 80k words in before scrapping it

Ren would like to live with Keralis hypothetically out of any of the hermits

Ren’s favorite superhero is wolverine

Ren has tinnitus

Ren convinced Cleo to start streaming, partially leading to her going full time

Ren once barbecued on radio in the studio

Ren stayed on his ex-girlfriend’s floor for the first six months of him moving to england

Ren got kicked in the balls trying to sell tickets to musicals in Leicester Square

Ren loves playing golf and tennis

Ren hates soccer

Ren loves queues, maybe ironically maybe unironically

Ren drinks four cups of tea a day

Ren’s favorite season is 3rd life

#rendog #head empty only rendog #that’s the only tags i’m doing #no one needs to know i’m recording this #no one official anyway #I’m loving reading your tags #hermitcraft

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pullmecloseman · 7 days ago

Note

Ok hear me out, prompt #12 "you're such a tease" with Bob, but pair it with this idea that is totally not loosely based off a real conversation between me and my man, middle of summer heat squad (or just Bob and reader) cool off with ice pops! Where Bob finds the seemingly innocent act a bit too suggestive and can't seem to control himself (could end in fluff or smut). Idk about you but I am absolutely feral for the yearning, pining, but just a little possessive Bob.

Bob Floyd x Reader One-Shot

Prompt: 12.”You’re such a tease.”

Hands brush. Eyes linger. No one moves away.

Word count: 1.2k

A/N: Idk what to feel writing this, might need to make it into an actual fic

Warnings: Mutual pining, suggestive dialogue, heavy tension, cherry ice pop shenanigans, lap-sitting, possessive!Bob, heated make-out (fade to black), squad teasing, very flustered Bob

It starts with a heatwave.

Not just any kind. Not a dry, beachy breeze or even the warm, sticky kind you can fix with a box fan and an iced coffee. This is brutal. The kind of heat that makes you question every decision you’ve ever made — including agreeing to a squad retreat at a lake house with a barely functioning air conditioner.

The Dagger Squad is on day three of what’s become a very sweaty weekend away.

Rooster’s shirtless in the living room, complaining about how his mustache is “holding humidity.” Phoenix is lying face-down on the kitchen tile, claiming it’s “the only remaining cold surface in California.” Hangman’s been walking around with a spray bottle like he’s misting zoo animals. Fanboy tried to cook bacon this morning and nearly passed out.

And you?

You’re outside.

Or more specifically — out back, sitting on the wooden patio railing, nursing a cherry ice pop and trying not to melt into the slats.

You’d thought fresh air might help. Turns out, it’s just as hot out here — only now your thighs are sticking to wood instead of the couch cushions, and the sun is cooking your shoulders like you’re a rotisserie chicken.

Still… it’s peaceful.

There’s no yelling, no half-played games of Monopoly scattered on the floor, and — most importantly — no Hangman doing push-ups in the living room just to “feel alive.”

It’s just you and the breeze.

And Bob.

He’s in one of the patio chairs, long legs stretched out, hair damp at the temples, shirt clinging to his chest in a way that’s borderline criminal. His glasses have slid down his nose slightly, and he doesn’t bother fixing them. Just leans back, arms folded, eyes closed.

It should be illegal to look that good while that quiet.

You glance at him over your ice pop, biting off the soft end and humming lightly to yourself. He cracks one eye open.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. “Hot.”

“Wow,” you say with faux awe. “Incredible insight.”

He chuckles — just a small sound, but enough to make your chest squeeze.

“Want one?” you ask, holding up the half-empty box of pops. “Cherry or blue raspberry?”

“Blue,” he says, instantly.

You toss one to him. He catches it easily, teeth already tugging the wrapper open.

The silence settles again. Birds chirp in the trees. Distant laughter spills from the open kitchen windows. You cross your ankles and lick the side of your ice pop, chasing a drip that’s running toward your knuckle.

You don’t notice Bob watching at first.

Not really.

You’re too busy cooling off, letting the chill of the syrupy ice cut through the heat. You suck gently on the tip, swirl your tongue around to catch the melting edges, and then bite the soft bottom to stop it from dripping entirely.

Then you glance over.

Bob’s eyes are on you.

Not in the casual, lazy way. Not even in the soft, polite Bob way.

No — this is different. Focused. Still. Like he’s trying not to blink.

His jaw twitches.

You blink. “What?”

He shifts a little, adjusting in his chair. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow and take another slow lick, deliberately this time. Just to test a theory. The moment you do, his knuckles tighten on the arm of the chair.

You smirk. “You sure?”

Bob swallows. “It’s just… really hot.”

You hum, lifting the ice pop to your lips again. “Mmhmm. Sticky, too.”

He shifts again, this time less subtle. Legs crossing. Chest rising a little faster.

You’re not innocent here. You know what this looks like. But you hadn’t expected him to react like this. Quiet Bob. Gentle Bob. The one who always looks away first, who blushes when someone mentions kissing on screen during movie night, who once said the word “moan” and then apologized like he’d cursed in church.

But right now? He’s looking at you like he’s in actual pain.

You lick a drop from your wrist, slow and teasing.

He exhales sharply.

“You’re such a tease.”

The words are quiet. Graveled. Wrecked.

Your stomach flips.

You blink at him. “Excuse me?”

He shifts forward, elbows on his knees, ice pop forgotten in his hand. His eyes meet yours — and they burn.

“I’ve been trying to keep my mouth shut,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Trying not to scare you off. But the way you—” he gestures to your lips, your tongue, your cherry-stained mouth, “—you’re driving me crazy.”

You say nothing.

Because what the hell can you say when Bob Floyd — sweet, silent, soft-spoken Bob — is staring at you like he wants to devour you whole?

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, almost bitter. “And I’ve been good. I’ve been patient. But I can’t keep doing this if you’re just going to…”

He trails off, breath catching as you slide off the railing and walk toward him slowly.

You take the popsicle out of your mouth and drop it — syrupy and melting — into the empty cup beside his chair.

He looks up at you, stunned.

“So stop being patient,” you whisper.

He doesn’t ask twice.

Bob stands fast — hands on your hips, lips crashing into yours — and you barely register the chair scraping back before he’s backing you against the patio beam, mouth hot and hungry, fingers curling under the hem of your tank top.

You gasp into his mouth, letting your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer until there’s not a breath of space left between you. His hands are everywhere — firm against your hips, dragging up your spine, tangling into your damp hair.

He kisses you like he’s been holding back for months. Because maybe he has.

“Still hot?” he mumbles against your jaw.

You grin. “Burning.”

“Good.”

You don’t remember how you ended up straddling him on the patio chair. You just know his hands are on your bare thighs now, lips trailing down your throat, breath ragged against your collarbone. You moan softly, pressing yourself closer, and he groans like it physically hurts to stop.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — lips swollen, glasses crooked, pupils blown wide.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says. “For so long.”

You kiss him again like an answer. Like a promise.

The heatwave doesn’t break, but honestly?

You don’t feel it anymore.

The Next Morning – 9:12 AM

Kitchen, same lake house

Phoenix is already at the counter, sipping cold brew straight from the jug when you walk in wearing Bob’s hoodie.

She clocks it instantly. Raises one eyebrow.

You grab a banana.

She smirks. “Sleep well?”

“Best I’ve had in weeks.”

Fanboy strolls in and points at the back patio. “Did you know there’s a half-melted cherry ice pop stuck to the deck railing?”

“Really?” you ask, very convincingly.

Rooster enters, glancing between you and the back door. “Anyone seen Bob?”

You shrug. “Probably still sleeping.”

Bob walks in two seconds later.

Fresh shirt. Damp hair. Hickey half-hidden beneath his collar.

Everyone turns.

Hangman squints. “Why do you both look like you ran a marathon?”

Coyote opens the freezer, blinks. “Why are all the ice pops gone?”

Phoenix grins. “Maybe it was just… sweet like that.”

Bob groans.

#bob floyd #lewis pullman #robert floyd #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #lewis pullman x reader

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ginnsbaker · 3 months ago

Text

All Of Your Pieces (22 - The Warmest Winter)

Chapter Summary: But when you touched her that night, slow and careful, when you pushed into her for the first time and her breath hitched so beautifully—it was like watching someone unlock a part of themselves they hadn’t realized was hidden away. Wanda clung to you, her body trembling, moaning your name like a god in her prayers.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: smut, breeding kink, oral sex (r receiving), enchanted strap (wanda receiving), somnophilia, tooth-rotting fluff, y/n and wanda being modern idiots in love

A/N: More smut and bittersweet girlfriend stuff before we the start of the end of part 2. Enjoy! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

In the days that followed, you didn’t sleep. Because Wanda didn’t sleep. Because neither of you could stand the thought of closing your eyes and missing one more piece of each other in the dark. Wanda breathed beside you and you heard her heartbeat through the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

One particularly late evening—closer to dawn than night—you were both propped up in bed, backs against the headboard. Wanda sat with her legs folded to the side, absently tracing circles on your arm as she studied your face. She said, “I sort of used Vision to get over you,” then looked away in shame, picking a loose thread on some carnival-prize blanket. “But we had a connection,” she continued, “from the Mind Stone. He was the first person who made me feel welcomed. Cared for. In a way, he was my best friend.”

You hadn’t noticed you were scowling until Wanda glanced at you with a tiny, bemused smile.

“What’s with the kicked puppy look?”

“I’m your best friend,” you said.

Wanda gave a lopsided grin, the ghost of her smile tipping into something teasing and a little sad. “Oh, so you’re jealous,” she said.

You swallowed hard. “He was a friend, but I’m—”

“You’re my best friend now,” she interrupted smoothly. She turned, tucked one leg under the other, and leaned closer. You caught a waft of laundry soap and shampoo. In your head, that smell was already labeled Wanda, like it was trademarked. This was what staying awake with Wanda meant—you were always one flutter of her lashes away from your heart stalling.

“Don’t mind me,” you said, shrugging like you didn’t care as much as you did. “I just thought we had a monopoly on best friend status, you know?”

“We do.” She slid her hand around the back of your neck, a gesture that made your muscles go slack. “You’re my girlfriend. My best friend. Sometimes my favorite enemy.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “My… my short-order cook when you’re feeling nice… you’re everything.”

A pulse throbbed in your throat, strong and heavy like a misfiring engine. You’d waited a lifetime (or so it felt) to hear her say that. She leaned in and kissed you on the cheek. For a moment, all the sensations you’d collected—her warmth, her scent—threatened to short-circuit you.

Her breath fanned across your ear. “Everything,” she repeated before angling your face toward her just so, allowing her to kiss you properly (but also a bit messily).

The carnival blanket slid off her lap, revealing pale thighs covered in goosebumps.

You let out a shaky breath when Wanda pulled away just enough for your foreheads to brush, her body half-draped across your lap.

“We should… we should probably get some sleep,” you mumbled, though it lacked any conviction.

“In a minute,” she murmured before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, trailing down along your jaw, and then lower, to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You tilted your head slightly, giving her more access without even realizing it. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“I’m going to prove that you’re my best friend… and much, much more.” You felt her smile against your neck before she continued, her mouth moving lower, placing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.

“Wanda…” you tried again, before you could completely lose yourself to the sensations she’s giving you.

Her hands were already sneaking under the hem of your shirt, her fingers tracing light patterns over your stomach, leaving fire in their wake. “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” you breathed.

You shivered. She smiled.

“Good.”

She kissed you again, slow and deliberate, her hands slipping lower until they were toying with the waistband of your shorts. In the next moment, she began tugging them down your hips impatiently.

When she settled between your thighs, her breath hot against your skin, she tilted her head, biting her bottom lip. “You know… I read something online.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, trying to look at her past the heat smothering your brain. “Wanda, honey, aren’t you tired? It’s almost 4 a.m.”

She smirked. “It’s Saturday.” Like that explained everything. “Besides, I read somewhere that sleep is better after an orgasm—or two.”

“Wanda…” Your voice cracked.

“Shh,” she soothed, her fingers grazing up your inner thigh, so slow it was almost torturous. “Just relax. Trust me.”

You felt her lips press a soft kiss just below your belly button before she moved lower. Instead of diving in right away, Wanda tilted her head and began with something… different. Her lips formed an “O” shape as she exhaled softly against you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever you were about to say turned into a sharp gasp as Wanda pressed her mouth to you.

Warm. Wet. Her tongue grinding against you, slow at first. Lazy. Like she had all the time in the world just for this.

You moaned softly, your head falling back against the pillows. “Wanda… please…”

But she didn’t stop her teasing. She switched to her fingers, spreading you open slightly with one hand while her tongue traced impossibly light, slow figure-eights over your clit. Wanda wasn’t just doing this—she was studying you, learning how each tiny movement made your body respond.

“God, you’re so sensitive,” she whispered against you, her lips brushing against your skin. “Every time I move, you flinch. I love it.”

You let out a shaky breath, gripping the sheets beneath you as she continued her maddeningly slow rhythm.

Suddenly, Wanda pulled back, lips slick with your cum, breath heavy against your inner thigh. A sly grin crept across her face, her eyes glinting crimson for just a moment. You felt it before you saw it—a surge of her power blooming low in your belly, spreading out in lazy, electric pulses that made your thighs clench.

“You trust me, right?” she asked softly, just wanting to check on you before she could proceed with her little “experiment”.

You nodded, because speech was impossible at this point. Your tongue was useless, your brain almost nonexistent.

Wanda smirked as her fingers left your hips and trailed upward, her palms gliding over your stomach before settling firmly on your breasts, her thumbs grazing your nipples. She squeezed gently, her thumbs circling slowly.

But that wasn’t all. Something teased at your core, an invisible touch that circled your clit with a precision no human fingers could mimic.

“Wanda, what—how are you doing this?”

“Let’s call it… improvisation.” Her thumbs traced slow circles over your nipples. “There’s not exactly an article for this kind of thing. No ‘10 Ways to Use Your Powers in the Bedroom’ blog posts out there. So, I had to figure it out myself.”

And then she ducked her head, her tongue sliding inside you without preamble. For a brief, dizzying moment, you wondered if she’d somehow managed to make it longer because it felt like she was reaching places you didn’t think were possible. Or maybe it was just the overwhelming flood of sensations—the pull at your nipples, the ache at your clit.

Either way, one thing was certain: Wanda was going to kill you with sex. If not tonight, then someday—and you were pretty sure you’d welcome it.

And oh—it’d be the sweetest death.

Her hands, still full of your breasts, squeezed rhythmically, in time with the undulations of her tongue. You twisted the sheets in clenched fists, your body a string pulled taut, vibrating with tension.

“Wanda—fuck,” you choked out, your hips rolling up to meet her mouth, chasing more, chasing everything.

The climax when it came was cataclysmic, a seismic event that you had absolutely no control of. Your body arched, your hands clutching at the sheets, at her hair, at anything you could hold onto as you fell apart under her mouth, her hands, her power. You screamed her name—loud and shameless—as dawn crept through the curtains, the sound so vulgar, it made your upstairs neighbors retaliate with furious bangs on the ceiling.

As the waves receded, leaving you shipwrecked and gasping on the shores of your bed, Wanda crawled up your body with the grace of a satisfied predator. She swept your hair back from your sweat-damp forehead before wiping the corner of her mouth, making sure you caught the filthy evidence of what she’d done to you.

You gazed up at her, your eyelids heavy, exhaustion and drowsiness pulling you under with every slow blink.

“So?” she whispered, pressing kisses here and there, so tenderly that it lulled you further into slumber. “Did I… prove my point?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you managed to crack a weak smile, your hand finding her cheek. “Point taken… Maximoff.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, sleep took you easily.

—

You’d always heard about Scotland’s breath-stealing winters, and after spending the last few years in New York, you thought you’d be prepared for the worst of it. Clearly, you were mistaken. Your breath steamed in the icy air as you struggled to breathe through your stuffy nose, hands buried deep in your gloved pockets. You hurried home, desperate for the warmth of Wanda—or any fragment of heat, for that matter.

It was, unequivocally, your least favorite season.

When you pushed open the door to the apartment you’d been sharing with Wanda, warmth greeted you like an old friend, but it wasn’t the scent of soup or candles that stopped you dead in your tracks—it was Wanda, in just a towel, standing barefoot in the bathroom doorway with wet hair dripping onto her shoulders.

She was holding up two bottles of hair dye, one in each hand—crimson in her left, blonde in her right. She was wearing one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves hanging over her hands, and her expression was deadly serious.

“Someone told me today I look like her,” she said, lips pursed.

You dropped your bag by the door and cocked your head. “Her…?”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, and it clicked.

“Ah. The ex-Avenger from Europe,” you said, echoing a comment you’d once read on an internet forum back when Steve’s so-called “rebellion” was all anyone could talk about.

She rolled her eyes, shaking the bottles slightly, as if demanding you make a choice. “Well? Pick one.”

You stepped closer, taking a moment to really look at her—the damp hair clinging to her neck, her bare feet pressed into the rug, the tiny crease between her brows. You pointed at the crimson bottle with a teasing smile. “I’ve always had a thing for redheads.”

Wanda froze. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous little slits, and you felt the temperature in the room drop about ten degrees.

“Oh,” she said slowly, voice dropping into something lethal. It was a tone you rarely encountered—Wanda was usually such a delight to live with, even when she’d accidentally burn dinner after getting distracted by a show on TV. In those moments, she'd let out a string of curses in her native language—the sound so strangely thrilling, it always made your mouth go dry.

Now, though, it just made you incredibly nervous.

“Have you now?”

The smirk faded from your lips. “Hey… I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, please—elaborate.” She clutched the crimson bottle tighter in her hand. “You’ve always had a thing for redheads? You mean like Natasha?”

You snorted—actually snorted—and then doubled over laughing. “Oh my God, Wanda, are you serious?”

Her green eyes zeroed in on yours like crosshairs, and the amusement drained from your face as fast as it had come.

“Oh no,” you said, holding up your hands. “Nope. Nope, nope. That’s not what I meant.”

Her silence was withering.

You took a careful step towards her, trying to suppress the grin that kept threatening to break through. “Wanda… ew. That’s like saying I have a thing for my sister.”

Her glare softened—barely—but she still looked like she could throw you into a wall without a second thought.

“Seriously,” you continued, taking her chin and running your thumb over it, trying to make her pout go away. “Natasha was, like, cool aunt vibes. Protective, scary when mad, and way too good at throwing knives. Not exactly my type.”

She looked down at the two bottles in her hands before giving you a side-eye that still had a bit of venom in it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m lucky you’re cute.”

“But just so you know, if you did have a thing for Natasha, I would’ve fought her for you.”

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, leaning in until your noses nearly touched. “She would’ve mopped the floor with you.”

Wanda scowled. You kissed her quickly before she could retaliate, pulling away with a smirk as she swatted weakly at your shoulder. “So, crimson it is?”

You grinned. “Crimson. Always crimson. But for the record, I’d love you even if you were bald, Maximoff.”

She smirked, stepping back toward the bathroom. “Good to know. But if I’m bald, you’re shaving your head too. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said without a second thought, grinning as you leaned against the doorframe to watch her disappear into the steamy bathroom.

—

Winter had a way of shrinking things—streets, schedules, daylight hours. Even the library wasn’t immune to its grasp. Closing hours crept earlier and earlier as the season deepened, and the thick blanket of snow outside made even the warmest buildings feel temporary. On most days, you’d shrug on your coat, wave goodbye to your coworkers, and sometimes let yourself be talked into grabbing drinks at a pub down the street. It wasn’t that you loved the company or the overpriced beer, but killing time felt easier when it wasn’t in an empty apartment.

Wanda’s schedule, though, was immune to its bite. The orphanage couldn’t afford to, not when so many of the volunteers called in sick or flaked on their duties. “It’s not like they’re getting paid,” Wanda had said once, brushing snow off her scarf as she explained why she was pulling yet another double shift. “They don’t have to come in.”

But Wanda did. Of course she did. The kids needed her, and Wanda didn’t know how to say no to people who needed her.

Meanwhile, you found the apartment unbearably empty without her. On days when Wanda was busy, you’d escape to local pubs or any lively spot just to distract you from her absence. Sometimes, you’d stay up late, a book forgotten in your lap as you lost yourself in thoughts of Wanda. You’d wonder how she was doing and toy with the idea of picking her up yourself when she missed the time she was supposed to be home. And then, just as you were considering it, Wanda would walk through the door, cheeks flushed from the cold, exhaustion etched into every line of her body—but her eyes would still light up when she saw you waiting there.

But on your busy days, when Wanda had the apartment to herself, she didn’t seem to need anything more than her own headspace. She was a homebody at heart, content to stay curled up on the couch flicking through channels, or stretched out with headphones plugged in, music carrying her away to places you couldn’t follow.

One evening, the smell of fried street food still clinging to your coat, you came home to find her like that. She was lying on her back, legs crossed at the ankle, hair spilling out around her like ink on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved softly, forming the words of a song you recognized only after a moment.

“Oh no, I’ve said too much… I haven’t said enough,” she sang. You giggled softly. It wasn’t the kind of voice meant for an audience—there was no showmanship in it—but you could tell she enjoyed singing and didn’t care if she was out of tune—she always felt her way through a song.

“That’s me in the corner… that’s me in the spotlight…”

You stood there for what felt like forever, torn between two instincts: walk over and nudge her foot, let her know you were there, maybe tease her a little for being so emo on a Wednesday afternoon… or turn around quietly and start making dinner.

You picked the latter. You started chopping vegetables for a quick soup, letting Wanda’s voice serve as your background music while you worked.

By the time she finally came out, her hair a little mussed and her cheeks faintly flushed, the soup was simmering, and the music had stopped.

“You’re home,” she said, surprised, brushing her hands through her hair as if to straighten herself out.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling as you stirred the pot. “Heard you singing. It was nice.”

Her blush deepened, and she laughed softly, leaning against the doorway. “Didn’t know I had an audience.”

“Always,” you said, grinning. “Even if you don’t know it.”

She padded over, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing her face into your shoulder, her hair warm from the heat of the apartment.

When she pulled back, there was something mischievous brewing behind her eyes.

“Can I see your phone?” she asked casually.

You blinked at her, already fishing it out of your pocket. “Sure, here—” You handed it over without thinking, only for suspicion to settle in the back of your mind a second later. “Wait, why?”

Wanda didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her own phone off the kitchen counter and started typing. She looked serious as she kept glancing between the two screens like she was disarming a bomb instead of… whatever she was doing.

“Wanda…” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “What are you up to?”

“Shh,” she muttered, her tongue peeking out slightly in focus. A few seconds later, she finally looked up, holding both phones triumphantly. “There. Done.”

“What’s done?” you asked, snatching your phone back and scrolling through your notifications. You blinked as you saw her name under a newly added location-sharing app.

“Now we’re sharing locations,” she said simply, holding up her own phone to show you the notification. “It’s synced. So I can see where you are, and you can see where I am.”

You stared at her. “Oh. Well… okay.”

“It’s practical,” she said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “If you’re stuck somewhere, or if I’m out late at the orphanage, now we don’t have to text back and forth asking where we are.”

You knew it was practical—and if you were being honest, you’d thought about it yourself more than once over the past few months. The tracker you’d slipped into her jacket back when you were chasing her still sat in a hidden vault beneath the floorboards, gathering dust alongside your real passports and the documents tied to your true identity. It was easy to forget you’d once lived an entirely different life. The thought of Wanda wanting to track you on her iPhone was something the old you would’ve found almost laughable.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “That sounds an awful lot like something a clingy girlfriend would say.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “It’s also something a responsible girlfriend would say.”

Winter raged outside. But your chest never felt this warm, this full.

“I love this life with you,” you blurted out.

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. And now, thanks to technology, neither are you,” Wanda said.

You laughed, pulling her closer for a kiss. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to being tracked by my girlfriend.”

“I’m afraid so,” she said with a smirk, pulling you back into her arms. “And don’t even think about disabling it. I will know.”

—

A strap arrived in a discreet box days later, tucked under other deliveries. And you didn’t even know your girlfriend ordered one until Wanda insisted you open it together, the two of you sitting cross-legged on the bed like kids about to open a birthday gift. She blushed furiously as you adjusted the harness around your hips, laughing nervously when you made a playful pose in the mirror.

But when you touched her that night, slow and careful, when you pushed into her for the first time and her breath hitched so beautifully—it was like watching someone unlock a part of themselves they hadn’t realized was hidden away. Wanda clung to you, her body trembling, moaning your name like a god in her prayers.

—

But Wanda was nothing if not a fast learner.

The first time she’d pinned you down and taken control, she’d been nervous, biting her lip every other second, checking if you were okay. But now—weeks later—there were times when her confidence left you breathless. When she’d pull you onto her lap on the couch, her hands bold as they explored every inch of you. Times when she’d whisper filthy things in Sokovian into your ear, her teeth grazing your skin as she smirked against your neck.

But nothing—not even those moments—could’ve prepared you for that morning.

—

You were deep in sleep, wrapped snugly under the blankets, utterly unaware.

Wanda straddled your hips, her hair a wild cascade over her shoulders, her green eyes darkened with anticipation. She’d been awake for a while, watching you, her fingers ghosting over your bare skin, tracing patterns that had no rhythm but were steeped in affection. She was learning—about herself, about you—and this morning, she decided to take control.

The strap-on was securely fastened around your hips, enchanted by Wanda just minutes before. To test her spell, she began to stroke it, drawing out a faint whimper from you—it was working; you could feel everything she was doing.

Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest as she lined herself up, biting her lip to stifle a moan at the sensation of the head pressing against her slick folds. Slowly, she sank down onto it, her body trembling as the toy filled her inch by inch.

“Y/N… nghh…” Wanda gasped once you bottomed out inside of her.

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, only to find Wanda above you, her body already moving slowly against you. The sight was enough to jolt you awake, the combination of her flushed face, the way her nails dug lightly into your chest, and the intense sensation of being inside her making your breath hitch.

“Baby? What—” you started, but she cut you off with a kiss, her lips demanding and insistent.

Her hips rolled eagerly, grinding down onto the strap as the enchantment worked its magic. You gasped against her mouth, your hands instinctively finding her waist, gripping tightly as you tried to slow her down.

How could you possibly feel every ridge, every curve, every soft part of Wanda so vividly? How could her powers do this? How could she craft something so tender and so devastating all at once? You couldn’t help but be in awe of her—not just because of what she could do, but because of how she chose to use it. She could’ve had anything, bent anyone to her will, yet she was pouring all of herself into this—into you.

Your eyes drifted lower, drawn to where your bodies met. You watched, entranced, as Wanda sank down onto the strap, her slick folds parting around the silicone shaft with every roll of her hips. The toy glistened wet with her arousal, disappearing into her before reappearing, glistening and coated and, fuck—

She was warm, wet, and impossibly tight, and the way she rode you with growing confidence made you dizzy.

You wanted more.

The next time Wanda sank down onto you, you stilled her hips with firm hands. Her eyes snapped open, wide and questioning as she let out a shaky breath.

“Y/N…?” she whispered, her voice trembling as her hands settled on your shoulders.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you gripped her waist and rolled your bodies, switching positions with practiced ease. Wanda let out a soft gasp as her back met the mattress, her hair spreading out like a halo around her flushed face.

You hovered above her, pressing your forehead to hers briefly before leaning down to kiss her—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Trust me,” you murmured softly against her lips before pulling back.

She nodded, breath hitching as you sat back on your knees and grabbed the back of her knees, spreading her wide. Carefully, you pushed her legs upward, folding her almost in half until her ankles rested on either side of your face. Her hips tilted up, her ass barely touching the mattress, leaving her completely open to you.

The sight nearly undid you.

You adjusted your position, aligning yourself with her soaked entrance, and pushed in slowly, watching every inch disappear inside her. Wanda’s body arched off the mattress, a broken moan escaping her throat as you bottomed out.

The angle was divine. You could feel every flutter, every squeeze of her walls around you. The tight heat around you made you clench your jaw, fighting the instinct to chase your own release.

“Look at you,” you rasped, “you’re taking me so well, Wanda. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Wanda cried out, her head tipping back against the pillow, her hands clutching the sheets as you filled her completely. Her walls fluttered around the strap, her thighs trembling as you pulled out just enough before pushing back in, deeper this time.

“You feel that, baby?” you murmured, your eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met. “You feel how deep I am inside you?”

“Yes—oh god, yes,” Wanda gasped, unable to do anything but let you use her however way when she couldn’t literally do much else in this position.

That’s when a thought hit you.

Your rhythm faltered for a brief moment as the image seared itself into your brain—Wanda, her hands resting protectively over her belly. It wasn’t even physically possible, you knew that, but the idea of it… of leaving something permanent, something undeniably yours inside her—

Wanda’s eyes blinked open, glazed over and hazy with pleasure, but sharp enough to notice your hesitation. “Y/N?” she whispered softly.

You shook your head quickly, leaning down to press your forehead against hers. “I’m okay,” you murmured, your lips brushing against hers. “I just love you so much. You don’t even know.”

Her breath hitched as you started moving again, deeper, slower, like you were savoring every moment, every second inside her. Your hands roamed over her stomach, your palms pressing flat against the soft skin there before trailing up to cup her breasts, your thumbs flicking over her nipples as Wanda let out a guttural cry.

“You’d be so good for me, Wanda,” you murmured, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead as you picked up your pace. “So perfect. You’d take everything I give you, wouldn’t you?”

Wanda could only nod as you continued to hit something deep inside her.

“Say it,” you demanded through gritted teeth, feeling the tight coil in your belly starting to snap. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I—I want it… I want you.”

That was all it took. With a deep, guttural moan, you buried yourself to the hilt, your body shaking as your climax tore through you. The enchanted strap made the sensation almost unbearable—like fire licking at your nerves, pleasure consuming every inch of you as you pressed deep into her.

“Mine,” you rasped against her skin, your voice rough and low. “You’re mine, Wanda. All fucking mine.”

You waited patiently for her to stop fluttering around you, jogging your hips to help her through the tailend of her orgasm. As you slowly withdrew, Wanda let out a small whimper, her body still sensitive from everything you’d given her. You carefully lay down beside her, pulling her into your arms as you tucked her head under your chin.

After some time, Wanda spoke, “Where the hell did that come from?”

You chuckled, the sound rumbling in your chest. “I could ask you the same thing,” you countered, brushing a hand lazily through her tousled hair. “Where’d the idea of waking me up with sex come from?”

Wanda stiffened slightly in your arms, her brows furrowing as she pulled back just enough to look at you fully. Her lips parted as if to say something, but she looked too conflicted to formulate her thoughts.

“Was that… okay?” she asked. “We talked about consent, and, you know, trying things that might be a little risky, so I thought…”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile inwardly at Wanda’s innocence—how, even after all this, she could still be so earnest, so endearingly unsure.

You pressed a kiss to her temple, before murmuring, “It was the best way I could’ve ever woken up.”

Wanda blinked up at you, her lips twitching into a shy smile. “Really?”

You smirked, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, really. I didn’t think you had it in you to pull something like that off, Maximoff. But clearly, I underestimated you.”

Her confidence returned in full force as she stood up from the bed, pulling one of your oversized sweaters over her head.

“You know where else you underestimate me?” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a grin. “American breakfast.”

“Bacon is the easiest food to fry, my love. I still don’t understand how you manage to turn it into charcoal half the time.”

She stuck her tongue out at you before hurrying out of the room, her stomach growling loud enough to make you laugh.

The sound trailed off as your phone buzzed—not the one you’d been using these past several months, but the burner phone stashed in a drawer, forever plugged in just in case. Your smile faded as you stared at it, dread draining the color from your previously flushed face.

Fingers trembling slightly, you pulled it from the drawer. The screen lit up with a simple notification: a text from Natasha that simply read, “Talk soon.”

You had always known that this life wasn’t built to last. But it didn’t make it any easier for you to accept the fact that it might be coming to an end.

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diejager · 2 years ago

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I never thought I would like a stepdad!konig so much, I just don't. But here I am.Soo I saw the need to do this

I felt 'jealous' of f!reader's mother.Simply the fact of reading how she becomes unconscious (with good reason, it's könig!) After a while with him.... And that they are practically husband and wife. It's a strange feeling,You know. like a delusion (I feel so stupid right now)

How would stepdad!konig react if he found out about it? (I feel a little better with the comfort of dbf! Horangi, scary, I know)

You are incredible, thank you for your writings 🌻

Oh, that sunflower at the end is cuteee Cw: unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, sex marathon?, stepcest, DUB-CON?NON-CON, degrading, tell me If I missed any.

"Oh, is the what you want?" König cooed, smirk cruel and smug as he watched you wail beneath Horangi.

He recently came out of his room, baggy pants hanging low on his angular hips, dropping on one side and showing off the sharp dip on his navel and happy trail, a salacious way to walk into a room smelling of sweat and sex. He cleaned up, brushing his ginger hair with hints of silver to the side, messy and slightly damp from his session with your mom. Chest clean and body fluids wiped off, he always came to you clean and ruggedly handsome. Much like his friend who, until a few minutes ago, had the monopoly in your attention and silent cries, who drove his cock into you with strong and purposeful thrusts while he kissed your mewls away, swallowing them down with the harsh press of his scarred lips.

"You should have told me, Schatz," könig pushed on, pulling his waistband down enough for his engorged cock to spring upwards, slapping his deep V with a wet sound.

Horangi chuckled, hoisting you up on his lap, hands guiding your hips up and down his cum-coated thighs. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails digging into his sculpted back (for someone of their age, they still had an enviable physique, back, arms and thighs ripped with thick and strong muscles while having a soft but equally sculpted abdomen.) With every buck of his hips skyward. You hid your face in his neck, damping it with your tears and open-mouthed mewls by biting down on his shoulder, muffling any keens and cries that would echo too loudly in your room.

"Use your big girl words, ja?" Your stepdad went on, pumping his pre down his uncut head, pulling down the foreskin to show his red and angry tip.

Feeling quite smug about your disheveled look, being the one responsible for it after your stepdad took too long fucking your mom to sleep, Horangi pressed kisses up your neck, behind your ear and teasing you with his teeth, playfully nipping at you while he looked at König. He peered over your bouncing shoulders, brown eyes seeming pitch black in your dark room, illuminated by a small lamp, the dim yellow light giving a golden tint to his eyes. He was goading König in a way, narrowed eyes and cheeks pulled by scars when he smirked at your stepdad, flashing his teeth as he bit down, reveling in the whimper he pulled from you.

"We shouldn't disappoint, huh, König?" Horangi chuckled, ramming you down his cock, feeling your walls clamp down on him while your legs shook, toes curling as you come, painting a pretty ring around his shaft.

The only reply he got back was a vindictive laugh, deep and rumbling, a bigger hand wrapping around your nape, scuffing you. König yanked your head back, blurry and teary eyes staring up at him, he held you there until Horangi finished, until Horangi painted your cunt white, until he got a turn to stuff you full of his cock and cum, and until he could fuck you unconscious like you wanted to.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973

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revelboo · 4 months ago

Note

~~shyly shuffling in with some monopoly money bills and pushes them on the table towards you~~ please more tfa shockwave? i must know what happens please?…

Sure!

Safe In The Dark Pt 3

TFA Shockwave x Reader

• “I can’t eat that.” Staring at what appears to be a young maple tree he’s uprooted from someone’s yard before looking up at your enormous captor as his single optic narrows. Like he thinks you’re being difficult. Starving to death wasn’t top of your list of ways he’d accidentally or deliberately kill you despite saying he wouldn’t. “I don’t eat trees,” you try, skin crawling under the weight of his unreadable stare. And he’s bending, reaching for you as you instinctively backpedal. Gasping when he snares you in his clawed servos and lifts you up. Using the sharp tip of a servo to lift your upper lip despite your efforts to shove him away.

• “I find it difficult to believe you’re a carnivore with blunt, little teeth like those,” he growls, head tipping as you strain and make a futile effort to push his servo away from your face before giving up and glaring as he examines your teeth. Venting, he bends and releases you back on the floor. “Consume or starve.” Sliding you toward your food with a ped to knock you on your butt with an indignant ‘hey,’ he strides past you to his desk.

• “I can’t eat trees,” you snap, jogging after him and he turns do suddenly you slide and fall on your butt again. Suddenly remembering that you don’t want to make him angry as those clawed servos flex. “I’m no good to you as a shield if I’m dead, right?” Heart racing, you really want to roll over and do the most undignified frantic crawl as far from him as possible. “Humans are omnivores, but I need people food. Processed food?” Something that won’t spoil and make you sick.

• Lie or truth? Unsure, he studies you. Can always find another little shield, but your very misguided trust that he’ll keep his word amuses him. Makes him want to keep the game going to its conclusion. To play with you a bit longer and for that, you need to live.

• Head tipping, that single red optic and the antler like antenna make him look sinister. A robotic, Eldritch fiend looming over you with the light behind limning him so he’s all shadow aside from that baleful optic. Terrifying and oddly fascinating at the same time. Staring up at him, from nowhere you think of camping as a kid. Of moths drawn against their will to the campfire, unable to stop even as they burn. “A deal then. You will assist me with something and I will find you ‘people food.’”

• Little face tipped up toward him even as you tremble, he waits and watches you swallow. “Okay.” No questions about what he wants? Delighted, he’s not sure if you’re brave or just very stupid, and he rumbles. Something about the way you watch him bothers him. Fear and something else. Makes him want to break you slowly, though. See how far he can push you until you shatter. How far he can twist you, an adoring little pet looking up at him with worshipful eyes almost too amusing. Oh, you’re going to be such fun.

#transformers x reader #shockwave x reader #tfa shockwave

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firefly--bright · 2 months ago

Text

re : the world.

jean kirstein x reader, modern au.

summary ; sasha introduced the two of you as complete opposites, two different worlds. but you'd disagree, especially since it feels like jean creates a new world just for you. warnings ; a little too self indulgent? aka reader likes peach flavoured stuff. also mentions of drinking, nothing graphic. a/n ; erm! haha. sorry for my absence again. i promise im still writing d2d and blooming hearts. pls be patient with me you guys r saints. thank you. enjoy this as i run away. hc reqs are still open hmu babes i lowkey want d2d to blow up a little. like okbambi. throwaway thought. continue reading. thx taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ headcanon requests are open! ✿

Jean has this habit.

Its not well concealed - hell, you're sure he doesnt even realise it himself, a muscle memory that seems to replay against his tendons, condensing him down to his action. You dont realise it at first either, but patterns have a tendency of making themselves apparent, especially since its about him.

The scene plays out something like this - kitchen lights are warm and shining, clinging onto the apples of your downtrodden cheeks, unheard and tired problems that weigh down your organs now find themselves boring down on your skin, a more physical proof of your labour. The week - scratch that, the month - had been rough. There's a cup of coffee against the palms of your hands, the tips of your nails a little blue from the cold you had just endured outside. Inside, its warm, your friends sit huddled around the coffee table that holds an unnecessarily important game of monopoly. The community chest cards were more than half gone, and Sasha sat with her back resting against the foot of the couch, tongue poking out of her lips thoughtfully, subconsciously. Your eyes blink blearily, steam from your coffee doing the exact opposite of it’s entirety, and Jean mixes just a splash of creamer into his own cup - just how he liked it.

His eyes have been passing glances across your body, slumped with your back against the marble of the kitchen counter, picking up on something you refuse to be seen putting down. He clears his throat - an opening for a potential conversation, a test to see if you’ll take the bait and turn to him - and when you do, because of course you will, there's a victory that lifts his shoulders and puffs up his chest, muscle memory, tendons tightening.

But youre so tired. He can see it in your eyes and under them, so when he asks his question, he does it so in the least gentle way possible. So he’ll get you to talk, because he knows that cornering you might be the only way he can get a real answer that lays unfiltered, beating still as it slips out of your mouth.

“What is it this time?” he asks. His voice covers any unhindered iciness that his statement might hold, making it warm and curious instead of cold and blunt. Or maybe that's just how you see it. Maybe he’s a well meaning asshole who you’re accustomed to, whose language you’ve come to know well. Alphabets memorized.

You sigh. You wonder if your sigh itself could be an alphabet, if he understands all the frustrations underneath it. Your tongue can't conjure up anything else for a brief while, and for the same brief while, jean looks at you. Wholly, fully, more than you’ll ever be, though his eyes scatter themselves across your body. Your nose, your lips, your hair, your clothes, a slight sense of disarray but comfort nonetheless because the disarray meant that you had lived in it long enough and that you trusted your clothes and your hair and your nose and your lips more than enough to be here right now.

“Yknow.” you say, unsure of whether or not its a start of a statement or the end of an unsaid one. You decide to let it linger, staring into your cup until you find the words to say something important, clambering to find meaning that your voice somehow always inherently lacks. Theres a lump in your throat that’s small enough for you to ignore it, and then you begin speaking again, “i don't feel like im… enough for this.” you say. You're aware that it's unimportant, words lacking meaning. They always have, especially now.

“For what?” his voice asks, and you wish his reflection could share the same space as yours in the cup, make his space yours, but he doesn't. Instead, his shoulder presses against yours, which you suppose is better. An anchor, you think to yourself, even though he doesn't realize it.

“All of it. Like, somehow… i keep trying, right? To be a good student, to be friendly and kind and just… try - like being good at work and at talking and all of it. But i’m not, even though sometimes i think im finally, finally making some progress, it all just comes crashing down on me and i feel so…dumb about it. Like im incompetent. Like all roles are too important for me to get them.”

It doesn't feel like the world is off your shoulders. You wonder why everyone always told you to talk about your feelings; claiming it’ll make the burden lighter. But the process of doing that would include giving it to someone else who’s less likely to have had a bad day and making their day worse by association. It felt like a math formula, another thing you were inherently struggling with.

No, the world feels all too real, all too heavy, all too present and pressing against your shoulders, the hurt seeping to the ends of your collarbones.

“Incompetent.” he says. Its not a reply, neither is it a question. Like he knows exactly what you mean and is contemplating on it. Considering it. Then he shrugs. Sighs through his next statement to make it sound less like a confession of admiration, “you're not incompetent.”

A pause. You don't believe him, and he knows it. And before he begins his strategy of building you up; he does it.

Turns his back to everything else. Stands in front of you so he can be the only thing in your eyesight, his back to your friends, to the rest of the world as he makes his attempts to lessen the weight of yours. And surely - and you know he knows it, realises it just as you do - you lift your head up, eyes directed to his, your face pointing to your world, directly to him. In that action, you match each other perfectly well, even if Sasha introduced the two of you to each other as complete opposites. You wouldn't necessarily agree with her, especially not now, when both of you create your own world so easily, with the least amount of the hesitation that easily comes to the two of you.

He speaks quietly. Almost under his breath, as if they're truths that are heavier than his words, “you're not. When you talk, its clear that you're passionate, knowledgeable. Even if you don't realise it. Somehow you convince people to believe in you everytime you speak. It's one of the things i like about you. You-” he weaves his hand into his hair halfway through; an action he only commits to when he’s passionate about the topic he's speaking about, “you could make an atheist believe in god. Maybe because you have bits of truth hidden in there, whatever it is, but you're fully lying if you think you're incompetent. Or dumb. You’re not. You're good. Fucking brilliant.” he says, scoffing as if its a universal fact that youre unknowing of. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the earth is round, and jean believes youre ‘fucking brilliant’.

You blink. Before the gears in your heavy machinery of a brain can move, he says, “i know you wont believe it, so let me do the believing for you. Depend on me a little, yeah?” he asks, like it's a plea. And honestly, you give in, without hesitation.

His back faces the world and there’s a resolution in your eyes as you face your own world, smiling gently.

The next time is one you can particularly take note of.

You're at some party that eren was throwing - pre halloween, everyone in costume, the song from the speaker so loud that the ground beneath your shoes was shaking, etching a reminder of tonight on it - a typical college-like event. Everyone was having a bubbling and tipsy conversation amongst themselves, connie and eren arguing over the music that they put on, sasha fawning over mikasa who could be seen blushing lightly even under the flashing lights, reiner with his arm around someone you knew from class - and admittedly set him up with - as you try not to let a proud smile set over your lips at the fact. You had a bet with Marco, another inside conversation that had been had all the way to the party; you bet on reiner finally “getting some” tonight, and marco betted on him not. Which, he clarified, was not because he didn't believe in the guy, but because reiner had a way of… being awkward when he was tipsy. Fifty solid dollars over this. You weren't going to lose.

Your head bopped to the argued-over music, scanning the crowd for jean, who claimed he was going to find you a drink you’d actually enjoy sipping on through the night. He knew you well enough, so you’d allowed him to, posing it to him as a challenge that he took with a cocky smile and a self-assured confidence that you were tempted to break.

You weren't going to break it. Of course not. Not unless he won.

Bert asks you about your plans after the party. You tell him that you’d probably go home with the girls - unless they find their own plans for the night, which, you hope they do - and ask him the same, and he tells you he’ll go home with reiner, unless the obvious were to happen. You shout at him above the music about your bet with Marco because you know your voice wouldn't be carried to his ears otherwise, and he smiles and says - rather wisely, despite his slightly slurred speech - that you’d probably win. You tell him that if Marco were listening you’d flex about it. He laughs a little before someone from his class waves him over and you're left to your own devices again, scanning the crowd for a familiar head of soft hair that you imagine far too much running your fingers through.

And you find it. Shoulder the crowd, holding two glasses of his concoction, heading straight towards you, making sure not to spill even a single drop. You applaud his persistence, and he reaches you with the same smile he left you with, eyes sparkling and soft around the edges, looking at you like the world’s been tuned out, handing you your cup.

“Peach sparkling…spirit.” he says, not having had a single thought about naming the drink, but nodding once in satisfaction after it slips out of his mouth. You nod back, impressed, and look down at the ice floating in it. “Ice so your iron deficiency has something to chew on.” he completes with a laugh, one that you playfully punch him for as if your insides dont melt at the fact that the drink is more of a symbol, really, of how much he really knows you. peach , your favourite flavour, to dilute the wretched taste of alcohol. The coolness to keep you awake, and the ice floating at the top just as he said, because you liked chewing on it.

And as if just that much wasnt enough, he does it again.

Back to the world, he faces you completely, now closer than ever. Chest to chest, not because there were people unknowingly pressing your back from both sides, but because you'd be that close by choice either way. He traps you, but youre a willing accomplice, guilty of the same crime, and you create your own worlds with none of the hesitance that you both so frequently carry with everyone else as if this is the easiest thing youd ever do. As if its always been easy.

You tip your glass to his, and he clinks the rim of his cup to yours, lifting it to his lips with the same smile, now softer, gentler, because he knows only you're looking, because he knows he’d let you.

The drink tastes divine. The completeness of knowing you, fully, wholly, without hesitation, the peach mixing with whatever cheap vodka he could find, knowing just how strong to make it so you wouldn't scrunch your nose at it’s burn but rather enjoy it, knowing you'd nurse the same drink for the rest of the night, close to your chest as it would vibrate not to the sound of the music but to the sound of your quietly beating heart because out of everyone, jean made it.

Despite the drink's coolness, enough to freeze your fingertips, your insides felt. They felt, every organ - your lungs, your heart, your liver, your kidneys - felt, conscious and whole, flipped inside out and alive.

Your back to the world, you and jean creating your own.

Habits have a funny way of catching on, jean noticed, as you made a knowing decision to turn your own back to the world that you knew to be so large and unknown, opting for the warm one that jean hoped to preserve for you.

He notices, too. The first time you do it, its september. Your boots scruff up against the harsh of the pavemented sidewalk, orange and red leaves under your feet, with a cup of coffee in your hand, the one that he happily paid for like it was muscle memory. There could be silence between you, sure, because he knows that even that would be pleasant. But there isnt, and hes glad nonetheless, bringing his cup close to his lips, knowing that yours have touched the same rim to get a taste, hoping it would cover up the small smile that creeped onto his face, threatening to stay against his cheeks for you to notice, because of course you would.

You finish the end of your sentence. Something about autumn, he knows, and your shoulders are brushing his as they perpetually are, coat against his, and he swears a world is created because of it, the lint of your fabric almost like magic when it presses against his, even if brief, because it cant be anything short of it with the way he’s feeling. Comfortable, whole, significant. He licks his lips, cleaning off the residue of the coffee and tasting the lingering of your lips indirectly on his like a revered devotee, a saint waiting for sacrifice, and says something probably insignificant. About the rain? He’s not sure. And then it turns into, “one time, connie - i think in middle school? Like back when i first met the guy - had his mouth wide open under the sky so he could get a full gulp of direct fucking rainwater in his mouth because we’d just learnt about… the water cycle. I think.” he says, and you laugh.

And then it happens. You do it, and he takes notice, because of course he does, of course, because its you. Turning on your heel, your back facing the world, as you fall into step, still beside him, walking backwards just so you could face him. For a moment he’s concerned - youre not the most synchronised person in the world, he once watched you stub your toe fully on purpose while trying to prove a point of how you’re not that navigationally challenged - but he shakes the thought out of his head as a slew of others fill it instead. You trust him. Enough to be a slight nuisance, enough to know if there was anything blocking your path that your back was facing so you wouldnt stumble, enough to know that he’d find this enjoyable rather than annoying. And then another larger, overwhelming thought.

You noticed. You noticed him doing that to you - turning his back to everything else, willingly, wholly, so you knew his attention was pinned on you and you only - and wanted to repay the insignificant favour.

And then he continues. As if nothing had occurred, as if a world just hadnt opened up and swallowed him up, organs flipping inside out. “And then when i made fun of him, the fucker went out there again, waited for the rainwater to fill his mouth up fully, and spit all of it on me.” he said, your laughter continuing to bubble and pour out of your lips and onto his, infectious as he thought it was, your shoulders shaking, no longer pressed against his, but he felt it anyway. Straight to his heart, his hand aching to cover it because his hesitance was carved onto his bones, but his choice to let it beat for you overwhelmed his tendons.

He wondered if you knew. If you somehow, in your own way, knew that he’d always hold out for you as a knowing choice. That he’d went out to buy that peach drink for you to mix into the cheap vodka that eren had on his kitchen counter. If you knew that he’d never known what the right words to say were until you taught him a whole new dictionary, a vocabulary he’d somehow been blind to. Hes fluent now, he thinks, because he knows you fully, wholly. A world created and burnt into places, because both your backwere against the world you both knew.

Because jean saw you as his. And he knew - a new vocabulary - that you saw him as yours.

Back to the world, chest to a new one, your steps sync together, smiles the same on your lips as they were on his.

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #aot #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #marco bodt #connie springer #reiner braun #bertholdt hoover #sasha braus #eren yeager #mikasa ackerman #modern au

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beeisokay · 6 months ago

Text

got back on a painting kick and decided to paint this sketchbook cover using unconventional tools. I ended up using a palette knife (for paint mixing), q-tips, an old toothbrush, a comb, a popsicle stick, a sponge, a couple scraps of cardboard, and my hands. I’m really really happy with it. If you couldn’t tell (you probably could) it’s a picture of monopoly mountain from Third Life. :)

Bonus under cut: my bucket of tools and the amount of paint on my hands at the end

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanart #desert duo #scarian #third life #life series #traffic smp

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anim-ttrpgs · 4 months ago

Note

Your post detailing a story in ad&d of a band of warriors delving into a dungeon filled with large lads and undead inspired me to look into ad&d 2e myself and so far I have found myself enjoying the mechanics greatly. So thank you for that do you have any advice for those just getting into ad&d?

Thank you! I love AD&D and am happy to help get more people into it, or any other rpg that has similar pre-WotC dungeon crawling gameplay.

Here’s a few rapid fire tips off the top of my head for those trying to get into AD&D2e and similar games:

Everybody Reads Both Rulebooks

Really this is my stance for basically any TTRPG, but I think that everybody should read the Player’s Handbook and the DM Guide. A session of any game will always go smoother if everybody has read the rules instead of one guy being tasked with remembering them all.

Check the Wiki

There’s a very useful wiki for AD&D you can use.

While I still recommend you read the rulebooks themselves to get a full understanding of the game you’re playing, the wiki is way better than a crusty old PDF or questionably formatted and nearly-falling-apart-by-now physical copy for quickly checking rules mid-session, and for waking you through character creation.

Start Small

Even before WotC brought the D&D brand and made it the overwhelming monopoly it is today, D&D was a juggernaught if the industry, and, even though I think from reading them that TSR-era D&D was very much written with more passion than just trying to soullessly sell products, TSR still had the dollar signs in their eyes and released like a million supplement and all that crap.

My suggestion: Stick with the DM’s Guide and Player’s Handbook at first. There’s just too much shit otherwise, and a lot of the later additions and supplements have a lot of very questionable content that will not really improve your experience. For instance, why did they introduce a fucking proficiency for eating and drinking?!

Use Even Older Adventure Modules

AD&D2e is retroactively compatible with the adventure modules made for previous editions, and I suggest you use these instead. While I think AD&D2e is the best ruleset to come out of TSR D&D, the adventure modules saw a pretty sharp decline around that time. This is when adventure modules started to be more like scripted stories rather than the dungeon crawling sandboxes they previously were.

Some suggestions that should get you started and keep you going for many many sessions are:

In Search of the Unknown

The Sinister Secret or Saltmarsh

Keep on the Borderlands (get the later version not the original version.)

Village of Hommlet

Throw Everything You Know from D&D3e Onwards Out the Window

If you aren’t sure how to handle something mechanically, do not default to assuming you do it the way it works in later editions. For instance, there are no skill checks in dialogue. You might roll Charisma once at the start of a conversation to determine if the other group trusts the PC or not, but that’s it. Everything else it just talked out.

Also, encounter balance? Throw it out. PCs will have to negotiate, sneak past, run away from, or use clever tactics to survive encounters. It being unbalanced is the whole point. You should be playing this like you would play an old survival-horror game like Resident Evil or Silent Hill, not like an action game. The PCs are fragile and will die easily if they just try to take everything head on.

This is another reason that everyone should read both rulebooks. If you don’t, then you’ll default to playing I like WotC D&D, which is a totally and completely different game.

Run it as a Challenge Game

These games only work if you run them as “challenge games,” which means they are scenarios meant to challenge both the PC and the player. No one should ever fudge dice, adjust HP values of monsters, change the solution to a puzzle just to be what the players thing is right, etc. It’s a dangerous gauntlet and you see if they live or die based on their own decisions and your descriptions. If the GM bends reality to ensure the party’s success (or ensure their failure, but everyone already knows that’s bad) then the whole game and whole story is invalidated. There will be a story, but it cannot be preplanned, it will emerge from seeing what these PCs do and who they turn out to be when they encounter these challenging scenarios. That has to include the possibility of unceremonious death.

Run a Troupe Campaign and Play Multiple Characters on Large Parties

A “troupe campaign” is one where instead of a small party, there are dozens of PCs which form a pool or roster to select from. Like you read in that post, we do ours as a mercenary free company. They get hired to do this stuff.

This makes it so that, in a highly lethal game like AD&D, the “story” doesn’t end as soon as a PC dies, which also means you’re less inclined to cheat to keep them alive when they shouldn’t be. That was just one of dozens of main characters.

Also, get used to playing multiple PCs at once. Make everyone create 3-5 PCs at the start of the campaign, and everyone bring at least 2 of them per adventure. This may take some getting used to but it is really not that hard, especially if you learn to play in third-person like Eureka tells you to.

Get used to party sizes between 6 and 15 PCs. Despite ironically being less focused exclusively on combat than WotC D&D, AD&D doesn’t pretend it’s not descended from wargames.

Ignore Alignment

Yeah alignment still mostly ranged between being pointless and being bad back then too. It meant something back in the very earliest editions of the game, but by the point of AD&D2e it was already mostly a vestigial system that you can and should ignore for most classes. You can keep it for, like, Clerics and Paladins if you want, that’s what we do.

But generally you should give up on the idea that your PCs will even be good guys at all, they’re amoral mercenaries and/or treasure hunters. This doesn’t mean they’re necessarily “bad guys” either, it’s more complex than that.

(art by @chaospyromancy)

Sir Ferdinand, one of my PCs and Captain of the White Company, is a scoundrel who overcharges his employers whenever he can get away with it; does dirty mercenary jobs like raiding, robbery, and extortion as much as he does heroic jobs like rescuing kidnapped children and protecting towns from raids, sometimes even at the same time. Recently he calmly and politely told a village of lizardmen they had better swear fealty to the local lord while subtly implying that something terrible could happen to their home if they don’t. In an adventure before, while overcharging a town for protection due to a threat that the White Company knew was not credible, once the company stumbled upon a secret smuggling and slavery operation that had been kidnapping people from the town and nearby village, he put every effort towards rooting it out despite it not being their job and even later being ordered by their current employer to stop sticking their noses in it. As he said before engaging an extremely dangerous and magic-wielding man in full plate armor while he himself had only maille at the time, he could not call himself a Christian in good standing if he turned a blind eye to slave running.

What alignment is Sir Ferdinand? None of them. He doesn’t have alignment, he has values.

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